Today marks the anniversary of, as my husband puts it, Squish’s third trip around the sun. I believe I speak for everyone when I say that statistics make everything more fun, so here are the past three years broken down into their numerical significance.
Meals comped when my water broke in the middle of a crowded restaurant: Zero. Not only did they not give us our meal free, but we had to wait in a line to pay for it. Thanks, Cracker Barrel. Granted, they probably needed the funds to pay for the chair that they would later have to burn. But it would have totally rocked to get the fast-pass to the front of the line.
Times I have been completely humiliated by this child: Also zero. See above. After that incident, there was nothing left of my dignity.
Midwives it takes to evict a Squish: three. You’d think that third babies would shoot out like a wet bar of soap. Not so much. He held out until the third shift-change.
Trips to the ER for head injuries: Two. People like to say he’s “all boy.” Correction. He’s all “kamikaze stunt double.”
Trips to the ER for suspected poisoning: One.
Trips to the ER for all other illnesses: Four.
Illnesses he has shared with me: Twelve. A year.
Boxes of Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies consumed: 200
Boxes of Annie’s shared with me: Zero. But I don’t resent it. I don’t share food, either.
Stationary objects he has run into because he likes to watch his feet when he runs: 20 or so. Including mailboxes, recycling containers, support pillars, trees and people.
New gray hairs on my head: 15. They all have names. See above.
Times I have read Once Upon a Potty : 432. This morning.
Hours spent knee-to-knee in the bathroom trying to get my young padawan (potty-wan) to close the deal: This becomes higher math.
Futile attempts at turning my setter to a pointer: Five. I give up. Maybe one day he will learn to point Free Willie toward the ocean without doing a Zorro.
Days it takes to give kid a complete haircut: Four. Getting scissors anywhere around this child adds new meaning to the term death-defying.
Times I have felt like selling the kid to the circus: 147.
Times I have been glad I kept him: All of them. He may be a handful, but when he smacks my bum and says “Mommy, you’re an excavator,” I know he means it from the bottom of his heart.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a date with a birthday boy.