A day in the life..

The original name I came up with for my blog was “Motherhood Madness,” but I felt like that was too limiting. I wanted to discuss my foray into domesticity, which moves beyond diapers and tonka trucks. Well, sometimes.

But lately, Motherhood Madness seems to fit my life much better. I am smack-dab in the middle of toddler mania, and every day, no, every hour is proving to be a new adventure. Not all bad, mind you, although as I mentioned in my last post, the climbing and discipline issues are mounting. So I kinda thought a breakdown of what my past couple of days have looked like would help not only show how exactly bi-polar my child has become and how totally looney tunes I’m becoming.

Tuesday was especially manic. We started the day fine, calmly enjoying some juice and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Breakfast was fine. Sometime after breakfast, Declan had Meltdown No. 1. Not real sure what happened. I think it had to do with me holding him but ONLY if I was standing. No sitting. Which is fun when you are holding a 30lb child. So he cries and screams and throws himself to the ground on his bottom, much like this child here. Eventually, Declan survives this trauma and moves on.

Next we move into our multiple personality phase. Declan would look right at me, smiling and cherubic, and then hit me in the face or on the leg. And then smile bigger. And then five minutes later, offer me kisses and hugs for no reason. I feel like I’m trapped in a cycle of abuse. I never know what to expect, so it’s best if I just behave and always smile so he doesn’t snap.

After a nap and lunch, just plain ole crazy takes over. First it’s running around the house, which is always fun. Then it’s opening the lazy susan and taking out all the tupperware. Normal, no biggie. Then it’s straight to the china cabinet, which is reserved for him on the bottom with his plastic plates, bowls and Cuisinearts, which are his fave things (blades removed, of course). Then it’s on to the buffet in the dining room and removing all the place mats. Then it’s straight to the now-dismantled excersauser. He likes to “sit” in it even though it’s resting on the floor. This whole process has lasted approximately 5 minutes, by the way. And in the meantime, the cat has moved into the lazy susan and then into the buffet table cabinet. I can only assume she was looking for shelter or a weapon, not sure.

Another meltdown ensues at some point over something serious like his sippy cup being in the wrong place, and when these meltdowns happen, he gets SO MAD and just flings everything near him around. He waves his little arms around, trying to clothesline his Little People Parking Garage and grunting with fury. I laugh to myself and just ignore him until the storm passes.

Then more climbing happens, but this time he’s putting himself and the boy I keep at risk by climbing in the sink of his Fisher Price Kitchen.

Notice that these kids are not standing in the sink.

So after telling him “NO” and moving him off of it twice, Declan experienced his first time out. It went as you would expect: I put him in the pack and play and he laughed his crazy butt off for the 3 minutes he was in there. He finally behaves long enough to eat dinner, get a bath and go to bed. Two hours later, I found all of his plates and bowls under the china cabinet. Cheeky booger.

Today was more of the same. More flinging himself and his toys around when angry. More climbing on things and laughing maniacally as I get him down. More random hitting/kissing episodes. He played with my hair at one point when I was sitting in the floor and I thought he might use the opportunity to strangle me. We had more time outs today that took place in a corner with me standing in front of him with my back turned. This at least elicited a response other than laughter, but don’t know how effective it was. By the time Paul got home, he was all smiles, carrying his blanky around the house and lying down on it to go “night-night.” Very cute. This was the same kid that hit me with a firetruck just hours before for no reason. And with a smile.

So the roller coaster ride of toddlerhood continues. I started the evening ready to write a blog all about my crazy day and my crazy son, but by the time I sat down to write this, all I remember is the hugs, the hair playing, the playing Peek-a-Boo under the blanket, watching him love on Tyson, our little buddy during the day. So you take the good with the bad, try to protect the cat and never trust a smiling toddler. Never.

I’m still here… barely

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m happy to report that several friends have actually requested that I blog again. Wow, I am surprised anyone noticed! Must be a slow news week.

Anyway, it has been, oh, 4 months since I’ve put fingers to keyboard (well, in the blogosphere. I’m on the computer more than any human not working in an office should be), so I guess it’s time to update.

My domestic skills have waned some over the past months in some aspects and grown in others. My last blog was about gardening (which I totally didn’t even remember, I just happened to see it), which is now laughable. First of all, I do not enjoy playing in the dirt in the midst of a Tennessee summer. I do not enjoy being out of air conditioning in the midst of a Tennessee summer. So my precious little flowers that I slaved over during the lovely spring months have not quite survived. Some of them actually made it despite me until recently, but I gave up and let Declan pull them out of the dirt yesterday. It was just a pitiful reminder of my negligence. My shrubs are no longer nice and neat and some strange mushroom patches have grown up all over the yard that frighten me, so the yard is no longer fun for me.

I’m still cooking more than I used to, but Paul still cooks a lot and he tends to be the kitchen cleaner no matter who cooks. Whoops. That’s not very DG of me (domestic goddess, natch). But I am meal planning a lot and still making yummy food for Declan, so that has to count for something. Hell, some days it’s a good thing when the cat gets fed.

I mop and sweep tons more than I ever have in my life and am kinda obsessing over those Shark steamer mops? Yea, gotta have one. So things are definitely better on some fronts.

Do not buy this toy for my son.

My focus right now is, of course, our crazy son. I gotta say, since hitting a year old, I’m enjoying Declan more and more. Not that I didn’t enjoy him before, obviously. But I’m loving this hilarious toddler phase. He’s rambunctious, an entertainer, learning new words and skills daily and is basically just hilarious.

Most of the time.

We’ve entered a new phase recently that I’m sure is typical for all kids of this age, but it is seriously the most head-bangingly frustrating phase to date.

Laughing at discipline.

UGH. I. COULD. SCREAM.

Seriously, there is nothing – NOTHING – more infuriating than grabbing your monkey spawn/child off of the coffee table/entertainment center/kitchen chair/roof of the house (any day now, I’m sure) with the intention of putting the fear of God and all mothers everywhere in your child, only to have him double over in giggles and run right back to the death trap you just rescued him from. I spend my day trying to stay one step ahead of this fearless adventurer, trying find the one crack in the baby-proofing and dare-devil-proofing that Paul and I have tried to implement all over the house, only to walk into a room and find him inches away from a head injury. So what’s a mom to do? You try to scare the holy living crap out of them so they won’t do it again. And how do you scare a child that views a China cabinet as a jungle gym?

No clue.

I’ve tried a stern “NO!” I’ve tried a firm grab off of said piece of furniture. I’ve ignored the behavior (until my anxiety made me run over and grab him off of the ceiling fan or whatever apparatus he was attached to) and I’ve nicely asked him to “Please be a good boy and not stand on the coffee table, ok sweetie? Ok? Seriously? Ok?” I’ve distracted with toys and cartoons. I’ve tried a time out (and if anyone knows how to make a 16-month-old sit quietly on their own for more than, say, 3 seconds besides Dora, Diego or Elmo, let me know. Those methods don’t exactly say “punishment.”) and, sadly, I tried a pop on the leg (a light pop, I promise I don’t beat my child. Just trying to save his life.). I think the leg-pop made him laugh the hardest.

Sigh. So apparently Angry Mommy isn’t very scary. And neither are narrow ledges or heights. So I’m trying to enjoy this age despite the danger and defiance involved. I guess the good thing about defiance at 16 months old is that it involves smiles and laughter and not eye-rolling and smart comments. I’ll do my best to make sure Declan lives to that age, but I’m not sure what condition I’ll be in.

Going Green. And a little crazy.

I am expanding my domestic goddess repertoire to the great outdoors. Sorry, Mother Earth.

Now that we are in our house and have this precious little yard, I have been feeling the urge to plant something. Nothing major. Just some color to liven up the place. I picked up some pansies, transfered them from pot to ground. They lived. I was surprised. And energized. What else could I not kill?

I picked up a pack of seeds, zinnias, I think. Could I grow a plant from seeds? Too soon. Not yet.

So I picked up some dahlias and potted them. Not too hard. So far, so good. I branched out, and bought a spade (I think a spade. A kind of shovely thing, that’s short. I’m not sure). And some hedge trimmers. I trimmed the hedges. And did it really well, too!

I want to dig in the dirt and plant my seeds, but I’m still too nervous. Can I get them from tiny little speck of germinated plant matter to blossoming blooms of color? I’m still skeptical.

I spotted some beautiful orange and yellow marigolds at the grocery store, and decided they would make a great addition to my growing garden. I planted them kinda without thinking about it, and now I just have a random row of orange and yellow puff balls in front of my hedges. Hmm. Now I guess I understand the concept of landscaping. I guess I’ll need a lot more marigolds.

After it got warm and rained a bunch, suddenly our grass is 2 feet tall. I decided that we need a mower that I can use (meaning, I can’t start a regular mower, the kind with the pull chord. Never could do it.), and since our yard is so small and flat, and since Earth Day was this week, Paul and I decided on a push reel mower. Those are the old-timey mowers that don’t require gas or electricity. So I went to Home Depot and bought the mower AND I assembled it. All by myself. Albeit, a couple little parts didn’t quite make it on, and I apparently didn’t put the washers (?) in the right place, but it was functional.

So today, I sat there, looking at MY mower. My own piece of machinery. I’ve never had any kind of machinery, outside of hair dryers and flat irons. Declan was asleep and it was 80 degrees and sunny. The mower was glistening in the light, a real beauty. So I did it. I mowed the yard. With MY mower. Well, I mowed the front yard, then Declan woke up. Then tonight, after Declan was asleep and while Paul was cooking, I went outside to put up Declan’s toys, and there it sat again. My little green machine. I knew I had a few minutes before dinner, so maybe I would just touch up a few patches that I missed. After all, this was my first time mowing; our yard didn’t exactly look like Southfork. I ran over a few rows, spruced up a few patches. It was so nice out, warm and breezy. The first summery-feeling night.

I headed to the backyard.

I haven’t spent much time in our backyard. No reason to. But once I was back there, I noticed a great smell. Honeysuckle! Tons of it, on one side of our shed. Tons of bumble bees, too, which I know are harmless, but I hate them. Then I saw big tall stems, at least 4 feet tall, growing out of some thick leaves that Paul and I had been curious about. Irises! We are going to have irises! On the other side of the shed from the irises is a full cascade of some sort of hanging flowers in blue and purple. I’m thinking it could be a wisteria tree, after googling a million different things, but I have no clue. So I started mowing back there, dodging the bumble bees and smelling the honey suckle. Paul called me to dinner before I was finished, and I really had to decide whether to go in or not without finishing. I hated to, but I got the stink eye from Paul, so I knew it was time to quit for the day.

I also bought more marigolds when I got my mower, and a starter kit thingy for my seeds (that’s the scientific name, BTW). I’m going to plant zinnias and aster. I want my yard to be bursting with color. I want to play in the dirt and watch something develop and grow every day, just the same as I do with Declan. There is something nurturing and natural about gardening that I think goes hand in hand with motherhood.

But even if our house doesn’t become the next Biltmore, my love for the outdoors as grown. I’ve discovered a new hobby that gets me off my butt and away from the TV and the computer and into the fresh air and sun. It’s surprisingly invigorating and mind-clearing, and kinda therapeutic.

I know this post wasn’t very funny or clever, but I am so surprised by this new turn of events, I had to write about it. I am sure that once the mercury hits 90 degrees, I won’t be quite so peachy about sweating my ass off in the grass, surrounded by bugs and and itching like crazy. I’ll only be outside long enough to walk into my mom’s pool or to get a new margarita. And I’ll be begging Paul to mow weekly. But for now, it’s easy being green.

How things change..

I realized today that it had been exactly a year since I decided to quit breastfeeding Declan. He was 11 days old, and I was MISERABLE. I was so stressed, so tired, in so much pain and so desperate for a break after trying to make nursing work. I had lost 31 pounds in 11 days because my anxiety level was so high, I couldn’t eat one bite of food. I had no milk supply at all and was convinced that Declan was starving to death. I was suffering from the typical new mom fears on top of all that mess. For those that have been there, you know what I mean. I was convinced that if he didn’t eat every 4 hours MAXIMUM, he would die. He would just waste away in his bassinet before my very eyes.

I was also convinced that if we held him while he slept, he’d be sleeping in our bed until he was 12. When I was desperate for sleep and decided to hold him anyway, I would sleep for two seconds and then jerk myself awake, convinced he was going to somehow leap off my chest, roll off the king-size bed and impale himself on some unknown sharp object on the floor. I remember one night, Paul had taken him out to the couch so I could sleep for a couple of hours. I woke up to use the bathroom, and while I was in there, I realized I had been asleep for several hours, like 5, and hadn’t heard a peep. So I started PANICKING on the toilet, convinced that Paul had either rolled on top of him on the couch (hardly possible) or dropped him on another one of those hidden spikes. This did not speed up my bathroom break, which therefore led to more panic. I needed to put my eyes on my child NOW. And finally, when my body cooperated, I ran out to the couch and there were my two men, snuggled on the couch, both breathing. I’m fairly sure I woke them up anyway.

That day I quit nursing, so many of those fears were alleviated. I could SEE how much Declan was eating. Paul could feed him while I slept, therefore cutting out a lot of my sleep-deprived delirium. I began to believe that he wasn’t this frail little creature on his way to death’s door. In other words, I began to relax and enjoy being a mother.

Fast-forward a year. Now, my fears are more abstract. Typical things: fear of kidnappers or car wrecks or falling down our scary basement stairs. But day-to-day life is much more sedated, to the point of comedy. I think most parents can relate to the kind of insanity that happens once you have a toddler, and how normal it becomes. For those not yet in the toddler world yet, I promise you that you, too, will not believe the things that you do, see and say that you swore would never happen, or would have mortified you just months before.

(If any parents of toddlers out there don’t have conversations like this, please don’t judge. Maybe I am alone in all this. I doubt it, though.)

Recent conversations include:

Me: “There’s something in Declan’s hair. [sniff, sniff] Ewww, I think it’s poop.”

Paul: “Has he pooped since his bath last night?”

Me: “No.Hmm. Must be the cat’s. I’ll give him a bath later.”

Or

Paul: “Where’s Declan’s paci/sippy cup/the remote control?”

Me: “Did you check the tub?”

Paul: “Oh, no. There it is.”

Most recently

Paul: “What’s he eating?” (This question occurs quite frequently, and never during a meal. I’m sure I’m not alone in this.)

Me: “Um, looks like macaroni.”

Paul: “When did he have macaroni?”

Me: “The other day.”

Very common

[thud/crash/bang]

Paul: “Ouch, buddy, you ok?”

Me: “He just hit his head, he’s fine.”

So despite being a poop-covered, trash-eating, bathtub-playing toddler covered in bruises, cuts and unknown substances, he’s survived. Thrived, actually. Despite not having years of breastmilk, despite chewing on toys at the children’s museum, despite eating grass and McDonald’s (GASP!), he’s a walking, talking, big ole 1-year-old whose only fallen off the bed during waking hours. If only I could tell this to that 11-day-old Mom, so that she could have relaxed sooner. Babies aren’t nearly as fragile as we think. It’s the moms with the frailty.

Nostalgia

The older Declan gets, the more fun I’m having. Seriously, the baby phase? LAME. This phase, on the other hand, this beginning of toddlerhood and boyhood, it rocks. Everything about it is great. Declan is walking, screaming (mostly out of joy), babbling, feeding himself, understanding more, becoming more independent, and, of course, sleeping. It’s great to see him discover a new trick, like clapping, and see his pride. I love playing with him now, and am already looking forward to the next few years, when we can color, draw, play ball and read together.

I was such a huge reader when I was little. It’s all I did. I have such vivid memories of my time spent in my room alone with a good book, even as early as 6 or 7. Luckily, my mom had the wherewithal to save a big chunk of my childhood books, and I get to hand them down to Declan. It amazes me, now that I’ve gone through them all recently, how many of them I remember. And I’m talking old stuff. Like the Complete Sesame Street Library, published in 1980. It has characters never to be seen again. Anyone recall The Amazing Mumford? Or Herry Monster? Or Sherlock Hemlock? There was no Elmo, no Abby Cadabby. Big Bird was more of the star than any of them, although Bert and Ernie were pretty major players. And Prairie Dawn. PD gets the shaft nowadays. She rocked the 80s, though.

I also have this great Christmas book that features the smells of Christmas. It’s Scratch-and-Sniff, which is so fabulous, and after all these years, the Gingerbread Man still smells like Gingerbread. The orange still smells like orange, and the candy cane is still all pepperminty. More importantly, it still smells the way it did when I was 7. The scents are far from accurate, it’s a scratch-and-sniff book, for pete’s sake. But the scents are so real in my mind, that just opening the book again whipped my brain back over 20 years in a split second. It was a sad and wonderful feeling.

I think one of the most unexpected joys of becoming a parent is getting to live as a child again. Having a child gives me the right to roll around in the grass and color and read books with more pictures than words. A year ago, I would never have looked forward to a new box of Crayolas. Now, I can’t wait.

A new blog, again.

OK, so my decision to become a blogging mom hasn’t been very successful. In my defense, I did write a pretty good update the other night, only to have WordPress eat it. Grr. So here I am again, trying to get into the swing of writing about my life, and as usual, I’m already making up for lost time. Story of my life.

Also in my defense, the past couple of months have been NUTS. Totally Macadamia.

In a nutshell (I’m now done with this line of jokes):

• Declan had a HUGE sleep regression after getting sick a couple months ago, which meant I had a huge sleep recession. This went on for approximately 2 months. I was in a fog, physically and mentally. It was really bad. But luckily,
• Declan is now sleeping through the night! Yay! We read approximately 500 sleep books, web sites, etc., and decided that now that his reflux is gone, there’s no reason why he couldn’t cry it out (CIO). So we did it, and after a long week, we turned up the heat and stopped going in and checking on him. JACKPOT. I guess what the experts say is true: if you don’t give a baby a reason to think crying will work, they’ll stop crying! So now all the people that said we were just spoiling him can shut the *&^% up! Thanks!
• We moved, finally. We got a great little bungalow that’s old and charming. We love it.

I’ve made some real progress in my Domestic Goddess status, in my opinion. Actually, to the point where I am starting to not recognize myself. Like, I vacuum constantly. Several times a day. Every day. I mop 2-4 times a week. My biggest Target splurge lately was mainly on cleaning supplies. And I was thrilled to get all my Swiffers and sponges and bleach wipes home and put them in their place. This is about as much unlike me as humanly possible. I’ve NEVER been a neat freak. I wouldn’t call myself a reformed slob, but as long as food was put away and no visible stains or wet spots were seen, cleaning could wait. And wait. Or I get somebody else to do it. I rebudgeted all of our bills a few years ago just to afford someone to come clean twice a month. It was the best money I ever spent.

But now it’s up to me, and I’m taking on the challenge. It’s not all obsession-based. I doubt there’s a mom of a crawling baby out there that doesn’t envision all the nasty things that live in the corners of the kitchen floor or under the toilet that their precious little snowflake could get their grubby little hands on. Also, living in a house with no carpet makes it kinda obvious when there is crap everywhere. Especially with a shedding white cat in the house that seems to molt 2-3 times a day. But still, vacuuming MULTIPLE times a day?

There are still remnants of the old me around. It takes an act of Congress to get me to put my clothes away. I hate doing that. And my car is still a pig sty, always will be. It’s a teenage rebellion thing that’s carried over a decade or so.  I still don’t iron, and don’t plan on it ever, even though our house has a nifty old built-in ironing board in the kitchen. I plan to use it as a buffet table during a party.

I’m also a cooking fool, and really love it. I’m cooking all kinds of neat things for Declan and may try to become a personal baby chef (personal chef for babies? not personal chef of babies) for friends or others interested! I know I can save people tons of money and homemade baby food tastes sooooo much better than jarred, so hopefully I can help some people out and make some money!

I’d like to start gardening (no clue how to do that) and have even considered learning to sew curtains, despite my high school Home Ec teacher telling me she pitied my future husband after she saw my attempt at making boxer shorts. I told her I pitied him to if he depended on me to make his underwear. She didn’t appreciate the humor.

So while I’m not picking up a needle and thread just yet, I wouldn’t put it past me. I wouldn’t put drinking heavily and passing out on a pin cushion past me either, and that sounds a bit more likely at this point.

A correction…

I sent a copy of my blog to my Muslim friend, and she offered a better description of why mothers and fathers go by “Mother of” and “Father of”. In the interest of fairness and accuracy, I asked for her permission to reprint her comments here.

I just read your blog. It was interesting There were a couple things that I wasn’t really clear about on babycenter, though. Like, my name and DH’s name don’t actually change on our driver’s licenses, passports or anything else. I guess you can think of it as more of a nickname type of thing. But, it’s not something informal, it’s actually considered to be very respectful to refer to someone as ‘mother of …’ or ‘father of …’. And it’s not this way in Islamic culture, it’s actually Arab culture that does this. Sorry if I mislead you before. In Islam there are sooooo many different cultures (Arab, Indian, Pakistani, American, African, Malaysian, Indonesian, Bosnian, etc. etc.) so as Muslims we all share certain things because of religion, but we also all have our own cultural things based on ethnicity etc. So you’re right in your blog, I’m a convert to Islam and as far as my identity goes I’m Muslim first, then American and mommy, wife daughter etc. But since my husband is Syrian, and since I lived in Syria myself for a year and studied Arabic to understand the Qur’an better (before marriage) I feel a certain closeness to Syrian culture as well. I follow a lot of things in Syrian culture. And to be honest, most Americans take one look at me and assume I’m not ‘from here’ because I wear a headscarf, they assume I’m arab or whatever. And it’s happened a number of times where people were like “woooow your english is really good” and I’m thinking “yeeeeah, I was born here just like you” LOL.

Thanks for the info! It’s great to learn about other cultures.

Identity crisis?

As a new mother, one of the most difficult struggles I have encountered is trying to maintain my original identity while taking on my brand new role as a full-time caregiver to another human being.  It’s such a hard transition, giving up selfish habits, freedoms and concerns that suddenly seem insignificant. It’s hard to hear your phone ring and know you have to ignore it because the baby is crying/eating/sleeping, etc., or cancel plans at the last minute because of an overnight ear infection or just sheer exhaustion. In the beginning, it is super easy to be resentful of this new life when you’re chained to the house and the rest of your friends, or heck, even your husband, can come and go as they please.

But what if I had to give up my name, too? Apparently in other cultures, once you become a mother, you are known to all as Mother.

One of my mom friends on babycenter.com is a convert to Islam. On the web site, we typically refer to each other by our screen name, but since some of us have been communicating since we got pregnant, alot of us are on a first-name basis. I’ve recently been commiserating with a small group of moms about our baby’s sleep issues, and as time has gone by, there are three of us that write daily. I know what these ladies do for a living, what the children’s names are, where they live (generally speaking) and how much they sleep, most importantly. I refer to one of the moms by her name, but the other had never offered hers up. I understand the desire for privacy on the internet, especially when discussing such identifying details, so I had never thought twice about the lady only going by her screen name. I won’t reveal her name out of respect, but her handle is made of her son’s name preceded by the letters Um. I assumed the name meant “mother of —”, but never gave it much more thought than that.

However, today, as I was writing to her, I was thinking about how strange it was that I know so much about this person yet don’t know her name, so I mentioned it. She explained to me that her screen name essentially is her name now, because in Islamic culture, when you have a child, your name becomes “Mother of —”, and that is what everyone calls you. The father’s name changes, too, so it’s not just the women, but I found myself really mulling this over today. Would I have done that for my son?

I’m already Mommy to him, but would I want the whole world to refer to me as that, too? I mean, I am a mom, 100%. Practically everything I do all day long pertains to mothering my child in some way, shape or form. But that’s not all I am in the world. I’m a daughter to my own mother. I’m a wife to my husband. I’m a friend to a lot of people. I’m a woman, a Tennessean, an American, a liberal. My role as a mother doesn’t really pertain to all those facets, so would I be willing to change how everyone refers to me, and therefore sees me, just because I had a child? Or is changing your name redundant, an afterthought? Once you have a child, are you forever seen by everyone as “Mother of —”?

Once Declan starts school, I’ll be “Declan’s mom” to the teachers, other parents and his friends. They won’t think of me as Christi, at least not at first. But not everyone I meet or encounter will be in relation to him. I may work again, god willing, and I have friends that I knew way before I had a baby. Am I Mommy to them, too?

And is there really anything wrong with that? I have no greater joy on earth than being Declan’s mom. Why not wear it on my sleeve? I’m a mommy! I created a human life, brought it into this world, (attempted to) nourish it and am responsible for its survival! I should be screaming that from the rooftops, right? Maybe Mommy should be a title of respect, like King or President. Lord knows I worked harder to have Declan than Queen Elizabeth did to sit on the throne. She only had to be born. I had to puke, gain weight, ache, push, tear, bleed and sweat to earn my title.

Queen Mom. That’s what I’ll call myself and everyone else with a child. God knows we earned it.

I am a goddess in training…

OK, so this week is going substantially better than last week. Actually, I’m pretty damn impressed with myself.

First of all, the hardest thing I’ve done is work on Declan’s sleep habits. Things are improving, much to my surprise. In my defense, I didn’t set out to completely spoil my child rotten, it kinda happened by accident. Really! See, it all started when I quit breast feeding when Declan was all of 11 days old. Long story, and the bottom line is my boobs don’t work. Anyway, we switched to formula and immediately my precious little newborn started projectile vomiting like only a child possessed by the devil himself can do. Ask Amy Yarbrough, she got hosed down one day. Not fun. He was diagnosed with reflux, super common, and our main issue was keeping him upright and still after every bottle so he could actually keep his food down. I’m talking no car seat, no diaper changes, no lying down, no playing, nothing. For over 6 months, it was like this. That turned into us holding him when he went to sleep at night and after his middle of the night bottles, when he still took them. Which led to my little angel getting in the nearly unbreakable (it seems) habit of being held in order to sleep longer than, say, 45 minutes without screaming bloody murder for someone to “COME. GET. ME. OUT. OF. THIS.CRIB.  NOW.”

He wasn’t too bad at night until he turned 6 months. In a short time period, he had 3 ear infections followed by nasty antibiotics, a constant cold, learned the ability to crawl and stand and cut a tooth. Which led to me sleeping in the bed with him because I was delirious and he was CRANKY. So we had to break that habit fast once we knew he was feeling better, which he is now that he’s on stronger reflux meds and allergy meds.

So this week, I cracked the whip. The whip may be made of butterfly wings and cotton candy, but I cracked it!! I won’t get into the details, but since Monday, he has only been taken out of his crib during the night once or twice, he is napping solely in his crib (almost unheard of) and while he still consistently wakes up at 2, 4 and 6 a.m., it’s brief. I know that’s hell for some of you, but sleeping in my own bed for 4 nights in a row is a vacation.

So I deserve a medal for that.

While I’m tooting my own horn, I’ve also cooked 2 nights so far this week (not much to some, double what I normally do) and my kitchen has opened to rave reviews. We’ve had tons of good leftovers for lunches and an extra night’s dinner, so that’s a plus. I’ve also bathed every day (yay!), although makeup and hair drying has been optional. It’s like 8 degrees, out, I’m not going any where. My clothes have reasonable matched and I have gotten out of pajamas before noon daily.

All in all, it’s been an encouraging week. I’m getting in the swing of this SAHM stuff and may end up enjoying it a lot more than I anticipated.

Starting off on the right foot

OK, this week is going to go better, I just know it. I’m ready. I’m rested.

Bring it.

Anyway, I feel much better facing week 2 of my new job. I busted my ass this morning looking through cookbooks and magazines to make out a great meal plan for the week, and then a damn detailed grocery list. No splurges! No junk! I even ate before I went — that is planning ahead. I did the laundry. Almost all of it, which I hope Paul is grateful for, since that is typically his Sunday chore. AND the clothes are put away. That NEVER happens. Paul did cook dinner tonight, but he asked, for the record.

But my plan to become a coupon fanatic ended up on the cutting room floor. I just don’t get it. I signed up for couponmom.com, which according to Oprah and the Today Show is how you can get like $500 worth of groceries for like $25. It was a waste of my time. The weekly circular wasn’t much help either, so I relied on the tried-and-true method of buying generic when I could and using my member discount card when I could, and after all the effort, I saved $6. Not exactly a down payment on a house, but I guess better than nothing.

The real task for this week, however, is daunting. I must teach my child to sleep. This point was driven home last night when, about 20 minutes after I put him down, he woke up just as I was sitting down to eat. My mom volunteered to go put him back down, and after her magic touch, he slept for 7 hours straight. When he did wake up at 3:45, he proceeded to stare at me for 2 hours as I tried to put him back down. Sigh. He owns me. So finally, I gave in and we got in the bed together and slept peacefully until 8. Did I mention this is a repeat of Friday night, when mom put him down so Paul and I could go to a party? Yea, not a peep until 2. And when daddy went to check on him, it turned into a 2-hour ordeal. His first word is going to be “sucker.”

In the scheme of things, co-sleeping’s not horrible. Tons of people co-sleep and I think that’s fine, if it works for you. But I never wanted to co-sleep, especially in a bed that’s not mine, without my pillow, with a sack of potatoes kicking and rolling around all night. I obviously sleep pretty lightly with Declan, so while it’s better than listening to him cry all night, it’s not great. Plus, I want to co-sleep on MY terms, not his. And right now, like I said, he owns me.

So no naps on the couch with mom or in the recliner with dad. It’s all crib, all the time. He is NOT going to be happy at 3 a.m. when he wakes up, and I’m sure he will, but can I handle it? I’m not going to let him cry, but can I sit there for hours, exhausted, knowing I can just crawl a few feet away and snuggle with my precious boy? I have to.

So stand with me, tired moms and dads, as I take back the night. Stand with me as I tell my little chubby cherub of a son, “You’re not the boss of me!” Sleep will be mine!!!