At least it wasn't spinach. In my teeth.

Yesterday at 8 in the evening, I looked down at the sweater I was wearing, and I realized that for the last six hours, I'd been walking around with a nine-month-old's mouth print on my shoulder. (Technically it wasn't a spit-up stain, since he didn't spit up on me, but he did press his toothy orifice on my shoulder while climbing me as if I were a jungle gym, so there was a milky presence on my clothing.) And by 8 p.m., I had been to the dry cleaners, the bank AND the grocery store, plus visited some girlfriends and their kids. So there were plenty of people who witnessed my dairy-encrusted self. And you know what? I didn't even really care.

Which kind of scares me. Am I that woman now? I will admit to thinking from time to time, "Off to see the grandparents. What should I wear? It doesn't matter. No one's looking at me anyway. More important question: What should I put on the baby?"

And I'm not sure if that thought process constitutes progress or regression.