Thursday, February 19, 2009

Last night, Jacob slept from 3:30 until 8:00 with nary a wiggle. It was fabulous. We won't discuss how many times he was up prior to 3:30, as it seriously steals my thunder. What we will discuss, albeit minimally, is the one factor that I neglected to mention in my Rant about my baby who never sleeps: MY NEIGHBORS.

Neighbors = the only people who use my doorstep who do not respect the cute little sign hanging on my door, "Shhhhh. Babies sleeping. Thank you!" Never mind the fact that they walk past that sign every blasted day. Also never mind the fact that THEY ARE THE REASON FOR THE SIGN. Anyway, I mention this because, surely there are a number of factors at play with Jacob's sleep problems; however, I do not believe it to be a coincidence that every single time they stomp up the stairs and slam the door (which, really is every. single. time. they come in and out) my Jacob wakes up crying within five minutes.

Side note: out of the eight townhomes in our little complex, we are the ONLY ONES who share a step. I find this to be supremely unfair and believe that this is the primary reason that my husband should just buy me a house so we can just move already!

Side note to the side note: we'll be discussing the topic of moving shortly.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

In Which I Use Far Too Many Caps And Still Solve Nothing.

Lately I've found myself wondering what in the world I did when I used to sleep. For the life of me, I can't figure it out. I imagine that I had all sorts of energy all the time, that I woke up refreshed in the mornings and ready to Take On The Day! I know that wasn't the case, and so I suppose I should be impressed with myself that I can get up four times throughout the night (yes, FOUR) and still be a perfectly functional, relatively stable, energetic person. So that's nice. Less than one paragraph and we have already established my awesomeness. What we have yet to establish is WHY IN THE WORLD I'M UP FOUR TIMES EVERY NIGHT.

The answer? I don't know and it's driving me CRAZY. What I do know is that when Christopher was this age he was sleeping through the night. And we're not talking about the Baby Book Definition here. This is no five-hour stretch of sleep. We're speaking of down at seven, up at seven. That's right. TWELVE HOURS of blissful sleep. It was also at that time that I realized, albeit reluctantly, that a baby who sleeps for TWELVE HOURS STRAIGHT does not need to go down a mere two hours later for a morning nap. This was a hard realization for me to accept, but I eventually caught on, we gave up the morning nap, and life was wonderful. Surprisingly, I did not miss the morning nap nearly as much as I expected that I would. Especially considering that it made the afternoon nap stretch from two hours to three. Boy did that make for some blissful afternoons. Still does, actually.

Let's make something clear right here - I am not one to compare babies. I don't like it, it bothers me when I actually DO it, and I am harshly judgmental of those who compare my babies to other peoples' or other peoples' babies to other peoples' babies. You know what I mean. It really fries my bacon even when, in the comparisons, my babies come out on top. (Which they always do because the only people I ever hang out with are family and they are obligated to believe that my children are far superior to others). That said, I can't help but ask my darling little Jacob why he can't just sleep like his brother did! WHY, JACOB, WHY?

It's getting to the point where I can feel myself turning into Bad Lifetime Movie Mom - the one who can't handle the pressure of being a mom and who just wants to stand up in a huff, stomp into whatever room ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING is inhabiting, and pass him off so I can just be done with the whole thing. Not the whole mom thing, of course, but the whole nursing, rocking, bouncing, singing, burping, nursing, bouncing, nursing, pacifier giving, humming, JUST GO TO SLEEP ALREADY thing.

The exhaustion of the past few weeks, dealing with Grandma's funeral, cleaning out her house, sorting through this that and the other thing, ON TOP OF the Great Sleep Boycott has pushed me just far enough that I can't even manage to sit and rock him anymore. There have been a number of nights when I've given up and carted him back into my room with me where, of course, he sleeps for hours on end with nary a single peep. That came to an abrupt stop, though, the morning I woke up to find my pillow completely covering his face.

Bad mom of the year award? Anyone?

We've diagnosed the problem - at least part of it - as teething. The fact that his upper gums look like they're pulled taut over a string of pearls leads me to believe that he's got some serious pressure in there. Another thing that we can compare against Christopher, my child who drooled like a Saint Bernard, but never let out a single peep over any emerging teeth. I've never seen Jakie drool, really EVER, and yet the emergence of the two bottom teeth that he does have disrupted our lives something fierce. That being said, I feel so guilty letting him cry for even a few minutes because I really think that we're dealing with more here than a baby who is, as of yet, unable to settle himself back down after he's woken up. If he's in pain (which, can I just say? Our first pediatrician tried to convince me was a myth. A MYTH. No doctor, I don't imagine it WOULD hurt if sharp-edged square pieces of enamel were protruding through my baby-fine flesh. Whatsoever would make anyone think THAT?) Anyway, if he's in pain, then I can't just leave him in his dark room to suffer alone.

So pray, PLEASE PRAY, that those teeth will come in and we can be done with this. And when they do? Well then you can stay tuned for the adventures of nursing a biter. Because BOY DOES HE LIKE TO DO THAT. And once he's got TWO rows of teeth? It'll all be down hill from there.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Dear Blogger, Why Do You Hate Me?

Seriously. More to come. If the hosting site will opt to actually PUBLISH MY POSTS.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Makes You Want To Hold Your Husband Close.

Devastating news in blogville today, which you may already know if you have followed any of the Catholic blogs linked to the right. Please keep this family in your prayers.

Monday, February 2, 2009

To Whom It May Concern

You know that place where exhausted meets anxious meets mourning meets reminiscing meets laughing, crying, yelling and pouting all at the same time?

I am so standing on that red dot. (If you don't have that commercial in your country, then my apologies.)

At any rate, in my world, that place is called "Just Tired." And when you're Just Tired, at least this time, judgmental is the name of the game. And so, I present you with a small sampling of those things that have incurred my wrath over the past week and a half.


I read Emily's post this morning, and while my first response was, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD, WOMAN!" I did consider just wiping out this post. EVERY SENTENCE was one-hundred percent how I feel...and yet, I have to say it all again because it's just that important to me.

It has recently occurred to me that nearly every show I watch on HG is EXACTLY THE SAME. I don't know how this has gone by unnoticed for the past three years of my viewing pleasure, but it has. Until now. It is only now that I realize that whether I'm watching Property Virgins, My First Place, House Hunters, or....well, does it really matter if I know the name or not? Just give me three options and a choice and I've got the rubric for every single half hour of air time. I complain about this every time I watch this channel, and yet I suppose I'm just one of those people who prefers to be miserable, as it has not yet effected any change in my television watching behavior.

Can I say, though, that I have to FORCE MYSELF to be nice inside of my head while watching these shows. It's getting to the point where I think I'm racking up some serious Purgatory time while I'm criticizing all of these innocent people. And yet, are they REALLY that innocent? Anyone who is willing to put their ridiculous selves on national TV is fair game, in my opinion. And thus we get to last night's critique, which goes a little like this:

Dear Guy On The Stagers,
Knee-length man shorts, white oxford shirts, and skinny ties do not a professional look make. Okay? So put on some real clothes, start acting like a professional, and get a blasted haircut. Much obliged.

Do you SEE why I need to go to Confession? Nearly EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Can I also say, while we're on the topic, that the injustice of what I call the HG Situation is becoming more than I can bear. Seriously. Seriously! Am I the only one who feels that the people on those shows have absolutely NO TASTE WHATSOEVER? I'm sorry, but I find it supremely unfair that these people with such ridiculously bad taste own (or are buying) their very own homes while people like myself (who, naturally, have incredibly good taste) are stuck renting apartments with carpet that is so dirty that I am left to wonder why I have a floor at all.
Kipper. Kipper the Dog. (The Dog With The Slipper.)

The other day while my family was lounging in front of the TV (So what. You know you watch a lot of TV too.) Christopher was happily watching one of his favorite shows which, on this day, was featuring a little piggy bank that was floating along on a magic carpet. (Don't ask. I don't know.) My little one, who had recently discovered hippos, was thrilled to see what he thought was a hippo on this happy little carpet. "Hippo! Mommy! Hippo!" The fact that I was lounging along with everyone else should lead the reader to understand that I was too tired to be doing anything else, and thus, severely disinterested in explaining the difference between a hippo and a pig to this little person who could clearly Care Less. As I half-heartedly pondered the value of making clear this distinction, the little piggy fell off of the magic carpet and rolled down a little sandy hill, to be met by an alien who is just popping out of his groundhog hole. (Again. I DON'T KNOW.) Instantly, the jubilant "Mommy! Hippo!" turned into my little boy backing away from the TV, pressing himself into my chest, with TEARS POURING FROM HIS EYES, screaming, "OH NO! MOMMY! HIPPO! NOOOO!" I had no idea that my heart could break over a cartoon. But it did.

Dear Kipper,
I love you. I think you're a cute little hound dog, and I'm especially partial to your British accent. Your theme song is catchy, and I find it precious that you carry around a slobbery little slipper. But, I would ask that in the future you might want to refrain from SCARING SMALL CHILDREN with your magic carpet-riding, alien-meeting hippo shaped piggy banks. Much obliged.

Oh Man. I Was Just Getting Ready To Say Something Nice....

I am incredibly saddened by the disappointment that is rapidly becoming this year's Westminster Dog Show. It was only a few minutes ago, now, that the most beautiful English Bulldog plodded up and down that green carpet. "English Bulldog Number 7." GORGEOUS. But did he win his group? Better yet, has ANY GOOD DOG AT ALL won yet tonight? NO. What a waste of an ice-cream laden evening. If you think me overly dramatic, then clearly you do not know of the joy that Dog Show Night brings to the Troy Family. It really is our favorite night of the year. Christmas? Too crazy. Valentine's Day? Are you kidding? We don't do Valentine's day. Birthdays? Too. Well, okay. It's tied with my birthday, I suppose. Because, you know, I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY. Seriously. We look forward to the Dog Show with the anticipation of a child awaiting the tooth fairy. And thus far, NO BUENO.
Granted, watching the dog show also has the ability to send me to Purgatory faster than nearly all other events, what with the skirt-suits, opaque tights, loafers, and general AWFULNESS that characterizes 99% of the handler's wardrobes. This reminds me - did you ever see the What Not To Wear in which there was actually a real live DOG HANDLER receiving the sage advice of Stacy and Clinton? I was THRILLED at the thought that, perhaps just maybe, they would be able to start a trend. My hopes have been dashed. No one listened to them.
Dear Stacy and Clinton,
The Dog Show World needs you. You can easily get an entire New Year's Day Marathon out of the fashion faux pas that is currently prancing around Madison Square Garden.
Just looked up at the TV.