original title: “It’s Friday. Whatever That Means”
This guy at work, one of those good old boys who always has a shoulder-clap at the ready and who does that thing where he points at you and says “Heyyyy” like a middle-aged Fonzie, he has two kids. The girl is older, she’s 10, and the boy is 8.5 or something. Some close-in-age spread. He was keen on checking in on me when I was pregnant with Fresco, seeing how the pregnancy was going, asking me when I was due, over and over again, asking if I was ready to make the jump from one to two kids. Pretty much once a week this guy would say, “Remember: one kid is a hobby, two is a job.” He even wrote it in my going-away card.
I hate it when people are right.
I got up this morning at 5:08 when Fresco woke up. I decided to forgo more sleep and instead take the opportunity to shower while there are two adults in the house and one of the children is sleeping. I call it “home team advantage.” Washed my hair. Put on some clothes. Upstairs, where my bed is, is home and downstairs is work, so now I’m at work, having my coffee and some before-I-get-started water-cooler chit chat with the Internet. On the bright side, the commute is a breeze.
Of course the shower woke up Trombone who is now moaning and working up the strength to holler. It’s about an hour earlier than his usual wake up. Fresco, bless him, has gone back to sleep. Yesterday, he didn’t. Yesterday, he was awake and grizzling all day while Trombone tested my multi-tasking skills by standing at my hip, saying “Mommy read THIS BOOK, Mommy read THIS BOOK, Mommy read THIS BOOK,” for possibly 10 minutes I don’t know because I was laughing too hard. I felt like I was the hapless stand-in relative in an episode of Crash Test Mommy.
Oh yes laughing. The mixed blessing of a second child is that while the physical intensity is doubled, the emotional intensity stays about the same. I am mostly too weary to really take scenes like that to heart. I know Fresco won’t break from crying. And Trombone won’t break (any further…) from waiting a few minutes.
[…And then while I was patting myself on the back just there, Fresco woke up making dying cat noises and wouldn’t be shushed. Which of course will not help Trombone get any more sleep. And I am instantly in the place where I think: Fractious little fuckers both of them. I am going to lose my load. I am seriously going to lose my load.]
But then when the noise has stopped and a few tears have been shed and I have had a second cup of coffee and it looks like the sun might come out and even though he is up an hour early, Trombone’s cold is much improved so we might even get outside today, I am again convinced that I can cope, that I can do this. For one more day, anyway.
original title: “8 Weeks Old and Boy! Are My Arms Tired!”
The Terrible Twos are contagious. Did you know that? Shut my mouth if I didn’t have a toddler-level meltdown today, complete with gnashing of teeth and foot-stomping and many tissues and all the while imagining SA, who was smiling and listening attentively, thinking sweet galloping kitty cats, this broad is insane! Through his gritted, grinning teeth, I think my car keys are in my other shorts! Dammit!
I forgot the first rule of Parent Club: You don’t count your chickens till they’re ready for the Shake N Bake. Eg: Do not tell anyone your child is sleeping through the night until he’s living in his own apartment and probably not sleeping at all. Else he’ll stop.
Here, a more relevant example: Do not tell anyone your child’s cold is better until it’s been at least 10 days. Else he’ll wake up the next day 8x as miserable as yesterday, rivers of snot and tears and The Hack in full force and he’ll wipe his nose on your mouth and stick his tongue in the baby’s eye and even though the baby probably has immunity from you it’s more likely that he’ll get this cold too and that will make this the official House of Snot for another 10 days. And somehow SA has avoided it which means just when I’ve washed all the couch cushions and put a fresh box of tissues on the counter, he’ll get sick.
This parenting Charleston, I am a little rusty at it, plus now I’m dancing twice as fast, but I think it goes like this:
1. hate the last 10 minutes of my life
2. feel guilty – should appreciate every moment!
3. feel defensive – surely I am allowed to be unhappy sometimes, especially when XY and Z have all gone wrong lately
4. feel guilty – think how much WORSE XY and Z could be. Loser.
5. hate self.
I trip a lot over my own feet while I do this dance. I hate tripping over my own feet. So clumsy.
Now, see, usually I wash this sort of angst away with a shower, mop up my ugly tears and thoughts with a receiving blanket and lope along being OK for a while. I don’t want to worry anyone. I don’t want questions. I don’t want sympathy. I just need to let off some steam, get over myself, ride the pity train alone. It feels good to feel sorry for myself. Good like picking a scab. This time I’m putting it out there. Maybe if I put it out there, I’ll get over myself.
There will be bacon tomorrow. There’s that.
original title: Bacon!
5:00 am: Sun is up!
5:30 – 6:30 – Coffee!
7:00 am: I love bacon, I love bacon, I love bacon. I hope Trombone’s cold is better today.
7:20 am: Negative, Ghostrider. Cold much worse. Kid looks like he lost a bar fight with a very tall virus who’s quick with his fists. However he is hoovering up the blueberry pancakes SA made. Since he’s been on the toddler diet – bread and creamcheese – for 4 days, this is progress. Mmm, pancakes and bacon. Happy Father’s Day to me!
8:15 am: Good grief, how much can one child cough? Yo, The Hack, give a 2 year old a break!
8:17 am: Wow, he just puked up all those blueberry pancakes. What a waste. At least he didn’t eat much bacon. More bacon for me! Bacon!
8:30 am: I think he must have puked up the cold virus. Because he’s about 75% improved. Huh.
12:20 pm: “Today is better than yesterday,” says SA. Apparently no one told him about Parent Club. Can’t wait to see what the afternoon holds.
12:30 pm: After 2 hours of typing with one finger in between holding Fresco underneath the range hood because he finds the stove fan very soothing, I decide to publish this post. And hope for health and better days and more sunshine and a better attitude in general. After all, I have a robot vacuum. More about that another day.
1:00 pm: Get distracted by my hair.
1:30 pm: Decide to go to the mall instead and return pants I bought 2 weeks ago.
2:00 pm: Does EVERYONE go to the mall on Sundays? Who knew? Lineups too long. I decide to return the pants another day. Like a Tuesday, perhaps. I have 90 days from date of purchase. Unless I miraculously shrink to fit them within the next 75 days. Unlikely given how much bacon I am eating.
2:15 pm: I find awesome shoes for half price! Now everything is perfect!
7:30 pm: Finally back at the computer. Fresco waking. And so on.