Yes, I'm stoned. Because that's what mothers do! This evening, I literally had to pin my 20-pound son to the ground with my legs just to get him to stop moving long enough to let me put his damn diaper on. Seriously, this is not easy. He lost his running-around-the-house-naked privilege two nights ago when he pissed in 5 different places, with one of them being on our living room window. The cord to the blind was saturated in urine. When I discovered the puddle, my 18-month-old son hopped off the radiator and ran into the kitchen. I began wiping it up and shortly after started to wonder where Jude had gone, why was he so quiet. Then I saw the first of multiple tiny turds near our bookshelf, I Hanseled and Greteled the little crumbs of shit as it lead me into the kitchen where I discovered a low key, but still shocking pile of poop near my son's foot. I lifted my head and we locked eyes for only a moment before he picked up his knee and stomped his foot directly into it. I screamed and ran over to him, lifted him over my head, and beelined it for the bathtub, only to discover, en route, my 7-year-old basset hound eating each individual turd on the floor, licking his lips in between.
What the actual fuck is this? They said it would be hard, that I was prepared for; but my son's shit being licked off the living room floor by my dog's tongue; the violent wrestle with a little beefcake, literally 1/10 my size; me singing "I Will Always Love You" as I imagine throwing him out the window while he kicks me in the knee cap repeatedly; none of that I could have ever been prepared for.
Oh, but he is cute. He smiles and giggles at the most outrageous moments; My husband's offensive wit; A loud belch after a quick dinner; Oliver getting hit in the ass by a bouncing rubber ball. He growls, coos, whispers, but doesn't speak yet. Motherhood is the biggest cluster fuck I have ever experienced. I love him, hate him, resent him, adore him, battle with him, and, sometimes, hide from him in the bathroom just to breathe and reset before facing his twelfth temper tantrum of the morning. At the end of the day, I need a cocktail, within an hour I miss him, and I can't help but sneak into his room, risking waking him, just to stare down at his limp little body, sleeping soundly in his crib. I talk about him, almost nudging his name into completely unrelated topics just to chat for a moment about his tiny butt, his big belly, and his gut-wrenching smile.
Seriously, what in the actual fuck is this?
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