So ... blah blah ... he works a lot ... blah. I know things could be worse and I know I should look for the silver lining because it is certainly there to be found (potential parent of the year nom? no. new found deeeeep appreciation for adult interaction? yes, yes, and yes.) but I don't.
Instead, I've been moving one step forward and two steps back in the housework, patience, and personal appearance realms. Armed with a broom and baby wipes, I'm in a constant war with Julia's breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, snack, dessert, snack leftovers strewn about the house. Julia is put in her timeout spot more frequently every day for bopping Sebastian over the head. And while I was filling out paperwork at a recent appointment, I was asked if I worked outside the home with a tone that makes me fairly certain the kind gentleman had already clicked, "no!!!!' using my momfit (ill-fitting jeans, sweater over turtleneck and one pearl in left ear) and mom scent (casserole of spit up, toddler breath and a perfume mask) as telling indicators.
Some of the more precious momes:
I decided to take Julia and Sebastian out to the backyard to enjoy the balmy temperature yesterday afternoon while Simon slept off the night of work (including the unbelievable amount of potent incense that one interesting patient and her doula had left lingering on his person). Of course Julia immediately dug through the recycling (cans: not too safe ... not too boring) and then wanted to scale the stairs ("sears! sears! sears!"). Feeling generous, I let her climb while I followed behind with Sebastian. And of course she fell backwards at the tippy top and I caught her at the price of dropping all but Sebastian's right foot. I'm still trying to find my heart as it immediately leapt out of my chest and pounded away at record speed.
While I was in the kitchen this morning, probably being especially domestic, Julia traipsed in and circled my legs as she usually does at 6:07. After her 100th grunt I finally looked down to see what the ish was. No, no, no, no ... please no. Is that a liquid trail of poorly digested dairy tears allllll over the floor? Oh ... her socks are saturated too? How on God's greenest earth did it get all the way up to her shoulders? So, I suppose the answer is yes, she is still highly sensitive to dairy and that bite of yogurt this morning was a huge mistake and I shouldn't even let her look in the general vicinity of the refrigerator that houses many ounces of the poison. Praise all things good and holy for Kirkland Disinfecting Household Surface Wipes.
Last night when I put Julia down to bed I shut off the light, closed the door and went on my merry way. I picked up the remnants of tornado Julia, checked my email and brushed my teeth before I made Sebastian a bottle. When I went to get him to begin his marathon bedtime routine and didn't see him in either of his usual haunts ... the floor and the swing ... I panicked. Early and spontaneous crawler? No ... I had left him in Julia's room on the changing table. Good thing he knew to keep his mouth shut and his flailing body glued to the table or else we may have had some mayhem on the loose. Melodramatic? Never.
Fine. Just three little moments. And of course, in retrospect, they aren't as scary, exasperating or near night ruining as I felt they were at the scenes of the crimes. These weeks will pass. The season is temporary. February will save me ... if I'm not dead by way of adult conversation deficiency or dairy intolerant waste inhalation.
Thanks for reading/skimming. Your sharing in my ridiculously tame woes makes me feel better already.