I realized this morning that, while my 3 month old has more adorable outfits than she will probably ever wear before she grows into the next size (this happens approximately every 2 weeks), her mother has been wandering around the house in the same old ratty nursing bra and workout shorts for the past three days.

Which caused me to realize three things:

• I should get out more. It would force me to actually get dressed like a normal human.
• I should order new nursing bras.
• I really wish I looked better in onesies and footie pajamas. That would just be so fun.

My husband and I recently had a brutally honest discussion about allocation of housework within our home. It may or may not have been preceded by a bit of a melt-down by none other than yours truly…

We had gone out to eat together, sans baby—the first date we’d been on since the baby came almost three months ago. And as he watched me picking at my sushi, he asked, as well-intentioned men will,

“How are you doing, babe?”

I, of course, said that I was fine. And looked down at my sushi. And burst into tears.

At which point, of course, my poor husband began to realize that I was, in fact, not fine. Not at all. He was probably thinking, “Curses! I should know better than to ask that question!”

Anyway, all of this led to a conversation about who was doing what within our household, and since we reached the conclusion that he was (sometimes) putting his dishes in the dishwasher, and I was doing everything else, we decided to maybe divvy some things up a little differently.

Which is how it came about that my husband is now doing the laundry for our family. And he’s doing a fabulous job of it, I must say—he’s a good deal faster at folding things and putting them away than I am.

But the other day, I walked into our bedroom and saw my husband looking at me ruefully from the other side of a veritable Mount Everest of clean laundry.

“Babe,” he said, shaking his head somewhat mournfully, “I really liked it better when the laundry just magically got done.”

I probably got a smug little grin on my face as I started helping him fold clothes…because inwardly, I confess I was thinking, “Cool. I’m a magician. A magic laundry woman. I knew I had special powers of some kind…”

One of my favorite parts about mornings these days is watching my two month old wake up, and seeing her bi-secondly mood swings flit across her face.

It starts with much (as in, VERRYY much) squirming, grunting, and mini squeals, and then you can pretty much see her little internal dialogue start going:

“Ugggghhhh…I just really really do NOT like waking up. This is so stressful.” Her little face scrunches up like a tiny crinkle-nosed pink walrus pup.

Then one eye squints open, and my tiny human starts looking around with a dazed expression.

“Wait. Whoa whoa whoa. Hold the phone. There’s my mom! Oh my goodness, I just love her so much! I can’t believe she’s here again!”

A huge smile starts spreading slowly across her face--and is replaced half a second later as her eyebrows scrunch together in a concerned expression.

“Um, actually…this is really worrisome. I just realized I’m hungry.”

“Oh my gosh, I am SO hungry! Like, I’m not gonna be here anymore if I don’t eat pretty much right now!”

“Wait just a second. Is that the DOG? How does the dog DO that with her tail? That is just soooo interesting to me. Although I do wish that tail was closer."

She sighs heavily at this point.

“Ok, seeeerrriously hungry right now. Stay focused. Where’d mom go? Oh, right. She never moved.”

And then she leans over, butts me with her nose, and looks up into my face expectantly.

Um, yes. Yes, child, I do know what you want. You make these things abundantly clear.

Guys, I’ll be perfectly honest: on a scale of one to Martha Stewart for housekeeping prowess? I’m pretty close to a one most of the time. Some weeks zero. As in, zero vacuuming happening, zero dusting, very close to zero organizing, and only the bare minimum of dishes and laundry being done.

Particularly since this little chunk joined us, but I can't really use her for an excuse on this one, because, let's be real, I was a pretty not-so-great housekeeper even before she came. (Becoming the next Martha Stewart is on my list of things to do before I die, but so far, I'm a little behind on that goal).

Dustbunnies are the bane of my existence--like, seriously, WHERE do they come from? And how do they get together and make dustbunny babies SO ridiculously fast?!

But I kind of felt like I had reached a new all-time low when I walked into the kitchen this morning and found my dog walking around licking the floor.

Um, dog? Rude. Very rude.

Honestly, I really didn’t think the floor was THAT bad, but clearly homework has displaced housework for long enough. Mop time it is...