Leave the house without makeup on my face, or at least lipstick.
Value, really cherish a long, hot shower.
Not care that I have rice smeared into my wool sweater. The one that has care instructions so delicate it reads, “No dry cleaning. Pat gently with a damp cloth.”
Wear the same clothes 3 days in a row (not underwear).
Labour over a lovely dinner, just to have it rejected, and settle for a cream cheese and carrot sandwich.
Write only between the hours of 10pm-2am (well, I did in undergrad, but learned the value of sleep. Now I just don’t get sleep at night).
Require and love having two naps a day.
Be okay with waking up to a) a bum in my face, b) someone’s fingers up my nose, c) being smacked repeatedly on the head.
Lick another human’s fingers (well.. I *may* have done that before), instead of grabbing a towel.
Sing little ditties in my head, get really excited because, “I love this song!” and then be crestfallen when I realize the ditty is just a midi-file from one of Eryn’s extremely repetitious musical toys — and not the next coolest hit off the Top 40.
Let someone else brush my teeth for me, feed me masticated food, or bite my fingers.
Undress, only to find food underneath my clothes, and not be ashamed to eat it.
Not care that I’ve become that annoying mother who holds up mall traffic because her baby insists on walking assisted, very slowly, against the flow of haggard Christmas shoppers.
Carry a 22 pound sack of potatoes all day long. Receive compliments on how I’m carrying her and offer tips and tricks like I’m some kind of expert on baby wearing.
Search every corner of the Internet, mall or local farm for petting zoos or pet stores.
Get a sinking feeling in my stomach and feel my heart break when people don’t wave back at my perfectly happy, smiling baby or when a loved one is expected and she misses seeing them.
Feel my heart soar and smile with the goofiest grin each time Eryn truly laughs (they are so few and far between).
Go to bed excited to have my face smacked in the morning.