The Good: Alex is finally sleeping in his own bedroom, not in his swing, but in his bouncy seat placed in his (awesome) crib.

The Bad: He’s still up one to seven times per night, just for a little love and snacky-poo.

The Ugly: If anyone BUT me tries to help him back to sleep, he shrieks. And shrieks. And then shrieks some more. He’s got a little seperation anxiety goin’ on, methinks, and as flattering as that is (wow, THE BABY LIKES ME, HOLY CRAP!), it adds to my anxiety. And how do you keep a baby asleep when he’s so restless? I HAVE NO IDEA.

—————–

The Good: I had a doctor’s appointment last with with a new endocrinologist whom I liked very, very much. She listened to me, complimented my breastfeeding abilities, and genuinely appeared concerned about me. There is a lab located directly in the offices, so I do not have to go anywhere else for lab draws (this is a bigger feat than you might believe).

The Bad: Not only did I wait over an hour to be seen, but the doctor was/is currently out of town until the end of the week. This means that I will not be starting any treatment regime until then.

The Ugly: My babysitter cancelled literally as I was walking out the door, so I had to scramble to take Alex along. Somehow I don’t think “Baby’s First Trip To The Endocrinologist” will make it to the baby books. Now that I have all this time in between the doctor and the call back, I have effectively convinced myself that my labs will come back as absolutely normal. The only thing that’s saving my hope, is that my period has been MIA for over two months, so SOMETHING must be wrong with me, right?

————–

The Good: I have lost a total of 10.5 pounds while on Weight Watchers.

The Bad: I’m feeling generally discouraged at the speed at which the weight ISN’T coming off and horrified by how awful I really look.

The Ugly: I have nearly no clothes that fit me, aside from maternity clothes, and this includes a winter coat. For my own pride, I refuse to purchase anything in any sizes bigger than I was, so I’m a bit cold much of the time now. I also was so stressed out by it, that I didn’t weigh myself last week, despite having not strayed from The Plan. I need to suck it up and do so this week.

God, I hate Sundays.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.

–Johnny Cash

I’m phoning it in today. It’s grey and gloomy and nasty outside, and apparently, according to this list, someone peed in my Cheerios this morning. Without further adieu, I present to you, darling Internet, my current shit list (but because I am fickle, it’s an ever-changing one).

1. Angelina Jolie. I know, I know, I know, she has done some amazing things for third world countries, but truth be told, I’m still not over the Brad/Jen thing. Mainly, because she made this big stink about never, ever sleeping with a married man because her father had done that to her mother, but then Oopsies, she’s pregnant, and it’s with Brad’s baby. How did that happen? Either she’s clueless about where babies come from, or she didn’t understand what “married” meant. Asshole.

(aside to the reader: cheating is a cardinal sin in my book. I’ve been cheated on before and dished out some black eyes. There’s nothing that makes me feel better than beating the hell out of cheating bastards. Maybe I should hire myself out!)

2. The E! Channel. I used to love, love, love watching E!. It was home to one of my favorite shows The Girls Next Door, and now it has both Kimora and Keeping Up With The Kardashians, both of which make me fear for the world.

3. My uterus, who has not gotten with the program and resumed normal menstruation, despite having a normal period a month and a half ago. While I was perfectly happy being amenorheic r/t breastfeeding, but I would harken a guess that I am now hypothalamic amenorrheic r/t my wonky thyroid. I suppose that I should just take it as a gift from God, but I’m too OCD for that.

a. Pregnancy tests. There’s something that I completely abhor about peeing on a stick and then having to sit and wait and see what the Universe has in store for me. Let me clarify something: I’ve been 100% positive that I was pregnant twice in my life, neither time was I really with child. So my intuition sucks. And sweet LORD are those tests expensive or what?

b. Rh factor. Ah, the reason for my OCD-disorder. I’m Rh-negative, Dave is Rh-positive, therefore any child we have together could be Rh-positive. If I were to become pregnant with another Rh-positive fetus without knowing it, and then miscarry and assume that it was a period, I could develop antibodies towards ANY Rh-positve fetus’s (fetii?) in the future and therefore spontaneously abort them. Rendering me infertile. Unless I get some RhIG in my butt within 72 hours. Sweet, right?

4. People who are late. I’m a freak about time (man, this post is turning into a “”Becky is a Freak because…” list.), I make no bones about it. If you tell me that you will be somewhere at a certain time, I will spend my day waiting/planning/rearranging myself to accommodate said time. So if you do not bother to at least let me know that the aforementioned time has changed, it feels like a smack in the face. Dave used to do this frequently to me, but has learned that in order to tame the beast he doesn’t bother promising me a time. So therefore I cannot obsess.

After rereading this all I can say is, dude, I think I may need therapy.

Who/what peed in YOUR Cheerios today?

Recognize these, Ashley and Kristin? Sound like someone that I might have dated (and has, at sometime, insulted you, too?)

According to the revised third edition (DSM-III-R, 1987), someone had PAPD if he displayed five or more of the following behaviors: (1) procrastinates, (2) sulks or argues when asked to do something he doesn’t want to do, (3) works inefficiently on unwanted tasks, (4) complains without justification of unreasonable demands, (5) “forgets” obligations, (6) believes he is doing a much better job than others think, (7) resents useful suggestions, (8) fails to do his share, or (9) unreasonably criticizes authority figures.
-Cecil Adams, The Straight Dope

It all began innocently enough by being dropped literally on my head in a parking lot. Had I known then what was in store for me, I might have run away screaming, but then again maybe not, I have no idea. It’s just a good damn thing that Sliding Doors was just a movie.

All that I do know is that I love my first son with all of my heart and soul, but I cannot stand his father. I could try and wax poetic about all of the good times that his father and I shared, but it would all be a lie: when I dated him, I had very, very few good times, mainly just more tolerable bad ones.

I like to think of him as that one relationship that we’ve all had (albeit not with the same person, that would just be weird.) that forced us to compromise who we are at the core of it all in order not to drive ourselves insane. When it’s all over and done with and we’ve moved on with our lives, we look back and cannot believe how foolishly we behaved. Most of us, with this firmly in our rearview mirror are able to hate The Ghost Of Things Past without having to revisit it week after week.

Because week after week, no matter how angry I am, I have to not only deal with this person, I am frequently forced to bite my tongue and swallow my pride in order to maintain peace for our son. AND I SWEAR, I AM NOT SOMEONE WHO ENJOYS HAVING TO BITE HER TONGUE (I know, you’re suprised).

He is the guy that snuck off and had The Sex with another female while I was pregnant. It was his car that left many a patch of rubber in front of my parents house, angry that I had comitted such sins as feeding the baby solids before 6 months of age, and daring to laugh at his hilariously angry reaction. He was and is always so angry. When I dared wear too much makeup to a Christmas party, he spent a good 20 minutes telling me how stupid I looked.
For the past four years, he has attended not one solitary event at his son’s school, because “that’s more my realm.”

Did he abuse me? Well, no, not really. I mean, we got into several physical altercations over the years, but trust me when I tell you that he was the one that was I wiped the rug with. Not for nothing did I have an older brother: he taught me how to kick asses and take names. I guess he was emotionally and verbally abusive, sort of, but you’re only hearing MY side of it, which means that you aren’t hearing the horrible things that I said to him.

I suppose that you could say that we really brought out the worst in each other, because that would be the 100% honest truth of the matter.

He’s honestly a wonderful father, who loves his son very, very much, so I am unable to find fault in their relationship (plus, I’ve been assured over and over that having no contact with his biological father would mess the kid right up). I respect him for that, really I do. He leaves me to do nearly all of the parenting, which is a good or a bad thing, depending entirely upon the situation (good when I sign the kid up for music lessons and choose his school BECAUSE I AM IN CONTROL, bad when it means that no matter what I’m doing, he is free to change plans at his whim THEN I AM NOT IN CONTROL AND I HATE THAT.).

The most irritating part of our relationship now, as it stands, is that he is text-book passive-aggressive, with at least six of the above mentioned characteristics. I’ve long since given up on fighting about it because it’s just not worth it for me, so I’ve decided that two can play at that game.

I don’t do it frequently at all, but now and again, I do something completely passive-aggressive (or is it just me being an asshole? Don’t know and don’t care) and am able to gain an insane amount of satisfaction by it.

For example: last weekend, after stating a time that he would pick Ben up by, he called 10 minutes BEFORE that time and extended the time by an hour and a half. Which would be no big deal, save for the plans we had postponed PRECISELY for the pickup time. So we headed out to do our errands after this, and instead of heading home so that we would be home in time for the later pick up time, instead we went to Lowe’s.

And then stopped for a leisurely cup of coffee.

We finally rolled home about an hour after the pickup time, only to be met by an irrate Nat, WHO WAS FLAMING THAT HE HAD HAD TO WAIT 30 MINUTES (he was late, too). Oh, did I laugh, OH did I laugh.

Of course, he paid me back the following day by not answering his phone when I called, but you know what? IT WAS SOOOO WORTH IT.

So, Internet Lovies, dish to Poor Aunt Becky, who was up all night with a teething baby who has a cold (the baby, not me. Well, me too, but the baby is more insufferable about it than I am.) (Poor, Poor Aunt Becky!). Tell me all about your worst relationship, or if that’s too hard to talk about, tell me something hilarious about someone you were in a relationship with (they had a foot fetish, they could only wear the color blue, whatever).

(scene, kitchen, about 5:47 pm on a Tuesday night, Becky is standing at the cupboard trying to determine what snack to pack for Ben’s lunch the following day. Deciding on a makeshift trail mix, composed of pretzels, Teddy Grahams and bittersweet chocolate chips, she begins filling a baggie)

Becky (to self): “Hahaha, well, they have trail mix at Trader Joe’s, so his school cannot find fault with mine. Why, these bittersweet chocolate chips are practically HEALTH FOOD. I mean, LOOK at the amount of fiber in them!”

(fade to black)

(Scene, the following afternoon, about 4:30 pm, Ben has come home with his lunch box and is now playing obliviously while Becky prepares to make another lunch for the following day. Opens lunch bag)

Becky: “Benny, what’s this?”

Ben: “It’s the chocolate chips. I wasn’t allowed to eat them.”

Becky: “Whaaaa?”

Ben: “Yeah, my teacher told me to eat around them.”

Becky: “….”

Becky: “….”

Becky: “….”

Becky (after picking up jaw from floor): “They told you that you couldn’t eat these…”

Ben: “Yeah, we’re not allowed to have chocolate. My teacher told me to eat it after school.”

Becky: “Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t think they’d notice or care.”

Ben: “It’s okay. No one was mad at me. We’re not allowed to have chocolate.”

Becky: “…..I’m sorry, dude.”

(Scene ends with Becky staring astonishedly at the bag with chocolate chips in it.)

She murmers softly enough so that Ben does not hear her, “Fucking school.”

(fade to black)

I seem to possess the most uncanny knack for saying something, and then having to retract my statement at a later date. I’m not talking about my chronic Foot-in-Mouthitis here, although I am pretty amazing at doing that, too, no it’s something else entirely, and there’s probably a 50 cent word for it that I don’t know (but my husband will gleefully point out later while trying not to act gleeful about it. Ass.).

Since I am unaware of what it is officially called, I’ll give you an actual sample of a real-life event and it’s consequences:

Me: “Wow, I guess since it’s so late, I’ll take the expressway home. There shouldn’t be any traffic at THIS time of night.”

(note for reader: I steadfastly refuse to take the highway unless someone else is driving, because I can totally sit in bumper to bumper traffic on a surface road AND THEN PULL OFF TO GRAB A DRINK. The highway makes me feel trapped AND IF I’M TRAPPED, I CAN’T HAVE A DRINKY-POO. And what would life be without drinky-drinks?)

(45 minutes later, while sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway, me cradling my head in my hands as I realize that the highway is undergoing construction (um…when is it not? No, really.) AT 1:30 IN THE MORNING ON A TUESDAY.)

Me (to myself, as I am alone)“Guess I shouldn’t have opened my big fat mouth.”

Without knowing another word, I will now call this Big Fat Mouth-opathy. I suffer from it daily, as my family well knows, and will attempt to stop my trap from yapping about these sorts of things.

Me: “I’m going to go to the gy….”

Dave (furiously gesturing at me, covering his mouth comically)“STOP, BECKY, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!”

Me (completely oblivious to Dave, who merely looks as he does most mornings) “….m tonight/morrow”

Me (an hour later both children are vomiting and Dave has a migraine and has left me to fend for myself, covered in vomit and feeling nauseous as well): “Stupid fucking fat mouth. IDIOT.”

The Universe, it seems, never tires of doing this to me.

About a month ago, we were out to lunch with lunch with my parents, and while walking back to our respective cars, we were approached by two neatly dressed women about my age. Of course, they were Mormons, but we were leaving so we didn’t stop to chat, but not before my dad could throw a “I don’t want to be like ‘Big Love'” comment their way. Oh SNAP, Dad.

Dave spent the remainder of our ride home laughing his balls off (I am, afterall, my father’s daughter, so my sense of humor is remarkably like his. And Dave, who appears to have no discernable sense of humor (oh, SNAP!) finds me hilarious and my father even more so. Mainly because he cannot believe that people would ever SAY such things. Especially PARENTS.), while I mused OUT LOUD at how odd it was that when I lived across the river with my parents, there were always people trekking door to door to tell you about Jesus, or whomever, but on THIS side of the river, we’ve not had a SOUL come by.

Expecting that it was my jonesing-for-Wii-fix neighbor this afternoon (and trying to figure out how to delicately tell him that no, he couldn’t borrow the Wii today either, sorry.) when the doorbell rang, I was shocked to find two young women on my front stoop. Who wanted to do a Bible Study with me. When my jaw returned from falling down on my doorstep, I had to politely excuse myself.

Although I have read the Bible from cover to cover (can you believe it? No one ever can. But to be honest, it was for a class. In school. And I certainly don’t know it well enough to debate it. Nor would I.), I am not interested in discussing my religious feelings with anyone really, especially not two Jehovah’s witnesses. I couldn’t handle the thought of hurting their poor, sweet, wholesome feelings (dude, they were WHOLESOME LOOKING!) when I expressed that not only have I received blood products from a blood bank on a semi-regular basis, I HAVE DONATED BLOOD TOO. AND, I’m missing some organs (nothing too grand, though, don’t worry).

It appears as though the Universe is mocking me. Not maliciously, no, but absolutely reminding me that no matter what, you are not in charge. I’d mock back at the Universe, but I’m afraid of what will happen to (insert anything I care about here). Does this happen to anyone else out there?

So yeah, Universe, you win again. Now can you PLEASE call off the Jehovah’s Witnesses?

Does anyone else remember that old phrase that goes something like, you’ll remember every insult you recieve but almost none of the compliments? (Did I make that saying up?) Even as someone who suffers often from a chronic case of Foot in Mouth-itis, I am here to tell you that it’s 100% true.

And the worst offenders are the unintentional slights, because for some reason, those remain with me to this day, where I play them over and over in my head (only on bad days). The blatent “I hate you’s” and “You’re ugly’s” and “Did you even make sure that your clothes matched today, Becky’s” are usually dismissed outright.

But who can forget such stellar comments as those delivered by frenemies? I vividly remember a couple of months after I had delivered Ben, I was out with one of my few Mommy friends. She casually mentioned her weight, which matched mine, so I said so (as a rule, I very seldom mention my actual numbers to anyone but Weight Watchers), to which she replied “Yeah, well, it looks better on me.” Ouch. Haven’t seen much of her since then.

Or how about the one I heard when I was picking Ben out a toy? This one’s a doozy, because I’m STILL unsure of whether or not this was intended to be rude. The comment was something like “It would be so easy to spoil my child,” which may or may not have implied that I was spoiling my own. I STILL DON’T KNOW AND IT DRIVES ME INSANE.

I’m equally guilty of doing this myself: I’ll never forget my mortification when I casually remarked to a Movado employee while I was picking out my engagement ring, “Yeah, well, heart shaped diamond engagement rings are SUPER tacky.” Oops. She was in line to inherit her mothers. That was a dick-move on my part.

Sunday, Dave mentioned that he would watch the baby overnight for me so that I could get some (much deserved) rest. Since we’re working on getting him into his crib (yeah, yeah, yeah, smirk away, assholes. He’s been in his (now with added broken motor!) swing since birth. I am a horrible excuse for a mother AND a terrible cook. It’s a friggin’ miracle anyone married me.), this came as a welcome and much appreciated break for me.

Alex rewarded Dave for his generousity by graciously sleeping 5+ hours in a row, which at this point we’re calling ‘sleeping through the night.’ I wake up more rested and refreshed than I’ve been in years. So I rewarded myself with a nap. It was like a sleep-binge and I adored every moment of it.

Later that day, Dave mentions how “easy it was to listen for him,” which translated in my greedy head into “I’ll take the baby another night, Darling Wife” (what it REALLY sounded like was “what the hell are you complaining about, woman! This kid is SO EASY and getting up all of the time is NO PROBLEM AT ALL!). I giggled wickedly, as I knew that lightening doesn’t often strike in the same place twice.

So he agreed to do it for one more night (although it took some convincing and reminding him of HOW DAMN EASY HE’D SAID THAT IT WAS. Motherfucker.). Last night, Alex displayed to his father just how “easy” it is to listen for him overnight, by promptly waking up every 1-3 hours. Hilarious but unfortunate (mainly because this means that the baby is not likely to start miraculously sleeping through the night).

Dish, now people, dish for poor, sleepy Aunt Becky. Come sit on my couch here (pats seat conspiratorially) and tell me a story about something you unintentionally said to someone that was inadvertantly nasty OR something someone has said to YOU that made you feel like dog poo, but without meaning to.

I didn’t get the nickname “Super-Becky Over-Achiever” for nothing. Not only did I love (nearly) every moment in school (even when it was a degree that I could have cared less about), I was constantly in competition with myself to get the best grades possible in each and every subject. At the end of it all (besides having the degree in a field I hate/d), I graduated summa cum laude, which made me prouder of myself than I’d ever thought possible, until I realized that I should have graduated magna. I might have, had it not been for an uncalculated error in judgement on my part.

When I got pregnant with Ben, in order to stay on my parents insurance, I had to remain a full time student. At the not-so-gentle urging of my mother, I signed up for some softer, easier classes that I could glide through, so that I could better focus my time on getting my life in order. I chose four classes: three in literature and the last in something that I foolishly assumed would be a cake-walk: Jewelry.

I suppose somewhere amongst the pregnancy hormones, I assumed that I since I adored jewelry, this would somehow translate to being able to create it. What I neglected to take into consideration is that I do not have a single creative bone in my body (nor was I able to use either diamonds or platinum, which should have been my tip off that I was in the wrong place). The creative genes had solely taken up residence in my brother who earned a degree in both creative writing/poetry and photography (for reference, I switched majors halfway through my degree in Bio/Chem due to the looming possibiltiy of single motherhood and wanting to provide for my child something other than Ramen noodles) and had left me out to dry.

But naively, I figured that by immersing myself into it, the particles of creativity would pass through the room by osmosis. Heck, maybe THIS could be what I did with the rest of my life! I had grand visions of making my own line of fantastic jewelry, so amazing that people would literally line up at my front door clamoring loudly for my wares. I would be like Donatella Versace (but less Muppetty, of course)! Like Picasso (but female!)! Or that guy that does the “Real Men of Genius” Bud Lite commercials! But with jewelry as MY medium of art.

(serious brilliance here).

I am all to sure that an audible pop was heard, the sound of my creative balloon popping as I sat down in front of my first square of metal. I was struck, of course, by absolutely nothing whatsoever. Save, of course, for the desire to run screaming away from this hell of my own creation.

I could, I suppose, blame the teacher, who was for all intents and purposes, a complete sea hag of a woman, frustrated by her own life and inadequecies and determined to take it out on the student that showed the least amount of aptitude for jewelry creation: me. This is not to take the blame out of my court completely, as I did treat her class as a blow-off, and showed absolutely no creativity or interest whatsoever. One might argue that I knew that I was fighting a losing battle and giving in seemed to be the path of least resistance, because, of course, that would be the truth (of course, that would be doing a great disservice to the fact that my life at that point was genuinely a complete shit sandwich and I still wonder how I got through those horrid, dark years). I think, however, it was a combination of both factors, magnified by our differences in personality.

At the end of the semester, each student had a meeting with her in which we showed her our creations. I had a sad, sad, sandwich baggie full of half-finished, stupid looking silver and brass creations that no one in their right minds would have worn. The bracelet weighed conservatively about 3.5 pounds, and would have broken the wrist of the wearer in a short couple of hours. The pendant was so full of sharp corners that I would occasionally draw blood while sanding it down, and may have actually performed open heart surgery if ever worn (true story, while attempting to dispose of it very recently, it punctured a garbage bag, spewing it’s contents all over the kitchen. I guess this was it’s final act of butchery).

This begs the fact that asthetically not even a blind person would could be fooled into wearing them, well, unless said blind person had exquistely bad taste. Adding insult to injury was the fact that I was so allergic to the metals that we were given that I literally had to scrub my arms down after working with it with Phisodex and pop copious amounts of Benedryl just to ward of an anaphylactic reaction.

I approached this meeting with the Sea Hag with both trepidation and resignation. Half of my “creations” were never completed. The other half only half-heartedly constructed. I knew that I had fucked up and was willing to own up to it.

She started off after briefly surveying my pathetic stash with “I should give you a ‘D.’ But I’m going to do you a favor and give you a ‘C.'” If she’d expected me to protest and grovel at her feet (do Sea Hags have feet?), she’d picked the wrong person. I knew that I’d fucked up, but unlike what she’d probably thought, my fatal flaw was to have signed up for her class in the first place.

I walked out of there full of nothing but relief that it was all over and no one would ever ask me to meld a piece of silver to a piece of brass ever again.

I rarely thought about this class again over the last couple years of my college degree, aside from snicker about how stupid I’d been to sign up for something I knew that I could never do. Until graduation time rolled around, and I realized how closely I’d come to graduating with highest honors. Only THEN did I see the error of my ways.

Guess I should have plead my case, afterall.

I’m in a total fog today, which I am attibuting to my wonky thyroid. The baby slept well last night, and yet I am still exhausted and full of The Laze. I cannot seem to get my ass off of the couch to do anything, and it’s driving me completely bonkers.

To compound matters further, Alex seems to be completely immersed in some nasty attatchment issues, so I cannot physically be farther away than two feet at any point in time, because I might disappear for good! Forever! Which in his mind is about thirty-five seconds. It’s very sweet and completely heartwarming most of the time, but sometimes, I just have to go to the bathroom, kid. Alone.

What I need to do is to get off my duff and make an appointment with an endocrinologist, but that would be facing my biggest fears: I am not suffering from an underactive thyroid, but actually full of The Crazy. THEN where would I be?

Stupid hormones.

With a heart as cold and black as mine, it should come as a major shock to anyone who does not know me that I love the holidays. I LOVE the holidays. So much that when they’re all over and it’s summer I’m genuinely sad, because there are no decent summer holidays, well, unless you count my birthday, which, after the fiasco of this year, will never again be counted unless I am promised Vicodin (the one highlight of this years ER trip). Mmm, Vicodin.

(Do you hear that noise, Internet? That is the sound of my husband, somewhere, offering up a prayer that I never, ever have an extremely painful injury that requires loads of Vicodin. Because I would shortly become an addict. My father recently sustained a dumb injury–he walked off the edge of the sidewalk and tore a ligament–I guess strange injuries run in my family. Sorry preemptively Alex and Ben. My initial reaction was to wonder OUT LOUD to my mother if he might notice if he were missing one…or thirty.)

Well, um, anyway, yeah, the holidays.

I was recently at Target, oh joy of joys, and I fell in love with this Halloween decoration. I went home, slept on it, then convinced my husband (in all of his thoughtful generousity) to spend his birthday money on it for me. Er, US.

Back to Target we merrily trekked, where I was immediately informed that they had no more in stock, but that I could “call back in the morning and see if they’d gotten any more in.” Har-dee-har-har, RIGHT. Because on the next breath, the ever helpful employee informed me that even if they had one in stock, and I promised to run immediately over, they would not hold it for me. He seemed unfazed that I had a baby with me, as he was probably blissfully unaware that going ANYWHERE with a baby who is not in one of those awesome portable carseats is tricky, if not impossible, especially on a schedule. AND WITHOUT THE PROMISE OF MY SWEET, SWEET DECORATION.

Since we live in Suburbia, there are at least 3 Target’s in my immediate vicinity (can you say amazing?!?). So after I raked all of the leaves in the yard AND did the catboxes BY MYSELF, Dave was summarily informed that he, in fact, owed me a trip to another one. Inside we ran, through the gales of wind (it’s really, really windy today), I myself nearly knocking over an old lady and the Starbucks chick in the process, where we ended up in the Halloween area. And were promptly informed that they were ALSO out. But we could try a store 30 miles away, but no, they wouldn’t hold it for me. So, I could very well trek out there and not have my sweet, sweet decoration.

Fuck that, I said. Not being an overly competitive person, I have completely given up. I will be at Target again this weekend, and if they should have it in stock, I will be happy to pick it up.

Otherwise, I give up. The consolation stuff I got was cool, but I’m still a bit bitter. And suprised, really. When did my taste in decorations go so mainstream?

Besides, of course, the totally rad Coors Lite sign in my living room. That NEVER goes out of style.

I snapped this morning. Just snapped.

Chronic sleep deprivation is a strange bird, a horrid strange bird. The lights are so blindingly bright, the television so unbearably loud (was it always this loud?) and painful, your movements are jerky and uncoordinated so that you frequently hurt yourself unintentionally doing extremely mundane things. Like walking. Driving is too scary because you simply feel drunk and everything just moves too fast for your brain to comprehend, so you stay stuck at home where things are somewhat (slightly) safer. Eventually, you try going to the store to pick up a few things without a list, and you will likely end up buying a new SUV because you are so confused as to what it is that you are actually trying to buy, and the SUV was something that your brain recognized as having wanted at some point. Then you get home and your husband tells you that what you had actually gone to pick up was Tylenol for your aching back. Oopsies. But now you can’t really tell where the pain is coming from anymore because it seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Occasionally you see your friends, who are now totally confused by you, mainly because you are so tired that you find it hard to properly respond to what they’re saying. You just stare blankly at them, while trying not to say the wrong thing, wanting desperately to say the right thing, which would be easier if you could remember what the hell they were talking about. Your normally quick-thinking brain has slowed to a snail’s pace, so it’s all that you can to do try to make the appropriate noises and faces without letting them know that you are too stupid for them now. But this is your one salvation: the people that knew you before your brain stem fried, and you love them dearly. When they leave, you mentally rehearse what you said and hope like hell that it was not offensive, because now the prospect of seeing these people is all that is keeping you sane.

You’d love a nap, but when you lay down with the baby, he wakes up some 20 minutes later just as you were falling asleep. Which you remember had been used as some kind of torture technique for POW’s (along with playing some Christina Aguilara, who you listen to by choice, but you imagine that listening to Averil Lavigne would elicit the same response in you.), and suddenly the hallway tilts to the side and you feel dizzy and slightly tipsy, and you hope like hell that you can make it down the stairs without dropping the baby. So before making your decent, you consider the positions that would likely keep the baby safest should you fall, which sounds excessive until you remember falling though the screen door, cutting the hell out of your finger stupidly reaching into the diaper bag, and nearly fainting twice at the mall. Which was what happened just over the weekend. Besides, the baby has his whole life ahead of him and you, well, you’re feeling older and older by the day, besides if you hurt yourself badly enough, you’d get to go to the hospital and get some pain meds and finally get to rest, which is all that you really want anyway. When you finally make it down the stairs while clutching the baby for dear life, your husband wonders why you suddenly sprouted devil horns and a tail when he mentions that he’s “tired” and “wants to take a nap,” because to you, all it feels like is being spit at in the face considering that he’s hasn’t gotten up over night to really tend to the baby in many months, so he is fortunate enough to get 6-8 hours of uninterrupted sleep most nights.

Unlike you, who hasn’t slept more than 4 hours in a row in over six months, and that’s on a damn good night. Hell, you consider it a good day when you get to brush your hair AND put in your contacts.

But all logic and rationallity (you can be tired AND someone else can be tired at the same time, without negating each other!) have left the building with Elvis many, many moons ago, so all that comes out of your mouth is some vague sheep-like noises and then the tears of frustration begin, because you can’t even form an understandable sentence any longer, and you suddenly know how horrifying it must be to have dementia.

Daily, you check yourself to make sure that you are not succumbing to The Crazy that runs rampant in your family. You check and recheck your emotions, turning them over in your mind like a cube to ensure that you are properly reacting to things on an emotional level. Try as you might, you eventually discover that you are not in spite of your best intentions.

You have these vague fantasies about leaving the baby somewhere safe over night and walking to a hotel down the road and sleeping for the next twelve hours without telling anyone where you are because they’d come looking and wanting SOMETHING ELSE from you, but you know that your overwhelming guilt would never allow it. Your anxiety has reached the point where you must take sleeping pills to even get yourself to sleep, because if you did not, you would be up anxiously waiting for that sound, the one that has interrupted your sleep for months.

Crying it out doesn’t work, although you firmly agree with it, because it just makes the baby increasingly anxious and frantic because NO ONE IS COMING FOR HIM, so it increases your workload tenfold when you do finally breakdown and pick him up because now you must spend the next twelve hours not leaving his line of sight, lest a tantrum errupt. Besides, it makes you feel badly. He IS just a baby, afterall.

So what do you do when you don’t have the foggiest idea what to do any longer? You yell at a completely harmless baby, you scream and you cry out of frustration for what feels like years of having to cater to his each and every whim. You curse everyone around you for not being able or not even trying to help you more when you are just trying like hell to keep your head above water and someone else wants something else from you NOWNOWNOW! But you have nothing left to give ANYONE anymore. Not one damn thing. You’re drinking gasoline just to stay warm, but where are my socks, Mom, where is my bag, Becky, what’s for dinner tonight?

Then you drink yet another cup of coffee, burn your hands in the process, take a deep breath or thirteen, and promise yourself in vain that tomorrow will be a better day. Because someday, it will be. It just has to be.