It has indeed been a while since my last post, I’ve been going through some things, maybe it’s a mid/quarter life crisis. The most upsetting thing I’ve been trying to handle is the unshakable feeling that my son doesn’t love me anymore.
Sounds a tad dramatic, so was calling my sister last Sunday in floods of tears declaring ‘He hates me! I love him so much but he hates me!’ She tried to calm me down and I tried not to choke on my own snot.
I’ll explain. It’s been gradual, my decline in his esteem. It started as a running joke when he preferred to be cuddled and put to bed by his dad. Wrapping his little arms around hub’s legs, hugging him and exclaiming ‘Ahhhhhhhh’, but not cuddling me. Despite the fact that I would put myself in his way giving him lots of opportunity to do the same to me. Like a silly schoolgirl going out of her way to be around her crush. The thing that pushed me over the edge was trying to kiss him when he was in his dad’s arms and he pulled away from me, swiped at me with the little arms, (that I grew, inside me) and burst into tears.
Hurts much. I excused myself sharpish, not wanting to ball in front of the boy and proceeded to alarm my sister by wailing like a dying moose down the phone.
In company I’d joke about it, and relish the days when I was at home and hubs was at work being the only adult around meant I would get affection from my son. Hubs is still the clear favourite, but waking up on the sofa, with my son’s favourite monkey teddy wedged in the crook of my arm was all the proof I needed that actually… he quite likes me.
In other news:
The new year is upon us and in lieu of a resolution I won’t keep, I’ve accepted I’ll be the same train wreck of a person I’ve always been.
My sister gave birth to my new niece in October and has confirmed birth the second time round is a walk in the park. (That’s definitely NOT what she said but I spoke to her on the phone afterwards and she had the same care-free tone as someone who’d just popped out for a coffee)
If I have to read Meg and Mog one more time, I may kill myself.
In the past two weeks our tiny baby is fast blossoming into a tiny human. He is now 9 months old. He crawls, pulls himself to standing, ‘talks’, we even get hugs now. It’s lovely, he is more like a person than he’s ever been.
But on the other hand…
Our joint naps are now out of the question, he has a penchant for throwing himself off the bed, then scowling at me, because it’s apparently my fault. Hubs had put doors onto our TV cabinet because the DVD player is the most entertaining thing in the house (next to Captain), although ‘No’ gets a reaction, it’s usually just holding your gaze whilst he continues with whatever he was doing. His standing is wobbly at best so we seem to be getting a head injury a day. Laying still whilst having his nappy changed is now a thing of the past. I am more exhausted then I’ve ever been. He is non stop. And as amazing as it is watching him, marvelling at him, I feel that every day, I lose a bit more of my baby.
When he was tiny, I’d spend whole afternoons with him curled on my chest, caressing his fluffy hair with my lips. He’s much too busy for curling up on mummy now.
It seems that parenting is a cruel cycle, before you’ve learned to appreciate what you have it changes, it’s gone and it happens so. bloody. quickly.
In other news:
Mum fail of the month was going out without wipes OR nappies the other day.
Wills has his very first picnic yesterday! I was lovely except he was more interested in eating the grass than anything else.
My beautiful bestie has had a beautiful little boy, we’re off for a visit tomorrow, I’m worried what seeing (compared to Wills) a tiny baby will do to my ovaries…
Wills is entering a new phase, it involves yelling. At the top of his lungs. For long periods of time.
I am the very definition of ‘frazzled’ at the minute, and when the little foghorn finally stops yelling, I still hear it. (Kept checking the monitor like a crazy woman during his nap!)
So the soundtrack to my day is loud. My hair is doing weird things, to the point my mum asked if I’d cut a fringe. I haven’t I just have lots of short bits of hair all around my hairline. They stick up and add to the crazy look I’ve been sporting for some time. I have tried everything to get them to stick down, so far everything has failed. I’ll just look for some sort of paper bag…
So the yelling continues, and is the soundtrack to my typing this. They say that decibel wise, babies are louder than road drills. I can definitely believe that. It is currently 23 minutes past five, hubs finishes work at five and I’m counting down the minutes until he gets home and amuses Wills.
The moment he gets through the door I’m bulk buying ear plugs.
…..and probably wine….
In other news:
Once again there is a cat in the cot, probably trying to escape the noise.
It looks like my thoughts on reading with Wills and babies in general will be printed in Mother and Baby magazine, this makes up for the weird hair and has made my year.
He. is. still. yelling.
Having hit the ‘magical’ age, Wills is now age appropriate for a whole host of interactive toys.
Oh what fresh hell is this?
Why do they have to be so sodding irritating? And another thing, all that bull crap on the packaging that states your child will learn about shapes and colours.
No they won’t.
Because they don’t leave enough time between jabbing the assorted buttons to hear the shape, colour or number in it’s entirety. And who needs to hear colours when you can just make it moo repeatedly?
One thing I will say for them they seem pretty indestructible, Wills seems at his most content when he’s smacking something, preferable with something else. The more it hurts my eardrums the better. I’m unsure if this is a phase or he’s a thug, I suppose time will tell. In the meantime, I encourage the cats to keep their distance!
So our living room often looks like we’ve ram-raided Toys R Us and hearing the creepy child-like voices emanating from bright plastic toys, accompanied by seizure inducing light shows has led me to some pretty dark thoughts:
What if the toys met with some sort of accident?
I’m not sure I’d get away with it, he may only be six months old but I’m quite sure he has some sort of inventory stashed away somewhere, maybe under his mattress.
In other news:
I’m not sure my house will ever be tidy again. Ever.
The recent Cat-War shows no signs of a peace treaty.
Wills and I have had our passport photos taken. Wills looks cute as a button, I look less like a serial killer but very much like I haven’t had a decent rest since July.