Why do they call it "sleeping like a baby?"

I'm sitting at the computer, the baby's asleep (finally) and my husband is out picking up a few essentials. I'm sitting here, scowl on my face, shoulders bunched, and I'm mad.

Why is it that the people we love become such targets for our anger and yet we'll rationalize the poor behavior of complete strangers without a second thought? My husband can make me so irrationally irritated over the smallest things. I will blame him for events completely out of his control, knowing while I do so that I'm being unreasonable. And yet, I still get mad. The baby was almost asleep for the night, nursing contentedly and then the cat meows for my husband's attention. A quick "shush" apparently being insufficient for her liking, she then chirrups out an entire chorus of noises which I can only assume translate into a "Look at me, Dad, look at me!!!" somewhat like an undermedicated 5 year old at the playground. The baby, of course, is completely distracted and stops nursing, eyes wide open, body twisting and searching for this new, non-sleep related noise. And what does his irked (albeit somewhat sleep deprived) mommy do? Why, she blames the daddy, of course!

So I'm sitting here, after getting the baby to bed forty minutes later than normal, knowing that I have no reason to be angry and should I attempt to look at my mood in a rational manner will cease having any justification to be in such a state (though I suppose that one could argue by writing this post, I am making an attempt to look at my anger in a semi-detached way). And yet, I'm still mad. Anything my husband does is irritating, anything he says makes no sense, and his very movements seem engineered to drive me nuts. I don't want to hear anything he has to say, and I have no desire to spend my words on him. In fact, I want to throttle him for deciding to rearrange the kitchen cupboards to make baby food storage more convenient, now, after the baby's finally asleep (have I mentioned that we have an open-plan apartment?).

And yet I know, really, he hasn't done anything wrong. And I know, really, that he's put up with a lot of cr*p from me. And I know, really, that I put up with a lot more cr*p from total strangers without batting an eyelash. And I know, really, that he is my partner, my love, my very best friend, my co-conspirator, my companion. And I know, really, that I won't be mad for much longer. And I know that what I really need to do is go to bed and sleep.

How many stomachs do cows have, anyhow?

Its been almost a year and a half since I've last written. And what a year and a half its been. In short, I got pregnant, gave birth, and have spent 7 months learning to be some one's mommy. While ruminating over what to write, now that I've started to reclaim some of my life, I felt compelled to write a long post, or something summarizing critical key events.

Nah.

I can ruminate and reflect and dwell on events all I want in my own time. This is my blog, written really for no one but me. I write now for the sheer sake of adding to something that was started with good intention.

I think I'll pick up like I've had no time in between this post and the last, and just write what is foremost in my mind at any given time. The important thing is that I write.

Today was uneventful and yet so typically pocked with moments of joy and ick.
-hearing my son imitate Godzilla as we walked down Granville street and watching how the simple act of hammering on the cafe table with his chubby paws made his face alight with glee
-cleaning up vomit for the 3rd time induced by my son's unfortunate habit of stuffing his thumb, fingers, and entire fist up to elbow into his mouth.
-finding a nursing bra that both fits and doesn't look like an army-issue relic from the 50's.
-cutting open my banana bread to find raw dough still in the middle
-realizing that the cheap cat toys provide far more entertainment to a 7 month old than the expensive baby toys.

I have so many meaningful things I could be writing about here. How I have doubts that I'm a good enough mom, how my relationship with my husband has both transformed and solidified, how I both dread and anticipate a return to work, or even my anxiety over our house purchase.

Eh. One more night of rumination won't hurt. I'll write about something else tomorrow.

Window to My World

With hours of marking and paper writing laying before me, I thought I'd capture a typical morning in which I progress from mellow sleepy goodness to a state in which I question why I teach at all. In which the only thing keeping my going is the knowledge that without a paycheque, I could not affort indulgence in luxury yarns as I so deeply indulged yesterday at Urban Yarns' inventory clearance sale. Here's a photoblog of my morning.




After going to bed at a senior-citizen-esque hour on Friday evening, I awake early, shower, and turn on the kettle. After an hour on my own with tea and cats, I'm ready for a break from the marking (and Facebook procrastinating) and my lovely Hubby has made me a ginormous coffee and some warm breakfast nosh (the black lumps are dried cherries). The cats keep me company (note the two white paws peeking out under the coffee table) or at least, deign to sprawl beside me after dissapointed sniffing (and distainful nose-turning) at my oatmeal.





Perhaps, I think, now would be a good time to abandon the marking and go for a walk. What does the weather-guy have to say about that? Unfortunately, he has no good news. Its cold, its wet, and I'd have to put on socks. Erm...no. So back to the hell dimension known as my desk I trudge. I think the cat is mocking me as I leave. Cruel beast.

This is my Stygian task - to shovel the er...ink droppings my students have left armed only with a red pen and a limited supply of patience. Here's a sample of my internal dialogue. What the hell? Were you in the class while I was teaching? I'm sure I saw you there physicially - let me check my attendance records. Yup, you were there. So what the hell? If you're going to make up answers in an attempt to cover your ignorance, then at least write something plausible. Vague, generic, overly-general anwers to not earn you marks - they just piss me off because they waste my time and prevent me from getting through this heap of cr..ud on my desk faster. Screw this, I need coffee.

So, back for reinforcement I go - a stiff, bracing mug of Joe. Only now do I note how appropos my choice of mug for the morning is. I decide that Grumpy is not such a bad archtype to emulate - efficient, intimidating, perhaps one of the few Disney characters capable of genuine self-expression. No one can be as twitterpated as those freaking woodland birds and squirrels! I realize that I'm analyzing the emotional honesty of animated fauna and shake off the fug of procrastination that settles so easily when faced with a pile of cr..ud. Sigh... back again I go. I make progress, slowly, ever so slowly, but the antipathy is mounting. What the hell, I keep thinking! Finally, I take refuge in the arms of Facebook once again, concluding once again that as soon as the winning lottery ticket drifts into my possession, I'm done with teaching.