It’s called a toddler that decided sleep is for the birds.

That was at 4am.  He finally conked out at 4:30am.

He has two nightlights.
It’s not night terrors (those have an entirely different cry).
He has loveys.
He’s not hungry or thirsty.
He really doesn’t need to drop his nap because he’s not napping 50% of the time anyway.

Basically?  He wants to eff with us.  Which might be a strong sentiment except I’ve only had one cup of coffee & four hours of sleep.

(also, the difference between a newborn being awake all hours &  a toddler being awake all hours is the amount of noise. when a newborn is awake, at least one parent can sleep.  when a toddler is awake, even folks in china hear him.)

It started innocently right around the time I lost my job & we feel for the little guy because it’s obvious he feels the stress in the house.  There have been a lot of changes in his wee world over the past few months & my heart goes out to him.  First Daddy was home a bit, then we were both at work, then Momma came home & he’s overjoyed but missing his Auntie & why isn’t anything the same anymore?!  But Momma needs her REM cycle back & more importantly, the kiddo does too.  After nights of rocking & rocking & rocking in the small hours of the day & Doug camping out on a pallet in his room, & purchasing a star turtle & giving him warm milk, we realized yesterday that it was time to pull out the big guns.  All three of us were at each other’s throats constantly from pure exhaustion.  I snapped at Harrison, something I very rarely do.  So Doug & I shook hands & decided that last night was the night.

We dusted off our Ferber book & got the stopwatch on my iPhone working.

We turned Harrison’s lock around so that we could lock him in, thereby taking back control of his ability to leave his room.  (shall I pause here & clarify that we still go to him, but it means homeboy can’t sneak out at 3am?  good.)

We took out his workbench & garbage trucks.

I turned off his light at the fan so that he can’t party all night long under a ceiling light.  (oh buddy, did that piss him off!)

& we hit the sack by 9pm.

I got a pretty awesome workout going back & forth to his room last night, calmly telling him to “Get back in bed, it’s night-night time.”  Tuck him in, give him a pat on the back, & close the door behind me.  I’m hoping that tonight it won’t take 2 1/2 hours for it to sink in that Momma ain’t fooling around.  Also, this is what we woke up to this morning:

I think it’s fair to say he was pretty ticked that Harrison Rave 2012 was thwarted.

____________________________

& in good news, the reason that Momma can’t hang at 4am anymore is because I got an offer from Microsoft as a contract for their marketing department.

SAY WHAT?!

It’s a contract so I’m still on the hunt for a full-time job with bennies.  The great news is that the contract is on my terms as far as how many hours I work per week & when the contract ends & they fully understand that I am still looking for a job.  So Harry is with his Auntie a few hours per week so I can log in some hours at home & take conference calls & keep interviewing with other companies.  What’s that you say, Charlie?  WINNING.

Remember how you didn't want me as an admin? That's cool. Microsoft thinks I'm worth bringing in to their marketing department. So have a seat, please.

Let me just say that I can stand in a board room or jet across the country, but I turn into a complete wuss once I step through Michaels.  All those women with glue stick burns on their fingers, willing to cut a bitch over the last vial of Martha Stewart glitter?  THEY TERRIFY ME.  Same thing with fabric stores.  Also, the strangest thing happens that once I hit the first aisle, I completely forget what I was there for.  Confidence takes a crash & burn so I stand there in the aisles, completely overwhelmed by the choices in felt.

In short:
Before Michaels:  BIG SPARKLY INSPIRATIONAL UNICORNS OF HAPPINESS!

After Michaels:  I WILL NEVER ACHIEVE ANYTHING GOOD IN MY LIFE.

yeah.

I’m standing in line with Harry in the push cart & a matronly lady turns to me.

“Is your mother’s name Karen?” she asks.

“No,” I say politely.

“You look like my friend Karen, so I figured you must be her daughter,” she explains.  I shrug.  Raleigh is a pretty decent-sized city.

“With two children, I figured you had to be her,” she persists.

Is this lady drunk?  I only have one child in the seat & I’m pretty sure the firstborn’s that were traded for Christmas Cricuts weren’t eligible for the 40% off coupon.  Like I said, I’m on a budget so if it’s not on sale, it’s not in my cart.

“You know,” she says.  ”With your boy & the one on the way.”

oh.

shit.

Awkward silence abounds.

Does this lady not know Rules of Feminism #253: Don’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless the fetus is 75% down the birth canal with a hand waving?

Yeah, they’re still happening two years later.

So I’m sitting there at my desk, happily tapping away at expenses & BAM! there’s a flutter in my uterus area.  It’s enough to make me take pause & freak the eff out that OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO BE ON “I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT.” 

But then I remember that I’m already doing that female thing (send nachos & wine!) & we are staunch supporters of the Trojan man & there is simply NO WAY there is a bambino kicking away in my uterus.

But still.

Totally trippy.

Also, I don’t know if bile actually “chunks,” but I was typing furiously.

Dear Silver Fox,

For so many years, I swooned over you, applauded you, admired your journalism, & calculated the many ways to seduce you.  You are a smart hunk of fine man-meat. But I think I’m going to end this relationship and trust me, it’s you.  Not me.

Listen, this horrible battle between stay-at-home mothers and working mothers is just old and pathetic and so message-boards-circa-2009.  Nobody wins that war — we all just end up with cat scratches and hurt feelings to lick.  Then you had to sensationalize it by adding the title, “Are Stay-At-Home Moms Lazy?” and I swear, chunks of bile rose in my throat…

you can read more about why I turned down an invite to seduce Anderson in a coat closet.

I think because I’m hyper-sensitive to hormones, even the smallest dose of birth control kept my monthly bitch-fest at bay.  But then a change in insurance happened & I finished my last pack before my new insurance started, so here I am, all synthetic-hormone free & FULL OF THE BITCH.  You know, just in time for Christmas.

Then the eye doctor effed me over.  (y’all know how I feel about the eye doctor & if you don’t?  I hate him.)

So that stupid distorted cornea thing that started this summer with the splitting headaches & grey vision is still around.  The doctor recommended glasses to fix the issue, so the moment my insurance kicked in, I ordered a new pair.  Just a plain ol’ set, nothing too hipster or too modern.  I dig the classic Vera Wang.  (by the way, what is up with only carrying designer frames?  I don’t & won’t own anything else Vera Wang.  I don’t get it.)

Then I waited for them to arrive with my grey eye & massive amounts of impatience.  When they called Wednesday, I was all, “SEE YOU!” at 4:30 & hauled ass to the other side of town.  I slid into a parking space at 5pm on the nose & banged on the door at 5:01pm.  The gal at the desk looked up….& then looked back down.

The. Ever. Living. Eff.

I whipped out my phone & dial the number, thinking if she picked up I could explain that I had already paid for my glasses & all I needed was for her to just hand them to me.  The phone rang & rang & rang while she sat there.

I get it.  They closed at 5pm.  BUT IT WAS ONE MINUTE.  I’ve been a patient for over twenty years there.  & plus also?  I wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for a bad set of contacts they sold me.

The rage was so strong.

Between that moment & 8pm when I crawled into bed with a heating pad, I threatened doom.  Then I calmed down & became a sane person again, so at 8am on Thursday, I told work I’d be a wee bit late & swung over to the optomotrist.  Only to find them closed until 9am even though THEY OPEN AT 8 AM.

IS THE UNIVERSE LAUGHING AT ME?!?!

Long story short, I nearly ran over five people getting there, but I did manage to pick up my new set of eyes last night.

(see also:  90% of this was my fault do to lack of planning, BUT DON’T TELL MY UTERUS THAT.)

]]> http://theheirtoblair.com/2011/12/23/the-universe-is-effing-with-my-eyeballs/feed/ 7 http://theheirtoblair.com/2011/12/13/a-nod-to-my-trendy-gals/ http://theheirtoblair.com/2011/12/13/a-nod-to-my-trendy-gals/#comments Tue, 13 Dec 2011 12:00:53 +0000 heirtoblair http://theheirtoblair.com/?p=8357 I want to be like you.  I really, really do.  But I have a confession.

I started noticing it in pictures, first.  Then the mirror.  It’s becoming more blatantly obvious every single day but I feel like I need confess that my new hipster status is not because I’m listening to She & Him on repeat, but rather because my bank account is dangerously dry these days.

Actually, I have two of them.

It all started after I gave birth to Harrison.  I expected the weight gain, was horrified at the water retention, & I took a little while to adjust to my bigger ribcage that just never went back down to the 32 measurement.  The lingering carpel tunnel has sucked, but a cortisone shot every few months helps.

First problem:  Hip pain.

My hips hurt.  They ache, all the way down into the bone & they feel overstretched & sore & nothing seems to help.  I’ve tried stretching & yoga & having Doug rub them, but all I do is yelp in pain the moment his hands hit that weird spot between butt & back.  I’ve tried to not carry Harrison as often.  I started wearing flats more than heels.  I gave up running.  Mostly, they hurt after I clean the house, which seemed weird at first, but cleaning the house requires a lot of lifting & squatting & reaching, not to mention occasionaly holding a baby while I vacuum.  Pretty please, oh wise internets that hold internet M.D.’s given by the School of Web MD, diagnose me.  Should I see a chiropractor?  Should I invest in bionic hips?

Problem Dos:  I gots me some stanky feet.

No, really.  Last night, Doug told me that my feet smelled like Satan’s breath.  (okay, he just said they smelled bad & I elaborated.)  Sure enough, I’m sitting here & I can SMELL MY FEET even though they are in shoes under the desk.  I bathed this morning, people, & sprayed my shoes with the smell-good stuff I picked up at Target last night.  God forbid I’m wearing my Born Mary Janes in the car with you, because we’ll just have to roll down the windows even though it’s 15 degrees outside.  I should get Botox injections into my feet, right?  I hear that helps for smelly pits, which thankfully, I do not have.

I cannot be alone in this.  Tell me you have stinky feet & aching hips, too.

I agree with her. 

I am absolutely a fan of books being made into movies, which may sound traitorous coming from a book nerd like myself.  But I’ve always had this wild imagination & love seeing the scenes I play over in my head come to life, breathing words into the screen.

Sometimes?  It is done beautifully.  Like Gone With the Wind & Vivienne Leigh, who epitomizes Scarlet O’Hara down to her pinky toes.  Or a few of the Harry Potter movies, where you almost stand up & yell “Expelliamus!” with him.  But then, there’s the Twilight movies.

Oh, dear God, the Twilight movies.  I refuse to be ashamed for my love of Edward Cullen & how I want to have R. Patz’s vampire babies, or that time I might have asked Doug to pretend to be a vampire while we were having maritals.  But they are done just…horribly.  Kristen Stewart kinda sucks at being awkward, which is weird because she is so innately awkward.  It’s like this awkward girl trying to awkwardly pretend to be awkward & it just fails all over the place.  & then there are the telepathic wherewolves, which are already a stretch when you’re devouring the books like any normal twelve-year-old girl, but to see them on screen?

Let’s just say I burst out laughing.  All out, gut-busting hooted until Laura & I were burrying our faces in our handbags.

So let’s just hope that The Hunger Games appeases my wild imagination.

 & once you’ve read the Hunger Games trilogy in record time, pick up Veronica Roth’s Divergent.  TRUST ME ON THIS.

Thank you for your sweet congratulations yesterday!  You sure know how to make a girl blush & I’m just so sorry I haven’t been able to respond personally to everyone.

Thank you for following me over there, reading my words, & still hanging out with me here.  I told the folks on Babble that my readers e-friends were the best & funniest & most loyal that you could ever find, & HOT DAMN, did y’all prove me right.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for sticking up for me & basically delivering the most epic troll beat-down I have seen in years.  You basically rolled in the STFU Truck while I was supporting a buddy of mine’s shop opening, & I appreciate you stepping in my absence.

(Also?  Thank you for keeping it classy & letting her look like the fool.)

As you may have seen on the Twitters, I discovered that the hurtful words were coming from a woman I previously thought as a friend.  I suppose I could spin it into a TRUST NOBODY! conspiracy theory about meeting friends on the interwebs, but the truth of it all is that no matter what parenting choices you make, someone will disagree.  Breast versus bottle, BabyWise vs Attachment Parenting, working mom versus stay at home mom.  We’ve all seen the battles but we never suspect our friends having cruel thoughts about us, always hidden behind a smile or sweet Facebook note. 

So my thoughts on the whole situation boil down to friendship, not parenting – as someone’s friend, you have the responsibility of protecting their heart.  Plain & simple.  If you think there is an outrageous wrong happening, then by all means speak up!  But do it TO THEIR FACE, with honesty out on the table.  If you must hide your thoughts behind anonymity & gossip, then it is probably not worth speaking.  & if you feel that negatively towards a “friend?”   You disagree so strongly with them?  It probably means the friendship ain’t worth it, so you cut your losses & find someone that you love unconditionally.

The good news is that in these days, most “friendships” can be desolved by defriending on Facebook. ::snort::

By the way, did I say THANK YOU enough for all the awesomeness yesterday?

Real friends dress up in cocktail dresses & fascinators, then go buy hot dogs on the streets of New York City.

I’m still in that weird “please like me!” stage where I hope to beat him in every day.

I rounded the corner, dodged a column, & WHAM! faceplanted.  I’m still shocked that I did not
a) break my ankle
b) blow out my knee
c) break my wrist
d) all of the above.

But the first thought through my mind was, “HOLY SHIT, I just ate marble in front of at least ten of my new colleagues.”  & I was thrown back thirteen years when I fell UP the steps of the high school building in front of the popular seniors.  So I did what any normal sane drama queen would do.  I moaned & rolled onto my back, clutching my ankle.  One lady offered her concern, but I sheepishly got up & limped to the elevator, where everyone avoided eye contact for the next four stories.

This is where I should wax poetic about how my pride is bruised but honestly?  My ankle hurts worse.