FAIL FAIL FAIL.

Yesterday morning, the dogs escaped.  My Dad came over to cut the lawn on Thursday & didn’t shut the gate tight enough.  Normally, I wrap a bungee cord around the posts, but I forgot, too.  Wouldn’t you know it, we had 25 mph wind gusts & the gate went flying open.

I heard Charlie barking her fool head off, but I was otherwise indisposed (or shoud I say exposed, seeing as how I was on the throne).  I yelled from the bathroom, but she kept yapping like a total lunatic.  By the time I got my pants pulled up, Zoey was halfway through the muddy field behind us.  I ran in the house & grabbed my shoes, but our neighbors happened to be working outside & lured her back with some of their dogs’ treats.

I thanked them profusely, then threatened to sell her to the nearest Korean market for hot lunch.  She had thick mud AND manure caked between her toes & all around the pads of her feet.  Her legs & belly were covered in a vile concoction of clay, poop, and stagnant water.  From the tail down, she looked like a new species of pot bellied pig.

I sprayed her with the hose as best as I could (she hates the water), and left her outside to clean herself off.  Went back in the house to feed Mason his bottle & put him down for a nap.  Came back outside to find the comforter previously hanging on the clothesline had blown off & was now being used as a dogbed.

I lost my shit.  There’s not a nice way to say it.  I completely lost my shit.  Started yelling at her, rubbed her nose in the ruined comforter, dragged her over to the ice cold kiddie swimming pool, and wrenched my back trying to force all 125+ pounds of her in the water.  She slipped out of her collar, so I started screaming at her about how much I hated her and what a stupid effing c*cksucker she was.  Not one of my finest moments.

I went in the house to cool off and tried washing the comforter again with bleach, but it didn’t work.  The smell came out, but the stains set in.  Dammit.

Once I settled down, Mason woke up from his nap.  I wanted to take some pictures of him for his 9-month-birthday, but he was in a terrible mood and wouldn’t sit still for me.  He fell off the bed, I dropped my camera & broke the flash, and Charlie ripped my background canvas when she tried to jump on the bed.

Once again, I lost my shit.  Not that it affected Mason or anything.

So much for my future as a photographer.

A few minutes later, The Husband called me from a pub in England.  Now, I hate talking on the phone to begin with.  There’s a delay between when he speaks & when I hear what he’s saying, so the conversations always feel very disjointed.  Throw in the background noise from a beer garden, and listen in our conversation:

Me:  “Hello.”
Him:  “HI!  I’M CALLING YOU FROM A BAR STOOL!”
Me:  “I can tell.  How are things there?”
Him:  “WHAT???”
Me:  “How’s everything going?”
Him:  “WHAT???”
Me:  “I can hardly hear you.  Can’t you go somewhere quieter to talk?”
Him:  “THIS IS THE QUIETER SPOT.”

He kept talking, but I couldn’t understand any of it.  Could be from him slipping right back into his English accent.  Could be because he was at an outdoor pub on the finale of Britain’s Got Talent.  Could be because I was furious that he couldn’t take 5 minutes to call me from his nice, quiet hotel room before he went out. I finally yelled at him to call me tomorrow, because I couldn’t hear what he was saying and hung up.

I fed Mason again, put him down for a quick snooze, then went out to check on that damn dog again.  I no more than closed the patio door, and he was awake and screaming from the sound of the neighbor’s power saw (did I mention he’s a really light sleeper – sensitive to light and sound?).  I tried rocking him back to sleep for over an hour, but it was pointless.

Got him up, put him in baby jail, took the sheets off the bed, reassembled the bed, and sat down to grab a bite to eat (at 7:00 at night – first meal of the day!).  Gave him a bath, during which he slipped in the infant tub & faceplanted into the water, swallowing a mouthful & upchucking it all back up, along with some curdled milk and chunks of banana.  Did you know baby vomit floats?  Who would have guessed?

Drained the tub, started over, gave him a bottle, and went outside to finish cleaning up rotten Great Pyrenees.  In the dark, of course, because it was after 9:00.  I tried spraying her off again, but ended up cutting most of the fur off her feet to get the chunks of dried crap out. During this time on the deck, my other drunken disorderly neighbor had a few girlfriends over, and she was LOUDLY telling how she got so drunk last summer that she puked through her nose.  Yikes.

Finally finally finally came in the house around 11:00 and fell into bed.  Woke up at 12:30 to achingly full bladder.  Woke up at 2:30 to screaming infant.  Changed him, rocked him for 45 minutes, and crawled back into bed until 6:30 this morning.

Yeah, it was a bad day.

But there were one or two brightspots to help me keep my sanity.

Or what’s left of it.

I’ve had cappuccino. Rambling to follow.

Random thoughts for a Friday night:

I’m so sick of seeing/hearing/watching/reading about Susan Boyle.  I GET IT, okay?!?  Ugly duckling to swan, blah blah blah.  She reminds me of my mother-in-law; and every time she pops up on the tv, I want to throw a brick at the television.  Or at least one of my Crocs.

And while you’re at it, please get rid of Jon & Kate + 8.  I think I would take more Octomom stories if it meant less J&K+8 drama.

I’ve had to pull 2 woodticks of Zoey, our ridiculously fuzzy Great Pyrenees.  Thinking about this makes my skin crawl, to the point I can’t stop scratching.

In retaliation, I want to have her debarked.  That effing dog barks and barks and barks all effing day long.  If a leaf blows by, she barks.  If a car comes down the street, she barks.  If the phone rings, she barks.  If the neighbors (who just put in a swimming pool!) are outside, she barks.  If the mailman stops at my parents’ house 3 miles away, she barks.  JESUS CHRIST, DOG, enough with the barking!!!  If I yell at her, she’ll stop for a few seconds, then start right back up again.  And yeah, have I mentioned we have a 9-month old son who sleeps lighter than The Princess of “The Princess and the Pea” fame????

We’ve had a visitor roaming around our front porch.  I’ve named her Fiona.

I think Fiona made the same mistake so many of us have made . . . she left the nest too soon.  Poor little baby bird can’t really fly yet, so she has to rely on running from one place to the next.  I don’t have any birdseed, so I tossed a handful of dry roasted peanuts on the porch for her to nibble on.  Next thing you know, she’ll be pirating the remote control and stealing all my Diet Coke out of the fridge.

Now, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.  I fed Mason some graham crackers today, and gave him some whole milk with a little bit of Carnation Instant breakfast to wash it all down.

Yeah, yeah, don’t give them cow’s milk until they’re a year old, yadda yadda yadda.  So, can someone please explain to me why it’s okay, even encouraged, to serve up cheese and yogurt?

It’s only because I’m trying to drop his 11:00 p.m. bottle & need to make up the calories during the day.  He didn’t throw up, or belch uncontrollably, or clutch his stomach in rolling agony.  I’ll keep an eye out for any signs of an allergy; but so far, so good.

I suppose I should be a little more careful with the wee one, seeing as how he still hasn’t been baptized.  If my brother & SIL are available, the church is booked or the pastor is out of town.  My SIL is studying for her PhD in education, so free weekends with them are few & far between.  At the rate things are going, I’d be better off  to say a little prayer, dunk his head in the toilet, and call him baptized.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Porcelain God, I now pronounce you …

All the single ladies…

The Husband is back in England on business, so it’s just me & Mason for a few weeks.  I’ve been barely able to contain my joy at the thought of two whole weeks of bed space all to myself.  I can toss!!!  I can turn!!!  I can get up to pee during the night and leave the door open!!!  (Never mind.  I already do that.)

We had an uneventful weekend.  Saturday, Mason had a playdate with my 13-month-old niece.  We were supposed to go to the zoo, but it rained all afternoon & we were stuck inside.  Saturday night, we watched the movie “Bride Wars”.  Stupid.  I should have picked up “The Wrestler” instead.  Bah!

Sunday, we had my cousin’s 40th birthday party.  I wrote a sweet message in her card, about how I can’t believe she’s 40 when it seems like just a few years ago we were sneaking cigarettes at the school near her house, or walking to the mall like we were all that and a bag of chips.  Wouldn’t you know it, she showed the card to EVERYBODY after we had already left.  Um, hello, that was meant to be private – not shared by everyone in attendance.  I guess sentimentality is lost on her.

And Monday, The Husband worked on his deck remodel while I hung out with the baby.  Just like any other day.

Mason took another tumble & cut his lip open AGAIN.  This time, it was in the pack & play when little mister daredevil tried to take a step on his own.  BAM!  Crashed his chin onto the side railing.  I predict that we’ll be to the emergency room again before his first birthday.  Can’t wait for that bill to come.

He’s been unbearably crabby for the last 2 days, thanks to the appearance of tooth #6.  This time, it’s another one on the top, to the right of his front teeth.  I can’t believe he’s 9 months old and has six teeth.

How can he be nine months old already?  He’s pulling himself up, cruising around the furniture, and trying to stand on his own.  He hates laying down, hates sitting still, and hates being strapped into his car seat when the car’s not moving.  Something on that boy must be moving at all times, unless he’s asleep.  He just. can’t. sit. still.

But he sings all the time, and smiles even more.  He’s just such a happy little guy, and I know I’m lucky that I get to spend every day with him.

I love you, kiddo.  To eternity and back again.

Naps. Not just for breakfast anymore.

Or, five minutes in the life of one overtired infant and one mildly amused momma.

4:46 p.m.

4:47 p.m.

4:48 p.m.

4:49 p.m.

Wheeeeeeeee!!

Goin’ Hungry.

I need to get out of the house and get some fresh air and exercise soon.  I’m holding actual debates with my dogs.  About great topics like the nauseating smell of bacon, the pros and cons of carpet cleaning, and the outrageous $40 membership fee to shop at the dirty grimy warehouse of weirdos, also known as Sam’s Club.

The most exciting part of my day?  I’m on a hunger strike, of sorts.  The Husband has been working some really long days, which means his daddy time has been reduced to about 45 minutes each night.  I “make him” give Mason a bath every other day and handle 2 bottles at night (one at 7:30 and another one around 10:30), but that’s really all he does.

We’ve been trying to eat a little healthier, but it’s almost impossible when he doesn’t get home from work until 6:30, then heads outside to do a little yardwork until the sun goes down. Mason has become faster than greased lightning in his walker, and I don’t like to have the gas cooktop lit or use sharp knives while he’s in the kitchen.  As a result, we’ve been eating dinner around 8:00 at night, which is waaaaay too late.

Anyway, The Husband worked from home today & headed to his basement office (which is really a card table & tv on an ancient filing cabinet) around 7:30 this morning.  At 5:30 tonight, he called to say he’d be coming up at 6:00 so I could make dinner.  At 6:00, I put Mason in his walker and started pulling stuff from the cabinets to get everything ready.

At 6:15, I got tired of waiting & started cooking.  Set a pot of water on the burner & started chopping some onions.  Put the onions in a little olive oil on the stove, and turned my back to start cutting up the chicken.  I knew Mason was next to me, so I thought it would be okay to take my eyes off him for a minute to cube the chicken.  Big mistake.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Mr. Mason reaching up to touch the flame on the stovetop, with the big pot of water just a few inches away.  I yelled “NO” at the top of my lungs before he touched anything, but my heart was going a million miles a minute.

I know I should have been watching him closer.  He’ll sit in his highchair for a few minutes, but then he gets bored & restless and wants to get out.  If I put him in baby jail or his exersaucer in the other room, he starts crying because he wants to be near me.  What am I supposed to do?  He loves zipping around in his walker, because he can follow me if I move from the refrigerator to the sink to the table.

I love him so much, but I’m so tired of taking care of him all day long AND trying to put a nice dinner on the table every night.  I just can’t do both.  Not when I’m trying to do everything myself while getting pulled in a million different directions.  Watch the baby!  Watch the boiling water!  No, watch the baby!  No, cut the vegetables!  No, turn the oven on!  No, call 911 to forewarn them that you’re about to have a kitchen disaster!

So, after we finished our nice meal of tarragon chicken with grated parmesan and fresh bread, I told my husband that I hoped he enjoyed his meal, because it was his last supper.  No more cutting, no more chopping, no more boiling, no more baking.  Not until he either a) gets his head out of his arse & starts entertaining his son; or b) Mason goes to kindergarten.  He’s only 9 months old, but I’m pretty sure we’ll be going with option “b”.

How do y’all handle the dash for dinner?  We live out in the sticks, so we can’t just call & order Chinese 3 nights a week.  I’m thinking Special K & sandwiches are as gourmet as it’s going to get around here.

I guess I can cancel my subscriptions to Bon Appetit and Cook’s Illustrated!

The smaller they are, the harder they fall.

Yesterday, there was blood.  A river of red streaming out of my son’s mouth.

Now that Mason can pull himself up, he’s discovered the joy in leeeeeaaaaaaning way over the side of his crib.  Every morning, the same routine.  Feet planted firmly on the mattress, head resting on the top rail, arms dangling over the side like two fat sausages.

I’ve been bugging The Husband to drop his mattress to the lowest setting; but surprise, surprise, it never got done (insert humongo sigh & knowing eye roll here).

When I got Mason up from his morning nap yesterday, he was stood up and reaching over the side of his crib, happily twirling the electrical cord for the wipes warmer in & out of his fingers.  The live electrical cord, pulled out of the warmer, inches from his mouth.  The live electrical cord, next to the live monitor cord and the bedside lamp with a live electrical cord AND a glass light bulb, just waiting to shatter into a bajillion pieces.  I yelled, he dropped it, and we grumbled at each other for most of the afternoon.

Until I got the bright idea to reorganize his changing table, moving the lamp/warmer/monitor to the opposite side of the table (away from the crib).  But was that enough?  Of course not.  I also decided to flip/flop the bedding in his crib, moving the padded headboard to the opposite end and repositioning the padded bumper.

After I finished it up, Mason was standing in the crib watching me while I admired my handiwork.  Just as I turned to ask him if it met his approval, he let go of the side and reached for me.

He let go of the side.  He reached for me.

And completely lost his balance.

His chin slammed into the top rail with so much force, I expected to find his jaw bone broken in half.  He crumpled down onto the mattress, and started silently screaming.  Eyes squeezed shut, tears pouring down, mouth wide open with no sound coming out.  His whole body was shaking.

And then I saw the blood.  I scooped him up & tried to look in his mouth, but he found his voice and just kept screaming and screaming and screaming.  “MOMMAAAAAAAA, MOMMAAAAAA, MOMMMAAAAAAAA” over and over, while the blood poured out of his mouth and down my shoulder.

We sat in the rocking chair and rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until he stopped screaming and quieted down to a whimper.  As soon as I laid him on the changing table to have a look, he started wailing again.

The worst things were running through my mind.  Did he knock out his teeth?  Did he bite his tongue in half?  Oh shit, what if he swallowed half his tongue?  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, I have to look in his mouth, so I can call the doctor and ask for a surgeon to meet us at the emergency room RIGHT NOW.

Fortunately, I managed to get a shot of children’s tylenol in him and peeked in his mouth at the same time.  All his teeth appeared to be intact, but he screamed at me when I tried to wiggle them.

Then I saw the gash and flap of skin hanging in his lower lip.  His top teeth must have slammed down into his lip, and knocked a chunk of flesh out on impact.

About an hour later, The Husband came home to try and help me feed him.  Before he had his car door closed, I pounced on him like an attacking bear to drop. that. fucking. crib. mattress. right. fucking. now.

Fortunately, Mason is fine today.  He fussed a lot last night, wanting to be held instead of bouncing around on his own.  His lip is red & inflamed & turning black & blue; but he’s eating and drinking without any problems.

I’ve always been afraid of things that go bump in the night.  I just never thought my kid would be one of them!

A different Mother’s Day perspective.

**Note – I originally wrote this on Sunday, but held off publishing it.  Not sure why, but here it is.

Today was my first official Mother’s Day.

Last year, I was pregnant and alone; miserable because The Husband was away on a work assignment and didn’t even acknowledge the day.  Last year should have been my first official Mother’s Day, but it passed by unnoticed.

Somehow, I thought it would be different this year.  In my heart, I’ve always felt like a mother.  I’ve spent my entire life taking care of everything and everyone around me, from my friends and family to my dogs and my husband.  No one has ever taken care of me, and I’ve been okay with that.

I’ve always been the strong one.  “It’s okay, I’m okay, I can handle it,” repeated over and over and over again.

But today, I wanted to not have to handle it.   For one day, I wanted someone else to make sure the dogs have clean water and plenty to eat.

I wanted someone else to empty the dishwasher and clean the pizza stone and wash the formula pitcher.

I wanted someone else to feed the baby and make his bottles and change his diapers and get him dressed and entertain him all freaking day.

I wanted someone to take me out to a nice restaurant, so I had a reason to get dressed in something other than sweat pants and a t-shirt.  I wanted to fix my hair and put on makeup and feel like something other than the mother of a turbocharged 8-month old.

I wanted to listen to my ipod, read a book, watch something on tv other than Noggin or a baseball game.  I wanted to spend a little time away from my son and my husband, and not feel guilty about it.  I wanted to get in my mommyvan and listen to Fat Bottomed Girls while driving down the highway with the sunroof wide open.

In short, I wanted a fucking parade in my honor.

Or at least a tiara with the words “Pretty Pretty Princess” emblazoned across the top.

For years, I hated Mother’s Day.  Infertility made me so sad and angry, lonely and bitter with disappointment.  I wanted a baby so bad, and couldn’t get past the feelings of failure and inadequacy.  I can’t explain it; but if you’ve experienced infertility, you know what I mean.

And part of that unhappiness remains today.  Even though I have my beautiful little boy, I haven’t forgotten the years of pain and emptiness.

In my heart, this wasn’t my first mother’s day.  It was just another day.

No fanfare.  No pomp and circumstance.  Just another day in the endless stream of days.

Milestone Mania!

I’m not going to make excuses as to why I haven’t been writing.

The rummage sale was somewhat successful.  I got rid of a ton of Mason’s clothes, even though it rained all day Saturday.  We still brought in about $300, which is long gone.  Seriously.  I looked in my wallet today, and I have $40 left.  How can cash spend so quickly?????  I paid my dad $100 to fertilize our lawn twice, bought The Husband lunch on Thursday (and bought him $43 in scratch-off lottery tickets for his 43rd birthday) and spent about $20 on rummage sales on Friday afternoon.  For the life of me, I don’t know where the rest of it went.

On April 26th, Mason sat up for the first time all by himself.  Before, he’d always flop over on his side or face plant while trying to gnaw on his toes.  Since then, he’s perfected the roll & sit, preferable while dumping the laundry basket of toys over his head.

On May 3rd, we celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary.  Since swine flu has swept through our area like wildfire, we stayed close to home and counted our blessings.  I’m not going to lie.  The last year has been rough, and it almost broke us.  But we’ve made it through, even though I still want to clobber him with a well-seasoned skillet most days.

Then, last Monday, Mason spontaneously crawled across the floor.  The Husband was holding some random toy that he wanted, and he just wiggled his little butt and legs to get it.   We both squealed with pure and utter joy, thrilled that we were both home to see this magical moment.  He was so proud of himself, as if he knew that he had done something life changing.

And Friday, he walked across the kitchen floor while holding The Husband’s hands.  He’s extremely wobbly, but he understands that he has to lift each foot up, one at a time, and shuffle forward.  And always, ALWAYS, with a huge grin on his face.

Yesterday, he pulled himself from sitting to standing all by himself while in his crib, and again on the sides of his playzone.  And this morning, he did it in the pack & play.

I can’t believe it.  Who stole my baby and replaced him with this little man?

This little man, who I love more than life itself.