He still tries to sneak boob though. He isn’t slick. And i need more crew neck shirts to sleep in.
Kind of. I’ve been working 10 hours a day, playing with the boy when I get home, and looking for a house in the meantime all while not relaxing on the weekend because Dudeguy has classes in our house. Shit is stressful, bruh. And burnout is REAL.
The boy? Awesome. He’s all chatty and says “Hi!” to people and falls in love with little girls, and finally is starting to put his toys away when he’s done with them. He’s still a wrecking ball, but at least he cleans up after himself (no really…he spilled juice on the floor today and demanded a paper towel so he could wipe it up…let’s hope this behavior stays forever). He’s also partially weaned. Life is so much easier now that I don’t have to pump or wake up at night. Dudeguy now wakes up at night and has since apologized for the past year and a half of sleeping comfortably while I night nursed. This made me smile.
he has a few half words. it’s cute.
he bites to show displeasure. not cute.
tantrums. also not cute.
wakes us up with an enthusiastic “HI” and then pulls at my face and says “BOO-BA”?
(still haven’t weaned him)
is still emptying drawers left and right.
is very liberal with kisses.
i found my wallet. i left it in the stroller.
Today, while incarcerated (and while I was at work), the boy managed to remove his shorts and diaper and smear shit all over his playpen. The chair, the blocks, the floor, the rug. EVERYWHERE. Dudeguy cleaned up, and charged me with giving the boy a bath when we all got home. Prep for what the boy considers to be the best part of the day (BATH-TIIIIIIME!!!) includes wild screeching about bath time, getting undressed, and going to the potty. He was playing with my keys during most of this and I’m sure you can see where this is going.
I take the boy to pee. He pees. And then this sucka throws my keys into the toilet right after. Like, immediately after. Like, ‘peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-keys’. It happened that quickly.
This weekend, Dudeguy’s phone went missing. After about a day, we found it shoved in between the bed and the crib. This is one of several Bermuda Triangles in our house.
My wallet has since gone missing.
Cute: the boy wakes me up with kisses
Not-so-cute: the boy’s definition of kiss ranges from a peck (complete with smacking sound effect) to a complete baby slobberfest with tongue. There is no telling what he feels like handing out each morning and I don’t wake up in time to stop him.
If I am in the house, his proximity to the boobs determines how quickly he will settle in and go to sleep. If he isn’t nursing, he has his hand in my shirt. You know…just to make sure my boobs are still there. -________________-
He and his cousin fight constantly. I take that back…the boy is a maniac. Ok, no…there is no distinction between ‘YAY! I’m so excited and happy, I can’t help but thrash my arms in the general direction of your face’ and ‘BACK THE FUCK UP OR I’MMA FUCK YOU UP by thrashing my arms in the general direction of your face.’
We made it through the week where he only wanted to eat bananas and french fries. He now hates bananas. Still loves fries. This week, he only wants yogurt and hot dog buns.
I think I’ve developed an anxiety disorder over the past few days.
This is why I work outside of the home.
I’ve had a fairly incident free first year as a mom. Supportive partner, no daycare expenses, only a couple of long distance trips; I survived with plenty of cushion. And this is what’s fucked up about having a fairly cushy first year. Not long after, shit will go haywire over a couple of days and have you saying “I REALLY did not sign up for this shit,” but you will have to press on because you are a mom now and this is the shit that moms do.
Side note: Mom, you are an angel and a saint and may your life heretofore always be easy.
So Friday, I caught a virulent case of food poisoning brought on by not properly microwaving my leftover Thai beef stew. Because I am a giver by nature, I shared this delicious (and now ass-clenching) meal with Dudeguy and the boy. 12 hours later, I was curled up in the back seat of our car trying to sip on ginger ale in a futile attempt to keep my insides inside. AS SOON AS I GOT HOME, I got hit with the 180s (if you don’t know, just leave it at that) and was waking nearly every hour to purge myself of the aforementioned stew and every bit of vital moisture that my body had stowed away in every way imaginable. Of course, Dudeguy thought I should still be able to night-nurse the boy. Dudeguy ain’t shit.
Lucky for me, food poisoning moves pretty quickly and I was pretty much normal on Saturday night. I was looking forward to the rest of a chill weekend, but that was rudely interrupted by the domino-effect of the aforementioned Thai stew on the husband and child. Sunday night for them was like Friday night for me except one of the affected parties isn’t yet aware of the decorum that behooves us to put our vomit in the toilet. I got yakked on 5 times by my poor, wretched, rapidly dehydrating boy and the only thing I could do to alleviate his torture was to give him two sips of apple water every 15 minutes. After the second attempt at that, Hoggie promptly said “fuck you, the pediatrician, and whatever horses you rode in on because I’m thirsty as hell” and went to sleep. A few hours later, he was chugging water since breastalade was deemed too taxing for his system. Poor thing. I danced a little dance because this could mean an earlier weaning process. I’m selfish. Deal.
Dudeguy…well, men are a whole different beast when it comes to being sick. It seems as if directives given are shrugged of in favor of “I feel like doing this, so I’mma do it anyway, oh wait, BLUUUUUURUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH…oh god I’m dying, baby please save me.” I’ll just leave this here for everyone who thinks they are going to get married to a sane human being that makes rational decisions when it comes to their healthcare. Men know nothing of how to keep themselves healthy or to keep sickness from completely destroying them. It is on your shoulders. Remember I told you.
((TUMBLR DISCLAIMER: YES THAT WAS CIS AS FUCK, BUT THAT ISN’T THE POINT))
Anyway, after the melee, you can probably guess what my house looked and smelled like. Monday morning greeted me with a to-do list as tall as I am and a laundry pile that smelled like death and vomit and unhappiness and my last bits of sanity. And I still had to nurse a husband back to some decent state when he wasn’t listening to my well-informed, “I just went through this shit, so I think I know” advice. Which only makes me want to call him a dumbass in not so many words. Then he says I have no bedside manner. I’m not a doctor. There’s also the kid who is dealing with diarrhea (SHOUTS OUT TO E.C.) but is reasonably happy and running around, pulling out drawers and rearranging everything and trying to sit in the middle of the coffee table. Good times.
I just realized it’s the 24th. I haven’t wrapped anything.
Mom Life. Merry Fucking Christmas.