This week my heart goes out to both single moms and parents of colic babies. If you’re a single mom to a colic baby, then for the love of all that is Holy you should be entered into sainthood (however that works).
This was my first week without Angel and there were only 2 noteworthy meltdowns and Lucas did pretty well, too.
The first meltdown on both parties came when my poor little man decided to take food in, but stop sending it out via dirty diapers. Yep, never thought I would have a post about poop and it’s importance, but there it is. Welcome to motherhood. On day 4, Lucas was screaming like the world was ending and looking at me with these horribly sad eyes like “Please help me, Mommy” and then “Why aren’t you helping me?!” which just tore my heart out and I started crying then too because my baby isn’t supposed to be an unhappy baby. He’s supposed to be a baby who is learning how to smile.
So on Monday morning, I promptly called the pediatrician who was busy with flu season on a Monday morning who probably was thinking “okay, crazy lady” and then I mentioned that my baby has been screaming for 4 days and that’s apparently the magic word because they fit me in immediately and I got a 5 minute lecture about the importance of not shaking my baby from frustration. I get it, but I feel like the moms who are trying to see the doctor when their baby isn’t feeling well aren’t the ones who you need to worry about. It’s like passing out flyers about the importance of reading to your kids in the library. Got it. Wrong crowd. So instead I laughed and then told the doctor about how clean my house is because it turns out that with my ipod earbuds in and the vacuum on I can’t hear a thing. We call this practice “Mommy survival.”
But seriously, my house is spotless.
Meltdown two came when this lovely thing came in the mail:
I think it’s safe to assume that both the models and the editor of Victoria’s Secret Swim 2013 catalog sent me this because they hate babies and want postpartum moms to feel bad about themselves. So instead I threw this sucker out without opening it and plowed through a bag of potato chips because it’s still sweater season and I think I can get another few months mileage out of the whole “I just had a baby” excuse. I kid. I really didn’t eat the whole bag. But you know the other reason this catalog met its demise in my trash can without being opened? Let’s discuss for a minute how I have boobs that start at my chin and have red warning flags hanging off of the ends so nothing hits them in traffic. I probably couldn’t fit into anything not made for nursing at the moment, but that’s fine because nursing tops conveniently hide the stand that I’m attached to to keep myself from tipping over.
So now that I’ve covered two important topics: poop and boobs, let’s move onto the move.
Here’s the house that we’re renting in Michigan (photo as promised last post):
Did I mention the best part of this house already? It comes with a weekly maid service. Now I neither work nor clean the house. It’s like I’ve died and am going to frozen heaven. But in all seriousness, this just clears the way for me to spend more time with the most important men in my life and not feel guilty about how dirty my floors are so I should probably put the baby down, order takeout, and locate the Pinesol. Now I get to cuddle with my little man longer, try that new recipe that I’ve had flagged in my cookbook for 3 years, and remind the maid about the spot on the floor where Lucas projectile vomited his breakfast.
Okay, so I’ve also gotten back into reading. I’m on the 3rd book of the Harry Potter series, and I’ve also read the new Ellen DeGeneres book that she talks about every day on her show that I now tivo and watch every afternoon. I’m only a few weeks away from soap operas and “Mommy and Me” groups. But I’m totally not joking about the “Mommy and Me” groups because I already have a few leads lined up for Michigan.
And I still struggle with the fact that I have a Masters degree and I’m now discussing the importance of poop, but my new boss is pretty demanding so I don’t have much time to dwell on it. Seriously, he’s a real slave driver who has outrageous demands at all hours of the day.
Speaking of, he’s sitting next to me crying for food so I should probably be a good mom and go put him to bed.
Cross your fingers for another 7 hour night of sleep (and quiet). 7 hours is winning the mom lottery.