I have nine bruises. Two on one elbow; three on another. Two on my left knee. One on my right thigh. And one on the back of my skull. I can't actually see that last one but I swear it's there. I feel like I've been in a street brawl. Not that I've ever actually been in a street brawl, but I imagine this is what it feels like. All I have been doing is walking around the Pod. I am constantly stepping over something to reach something else, moving this to make room for that, and finding new crevices in which to pack some more stuff into. Small living is TOUGH.
The Pod these days resembles an obstacle of sorts. Before the Babe was born, we vowed not to become a slave to baby stuff. We don't have all that much. In addition to our furniture, we have a Tiny Love Gymini, a Maclaren rocker, and an old workout mat that we put blankets on for tummy time. Between that and the stroller that is parked by the door, there is virtually no square footage left to walk. Couple that with the fact that I am often holding the Babe and left to maneuver one-handed, and it is not a pretty sight. We're cramped. And we're wondering how much longer we can live like this. (Already, I know!)
While laying beside the mat this morning during tummy time, I whacked my elbow on the corner of our glass coffee table. Ding. While scooting the Bugaboo out of the entry way so I could drag in the laundry bag (one-handed - man that thing was heavy!), my knee collided with the side of the closet. Ding Ding. Then, while reading to the Babe in a our lounge chair, I cracked my head on the side of his dresser. Ding ding ding.
By 4 o'clock, the Babe and I are both exhausted. I pop him up over my left shoulder (which is also suffering from three months of carrying), and head to the front of the room to the narrow path between our two closets. This is the one place in our studio that is dark and removed from any visual distractions. At least that is what I think. The Babe, who was droopy-eyed just a moment ago, is now screeching like a cross-between ostrich-monkey at the closet door knobs. I cannot fathom what is so interesting about the small, shiny, silver knobs. Baby bling, I guess? Perhaps he was switched at birth with one of J. Lo's twins.
Clearly the Babe doesn't appear to mind the crowded space we're living in. My patience is tested but if he's happy then I guess I can learn to manage.
The Babe chillin in his crib.
Esme Tunics in all the fabrics
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