Heiney Eggs

Please stop shoving the eggs under your heiney!!!!  These were literally the first words that came out of my mouth this morning. 

I am awake, it’s just after 6 am and I’m pleading  with a one year old to stop shoving fistfuls of scrambled eggs between his butt and the high chair.  Why??  Why does he do that?  Why do I have to say those words outloud???  It’s like some weird primal foraging thing.  Like he’s hiding them from predators.  Like other sleepless one year olds that might show up in our kitchen and pilfer his eggs from right in front of him.  They are SO obviously safer under his heiney. 

And coffee would make this so much better….if only I could drink it….which I could if I wasn’t pregnant with our second.  Our second little bundle of joy, due to arrive in July when Sam will be only 17 months.  And no, this was not an accident.  We did this on purpose.  It was before Sam could crawl or even roll over.  I didn’t know.  I DIDN’T KNOW!!!!

I watched Oprah today about secrets that mothers don’t talk about.  It was about the things that we think as mothers that we’re scared to admit to other people.  The things that we do that we would never admit.  I wondered out loud if any of those mothers had gone shopping for a couch today with a KIX stuck to their rear end.  “Shopping” is actually a generous term for the 10 minutes we spent in the furniture store before Sam decided we were done.  At least I didn’t find the little cereal nugget until we had left the store.   At least then I could only be mortified about how I hadn’t showered, put on make up or even clean clothes….not because I was walking around with food stuck to my rear like some kind of bloated pregnant piñata busting open.

I was quickly distracted from that little drama when I walked outside and realized that I had left the lift gate of the mini van up.  Yep, there was my car, sitting in the pouring rain in the parking lot with the lift gate wide open like it was saluting the other cars.  As if to say "yes fellow cars, I know she's an idoiot...but she doesn't get much sleep"  Ooops.

After protesting his afternoon nap for 45 minutes Sam and I are back downstairs.  These are the things they don’t tell you, Oprah.  They don’t tell you things like you will never sleep again.  You will absolutely NEVER sleep again.  Your one year old will STILL not sleep through the night.  And every single little tooth that comes in will make you want to wring the tooth fairy’s neck because it will make your child wake up 5 times a night.  Oh my god, I’m yelling at the TV.  And waving my hands.  And Sam is laughing.  I have turned into a total lunatic.

But for real, for extra income (maybe to pay for a babysitter) I often contemplate contracting Sam to the CIA.  They could use him to torture prisioners of war.   They can shut down Guantanamo and use my house for their operations.  Just bring them in and see how long they can function on the amount of sleep that Sammy allows.  And if we’re in the middle of a good tooth…they will be sobbing and spilling national secrets in a matter of days!

 

I didn’t start this blog to complain.  I started because I thought Oprah was right.  Even though there is a big part of me that is so annoyed by her patronizing “understanding” of the topic when she doesn’t have kids.  There are a lot of things they don’t tell you.  And they don’t tell you because they can’t….you wouldn’t believe them.  Just like I would have never believed how many times I would lift my face towards the sky (or ceiling) and yell…IS THIS FOR REAL!?!?! This is a picture of what my house looked like while I was attempting to watch Oprah, fold laundry and keep Sam out of harms way this afternoon.  In fact, this is what our house looks like everyday.

But for now, as I’m just finishing this up, I’m watching Sam shove beef stroganoff under his heiney and crack himself up as he does.  He must think he's so clever.