Still Golden

I sit at work on a lazy Friday afternoon, pondering a new post or another game of Makos - this ridiculous puzzle game I have become addicted to (and that is frankly, making my eyes go crossed). I'm feeling slightly sorry for myself because not only did I run in the baking sun yesterday, but I ran to play volleyball, which, normally would not be a big deal, except for the 103-degree weather and the fact that my last volleyball match was in April. I want to go home and lounge in a bubble bath and then beg hubby to rub my aching shoulders. Oh, did I mention that my shin splits (est. 1990) also made an appearance last night? Pair this with my painful hip flexor, lower back pain, and you've got a mother who's pushing 31. Feels like 61. Maybe even 71.

Anyhoodle, on a sad note, the beloved Estelle Getty has died... you may remember her as the fabulous owner of Prince & Co. on the fantastically, horribly, awesome Mannequin, starring Andrew McCarthy (swoon) and Kim Catrall (Samantha Jones at her finest). But I hold her dear to my heart as a cherished, sassy, spunky Golden Girl, Sophia Petrillo. It's one of my favorite shows, all-time. Her wicker pocketbook, sausage and pepper canolis, 27 layer lasagna, and numerous money-making escapades warm my heart. Moment of silence, please.

Jack is still frollicking around, building pillow forts and keeping everyone in stitches. He is going through a bit of a hitting stage. Not a lot, just a little, and I know in my heart that no child of mine would ever hit intentionally, so he must be learning it at the sitter's house. I think he just gets excited. As soon as he does it, he immediately gives a kiss. Which leads me to believe that he will probably be hitting a lot of girls on playgrounds as an excuse to kiss. Oh shit.

We're spending this weekend being lazy. Baseball is finally over and we are making no plans except for our little family to spend some quality time together. I feel like I haven't seen hubby forever and I know he's glad to be home for a few weeks before fall comes and we start the whoel thing over again.

I have been taking a lot of pictures of Jack Jack lately - he is doing the silliest things. The other night I heard him working and working and he had made a "bed" on the living room floor and was "sleeping" ... "hoooonnnn shhhhhhh" he says, pretending to snore. He had to arrange his blanket just right, get comfortable. He didn't even want to eat dinner - just play in his makeshift bed. Which was fine, I suppose, because the dog had eaten half of it off of his high chair tray anyway.

He has also taken to calling his grandparents by their first names. The other night he went up to my mom and said, "Hi, Pam!" "Bye, Steve", he told my dad. He knows and remembers everyone's name, and pulls them out on random occasions. Animals are a whole 'nother story...watching Animal Planet the other night we saw a cat..."TIDDY! MEOOOWWW!" A dinosaur, "DINO! ROOOAAARRR!" in his little high-pitched voice, which frankly, sounds about as scary as a baby bunny (hop hop! he would say at that!). He lays in bed with me, watching, perched on my head/shoulder and trying to snuggle in as close as he can when he sees something really wild.

I can't say it enough - the kid is amazing. A little sponge running around, absorbing everything he hears and sees. I truly believe that he is one of the smartest kids I've seen - of course I may have a rollicking case of biased-ness, but hey, I'm his mom.

A quick update on G'ma...after some back and forth and I think general uncertainty on her part, G'ma decided to let them do the surgery. She has a new lease on life...granted, her road will be long and tough, but she is ready for recovery and anxious to get home. Yay!

Let's chat for a few moments about my son. Oh, Jack. Leave it to my glorious child to love having me kiss his feet. I loathe feet. Seriously. I can't stand to have hubby's feet touching me in bed, I don't like being near other people's feet, etc. etc. Most of all, I hate poorly groomed feet - it's just my thing. Pedicurists are brave souls. Anyhoodle...Jack. When he hurts himself, head, hand, nose, knee, doesn't matter - when I ask if I should kiss it for him, he immediately raises his foot to my mouth. He insists on having both kissed. That said, I don't mind kissing his feet. His are the only ones I will touch - besides my own.

So, I finally, finally went and purchased new bras. I haven't bought normal (and by this I mean ones that aren't so gargantuan as to hold first trimester growth/lactating boobies) bras since before I was pregnant. Isn't that sick? Needless to say, it was a bit of a trauma. I got measured and low & behold, my around size has gone down almost 4 inches. Seriously? My boob has gone down 2 inches. I'm not sure if that's actual size or just due to deflation. Well, due to the fact that my boobs are in my pits, I still had to buy the normal around size, not the one I actually measured for. Really? (Insert f-bomb). However, cup size, minus one! Yahoo! Who am I kidding, they're still monstrosities. Give me an A cup any day and I swear, I'll be happy. Is it possible to donate your extra to charity? There has to be some poor woman out there dying for a new set while here I sit with an unwanted pair. Maybe that's something I will invent. In any case, my old friend Victoria did me right - they're real, and in these bras, they're spectacular.