Generation Zz
We have come to resent our children.
Defying our hopes of countering Ryan's nasty sleep habits, Erin has joined forces and refuses to give us (read: Mommy) a moment's peace. I think she's slept all of twenty-three minutes since she was born. I fecal matter you not.
Ryan is only getting worse, now skipping his naptime (hanging out in the crib, yammering away for three hours at a time) upwards of three or four days a week. It usually means he goes down easier at night, though not necessarily earlier. Our frustration, I think, stems from the fact that all we want to do is sleep, and that's what he refuses to do given the chance.
He's doing very well at Being Two, turning his head away at mealtimes, throwing a fit when we want to put a coat on him in 20-degree weather, saying "no!" a heckuvalot more.
We only keep him around because he still comes up with things like adding a "mommy" to Old McDonald's Farm, with an "I love you" here and an "I love you there", or spontaneously saying to Grandad, "Thank you reading boo-oks!"
But after my last batch of photos, a friend with four kids wrote me that she's itching over having a fifth, and I just want to hit her in the face with a diaper pail. What is WRONG with these people?
We love our children immensely (during the day, anyway), and feel lucky to have them in our lives. It just bugs me that I have to yell to carry on a conversation with my wife over Erin's near-constant (when she's with me) crying, which adds to our stress level -- I hate being angry all the time, and the exhaustion is a big part of it (and I'm getting 8 times the amount of sleep my wife is!).
Outside forces don't help, as Salesmen proved they're just lying sacks of monkey farts.
Thursday I dropped off the Mega-Studly Mini-Van at the dealership to replace its jelly-absorbing coffee-sponge cloth interior with teflon-coated childproof spillproof stainproof ripproof funproof leather, but the "three- or four-hour" process wasn't done after nine hours, so I had to keep the loaner car overnight and go into work late the next day and pretend I don't hate people who renege on promises after I've given them several thousand dollars.
Then Bailey has been looking like the planet Jupiter all week, since half her chest-surgery stitches popped, leaving a gaping oozing attractive red hole. Ainsley took her back to the vet Wednesday (kids in tow), but he decided it'd be better to just leave it rather than carve her up like doggy sushi again.
Fortunately, Ainsley's parents came back in for a day to free our hands and let us get stuff done around the house and take stuff to the dump. We rewarded them with a meal at the Hard Times Cafe, a restaurant/bar that serves pretty good chili and has a jukebox Ryan likes to dance in front of. We usually get him a cheeseburger and applesauce, but we decided to order him some Chili-Mac, which came out instead on spaghetti. "Isn't that 'Chili-Spag'?" I asked Ashley the server. "...Um..."
Net week I sit in as the DTRA Director's executive officer, managing his calendar and ferrying from meeting to meeting, office to office. Should be a hoot. If a 12-hour-a-day one.
Defying our hopes of countering Ryan's nasty sleep habits, Erin has joined forces and refuses to give us (read: Mommy) a moment's peace. I think she's slept all of twenty-three minutes since she was born. I fecal matter you not.
Ryan is only getting worse, now skipping his naptime (hanging out in the crib, yammering away for three hours at a time) upwards of three or four days a week. It usually means he goes down easier at night, though not necessarily earlier. Our frustration, I think, stems from the fact that all we want to do is sleep, and that's what he refuses to do given the chance.
He's doing very well at Being Two, turning his head away at mealtimes, throwing a fit when we want to put a coat on him in 20-degree weather, saying "no!" a heckuvalot more.
We only keep him around because he still comes up with things like adding a "mommy" to Old McDonald's Farm, with an "I love you" here and an "I love you there", or spontaneously saying to Grandad, "Thank you reading boo-oks!"
But after my last batch of photos, a friend with four kids wrote me that she's itching over having a fifth, and I just want to hit her in the face with a diaper pail. What is WRONG with these people?
We love our children immensely (during the day, anyway), and feel lucky to have them in our lives. It just bugs me that I have to yell to carry on a conversation with my wife over Erin's near-constant (when she's with me) crying, which adds to our stress level -- I hate being angry all the time, and the exhaustion is a big part of it (and I'm getting 8 times the amount of sleep my wife is!).
Outside forces don't help, as Salesmen proved they're just lying sacks of monkey farts.
Thursday I dropped off the Mega-Studly Mini-Van at the dealership to replace its jelly-absorbing coffee-sponge cloth interior with teflon-coated childproof spillproof stainproof ripproof funproof leather, but the "three- or four-hour" process wasn't done after nine hours, so I had to keep the loaner car overnight and go into work late the next day and pretend I don't hate people who renege on promises after I've given them several thousand dollars.
Then Bailey has been looking like the planet Jupiter all week, since half her chest-surgery stitches popped, leaving a gaping oozing attractive red hole. Ainsley took her back to the vet Wednesday (kids in tow), but he decided it'd be better to just leave it rather than carve her up like doggy sushi again.
Fortunately, Ainsley's parents came back in for a day to free our hands and let us get stuff done around the house and take stuff to the dump. We rewarded them with a meal at the Hard Times Cafe, a restaurant/bar that serves pretty good chili and has a jukebox Ryan likes to dance in front of. We usually get him a cheeseburger and applesauce, but we decided to order him some Chili-Mac, which came out instead on spaghetti. "Isn't that 'Chili-Spag'?" I asked Ashley the server. "...Um..."
Net week I sit in as the DTRA Director's executive officer, managing his calendar and ferrying from meeting to meeting, office to office. Should be a hoot. If a 12-hour-a-day one.
posted by Dan at 10:20 PM
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