I’m going to try very, very hard to leave out the tone of exasperation in this post.
This is going to be difficult. You see, I’m exhausted. I’m overwhelmed. And I’m unprepared…for this BOY that has replaced my baby.
You all knew this blog was coming, right? And don’t you dare tune out just because it’s one of those predictable mommy moments that we all share. I have a feeling there is some difference in what I’m experiencing right now. Maybe it’s miniscule—the difference. But I believe it’s there.
Humor me, ok?
Chaucer, the little bundle of love, is in fact a sneaky little devil. And he’s fast. And he’s strong. And he’s costing me every last atom of energy I possess.
Let me set the stage: I look over and find that Chaucer has pulled open my oven and used it as a stool to climb onto the counter—to climb onto the dishwasher that sits upon the counter.
The bathroom door gets left open. Chaucer is splashing in the toilet bowl. Chaucer is standing in my bathroom sink, squeezing toothpaste all over himself. Chaucer has found a razor blade. End of story.
Chaucer is supposed to be sleeping. Instead, he is singing. After about an hour I go into his room to discover that his diaper is ripped off—thrown across the room, and the laundry hamper next to his crib is now his own personal playground. Bare butt sitting in a pile of dirty socks.
We eat spaghetti. The quintessential little kid meal. He won’t let me feed him. No, he refuses. Five minutes later I’m pulling the stuff out of his ears and bellybutton.
We go outside. A playground awaits us. In a split second, Chaucer has managed to leave my side to relocate 20 yards away. He’s chasing the ducks. He’s found a stray cat. He’s being taunted by a squirrel. He’s out in the parking lot, kicking a ball. I swear, this happens faster than you think is possible.
Maybe these events wouldn’t be so bad if they only happened every once in a while. Like once a day, perhaps. But no, they happen seventy times a day. At least. And I’m not even hitting on all of the other shenanagens he manages to pull off.
Sure, he’s still my sweet boy. Oh yes. He’s quite capable and proficient in melting hearts. The random kisses, the back patting, and the shoulder nestling get me every time.
But man is he a sonofagun. I shouldn’t be that surprised. After all, he is mine and Matt’s kid. And Coco has her own brand of mischief as well. But for some reason, I always thought he’d stay my angel.
People said that he’d be easier. More laid back. Less high maintenance. What did they know, anyways? I wish they could see him now. I have no need of a gym membership because of this boy. He runs to me to the ground.
But I love him to death. I love his chubby little bod. His Snuffleupagus eyelashes. His Gerber Baby smile. Sure, all these qualities work against me by blinding me to his coyness, but whatever. He’s hecka cute and I love him to the moon and back. So I guess I’ll survive, right?
Is it better to have one child?
What the heck.