February 3, 2010
It's 5:18 in the morning, and I'm importing this note from Facebook. At this time of day, typos and misspellings and whatnot are par for the course. Please note, this post could have so many titles. Examples include, but are not limited to:
I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.
I don't care how perfect you pretend to be, if you've had a baby I KNOW you can relate to this.
The World Series Pitch vs. The World Class Bitch
or
Perhaps we could use a night of uninterrupted sleep.
And, without further ado...
It's 3:33 am, and here I sit, typing away on Facebook. You're probably thinking, "Aw, poor girl, she's got an infant and can't get any sleep tonight. Must be so hard being the mother of a baby."
Well stop right there, because this has NOTHING to do with Maggie. This, my friends, the fact that I'm locked out of my room and awake on the couch is the work of one Jared Lawson. Jared freaking Lawson--the man whose name I voluntarily took seven-and-a-half long years ago.
My husband and I? We have an arrangement. Our almost four-month-old daughter sleeps in a co-sleeper on Jared's side of the bed. When Maggie cries in the night, Jared picks her up and hands her to me. I feed the baby, and when she's finished, I hand her back to Jared. He burps her, re-swaddles her, and lays her back down. 99.9% of the time, she falls back to sleep without any problem whatsoever.
I should note, there is no arrangement for handling poops.
I know what you're thinking, because the vast majority of nights, I feel the exact same way: "Wow! The baby sleeps on Jared's side of the bed? Wow! He wakes up just to burp her and swaddle her? Someone give that man a trophy!"
I know. It's [usually] great. I [usually] agree. And 115 out of 116 nights, I don't end up with poop in my eye.
I'd like to point out that we have this sleeping arrangement for a number of reasons:
1. The co-sleeper doesn't fit on my side of the bed.
2. Jared doesn't want to switch sides of the bed.
3. I don't want to move the nightstand away from my side of the bed to make the co-sleeper fit.
It's all very technical. Or at least it seems that way at--what time is it?--3:48 in the morning.
Also, I work. We both do. And honestly, right now, we both work hard.
Jared pulls about fifty hours a week between two chiropractic offices--one belongs to him, and one is out of town and belongs to someone else. He works every Saturday, he doesn't have two days off in a row, and a lot of times he doesn't come home until 7:30 at night. Such is the life of a new business owner I suppose.
I, on the other hand, am contracted to work twenty-or-so hours a week. I work sixteen hours from home, six hours out of an office, and my meeting schedule is all over the map--had one yesterday at 7 in the morning, have one tonight at 6. It's super flexible, Maggie stays with me almost all the time, and I know full well that I happen to be living every American woman's dream of proverbaly having it all.
I am, in no way, shape, or form complaining about either of our jobs. On the Official Awesome Scale of 1-10, our life ranks somewhere around a 13. I'm only pointing out one thing: We both work hard.
Jared starts his day by dropping our dilly-dally-dawdling four-and-a-half-year-old son off at school and ends his day by putting him to bed--a routine that makes me want to put my head through the plaster wall. And for that, Jared will always be Super Dad in my eyes.
I do a combination of nursing, pick-up/drop-off, cooking, discipline, four-year-old entertaining, and trying to act poised and professional every time my cell phone rings. Yesterday I pooped while I was taking a business call and inadvertantly flushed while I was discussing TIFs with a local administrator. Maybe I need a lesson in humility, but I just can't hesitate to call myself Super Mom. Especially not at--what time is it now?--4:15 in the morning.
So, those are just details really. The only line you need to be concerned with at this point is the one up there that reads, "There is no arrangement for handling poops."
I guess I could have phrased it like this: "When Maggie poops in the night, all hell breaks loose for the Lawsons," but I'll get to that in just a minute.
Tonight, after I fed Maggie and after Jared burped her, she wouldn't fall back to sleep. She fussed and whined and moaned until my husband put two and two together in his very foggy haze. Maggie had a poop in her pants.
He turned to me and said, "She's poopy. You need to change her."
And I said, "Can't you do it Jared? I just fed her."
And he said, "Why can't you do it?"
And I said, "Why can't YOU do it?"
No response.
So I said, "Jared? Will you change Maggie?"
And he said, "No."
That my friends, is the very moment that the figurative sh!t hit the figurative fan. It was roughly ten minutes later when the literal sh!t hit my literal eye. But we'll get to that when the time is right.
After a few more nags, and a few more resounding NO!s from Jared, I got up, stomped to the light, flipped it on, and said, no I growled, something that I can't recall. But rest assured, it had a very martyrish theme.
If I had to guess, it was something along the lines of, "FINE! I'LL CHANGE HER EVEN THOUGH I HAVE TO WORK IN THE MORNING, MEET YOU FOR A FREAKING MARKETING MEETING AT NOON, GO TO A PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE AT ONE, WORK UNTIL FOUR, GET JAMES FROM KELLY'S HOUSE, MAKE DINNER, AND GO TO A NIGHT MEETING FROM SIX UNTIL EIGHT!!!! FINE!!!! THAT'S FAIR!!!!! FINE!!!!!"
Then I stomped out of the room, got a diaper, came back, and changed a very smily baby. Actually, it might have been the second time she's ever laughed, but let me tell you, I was too pissed-off to notice.
Meanwhile, Jared had worked his way upstairs to the guestroom (which will double as Maggie's room when she starts sleeping throught the night), and was pretending to sleep in the double bed. I walked in, put Maggie in her crib, turned on my heels and walked out.
The next five minutes were filled with nasty comments, venomous spit, negitive digs about one another's character, general rage, and so-on and so-forth. It's hard to remember, after all, it's--let's see--4:34 in the morning.
And trust me, I have no doubt that Jared would have done one of those attitudey snaps in my face if he hadn't been wearing a pair of stretchy gloves. That's right, let me proclaim it to the world this very moment...JARED LAWSON WEARS GLOVES TO BED TO MAINTAIN SOFT AND SILKY HANDS.
(Side Note: It really works. Just slather on some thing lotion, wear some gloves to bed, and wake up with hands like the ass of an angel.)
Ultimately, the situation came to a peak when Jared was locked in our bedroom, I was standing in the hallway holding a still-smiling Maggie, and I was blabbring on about how if he didn't open the door I'd probably let Maggie sleep right there in the hallway (never would have done it people, the claim was made purely for the sake of drama). And then, in my half sleepy state, I made the very-irrational-but-middle-of-the-night choice to turn around and kick the door with my heel. Like a donkey. Or an ass. Whatever you might want to call it.
I'm not sure if I was trying to prevent Jared from sleeping, break down the door so I could get back to my high thread-count sheets, erase all peace in his life, or all of the above. All I know is that my act of mule-kicking the closed bedroom door pushed my husband clear over the line and straight into crazy land.
The bedroom door swung open on its hinges, and there stood Jared--teeth gritted, glovies on, wearing nothing but his super droopy underpants. He took a step back, and suddenly, I wasn't looking into the eyes of a rational, 150-pound, silky-handed chiropractor any longer. I was staring straight into the face of diablo.
He quietly took Maggie, laid her in the co-sleeper, and promptly resumed the stare-down. Then, without any warning whatsoever, Jared's expression changed from that of the devil, to a face I've only seen on the "Jared Lawson, Superstar!" baseball card in his childhood scrapbook--it was his pitching face.
My husband wound up a la Pedro Martinez--high knee thing and all--and lobbed that poopy diaper straight into my right eye. His accuracy was remarkable. In fact, I believe I can attest to his aim with a scratched cornea as a result of the velcro-like tab.
He wordlessly closed the door. And I stood silently in the hallway, flaberghasted, wearing a perfect ring of yellow baby poo around my eye.
But can I tell you the craziest part of this whole story? It was 3 o'clock in the morning, so IT ALL MADE PERFECT SENSE!
Now, at--hmmm, let's see--5:05 in the morning, on the couch, wide awake, I have to admit, it still makes all the sense in the world. Let me put it this way:
Jared should have changed that diaper.
The End.
It's 5:18 in the morning, and I'm importing this note from Facebook. At this time of day, typos and misspellings and whatnot are par for the course. Please note, this post could have so many titles. Examples include, but are not limited to:
I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.
I don't care how perfect you pretend to be, if you've had a baby I KNOW you can relate to this.
The World Series Pitch vs. The World Class Bitch
or
Perhaps we could use a night of uninterrupted sleep.
And, without further ado...
It's 3:33 am, and here I sit, typing away on Facebook. You're probably thinking, "Aw, poor girl, she's got an infant and can't get any sleep tonight. Must be so hard being the mother of a baby."
Well stop right there, because this has NOTHING to do with Maggie. This, my friends, the fact that I'm locked out of my room and awake on the couch is the work of one Jared Lawson. Jared freaking Lawson--the man whose name I voluntarily took seven-and-a-half long years ago.
My husband and I? We have an arrangement. Our almost four-month-old daughter sleeps in a co-sleeper on Jared's side of the bed. When Maggie cries in the night, Jared picks her up and hands her to me. I feed the baby, and when she's finished, I hand her back to Jared. He burps her, re-swaddles her, and lays her back down. 99.9% of the time, she falls back to sleep without any problem whatsoever.
I should note, there is no arrangement for handling poops.
I know what you're thinking, because the vast majority of nights, I feel the exact same way: "Wow! The baby sleeps on Jared's side of the bed? Wow! He wakes up just to burp her and swaddle her? Someone give that man a trophy!"
I know. It's [usually] great. I [usually] agree. And 115 out of 116 nights, I don't end up with poop in my eye.
I'd like to point out that we have this sleeping arrangement for a number of reasons:
1. The co-sleeper doesn't fit on my side of the bed.
2. Jared doesn't want to switch sides of the bed.
3. I don't want to move the nightstand away from my side of the bed to make the co-sleeper fit.
It's all very technical. Or at least it seems that way at--what time is it?--3:48 in the morning.
Also, I work. We both do. And honestly, right now, we both work hard.
Jared pulls about fifty hours a week between two chiropractic offices--one belongs to him, and one is out of town and belongs to someone else. He works every Saturday, he doesn't have two days off in a row, and a lot of times he doesn't come home until 7:30 at night. Such is the life of a new business owner I suppose.
I, on the other hand, am contracted to work twenty-or-so hours a week. I work sixteen hours from home, six hours out of an office, and my meeting schedule is all over the map--had one yesterday at 7 in the morning, have one tonight at 6. It's super flexible, Maggie stays with me almost all the time, and I know full well that I happen to be living every American woman's dream of proverbaly having it all.
I am, in no way, shape, or form complaining about either of our jobs. On the Official Awesome Scale of 1-10, our life ranks somewhere around a 13. I'm only pointing out one thing: We both work hard.
Jared starts his day by dropping our dilly-dally-dawdling four-and-a-half-year-old son off at school and ends his day by putting him to bed--a routine that makes me want to put my head through the plaster wall. And for that, Jared will always be Super Dad in my eyes.
I do a combination of nursing, pick-up/drop-off, cooking, discipline, four-year-old entertaining, and trying to act poised and professional every time my cell phone rings. Yesterday I pooped while I was taking a business call and inadvertantly flushed while I was discussing TIFs with a local administrator. Maybe I need a lesson in humility, but I just can't hesitate to call myself Super Mom. Especially not at--what time is it now?--4:15 in the morning.
So, those are just details really. The only line you need to be concerned with at this point is the one up there that reads, "There is no arrangement for handling poops."
I guess I could have phrased it like this: "When Maggie poops in the night, all hell breaks loose for the Lawsons," but I'll get to that in just a minute.
Tonight, after I fed Maggie and after Jared burped her, she wouldn't fall back to sleep. She fussed and whined and moaned until my husband put two and two together in his very foggy haze. Maggie had a poop in her pants.
He turned to me and said, "She's poopy. You need to change her."
And I said, "Can't you do it Jared? I just fed her."
And he said, "Why can't you do it?"
And I said, "Why can't YOU do it?"
No response.
So I said, "Jared? Will you change Maggie?"
And he said, "No."
That my friends, is the very moment that the figurative sh!t hit the figurative fan. It was roughly ten minutes later when the literal sh!t hit my literal eye. But we'll get to that when the time is right.
After a few more nags, and a few more resounding NO!s from Jared, I got up, stomped to the light, flipped it on, and said, no I growled, something that I can't recall. But rest assured, it had a very martyrish theme.
If I had to guess, it was something along the lines of, "FINE! I'LL CHANGE HER EVEN THOUGH I HAVE TO WORK IN THE MORNING, MEET YOU FOR A FREAKING MARKETING MEETING AT NOON, GO TO A PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE AT ONE, WORK UNTIL FOUR, GET JAMES FROM KELLY'S HOUSE, MAKE DINNER, AND GO TO A NIGHT MEETING FROM SIX UNTIL EIGHT!!!! FINE!!!! THAT'S FAIR!!!!! FINE!!!!!"
Then I stomped out of the room, got a diaper, came back, and changed a very smily baby. Actually, it might have been the second time she's ever laughed, but let me tell you, I was too pissed-off to notice.
Meanwhile, Jared had worked his way upstairs to the guestroom (which will double as Maggie's room when she starts sleeping throught the night), and was pretending to sleep in the double bed. I walked in, put Maggie in her crib, turned on my heels and walked out.
The next five minutes were filled with nasty comments, venomous spit, negitive digs about one another's character, general rage, and so-on and so-forth. It's hard to remember, after all, it's--let's see--4:34 in the morning.
And trust me, I have no doubt that Jared would have done one of those attitudey snaps in my face if he hadn't been wearing a pair of stretchy gloves. That's right, let me proclaim it to the world this very moment...JARED LAWSON WEARS GLOVES TO BED TO MAINTAIN SOFT AND SILKY HANDS.
(Side Note: It really works. Just slather on some thing lotion, wear some gloves to bed, and wake up with hands like the ass of an angel.)
Ultimately, the situation came to a peak when Jared was locked in our bedroom, I was standing in the hallway holding a still-smiling Maggie, and I was blabbring on about how if he didn't open the door I'd probably let Maggie sleep right there in the hallway (never would have done it people, the claim was made purely for the sake of drama). And then, in my half sleepy state, I made the very-irrational-but-middle-of-the-night choice to turn around and kick the door with my heel. Like a donkey. Or an ass. Whatever you might want to call it.
I'm not sure if I was trying to prevent Jared from sleeping, break down the door so I could get back to my high thread-count sheets, erase all peace in his life, or all of the above. All I know is that my act of mule-kicking the closed bedroom door pushed my husband clear over the line and straight into crazy land.
The bedroom door swung open on its hinges, and there stood Jared--teeth gritted, glovies on, wearing nothing but his super droopy underpants. He took a step back, and suddenly, I wasn't looking into the eyes of a rational, 150-pound, silky-handed chiropractor any longer. I was staring straight into the face of diablo.
He quietly took Maggie, laid her in the co-sleeper, and promptly resumed the stare-down. Then, without any warning whatsoever, Jared's expression changed from that of the devil, to a face I've only seen on the "Jared Lawson, Superstar!" baseball card in his childhood scrapbook--it was his pitching face.
My husband wound up a la Pedro Martinez--high knee thing and all--and lobbed that poopy diaper straight into my right eye. His accuracy was remarkable. In fact, I believe I can attest to his aim with a scratched cornea as a result of the velcro-like tab.
He wordlessly closed the door. And I stood silently in the hallway, flaberghasted, wearing a perfect ring of yellow baby poo around my eye.
But can I tell you the craziest part of this whole story? It was 3 o'clock in the morning, so IT ALL MADE PERFECT SENSE!
Now, at--hmmm, let's see--5:05 in the morning, on the couch, wide awake, I have to admit, it still makes all the sense in the world. Let me put it this way:
Jared should have changed that diaper.
The End.
