I am gonna make it through this week if it kills me
ETA: and now, possibly mastitis. FML
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Last Sunday night. A week ago. Mr. E and I were lying next to each other, in bed, during one of the five minute breaks between Rocket's inexplicable bouts of screaming.
I stared blankly at the ceiling. "Today…has not been a good day."
Long pause.
"No," Mr. E agreed. Long pause. "Too much explosive feces."
At which point I lost it, because, yes. Any day that you can sum up with "Too much explosive feces" is not a good day. We both spent that day repeatedly cleaning shit off the toddler, the floor, the underpants, the trousers, the tub, the bucket…what is clean? You soak the underpants in the bucket, but then you have to wash the bucket, and the gloves, and then you have to clean the floor, but did you get all the floor? Do you need to clean the stairs? Did you accidentally walk through it before noticing, and do you have time to clean your slippers downstairs while the toddler is upstairs with the bleach which is out because you were using it? I asked Mr. E "What counts as clean?" and he said "I don't know, it's been too long since I've seen it."
Also Rocket has been having an enormous developmental spurt. Suddenly he can roll over from his front to his back! In both directions! He has learned to blow a zerbert with no substrate! He has discovered his feet, and grabs them all the time! He grabs rattles with both hands, and can get them in his mouth 9 times out of 10! Today, he threw his rattle - twice! Like two feet away! It's incredibly exciting! This has all happened this week, he wasn't doing any of this ten days ago!
…and, of course, one of the things that happens with developmental spurts is that it really gives them a hard time sleeping. So, inexplicable bouts of screaming. And finally I just gave up and decided to give in to terrorism. The tiny asshole sleeps in our bed now. I give up. My shoulder is stiff in the morning, but fuck it: we have all slept. And he's probably not going to die. At least, less likely than that I would drive us all into a truck if I didn't start getting more sleep than I had been. It would probably even have been accidental.
But, so, luckily no one else got the stomach issue till I did on Friday night. No, really. That is luck. I didn't have to miss any work, and I didn't have to clean up shit while feeling terrible. You really want to trade off, with illnesses.
And the cherry on the top of the whole shit-and-magical-wonder-of-childhood-developmental-miracle sundae that has been this week, was also last Sunday night, when I was making my zombie-like way up the stairs, after a day of cleaning up shit, and turned the corner to find: the Junebug. Standing in front of me. Beaming, and announcing, "Mama, I climbed out of my crib by myself!"
("The curse is come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott.")
Seriously, I nearly broke down crying. As I type, he is meant to be napping, and I have put him back in his bed three times. We are meant to be going to a neighborhood get-together in the afternoon, and if he doesn't nap, he's going to be a beast. I guess we'd better go get him a real bed next weekend.
ETA: It's not a sundae, right? It's a parfait. Because it has layers. Layers of shit, amazing miracles of growth and development, work, frustration, adorableness, and stomach pain.
(Crossposted to http://metaphortunate.dreamwidth.org/63579.html with
comments.)
---------
Last Sunday night. A week ago. Mr. E and I were lying next to each other, in bed, during one of the five minute breaks between Rocket's inexplicable bouts of screaming.
I stared blankly at the ceiling. "Today…has not been a good day."
Long pause.
"No," Mr. E agreed. Long pause. "Too much explosive feces."
At which point I lost it, because, yes. Any day that you can sum up with "Too much explosive feces" is not a good day. We both spent that day repeatedly cleaning shit off the toddler, the floor, the underpants, the trousers, the tub, the bucket…what is clean? You soak the underpants in the bucket, but then you have to wash the bucket, and the gloves, and then you have to clean the floor, but did you get all the floor? Do you need to clean the stairs? Did you accidentally walk through it before noticing, and do you have time to clean your slippers downstairs while the toddler is upstairs with the bleach which is out because you were using it? I asked Mr. E "What counts as clean?" and he said "I don't know, it's been too long since I've seen it."
Also Rocket has been having an enormous developmental spurt. Suddenly he can roll over from his front to his back! In both directions! He has learned to blow a zerbert with no substrate! He has discovered his feet, and grabs them all the time! He grabs rattles with both hands, and can get them in his mouth 9 times out of 10! Today, he threw his rattle - twice! Like two feet away! It's incredibly exciting! This has all happened this week, he wasn't doing any of this ten days ago!
…and, of course, one of the things that happens with developmental spurts is that it really gives them a hard time sleeping. So, inexplicable bouts of screaming. And finally I just gave up and decided to give in to terrorism. The tiny asshole sleeps in our bed now. I give up. My shoulder is stiff in the morning, but fuck it: we have all slept. And he's probably not going to die. At least, less likely than that I would drive us all into a truck if I didn't start getting more sleep than I had been. It would probably even have been accidental.
But, so, luckily no one else got the stomach issue till I did on Friday night. No, really. That is luck. I didn't have to miss any work, and I didn't have to clean up shit while feeling terrible. You really want to trade off, with illnesses.
And the cherry on the top of the whole shit-and-magical-wonder-of-childhood-developmental-miracle sundae that has been this week, was also last Sunday night, when I was making my zombie-like way up the stairs, after a day of cleaning up shit, and turned the corner to find: the Junebug. Standing in front of me. Beaming, and announcing, "Mama, I climbed out of my crib by myself!"
("The curse is come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott.")
Seriously, I nearly broke down crying. As I type, he is meant to be napping, and I have put him back in his bed three times. We are meant to be going to a neighborhood get-together in the afternoon, and if he doesn't nap, he's going to be a beast. I guess we'd better go get him a real bed next weekend.
ETA: It's not a sundae, right? It's a parfait. Because it has layers. Layers of shit, amazing miracles of growth and development, work, frustration, adorableness, and stomach pain.
(Crossposted to http://metaphortunate.dreamwidth.org/63579.html with
comments.)