love

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.

sleep olympics

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.

the world, it ENDS

So, anyone who knows me knows... Starky aint a runner. Starky is kind of a big gallumphing landwhale. Starky is better suited to yoga, to deep breathing and stretching and slow movements.

Guess what? STARKY'S A RUNNER.

I always kind of envied people who ran, because, wow, does that take a lot of work. You have to build up your conditioning, and it's physically very taxing. And it is damn good for your heart! I wanted to do it! And I always chickened out, thinking it would be too hard, and I'd never be able to do it, and everyone would laugh at my big gallumphing, gasping self and think "what a damn landwhale."

And then I had Spagett. And I thought to myself, "if I can do that, I can do anything." Pregnancy and birth were the hardest thing I've ever done, physically and emotionally, and if I can get through that, anything else is small potatoes!

So last month, I started running a few days a week with Spagett in a jogging stroller, and Sid along for motivation. And yeah, I do really fucking suck at it, but I've already made improvement. When I started, I couldn't do a 1/4 mile without stopping, and now I can. I can go a little farther a little faster every time. I am making progress, I AM DOING THIS THING I ALWAYS THOUGHT I COULDN'T.

So, Starky's a runner. Hell has frozen over.

thank goodness for little therapists

There are times when I don't know whether I should laugh, cry, or just shit my pants. Lately I've been having a lot of those times.

Spagett is still teething, and showing no signs of letting up any time soon. The dark circles under my eyes may well become permanent. Sid and I have been... well, to put it gently, we've hit one of those inevitable spots in a relationship where you are either going to kill each other with the fighting, or work through it and come out stronger. Which outcome we'll have remains to be seen.

We're both stressed out. I'm not sleeping well, he's working all the time, and when he's home, it's just nonstop whining and screaming from Spagett. There is not a moment's peace to be had here at Manson Homestead II. Ever. At any time of the day or night.

Thank fuck for my therapist.

misery is spelled S-H-O-T-S

Spagett had his six month vaccinations on Friday, in the midst of cutting his second tooth, and having a growth spurt. Getting the shots was easy-peasy. He wailed for the second it took to administer the shot and that was it. It was the aftermath that almost killed me. He whined and fussed and cried from the moment he woke in the morning to the moment he fell asleep at night, and then he'd wake up every two hours and commence the fussing. He would barely nap. His guts were upset from the rotavirus vaccine, so he was spitting up nonstop and having diarrhea. He didn't want to eat his solids, and if he was on the breast, he'd unlatch every minute or so and just scream. It was hellish. Absolutely hellish.

And today he woke up full of smiles, he had a poop that was normal, and he has been napping for two hours now. It's like I've been given a different child. One that actually laughs when you tickle him instead of holding his breath or crying. One that sits on the floor and actually PLAYS WITH HIS TOYS instead of screaming.

Today was the first time in four days that I enjoyed my time with him.

six teeth

We knew Spagett was teething, but it seemed like every time we checked his mouth, there was a new tooth lurking under the surface of his gums. First it was his canines, then his two upper front teeth, and then his two lower fronts. They're all perfectly content to just sit there, visible under the gums, and give him hell. SIX TEETH, OH MAH LAWD.

Well, one finally broke through today, and it's been cause for much celebration. FIVE MORE TO GO, HOLY SHIT, WE CAN DO THIS. And then someone had to go and piss in Sid's cornflakes and tell him that this is small potatoes, just wait until the baby gets his molars. To which I say: dude, why must you be such a twatwaffle?

So Spagett is still a grump, but we're getting through it as best we can. To add to the kid's misery, he has learned to sit up, and has mastered rolling over, and now he knows he can get mobile and that he's missing out on a bunch of stuff that he could get into if he could crawl. This poor kid has been desperately trying to get onto his hands and knees and go, and he just doesn't quite have the coordination, or the strength. He ends up scooting backward on his stomach every time.

I think it's hilarious, and have been encouraging him to practice at every opportunity. OH HAI, SPAGETT, I AM GOING TO LEAVE YOU HERE ON YOUR STOMACH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR WITH YOUR TOYS JUST OUT OF REACH WHILE I GO DO SOMETHING ELSE FOR A MINUTE. Oh, the humanity! And when I come back, he's a foot away from where I left him, having scooted away from his toys, and now he's lying on his back and watching the ceiling fan. Oh, the HUMANITY!

Did I mention I'm a total sadist?

heading for a... something

Sid has not been working dependable hours: he works nights sometimes, he works days sometimes, and more and more frequently, he's been having to go in on his days off. So when he is home, it's understandable that he wants some time to relax and do what he likes.

The only problem with that is, that leaves me no time to relax and do what I like. When Sid's at work, I'm at home with Spagett. When Spagett is sleeping, I'm trying to do housework. When Sid's at home, I'm still with Spagett, still trying to snatch time for housework.

I am going to go crazy.

As I type this, Spagett is on his play mat beside me, freaking out. Not crying, just getting really pissy. And it is grating on my last damn nerve, but I so want this time to get this frustration out somewhere, because I feel like I could cry. I could just break down sobbing right now.

When we decided to have a baby, we had assumed, wrongly, that Sid would be home more. That everything would not be falling on me. Spagett comes with me to my goddamn therapy sessions, for fuck's sake, because Sid is never home to watch him for an hour or so. It's fucking ridiculous, and I don't know if I can keep doing this. I am losing my temper with Spagett more and more, and it's horrible of me, and I feel terrible for it. It just keeps snowballing.

I don't know what to do.