Constant

In the equation of Luke's life, I am the constant.

I know this won't be true for long. But right now, today, I am the keeper of his story. I know the context behind each scrape and bruise, I know why he's wary of tall slides, and most of the time, I can decipher what he's saying and add enough background to create a cohesive tale. This is pretty awesome.

But as with everything, there's a flip side. The flip side of being his constant is that he's mine. He's there when I have errands to run, when I have a headache, when I'm exhausted from waking up 200 times the night before because I just couldn't get my Very Large Belly situated comfortably. He's there when I eat a snack, clamoring for a bite before I even sit down. He's there when I need to pee, offering to flush the toilet for me. He's there, offering advice on which shoes I should wear every time we leave the apartment.

At some point, the constancy gets a little overwhelming. Earlier this week, I was bemoaning the lack of spontaneity in my life.

"I can't just go pick up a sandwich for lunch," I said to The Dog, who listened dutifully, "without changing diapers, putting on three sets of shoes, keeping two toddlers from plummeting down the stairs, dragging those same two toddlers across the parking lot to my car as they try to run in opposite directions, strapping them each into their carseats as they yell about wanting to do the buckles themselves, listening to an incessant stream of loud chatter about trucks during the drive, unbuckling them as they yell about wanting to do it themselves, dragging them across another parking lot, and then trying to keep them from pulling over shelves and chairs wherever we go." The Dog sniffed sympathetically.

Luckily, Other Baby's mom is a teacher and is off for the summer in about three weeks. I'm thinking maybe after having two toddlers around, just having one for a few weeks will seem like a vacation. I'd still really like it if that one quit following me to the bathroom, though.