Though it's not readily apparent from my blog posts, I really do love the age Spagett is at now. I love everything about it except the early, and rude, wake ups: usually it's a kick to the face or the bladder, but on one particularly memorable occasion, I was sleeping with my boob out and he bit my nipple.
I love that Spagett can explore the world on his own now, that he can go after the things he wants, and move away from the things he doesn't like. I love seeing his curiosity, his willingness to explore. I love seeing the look on his face when he has cornered one of our cats and is moving in for the pat. I just love everything about it. I even love that he hates to be confined, he hates his playpen and his bouncer.
I love his excitement, his joy. I love the times when he does something that makes me laugh, and then he looks up at me and watches me laughing for a moment before he breaks into giggles himself.
And if I'm being totally honest, I even love the early morning wake ups, because when I open my eyes, there is Spagett to greet me with a giant smile.
It's an ongoing contest, the Sleep Olympics. Sid will get home from work at midnight, two AM, and fall asleep on the couch so that Spagett doesn't keep him up. I, however, am stuck in the bedroom with a baby who insists on waking to fuss every hour or so.
By morning, I want to just tear my hair out, scream and cry, and jump out a window. I AM TIRED. I AM SO FUCKING TIRED YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE IT. The other day, I was so exhausted that I was SEEING THINGS. And I am supposed to care for an eight month old teething monster? Sure, I can do it, but not with any modicum of competence.
So in the mornings, Spagett decides he's up for the day at around 7:30, and I try to keep him occupied in the bedroom for as long as possible because I REALLY DON'T WANT TO GO DOWNSTAIRS AND SEE SID ASLEEP ON THE COUCH. It's like a slap in the face. It's jealousy just choking me to death: HE GETS TO SLEEP AND YOU DON'T, HA-FUCKING-HA, BITCH.
Every morning, without fail, Sid wakes when I bring Spagett downstairs, long enough to mumble about how TIRED he is, and then he goes upstairs and sleeps in the bed for another hour or two. Sometimes three. And then in the afternoon, he likes to take another nap before work.
So, it's the Sleep Olympics: he says, "oh, I'm so tired," and I say "oh, really? I was up all night with Spagett." And we apparently feel the need to one-up each other. Now, I'm not really trying to have one over on him, I just want him to ACKNOWLEDGE that I.don't.sleep. I don't nap. I don't get a few baby-free hours to waste in blissful slumber. LIKE CERTAIN PEOPLE...
And I don't even know how it happens, but even on Sid's days off, I'm the only one taking care of Spagett. The other day, he seriously complained about Spagett's diaper, and then left me to change it, wondering why I got angry, because HE WAS DOING SOMETHING ELSE. Well, goddamn it, so was I!
It wears me the hell down. Every day I feel like I come a little closer to my breaking point. Every day my temper gets a little bit shorter, my tongue a little sharper. And I hate it. I hate to see what this is doing to me. Don't get me wrong, I love Spagett, and I know it isn't his fault that he's teething and learning to get around, that he requires so much time and attention. I was ready for that, and I knew it wouldn't be all sunshine and roses. What I wasn't prepared for was Sid's lack of involvement: I was not prepared to raise Spagett like a single mother.
I'm a boring 31 year old living in SoMD with my husband, Sid, our son, Spagett, our two cats, Knut and Gee, and a shitbird called Yuki. Even though Sid is in the navy, I loathe and avoid the term "navy wife": I do not define myself or my marriage by my husband's military career.