It’s poop again!
Man, it’s been one heck of a week at the Coke House. Most of you know we’ve been battling Miles’ first illness (an ear infection) which means little sleep, food, rest, showering or sanity. Last night, he went to bed around 9p. Woke up at 10p. Back to bed around midnight, and slept through until 5:30a, hallelujah! Today, he’s even more back to normal, so I am full expecting and have requested an 8p-6a sleep. For me. Miles can do what he wants; I’ve left instructions with the cats on how to care for him should he wake before I do.
One thing I forgot to include in my sickies post was the constipation (not me, Miles – I’m more of a “nervous pooper” and I don’t care if that’s TMI). When kiddos get sick, their guts go haywire…I think you’ll either end up in a too much or a not enough situation when it comes to poop. And we were on the not enough end (literally).
Wednesday, he pooped. It was glorious. I mean, it was gross, but it was awesome. I could at least worry less about whether the kid would ever poop again.
Parents, why do you not tell future or soon-to-be parents about the joys/concerns of diaper contents? I suppose those moments end up in the eventual blur that is ages 0-5, right?
Why do I never get anything done?
People, life is so busy. I mean, I thought it was busy before we had Miles, but now I realize I was just spending my Saturday watching the time-suck that is The Cosby Show and doing not much of anything else. Now? There are days I walk out of the house wearing slippers because, in my extreme haste, I forgot to change back into my shoes for work. It takes two hands for me to count the number of times I’ve forgotten to put on deodorant. I come home during my lunch hour solely to dust, mop or do laundry, because I just can’t find time to do ALL OF THE THINGS during the week/weekend. Mostly because I want to hang with Miles, but still…he does nap.
The thing about his napping…it’s unpredictable at home on the weekends. I mean, if we take a nap together, you can count on a solid two hours. Perfect for me to catch some shuteye, or read, or just lay there and watch 17 episodes of Roseanne. If I put him in his crib? Could be 30 minutes, could be three hours. There’s no telling. That makes someone as OCD as I am totally bonkers when you’re trying to do things.
During maternity leave, I could maximize nap time like nobody’s business. As a newborn, babies are (at least mine) pretty predictable in their napping schedules. Now that I’m back to working full time, and naps are as long (or short) as Miles sees fit, I go into complete panic trying to decide which of the things I want to do.
Mop? Fold laundry? Organize something I meant to organize three years ago? Bake a cheesecake? WHAT IF I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH TIME?
So, I usually end up sitting here, eating handfuls of cereal, reading celebrity gossip and blogging.
Like right now…it’s 5:15pm, and Miles is sleeping in his carseat (inside, duh) because he fell asleep on the way home. So instead of starting dinner or making the bed, I’m writing about why we’ll probably just have Thai take-out and who cares because tomorrow is sheet/towel/blanket laundry day, anyway.
Lunch is on the house…
Today, I went to lunch with one of my GFs/co-workers. It was a glorious Friday lunch, because the producers we work with were both out of the office on vacation. For those unfamiliar with the world of insurance, producers (the guys on vacay) are outside sales, and the account execs (us on our most productive Friday ever) are inside sales, working with a producer. So when the cat’s away…the mice go an undisclosed location for a fun lunch.
We’re blabbing and stuffing our faces with chips and salsa, when my friend gets a semi-concerned look on her face. She says something along the lines of, “I don’t want you to freak out, but…blah blah blah.”
PEOPLE: If you start a sentence with, “I don’t want you to _______, but…” do you know what happens? Yeah, whatever you used to fill in the blank. So if you didn’t want me to panic, freak out, call the cops, or eat that last cookie, well you’re SOL. I didn’t even hear what the filled in blank was because I was already fuh-reaking-out.
What was the blank? A ROACH. A German roach, to be more specific. A teeny, tiny, scampering, intruding, creepy German roach. Walking (crawling?) in loop-de-loops on the wall of the restaurant. On my side of the table. We both sat there, staring at our lunch guest.
First, we thought he’d loop through the opening in the wall to the other side of the restaurant. He almost did, twice, but no…the thought of crawling on our utensils, in our purses, up our legs, probably in my hair, was far more intriguing.
He wiggled down the wall, towards our table. He veered to my side. He centimetered his way closer and closer. This roach had an agenda.
I get it…I’m nice, funny, clever, and (now that Miles is feeling better) showering on a regular basis, so I smell pretty good. Yes, practically irresistible.
I thought about smushing him, but knew that he probably had some super powered roach propeller wings that he would use to fly at my head, land in my hair, and forever become tangled. Or worse – he’d send his legion of roach buddies after me. Oh yes, they were probably waiting in the car at that very moment.
Home Sweet Home
So I did what any rational patron would do when a germ covered, apocalypse surviving, asexual pest starts circling you…I sat there in a state of panic. And did nothing.
My friend got up, relayed our concern (read: ohmygoshpanicattack) to a waiter. Three waiters came to our rescue…and the best part? Our meal was comped.
This makes me want to make friends with little German roaches, so I can carry them in my pocket and get free lunches and dinners. Also, always order the steak.
Weekend Love and Rainbows,