Your shit, my boobs.

I have 28 would-be posts in my drafts folder. Many are completely irrelevant at this point, as: holy shit, guess what guys? Babies change a lot! And grow! And some things that seem really important one day are totally not the next.

And when it comes to “mommyblogging” you just gotta press send, y’all, because if you return to a draft, even just a week later you have trouble even understanding how your old self was that over the moon about whatever it was. Hank made a new consonant sound. He totally hated X object a week ago and NOW! NOW HE LIKES IT!

Great story; tell it again.

I wish I could remember, though, the meaning behind the draft of a post titled “Your Shit, My Boobs” with “>>>>>!” typed (I don’t think “written” is appropriate) in the content box.

I remember something of the context: that this phrase was generated in a conversation with one of my favoritest of favorite people, H’s godfather and the first person to know of his wee existence, the man who walked into a German pharmacy with me to buy the pee stick and who I’m missing, missing, MISSING right now as he’s all the way over there on that other side of the country being a very. important. professor.

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While I’m certain the “My Boobs” were, uh, my boobs, I don’t think the shit was yours (it was more than likely Henry’s, as his shits get a lot of verbal coverage around here). But, I do know that finding this forgotten sound bite made me reflect, brat-ily, on how much I bitterly miss you, rather than on the blah…blah…good times we spent together…blah. I miss you, A. It sucks. Good luck with your first week of school in the land where school starts freakishly late.