Jul
17
July 17, 2007
A very nice woman asked if I wanted to write for Work It, Mom!—for cash money, even—and I had to decline because what little free time I had seems to be rapidly disappearing. Riley’s bedtime keeps getting later and later, and although you wouldn’t think an hour or two (or god help us, three) would make that big of a difference, it makes a WORLD of difference. It’s the difference between getting in a workout or not, it’s the difference between a leisurely meal and something gulped on the run while chasing a toddler, and it’s the difference between recharging at the end of the day with some personal time and staggering into bed feeling as though you’ve been hit by a bus.
Life has felt so screechy and tiresome lately, and I know pregnancy hormones are probably partially to blame, but on the other hand: my job is going through a spectacularly boring and dissatisfying lull (which as some of you may know first hand does not actually provide for a relaxing day, it means hours of thumb-twiddling and clock-watching and the sense that you’re experiencing a mental root canal), my house is in complete disarray—the kitchen is torn wide open at this point, allowing us the opportunity to eat breakfast a few feet from the workers each morning—and the dirt and chaos and clutter make our home atmosphere jangley and headachy, and Riley . . . well, Riley is in perhaps the most charming, interesting, and cutest stage of toddlerdom to date, but jesus is it ever exhausting to deal with his curious, emotional, jabbery, full-tilt little self.
Honestly, I would be far less whiny if Riley were going to bed at 7 like he used to. And I know, you’re probably wondering if I’ve realized just how upended life will be when the Secondtopus arrives and we have to give up even more luxuries, such as sleeping—the answer is YES, and I’m frankly a little terrified, because if I’m feeling overwhelmed and crabby NOW, oh my god I am in for a world of hurt in six or seven months.
Not that I’m, ha ha, feeling less than confident about my abilities to handle a newborn and a toddler. Or sort of freaking out about the entire concept of having two children. No, I’m good, just . . . hang on, I just need to sit down for a minute with my head between my legs, breathing into this paper bag. Just a sec.
Now that I’ve summoned the Wahmbulance, let me also say that this is all temporary, because my job will pick up again (it always does), the remodel will have to finish at some point ( . . . right?), and if I’ve learned one truth about kids, it’s that whatever their habits are at the moment will change. Maybe we can even reclaim that lovely, lovely 7 PM bedtime. With Thorazine, if necessary.
Following up on yesterday’s topic involving a blow to the nads and whether or not that can trigger intestinal upset, JB would like to clarify that he didn’t mean it would make someone instantly shit their pants, it’s more of a lingering aftereffect. As for the majority’s opinion that his claim is bogus, his reasoning now involves references to his exceedingly large package of family jewels, and how such an elephantine anatomical gift surely has more sensitivity than the average package.
Heh.
Well, menfolk, I hear your ball-slapping stories and raise you one toddler infatuated with Mama’s “bee bees”, whose greatest joy lately involves treating my sore hormonal hooters like a Whack-a-Mole game. My sympathy is both sincere . . . and fleeting.
Jul
16
July 16, 2007
More random images from the iPhoto library:
The Horrific Proposal: a drink of root beer, but only if you try this broccoli.
NOOOOO OH GOD NO IT IS GREEN I HATE IT NOOOOOOO
The cruel bait-and-switch.
AAAHHHH NOOOOOO WHY GOD WHY
NO NO NO I WILL SCOLD YOU IN HOPES OF BENDING YOUR WILL
Sorrow ensues. Note Dog’s total lack of concern for the tragedy at hand.
And, of course, the eventual giving in. One sip only! Well, maybe two. We felt we had gotten our money’s worth, you know?
:::
And now a question for the male readers (Pete and Josh, I’m looking in your direction): JB says that getting so much as tapped in the nuts—say, by a flailing toddler foot—can give a man the shits. “It’s totally possible,” he groaned, lying prone on the couch. “Ask anyone.” I think he’s FULL of shit, personally, but I’ve been wrong before.
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