Bad Math

My English major math was really working against me today.  I packed the girls up at 2:30, a time when Marguerite is much better off napping, hit the grocery store and made it to our pediatricians office for Marguerite's appointment by 3:45.  Genevieve lasted until 3:43 before throwing up in the car.  She's a pro at throwing up in her "barf bucket" - poor kid has motion sickness like I didn't even know was possible. 

After cleaning up from the vomit situation, then steeping in waiting room germs while managing a cranky baby, I was really having to do some deep breathing.    (Side note:  I was the ONLY mom in the full waiting room.  All dads and kids.  Interesting snapshot of how the economy has switched things up.)

Here's where that bad math comes in.  Now 4:25, the nurse was reviewing our chart and said, "whoops, looks like Marguerite is only 17 months not 18 months.  We're going to need to reschedule you for her 18 month well child appointment."  So, dear Marguerite, you've just gained a month because I really had you pegged as a one and a half year old, and we all just lost an afternoon.

Genevieve fell asleep on the way home.  I love/hate it when G takes a nap.  It's nice to have some late afternoon peace, but hardly worth the fall out of an inevitably late bedtime.  This book has really helped me see the humor in bedtime struggles:

If you haven't read it, you need to.  It's laugh until it hurts funny.  My favorite page:

The owls fly forth from the treetops.
Through the air, they soar and they sweep.
A hot crimson rage fills my heart, love.
For real, shut the fuck up and sleep.