Monthly Archives: January 2018

Kid(not)napped

Funny title, huh? Ha-ha! HA-HA-HA! Oh yeah, LAUGH IT UP, CHUCKLES. My entire life is ruined but I’m glad YOU find it so hilarious.

Oh man. Wow. Sorry, you guys. That was uncalled for. It’s just, I’m exhausted, you know? From all the not sleeping my oldest is doing.

I knew this day would come. I mean, he’s almost 4-years-old. He napped longer than a lot of kids do. And, as that famous Robert Frost poem goes, “nothing gold can stay.” And silence is golden. Right? Or something. So, it has to go away. Eventually. Or something. I don’t know. I’M SO TIRED, YOU GUYS.

But knowing that kids eventually stop napping doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. I also know that kids are messy eaters but that doesn’t mean I also don’t cry a little bit every Spaghetti Wednesday at our house.

Honestly it wouldn’t even be that bad except that my second kid is on the short list for the prize of “Crappiest Napper Of All Time.” The first year of her life, she would only nap if someone was holding her. It took months to get her to nap in her crib, followed by even more months of training to get her to nap in her crib for more than 12 minutes.

So it only makes sense that now that she is finally napping like a normal human baby, her brother doesn’t want to nap anymore because WHY SHOULD MOMMY BE ABLE TO WATCH A TV SHOW WITH CURSE WORDS AND GRATUITOUS NUDITY!?

What these kids don’t realize is that nap time is not for their benefit. It’s not for their physical and mental health. It’s not for their overall well-being.  

It’s for MINE.

I need, NEED, that hour or two alone so that I can make it through the day without throwing a tantrum or having a breakdown. Just a small window of time where no one is yelling “MOMMA!” Where no one needs anything. Where no one is being a tiny, nosy, little Sherlock Holmes and asking “Momma, why are you hiding in the kitchen? Are you eating cheese again? Can I have some?”

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IT’S MY CHEESE! MINE!

I try to remind myself that I should just relax and enjoy these all-too-short early years before they start school and sports and having even more opinions. I mean, I love them so much. Both my kids are amazing human beings and I should really be viewing this, the end of the nap era, as a wonderful opportunity to spend even more time with my oldest baby who is not so much a baby anymore.  

Ah. It’s a nice thought.

But then my kids holler “Momma!” 62 times in eight minutes and destroy the entire living room with a single Go-Gurt and I start crying as I dig through my closet for all the black clothes I can wear in official mourning of the naps’ untimely demise.

Sigh.

At least I have my memories of those three glorious golden weeks where they both napped at the same time and, for the first time in almost four years, I was able to pluck my eyebrow and make two of them again.

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Back off, fellas, I’m taken

I am a crappy wife. I mean, I’d hate being married to me. I’m a remote hog and an unabashed blanket stealer and I have to let you know in great detail EVERY SINGLE FEELING I AM FEELING AT THE EXACT MOMENT I AM FEELING IT.

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And then there’s my temper. My lethargic attitude regarding shaving. My severe allergy to replacing toilet paper rolls.

I don’t even know what the man likes on his pizza. I just always order what I want and expect him to eat it.

And yeah, sure, I have my good qualities, I suppose. I’d never cheat. Or be abusive. Or make my husband eat kale.

I’m not a monster.

But still. Take his recent birthday. I did nothing to prepare. NOTHING. Literally ordered his gift the day before. While telling him, “hey, I’m ordering your gift now.” Followed by, “it’ll be here in a week and a half” because I couldn’t even spring for two-day shipping.

There was no party. No fun outing planned. And while I did manage to interrupt my busy schedule of standing in front of the fridge eating all the good restaurant leftovers so that I could make him a birthday cake, he is technically the one who went out into the sub-zero temperatures to buy all the ingredients.

I even forgot to have the kids make him an adorable homemade card. And, thanks to the combination of guilt and laziness (which, when you get down to it, are pretty much the building blocks of my entire personality), I went so far as contemplating on deceptively forging one in their names.

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Even worse is that I didn’t because my laziness is almost always stronger than my guilt.

Yeah.

I’m awful.

And what makes it all the more infuriating is that he doesn’t seem to care that I’m a crappy, awful wife. He never complains or whines. He never asks “did you finish all the wine last night?” or “are you re-watching ‘Twin Peaks’ AGAIN?” And he always gives me an enthusiastic round of applause when I announce dramatically and triumphantly that I finally, FINALLY did shave my legs.

He’s like a living, breathing example of “love is patient, love is kind.” Meanwhile, I am the living, breathing example of if Lorelai Gilmore had a love child with a bottle of vodka and then that love child was raised by blanket-stealing wolves.

It’s almost like the man accepts me for who I am.

I mean, who does that?

And thus we come to the entire point of this column. Happy birthday, baby. You are a saint. Married to human garbage (albeit human garbage that loves you deeply). And this is your real gift, posted on the Internet, for all to see.

A gift, mind you, which you can pull up at any time and force me to re-read whenever we get into a fight and I start yelling about just how lucky you are to have me.