Or Two Small Ostrich Eggs.

We moved Saturday, and all that up and down the stairs meant that Sunday, the morning of the march, I awoke with my calf muscles curled into tight balls like frightened hedgehogs. But I did it, I Marched Shuffled for Babies, and I had a wonderful time.
The weather was quite nice in the end, cold, but sunny, and the walk itself was around a lovely lake. As I was driving into the park I got briefly teary at the sight of the first March for Babies sign. I knew, of course, that it was not an event specifically and solely in honor of Simone, but I was grateful all the same. And sore legs or not, it felt good to be walking for a cause I believe in, and for all of you—in 25 states plus England, Ireland, and Brazil—who donated. I can’t wait to take Simone on the walk next year, and I am hoping it will be something the two of us can share together for years to come until she hits puberty and decides it is just another lame thing I am forcing her to do because I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND HER, GOD. Incidentally, I was the largest fundraiser on my team (meaning that I raised the largest amount of money, not that I was the most rotund—though as the team was composed primarily of lithesome 22-year-old NICU nurses, I may have set the zaftig record as well) and my prize was a family photo shoot and $100 print credit with this woman. I am so excited I could spit. I will schedule the shoot as soon as Simone is off oxygen and cannula-free, so hurry up baby! Breathe for mama! Breathe for her need to obsessively document your every move! And, you know, for your health, or whatever.

Last night I went out with my baby brother and I am still recovering. I had a particularly clumsy start to the evening—I nearly killed myself stepping out of the shower, having forgotten that my new tub is a much-higher clawfoot, and then I fell off my heels walking out to the taxi. Once in the very fancy bar of the very fancy restaurant I found myself unable to get into my seat at the table without awkwardly stepping over the entire chair. All this before my first sidecar.
And then my brother FORCED me to order another. And then we went into dinner and found that we had been given a complimentary bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Max is a chef and works front of the house at the best restaurant in the Cities, so he is used to this sort of treatment, but I am not, and so felt obliged to have a glass or two because FREE CHAMPAGNE!! And then I ate a bunch of rich food (gnocchi with lobster and butter sauce, veal sous vide, talleggio with honeycomb, and some sort of cheese filled crepe with figs and basalmic), which addled my senses enough that I ordered a glass of red wine. I did not finish either the wine or my second sidecar, but the damage was done. I vaguely remember announcing my hatred of young people, forgetting how recently some members of the table had attained suffrage. One of Max’s friends, a medical examiner, was there, and I both asked her what percentage of her work hours, approximately, she spends fighting crime, and congratulated her on her upcoming move to Baltimore by mentioning what a high murder rate they have (good for business!). And then I went home, and woke up at four a.m. inexplicably naked and sweating, with a pounding head and a firm conviction that I was only moments from death. I’m a regular Paris Hilton in a nursing bra, over here.
So I don’t think I’ll be doing that again anytime soon. I like a glass of wine as much as the next girl—maybe more, depending upon who this proverbial next girl is—but drunkenness is not for me. I don’t know if I have ever told you this, but I once, about five years ago, called my mother and brother in the middle of the night convinced that I had alcohol poisoning. This is noteworthy only because at the time I had consumed exactly two (2) Manhattans over a six-hour period. OH, the LAUGHTER. They still trot that story out every few months. What they don’t know is that despite their reassurances, I slept on my side that night to prevent a potentially deadly aspiration. Ah, carefree youth, I hardly knew ye! In fact, I never had even a passing acquaintance with ye, having been born at the tender age of 45.

We have not yet unpacked, which makes moving about the new apartment a treacherous undertaking indeed. And as the presence of my bosom is required at the hospital for much of the day, I am not sure how we will ever find the time to tackle Box Mountain. Yet Simone’s homecoming looms ever-closer.

One of the Baby of the Week judges pointed out that Simone is becoming quite fat and succulent-looking, and I must agree. She weighs five and a half pounds now, or about the equivalent of 28 average-sized adult hamsters. Why, I remember when she was only a little bigger than half-a-dozen gerbils! They grow up so fast.