My morning routine:

2:00AM V’s “confusional arousal” i.e. crying, yelling “no,” more crying, sitting up confusedly (hence, “confusional”); she does not wake.  I wake up with my heart beating 169 BPM, and wait for it to be over. 

5:30AM V’s morning “sqwak” a shorter confusional arousal, 2-3 times per week. 1 time per week she just wakes up for the day at this time.

5:45 the alarm goes off.  J hits snooze.

5:52 the alarm goes off.  J may or may not hit snooze.

Before 6:00 am J gets up.

The dog gets up.

They leave the room, shutting the door loudly behind them.  I go back to sleep.

The dog comes back and scratches on the door, or alternatively, J comes back and lets the dog in, shutting hte door loudly.  I go back to sleep.

J comes back.  Loudly.  I cringe and try to go back to sleep.  I try not to curse at him.

J knocks over a side table, or pulls down the curtains, or trips on some singing toy, which then sings for approximately 45 seconds.  Loudly.   And he turns on the light.  And gets dressed.  Not necessarily in that order.

J leaves, shutting the door loudly.  I go back to sleep.

J leaves the house, shutting the door loudly.  I try to go back to sleep.

V wakes up.  I wake up, if I actually got back to sleep.

I curse the world.

I wish I was in a  coma so I could actually sleep.

I drag myself out of bed and try to find a toothbrush, or if I am feeling extra fancy, a shower.

I try to find some clothes that have seen a dry cleaner in the past month.  Alternatively, I try to find some clothes that don’t have speghetti sauce on them.

V yells “moooommmmaaaa!  daaaadddy!!! woooffooooos!” from her crib while I get dressed.

I then commence struggling with V about diaper changing, dressing, whether I have a magical sippy cup of juice that she seems to think I can produce out of thin air, where her shoes are, whether she will hold still for pigtails, whether I can clean the litter box without putting her down, whether I can handle a full galon of milk without putting her down, whether I can do my hair or makeup without putting her down, whether I can load or unload the dishwasher wihtout putting her down, whether I can start dinner without putting her down,, etc.

And then we say bye to Woofles, and kitty, and daddy (because I think she thinks daddy is just hiding behind the couch or something during all of this) and if there is a schoolbus outside we say bye to the bus.

And I forget my dry cleaning, and forget to turn on the crock pot, and wonder if I put the dog gate up.  And prepare to miss the heck out of her for the rest of the day.

Now if you’ve known me for a while, especially before the whole law school disaster, you might think of me as a confident, independent person who forges ahead despite other people’s opinion of what I should be doing or not doing. 

Well, at least, that’s how I think of that version of me. 

Law school took that out of me for a bit.  I was crushed into a bitter pulp, but thankfully recovered.

And then I had a damn baby. 

For some reason, having that damn baby took every bit of confidence, independence, and forge-aheadness from me and left me worrying about what some idealized random ass suburban stay at home soccer mom  thought about my parenting. 

Logically I knew that I had nothing in common with that amourphous idea of The Mom that I had created; not socially, not socio-economically, no common experiences to speak of - not anything except the fact that I had a damn baby. I have never met her, and probably never will (though I think I see her in the mall all the time).  Despite knowing that it was completely illogical, I really felt inferior to The Mom idea that I invented somewhere in the sleep-deprived state of new motherhood.

Thank God for good friends, and pills, and sociological statistical analysis.  With those and a lot of time I got myself back to the place I have wanted to be  - knowing that whatever I do will be fine and it doesn’t matter what the hell anyone else thinks -not even that 90-pound, well-dressed soccer mom who gave the side-eyed look to my uncombed hair and my stained, bruised and cat-scratched daughter.

And that is freedom.

And it’s wrestling season. 

And despite all that, 20 months later, we have finally gotten into a rhythm with our family…mostly.  I know several people who are about ready to pop out babies and start all over with an infant and the thought of that has me shaking in my boots.  Maternity leave (all unpaid) cost me so much money I don’t know how I could afford to do it again.  And if I did, I would definitely want to take all 12 weeks…more money.  And then there’s more daycare and diapers and formula and time. 

Time. 

Where am I gonna get that?  Time is always in short supply. I get home at six, fix dinner, eat dinner, and then almost right away it’s bathtime, and pajama time, and bedtime. On the weekends I only leave when she is asleep.  I try to pack chores and errands into naptime and save housework until after bedtime.  I try not to waste a minute that I could be spending with V, and it is still never enough time.  I want more.  I’m sad to put her to bed.  I want to hang out and play and laugh.  I’m sad to take her to daycare.  I want to take her to the zoo instead. 

How am I gonna get more time?

It starts with “Mommy” about 20-100 times. Through trial and error I have learned that when I answer her, she cries. Or she whines. Or she screams. I have no idea why. So, I usually ignore it and rise to the bait only once or twice per drive, rather than have her whine at a dog-whistle pitch the whole way.

But now that she is starting to talk I see the writing on the wall.

On our way to daycare a couple weeks ago, after what was actually a really good morning, screaming wise, we have this conversation:

V: Mommy. Mommy. MOmmy. Momyyyyyy.
Mommy.
…
Mommy.
Mommy.
Mommy.
Me: Yes Violet?
V: I want daddy.
Me: (Sigh. Better than screaming, I think.)

Two minutes later…

V: Mommy. Mommy. Mooooommmy. Mommy.
Me: Violet. Violet. Violet.
V: I want daddy.
Me: I am aware.

It’s good she’s learning sentances, though, right?

Why is there a pistacio in my wallet?

Did you just kick the dog?

Dear God, what is in your hair?

Why is there a carrot in the bathroom sink?

Where did you find my library card?

You didn’t just dip that in the toilet, did you?

Do you have to be so contrary?

Is that a rice noodle in your pigtail?

Can you please take your fingers out of my nose? Mouth? Ears? Eyes?

The most important question of all is this:  Why do I keep asking questions when I know I will not get a satisfactory answer? 

Someone recently told me that, after we visited with V, they used V as an illustration of why to not have a baby.

V had a great Christmas. She loved opening gifts – hers, mine, daddy’s and everyone else’s. She loved playing with new toys. She loved running around and around and around to show off for people.

She did not love getting off schedule, so she has reverted back to her poor poor sleeping habits of yester-months. I guess I will finally be able to sleep through the night when she is in college.

I hope to soon be back to writing down the minutia that makes being a toddler’s mom so much fun.

And her membership means that daddy and I are now also members of a very important club – we are now Those Parents.

After the failure of the tried and true fruit-cup fix, and the you-can’t-swim-in-the-fountain tantrum, and the rejection of the hastily purchased $14 stuffed bear, we knew we were beat. We booked it to the exit.

But we didn’t make it.

In the bottleneck walkway filled with pedestrians we were the people with the toddler laying face down on the floor beating her fists on the ground. We were the people that the other people gave knowing looks to eachother about when they thought we couldn’t see. We were they people that they shook their heads at as they stepped over our very inconveniently placed screaming toddler. We were those people, and she was that kid.

And I wasn’t upset about it. I mostly thought it was funny, which is good because there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it anyway, except skip our planned dinner out. I was really quite amused at the looks (and I mean LOOKS) the other people were giving her and daddy as he wrestled with her and the bear when they didn’t know someone was looking.

Mostly, I think it was a good initiation into the Those Parents and That Kid club. I expect we will have many more meetings before all is said and done. Hopefully I will be just as amused the 100th time as I was the first.

Not so Yay for Violet, who during the 6 day trial startted calling James “mommy” and more or less ignoring me when I got home. Sigh.

But, as routinely happens, random people wanted to discuss my future reproduction plans, which caused me to think, of course, about my future reproduction plans. So I have been looking at my calendar, trying to scheduling in 9 months of morning sickness (though really, months 1-5 were the worst) and schedule in the birth of this potential offspring, and schedule in the maternity leave (which has to be longer than the 9 weeks I took last time, just has to, I don’t care if we go bankrupt) and the several months of being dead on my feet, etc.

And I am not good with dates, so I had the big ol’ due date calculator up on my screen, trying to figure out where everything fit in with holidays, and birthdays, and trials.

I clicked it closed when I was done, I really did! But it didn’t close. And I went about my business, all la la la, not realizing that my screen was showing to the whole world (have I mentioned the annoying central location of my office and computer monitor?) a big ol’ “Due Date Calculator.”

I hope no one was paying attention. And/or I hope all passers by have bad vision. Because, I am not pregnant, and after checking my calendar, I’ve determined that I don’t have time to be pregnant until at least next summer or fall. I do not think they would fire me for reproducing, but pregnancy and motherhood are not the most sought after trait in litigation associates. Oof.