Every day, I think of about a million different things I want to blog about; but I just haven’t had the energy to sit down at write it all out. This very entry, for example, was started last Thursday. As in five days ago.
Every time I think I’m making strides at this whole motherhood thing, The Spawn of Satan has a horrendous day and I’m knocked on my pudgy posterior. Again.
Like today, for example. The tyrant woke up screaming at the ungodly pre-dawn hour of 5:00. I heard him rustling around at 2:30, and again at 3:15, and again at 4:23. I don’t think I mentioned it before, but we moved him to his “big boy crib” in his own bedroom just after Thanksgiving. Since our house is so small, we don’t bother putting on the baby monitor unless one of us is in the shower or otherwise indisposed. Besides, the second he starts crying, one or both of the dogs come running to find us and tattle.
Anyway, The Husband took the first feeding and gave him a nice, long, warm bath to try & soothe him back to sleep. It worked, albeit only for another hour. But hey! An hour is long enough to brush my teeth, take a shower, dry off, fix my hair, get dressed, empty the dishwasher, make bottles, throw something in the slow cooker for dinner, and check e-mail. When I went to get him after his snooze, I found him covered in desiccated baby vomit. Chunks of curdled brown formula were dried on everything – his clothes, his hair, his sheet, and his blanket. And so begins my day of exasperation.
By noon, we’re on our 4th outfit, our 9th bib, and our 15th burpcloth. Shortly after lunch, he usually starts wailing & only stops after we’ve tried the jungle mat, the swing, the bouncy chair, the rocker, the exersaucer; after we’ve yelled at each other about how neither of us can understand what the hell the other one wants; and both of us have cried thousands of big, round, fat, wet tears.
Later on, after we’re both exhausted and watching the clock wondering when the hell Daddy is going to get home, The Husband swoops in and can’t understand why I’m throwing the remote at his head because his darling little precious boy is all cuddly and snuggly and happy for the last 3 hours of the day.
And I love my son. Oh, sweet Jesus, I love him more than I thought possible. When he’s beyond tired and he lays his head on my shoulder and I call him my poor, tired, little neenee and he says “hey hey hey” over and over again until he falls asleep.
And the big grins he gives me when I rip off his socks and help him play with his little piggies, making squeals of pure joy when he grabs his toes and squeezes too hard.
These moments are fleeting, though, and the hard times still seem to outweigh the good. But I have faith we’ll get there sooner or later.
To make matters worse, the weather has been AWFUL. We’ve had over 23 inches of snow already, and the parking lots are covered in ice. Other than going to my parent’s house, I haven’t had Mason out in over 2 weeks. It’s barely getting above zero during the day & the wind chills are well below zero. I can’t justify taking him out in that.
Plus, the stores are crazy right now. I have to park miles away from the entrance, jockey his car seat across the icy parking lot, and hope to God there’s a cart at the entrance. Then other little kids want to sneak a peek at him & touch his face and hands with their own grubby, snot-covered little fingers while I try and shield him from the coughs and sneezes of the masses. I’d like to go as long as possible without catching a cold, thankyouverymuch. I know I can’t keep him in a bubble……but that doesn’t mean I want him exposed to germs the size of Texas, either.
And hey! We’re expecting 12 more inches of snow in the next 5 days. I want to find the S.O.B. who penned “Let it Snow Let it Snow Let it Snow” and bury him under an avalanche of ice shavings.
