The UPS man brought our gate today. It is quite lovely. I could compose odes to the gate.

I could, but I won’t, because apparently the installation of said gate is beyond me. I shouldn’t have been trying anyway, since history has shown that Cranky Mama + wall anchors = huge gaping holes of doom. But I am older and wiser now, or so went my mental rationale. Besides, Not So is having a bad day at work and will probably have to stay late, and won’t it be a nice surprise when he comes home to find the gate all up and not requiring anything from him? It would be like if he came home to find dinner waiting for him, instead of what actually happens every day (which is walking in the door, having a cranky baby thrust at him, and hearing his wife demand “what are you going to cook?”).

So I read the instructions, and then re-read the instructions. It looked simple enough. Drill holes, tap in wall anchors, screw in mounting thingers, and attach gate. It took some time to actually locate the necessary tools, but once I had everything it was easy as pie. Mounting thingers up, gate in place. Now just press down and -

The fuck?

The whole thing pulled right out of the wall. On both sides. Aren’t wall anchors supposed to, you know, anchor?

I do not understand. At all. I am a clever girl; I should be able to put up a simple gate. I should be able to use wall anchors. Other people can use wall anchors. It’s not like I’m doing anything differently. I’m following printed instructions, for god’s sake. Drill hole, tap in wall anchor, screw. Why won’t it work???

I’m going to sit here and cry for a while. Then I will go over to the store and get some spackle.

technorati tags:incompetent, wall anchors, gate, lame

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Sometimes I hate the weekend, and I will tell you why: because it is followed by Monday morning. Ha, you say from your office chair. You’re a stay-home mom; what do you have to complain about on a Monday morning? And then I poke you in the eye.

No, but here’s how my morning has gone so far.

6:30 am: wake for the umpteenth time to nurse the baby (teething, remember? Sleep all fractured? Surely you could not forget) back to sleep. As soon as he drifts off, he clamps down hard. New teeth, as it turns out? Very sharp. Must pry miniature jaws off of boob while maintaining precious infant sleep.
6:45 am: Not So’s alarm goes off.
6:52 am: Not So’s snoozed alarm goes off.
6:59 am: Again.
7:06 am: This time I am just awake enough to think of coffee. Doing so makes me remember that the kitchen is a mess from dinner last night. This leads me to remember all the other things that did not get done over the weekend, i.e. anything housework-related, including (but not limited to) vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, taking out the garbage, doing the dishes and changing the diaper champ. Am consumed with dread. Also dreadful: the smell coming from the diaper area of my fitfully sleeping infant.
7:20am: Not So whisks him off to be changed. I gratefully snooze for approximately 3.5 seconds.
7:25 am: Baby’s awake. Not So leaves for work. I try in vain to convince Happy Fun Baby that sleep is a thing we should be doing. He grins toothily and eats my hair.
7:45 am: Fine. I’m up. My head feels like it is stuffed with cotton and I can’t quite feel my tongue, but I’m up. I fuzzily decide to move the mattress over to the corner where we’ve been talking about moving it for, oh, a month or so. This entails moving a bookshelf and cleaning up the pile of blank greeting cards (…don’t ask) and various desk-related swag that got dumped in the corner when we were emptying boxes. Oh, and apparently mattresses are not easy to move. You’d think, mattress, how hard can it be? I am here to tell you: it is hard. If I were smart, I would have waited until I had someone to help me. I am not smart. Also? I had not yet had any coffee.
8:15 am: Put yesterday’s wash in dryer. Decide that yes, I would like a bath, now that I’m all sweaty from moving the mattress.
8:20 am: Baby, who should by all rights be playing contentedly in his nursery, begins to scream. My reassurances (“I’m right here, Boo! It’s okay!”) are ignored. Hastily shave legs. Will have to wash hair later. Clean hair = highly overrated.
8:30 am: Downstairs. Kitchen is, in fact, a mess. Also a mess: everything else. I put Happy Fun Baby in the play yard (more screaming!) and clean living room, which involves getting all the crumbs off the futon, sweeping, and mopping. While the floor dries I empty the clean dishes out of the dishwasher and put dirty ones in. This clears a miniscule sliver of countertop and enables me to make some coffee and cereal.
9:25 am: Finally sit down to have some breakfast.

I had a job once where I had to keep track of my workday in a similar manner to the above (a ludicrous waste of everyone’s time, but that’s kiss-ass middle management for you) and I would just like to point out: I never had that much to do on a Monday morning. Or any other morning, for that matter.

I need a nap.

technorati tags:so tired OMG, cleaning, housework, sahm, bah

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I meant to post yesterday, or possibly the day before. I might have said something pithy having to do with parenthood, or amusing having to do with current events, or profound having to do with web design. I might have, but I didn’t, and do you know why? Because I haven’t had anything resembling a full night’s sleep since July.

However I did do some other things, which include (in no particular order):

• The Salmon Nation Block Party, for which we were somewhat early (see above re: not sleeping) and at which we did not stay long because there was a coffee-spilling incident with involved Not So’s white shirt (and, surprisingly, did not involve the baby, at least not this time).
• Target, at which a baby gate was procured. Unfortunately this also involved breaking my record of No Blow-Outs While Out and About. It was tragic, really. And messy. If you saw a woman grimly rushing toward the restrooms and then emerging with a shirtless baby (it was that bad) – that was me!
• Sip & Krantz, which has the best play area ever AND is all snooty and minimalist. It’s like they designed it just for me! And for all you know, they did.
  
• Worked on logo designs for a jewelry designer and an HR consultant (separately, although HR jewelry consulting? Highly underrated)
• Did school stuff, because school stuff needed to be done
• Did not update several other blogs, even though I meant to
• Laundered a great deal (see above re: blow-outs)

Notice that nowhere on that list is “Catch up on my sleep.” That is because Happy Fun Baby is cutting not one, not two, not three…you know where this is going. FIVE TEETH. I can see them all poking through his gums to varying degrees. Apparently this is rather uncomfortable for him, because there has been much screaming and crying and kvetching. The only thing that seems to help is letting him chew on his Robeez. Yes, that’s my kid, chewing on his shoe. When he’s not chewing on footwear he’s demanding to be held. On the upside he’s begun saying “Mama” quite clearly, although apparently by “Mama” he means “I hate everything oh my god you people suck.” He also says “Gey,” by which he means “Kitty.” I think I am getting the short end of the stick.

I also started and then threw aside in disgust two books: Get Your Body Back: Lose Weight, Gain Energy, and Get Fit After Having Your Baby by Anita Weil Bell and Sleeping Through the Night, Revised Edition by Jodi A. Mindell. Both seemed like such a good idea at the library, and both managed to irritate me before I was more than two chapters in. The sleep book started out on a sour note: one of the listed impediments to sleeping through the night was cosleeping. Guess I should have checked that before bringing it home. The weight-loss book took a little longer to grate on my nerves, but finally lost my interest when the author suggested that demanding more help from your husband was merely a symptom of rampaging hormones and too much junk food. (I’m paraphrasing.) Also that some women hang on to as much as 20 pounds of baby weight. Yeah, fuck you too. My 40 pounds of jiggling cellulite didn’t want to be in your club anyway.

We are dieting, Not So and I, although in more of a “changing our diet to include actual fruits and vegetables and excluding things like cake” sense than any calorie-counting hoo-ha. Yes, I just said hoo-ha. Deal with it. It’s Day 3 and I don’t actually miss sugar the way I thought I would, although I am SO HUNGRY I COULD EAT A HORSE OMG. I want potatoes, and chicken, and things involving cheese. I clearly have psychological issues, because I have consumed (and am continuing to consume) an adequate amount of food. But.

So that’s how it is in the Cranky household: no sleep, no treats, and no pants. Ha! I kid. It’s only the baby who isn’t wearing pants.

technorati tags:diet, Target, sip & krantz, pregnancy weight, cranky

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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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Yesterday sucked. I mean it really, really sucked. On a suckage scale of 1-10? A firm 15.8. A suckfest. A veritable suck-trove. I could go on.

The worst part was when Not So, upon coming home and finding his wife laying hopelessly on the bed in the middle of the day, suggested that since I was so unhappy at home maybe I should put the kid in daycare and get a job. He meant it like “You were happier when you were working, and I want you to be happy again.” I heard: “You are a failure as a wife and mother and should let a trained professional raise your child while you go back into the workforce, where at least you will be making some money.”

Torrential weeping ensued.

See, as it turns out, I want to be a good mom. I really, really want to be a good mom. Maybe that’s why I’m so stressed out by it – I’m putting so much energy into my kid and my new role as a housewife (even though that part = not my favorite) that I’m constantly running on fumes. But I still have things like school and the new business and my blogs, things that I have to do and I want to do, things that I like and that fulfill me on a while different level.

Obviously the current modus operandi isn’t sustainable. It doesn’t have to be: we will childproof and buy baby gates and unpack, so the house won’t seem like such an obstacle course, and we will get the office set up so we can concentrate on getting the business running instead of, you know, getting the office running. We will get the housework thing figured out. We will get our finances in better order so there isn’t so much anxiety at the end of every pay period. And the baby will eventually stop teething and start sleeping at night again, no matter how unlikely that seems right now (and did I mention I haven’t had a night with fewer than five wake-ups in almost a week? That might have something to do with it).

I don’t want a job. I want to stay home with my kid. I want to build a business with my husband. I want to keep my 3.9 and have more than 5000 page views per day on my blogs and keep my floors clean and fit into my pre-baby clothes. And I feel like all that is right on the horizon, that if I just work really hard and slog through the hard parts (of which this is one) then I’ll get there.

I feel less desolate today, and somewhat more motivated (although still very, very tired…did I mention the sleep and how I’m not getting it? Because, sleep. I miss you, sleep. We could have had something. Why did you give up on us?).

Also, it isn’t fair, my going all vaporish and needy. I don’t want Not So to feel like he has to take up my slack. My, that sounded dirty. (Speaking of which…that’s another thing we haven’t had lately. Maybe I just need to get laid. See? I am solution-oriented!)

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Obviously the kid’s inherited my technical prowess. There he was, happily watching Wonder Pets, when suddenly the sound went dead. I turned around to find the remote in his mouth and the TV screen blank. “What did you do?” I asked, laughing.

I took back the remote. I pressed some buttons. I pressed more buttons. I turned things off and on. The picture? It is not. I have no earthly idea what he could have done. There’s no static on the screen – just black. I can get a picture from the DVD player and the XBox just fine, but it’s as though the cable does not exist.

I am not laughing now.

I know, I know – bad to have the TV on anyway, needs non-electronic stimuli, blessing in disguise, blah blah blah. Look: YOU try wrangling an energetic, needy toddler (I can call him that now that he’s walking, right?) by yourself all day in a barely-childproofed house while trying to do school, start a business, and keep up with the chores. Especially when for some unfathomable reason your depression – which can’t even rightly be called PPD at this point, as you are eight and a half months past a time at which this might have garnered sympathy – has returned with a vengeance, leaving you alternately numbly miserable and unaccountably furious, to the point that you may have scolded the baby for crying yesterday morning when he would not stop wailing for long enough for you to get just one cup of coffee for christ’s sake, kid, two minutes is all I ask, can’t you just chill out for that long? And yes, electronic babysitter = bad while one-on-one interaction = good. Cite me some studies, please, I’m begging to know all they myriad ways I’m setting my child up for failure because I let him watch TV all day.

But that’s not the point at all, because now there is no TV, and the baby, he is not entertained. And I have so. much. stuff. to. do.

::cue despair::

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