Mama Was a Rolling Stone

I’m a rock star.  Or at least it seems like it sometimes around my house.  It feels as if I am constantly in demand by everyone and everything around me.  Sure, it’s nice to be wanted.  Sometimes, it’s draining.  Stella is by far the biggest receptacle of my time and attention.  She’s the funniest little thing and I swear they could weaponize her cuteness.  Still, it’s pretty tiring looking after such a rowdy little person.  It’s quite plain to me that whenever she really decides she wants to, she will scale the fence of Baby Attica or leap from her crib.  She’s just not quite motivated enough.  And the old saying of “when they’re quiet, THAT’S when you need to worry” is true enough.  Anyway, the baby goes without saying.  I’m much loved and in demand, especially later in the day/at night or on those 3 mornings a week when she realizes “oh shit, mom’s gotta leave and go to work.”  I don’t care how many times now I’ve left to go to work, that howling she does when I depart breaks my heart.

Will would agree that he no longer receives the attention he once did.  Sometimes he will look at me and say “Pay attention to me.”  I do my best to spread my love and attention around, but during a busy day and week, you do your best and sometimes you have to prioritize.  Man, that sounds cold, but it’s the truth.  If the baby has a pooped-in diaper when Will wants attention, I’m sorry – the diaper comes first (especially the kind of diapers we get nowadays…In my perfect universe, there would be a special kind of hell for assholes who molest/hurt children or animals whereby they get reincarnated as the Huggies diaper my kid is wearing after she eats fish sticks, cheese, and bananas).

4 nights of the week, I’m home alone with the baby.  We eat our dinners together, go through the bedtime ritual, and then I put her to sleep.  Depending on the night, that can take minutes or over an hour.  After working all day, then dealing with the usual domestic stuff (packing lunches, clearing the dishes from the day, laying out clothes for everyone, preparing dinner, and any serious housework that has reached the status of “can’t wait until the weekend”), I’m pretty drained and ready for some down time.  That’s when the cats come out.  Once the baby is down, I get mobbed.  They know it’s safe to come out, that the little loud person won’t chase them (or try to ride them like a horse).  All 3 cats crowd me.  It’s almost comical.  And damn it, I just want to be left alone.  Paint my toenails.  Watch Deadliest Catch.  Whatever.  Then I feel guilty, then grumpy, then tired…

I’ve never been so popular.  Sigh.

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About larva225

Working mom. Is there any other kind? Geologist. Nerd.
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