Unclean!

The clock read 7:30 p.m. and I was already falling asleep. Droopy-eyed, limp-limbed EXHAUSTED. My first thought was that "30 Day Shred" (Level 2!) was to blame, but maybe it was that plus staying up until 2 a.m. two nights in a row. The baby, of course, slept from 10 until 6, but no way was I going to surrender that uninterrupted quiet time to wasteful unconsciousness when I had the laptop all to myself, for hours and hours, for the first time in days. So, awake until 2 a.m.--clicking, surfing, feeding the addiction--on Tuesday night, the night I wrote this. Oh ho ho.

And then, last night, HeatherB came to town, so we were up all night drinking and digesting (suuuuushi) and telling stories in the hot tub while it rained. It was a great visit, as usual, although I regret to report that Wombat was being a challenge that day, and whenever Auntie HB would hold him he'd completely loose his shit (figuratively). We called it "tired," we called it "hungry," we called it "krankenpantzen" (that's German), but in hindsight I think it was all because he wasn't used to being held by someone who smells like fresh-baked vanilla cupcakes and rainbows instead of stale bodily fluids. Perhaps, then, his puking down her black sweater was his way of making her smell more homey?

And speaking of bodily fluids, I have an update on something I may or may not have written about here (which I guess means it might not be an actual update; you wouldn't believe how many post-baby entries I have in draft mode), but (ir)regardless of whether I wrote about it, I have a Change to report and here it is: During those first few weeks at home after Wombat was born, I was very vigilant about showering and putting on real clothes and not letting myself go past the point of no return. Now, not so much. These days my uniform is slippers, p.j. pants, and a bathrobe over a nursing bra (shirts just get in the way; down with shirts!), and I've even stopped changing into new p.j. pants when the old ones get speckled with Wombat juice. I do retain some standards of general cleanliness, but alas those standards are low. (Has the Wombat juice dried such that the clothing is stuck to my skin and must be peeled off, quick, like a band-aid? Then it's time to change.) But today I sunk to a new low: It was while giving Simon a play-by-play of the manner in which I was peed upon two hours prior that I remembered I never got around to changing out of the outfit I was wearing when it had happened. I believe I was mid-sentence, describing the graceful arc of urine that caught the sunlight like a string of crystals on its way to sullying my already sullied bathrobe, when I realized OH, it's THIS bathrobe, the one I'm wearing now. Gross.

(And now that reminds me that about two hours ago Wombat puked down my shirt and into my bra (nice aim, kid) and instead of mopping up and wiping down and then changing into something a little less...moist, I just kind of tipped to the side in hopes that my breast pads would soak up the puddle and then carried on with my day.) (So, hey, does anyone know when they open this year's voting for Hottest Mommyblogger?)

I think I had something to say when I opened my blogging window tonight, but it seems I've fogotten what that is, all my thoughts now buried under a mound of SHAME. Simon's at band practice and Wombat's alseep at my feet next to sleeping Linus, and although that means I have hours and hours and hours of uninterrupted computer time before me, I think we can all agree that a shower is in order. Or at least a new bathrobe.

Meantime, tons of new pics up on Flickr, because my son is as adorable as I am disgusting.