Yikes. Has it really been almost half a year? My bad ;)
It was a rough few months, which has zapped a lot from me, physically and mentally.
Once Max started crawling, the small 500sf apartment we rented became claustrophobic for me, an obnoxious cat, a busy husband and a fussy crawling baby. The stress from the insecurities of job security and finding a new place led me to mental breakdown #1. I always thought fainting was for Victorian women falling gracefully into men’s arms or onto chaise lounges. After a face plant straight to the floor practically breaking my nose, I’ve realized that’s just a Hollywood thing.
After moving into the new place, Max came down with the flu, and us being the sympathetic newbie parents, threw him snuggly between us in our bed. After all, we needed to be there for all the throw up, blow outs and fitful nights for him. Unfortunately, after a couple weeks of this routine, Max became vocal about where he ought to sleep; ie, not in his crib. And, since he’s the boss, I reluctantly agreed to the weeks and weeks of going to bed at 8pm.
This ultimately led me to mental breakdown #2. My choices were either to sell Max on ebay or to try the CIO method. And, since I don’t care for jail time, we resorted to crying it out. Thankfully, it worked.
I’m feeling on the mends. Getting constant sleep has helped, now that Max is now back to sleeping in his crib. Caffeine sure does the job, too. I’m beginning to feel human again, as opposed to the zombie caricature I became. Life was a fog and I dragged my tired feet through it on auto pilot. In fact, I’m surprised I remember half of the timeline events.
It’s funny, I once wrote about feeling ageless. How I never feel age appropriate. Well, screw all that. I feel a decade older after Max was born, and now turning 29 has really snapped the roll blind up into a spin. Realizing the 30 mark is less than a year from now is almost traumatizing.
My fear of growing up is about to slap me in the face, as if it’s somehow a countdown to an ultimatum for becoming a mature, responsible adult. Like I better stop wearing jeans and flip flops and stop watching Family Guy and stop thinking hilarious thoughts of the Chihuahua that got blown away (Don’t judge me, her owner was named Dorothy!) … or else. I figured having a kid would deactivate the detonations clock, but it seems to have just bought me a little time.
My dear friend, Amber, tells me that the 30’s are where it’s at. She also thinks 80% dark chocolate is where it’s at. Need I say more? (if it wasn’t for her love of Weird Al and Indiana Jones, I would have lost all hope)
I’m finding small wrinkles around the corners of my eyes that never were there yesterday. I’m not enthusiastic about new movies coming out, even the new Star Trek film that just screams my sci-fi fangirl inner calling. I referred to a Target employee as “that gangly kid who needs a haircut”. I'm needing my glasses more and more to see anything of detail.
I’m feeling o-l-d now. And, I don’t like it. One. Bit.
PS. On a positive note, Max started walking at 9 month, which is very uncommon among the baby world as I’ve been told. He makes me very proud.
It was a rough few months, which has zapped a lot from me, physically and mentally.
Once Max started crawling, the small 500sf apartment we rented became claustrophobic for me, an obnoxious cat, a busy husband and a fussy crawling baby. The stress from the insecurities of job security and finding a new place led me to mental breakdown #1. I always thought fainting was for Victorian women falling gracefully into men’s arms or onto chaise lounges. After a face plant straight to the floor practically breaking my nose, I’ve realized that’s just a Hollywood thing.
After moving into the new place, Max came down with the flu, and us being the sympathetic newbie parents, threw him snuggly between us in our bed. After all, we needed to be there for all the throw up, blow outs and fitful nights for him. Unfortunately, after a couple weeks of this routine, Max became vocal about where he ought to sleep; ie, not in his crib. And, since he’s the boss, I reluctantly agreed to the weeks and weeks of going to bed at 8pm.
This ultimately led me to mental breakdown #2. My choices were either to sell Max on ebay or to try the CIO method. And, since I don’t care for jail time, we resorted to crying it out. Thankfully, it worked.
I’m feeling on the mends. Getting constant sleep has helped, now that Max is now back to sleeping in his crib. Caffeine sure does the job, too. I’m beginning to feel human again, as opposed to the zombie caricature I became. Life was a fog and I dragged my tired feet through it on auto pilot. In fact, I’m surprised I remember half of the timeline events.
It’s funny, I once wrote about feeling ageless. How I never feel age appropriate. Well, screw all that. I feel a decade older after Max was born, and now turning 29 has really snapped the roll blind up into a spin. Realizing the 30 mark is less than a year from now is almost traumatizing.
My fear of growing up is about to slap me in the face, as if it’s somehow a countdown to an ultimatum for becoming a mature, responsible adult. Like I better stop wearing jeans and flip flops and stop watching Family Guy and stop thinking hilarious thoughts of the Chihuahua that got blown away (Don’t judge me, her owner was named Dorothy!) … or else. I figured having a kid would deactivate the detonations clock, but it seems to have just bought me a little time.
My dear friend, Amber, tells me that the 30’s are where it’s at. She also thinks 80% dark chocolate is where it’s at. Need I say more? (if it wasn’t for her love of Weird Al and Indiana Jones, I would have lost all hope)
I’m finding small wrinkles around the corners of my eyes that never were there yesterday. I’m not enthusiastic about new movies coming out, even the new Star Trek film that just screams my sci-fi fangirl inner calling. I referred to a Target employee as “that gangly kid who needs a haircut”. I'm needing my glasses more and more to see anything of detail.
I’m feeling o-l-d now. And, I don’t like it. One. Bit.
PS. On a positive note, Max started walking at 9 month, which is very uncommon among the baby world as I’ve been told. He makes me very proud.
Attaboy!
2 comments:
Awwww, you're being too hard on yourself!
If you can't laugh at Dorothy's dog (that was a funny story), and can't wear jeans any more, that means I'm supposed to drink prune juice and wear mu'u mu'us. No thank you.
I think a couple more weeks of regular sleep will do wonders for you. I'd feel old too if I was living on the sleeping pattern you were.
And I'm right about the 30's AND dark chocolate. You'll see. ;) Love you!
Ha,ha!
What a story...nice written and i can really relate to it...my god, who knew that little babies was soo much hard work...here i tought they only ate, slept and looked cute;)
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