Nothin doin

The last two weeks have not been my prettiest. As in you could find me in the middle of the afternoon wearing sad looking Khalili pyjamas (sorry, there's no translation or explanation I can offer here except that they are from Khalil but that doesn't even nearly capture it) with carrot stains, my hair hanging in chunks around my face with old rubberbands caught somewhere in the mix. On these days, I eat anything I can find. I call anyone who might be home, whether I like them or not. I leave long-winded messages on ex-boyfriend's voicemails. I haunt my email. I watch momversations and type inappropriately personal responses then delete them with a choke. And Munch Munch? He knows about these days. These are the days when he says, "Aha, nobody will notice if I just tug the corner of that toilet paper ever so quietly--ooooh, look at that!" And before you know it, there he is under a heaping pile of shredded toilet paper and yes, some of it always makes it into his mouth.

So my excuse is that my husband went to India for nine days. I repeat, nine days. Every single one of those days I understood a little better that attachment parenting is not something one is meant to do alone. Even with copious amounts of support, attachment parenting a high-need infant is emotionally, physically, psychologically taxing but on a day where you are eating cheetos for breakfast and cheesecake for lunch and there is no magical hour ahead where someone who loves you will come home and say "Oh, honey, let me take the baby. You go do something else"--that is a day where I would just as soon be nobody's any-kind of mommy. Then night comes and my long-lashed little boy finally, finally drops off and I sneak away to the living room for some trashy tv and I all I can think of is how lonely it is in the house with no one to sit next to. So an hour later, in clean pyjamas, I end up in bed with my baby again. Those are the days, those are the days I really love my husband.