Poor Me

For the second morning in a row we were awakened by a very unhappy little boy, crying in his crib, rather than babbling cheerily to his comrades, Bear, Bob and Kangaroo. I suppose I'd be crying too (and very nearly was at one point) if I spent the first moments of my day covered in my own poop. As it was I spent the first moments of my day covered in my kid's poop (you can't NOT pick him up.) That's right folks, its diarrhea time in the Small household. Of the explosive variety.

Mama was supposed to get together with some girlfriends and get her hair done and have some well-deserved solo time this weekend. But alas, it was not to be, thanks to the gastrointestinal machinations of her little son. So there was that disappointment. Add to it a lot (a LOT) of smelly laundry, clingy behavior ("Maaaaaaaama, Maaaama, Mamaaaaaa!") and some ill-conceived Facebook stalking (old acquaintances who are single and child-free and living what appear to be seriously glamorous lives) and you get one hot mess of self-pity. I'm not proud of this reaction. I'd like to say I gracefully and nobly decided to stay home with my little intestinally-challenged baby and nurse him back to health but that would be a huge load of crap and really, there's quite enough crap around here already. So I pouted and lashed out at my virtual saint of a husband and just generally acted like a self-indulgent a-hole. Life has a way of slapping one upside the head and forcing one to lighten up and laugh at oneself however.

After going back to sleep for a couple hours after the craptastic morning (right, I know, my life is so hard. Saint Husband hung out with little Mr. Poopypants while Cranky Mommy went back to bed. I KNOW.), I emerged, still out of sorts. Things were beginning to look up as I perused one of my favorite blogs, which had this link: http://www.phdinparenting.com/2011/12/11/toddlers-the-hours-are-long-the-years-are-short-video/#.Tz6oqvk3Yqc


Its a great video, about different moms' experiences with toddlers, a real commiserating, put it in perspective-type thing. So there I am, enjoying the video, sipping my coffee, Max is in my lap, cheery and cuddly, when it happens. Blowout #2 for the day. In my lap. Through my sweatpants. My NICE sweatpants. (Yes, I have nice sweatpants. Shut up.) While I'm watching a video about the trials of parenting a toddler.

Can't make this stuff up people.

I'm not going to end this post with some sappy conclusion about how I wouldn't trade all the poop and crying and "maaaaaama"-ing for anything in the world, because I would. I totally would. I'd trade it for a glamorous carefree existence wherein I get plenty of sleep, have long, delicious dinners at trendy restaurants and scintillating conversation over $60 bottles of wine. I'd trade it for blown-out, shiny hair and a pedicure. The problem is, the poop and the crying and the need are part of Max. And I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.



I'd better go, I think my sweatpants are done drying.