This Is Not Turning Out to be a Good Day.

Because of (title), instead of writing a fun, happy post about how great the beach was or all the cool stuff Dane’s done over the last month, or even a wistful post about how much I miss my family in Texas and queso and readily available tin wall art and Talavera pottery, etc., etc., here’s a post I started a few weeks ago. It sort of reflects how things are going today.

Also, tangentially, I hate adverbs. I had a T.A. once who called them sketchy, which is about the only thing on which he and I agreed. But when I get overtired and stressy and sort of maudlin, I go adverb crazy. Thus, this post, all adverby and whatnot.

Over the last month-ish, putting Dane to bed has gone one of two ways: so easy that I’m downstairs with my valet serving me a margarita in twenty minutes flat (ha!) or an hour and a half of crazy love/cataclysmic crying on my lap. He’s at a stage where there’s not much room between happy, totally awake and not at all ready for bed, which means it takes an hour of nursing, rocking, playing and eventually holding him tightly to my chest while he cries to get him to sleep, and slap-happy-punch-drunk overtired, in which case he falls asleep nursing after five minutes and gives me the finger if I try to wake him up to drink more milk (The figurative finger, of course. His daddy’s my bad influence hasn’t rubbed off on him that much just yet.). I’m trying to avoid letting him get overtired but it’s a fine line to walk, and while I’m certain there’s a happy medium where if I examine him closely in the hour before bed I could find the optimal 35 seconds in which he’s in the exact perfect ready-for-sleep state, let’s face it: I’m not that skilled of a mommy. Despite my best efforts.

And to be clear, the nights that take longer don’t bother me (well, don’t bother me THAT much). Because I no longer hold him or rock him at naptime (we had a rough road there, so if I let him sleep on me at all he decides his crib is a playpen when he lays down), I enjoy the extra time at night. He lays on my tummy and gurgles and plays with his toes and waves at the alarm clock and his backpack and the curtains and the ceiling and, except for the few minutes in which he’s hysterically crying before he goes to sleep, is a pretty happy little man.

So (long story longer) a few weeks ago, I had a rare night in which I pretended to have a life and planned to meet some friends for dinner, wearing three inch heels and jewelry not safe for chewing. Knowing how karma and I are on SUCH good terms, we planned to meet an hour after Dane’s bedtime, which I was certain would be plenty of time; angelbaby was TIRED that day. So I’m all yeah, I got this, and I get him all tubbied and upstairs in his jammies and turn out the lights and turn on that magical creation called the sleep giraffe and sure enough, he seems calm and like he’s on the train to sleepyville, and then all of the sudden, BAM, off he pops. And he’s all smiling up at me and giggling and grabbing my nose and I think, okay, we’re still cool  because I’ve built in an hour of cushion time, right? We should be fine, right? But the problem is, now I’m thinking about how I really would like to wear eyeliner AND concealer and maybe even straighten my hair and what the hell shoes am I going to wear and so instead of taking my time and enjoying those moments with him, I got the brilliant idea of trying to speed up the process and after letting him play for, say, 3.025 seconds I had him all cuddled up on my chest trying to rock him into submission. Dane’s response?

In typical Overcash fashion: OH, HELL NO, MOMMY.

And that is why, an hour and a half later, sweaty, deaf, make-up-smeared, scratched, hair-pulled and frizzy, headbutted, I finally managed to extricate myself from the room with our sweet, sleeping angelbaby in his crib. And the worst part is, the only fault was mine. He was tired and ready for bed, and all he needed was a little patience on my part and instead I tried to smush his head into my shoulder as though it was lathered with baby Valium and force him to sleep. And, of course, I spent the rest of the night obsessing over my bad mommyness (which, coupled with the obsessing over being an hour late, made me SO popular), and in the end I might as well have stayed home in my sad, worn out jammies eating fruit floes and watching the audition shows for So You Think You Can Dance (which, don’t get me wrong, isn’t a bad night for me. But still. I was wearing HEELS, people.).

I have a point here, long winded though it may be. In what seems like a very short amount of time, Dane will be starting preschool and then real school, and not only will I not get to rock him at night, I won’t get much time (or rocking) with him at all. I know he’s only nine months old, but oh, how those nine months have flown, and every moment I waste with him – hurrying to get somewhere or on the phone or doing something around the house – feels like I’ve thrown away something invaluable. Even the regularly-scheduled growing up stings. Lately, I’ve been laying him down at night after nursing while he’s still awake. I’d like to say this is because I’ve glommed on to some doctor-approved sleep philosophy, but it’s really because after a few minutes of rocking he starts wiggling and craning his head and in general acting dissatisfied until I lay him down in his crib, at which point he grabs Puppy and snuggles his head down and generally goes right to sleep. And I should be STOKED, right? But I’m not. I’m sorry, and I’m sorry for everyone out there who has the opposite problem (check back on baby #2 and we’ll see how it’s going then), but I’m just not ready yet. Which, friends, has thus far been the story of my mommylife.

I do, however, feel a little better now. And Dane has decided to nap after all, so perhaps this day is looking up. KARMA, LOOK AWAY. 🙂

Is it Friday Yet?

I swear I’ve had fourteen really clever posts this week, but they’ve all happened while I’ve been doing something else of import (feeding Dane, for example, or cleaning out the garage, or scrubbing the baseboards with a toothbrush), and by the time I get done doing whatever it is I’m doing, they’ve gone the way of socks in the dryer or those stupid soothies pacifiers. So instead, here’s a really cute photo of Dane from our latest photo session. I’ve got more stuff to say, I swear I do. Only first, I’ve got to go to the beach, get really sunburned, build a giant sandcastle to plonk my baby on and perhaps even drink an adult beverage (or ten) (a night) (after Dane goes to bed, I SWEAR) (okay, maybe one before) (LOOK AWAY, BABY COPS. LOOK AWAY.).

Also, yay, I got to use plonk as a verb. Regardless:

Look Mommy! Blinds! Lampshades! A CEILING FAN! MADNESS.

Smooch.

p.s. Jon just brought me the video monitor and our sweet baby is sleeping with Puppy on his head. Madness, indeed. Who is Puppy, you ask? Oh yes:

Jellycat, Jell-ycat, HOW I love eating you…

And a Friends reference to boot. Quite a day, peeps. Quite a day.

Rockin’ the Baby

I’m having a rough blogging week. Apologies; my family is descending en force  (ooohhh, I sound all frenchy there) on Friday, and I’m busy obsessing over my carpet and the dust on top of my refrigerator. But I do love this link-up from Shell at Things I Can’t Say, called Rockin’ the Baby. There are smushy pics! And prizes! And more smushies! And links to other fun blogs! How could I resist? Go check it out.

So here are my Rockin’ the Baby photos of our sweetsmushytinyoftennonnappingangelbaby:

Day 1: Uhhh… lady, do I know you?

Day 2: WHAT, already?

Day 19: Whatup with the headgear, Mommy?

Day 24: Kermit THE Frog here, reporting from the living room floor…

(Yes, I’m a total dork. What?)

And one more irresistable if slightly blurry Iphone pic because OH MY GOD I COULD EAT THAT BABY.

I should also let y’all in on the fact that those first three pics are courtesy of the fabulous Elizabeth Morrison of Elizabeth Morrison Photography in Charlotte, NC. Go find her.

This Possibly Sums Up My Marriage

I thought everyone in the world had read this, but come to find out my sister hasn’t and also my mom, and I made my husband read it tonight but he didn’t find giant metal chickens quite as funny as I did. Regardless, this may be the funniest blog post I’ve ever read:

The Bloggess And That’s Why You Should Learn to Pick Your Battles

Apparently, there are now t-shirts. Yes. I WANT ONE.

The Crawling Dervish, Part Whatever Capsy

On second (or third, or whatever) thought, forget the cocaine AND the tequila. I’m officially addicted to Etsy. I mean, listen to this desciption for huge scrabble wall tiles (for the playroom, I swear, I’m not spelling out inappropriate phrases on our bedroom walls that my husband and I would then argue about the actual CORRECT spelling of for decades to come):

“Have you been missing something in your life? Does that hole in your heart feel like a GIANT Scrabble tile? Well consider yourself whole again!”

OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE I’VE MET MY SOUL MATE IN THE FORM OF GIANT WOODEN LETTERS. Sorry, honey. BUT MY HEART WILL BE FULL AGAIN, DAMNIT. FULL, I SAY.

(In the interest of not ripping off anyone else’s stuff, here’s the listing. Who can resist this stuff? I’m going to be so broke.)

(Also, also, letters made from Coke cans! Almost as good as a giant metal chicken!)