on numbers and diapers, or numbering diapers

Yesterday Stephen read my blog and declared, "Cop out blog." And he was correct. But at least I wrote words instead of just linking to a video of a Downton Abbey rap. Or maybe that would have been better?
The problem is that I spent most of yesterday doing taxes, and it's hard to really feel inspired after so much math (accountants, I don't mean no disrespect, I'm sure you write sonnets about deductions and credits every day when you return home from work.) I spent the rest of the day tending to poop related matters (see: dog, baby). Does that sound complainy? I hope not. I don't want to be all woe is me about motherhood because I actually feel very woohoo! is me. Mothering Ivy becomes more enjoyable every day. Even changing diapers is a delight, because she usually flashes a smile once she's fresh and clean again. I honestly have never felt happier than when Ivy smiles at me. Again, it's one of those "big whoop your baby has normal human responses" that I would think to myself if reading about another child, but when it's my own child it feels so profound. She was once nothing more than a microscopic speck that caused me to toss my cookies upwards of four times a day. And now she's a cuddly, smiley, nine pounds of real human. That's a total miracle, right?