As far behind as I am online, I'm still making things happen in real life (but barely). The garden looks great, my knees are sunburned after another outdoor concert, we finally said farewell to the pumpkins that have been on our front porch since last October(!!!), the whole family is surviving without that extra carseat base and stroller, and I shower on the days that count. We're getting by.
Father's Day was Sunday, and although I was so consumed with the thought of Simon being a father this year that I momentarily forgot I had a father of my own (hi Dad! sorry the phone died on us but at least you were warned), I did manage to help the baby handmake his first card several days in advance of the big event. Leftovers from this project plus scissors and a gluestick (neither of which go in the mouth, son) made a fine gift featuring miniature cut-outs of a tie, a bottle of cologne, and a singing greeting card (inside joke) on the front and then a hand turkey on the reverse. Because when I think "craft" I always think "hand turkey," don't you?
It's been an exhausting month, what with the sitting and the rolling and the scootching and the crawling and the solid-fooding and the non-napping. I never feel like I'm caught up on anything, and every spare minute (because that's how they come--in one-minute blips) is a harried sprint to get part-way through ____________. I'm now finding the SAHM part the most difficult of my SAH/WAH/WOH split, and I think it's because when I'm SAHMing, I'm literally staying at home the whole time, not going out to run errands or play at the park (or, even better, run at the park). What this means is that while I'm holding the kid or feeding the kid or wiping the kid or clapping at the kid like he's a Golden Retriever, the corners of both eyes (plus the ones in the back of my head) are barraged with all the chores and projects and unfinished business that fill every nook and cranny of the house. At least once a day (and usually more often than that), I find myself cursing Wombat's needy non-nappingness instead of soaking up his wide-awake smiles and attention. I hate it when I'm overcome with the feeling that my son is a thing to be endured when I should embrace him as a thing to be relished, but hey, it happens.
Simon, meanwhile, continues to kick ass as a SAHD. He still doesn't do any housework beyond occasionally loading the dishwasher (and I suppose I have only myself to blame for being so particular about everything else that he's probably afraid to even attempt more than that), and he now has a standing coffeeshop playdate with our friend and her three-month-old daughter (Wombat's paramour, to be sure). After coffee, he and Wombat go "adventuring" and usually come home with a small trinket for me: a $5 watch, this mug, a bottle of jasmine oil...He's always hinting about how good it would be if I left the house now and then and maybe even maybe met up with a friend. Now that I think about it, though, he probably just wants me to buy him presents.
Honestly, though, I should just face it: the house is never going to be clean, my projects are never going to be finished, and I might as well just escape from it all for a few hours like he does. The only times I leave the house alone with the baby (you know what I mean) are for doctor's appointments, which isn't exactly what you'd call recreation. Take, for instance, my recent visit to the crotch mechanic* for an annual checkup: When we got to the office and I took Wombat out of his carseat, he was his usual charming self, winking at the ladies and cooing at his toes, but then as soon as we got into the exam room and I had to put him down again (he tells me the carseat is full of rusty nails and biting ants), he went nuclear. So there I was, standing in my socks, wearing an exam gown open in the front from neck to knees, and twirling the carseat around the room as I try to distract the baby with diagrams of ladybits. Look, honey! It's a duodenum!
When the nurse came in to take my stats (back to pre-preg weight! woot!), I had to put him down again, but by way of compromise I unclipped the belt and straps so he didn't feel like he was trapped. This is where I concede that motherhood is about learning from our mistakes, which I certainly did as I watched helplessly while Wombat arched his back, went limp, and then slithered out of his carseat and onto the floor at the foot of the table upon which I was immobilized by a blood pressure cuff and a nurse who was too busy counting my pulse beats to hear me say, "My baby...He's going to...I need to...Well, I hope your floor is clean."
And that was nothing compared to the ska-reeeeeming he did when I was supine and stirruped. One of the receptionist ladies stuck her head in to ask if she could hold him for me, and it's a good thing I'm not shy around medical professionals because there I was, mid-exam, making silly faces at my kid while being swabbed from whence he came. Again, not what Simon means when he says I should take the kid out and show him the town.
But hey, speaking of escaping and hanging out with friends and showing Wombat the town, guess who, by some miracle, acquired herself a ticket to BlogHer this year? Guess!
*"Crotch mechanic" © my dad.Previous Next