Friday, February 18, 2011

Gert!? Gerty!!? Where are YOU!

So.  I'm not going to lie.  I'm not going to sugar-coat things.  It has been a rough couple of weeks in the Bu Household.

Mostly due to the fact that I am a raving lunatic/bitch that can not be satisfied.  But I'm sure we've been over that about 100 times.

We started OTSASCB a few weeks ago.

And then through NO fault of my own and due mostly to that whore, mother nature...I gained four pounds.

Yes.  Four.  Pounds.  I didn't capture that gem on camera because my toes are still snaggly and even I have to maintain some shred of dignity.

I know those four pounds were temporary and they would have gone away within a matter of days, but for some reason it began a self-esteem nose dive that plummeted so deep my SE (self-esteem.  Lets call her Gerty.  She feels like a Gerty) is now buried somewhere beneath the ocean bedrock.  I have been in contact with numerous scientists about how we can forge an expedition to bring Gerty back from the inky black depths. 

James Cameron made a new movie about the voyage.  It's called Sanctum.

Anyway.  When faced with the disappearance of Gerty, I mostly have one of two reactions:

A. I drown myself in massive amounts of salt and chocolate.  Little Debbie is in cahoots with mother nature and they both can go straight to H-E-L-L as far as I'm concerned.  (She does make a damn good Valentine's Day heart-shaped cake though).

B.  I spend one hour looking for G-Dawg at the gym.  When that doesn't work (which it never does) I resort to Plan A. 

So roughly half of the last couple of weeks I have been sitting around.  Staring at Henry.  Feeling my chins getting fatter. 

That is fun, let me tell you.

The other half of the time, that would be after the numbness of the chocolate binges wore off, I have been wrestling with the massive 16 headed, fire-breathing monster-dragon: 

Mom Guilt.

I love Henry more than anything.  But I don't know if I can spend everyday with him.

That thought makes me cry.  And cry.  And then cry some more.

Aren't I supposed to want to spend every waking moment with my precious baby. 

Aren't his cries supposed to sound like wind chimes and kittens meowing to my bleeding eardrums.

Aren't I supposed to relish in all of this time we have together.  Watching him grow and reach new milestones in his development.

Then someone tell me why I feel like I am about to go to the grocery store and buy a whole living lobster for the sole reason that I can place it in a pot of water and boil it to death and hear its innocent screams.

Somehow, I don't feel like that is the reaction I should be having to being a SAHM. (that's stay-at-home-mom) for all you who didn't spend three entire months on and aren't down with the lingo.

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a SAHM...(cue the bone-rattling guilt and sobbing session that ensues while Henry naps.)

So between crying jags I try and problem solve. 

Maybe I could go back to work full-time. 

But then I would have to leave Henry somewhere or with someone else.  I wouldn't get to play with him, and read to him, and make sure he gets his tummy time, and practices his sitting up and see him smile at me when he wakes up from a nap. 

Even if that nap was only 15 minutes long.

Yes. We've been on a real winning streak with the naps lately. 

(Cue another bone-rattling sobbing session.)

So what is a mother at her wit's end to do? 

She doesn't want to leave her baby, but she is literally going stark-raving mad being with him all day, every day. 

Until she has to go to work and take care of someone else.

The problem-solver in me is pretty persistent.  So I got the name of a person who watches children in her home from one of the nursery ladies at the Y (someone who knows someone, friend of a friend type deal.  No guarantees).  Maybe I could drop Henry off one afternoon a week. 

So I give this "lady" a call and Henny and I go visit her. 

NEVER in a MILLION years.  Not even if I had Ebola and the only other option was to leave Henry in the care of an intelligent band of gorillas. Would I leave Henry in this house.  Under the care of this lady.

She was dirty.  Her house was dirty.  Her baby was dirty.  They had a nippy little puppy. 

She answered the door and I already wanted to get the Hell outta Dodge, but of course I didn't know what to say. 

She goes on to regale me with tales of her child-watching experience (As I perch on the edge of her dirty couch and watch as her 13 month old nearly chokes on a cookie). 

True Story.

So somehow I politely got out of the situation, got in my car, drove away, and when I was a safe distance from her home, I cried. 

That's just how it's been folks.  It ain't pretty. 

I better go, I hear Henry starting to squirm.

He has been asleep for a record breaking 35 minutes.

The cherry on this sundae of awesomeness is that Michael never gets frustrated with anything.  Never gets irked, never needs a little time to himself.  Never flips out.

He's a better mom than me.  He's more patient with Henry.  He's just better. 

Oooops.  There goes Gerty again.  

I'm going to post some fliers round the neighborhood.  If you see her, could you tell her I desperately need her to visit sometime soon. 

Have you seen this Self-Esteem?

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