One short, short month. Oh, where does the time go? Why couldn’t it go this quickly when I was pregnant?
This morning, Jamie and I went for a 45-minute walk. And I am now exhausted, possibly useless for the rest of the day (though that statement implies that I was useful before, and that is certainly up for debate). I seem to remember doing this exact walk several times with Charles, starting when he was about a week and a half old and continuing until the cold snap hit. I do not, however, remember being tuckered out at the end of those walks. Or feeling like I might not make it up the hill and home. What has changed? Oh, yeah. 30. Damn.
Here we are, Jamie about to freak out because we are home and we stopped, don’t ever stop, woman, you know I need to keep moving!, and me, all sweaty:
I would write more, mostly stuff about how wonderful my second child is and how I am forevermore cropping myself out of photos, even though I frequently complain that there are very few photos of me, perhaps I will complain no longer now that I see a few in the most recent set, I can’t even show you, they are that bad, let’s just say I am going to wear thigh-hiding sweats for the rest of my life, and don’t count on more children because Tony won’t be able to stand to ever even look at me again, let alone touch me, but that’s all beside the point… the point being that I love this little bundle, even when he’s angry with me for stuffing him in a carseat. And the impediment to writing more being that he is displeased that I am not holding him.