I should be grateful that I get to spend some one-on-one-time with my youngest daughter, I know.
I should feel blessed that we can swing these mom-and-me gym classes while solidly denting the bank, but not breaking it.
I should be excited to spend 45 minutes without laundry or chores or errands, just watching Quinn crawl up those short stairs, and roll around a ball pit, and toss a basketball toward a little hoop.
But this is what makes me want to bang my head against the padded gym walls. Because I haven’t drunk enough coffee for small talk at 9:30 in the morning. And Quinn starts crying halfway through the gym class because she just gets so–pardon my French, but if you saw her, you’d understand–pissed off that she can’t walk around like the other toddlers. And I wonder if it was really worth putting on mascara for this today, or if I should have just stayed in my gym shorts, because they were way more comfortable than the pants I’m wearing.
But then she turns around to look for me, catches my eye, and breaks into a giant, gap-toothed grin before scurrying on to her next mission.
Dagnabit it. Looks like we’ll be coming back again next week.