Those Days... You Know The Ones...

I've been having Those Days lately. You know the days to which I refer. The ones you have to capitalize because they are horrible-terrible-no-good-very-bad types. No good really isn't true, because as crazy as things get, Ben just wafts happiness and light and fresh-baked cookie smell. Well, aside from the times he wafts teething and spit up smell. Moments, really. I continue to smell like vomit but he goes back to being impossibly adorable.

I digress. So, lately, here has been my schedule: wake up from a deep, deep sleep around 4:30 or 5am and lay there, either arguing with someone I've made up, or just dealing with the chest pounding hangover I got from a really bad nightmare. This morning I was being chased, trying to call the police. Called them, hung up. Relief. Followed by the head-smacking realization that I didn't tell them where I was. Thankfully I woke up before I had to figure out how to get back to the phone. Scott was so engrossed by this turn of events that he kept his eyes closed and patted me nicely on the arm as I told him the whole shocking tale. Maybe it will sink in after his morning meeting and he will call me: "Darling, you poor thing!" No, just kidding, he doesn't call me darling, that would be weird.

So, attempting to learn from yesterday's hour-long argument with nobody, this morning I just got up and took a shower. I gave the baby a bottle in his crib, and then let him play in there for an hour while I made breakfast, and coffee, and read my blogs. They do not bring me important world news (thankfully) but they make me feel less insane. A laugh after a breathless middle-of-the-night run is good medicine.

How perfect are little baby feet? Ugh I never want to forget how round and fat they are! Love them.

We are out of food. To be more accurate, we are bored with the canned food we have at the bottom of the barrel. Bad, bad. Anyway, to prevent a take-out night, the other day I scooped Ben up on an impulse and tried to fit in a run to the store... I put him in a cart, picked up a nice looking plant, and checked my phone to see that my friend was on her way over. Darnit. Put down the plant, put the cart away and carried a puzzled looking Ben back to the car. This was the kind of day it was. I've been thinking of that little plant (and how nice it may someday look in the living room) ever since. Oh and Scott got this text: "i love YOU! wait til i tell u my hilarious trip to TJs! i got one potted plant, put it back, and drove home. wanna pick up dinner? lol" This is how take-out won and I was thwarted.

Oh and we are down to our last Snappi. Let me illustrate:

It's that thing that holds the diaper on. It works like one of those clips you put on an ace bandage? With the little teeth? It's kind of stretchy and it's genius trifecta thing keeps the diaper tightly squeezed onto Mr. Squirmy's little behind. Well, it broke. That little skinny handle part. Diapering a child trying to learn how to crawl is hard enough, I tell you. Trying to pinch some little tab because the handle is missing- it's too much. Especially if you haven't made coffee yet. So yesterday, Ben had pooped his usual quota amount for the day, and I thought- forget it. I'll just lay the diaper in the waterproof shell and he can pee in it to his heart's content for the next hour and a half.

I know, it's like a horror flick where the blonde chick just has to go downstairs to see what that noise was.

Soooo.... poop disaster. Soft, explosion type stuff. Ben is trying to cut his fifth tooth. I can see it up there, on top, on his left side, right next door to the front two, which are already huge. It's juuuuustthisclose to the skin and has to be absolutely killing him. So he is not a big fan of the diaper changes at the moment and is kicking and screaming. The minute I open up the disaster zone, he sticks an entire socky heel into the thing and as I'm trying to grab it, flailing about in the air, my hand gets streaked, and he manages to paint up his other leg, in under one friggin' second. After some strong, firm, OhmyGods and StopIts, I manage to get the diaper into the pail, the shell and the sock quarantined and a new diaper (with broken Snappi thankyou) onto this writhing little butt all without bringing harm to either the other sock or the changing pad cover. Olympic gold medalist? I believe so, yes.

Further reasons that it has been a couple of Those Days: if there is a cap that belongs on something, it needs to fall on the floor three times first. If I need to hide some laundry upstairs, Ben instantly becomes afraid of the Roomba and must be carried as well. I always somehow think this will work until half of the nice, neatly folded laundry does not make it all the way to point B but instead remains strewn across the stairs. The zipper on my pants has one broken tooth. At the bottom. Once you're past it, you're fine. It just takes about three beats too long to get past it, every single time I run to the bathroom. No biggie. Just chippin away at my sanity. After I took that headstart shower this morning, Ben's first order of business was to puke on my sweatered arm. Which I thought would be fine but now the smell is getting to me. Ugh. Sweater #2 on the way. Over breakfast, he puked again (???) right onto the table. Scott got this text message: "throw up is more fun than cheerios. says your son."

However, this kid could not be any more fabulous, even if he pooped and puked less often. As much as I get excited about someday having more, just having him feels like a puzzle piece found and in place. It's more than enough for now, just the way things are. I know from experience that I need to get a headstart or I will never get a chance to put on clothes and deodorant. But most mornings I just want to watch him wake up, scoop him up and take him to bed with me, where we can lay forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Where I can hear his loud little breaths and hold his little hands and kiss that spot right next to his tiny mouth. Watching him splash around at swim lessons, stare open-mouthed at the cats, and obsess over his cardboard airplane, is non-stop entertainment. He started scooting backwards last night and Scott and I just watched, riveted, giggling like crazy people.

He's trying so hard to talk. He's trying so hard to pull up and sit down (without falling on his melon and crying). He's trying so hard to crawl. He's obsessed with grown up food and literally yelled at his auntie for not sharing her fries last week. You should have seen it, the boy does not need words to communicate, just some grunt/scream hybrid noise and a withering look. Maybe some clenched fists thrown in for emphasis.

He's my baby, which is just a crazy dream come true. I honestly just want him to freeze right here and just be a baby for about a year more. I will probably feel like that next month, and the month after that. I would want him and love him no matter what, but I still try to stop and absorb that he is healthy, energetic, curious, and learning everything with no problems whatsoever. How crazy is that? I ache for the medical trials other families are going through right now. Nothing stays perfect forever, but this has been a blessing, and I recognize how huge it is. Every normal, drop-that-thing-three-friggin-times day that goes by, I appreciate it for what it is. Living the dream. Living the Good Life.