- Why my child, whose sitter reports was so tired at the playground today that he refused to even get out of his stroller, will not take a nap. (Bringing our grand total of naps this week to zero.)
- How the ever-loving et cetera I am supposed to deal with an infant and a toddler that won’t nap anymore.
- Why people, in particular people which multiple children, think it is okay to tell me how awful my life is about to become. That ship has sailed, you know? Also, trust me, I am sufficiently panicked. The Bean hasn’t napped all week. Terror level: adequate.
- Why several of my friends seem to think it is a compliment to tell me I don’t look pregnant. I can tell that they do mean this obvious lie kindly, but I can’t figure out what about it they think is kind. For the record, I look pregnant. Also, I really like looking pregnant, because I am happy to be pregnant.
- Why the maternity clothes manufacturers of America believe I am in the market for cardigan sweaters that don’t close. You know what I have two drawers of at present? Cardigan sweaters that no longer close. At no additional cost!
- What I am supposed to be doing in therapy, exactly. I feel tense the night before, like I’ve forgotten my homework. (Otherwise it is going okay, I think? Really, I think deciding to go has made me feel better — more decisive and in control, maybe? — than anything in particular that has happened in the proverbial room.)
- Why there are little red blades of grass by this cow’s feet. Without that detail, this painting (part of the bovine waiting room at the therapist’s) is surreal enough, in a 1980s mall poster kind of way. Or maybe that’s not so much grass as the fringed remainder of the cow’s foot-stumps? Either way, it’s unsettling. Especially coupled with the albino decorative gourd and the tissues.
According to FTD, white chrysanthemums are how to say, “Sorry about your feet and/or apocalyptic hell-pasture,” with flowers.