The baby just spent an hour crying. I know, all of you with colicky babies are going “An hour?” and rolling your eyes derisively, but still, it was an hour, you know? Every minute of wailing eroded my already frayed nerves to the point that I was practically in tears, too. Plus, I had to pee, but putting the baby down? So not an option.

Finally, finally, he fell asleep. I got a pacifier in his mouth and he seemed to be accepting it. I began slowly to lower him onto the bed of pillows I set up on the living room floor (because there is no chance in hell that he would let me put him down in any of the expensive and space-consuming baby containment areas that we have around the house). As I did, the horrible cat (not to be confused with the not-horrible cat, who was outside at the time, not being horrible), sensed that I might soon go near the kitchen and began to circle my ankles and yowl. Her yowl? Not particularly dulcet.

The baby woke up. Of course he did. And he started screaming. I shouted at the cat, who retreated into the kitchen, and eventually Happy Fun Baby stopped crying again. His nap, however, was a mere memory. I set him down and went into the kitchen for another glass of water (even though I still had to pee, so I don’t know where I was going with that).

Cue horrible cat. Yowling, throwing herself at my legs…you’d think we hadn’t fed her in weeks. You would, but you’d be wrong, because there was food in her bowl. Food – just not the food she wanted. She wanted fresh food. She wanted her bowl to be completely full. But, see, we’re out of cat food, so I can’t fill her bowl up at the moment. Again – she has food. But there isn’t anything I can do to convince her that it’s an acceptable amount food.

Anyway, yowling. So what did I do?

I poured an entire glass of water on my cat’s head.

I don’t feel good about it. But it did get her to shut the hell up.

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In some ways I’m a very motivated girl. Aside from the torpor. It’s not really conducive to doing stuff, the torpor. It’s all, hey, why not lay on the couch for a while? It’s not like you have anything meaningful to contribute to society. And I’m all, yeah, so? And then I lay on the couch for a while. Except I don’t really, because our couch is a lumpy futon that makes my ass feel like it’s being pummeled by dwarves. I lay on a metaphorical couch. I lay on a couch in my mind.

My to-do list gets longer and longer while my anxiety disorder, not wanting to feel left out, gets somewhat more pronounced. I find myself apologizing for things that a) are just things, like the weather or the fact that I am me and b) are out of my control, or should be. I apologize for everything. Is this entry not what you were expecting? I’m sorry. Am I not reading your mind and responding to your needs and wants before you’ve even had a chance to articulate them? God. Sorry. I suck.

It’s just, you know. Responsibility. In that I feel responsible for every single thing that happens ever. Not So mentioned wanting to have a yard sale to get rid of some of our home-related detritus, and my first reaction was oh my god I can’t be responsible for anything else right now or my head will explode. The funny thing was, I don’t think he was suggesting that I handle it. I just assumed that if it was a thing, I’d have to do it.

When I take a step back and think about everything I’ve accomplished lately, it’s a pretty solid list. New baby? Check. Starting a business? Check. 3.9 GPA? Check. I’ve got the housework mostly ironed out (that’s metaphorical ironing, of course, since I dislike using our actual iron because it actually sucks) and our finances, though meager, are not leaving us foodless or without essential utilities at the end of each month. My kid is insanely clever and learning new things every day (although I suspect that has more to do with him than it does with me) and even the cats are relatively happy, mostly.

But look at it under a microscope. Look at it in terms of the negative. Look at the things I haven’t done, the tests I didn’t ace, the playdates I’ve missed and the fact that we still don’t own a mop. Take a look at my credit score. Observe the fact that I’m flabby and my breasts sag like half-full water balloons and I don’t own clothes (or shoes) that fit me and my hair is unflattering and my diet is abysmal and I have low self-esteem (I am depressed by my low self-esteem! How meta can you get?) and I don’t know for sure if any of my choices are the right ones. Consider that I haven’t done anything with either the novel I’ve finished or the work in progress I abandoned when I got pregnant. Or that I eat things that make me sick, even though I know they’re going to make me sick, just because for that moment they make me feel good.

On a cellular level? I kind of suck.

I wonder what it is about me that makes it so much easier to see the bad than the good. I wonder if it’s something I can change. Because the longer that list gets, the harder I have to try to get out of bed every morning. And when your bed’s on the floor, there’s only so much lower you can go.

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What a way to wake up. The Zero Boss, Laid-Off Dad and Daddytypes all reported that Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin has died. He was snorkeling off the coast of Port Douglas when

“He came over the top of a stingray that was buried in the sand, and the barb came up and hit him in the chest.”

CNN.com – ‘Crocodile Hunter’ Steve Irwin dead – Sep 4, 2006

Perhaps the worst part of all of this is that the accident was caught on tape: it occurred while Irwin was filming spots for a children’s show he was doing with his daughter, Bindi.

I feel terribly for the Irwin family. Not So and I are at a loss for words.

technorati tags:steve irwin, crocodile hunter, stingray

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The kid, he is funny. Give him a cup, and he’s entertained for minutes at a time.

Blogged with Flock