Unfinished, v.2.


When I got pregnant, I had a beautiful image in my head. It was of me and my son, sharing a sleepy morning by giggling softly together on the couch while watching some educational TV. I thought, in my idiotically ideal little fantasy, that during mornings that followed sleepless nights I would simply set the kiddo up with a quiet art project, guiding his tiny hands around a coloring page while sipping coffee until I returned to Perfect Mom Status. I thought we'd even enjoy my post-insomnia haze, maybe make a ritual of Sleepy Sunday or Wiped-Out Wednesday. After all, it’s more than possible to be gentle and loving and kind to your child when completely, ridiculously exhausted, right?
(Here is where the universe smacks me around a bit and says, “HAAAAAAAH!”)

I was awake until 5:30 this morning. First I was awake because I have gotten a little bit behind (my self-imposed, utterly arbitrary) deadline and needed to catch up on some work. Then I was awake because I couldn't stop thinking about all the (self-imposed, utterly arbitrary) work yet to be done. Then I was awake because by 3:00 AM, the sleeplessness is just habit. Not to worry, though! Connor would sleep until 8:30 or 9:00, and that’s almost four hours of sleep! I used to work full-time and then go running on less than that! We will have fun, with the waffles and the art projects and the coffee and the giggling!

Yeah okay. Hi. Have y’all met me? I am the world’s bigest grump by nature. Take away my sleep and add a 7:00 AM wake-up call and… well, it is not pretty. (Also, yes, 7:00. It’s like he knows when I am feeling less than stellar.) At 7:15 I was stumbling about the living room, trying to remember where I’d put the coffee filters, while Connor helpfully yapped on and on about waffles. WHERE ARE THEY, MOMMY. I WANT BREAKFAST WAFFLES. I WANT THEM ON MY PLATE. WHY HAVE THEY NOT BEEN MAGICALLY PRODUCED AT THE INSTANT I AM PREPARED TO RECEIVE THEM, EVEN THOUGH THIS INSTANT OF PREPAREDNESS IS MARKEDLY EARLIER THAN THAT OF PRECEDING MORNINGS.

Here was my (internal, silent) response: SHUT UP. OH GOD, AM WORST MOTHER EVER. HE HAS ONLY BEEN WHINING FOR FIVE MINUTES AND I ALREADY WANT TO SELL HIM TO MONGOLIANS. DO NOT DESERVE USUALLY-CHEERY CHILD. LET’S GO BACK TO BED.

Of course, we did not go back to bed. I made waffles, tried to speak in a pleasant voice, and located the coffee filters. While Connor ate, I racked my brain, trying to think of non-labor-intensive art projects he could do. Drawing was right out, because he'd lost all of his crayons the day before. (Wonderful!) Painting is not something I have yet been brave enough to let him attempt, because oh God, the mess. Some sort of weaving/crocheting/macrame-type thing would KILL HIM WITH THE STRANGLY BITS OF STRING, OH JESUS, AM TERRIBLE MOTHER. Folding up some paper sounded like a great idea, except i

(Ahem.  What you have just witnessed is a half-finished LiveJournal entry that was saved as a private entry for future polishing, then foolishly ported over to WordPress.  No, I’m probably not going to finish it.  You’re welcome.)

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