Here's the thing. In real life, I am 28 years old. I have a husband and a dog and a mortgage and a big girl job. I'm knocking on a door labeled Two Kids, for heaven's sake, but I still have a hard time thinking of myself as a real adult. Wasn't it yesterday that my 17 year old self was flirting with the Schmoops over MSN Messenger from my parent's basement when I should have been writing an essay for Mr. Wood's American History class?
Paddy recently brought home an adorable little kid sized potty for Bug to familiarize herself with. We're not quite ready to start potty training yet, but we figured it couldn't hurt to introduce the concept, at least in conversation. (Subliminal indoctrination, maybe?)
So there was this moment last night where time sort of screeched to a halt. I looked around. Schmoopsie was seated on the edge of the bathtub directly across from my spot on the toilet, his knees nearly bumping into mine. Bug was tucked into the corner in between us, excitedly perched on her new little potty with her elephant jammies bunched around her ankles. I held one of her hands, and Paddy held the other. She was smiling from ear to ear, her already poopy diaper discarded in her rush to try out her new appliance. I looked around at us: daddy, mommy, toddler, almost-baby.
And I asked myself, how did I get here?
Paddy read the look on my face, and smiled wryly.
"This is a long way from all that kissing we did in high school, isn't it?"
Right? And even though that naive 17 year old might have thought she was dreaming of this moment all those years ago, it is SO MUCH BETTER in person.