The game is over, apparently, and I have lost.
I was not aware of it at the time, but I clearly have made some kind of Faustian trade off with my adorable but all-too-clever son. He agreed to be sweet and charming and perfect when there were other people around in exchange for being as fussy and mad and demanding as he could when it was just me. I see the advantages to this: we both look good in front of friends and family for the holiday, as he was perfectly behaved and I looked good by association. Then, he really lets me have it later, once there is no one else to hold him or fetch things or help out in any way. Also, he gets his way by insisting on nursing every 45 minutes (which he hasn't done in about a month) and then throwing it all right back up onto his freshly laundered outfit. Then he's hungry again and is mad that I don't have anything to give him.
I guess I should be grateful for the time that he is perfect, but instead I am sitting here, eyes nearly sealed shut with green goop from the conjunctivitis that he gave me and covered in stinky spit-up, and thinking that this isn't really fair at all.
Patrick has just come to my rescue. Apparently the game is back on. Colin is giggling and smiling at his daddy, who says, "He's not that worked up, really. He just needed some attention." You know, because I am the picture of a neglectful mother. The kind who never puts her baby down because he doesn't like to not be touching some other person, so I wear him around all the time. Also the kind who goes without a shirt during these "oft'nursing" times, simply because it ends up saving so much time by the end of the day. Maybe I'd prefer he scream and cry, just so it doesn't seem like I'm making things up or whiny.
Patrick and Colin are asleep on the couch, all cuddled and happy. I've just seized the moment to run and do the dishes, take a load of laundry upstairs, and tidy up. Ah, domesticity.
(image credit)
The game is over, apparently, and I have lost.
I was not aware of it at the time, but I clearly have made some kind of Faustian trade off with my adorable but all-too-clever son. He agreed to be sweet and charming and perfect when there were other people around in exchange for being as fussy and mad and demanding as he could when it was just me. I see the advantages to this: we both look good in front of friends and family for the holiday, as he was perfectly behaved and I looked good by association. Then, he really lets me have it later, once there is no one else to hold him or fetch things or help out in any way. Also, he gets his way by insisting on nursing every 45 minutes (which he hasn't done in about a month) and then throwing it all right back up onto his freshly laundered outfit. Then he's hungry again and is mad that I don't have anything to give him.
I guess I should be grateful for the time that he is perfect, but instead I am sitting here, eyes nearly sealed shut with green goop from the conjunctivitis that he gave me and covered in stinky spit-up, and thinking that this isn't really fair at all.
Patrick has just come to my rescue. Apparently the game is back on. Colin is giggling and smiling at his daddy, who says, "He's not that worked up, really. He just needed some attention." You know, because I am the picture of a neglectful mother. The kind who never puts her baby down because he doesn't like to not be touching some other person, so I wear him around all the time. Also the kind who goes without a shirt during these "oft'nursing" times, simply because it ends up saving so much time by the end of the day. Maybe I'd prefer he scream and cry, just so it doesn't seem like I'm making things up or whiny.
Patrick and Colin are asleep on the couch, all cuddled and happy. I've just seized the moment to run and do the dishes, take a load of laundry upstairs, and tidy up. Ah, domesticity.
(image credit)