Nov
7
I’m typing this while watching Dylan on the video monitor, and the little so-and-so is sitting up in his crib, loudly decrying the indignity of naptime. Sitting up like an angry gorilla, instead of lying there on his back like an angry crab. Huh. That’s new.
Notice that I continue pecking away at my laptop instead of tending to him, because 1) I am a heartless bitch, and 2) what the fuck, Koko, you were half-asleep in the carseat five minutes ago. How is it that a baby can pass out while strapped to a plastic bucket, his head tilted at an alarming sniper-victim angle, but the instant he’s placed on a comfy mattress his eyes fly open like Levelors? What properties does the five-point harness provide that are missing in the crib? Did we inadvertently buy the Graco Sweet Dreams Puff O’ Ether seat?
Motherhood is so cruel. If I’m not tiredly helping a baby fall asleep while wishing mightily for a nap of my own, I’m convincing a 3-year-old to finish the peanut butter sandwich I’d LOVE to be eating for lunch instead of more lowfat goddamned cottage cheese.
Aaaand, he’s out. HOLY SHIT WE HAVE CONCURRENT NAPTIMES REPEAT CONCURRENT NAPTIMES ALERT THE MEDIA. Time to wrap this up, I’ve got a trashy magazine and a sofa ass-dent calling my name.
Elsewhere Blogging this week:
• My workout handicap, which involves mucus
• Favorite shopping blogs at Work It, Mom!
And a silly video of nothing much:
Nov
6
It sounds horrible to admit now, but when I was pregnant with Dylan one of the many emotions swirling around in my head at that 20-week ultrasound was disappointment that we were having another boy. Part of it was that just like when I was pregnant with Riley, we’d come up with names and vague half-formed imagined babyhoods for both sexes, and putting one entire (non-existant, but still) persona to rest was oddly difficult — a wistful strange feeling of saying goodbye to someone who was never there in the first place. With my first pregnancy, her name was Madeline; with my second, it was Audrey.
I’ve never longed for a daughter, and in fact there are many aspects to raising girls that terrify the living shit out of me, but I think this last time around I was feeling let down because I thought having another boy would be like giving birth to Riley all over again. I had this misguided idea that everything would be exactly the same, which isn’t to say I didn’t want another Riley, but I — oh, it’s hard to explain. Like if you had some wonderful rich meal from this exotic, exciting menu, and it was delicious and filling and fantastic, and you went back to the same restaurant the next day and, you know, wouldn’t you want to try something different this time to more fully round out your gustatory experience?
Hmm. Note to self: work on metaphors.
Anyway, obviously that was totally naive. Right from the getgo it’s been obvious that Dylan is no Riley clone, he’s absolutely his own personality, as complex and delicious as something from the flipside of that bad-metaphor-menu. We would have loved a girl just as much, but it’s impossible to comprehend, now — the notion that Dylan might not have been Dylan. I’m not religious and not normally much of a woo-woo believer in fate or destiny but man, it’s hard for me to think that our kids are the product of this capricious life path, one that could have so easily veered in any other direction. Even a single confused sperm (“Um, has anyone seen the corona radiata? My GPS is all fucked up, here”) and the picture could be completely different, I suppose, but my brain cannot wrap itself around that concept. It’s like trying to think of infinity. Or Helena Bonham Carter’s fashion choices.
All that said — my glorious status as mother of two boys acknowledged with gratitude and love — I can’t help sometimes thinking that I sure do have to deal with a lot of penis these days. Remember Mr. Brown in Reservoir Dogs? “I’m talking morning, day, night, afternoon, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick.” Diaper changes, baths, getting dressed: it’s a veritable Vienna sausage party around here. SO MUCH TINY PENIS, ALL THE TIME WITH THE PENIS.
And men, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how you take that thing seriously.
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