out of Kadesh

It’s been a terrible, awful, no good, very bad… week. (It’s not really that bad, I’m just alluding to a great piece of literature here. Zero points if you can name that book!)

It started with my shitty hair cut on Saturday. I specifically asked for a trim, and I asked her to keep the sides long. I ended up looking like the mom from the Brady Bunch. It’s sort of like a short bowl-cut on the top layer, and a long flippy layer on the bottom. I can’t even put it all back in a ponytail. The sides fall down, which makes me look like a colonial soldier.

I found out at my last midwife appointment that I weigh almost 200 pounds now, which isn’t really that big of a deal to me, but now with my weird hair my face looks even more bloated than before. This pregnancy has given me a bad case of acne, but the weather has made my skin major dry. So I have weird hair that nicely accentuates my fat, acne-covered, flaky face. Try looking in the mirror at that and not bursting into tears. If you’re able to do it I’d love any tips.

Noah decided he never needs to sleep again. He can just whine and complain and cry and whine some more instead. Sleeping is for babies. Big boys piss and moan but stay awake. Big, whale-like mamas with zero energy plop their big boys down in front of Sesame Street while they catch up on their ass-sitting. (They also quickly switch over to Thomas the Tank Engine when they get an earful of pissiness at the lack of creepy talking trains in Sesame Street.)

He’s also decided I should be with him at all moments of the day. “MAMA COMING!” is his constant refrain. I’m all, “Noah, I’m using the potty, I’ll be out in a minute, ok?” And he’s all, “MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA” until he opens the bathroom door, comes up to my knees, and says, “Mama hold you?” And I’m like, “Bubba, I’ll hold you in a minute ok? I’m kind of trying to poop here.” And he’s all like “Mama HOOOOLDYOOOOU!!!!” And I’m like, “Sure thing, just hand me those nail scissors so I can try and mortally wound myself first.”

This clinginess might actually be part of the not-sleeping thing. He finally goes to sleep around 10pm, after utterly exhausting himself. I stumble into bed and then, what feels like a minute later, he’s awake. It’s actually 5:30am, and he wants me again. So Lance brings him in bed with us, and if I’m lucky he falls back asleep with his feet in the small of my back. If I move or breathe, he wakes up and crawls on top of me, moaning “MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA,” like I’m anywhere but buried underneath his head.

Then my stomach starts growling. Literally, growling like it’s an angry tiger who’s going to kill you. At 5:45 in the morning. What is it thinking?! And then the baby starts kicking my insides out, as if reminding me that my stomach is hungry and that means so is she, and can I please get up and start feeding her now?

If you want to put your marriage through the ringer, which I know EVERYONE wants to do, go a month without sleeping. Also, one of you be pregnant. Fights break out over things like, “Could you walk across the floor any louder? JESUS!” or “Did you just put that tissue in the waste basket? I JUST emptied it, what the hell is wrong with you?” You start tallying up who has had more sleep on what day, too. So when you’re 3 minutes behind your partner, suddenly everything that has ever gone wrong ever is his fault. He’s so well-fucking-rested, why can’t he just…?

And Noah is seriously TRYING to make me crazy. On top of not sleeping, he’s complaining more than ever, which I just really feel is unfair. Today, for instance, I told him we were going to play with his friend. He was all, Yeah! until he realized that entailed putting on pants and socks and (the last straw) SHOES. By the time I had his coat on and he was outside he was seriously pissed off. I’m like gently explaining that he’s being a baby douche bag and he should stop now, but he’s just so mad at me he doesn’t even want to walk down to the car. Also he doesn’t want me to hold him or touch him in any way. He just wants to stand still and scowl. When we’d waited a really long time for him to stop acting his age, and I’d tried every good-parent-who-reasons-with-her-toddler trick I know, I finally picked him up bodily and hoisted him down to the car and wrestled his angry self into the car seat. So now we were both really pissed off (and sweaty) (and my carefully pinned weird hair had come undone) and all I could think was, why is this the treatment I’m getting for taking him on a play date? It’s just not right, y’all.

The cat drank Noah’s leftover cereal milk this morning and then barfed all over the floor. So before I cleaned that up I threw him (jeez, not really, ok?) (nope, can’t lie, I threw him) out the door, then an hour later I let him back in, thinking he’d have gotten all that lactose out of his intolerant little body, but he sure enough barfed again once he was inside. JUST TO FUCK WITH ME.

Then the DOG is like, Let me out let me out! So I let her out and then she’s like, Let me in let me in! So I roll my eyes and let her in and she RUNS into the living room and gets muddy paw prints all over the yellow rug and I’m seriously one thing away from a long, drawn-out, eardrum-splitting scream that sends everyone in the house running outside in terror so I can get a nap.

What I’m saying, y’all, is I’m extremely white and I’m having some serious first-world-people problems here. This shit is real.

Right before Christmas, we switched Lance’s office/the guest room with Noah’s little room, so that we’d have space for all the kagillions of toys we got Noah for Christmas, and so one day he can share a room with his baby sister.

(P.S. A bad idea: undertaking a humungous project three days before Christmas.)

Here are some pics of the Bubbs’s new digs. I gotta say, I’m completely in love with it. His old room was a light green color… very baby-ish. I love how these new dark green walls contrast with the bright colored kid stuff. I made yellow curtains to go in there too, to brighten the room up even more. There are a few finishing touches, like we’re going to be swapping Noah’s crib out for a big-boy bed pretty soon, and we want to get some more bright artwork up on the walls, but here’s what it looks like for now.

Possibly my favorite thing about his new room: these custom shelves. All his books and toys are on display and organized so he can reach what he wants or else point to something higher up and I can get it for him. It’s a far better setup than what we had before: a wicker basket overflowing with toys of every kind in the corner of the living room. The day we arranged all of this I had an organization orgasm.

Mom’s corner.

My labor of love: his finally finished quilt. I call it “Less Than Perfect.”

More than any other room in our house, Noah’s is a display of homemade and hand-crafted. This chandelier is one I made from a string of Christmas lights before he was born, and Lance installed it. So of course, it had to make the switch. His room is bigger now though, so it doesn’t light up the whole space like it did before, but it’s still really sweet and pretty in the room. I also made the bird mobile, that pillow in the rocking chair, and the curtains and quilt, like I already said, and I painted the elephant on the toy chest (which is now full of blankets, now that his toys are organized in bins on the shelves). And our good friend Kelly painted the little canvases.

Think New Baby will love it as much as the rest of us do?

Coming up: Lance’s New Tiny Cramped Office Pics. (If I can fit in there to take any pics, that is.)

Dear Future Me Reading This in 20 Years,

Sorry it’s been so long since I wrote to you. (You’re looking great for 48 by the way. Those hips might be a little bigger than you ever imagined they could be, but don’t sweat it. And quit complaining about your saggy boobs and get a better bra. Simple.) The thing is, it’s been a little busy around here. First of all, we survived Thanksgiving. I know, it’s always questionable, but we did it. (And you can blame your flabby 48-year old belly on the 200 pounds of stuffing you ate over Thanksgiving weekend 2011.) Here is what else your 28-year old self has been doing for the past month. Look back and laugh.

1. Chasing mice. Possibly rats. We came back from a trip to visit in-laws in October to the smell of rancid dead, which waged a two-month-long war between us (the Humans) and them (the Zombie Rodents). There is no victor yet and the battles continue daily. We called an exterminator, who told us we should just set traps. We check traps every day to find them tripped, food gone, and yet the ZRs are not trapped. At night they scritch scratch in the walls behind our bed. We keep a broom by our bedside, which we have almost mastered the art of pounding on the walls without even really waking up. Lance spends his days searching for and patching holes with spray-insulation. We’re having a great time with it.

2. Finding out that you’re having a girl! You know this already, because she is now 20 years old. But here in 2011 you just found out, and it’s really quite amazing to feel New Baby kicking around inside and thinking to yourself, “There she is,” or “That’s my daughter.” I hope you are happy with the name you chose, because right now you have no idea what you’re going to name her. You think of a different name every week, but none of them is really something that sticks around. You roll it around on your tongue for a week and you start to hate the way it sounds and Lance can always think of someone he knew in Kindergarten that had that name who pooped her pants.

3. Watching your baby boy turn TWO. The day he turned two, he threw a huge tantrum because his friend tried to play with one of his birthday toys, and you knew that HE knew that he was supposed to start acting like that because he had just turned two. You should have lied to him and told him he was three. Or four. Then he would have felt mature and been like, “Oh, pardon me, would you like to play with the mini grocery cart that I just unwrapped? Allow me to step aside out of your way, and while you’re playing, I’ll cut you a piece of my cake.”

4. Gearing up for Christmas. You’ve done 20 more of these holidays by now and I hope to God you’re living in Paris where there is a cup of espresso and a croissant waiting for you down the corner where you can stop in for a stress-free holiday break. YES I SAID HOLIDAY, FOX NEWS. OBVIOUSLY I AM GOING TO HELL. But if you HAVE come to your senses and moved to France you might not NEED a stress-free holiday break, because you will be far away from all your judgmental and inconsiderate relatives, who would never dream of coming to visit you in Paris because what if they accidentally slip on the ice and sprain their ankle? I mean, dear God, they’d have to go to the ER and leave WITHOUT PAYING A HOSPITAL BILL, because the French are fucking dirty communists. But besides all that, this year is looking like a really fun Christmas, because, if you’ll refer to Item Number Three, Noah is two! He’s obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine and when he sees that train set under the tree this year he is going to flip his shit, and you’re going to catch it all on video. (If you ARE still in America and feeling the holiday stress while you’re reading this, do yourself a favor and cheer yourself up by watching that video.)

5. FREAKING OUT about the GOP presidential nominees. You watch Jon Stewart to keep yourself laughing in hopes that the terror will subside, but NPR brings you back to reality the next day and you spend your days biting your nails and praying that God will protect the country from all of those nut-cases that are the next potential leaders of the free world.

6. Watching reruns of Felicity on Netflix. Don’t beat yourself up… you needed a break! Remember, you were pregnant and you had a two-year-old. It’s embarrassing, sure, but at least you don’t watch any daytime soaps, and what’s a stay-at-home-mom to do while she’s folding laundry, really?

7. Seeing some theatre. Lance gave you the amazing gift of going to see Memphis at TPAC. Remember that if he’s getting on your nerves, Future Me, because it was one hell of a date. He arranged babysitting and everything. You miss seeing Broadway theatre in 2011. I hope you are richer and have more time at 48 and you can get a subscription to your local traveling Bway house.

Well, you have to go now, because you have a pile of diapers sitting next to you that you have to fold, and an episode of Felicity waiting in your queue.

Love,
28-year-old You

You guys. I’m sitting here at a coffee shop. ALONE. The Bubbs’ grandmother is in town and she’s hanging out with him in our living room right now, while I’m drinking a decaf Americano and eating a chocolate chip muffin and NOT hearing “Boo-boo! Boo-boo!” as a toddler points out each one of my pregnancy-hormone-induced pimples. It’s like Jesus was right and the Kingdom of Heaven really IS now.

Seriously, what do I even DO with myself? My thoughts were of catching up on a million emails, making sure everything is good on my end for the theatre, and I’ve also been thinking really hard about opening my play document, which I haven’t opened since August and which still needs a second act, but truthfully I’m so overwhelmed by the freedom that I’m kind of frozen.

So here’s a quick while-I-figure-out-how-to-spend-the-next-hour update for you, because you so wanted one and I so wanted to give one.

New Baby is kicking my ass. All the things that didn’t happen during my pregnancy with Noah have joined forces and are currently beating me over the head with a baseball bat. Of the myriad of pregnancy-related issues a woman can acquire, here are the things with which I have been afflicted thus far: Nausea, vomiting, headaches, my first ever YEAST INFECTION, my first-ever and seemingly non-stop battle with seasonal allergies, and a good ol’ daily dose of explosive diarrhea, which only in the last week I’ve begun to realize is most likely a result of a brand new intolerance to lactose. OH! And something called placenta previa.

In other words, Dear New Baby: YOU’RE GROUNDED.

1. New Baby is healthy!

2. There is ONLY ONE BABY in there, Mom and Aunt Renee. (And there was much rejoicing.)

3. When you’ve had one baby (with or without a humungous head), your cervix gets all crazy bent out of shape. Sometimes.

4. My cervix got all crazy bent out of shape.

5. When this happens to you, you get an early ultrasound to make sure you’re not going to need your cervix stitched. Ow.

6. They tell you they’re going to put a probe into your cervix to take ultrasound pictures. Ow.

7. The ultrasound place is like a spa compared to the nurse-midwives’ office.

8. The vaginal ultrasound device looks like a dildo.

9. This may or may not be awkward for your husband, who is sitting two feet away as the ultrasound technician explains that you are to put this into your vagina underneath the sheet that is currently keeping you modest.

10. Either of the following reactions to this dildo apparatus would be funny: “OH MY GOD, that thing is HUGE! It’ll never fit…” OR “Pshhh, please. After this guy, that tiny thing looks like a toothpick.”

11. Toddlers think ultrasounds are boring.

12. Toddlers think computers are cool.

13. Toddlers think you’re a piece of shit for not letting them get on that cool computer when they are so obviously bored.

14. My cervix is actually just fine.

15. But New Baby’s placenta is completely covering my cervix.

16. This is only a problem if it doesn’t move during the course of my pregnancy. If I’m in labor and it hasn’t moved, I’ll have to have a C-section. Worst case scenario, the placenta somehow ruptures pre-term, and the baby is in big trouble.

17. Most likely, everything will be fine, but I am to call if I experience any vaginal bleeding. I think I could have figured that out on my own.

18. When your placenta is on top of your cervix in such a vulnerable position, you are ordered to go on “vaginal rest.” In other words, nothing in the vagina. Like… no ultrasound equipment. And on top of THAT, no sexual intercourse until they screen me in two months to make sure the placenta has moved.

19. Breaking the news to your husband that you can’t have sex for two months is really fun.

20. Breaking the news to YOURSELF that you can’t have sex for two months is even MORE fun.

21. The following statement won’t help: “Don’t worry, we’ll have sex after the baby is born!” (FALSE.)

22. Despite all that, at the end of the day I’m feeling immeasurably grateful that I have one healthy baby, kicking and waving and tumbling around, inside my ever-growing uterus.

23. Having someone poke into your cervix all day makes your cervix sore. Which is a weird feeling.

24. Having a bored toddler at an ultrasound appointment makes you (and your husband) feel stressed out.

25. Making up for it later by deciding to bake something with your toddler may or may not be the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought of.

26. If you tell a toddler, “Ok, now dump this cup of flour into this bowl,” he will dump it onto the floor.

27. If you tell a toddler, “Stir up the pumpkin with this spoon,” he will hold the spoon, dripping with pumpkin, over his head and spin it around.

28. If you tell a toddler, “Stand here while I get the butter,” you will turn back to see him with a spoonful of batter containing raw egg about a centimeter from his open mouth.

28. If you decide to bake with your toddler, your kitchen will look like pumpkin bread batter exploded on every surface.

29. The bread will still turn out delicious, and your toddler will be really proud. And so will you.

30. If someone would have told me 2 years ago that I could love someone with the ferocity that I love my toddler, I would have thought it impossible and maybe a bit weird, but it happened. Which is how I know that even though I can’t understand it right now, I will feel the same way about New Baby as soon as we meet.

1. I momentarily forgot how to spell Tuesday.

2. I had a craving for Chick-Fil-A.

3. I ate Chick-Fil-A.

4. I felt guilty for eating Chick-Fil-A.

5. I listened to Adele and Justin Timberlake on Spotify.

6. I put a pot of chickpeas on the stove to boil.

7. I took the dog on a long walk with my two favorite boys.

8. We stopped at Ugly Mugs on the way home for a pumpkin latte (and a blackberry Italian cream soda and juice, respectively).

9. We sat outside for almost 30 seconds before mosquitos started trying to bite my ass. THROUGH MY PANTS.

10. Lance said, “Haa haa I can see your under-wearrr” in a singsong voice. I said, “What!?” He said, “You have a hole in your yoga pants. You’re wearing bright green underwear.” I said, “I just stood in line at the coffee shop with a huge hole in my pants! …Awesome.”

11. We stepped back in the house and it smelled like horribly scorched chickpeas.

12. I put a pot full of scorched-to-hell chickpeas on the back patio.

13. I opened all the windows and turned on all the fans.

14. I mourned the loss of the hummus I was looking forward to.

15. I sat on the toilet while Noah sat on his potty. Nothing happened for either of us.

16. I taught Noah the sprinkler dance.

17. I took a nap.

18. I snoozed my alarm.

19. I snoozed my alarm.

20. I snoozed my alarm.

21. I drug my ass out of bed.

22. I did a bunch of work for the theatre.

23. I contemplated how much more work I need to do for the theatre.

24. I fed Noah a snack of yogurt and strawberries.

25. I realized the yogurt expired on September 8.

26. It smelled fine so I put it back in the fridge. I figured, it’s yogurt, right?

27. I procrastinated making dinner until 5:45.

28. I finally got up and started dinner.

And by “the whole story,” don’t worry. I’m not going to tell you that I came out of the bathroom wearing lingerie and I had shaved my legs for the first time all summer. And no, I’m not going to tell you that I’d been tracking my periods so I didn’t have to take hormone pills as birth control. No, I’m not going to tell you how in that crucial moment, I whispered the words that every man wants to hear: “It’s cool, baby, I’m not ovulating! Don’t worry about a condom. IT’S FINE.” I’m not even going to describe to you the haste with which Lance tossed the wrapped condom aside and how he even almost completed the whole question: “Are you sure?” Yeah, so don’t worry, because I’m not going to tell you any of that.

(p.s. “The Rhythm Method.” Otherwise known as, my friend Amy told me, “Parents.”)

What I AM going to tell you is that all of this is Noah’s fault.

Ever since he was born… LITERALLY, since my water broke while we were trying to have sexy pregnant sex… every time Lance and I started giving each other, you know, the look, Noah has been there to put a quick stop to it. If I even THINK about my husband in a husband-and-wifely-duties-type-way, or if Lance like, throws the merest of glances at my boobs, Noah is suddenly awake, alert, around… whatever. It was so uncanny that Lance started calling it “Operation Prevent Siblings.” Which was very amusing since, of course, he was NOT going to be having siblings because we were NOT going to let Lance’s sperm anywhere NEAR my egg. (p.s. A brand new study proves that wearing a condom helps with that…)

People would ask me when we were having another one, and I’d be all, Maybe when this one learns to sleep. Which I have given up hope on happening before he becomes a teenager. Because y’all. I haven’t slept in TWO YEARS. My plan was to sleep for a full year with no interruptions before even THINKING about Number 2. No way was I about to get myself knocked up. NO. WAY. (p.s. CONDOM!)

It’s Noah’s fault though, because he slept while he was on the job THAT ONE TIME. And just like that, “Operation Prevent Siblings” failed. I don’t know what this means for his future assignments, but it does not look good.

After the initial shock wore off, though, I started feeling excited. And happy. And scared out of my mind. And so stupid. And really, really happy. This is gonna be great, you guys. My Bubbs is going to be the best big brother ever. I’m really excited. And scared happy. Did I mention happy?

But still. Today Lance told me, “You know I’m never going to believe you when you tell me I don’t have to wear a condom again, don’t you?” And I was all, “Are you kidding? I’m not even letting you NEAR me with that evil Pregnancy-Maker of yours until after the Vasectomy.”

Hello? Is this thing on? Ok, just checking. It’s been so long since I’ve Facebooked/Twittered/Blogged that I forgot how to type, but if I put my coffee down it seems to be a bit easier. Two hands. Huh. I’m not used to having access to both.

My poor Bubbs is recovering from a fever. I think it is a teething fever, which comes on for no reason about a week before he cuts new teeth… but before that he had the shits, and before that he had a runny nose, and before that he threw up one time. So my gut tells me it’s teething, but the Internet tells me it’s something life-threatening.

Excuse me while I pick up my coffee again to calm my nerves. Counter intuitive, you think? Just wait until you have a toddler.

I feel great. Well, my boob feels like it’s about to fall off, but that’s just the plugged milk duct that came on the other day to remind me that even though I’m weaning, I’m still a slave to breastfeeding. But I feel great otherwise, really. I started running. I’ve never been a runner… I dislike the feeling of Jelly Legs/Jelly Belly/Blood thundering in my ears/Can’t get enough breath/Searing pain in my lungs… things like that. And then as I’m running and trying not to die, I typically reason with myself like: “This is painful, why am I doing this? No one’s chasing me, and even if someone WAS chasing me, I wouldn’t be jogging this embarrassingly slowly. I’da cut through that alley and I’d be hiding behind that trash bin by now, or at least I’da taken the trash bin lid off and I’d try using it as a weapon. It makes no sense to do what I’m doing right now, and look, here’s an air-conditioned ice cream shop! Bump this crap.”

But I’ve always been jealous of runners. They look like they are having a great time, getting fit and being alone and not talking themselves out of doing it.

It came about after we joined the YMCA. I took Noah to the nursery a couple of times, thinking he would love it, but it turns out he… um… didn’t. Quite the opposite in fact. In fact I am fairly certain I know the first topic he’ll be discussing with his therapist one day: the day his mother left him in the nursery at the Y for FOUR MINUTES and he screamed and cried so hard and long that by the time she got back, he was hoarse and shaking. And I will also be discussing the psychological ramifications of this with my own therapist, because I think I am STILL shaking and second guessing every decision I’ve ever made and my abilities as a competent mother.

(Also, do you think this explains the vomit/fever/runny nose? Four minutes of exposure at the germ-infested YMCA nursery? Internet thinks maybe.)

So my desire to get in shape was countered by my desire to protect my son’s tender emotions, despite the rolled eyes and “He’s fine”s and the “This must be your first kid”s of the YMCA nursery workers, and so I decided to quit the gym and do something else.

Except I haven’t actually quit yet, because I am holding onto the hope that we might take ourselves swimming before the summer is over, and also because it is impossible to quit the gym, don’t you know?

The first time I got the crazy idea in my head to go for a jog, I was angry. And upset. And things were feeling pretty hopeless. And I was able to use that anger to fuel my run, and I ran for over a mile, and I know that probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but please bear in mind that it was hotter outside than the fires of Mount Doom, and, not being a runner, by the time I got back to my house I had to retrace my steps to look for my ass, which had fallen off from the stress of being thrown back and forth in a way it was not used to for 20 minutes. But I felt amazing. Powerful. That mile might as well have been 10 for me, and I actually had this naive thought: I can do this.

I’ve been running ever since, but I think I have hit a snag. Unless I’m upset about something, I don’t run as well. Yesterday I ran for 1/2 the time I did that first time, and felt just as worn out as if I’d done the whole mile. Which technically means I’m getting WORSE the more I run. But nothing was nagging me. I was all happy and content. And I didn’t really want to run… what I really wanted was to watch Hulu and eat leftover Lance’s birthday cake. (The other problem of course, is how much I hate running when Noah is napping, which is really the only time I can run, but the last thing I want to do during my ONE BREAK OF THE DAY is stop watching Hulu and put down the leftover cake so I can pump up my heart rate. LAME.) So I found myself wearing down on the run and I started trying to think about all these social injustices so I’d get a spurt or two of energy, but it just didn’t have the same effect as when it was a personal injury.

Which leads me to this conclusion: I’m like, hella selfish.

So, in an attempt to change my evil ways, I had this idea that for one year, Lance and I should give something up every month. (Welcome to marriage, ladies and gentlemen. Lance is probably all, um, but I feel ok about myself…? NO. We’re in this together. We’re gonna make the world a better place so just SUCK IT.) More on this um… later. Hopefully.

This month is No Chain Month, otherwise known as Buy Local Month. See we pray this prayer before dinner, all together (meaning Lance and I pray, and Noah watches and then claps when we’re done), and it goes “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. And may we always be mindful of the needs of others.” So that’s what this project is really all about… we’re going to try to be mindful of the needs of others. This month, by supporting our local farmers and businesses, and by taking away the convenience of Target/Kroger/Home Depot/Etc., which needy people do not always have access to, especially in third-world countries. Also, we are going to try to NOT be mindful of the needs of The Man.

Amen.

(How does this help me run better? When I find out I will tell you.) (Meaning: it has nothing to do with me running. I’m just telling you two stories in the same blog post, but I love my segues and it seemed like a good one. Try to keep up, Reader.)

The short version: I’ve been trying to wean Noah. It’s not going well.

The long version: Holy shit. My kid is more addicted to my titties than an old man with emphysema is to his cigarettes. Weaning Noah from breastfeeding is like taking one step forward and two steps backwards, EVERY SINGLE DAY. Which technically means I’m nursing him more now than I was when I started weaning, and that’s kind of what it feels like some days.

In all seriousness, I’m trying to do this as gently as possible so that no emotional damage and/or breast infection ensues. But there are times when I’m nursing him for the fourth time in the span of one bedtime routine, because he refuses to even let me put him into bed without waking up and crying AS SOON AS HE COMES UNLATCHED, when I think to myself, Dear God, I’ll be breastfeeding this little leech when he’s 25.

I AM JUST SO OVER IT. I have to step back and try to gain some perspective. Worst case scenario: I’ll breastfeed him longer than I intended to and he’ll continue to receive nutrients and antibodies and I’ll continue to bond with my son and burn calories.

Either that, or I’ll end up in a padded cell.

1. I fucking hate summer. Mosquitoes. Mugginess. Melting. MURDER. (Just kidding.) If I ruled the universe, we’d have one month of 85 degree weather where you could swim if you were hard core. Then there would be five months of fall and three of spring, and three of winter. (Does that even equal 12?) Seriously. Didn’t we just have snow on the ground like, a week ago? What is with all this weather? If it’s not a blizzard, it’s hotter than hell or there’s a tsunami or a tornado tearing through my hometown. Or an earthquake and a radiation leak. You know. (Oh, man, first paragraph is about weather. This blog post might be doomed.)

2. I think I have gallstones. Yesterday, for the second time, I felt like I was going to die shortly after eating dinner. I laid down, sat up, took four antacids, tried gagging myself, tried pooping… nothing made me feel any better. It was such a weird pain too, like a constant crampy heartburn only in my stomach/intestine area. So I did what every smart person with internet access does in my situation: I WebMD’d that shit. Word to the wise: if you are feeling sick, look online to see what you could have, because self-diagnosis is the best thing to do. NO WAY was what I had gas. IT WAS GALLSTONES I TELL YOU. And I’ll be lucky if it isn’t cancer. If it happens again, I’m going to the ER. No, seriously.

3. Today, my son ate almost half a box of cheese crackers. I took him to the supermarket with me and he ate them the whole time I pushed him around in the cart. I couldn’t believe how easy my shopping trip was. Then when we came home he kept asking for more (“MAH! MAH!”), and I was feeling so lazy so I just gave him the box. It’s just that I hate snacks, for serious. 90% of the time, I’ll give Noah a banana (which he walks around eating with one hand), blueberries (which he can eat out of a bowl on the floor), a mozzarella stick (see banana), cereal shaped like an “o” (see blueberries), or cheese crackers. Because those snacks are easy. Is that terrible? 10% of the time I take time to peel some other piece of fruit or give him some yogurt and a spoon or do something fancy/healthy, and it ALWAYS ends up on the floor. But I did feel pretty bad when I looked up to see him walking around the house carrying a box of sodium-laden non-nutrition around with him all day.

4. I spent the evening at a board meeting for Street Theatre Company. I feel so empowered to be doing what I love. Not the meeting part. The being part of a theatre part. It was a “working meeting,” so we brought our computers and the President of the Board gave us all a task to do. Mine was finding contacts for a sexual abuse prevention play we put on for children, called No More Secrets. So I googled “Nashville TN child abuse support.” And then I looked at websites devoted to support for children who have been abused. (You could have told me that’s what I’d find, right?) And I cried a little in my heart. I just. can’t. understand. how anyone could abuse their own child. Or any child, for that matter, but especially their own. I hugged my buddy really tightly when I came home, which he TOTALLY appreciated and he didn’t try to squirm his way out of my arms AT ALL. Then I hugged my hubby, and told him “I’m so glad I married such a good man, who I know will never hurt our children.” And he said, “Me, too.” And I said, “Except for the man part, right?” And he said yes.

5. Yesterday was my second Mother’s Day. To celebrate, Lance and Noah took me out to Marché for brunch, which is my favorite restaurant in East Nashville. It’s really expensive, so we have to save it for special occasions. Like Mother’s Day. And my birthday. And Groundhog’s Day. And Trash-Pickup day. And I-Just-Got-A-Bed-Bath-N-Beyond-Coupon-in-the-Mail-Again Day. And Noah-Pointed-at-His-Dumptruck-When-I-Said-Dumptruck Day. And hey, Noah turned 17 months old today! I almost forgot. I guess we’ll have to go celebrate tomorrow. But Marché was only the semi-best part of my second Mother’s Day. The best part is getting to be a mother to my little boy. It’s so easy and wonderful. I have the best job ever because I have the best Bubbs ever.

6. I am about to eat as many oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies as I can before I make myself sick. Which reminds me of a time in college when I was eating dinner with a friend of mine who was in Pre-Med. We had eaten so much food that we were miserable, but we were still eating, because it was dessert, and it was delicious. (My sources can neither confirm nor deny that I’m talking about a freakin Chili’s right now.) And I go, “At what point do you think your stomach would just explode? I mean, how much could I technically eat before my stomach bursts inside my body and kills me?” And my doctor friend said matter-of-factly, “I think you would throw up before that happened.” And I was all, “Oh. Well, that’s a relief.” And really this story is about my stupidity, no doubt brought on by the intense surge in my caloric intake at the time, and how funny it is. But the story is also about what a disgustingly first-world problem that is, that I would ever actually wonder how much I can eat before I explode. AMERICA, FUCK YEAH! Now, where are those cookies?

7. My computer is out of batteries.