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hearts and pasta

 

I used to be in the floral industry. That meant that Valentines was one of the most stressful weeks of my life. Since then I’ve refused to acknowledge the holiday’s existence. Though sometimes my husband does.

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This year however I have the sweetest little Valentine I can imagine and it made me all lovey dovey and sentimental and since N had it off as part of his paternity leave I suggested we go out for a meal for the first time since Nat has been home.  We went to a little place after the lunch rush and ended up being mostly the only people there.  It was perfect.

And then I realized I forgot the wipes to wipe down his chair, the table (why yes, I am a first time parent, how did you guess?) but wasn’t worried because Nat doesn’t put anything in his mouth.  Nothing.  Not his hands, toys, nothing.  Except bathtub water.  He likes putting his face in it.

So there we were: Nat watching the cars go by and occasionally taking a bite of baby food, me enjoying my ravoli, and N with his fig pizza.  And as I gazed lovingly at my little son I realized he had his fist crammed in his mouth.  I reached over and grabbed it out, shocked.  He then proceeded to bend down and start to gnaw on the table. 

My funny little valentine.

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Despite what those photos show he was rather happy about the balloon, the car ride, and the high chair – I just didn’t manage to capture it.

(And now let’s  have a discussion about that shirt.  I bought it for him. I bought my son a shirt that says “I love mom” on it.  I’m sure this makes me terribly narcissistic. Does the fact it was $1.50 make it better?  Probably not.  I had vague pains of guilt the whole day to be honest.  And yet I put him in it and kept him in it.  So there you have it.)

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