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Blah!

Today has been one of those days.

You know, the kind where you just feel like your best just isn’t cuttin’ it. I think this stems from my first-born attempting to impale his soft spot with the corner of my jewelry-holding-tower-thingy. Yes, I am quite certain that is the proper terminology for it… Shuddup

Anyways, last night, while I was trying to feed the little stink, I realized my big stink had gone unusually quiet and was out of my line of sight. This should have been a key indicator that something was rotten in Denmark, but, alas, I am all good at this parenting gig and let it go. Honestly, what was I going to do? The little stink was attached to me and had already had to wait such a long time to eat because I had been dealing with his brother earlier. Can’t that little guy get some love too?

Apparently not.

When Little Robbie was finally in my eye sight he was crushed under a semi largish piece of furniture with its corner securely attached to his head. That corner people? It was unnervingly close to his soft spot! I almost fell over! Actually I screamed. I startled the half asleep nursing baby, caused him to bust out the water works, I terrified the crushed child, and caused him to bust out the “I’m so upset I can’t even take a breath” water works… Yes, parenting at it’s finest…

SIGH

On the bright side? He was totally fine. On the not so bright side? I don’t know that I can recover… It was too traumatic for me.

This is comparable to the canned corn debacle of 2011.

Little Robbie dropped a can on his toe. I swore he needed to be rushed to the ER because his toe was falling off. I was told it was a flesh wound and to get over it…I may over react…

But only a little.

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Life lessons

Things I have learned while having a newborn and a 12-month-old.

1. Toddler fingers can find the soft spot on top of a newborns head in approximately 2.4 seconds upon meeting their new sibling.

2. Takes me 1.5 seconds to fall over and assume the fetal position from said toddler fingers finding the soft spot and poking it.

3. Apparently eyeballs are extractable in the mind’s eye of a 1-year-old.

4. Newborns are forcibly made to watch scenes from the exorcist while in utero. I have no other explanation for the projectile vomiting. The kid has talent.

5. When one cries the other takes it as a sign of competition and must out cry the other one. No one has won; we are all losing.

6. Newborns are exceptional at pooping 4.9 seconds after the completion of a diaper change.

7. 1-year-olds are exceptional at pooping 4.9 seconds after the completion of a diaper change.

8. Moms are exceptional at not wanting to change said diapers– I do it anyways.

9. Neither can sleep in their own beds. They insist on sleeping in mine. Dr. Spock just rolled over in his grave.

And lastly…

10. I don’t mind the bed hogging. Because honestly? I’m on cuteness overload! SIGH

I have nothing.

No words.

No funny anecdotes.

No haunting memories.

I have nothing I want to share.

I just realized that in an hour it will be Friday.

2 more days till another surgery I didn’t want to have.

It means no more choices.

No free will.

A decision already made for me.

A decision that takes away my “rights”.

So tonight I feel like I have nothing.

Just time ticking away.

Reminding me

Of how I’m not getting my way on this one.

Today…

Today I want to cry.

I have no reason to feel this way.

I just do.

I’m unusually controlling.

I demand everything to go my way.

I hate when my plans crumble.

I hate when I fail.

I can’t handle seeing everything

I worked for

and wanted

disappear

But I’m learning something new right now

That patience is something I should hold dear.

I’m learning something new right now

That it was never me in control.

Matthew 11:28

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

“What time is it?’

I glance at the clock.

“It’s 4:30 hun.”

“Really, already?” my husband questions.

“No, I’m lying to you,” I quickly retort.

I can hear his footsteps quicken as he comes to look at the clock himself.

“Cassie, 4:10 does not translate to 4:30.”

“Fine, 4:30-ish.”

“Really? Could you just say the time and NOT round up?!?”

“I really don’t see the problem with this,” I say.” It only makes us more punctual…”

 

My husband glares at me.

“Ok, punctual-ish,” I concede.

“Whatever, you have issues.”

PSH, like I really need to be told this!

See, this is a conversation that can be heard almost on a daily basis. I have a terrible tendency to round up to the nearest quarter, nay, half-hour when telling someone the time.

It’s not that I don’t recognize the time. I even register it, but, for whatever reason, I add to it.

Perhaps this stems from my undying love of math…

I totally just snorted my cake when I wrote that.

Anyways, it drives my husband batty! As in, he goes postal, catatonic, Chernobyl-esque.

But, I really don’t think it’s the rounding up that bothers him the most, no, in fact I think it’s my panache for inconstancy that really broils his butt.

Because the above?

Is only half the conversation.

“You went to Target today?” he questions while eyeballing the new package of toilet paper on the floor.

“Yup, it’s Firday,” I remind him, “errand day.”

“So how much did you end up spending?”

EEK, DANGER, DANGER, DANGER! SCARY QUESTION! PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

“Cass?” he furthers, “How much?”

“Oh, like eighty bucks give or take…” I let that last part sink in. Maybe I can use it as a shield later on?!?!

“Really?”

Crap, he knows.

“Mhmmm,” I answer.

“Really?”

“Dude, if you’ve already checked the bank account why bother asking me?!?”

I’m feeling a little cross.

“You said you spent like 80 when really you spent 140,” he informs me. “Why can’t you just give me straight answers?!?”

“Because I don’t wanna?”

I’m real mature.

“And anyways, I always do this! I always round down!” I squeal. “It’s not like this is something new!”

“Actually…” He trails off.

Crap, I’ve been had! Cornered like a little mouse.

The hands of a clock spinning in my face.

Laughing at my inadequacy to tell time.

“you always round up with time,” he finishes. “Can you just explain that to me? Explain to me why you always round up when giving me the time, but when it comes down to you telling me how much you spent you always round down. Just let me in on your thought process.”

He doesn’t want to be let in. It’s scary in here. I don’t really like to wander around too long. I think things in here bite.

“Umm, I suffer from a number disorder?”

“And that would be?”

“A fear of numbers.”

“Why are you afraid of numbers?”

I’m thinking, I’m thinking, I’m thinking…

“Because seven 8 nine?” I smile sheepishly at him.

This is when my husband usually mumbles something about me being a three-year-old and how I shouldn’t be allowed out by myself.

Look, I know I have problems… He’s just an ostrich about it.

 

 

I am participating in Mama Kat’s Losin’ It writing prompt #3: Something you do that drives your significant other CRAZY.

<a href=”http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/&#8221; target=”_blank”><img src=”http://i913.photobucket.com/albums/ac331/mamakatslosinit/workshop-button-1.png&#8221; alt=”Mama’s Losin’ It” />

The kid is twelve-friggen-months-old.

Why in the fritter is he waking up like he’s some needy newborn?!?!?

I haven’t slept in like a week!

Yea, yea, my husband works grave yards and thus he is home during the day.

Can we just discuss what being “home” entails for this dude?!?

He gets home at 5:30, takes a shower, goes to sleep, and doesn’t wake up until 2/2:30 (that is, if I don’t chuck the kid at him, screaming I’ve had enough it’s your turn, earlier than that. Sweet? I know). He then proceeds to make his coffee, eat “breakfast“, enjoy the quiet time of the child napping, goes to school/takes a nap and then goes to work again…

My schedule?!?!

Kid wakes up, fight the screaming I-refuse-to-have-my-butt-changed-nazi, feed him breakfast, sweep the floor, be yelled at while sweeping the floor as the child squirms and attempts to gnaw his way through the high-chair straps, put him on the floor, fight the kid for the piece of gross I missed while sweeping and his radar picked up and is now putting in his mouth, give him milk, argue with him about drawers and why he is not allowed in them, sneak away to the bathroom while he’s not looking, get caught trying to go to the bathroom and yell from the potty he’s not allowed to climb over the baby gate, attempt to do breakfast dishes while keeping the kid out of the dishwasher… By this time, it’s not even noon yet.

Can you feel me on the disgruntled page?!?!?

So the past few nights little Robbie has gone to bed peacefully and I do a little happy dance.

Then he wakes up.

And refuses to go back to sleep.

He doesn’t cry, in fact he does the opposite a lot. He sits and points at the dark and talks.

Well, that’s if I leave the room…

Otherwise, he’s totally screaming his head off demanding of me something I can’t seem to give.

Last night, after 5 hours of fighting the kid to sleep, I slept on the couch… He went to sleep immediately.

Night before, I got him to settle down by letting him sleep in my bed.

Tonight?

I think I’m pouring Benadryl into his sippy-cup.

I’ll take vodka in mine.

I’ve mentioned before that my kid isn’t really a “momma’s boy”…

In fact, he’s more of a “thanks for the ride and the food, but now that I’m out, other people are WAY more interesting… OoO is that a sock monkey?!?!” type of guy.

It bothered me to begin with. Ok, so it like bothered me last week too, but I kind of just get used to it and brush off his attitude.

Yet, today something switched in him… He became a “momma’s boy”, but not in a good “I love you, lets cuddle” kind of way… No, his transition into “momma’s boydom” was of a different approach.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

“Honey, I’m making you cookies. Chill out for a sec and I’ll pick you up,” I calmly encourage him.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

“Dude, seriously? You’re fine. Give me a sec.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH”

SIGH

As if the ear-piercing screams and having to dance around the crying limp noodle wasn’t bad enough, he learned a new trick.

“Robbie, what are you doing?” I watch as he scurries over to my leg, all the while screaming as if his left arm had been ripped off and fed to the sock monkey.

The kid climbed up to my leg, preceded to wrap his appendages  around my calf and plop his little bottom right onto my foot. Now it was my turn to want to scream.

I moved around trying to get dinner started and his snack finished, but was neither quick nor adept at this. I think it might have had to do with the screaming leech that had adhered himself to my leg with super glue.

After I was able to finally shake the little booger off. I tried to quickly finish up dinner and moved on to picking up toys and cleaning out the bedroom.

He followed me, his call of desperation continued.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

I picked up laundry.

He was there.

I changed the sheets.

He was there.

I put away clothes.

He was there.

I was finishing the floor by wedging my body under his crib to free all the toys he had shoved under there and,apparently, that was all he could take.

He laid on his back, eyes closed tight, and began to wail.

He was inconsolable .

Not that he was easily consoled before though. I had already tried everything from cuddling, cooing, playing, tickling, youtube… He wasn’t having it…

Needless to say, kid ate dinner and went to bed VERY early tonight…

Big Robbie likes to say it’s because he “knows”.

Does he truly “know”?

I say.

Oh great and mighty, pint-sized, future telling swami

What are the winning lotto numbers?!?!? Mama needs some earplugs.