Thanks for being cool with it. I try not to be one of these pain-in-the-ass mothers who I know (“Austin’s nap schedule is changing from 12:00 to 12:02, so can we play our coffee date by ear and I’ll let you know five minutes before we’re prepared to leave the house?”) who expect everyone to dance around their saggy asses. Sometimes I think I bend over backwards to prove that I’m still cool and flexible and yada-yada, and then I realize that all I have to do is be me and it’ll maybe work.
I think it's time we talked about Other Parents, or as I shall further refer to them, OP. In a word, OP suck. OP talk incessantly and in detail about the type of minutiae that makes me want to find the nearest and lowest tree branch from which to hang myself. OP say things like "we bought a potty last weekend." OP know what a MamaRoo is. They know that it's really spelled mamaRoo. I had to Google to look that up, for the record, if you really want to know.
Adam and I are cool. We smoke on the back deck. We curse in front of Baz. And every so often, we Do It. Tonight we stuck Baz in his new highchair (we bought a highchair) and chopped vegetables with abandon. Damn, we rule.