One of Those Days

Every time I decide I've emerged from my depression, I have One of Those Days. Those days when just getting out of bed is a major accomplishment, taking a shower seems impossible, and putting on clothes is absolutely out of the question. And yet somehow I have to do all those things and feed the kids and help them get ready and keep them from killing each other and/or burning the house down and take JJ to school and carry The Peanut everywhere and nurse her every 5 minutes because she has horrible separation anxiety and make dinner and try to keep it together until everyone's in bed.

Before I had kids, I could spend days like this in my pajamas, in bed. Shortly before and during my nervous breakdown, I spent a lot of days in my pajamas, in bed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pining for the good ol' days of burrowing under the covers and living in my fucked-up head. I think it's good for me to get out of the house and move. But some days are harder than others.

Yesterday was One of Those Days. I honestly felt I would never make it through. But somehow, I did, hopefully inflicting a minimum of emotional scarring on my children.

I wish I knew what triggered it. Maybe it was coming down from the sugar and love high of Valentine's Day, or maybe it was skipping my run that morning. Today I got up and ran three miles, and as I pounded along the sidewalk and watched the sun rise over the fog, the day seemed so much more hopeful.

I'm hoping tomorrow will be a good day, too.

Sleeping Beauty she ain't

Don’t be fooled by her rosebud lips, her dimples, or her penchant for pink frilly clothes: The Peanut is a frat boy in training. How else can one explain her room-shaking belches, fart jokes, and all-night partying? It’s the last trait that’s killing us here at the House of Crazy. I’d be weeping constantly if only I had the strength.

When your first child sleeps through the night at two and a half months, you’re sure you’ve got it all figured out. Oh sure, you tell everyone that it’s just luck, that you hit the jackpot. But secretly you’re sure that it’s your strict 7 pm bedtime, your nightly Goodnight Moon reading, and your magical boobs that deserve the credit.

Then you get the karmic ass-biting you so richly deserve: a child who simply won’t sleep. Suddenly, you’re apologizing to all your friends for your unbearable smugness. And begging them for advice. Because seriously, if you don’t get two consecutive hours of sleep you will lose your goddamn mind.

For the first three and a half months of her life, The Peanut would only sleep tucked into the crook of my arm. At the time, it was somewhat nightmarish if only because she insisted on a strict 7 pm bedtime, and I wasn't particularly thrilled about retiring so early. But it was also sweet to cuddle with my wee girlie.

At three and a half months, she blossomed into the party animal she is today. Bedtime was play time, and no one got a wink of sleep until we booted her into her crib. The crib was a bit better, but there was still a lot of night waking. And by "a lot," I mean every two or three hours. For pretty much the first year. Jack and I were walking zombies. Depressed zombies. Who never had sex any more.

The situation improved when she turned one. I don't mean she started sleeping through the night, mind you—I just mean two or three wakings. So that's how things stand now, and it's almost bearable. Except for the fact that every couple of months, she regresses to waking up every hour. Crying and begging to come sleep with us...and then when we bring her in the bed, it's party time.

I love The Peanut with all my heart, but I am about two sleepless nights away from renting her an apartment of her own.

All full of Happy

Last week the Crazy Family headed up to the snow with the Happy Family. The aptly named Happies, I should say. From the moment we started packing to leave, I felt great. Better than I’ve felt in almost two years, in fact.

We’ve known the Happies since JJ and their daughter M. were four and three months old, respectively. JJ stayed with them when The Peanut was born. Then Baby C. came along two months later. It’s like a ready-made playgroup. And unless you count The Peanut's suspicions that Baby C. is out to get her, we all click. The Happies are awesome.

I won’t say the trip was totally smooth, because it wasn’t. But I loved every minute of it, even the bumpy parts. Trying to start the Beverly Hillbillies snowmobile, sledding down the slushy hill, dodging the gigantic man-eating spiders lurking in the shower, getting creamed at Cranium, making fresh Giardia snow cones, being ridiculed for my UFO sighting—it was all good.

I can’t wait to do it again next year.