Sometimes I just need perspective.

Tonight I found myself trying to hand MJ's sippy cup to Vito.  I stared at him for a couple seconds before realizing why he wasn't taking it.  Lack of opposable thumbs, mostly, because he'll happily lick milk off of MJ's face.

That has nothing to do with this post.  But it is evidence of how scattered my brain is.

I just wrote a post about how stressed MJ makes me.  And how I love her like flies love.... fruit.  But sometimes I find it hard to focus on that love.

Then I caught up on google reader, and in so doing read about the Sartins. If it's not a blog you already follow, you might cry.  Her little boy, only 12 months old, has been battling cancer.  And if she can maintain her positive outlook, I certainly don't have any damn excuse.  I'll probably post some version of my stressed out post when I once again lose perspective, which I'm bound to do.  I'm convinced my 14.5 month old is the most rambunctious child alive, and while it may not be true, it would take a lot for you to convince me otherwise.   But for the moment, I'll remember that every day she walks the earth I love her more than the day before.  And every day it seems impossible that I'll love her more than I do today, and every new morning proves that's not true.

Tunnel vision

MJ has one of these fun Ikea play tunnels, a gift from her grandmother:

though by fun I mean that I enjoy it far more than she does.  For example, it served as my halloween costume.

I crawled inside and waddled around while holding a mirror.

I was a?  You-tube!

Haha.

But what MJ does enjoy are tunnels that remind her of the blue tube.  Turns out there are these little cat tunnels strangely reminiscent of her play tunnel:

An important question arises:  what came first, the kid tunnel or the cat tunnel?

MJ seems to like the cat tunnel better than the kid tunnel.

As evidenced by her Thanksgiving performance, in which she put the hole over her head and walked around with a tunnel on her head.

God I love this child.  She never ceases to make me laugh.

In addition to giving birth to me, I have to thank my mom for taking this picture.

MJ has learned about the playground. There will be a lot less of that now, since our morning was met with boatloads of snow. But she doesn't get that yet, and when the word "park" is spoken will run to the door, banging furiously, as though she's swearing at me in baby sign language. I tell you, you haven't even heard cursing until you've seen baby sign language cursing. That sh!znat is scary.

But I digress. She loves crawling through the tunnel, but, unfortunately, some poorly paid playground architect decided to put no rails on the far side of the playground tunnel. So that poor (30-year-old) moms would have to climb through them to keep their evil knievel offspring from jumping to their death.  We look happy about it, but our knees are sadly bruised.  Playground architects should really be paid better.

Baby mama becomes old lady mama

30.  Sounds.  Old.  My mom put it in perspective by pointing out that having a 30-year-old makes you feel older than being a 30-year-old.  I distinctly remember when I was 8 and my drama teacher turned 30.  She was traumatized, and therefore I have always thought of it as a traumatic milestone.  I dreaded it.  I'm kind of a birthday primadonna.  I still want the whole classroom to sing me happy birthday, and it turns out no one really does that when you turn 30.

But, in spite of the fact that adults don't get as gleeful about birthdays as little kids, I still had a great 30th.  I am so blessed.  I frequently become fixated on unimportant crap, but when I stop to ponder it all, I remember how blessed I am.  I have a beautiful daughter.  A supportive husband that always makes me laugh.  A job I look forward to 90% of the time.  We are healthy.  We can pay our bills and have enough left to not feel stressed about money.  We get to travel.  And buy good beer and fancy cheese.  I have friends that will drop everything to come celebrate with me.  Our family supports us in every way.  And I get to write all of my sentences as "we" sentences.  And I get to, don't have to.

I'm not sure what I thought 30 would look like, I never really got that far in my imaginings.  I thought I'd be classy by now, but being as I marked the event with a pub-crawl, that is clearly not true.  I hoped I'd have met my soulmate by now, and I have.  I hadn't really imagined the kid part, or family part, or happy part.  But I have that, too.   And did I mention I get to buy fancy cheese? 

Belated halloween wishes

y c
It's shocking how behind my pictures get when I misplace the camera for a few days (or weeks?) Even more shocking? It turns out there is no greater joy on earth than dressing up babies in costumes. Better, even, than dressing up dogs in costumes.

Indecision.

Clearly I don't know what I want.  All week I fantasized about being a stay at home mom, sparked, in part, by a conversation with my advisor about my lack of PhD progress.  This is not new, I knew this, but I like to forget it.  DH called me out when he saw my internet history, in which I had googled "how do you decide to become a stay at home mom."

But then, a weekend of hubs working and solo parenting makes me long to go back to work.  I love this little girl, but she is just so exhausting.  Within her first hour of being awake she had:
- Torn all the clean clothes from the laundry basket and scattered them around the house.
- Dumped a jar of oats on the floor.
- Dumped a bag of dry beans on the floor.
- Had a (oh-so-heart-wrenching) temper tantrum when I insisted her oatmeal cool down before she could eat it.
- Climbed on top of the end table.
- Fallen off the couch.

This in addition to the run-of-the-mill tear-her-books-off-the-shelf, throw-half-her-food-on-the-floor and take-everything-out-of-the-cupboards daily routine.

By noon I was ready for her to go to sleep for the night.

How do stay at home mom's do it?  I know they say to set one goal a day, and that's what I do.  But if I don't get her out of the house we both go nuts.  Though getting her out of the house is just as exhausting since she won't sit in grocery carts or high chairs. I supposed I need to become a more patient person.  And stop trying to accomplish anything, because the moment I sat down and played with her my stress (mostly) went away.