Thursday, February 14, 2008
How can I be grouchy with this guy?
Happy Valentine's Day, lovebugs! Anybody have plans? I'm planning a big sexy trip to Trader Joe's followed by approximately four hours of laundry. Oh yeah, I knows how to do it up right!
After weeks of dark cloudiness, things finally seem a bit brighter. Could be that the sun is shining for the first time in days or that Will broke into a huge grin when he saw me this morning or it could be the fact that he slept in his car seat for TWO WHOLE HOURS last night. (Thanks to the wisdom of Good Woman Hatchet.) Two hours may not sound like much but compared to 45 minutes it was Manna. He still won't nap independently (if at all) and he has to fall deeply asleep in our arms before we can make the transfer to the car seat but he actually slept. Which means I actually slept. And that, my friends, is what we call progress.
You know, I think that one of the hardest things to come to terms with as a parent is learning to love the child you have versus the child you thought you were going to have. Maybe because the boy I nannied for was such an angel as a baby (napping every 2-3 hours, never crying. Granted he was 7 months old when I started) but I totally expected my child to follow suit. Will is funny and loving (like his pop) and very, very sensitive (like, ahem). He is not, however, a breeze. It's embarrassing to admit that you don't have the child you expected... and that you are not the parent you thought you would be. When I was pregnant I swore I would never become one of those mothers. You know, the ones who always look like they just got done changing the cat litter. Sloppy, anxious, smelling vaguely of vomit and desperation... I promised myself that I wouldn't succumb to the awfulness. I would put my contacts in every day! I would socialize! I would wear makeup, goddammit!
As I sit here, kid attached to my teat (I know I shouldn't nurse him to sleep but he won't nod off and I'm desperate), hair in the same bedraggled ponytail I've worn for months now, I understand how women lose it. Hell, my OB practically threw a prescription for Zoloft at me at my postpartum checkup yesterday. I remember when I was trying to get pregnant I'd listen to women bitch about their babies and I'd want to kill them. I was so desperate to get pregnant, I wanted a child so much, I was sure I'd love every single awful moment of it. And yet I don't. And the guilt? Oh man, the guilt...
Somehow I doubt that Britney grapples with these dilemmas.