Drive by my house in the middle of the night in your piece of shit car with the stereo blaring so loudly that it sounds like someone is banging on my front door.
I love it when you do that.
I have noticed, well since we rescued Bocephus from the pound, that he doesn’t just lay down. He sprawls, or splays, or curls…well, you get the idea. He has the strangest positions and locations. So, in honor of my boy I will begin a new recurring post that will include a picture of his various naptime choices.
Here we go.
Believe it or not this is one of his “go-to” positions. He likes to prop his head up on various household items and nod off. His eyes popped open in response to the camera, after the shot he simply grunted at me and fell back to sleep.
Alright. 6 weeks ago I gave birth. I am already down to my pre-baby weight. Yay. Not. I wasn’t happy with that weight then, and I’m not happy with it now. Now I feel fat plus I smell like spit-up. I can only wear my hair in a pony tail or Cooper will yank it out, I have one pair of jeans that fit (I refuse to buy more since I will be much smaller soon so I don’t want to waste the money), I have to wear my glasses because I have a recurring sty and I’m running out of clean nursing bras.
Forgive me if I don’t feel sexy.
So, I’m getting started while I’m still breastfeeding since it’s much easier to lose weight at this time. After I had Madison I got right back down to size but then gained it back, pretty much just in one year, the year after we got married. Hmmm, related, yeah.
Here’s the data. I can’t believe I’m sharing this.
Right before delivery: 188
Right before delivery: 187
My goal is a healthy 135. Stop laughing. It’s on! I tried to workout today, first I started pilates and I spent 10 minutes wrestling with Bocephus for floor space then Cooper started to wake up from his nap crying. Then I started to get on the elliptical later on and the phone rang and then Cooper woke up from his nap. Then I gave up and Madison asked me why my sneakers were next to the recliner.
We brought a baby home six weeks ago and Bocephus couldn’t care less. The night we brought him home (it was night because the on-call pediatrician that was supposed to check us out at noon didn’t show up till 8pm in his cross-country ski gear claiming he had been…busy…right.), I digress, he approached the car seat, gave it a sniff, realized it wasn’t a treat and he went back to bed.
I mean, come on! I was expecting something, a little jealousy a little face licking, something! Nothin’. If we’re holding Cooper, Bocephus will sniff us, sniff him and go about his business. It’s when we’re not holding Cooper that he takes the opportunity to berate us for attention. He’s pretty much saying, “Hey, you’re not holding the small one, the medium one is done crawling all over me so now you better pet my damn head or I’m going to stand here all night”, and he will, don’t think he’s bluffing.
If I leave with Cooper as soon as I return Bocephus is re-sniffing him and the car seat, like I’m trying to smuggle contraband into prison. He won’t do anything until I put the carseat down so he can sniff all over it and make me crazy. Sometimes I’ll hold the carseat a little longer than comfortable just to make him squirm. Don’t do this to a real prison guard, they don’t like that.
Any blanket that Cooper has been laying on the floor with Bocephus has to lay on it too, sometimes he’ll sneak his head or a paw on it while Cooper is still there but once I pick him up Bocephus takes over. Then I have to snatch it up and lint-roll the hair off. Okay, I hardly have time to lint-roll baby blankets people! It’s fine. Really.
So, this is all good right? I have a well-adjusted dog, a well-adjusted 6-year old…now to have a well-adjusted husband.
This post dedicated to Rodney Long. He hasn’t spoken to me lately, I can only assume it’s because I have posted about Bocephus recently. So, here you go. Happy Birthday. Merry Christmas.
Yesterday Haiti suffered a 7.0 magnitude earthquake and is in dire need. My household is currently unemployed and we have no funds to assist and can’t travel to help either, so here are some ways that you can help.
You know, because I have a million viewers and you will all select a link and donate some of your excess money. I know you have it, I know you do. Do it. Click it. Now.
You know what I would love for you to do?
Sit in silence with me for hours then when the phone rings and I answer and become involved in conversation, at that moment I want you to start talking to me and don’t forget to ask me a question.
Mmmm. I love it when you do that.
That’s right. I have a sty. On my left eye, upper eyelid. This on the day after my cuticle debacle. The pain. It’s all puffy and red and painful.
Yes. I am complaining.
There are people all over this world that are starving and are in serious, dangerous pain and here I am bitching about an infected cuticle and a sty. Sorry Mom. Sorry God.
The pain! I blink and my eye tears up. I can only imagine that it will wait until maximum capacity to drain, when I am in a public place and I will have sty goo dripping down my face and Cooper will be crying to be fed and Madison will need to know when we are going to Disneyland, my phone will ring and when I answer Joe will decide that right now is the time that he needs to ask me a complex question.
By the way, I removed my cuticle band-aid and there was a little bit of puss goo.
I have a very serious ailment.
For a reason that I cannot explain, yesterday I grabbed my cuticle on the side of my pinkie nail with my teeth and ripped it down to the quick.
Then I shot myself in the foot. Well, I wish I had because at least then I would have something else to focus on besides this radiating pain in my pinkie finger.
First thing this morning I put a band-aid around the tip of my pinkie to buffer it from flying objects and hammers. Didn’t matter, anything that could hit it, smack it, slam it, brush past it, wink at it, did and good God did my eyes bleed every time. This thing has a heartbeat. I know that I sound like I’m whining. It’s because I am, I am whining about my poor pinkie finger.
I’m a whiner. No shame.
Joe scoffed that it couldn’t possibly be that bad, that people must just handle pain differently. He said that to me, to a woman who just five weeks ago birthed a child out of her vagina. Yeah, we all just handle pain differently. Right. If my finger looked how it felt it would be the size of an apple and be oozing puss.
I’m contemplating breaking the finger just to get some relief. I’m secretly hoping that when I do remove the band-aid (next year) that there is puss, then I will feel justified.
Yes, that was me just hoping for a pussed up, infected cuticle just so I could feel justified in all my whining.
Like I said, no shame.