Wednesday, 9 October 2013

Dear Fraggle - Volume 3

Dear Fraggle,

Three months? Are you kidding me? I'm still unclear on how the final six months of pregnancy dragged on like a tortuous apocalypse, while the first three months of your little life have flown by like the Roadrunner on meth.

One of the saddest things about you being three months old is that I don't think I'm allowed to count your age in weekly increments anymore.  Technically, you're 13 weeks old, but if I say that to people they're going to think I'm a weirdo.  "This is Baby Fraggle, she's 13 weeks old.  My name is Marianna, I'm 1544 weeks old.  Pleased to meet you."

Another exciting/sad thing since the last time I wrote is simply how much you've changed.  I woke up one morning and I swore to Hubby that you looked different.  You changed, literally overnight.  He thought I was crazy. "No, it's just her hairstyle" he said.  But then, when he arrived home that night... "She looks different" he said.  I TOLD YOU.

When you were 11 weeks old, you achieved the most amazing feat.  YOU ROLLED OVER.  Apparently it's early for this particular accomplishment, but I don't really consider it all that werid - given how much you've wanted to MOVE since your days inside me, as well as how much you dislike being forced to sit on your tummy.

The actual roll-over event was more of a two-minute process of forceful grunts and heave-hos as you tried desperately to get the hell off your stomach.  I obviously videotaped the whole thing - complete with my screeches of delight in the background.

Since then, you roll over about half the time.  It seems to depend on how much energy you have and how much you're hating your stomach in that particular moment.  Every single time you do it, the pride in me swells like a hot air balloon - a really big, bright hot air balloon.

My other favourite thing is your coos.  You gurgle and gobble at me all the time and I have an unhealthy number of video recordings of you doing it.  I goo and you gah, I ah and you ahrg.  The joy this beings me is indescribable and ridiculous - second only to your smiley kicking delight upon waking when I come to rescue you from your crib.  These are the best parts of my day, every day.

When I last wrote, you were refusing to nap.  I later learned it was less of a "refusal" and more of a "Mom, I'm a textbook and just because you can't figure me out doesn't make that my fault get your act together I'm tired K thanks" situation.

Turns out you're a rockstar napper, if I conduct the "prance around the nursery saying goodnight to things" routine.  Actually, you nap so much that I'm bored much of the day. (Sorry other moms.)

So, contrary to my previous advice, I'm going to now suggest that you wake up, at least a little bit, just to hang out with me.   Because the bottom line is that you're so freaking cute that all I want to do is hug you, and sing to you, and smell you, and stroke your hair, and kiss your cheeks, and otherwise gobble you up all the livelong day.

Also, I'm cool and fun and you oughta want to hang out with me.  Just saying.


Thursday, 3 October 2013

It's not a secret what a mess I am

I don't know if you've figured this out about me, but I'm a giant stressball.  Shit stresses me the fuck out.  I get worried, and anxious, and up tight about crap that probably shouldn't matter, but for some reason it totally does.

Although I am not currently in a mental state strong enough to attempt to lessen my crazy, I can at least point it out.

One thing I am trying to improve? I'm trying - really trying - to acknowledge that what stresses me out probably doesn't stress other people out.  Especially Hubby.  And, of course, what stresses him out doesn't bother me in the slightest.  So when Hubby wants to clean the garage or insulate the crawl space, I need to let him - even when I'd rather he mop the floor or cut the grass.  (The grass has been cut about three times since April, just for the record.)

Unfortunately, I've been at home for five months, which means I sit around my house finding things that bother me, and then I add them to my list of things that need fixing.  Because crazy.  However, when I actually get to cross something off the list? True euphoria. Last weekend was a prime example.  

Yeah.  Those are our batteries.  And by "our" batteries, I mean they reside in our house but they really belong to Hubby who seems to have an unnatural and unrequited love for batteries.

Some are rechargeable (no, we're not total monsters who care nothing about the environment), but many are not. Most importantly, there is no way of knowing which ones work because all the dead ones just sit in the house for years and years waiting for me to take them to some sort of green recycling place or something, which I will clearly never do.

Thanks to my weird stress obsession, though, the batteries have now been sorted into three boxes: working; not working; and, probably not working but maybe working and we may never know so let's keep them and maybe we can put them in the tv clicker or something.

That's what you call SUCCESS, people.