I took pictures of Dylan everyday for the entire first year of his life. On my not-so-great days, I go back and look at them. Here he is at eight months. I'm glad not to be glued to my camera these days, but I do miss capturing him each day and getting to watch him grow in photos.
Today was tiring but a tolerable and cozy day until Sean came home from work. Dylan and I woke up at 6AM thanks to our new weaning schedule. His normal wake-up time is 9:30-10ish so we're both slowly adjusting to being awake while it is still dark outside. We went to mother goose hour at the library. We came home, ate lunch, took baths, and hopped in bed for 3 hours to recover from our three-night stretch of not sleeping. We woke up an hour before Sean came home, nursed, and played together for a bit.
Sean came home in a not-so-wonderful mood. It's my fault. The house is a mess and both of us are OCD so it drives us crazy when the clutter gets too much. We were out of dog food. Neither of us wanted to go to the store. He put away laundry and made dinner while I tended to Dylan and vacuumed, both of us slamming doors as we cleaned throughout the house.
We're tired.
I cried silently after dinner as I nursed Dylan. Tears struck again as I cuddled him in the dark for an hour and a half before he finally fell asleep. Being a mom is hard. Pretending that you are not sad when you are is an unwritten rule of parenting. I can't ever find enough time for sleeping, for showering, and for cleaning. Especially for cleaning. My entire day is spent following Dylan around picking up after him, washing his hands, brushing his teeth, feeding him, cuddling him, putting away the pots and pans he has spread all over the kitchen floor, changing diapers, giving baths. I have time for nothing else unless I do it while he sleeps but I am so exhausted when he sleeps that I pass out next to him.
I don't think Sean understands just how much effort it all takes. He is not always empathetic when he comes home to a happy baby but a messy sink. His disdain for my lack of housekeeping skills makes me feel absolutely horrible about myself. I'm sure all stay at home moms battle with the mess; it's inevitable.
Sean and I stayed silent tonight, only talking when it involved taking care of the baby. Separate rooms, keeping clear of each other until a few minutes ago when he yelled for me after letting the dogs inside:
"Are you kidding, Meenie?!" Meenie being our pet name for our golden retriever Jasmine--or as we sometimes call her, Jazz-a-meenie-weenie-peenie. "LOVE! Come see what your daughter brought in! And bring a paper towel!"
"Is it a dead animal?" I shouted back as I walked toward him.
"It used to be." He replied. And suddenly we were both standing over a very guilty Jasmine and two fresh nuggets of brown poop. "You're disgusting, Jazz."
*
I have to think of the significance in dog logic. Jasmine is sensitive to us and to me especially. If I pretend to cry she runs to me and jumps in my lap to console me. So from her point of view her parents were not getting along all night and it was so stressful that she brought in a pile of poop to change the subject and calm her nerves.
It worked, Jazz.
Sean and I laughed about it and agreed that Meenie is not allowed to go anywhere near us with that tongue tonight.
And I don't feel so sad anymore. Afterall, the baby is asleep in his own bed, the house is clean, and the mood has been lightened.