I watch too much Project Runway

But is there really any such thing as too MUCH Project Runway?
Every year this time I watch Project Runway, get all hyped up, whip out my sewing machine, and sew SOMEthing. Now mind you, I can't really sew. I took Home Ec in 7th grade and made a 6 panel wrap skirt, which was the height of my sewing career. I've made skirts and costumes and various other things since, but really, I don't have any skillz. This year though, I have a new victim, I mean, subject. The Infant! And even better Infant clothes 1) are small so they take WAY less time to make and 2) since she's going to grow out of any given outfit in less than a fortnight anyway, the crappy construction doesn't matter. Win win!
So behold! The spawn of an old t-shirt, too much Heidi, and some bling...

Sick.... and tired!

Where've I been? Um, yeah - I've been sick. Now I've been sick before, and I've used that phrase - 'I'm sick' and I meant it when I said it, but this time, I was REALLY sick. Like a miserable f level of sick. Granted, I wasn't Really REALLY sick - that's when you custom design t-shirts and host a fund raiser - nothing like that - just a pile-on of generic nasty bugs having a little party in my body. A party that wouldn't stop. and 14 days later STILL HASN'T, God help me.
The source of this plague? My family, natch. I should say 'plagues' plural. See, that's one of the things that's made this particular party such a t-total blast. Back to back diseases - it was a little virus relay race. Shoot me now.
The first leg of this illness started with the Hubble- whom I nursed back to health JUST in time to get the very same disease, only worse. Perhaps we would have had a closer relationship with the Lysol container during the initial Hubble illness had we realized that he was, in fact, ill. Don't mistake, he was clearly having symptoms. Its just that the symptoms he had mislead us into thinking that what he actually had was food poisoning. FOOD POISONING! Can you guess what symptoms might have lead us to that conclusion?! Hmm?! Gads. But no, NOT food poisoning. Nasty ass stomach bug (no pun intended). Which I promptly caught and lifted to a whole new level of suck. I had managed to delude myself into thinking I had managed to avoid the whole thing until sat the 2nd.
I was feeling a little 'off' on Friday, but I'm always wicked tired on Fridays after a whole week of having to get up and act like a responsible human after nights of no sleep, so I didn't think anything much of it. Then Sat came around. I was up at a semi-reasonable hour, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was all a-twitter cause I was going to see one of my bestest and oldest friends brand spanking new condo. This was her very first home purchase and consequently kinda a big whoop. Plus, I was deeply desirous of seeing the horrorshow wall paper that came with said condo. When I said it was new, know that I meant new to HER - it was, as a home, trapped somewhere in the mid-70's, decor and appliances inclusive. So I was excited about the flashback in residence form, on top of the whole 'yay for you!' aspect.
My bestest BiblioDiva, and her family were going to spend the day going mano e mano with the retrofunk spread all over the new joint, so I was going to bring them sustenance as a sympathy offering. Having been through the same procedure with my first home, it seemed karmically appropriate. But the virea had their own karma apparently, and it was totally screwing with mine. I gathered myself and bundled the infant up, ready to head out, and right when I hit the door I felt a little....urghy. Urgently urghy in fact.... Oh dear.... Um, ok, quick restroom trip and we're all good...ish... Take two on exiting the house got us successfully as far as the grocery store.
I debated. Can I do this? Can I make it through the grocery store, and through the 40 minute drive to the new pad without yorking on myself? Or worse, 'othering' on myself. I mommed up. I can DO this.
I spent several important healing moments in the grocery store restroom, and blitzkrieged the grocery aisles. Speed check up and out. I'm happy to report that I was able to make it down to her new place, deliver the food, NOT deliver any viral contaminates with said food, and get back home without embarrassing myself or others. It was a minor miracle. It was also the last time I left the house for the next 4 days.
Wednesday rolls around, and I'm feeling better. Not GREAT, mind you, but better. I'm also feeling like I perhaps ought to get back into the office. This feeling was perhaps partially triggered by my bosses response when I called in sick on Monday. 'Oh. um. ok. You have everything you need to work from home though right?'. Dude, seriously, what part of 'stomach flu' did you not get? I need to be on the crapper AND using wifi simultaneously? WTF?! So with this kinda environment you can imagine why I'm feeling like perhaps I need to hustle back in.
I toddle into the office on wed, zero appetite still, but able to eat bread and rice and other tasteless bland carbs. Luckily I still have all my morning sickness foods lying around, came in handy that. Plus side? lost 7 pounds! Healthy? um no. but still. Anyway, on my way in, I start feeling a little congested. Maybe allergies. Right? Prolly just allergies. No biggie. Wrong. Biggie.
By the end of the day, I was sneezing like a dwarf and had a regular snoterfall coming out of my nose. It totally sucked to be me. Right about 5:30 I got The Call. I was not the only one with a fever and runny nose. The Infant was snotting right along with me. Sigh...
I bundle us both up and head home, chock-a-block full of self-pity. The Hubble, and his unnaturally effective immune system was able to avoid round two of the disease-a-thon, which is a HUGE mercy - cause now it was his turn to take over all household care duties. And he did great. Credit where it is due. He took the lil stinker into her doc appointment the next day, where she was pronounced 'sick with a cold' - shocker. Apparently is went well until the full body exam at which point she became deeply unamused at the whole process. I was curled up at home during all this, whimpering, buried in a perpetually growing heap of used tissues and hating life, but still well pleased that I wasn't the one dealing with a doctor inspired Infant meltdown. During the worst of this, he kept both of us in sandwiches and formula (the first for me, the second for the Infant), and kept me entertained with movies and her entertained with ridiculous faces. She dealt with the whole thing much better than I, overall, and healed up faster as well.
We are now at the end of week 2 of the diseasing, and The Infant is pretty much back to normal, with a slightly higher amount of snot production than usual, but otherwise, no worse for wear. While I am back at work, I am still a disgusting human being. I'm making all those nasty old homeless smoker sounds in the back of my throat and snorking huge lugies every few minutes. My voice is on it's way back - I'm now more of a Kathleen Turner with allergies sort of sound vs the Hulk Hogan with a sinus infection thing I had going before. And before that it was gone altogether for 2 days. So clearly trending better. But still not 100%.
After 14 whole days of this mess. I'm hoping come next week I will be able to breathe without horking - forget dreams of Olympic Gold, I just want to be able to live snot free. Is that asking too much...?

Calm before the storm...?

Things have been a teetch odd recently, mainly in that they haven't been odd. Qua? Never fear, I will 'splain.
It seems that I have somehow managed to develop something of a routine in my day to day - a routine that includes the existence of the Infant. Having a baby around the house, at some point in the past couple of weeks, became NORMAL. Which in and of itself is abnormal ("Abby? Abby who?"). The occasions when I look over, see The Infant, and go 'oh RIGHT! We have a spawn!' are decreasing down to just about zero.
Now for those without children, this would seem to be normal and good - this settling in. In most circumstances, you figure something out, learn how it works, develop a way to work with it, then set things on cruise control. Here cruise control (or any form of control really) is merely a laughable illusion. I freely admit that I have learned very little in the short time I've been Infant-rearing, but one of the precious few things I've learned is NEVER let your guard down.
Raising a child is like living in Oz (HBO, not Baum, version) only with sharp little baby fingernails instead of shivs. JUUUUUST when you think you've got things figured out there's a riot or the mob tries to take over the lunch room or your child figures out how to roll over, the latter being the scariest by far. I can speak from experience (on 2 of the 3 anyway).
That's right, the Infant has figured out how to flip from belly to back (I'll save the riot story for later). Normally when one's child reaches certain milestones parental units are overcome with joy. Not so much here. Yes, we are well pleased in an abstract sense that our offspring is developing at a semi-normal clip. However, in a practical sense, this latest development is a source of stark terror for us. And it's not ALL developments - I wasn't concerned when, just a week ago The Infant discovered the fascinating appendages known as 'feet' - OOooo! AAaaah! - and begun spending a large portion of her day grabbing at, playing with and/or attempting to jam into her mouth said feet. This was cute, in a fetish-y kinda way. The rolling though - oh God the rolling.... this is terrifying.
But why, sez you? Because rolling is the very first 'step' (pun intended) in mobility. MOBILITY! Gah! See, this lovely routine we've managed to develop, while it sadly involves very little sleep, is one that has added some stability into our little parental lives. We're starting to get the hang of this! Said routine, however, is predicated on the Infant pretty much staying where you put her. Whether she wants to or not. This means we can say, lay The Infant on the middle of the bed while putting a shirt on without worrying about her scuttling off in the 2.3 seconds we take our hands/eyes off of her. This immobility is the lynch pin of our current day-to-day, and it's about to be removed, which will result in our little carefully crafted house of infant care cards crashing down about our ears. And possibly several loosely stacked boxes as well.
Which is the OTHER larger and more terrifying aspect of this looming mobility nightmare. We need to child proof the house. Typing that, my brain just froze. Overwhelming icy panic courses through my veins. Those of you who have been following this adventure since it began will recollect that I was rendered nearly immobile myself for a large chunk of my pregnancy. This had the ripple effect of the house falling totally into the crapper, organizationally-speaking. Add a thick layer of baby accessories and teeny tiny little clothes overtop of the original neglect of household layer and you get QUITE the caca cake. Caca which the Infant is >
And time is running out fast. She's got a pretty decent bead on the belly to back roll, mainly because she despises being on her tummy - hates the view I guess. It's just a matter of days before she figures out the back to belly bit and starts stringing them together in a twirling dervish of here to there-ish-ness. She's a freakishly strong little creature and it's coordination alone that's holding her back, not lack of strength, either in will or body.
Speaking of which, the strong will is starting to express itself as well. Already the Infant has begun expressing 'opinions' about things, in the form of a new vocalization that sounds remarkably like 'NNNYARK!'. While it is nice that her vocabulary is growing beyond impassioned wailing, the corresponding growth of what can only be called 'attitude' is a less promising development in the parent Infant communication timeline. Combine these strong opinions with the looming possibility of willful motion and you begin to get a sense of my dawning horror...
I'm trying to keep myself from asking the teachers at daycare to perhaps offer just a little less 'tummy time'. It would be moot anyway - all it would do is delay the inevitable. The Infant is slowly but surely developing the skills and ability to impress her ever-growing will on the surrounding environs, and we parents are included as viable will-targets. Forget the moving from here to there bits; attempts to take control of the lunch room are merely hours away.... God help us one and all...(where's a sharpened toothbrush when you need one?!)

No, actually, that is NOT funny...

A few nights ago at bedtime, I was in the bathroom performing my evening ablutions. The household routine developed involves my BabyDaddy taking over Infant control duties for a few minutes before I go to bed, giving me time to, say, extract my contact lenses and/or pee. It's a magical few minutes of peace and quiet.
This evening however, not so much with the 'quiet' part. The Infant was in her Le Terrible mood, one of my least favorites. So handing her over was a mercy. The Hubble was doing a good job managing, working his way through the List of Needs - food? nope, not interested - and was on number 2, which, coincidentally is about Number 2 (& Number 1).
Now all this is going on outside my visual tracking range. I'm able to get a rough lock on location thanks to Infant shrieks and the Doppler effect, but otherwise, blissfully out of the loop. So I'm pretty sure they are in the bedroom and she is unamused. I hear some snippets of Infant/Hubble conversation (he adorably attempts to reason with her - so preciously misguided!), a bit of minor thumping, the tapering of infant hollering, then laughter. She's 4 months so I know it's not coming from her.
Said laughter increases. So of COURSE I have to ask...'what's so funny in there?' Pause, additional laughter. 'Hello? what's the amusement source? Do share - I could use a giggle...'

The Hubble responds, "I don't think you are going to find this nearly as amusing as I do", the Infant is now cooing happily. I, on the other hand am growing increasingly concerned.

'What exactly are you thinking I won't find funny? Be precise please'
I talk and walk simultaneously (no easy feat in my current stage of exhaustion)
On arriving in the bedroom I find a grinning husband and a happy baby, and no obvious reasons for concern - other then the look on his face. 'What happened?'

The Hubble shares, "well, she wasn't hungry, so I went to check her diaper, and sure enough it was wet. So I left her on the bed and ran to get another one from the nursery. Right when I got back she curled her little legs up and peed all over the place! Isn't that funny?!"

I am confused. This must be a guy thing - they seem to find elimination amusing somehow. Even my normally very enlightened spousal unit giggles maniacally at fart jokes.
'Um, I guess its funny. I mean, so she got her diaper wet... I'm not sure I see the humor really.'

The Hubble begins chortling, "Oh no I took her diaper off when I left to get her a new one. I was only going to be gone for a second..."

WHAT?!? You left her sitting on our bed with a naked butt?! That's like leaving a loaded gun lying around!! That's just MADNESS!!
I don't say this though, because realization is beginning to dawn...
'So wait...if there wasn't a diaper.... do you mean she peed on the BED?!'

Much mirth from the Hubble, "Yeah!! And even funnier - it's on your side!! Ha ha ha ha ha a haaa! Woo! Isn't that Funny?!?"

No.

No that is not the LEAST bit funny, in fact. Again, I did not say this, mainly because I'd lost the power of speech. My EXPRESSION however, said a great deal...
"What? It's FUNNY! All those cute stories about babies peeing places and whatnot - we finally have one! it's cute!"

'Its on my side of the bed.'

"Well yeah, but that's no big deal."

'No big deal to YOU! It's not on YOUR side!!!'

At this point the Hubble was beginning to sense danger. He's sharp like that. What he never really calculated into the Har-dee-har-har equation, is that right now, this wet spot is between me and sleep. And I need sleep. I mean, I REALLY REALLY NEED sleep. Like a junkie needs heroin kinda need. And this piddle pool is in the way of a nice juicy pile of zzzzzzs.

"Well it's not THAT wet, we can just put a towel over it or something"

A 'man solution' if I've EVER heard one.

OK, no. 1) we have no clean towels anywhere in the house since I haven't done laundry since it seems like the Reagan administration. The only cleanish towel in the house is the one I'm using in my bathroom, so if we put THAT over it, I get to dry off with pee tomorrow morning, OR not shower after having slept in pee. Both = Suboptimal. 2) I'm one of those 'can't stand to have rumpled sheets' folks - call me the Princess and the Pee-pee, but no way I could sleep with a big lumpy urine soaked towel under me all night. I sum this up in a coherent a way as possible.

Hubble offers solution 2 - "Let's switch sides!" Considering the number of plugs, books, & sleep accessories that he must have at arms length, plus all the various nighttime Infant care caca on MY side, swapping all this would be at *least* a 30 minute process. 30 minutes in which I could be SLEEPING. Did I mention that I need sleep?

At this point, the Hubble begins to sulk.
"well, I think you are being difficult - I've suggested a couple of perfectly good suggestions and you have rejected them both - I'm just out of ideas."

I grit my teeth to keep the expletives from spewing out.
'Just..... help..... me...... change..... the...... sheet......'

Lest you be confused, no - I hadn't washed a load of sheets or anything like that. No, mercifully and miraculously, I had just *bought* a set of sheets at Target, cause, well, it's Target. While I am sure they are covered with sweatshop manufacturing filth, they are, at least, dry. The mattress cover is, of course, soaked as well, and in my exhausted haze I manage to find a kitchen towel in the 'donate' box to sop up the remaining Infant excretions.
Net this fix took 20 minutes. TWENTY perfectly good minutes of sleep WASTED. But still, 10 less than if we'd switched sides, so yay for that!

A few days later, the Hubble told this very story to his dad, albeit with a slightly different spin. *He* of course found it HI-larious. Ho ho ho, hee hee hee, they tittered together. So amused by the Infants shenanigans. How very droll. She peed! How ADORABLE! I did note, however, that The Hubble did NOT tell said story to his MOM. Which to me proves that deep in his testosterone laden heart, he knows....

SummmmmerTIIME and the Infant is screaming...

We, being first time parents, are relatively ignorant of what we should and shouldn't do. As a result, we tend to try things many other parents would not. Not because we are brave or bold, but because we are stone cold ignorant of the possible repercussions. One of these boldly go things we heedlessly traipsed into was taking the Infant swimming. The Infant, mind you, can't even roll over, so it wasn't so much that she was going swimming, more that we intended to dip her in the water and see what happened. I suppose one shouldn't treat ones child as a science experiment but how else would one learn, I ask you? Now I did do due diligence, i.e. I did a google search on 'infant swimming'. And by all accounts, this would not kill her, so onward!
My BabyDaddy is the king of blissful ignorance when it comes to the Infant. It is a blessing and a curse. I, having consumed more preggers lit than any human should while on bedrest (cause really, after the 6th day of Real World marathons, what else was left to do?), am marginally more informed about what one 'should' do with a baby. He on the other hand knows no fear. Again with the blessing/curse deal. This blind bravery is what led to the pool adventure.
The BabyDaddy wanted, more than anything else for fathers day, to take the Infant to the pool. I, being a sucker for the 'but it's FAAAAATHER'S day' argument, agreed. With some trepidation. We waited til the last hour of pool time, to minimize both exposure to the blinding sun and trauma for other innocent pool goers. I battened down the hatches with 2 hoody towels, 3 diapers, a bottle, a binkie, a bottle, 2 towels for US, 2 changes of clothes for the Infant, a book for me (ha), etc. etc. etc (hey, I'm a first time mom, I have no CLUE what is going to be needed at any given time so I just take it ALL). As I gathered enough crap to fill the actual pool, I handed the Infant over to BabyDaddy to clothe, with a choice of bathing suits. Yes! Exactly - see you experienced womenfolk have successfully IDed this as 'error in judgment #1'. I gave him a CHOICE. After mounding enough crap to last us for a summer in residence at the pool, I turned back to the man and his child, who was, at this point, now wearing pieces of 3 swimsuits. the outfit read like this : regular diaper, one-piece swim suit, bikini swimsuit top, swim diaper on TOP of all that, and knit hat. I tried. I really really TRIED not to say anything but I had to ask at least the most baffling of the choices.... "so why the swim diaper on the OUTside of the swimsuit?" Apparently, he wanted to assure all the pool patrons that our child was indeed wearing a swim diaper designed to reduce spills, by making said diaper as obvious as possible. The fact that the diaper was rendered completely useless by it's location mattered not at all to him, it simply needed to APPEAR useful. Ah. Ok then. Sigh.
We managed to sherp everything to the local pool, which was mercifully emptying. In the gathering frenzy, I had not been allotted time to put on my swimsuit, but at the nanosecond of arrival, BabyDaddy had to leap into the pool immediately. Waiting for me to change would have been an unbearable delay. So I gingerly hand the Infant to mah man in the pool, and brace myself for the storm.... and..... nothing. A short pleased coo, and a mostly curious expression were all we got. BabyDaddy was delighted, I videoed, then trotted off to change, pleased and thrilled at what an easy charming adventurous little baby we had created.
By the time I got into the pool she was babbling happy, splishing about and her extremities were slowing turning a delicate shade of blue. So approximately 39 seconds after getting IN the pool, I get OUT of the pool, with the Infant. U-turn back to the changing room, to change her out of her swimsuit(s) in order to raise her core temperature to at least medium rare.
This part did not go as well as the swimming part. In fact, the second I touched layer one of her swim apparel, she let out a shriek that would shatter glass. And that was just the warm up. During the entire unclothing and reclothing experience, she made noises you would have expected if I had been, say, peeling her actual skin off, instead of just a soggy diaper. And I remind you of the 6 layer dip that was her outfit. There were a LOT of clothes there. Add the lovely echo chamber acoustics of the changing area, and I guarantee this child's displeasure was heard 4 counties away. Of course, the second the displeasure inducing changing was complete, she ceases hollering and turns back into 'pleasant baby'. I, on the other had am still shaking from the side effects of the shock and awe shrieking.
I emerge from the changing room damp, cranky and with significant hearing damage. EVERY eye in the pool area turns to look at me, and really no one wants that much attention while wearing a swimsuit a mere 3 months after giving birth. NO ONE. In truth, though, they weren't looking at me as much as they were inspecting my child for damage and/or blood.
Exhausted, I tuck her into her little carrycot, and flomp down on a pool chair, ready to finally, FINALLY get a little summer pool relaxing in for me. My hubby calls from the pool (where he has been frolicking this entire time), 'do you need me to come out and watch her so you can hop in?'. Just as the words, 'for the love of all that is holy YES!' are about to leave my lips, the lifeguard whistle blows... "POOOLS CLOOOOOSED!"
Ah... summer...

Debunking Parental Myths or Why people are full of poop

When you are pregnant people who are currently parents become very HELPFUL with their information sharing. They do have the nasty habit of restricting the information they share to the 'scary as all crap' category. You know the type: "I was in labor for 7 days straight and they had to finally pull my child out of my right nostril" or the "Oh just wait 'til he/she/it is born, THEN the nightmare REALLY starts" or the ever popular "My child just graduated high school and it STILL hurts when I poop".
And these stories of horror are not limited to women. My babydaddy got them too, only he got the ones designed to strike terror in the hearts of the y-chromo owners. For example, "You will never play a video game again in your life" or the nightmarish "that sports car you own? Say goodbye now, 'cause you'll have to swing by the car dealership on the way home from the hospital to trade it in for a 1987 AstroVan".
Initially, I thought people were genuinely trying to be helpful - sharing their learnings, so to speak. But as time went on, I noticed that NONE of the stories were positive, pleasant or even remotely helpful. They were all just scary. And they were all relayed with a certain cruel smugness. One of my best friends, a mother of 2 even got in on the act. And, because I was hormonal and because we are those kinda friends, I started shrieking at her, 'ARE YOU TRYING TO FREAK ME THE F OUT?!?!'. This actually startled both of us. Me, because I was unaware I could hit such high notes and her because she honestly hadn't really realized what she was doing.
After I stopped frothing at the mouth and she took that time to consider the valid, albeit high pitched question, we discussed. At length. Eventually we came to the conclusion that humans are spiteful crappy little creatures and the joy of "I know something you don't know" goes back to elementary school days. Parents 'in the know' just loooooooooove to wave their knowingness over the heads of the newly knocked up Bambis wandering in the woods of What The Hell is Happening to My Body and My Life.
But the largest part of it is simply carrying on a tradition. It's just want you DO. People did it to me before I joined the club of parenthood, so now I'm doing it to others. You are a pledge asking for membership in the Frat o' Parent, and you gotta EARN it - *I* sure had to, is the mindset. In short, it's Hazing.
Well, the tradition dies here. Even though I've earned the right to scare the bejeebers out of anyone with a fetus, I'm going to pass. I REALLY did not enjoy being on the receiving end of this hazing process, so now that I've crossed over, I am going to officially turn in my pledge paddle and tell the truth about what happens on the Other Side. Or at least whats happening to me. YMMV. I may get drummed out of mommy's club, but what the hell. I have the stretch marks to prove membership so Nyah. So on the the debunking!

TALE OF TERROR #1 - "You will never sleep again!" - This is sooooo totally untrue! I sleep all the TIME! I sleep in my bed at night, I sleep sitting on the sofa with the TV on, I sleep sitting bolt upright in a nursing chair with a child on my boob, I even sleep in the front row of a meeting while the president of my company presents not 3 feet from me! I am a sleeping MACHINE! Now if what they meant was, you'll not get a good nights sleep for anywhere from 3 - 30 months, then that is, in fact in my experience, extremely accurate.

TALE OF TERROR #2 - "Putting your child in daycare will the the single most emotionally traumatizing experience of your life" - OK this one I'm just calling Bullsh*t on. I'm sure that, societally speaking, it's SUPPOSED to be, but seriously, F that. I love my child. I even love her with that creepy not-quite-sane, throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-truck-to-save-her, hormonal, atavistic brain-stem-level kinda love. But after having cared for this child 24/7 for 3 months straight, handing her over to licensed, regulated, highly competent, professional childcare experts for a few hours was a tiny little slice of heaven. You know that classic labor joke? "nothing's fun for 15 hours straight!". If that's true, sure as hell nothing is fun for 2.160 hours straight. I don't think breathing a sigh of relief when someone comes in to help you out makes you a cold hearted Mommy Dearest. It just makes you human. Now granted, I was really happy to see her again at the end of those few hours, but I will not need years of therapy to get over having handed her over to caring and competent carefully screened professionals in the first place. Pfft on that.

TALE OF TERROR #3 - "You won't go out in public until your child is in kindergarten, if then - and forget about eating out again EVER" - This is doo. We've eaten out at least once a week ever since the Infant was cleared for public exposure (2 month shots). Now before I go any further, let me just cut the flaming off at the pass, I *know* that this is highly Infant disposition dependent. At least I know that *now* - back when I was sitting at the feet of the parental sages, as far as I knew, we would NEVER EAT OUT AGAIN. The BS here is that no one tells you that, actually, some babies don't give a flying monkey where you take them, and they are perfectly content to snooze away in a car seat in a back seat as they are in a car seat in ringside and the Loud and Boisterous Circus of Light and Sound. But since we're told it's IMPOSSIBLE everyone is afraid to even try.
We, being parental daredevils with a high tolerance for risk, tried. And since we happen to have a child who's not a recreational screamer (she's more of a needs based screamer. If she needs something, she screams, otherwise she's cool.),we go out to eat. Sometimes she's awake, mostly she's asleep, and once we had to get our food to go, but we knew we were rolling the dice by going out near bedtime for her. I'm here to tell you it's possible people. Her willingness varies wildly from day to day, hour to hour, and I expect, age by age, but you gotta give it a shot. There's no reason to write off sitting down at a table not covered in unpaid bills, and allowing others to bring you food they cooked for you.
The sleep though? That you can just kiss goodbye.

"But I don't WANNA!" as guest blogged by my inner 2-year old...

I am in a MOOD today. Partially sleep deprivation fueled, I'll admit. The more tired I am, the more years I shave off of my age, behavior-wise. For example, when I'm a little tired, I'm very likely to find jokes a 12 year old would make funny. When I'm very tired I start to act like a 2 year old, stomping around and saying I don't wanna and being generally self-centered, contrarian and illogical. If I'm completely exhausted beyond reason, I revert to being a 3 month old and just cry til someone feeds me and/or puts me to bed. Since I got 2 chunks of 3 hours of sleep last night, I'm merely 2 today. This means pretty much nearly anything you can name, I don't wanna.
For example, I've joined a weight loss challenge. Another of my Don't Wannas is that I don't wanna have to wear only my pregnancy clothes for the next 4 years of my life. While they fit, in so far as I can squeeze my a$$ into them, they are designed to show off your lovely life-filled belly. Except that my belly is filled exclusively with ice cream sandwiches and ding dongs, so really, not something I want to call attention to. Don't REALLY have a choice however, since I can't fit into and/or find any of my other clothes. Clearly losing weight is the best thing to do, and to do that, one must exercise and cut calories - except... I don't wanna! So I stomp about and sulk every morning when I have to squeeze into my preggers pants, or my non-knocked-up shirt is tight enough to accent my backfat, bitter that I'm not losing weight while eating fried cheese sticks. Logic is not the stronghold of the toddler, clearly.
And as if this self-induced drama doesn't start my morning with a song, my next step is a visit to Chez Bebe aka the baby kennel. Frankly, handing my child over to daycare everyday in order to walk across the street to spend 8 hours doing totally uninteresting stuff, sucks. I'm sort of between projects since I'm transitioning back on, and between projects translates into 'doing wicked boring stuff '. In short, work isn't challenging or interesting or inspiring or really anything other than an annoying timesuck at the moment. And since I am running on roughly a 14 hour time deficit per day, anything that sucks my time bugs the everliving crap out of me. (Although, to be fair, in my current mood, anything, regardless of its time suckness is likely to bug the everliving crap out of me. Remember, I'm 2 and cranky.) If things were marginally more entertaining here in the office there is the outside chance of an attitude shift. But likely the only real source of a better mood lies in sleep, and lots of it.
Even writing about it makes me want to just walk out of here go across the street, snatch my child up and go home, except ... really, I don't wanna do that either!
If I go home, I need to wade through the drift of dirty socks and newspapers that has accumulated around the corners of my house, and try to avoid knocking over the giant pile of unsorted unopened mail, chockablock with unpaid bills in pink envelopes. This could all be taken care of if I just spent a little time cleaning/sorting/billpaying except, well, nobody wants to do that, regardless of how well rested they are or how much time they have on their hands. Anyone who tells you they like cleaning is off their meds. Period.
Plus, when it comes to snatching up the child, honestly? I'm a little tired of being a mommy. At least for this week. I mean, I love my child and all, and with that blind hormonal nearly deranged kinda mommylove, but I've had to be a mommy a LOT recently. Like 24 hours a day. For 3 months straight. That's a lot of non-stop mommying. While leaving the Infant at daycare is a minor heartbreak every single time, it also is a brief break from hands-on child rearing, which is kinda nice occasionally. Using that break to schedule meeting rooms for analytic tool training, however, is not improving my mood. Using it to sit beside the pool, drink something girl-y, preferably with an umbrella, and read an entertaining yet non-taxing book, however, THAT I wanna! But no such luck.
So until such time as I am able to lose weight without dieting or working out, and am able to be a mommy whenever I want and take a break whenever I need, and am able to be inspired by work every day but able to walk away to play with my infant at will, and elves come in the night to clean my house, I will likely remain in a state of toddler tantruminess. Or until I get some sleep - whichever comes first. My money is on the elves.