Confession: The Laundry Piles and the Ninja Moves

Sometimes, you just have to put your kid in the middle of the living room floor to maximize everyone's afternoon nap time experience.  Or maybe that's just me-- don't judge. See, we haven't gotten the arms-to-crib transition down quiet yet. In fact, it's actually uncanny how quickly a certain Little in mid-REM can be wide awake upon touch-down to mattress. Desperate times call for desperate measures. When this momma has a truckload of To Do's (which, let's face it, is always), I go for the ole "let baby fall asleep in arms, lay down on the floor and sneak away like a ninja" maneuver. Works like a charm. There's just days when it isn't worth the fight, and I'd rather be spending that valuable time scrubbing leftovers from Fiestaware or meticulously Spray N' Washing acai stained onesies. (There was once a time when I'd probably inflict injury on myself for saying that. Oh well.) Today is one of those days.

Lucky me, my sweet husband cleaned the kitchen for me today with no coaxing at all. Score. However, the laundry pile, sticky floors and Little Man's birthday prepping is all me. So I strategically and unashamedly placed sleeping N in a pile of clean laundry in the living room. See, I was leaving it unfolded intentionally. I got about 25 minutes of glorious, uninterrupted me-time before his eyes peeled wide open, he spotted me, and frantically and hysterically bawled/crawled his way to me. His staggering and stumbling and flat out pathetic face earned him a spot in my lap, in which he promptly closed his eyes and went back to dreamland. Again, I wonder how the on-off switch flips so quickly, and why that superpower fades in adulthood. I know, I'm meriting myself a spot in the over attached over dependent camp for a move like that, but oh well. I'll take the trade the occasional evil-eye while collecting my distraught mommy-deprived son from nursery for this; being so needed by my sweaty, sweet-smelling and sleepy-eyed boy, instantly melted into my lap and being well with the world.

I know this won't last for long. Liking your mom is very uncool after a certain age, so I've heard. Being needed is so fleeting; soon he'll be too big for snuggles and too cool for kisses. At least for now he's still small enough to sit on and force into a hug. Only kidding. So about that unfolded laundry..

Catch Up |

Gosh darn it people, I am such a hot and cold writer. One minute, I am starting new blogs, having all sorts of interesting things to talk about, and the next minute, I am taking a virtual vow of silence for three months. Oops. Well after having three months to conjour up plenty of noteworthy thoughts, please excuse me while I write 249435 blog posts this week. Hot and cold I tell ya. #sorrynotsorry. (What? It isn't cool to use arbitrary hashtags outside social media? Oops again.)

Life has been busy. I guess such is true for everyone. I now am a proud momma of a 10 month old; consequently, I spend the majority of my days chasing his [alarmingly quick] crawl-getaways, fishing miscellaneous inedibles from his mouth, and dissuading him from from outlets.

All of his energy and enthusiasm for life comes with the counterpart of a growing personality. He is so much fun. I know, the non-parents in the building are shaking their heads with pity at such an asinine claim. Rightfully so, non-parents. I'lll be the first to admit that "fun" doesn't look the same anymore. What was once adventure and self-exploration and ad-lib and whimsy is now exchanged with big-brother reason and homebodyness and stability and predictability. That being said, I can without reservation say that watching my Little learn and bloom fills my heart with purpose and genuine joy more than any fleeting adrenaline rush or spontaneity or being young and wild and free. He is fun. Being a mom is fun. I am happy to be the airplane spoon pilot, the lullaby singer, the toy coraler and the mid-night soother. I've traded any hope for designer clothes in for spit-up and sweet potato stained versions. I'm skipping over the young twenties night life of martinis and cosmos for night-feedings that bring early mornings and triple-shot espresso. Happily. 

That being said, I can't help but occasionally long for freedom and full nights' sleep and the abandon of responsibility. It's hard sometimes to quiet my unsatisfied soul and find peace and completeness in the crossfire of dirty diapers and Cheerio casualties. To stop coveting other grass and continually water my own. Remembering the tradeoff for freedom and fun sometimes feels like loneliness and insecurity. So now, as my Little Whirlwind wakes with a vengeance and cries for my rescue from his crib-jail, I will embrace the fun and joy and fulfillment that is being needed. Having the stability and warmth of a home filled with the people I love that many only dream of. Being invaluable to his little world. Being his momma.