-I wish I understood better why defiance is SO infuriating for me (and so many people). Why does my reaction bypass rational thought and head right into total loss of temper? The cat is driving me up the frakking wall right now with this. And I’m all, okay, I’ll use these times to work on this so that when I’m dealing with a toddler (in whom defiance is actually a good thing, developmentally), I’ll have more practice being patient. And then I’m trying to chivvy the cat out of our room (she pissed our carpet recently, so not allowed in there alone), she turns and runs the other way, and I’m thinking, “omfg get back here right this damn minute you idiot effing… wait, supposed to be working on NOT losing my shit, count to ten or something, but omg I’m going to kill her I’ll just work on it next time but that’s what I said last time and see this is why I need to work on it I’m gonna be a terrible toddler mom now I’m even more mad because I feel guilty and OMFG I’M GOING TO THROW YOU OUTSIDE IN THE SNOW IF YOU DON’T GET OUT OF MY FRAKKING ROOM!” So yeah. Working on that. Any suggestions? (And/or does anyone want a cat?)
-I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable with the questions like, “how many kids do you have?” Or, “is she your first?” One, or yes, is the answer that they want to hear. The easy, obvious answer. And mostly it’s the one I want to give, because I don’t feel the need to explain my whole complicated history with every stranger I meet. But sometimes it feels wrong. Like I’m pretending River (and the miscarried little ones) didn’t exist, and therefore didn’t matter. It’s confusing. I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t want to *not* talk about it. At least the, “is this your first?” during pregnancy will be easier if we ever have another. A simple, “nope,” will be honest and doesn’t feel like it’s trying to erase the hard parts.
-I read an article on Scary Mommy today that said being a mom basically means you spend all your time wiping stuff. Noses and butts and counters and floors. This was definitely an appropriate day to read it. Link’s upset stomach is better, but now Val has it. She scooted, dribbled, or outright pooed in every room except the dining room, which is blocked off, including on 2 of Lily’s playmats and her rug. Lily also has an upset stomach (can she have gotten it from the dogs?), which has given her a rash. So in addition to changing about 10 times more poopy diapers than usual, I gave her nekkie time to let her booty air out, and that means cleaning up pee repeatedly. (She’s just too rolly to try to keep her on a towel or anything. Easier to just keep her on an easily wiped up surface.) Oh, and she gave me her upset tummy, so I felt great while doing all this. (Though that’s good for her, since it means my milk will help her fight it.) Being a mom is definitely all about wiping stuff.
-But on a more positive note she’s now rolling so much she got herself stuck under her chair. Twice. Which is hilarious and exciting, though I’d prefer she not do it when I’m pumping and it’s hard to rescue her. (Pretty sure by RIE I should be just intervening minimally, not outright rescuing her, but I am not stopping pumping for however long it takes her to figure out how not to bang her head. We’ll work on that another time.)
-Okay, I try to be a good feminist and I’m all for dismantling the ridiculous societal standards for feminine beauty, but do we *really* have to push to not have to shave? How about we just make men shave their armpits and legs too? That’s fair, right? Body hair bothers me. (Which I shouldn’t use my issues as a reason to control what other people do with their bodies blah blah blah I know. But I don’t liiike it. (That should be read in a whiny voice.))
-Huh. That was interesting. You see women referring to themselves as “Moms,” hashtag momlife (the fact that my phone autocorrected that to “no life” amuses me) and “I’m a mom, what do you expect,” etc. I’ve never really self-identified as part of that group. But just now I was wondering if that last thing I wrote was a little too tmi with all the poop talk, and I thought to myself, “if my readers don’t like poop talk, they might as well go somewhere else- I am a mom after all.” That’s the first time I’ve actually thought of myself that way, as a capital M “Mom,” not just the mommy of my baby, but part of a larger group of women who are also mommies. Interesting. And somehow fitting that it was writing about poop that prompted it. 😄
-Sometimes when I come to bed, Christopher and the baby look so damn cute cuddled up together. Would it really be that bad to risk waking her up by taking a picture (with flash)? Just this once?
-Diaper rashes suck by the way. She’s been remarkably calm about it, as she is about pretty much everything, but I feel so bad for her poor little red tushy! I’ve given her nekkie time, alternately put butt paste, desitin, and resinol on it, changed her a million times, and given her a bath with baking soda (plus her baby wash is lavender and tea tree, though I give leave to doubt that it contains much of either), but it’s getting worse. I’m guessing until her tummy is better, her bottom will be suffering. I’m going to talk to the pediatrician, but I don’t expect they’ll have any better ideas really, just wait it out. Poor ol’ Lily booty. (Update-48 hours later it’s almost totally healed, yay!)
I want to put a picture here of how adorable she was during nekkid time, but thats against my rules. So just trust me when I say it was really damn cute. She LOVES being nekkie baby.
-New sleep routine, at least some of the time- diaper change, sleep sack (if bedtime not nap time), cuddle up, drink a bottle, start to fall asleep, poop, start over with diaper change. Arg.
-Oh my freaking god I do not like the emotional… vulnerability (? cant find the right word) that apparently comes along with parenting. I want to go back to seeing a news story about a kid dying and not spending the next several days trying not to cry. And being able to watch movies or tv shows where bad things happen without them haunting me. And not randomly having mini-panic attacks about things like getting out the cast iron skillet while she’s in the kitchen because what if I drop it it could smash her head in and I can’t stop replaying that image in my head and we’re just eating out from now on thanks. Except we can’t actually leave the house because drunk drivers and car accidents and food poisoning and germs and flesh eating antibiotic resistant bacteria and omg I’m keeping her in a bubble. Seriously. I’m so not enjoying this part of all of it. My mom says eventually you learn to disconnect it some, at least on the movies/tv shows. And I don’t check that she’s breathing multiple times per night anymore, so I guess it is better. I used to struggle more with getting upset when I saw anything about a husband dying, and that’s eased up. Surely at some point I won’t have that feeling that I just can’t breathe from the thought of something happening. Well, I probably always will, but maybe not so often? Ugh. I’ll take all the sleep deprivation and poopy diapers and whatever else you can throw at me, but I was not prepared for this.
Not ending on that, so here’s a happy baby to cheer things up!