I’m going to complain again. It’s perfectly acceptable if you want to skip this post, because (a) I’ve got a really good life and not a whole lot of right to bitch about it and (b) everybody’s got their own THING and really, why do you need to listen to mine? and also (c) I have a whole different post about THINGS, but that is neither here nor there nor anywhere in my immediate future, because, didn’t I mention, I’m about to bitch again?
So Dane is nine and a half months old, which seems impossible, but there you are. Madness ensuing in our house on a daily basis. And despite the fact that he is, without question, the best thing that’s ever happened to me (yes, even better than the day I found my Marc Jacobs patent leather heels for $89) (yes, I said EIGHTY NINE SMACKS), I’ve had a roughly rough go of the post-partum business. I’m a worrier anyway, and my little tango with PPD included such hot numbers as MIND NUMBING ANXIETY and CONVULSIVE CRYING JAGS ON THE FLOOR OF MY CLOSET, and let’s not forget THE INABILITY TO LAY MY CHILD DOWN FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS OF HIS LIFE. Okay, that last one was likely not PPD-related, but it’s my party and I’m shoving it into the box all the same.
Shoe digressions aside, things started to settle out around seven months. This roughly coincided with my mom and my trusty Obi-One-Kenobi of the mommyhood, Aunt Brookie, helping me get Dane down for daily naps. And so he started napping and my hormones started to subside and all of the sudden, I was able to take a shower and put on makeup without having a panic attack that I was abandoning my baby. And do other stuff, too, like join a playgroup and go to the mall and hang out with my husband like a normal person. And then, bam, I got a sinus infection and Dane got an ear infection, and just as we got over that and had another week or two of normalcy, we went on vacation and Dane popped out not one but TWO giant front teeth and that blew the sleeping and the normalcy all to hell, and we’ve finally recovered from the teething (for now, yes, for now) and Monday morning I find myself in the doctor’s office for a completely unexpected and particularly uncomfortable medical procedure that involved needles and scalpels and the phrase you’ll feel a sting and then a burn, and I thought, really? Because (a) what he should have said was You’ll feel a sting and then a burn and then seven to ten days of pain followed by four to six weeks of discomfort and oh, by the way, just take an Advil, that should cheer you up and (b) COME ON, already.
But you know what the worst part is? I’m effectively complaining about LIFE. That’s what this is: just normal everyday life with a baby. And then I look in on him sleeping or watch him stand up or snuggle him up in my arms and I realize I’m so unbelievably very incredibly stupidly lucky. Don’t get me wrong: I have a pretty decent reason to complain about my little ditty with the doctor on Monday (sparing you the details, it’s pretty sucky), but on the flip side, our mellow mushroom sat through the whole thing in his stroller, nary a peep other than an interested gagaGA? every so often, and then we came home and ate Whole Foods cookies provided by my husband and crawled around the living room floor and in general made fools of ourselves, after which Jon took the baby while I took a nap. So life, you know what? Since you gave me this:
|Uh, Mommy… Could you get a babysitter next time?|
I forgive you.