I should’ve named this blog Tales of a Neurotic Mommy. Here’s how ridiculous I am: on Saturday, I had a full day of panic because instead of waking up between 4:30 and 6 a.m., my child slept in until 7:15.
Let me say that again: I spent all day Saturday spreading anxiety around my house because my sweet, tired baby SLEPT IN AN EXTRA HOUR. Heaven. Effing. Forbid. Really.
So instead of enjoying my extra hour of sleep and using that to be a better mommy and, in general, a more likable person, I spent the whole day trying to recalibrate when he would be taking his naps, how long he might sleep and how it would affect his bedtime. I mean, really. I’m getting frustrated with myself just writing this. What is wrong with me?!?
Yes, nothing, hormones, first-time mommyness, yada, and we did otherwise have a very nice Memorial Day weekend, in which we went to the pool, mulched the yard and ate two burgers and four desserts apiece in one sitting. But still. An hour. COME. ON.
There is a positive. Lately, every time I do something like this – freak out for no reason or freak out way more than I should – it gets me to do some combination of run, write and reflect (aha, alliteration! I’m so clever, really. I should copyright that.). After Saturday, I’m now hyperaware of my obsessing over when or for how long Dane sleeps. But then I wonder, should you be hyperaware of not being obsessive? And the cycle starts over again.
In other sundry news (I love the word sundry. I mean, deeply, deeply love it), I’m eating crow this week. This is another neuroticism I have as a mommy: I’ll say something like Dane’s a great sleeper!, and then he stops sleeping completely. So a few posts ago, I said I’m not really a reading kind of mommy, and as of last week I am obsessed with Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Baby (Tangientially, while I appreciate Dr. Weissbluth for all of his assistance, he’s kind of an ass on his blog. Not that this affects the quality of his advice, but still). Anyway, there you go. Karma at work again.
And finally, I have decided if I ever write a book about the mommyhood, it’s going to be called Eat, Sleep, Poop. Because, let’s face it: that’s how we roll. And maybe add on at the end something about love, too. You get me.