So for those of you playing along, I apologize for not posting in a while. I've mentioned my slap-down from the PPD fairy more than once, and yes, that sparkly little beeyatch got a hold of me and swung me around by my hair a bit in recent times. It's a strange phenom to one moment be a normal person mildly annoyed by the incessant gardening that goes on in my neighborhood and the next...
Quick digression: By gardening I don't mean harvesting string beans and red-leaf lettuce, by gardening I mean the horrific buzzing created when those pick-up trucks arrive with 14 leaf blowers and tiny men to drive all crap into the air and into our house. I literally run around closing the windows to protect my surfaces 'cause lawd knows I'm not going to dust.
Ok we're back...moment I'm a weeping wonder with not a hope in the world for a better time. It's a freak show of "we're all going to die, not even Obama can save us, why did we bring a child into this awful world, and why do I suck so bad as a Momma". I know Brooke Shields and others have written about this terrible affliction, but let me just add my voice to the din and say this. Holy Kee-rap it Sucks Ass. Truly.
So I am writing from a new land. It's a little bit better. But then last night happened. The cute hubbers offered to put the boy down while I wandered off to a WIF meeting. I recently directed two PSA's for those lovely womens, and a fun fact is that one of them is nominated for an Emmy. Touch me, right? Let's be clear, it's a local LA Emmy, so I'm not going to hang out with Liz Lemon and other such celeb. But it's still pretty cool. So I went to you know, network and stuff at the meeting and he bravely stayed here for the Italian Opera which what we affectionately call the putting-the-boy-down process.
Apparently our little opera star wasn't having it as he has come to expect a large intake of milk and delivered in that special way that well, only the Momma's got. Sure he takes a bottle people! We didn't f that up at least. But sadly I've made the fatal mistake of having the sleep association run by the aforementioned delivery. Okay, I'll say it. I nurse him to sleep and yep, it's by the book wrong, I know. I know! Go ahead and feel free to tell me again, but I know. So god bless hubs, last night turned into two hours of inconsolable wailing. When I got home the baybee had just gone to sleep, apparently just flopped onto Dad's chest from the pure exhaustion of singing the No Momma Blues.
picture featured: father's day 2009. Back when sleep was easy...
Oh man. That was me, just trying to be a networking chic. Looking down the chute for another gig to feed this little machine we've got running here. And what do I get? An email letting me know that putting down the baby with out me is not an option, and that the pain was too much to bear. I know that married people probably shouldn't discuss really important shit via email, but, we did. I emailed him back the quote that opened this post which was preceded by...
You mock my pain!
And by that I wanted him to know I wasn't mocking his pain, or the boy's. I'm just flailing around here trying to find a way, some way to make this all work. And I agree, it's painful at times.
But my current angst is that my boobs and I are probably not going to be attending the Emmy ceremony. Damn.
