Notes from the Underground

You secret English majors out there probably realize I stole my title from Dostoevsky. Thought it was a clever title to give my recent tidbits from life in the SCORCHING heat of May, locked in a 1750-square-foot house with a newborn and a toddler. ( visit? anyone? thought so.) Please do not confuse the following essay with the aforementioned literary classic, the random psychotic ramblings of a lonely insane person. (hmmm….)

Anyways, a few thoughts.

– acid reflux (#2) + some sort of unidentified illness (#1) – lots of moaning, whining, requests for medicine at 2 am, etc. + husband late + Grammy and mother’s helper gone + heat wave + no scheduled activities = not a very fun week. I am not complaining, people. I am putting this in writing so when I read this 18 years from now, in tears, looking at old pictures of the good old days, I can remember that it was not all cuddles and giggles.

-I get now why second-borns are so easy-going. Take naps, for instance. In contrast to the pampered first-born, who was swaddled, shushed, laid gently down in a room brimming with three fans and a noise machine, the second-born has no choice but to enjoy his or her naps in the comfort of the carseat under the kitchen table, with the comforting sounds of the garbage disposal, vaccuum cleaner, ice machine, and, of course, sibling #1’s serenade of who-knows-what while pounding two lasagna noodles for a drum. It’s sleep then, or don’t sleep. So of course, they adapt.

– Speaking of second-borns, I am glad for the one I married. He exhibits all of these wonderful characteristic traits (adaptability, patience, high tolerance for lasagna drumming, etc) as well as quite a few more. Which brings me to my point. I am SO grateful for a man who compliments burnt pasta sauce, who loves to rock babies to sleep, who orders me to Target at 8pm on the day from heck, who eats sandwiches that are two days old (with soggy tomatoes, mind you) and who tells me over and over that probably, no one is dying, and most likely, we will (eventually) get sleep.

– a few more things I am thankful for. These are not mere trivials, folks. These are NECESSARY, crucial tools with which the tired housewife finds repose. Among them: Prison Break (I heart Michael Scofield), wine, oreos, 15 minutes of sunshine, coconut ice cream CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE DOUGH FLAVOR!!!!!!, my baby smiling at me, the time out chair, the fly swatter, Zac Brown Band, Boz (Christian Barney, but way more tolerable), Harris Teeter express lane, and, importantly, my cell phone. What the heck did people do in the olden days when they could not call their mothers to ask them how long to roast a chicken or if that background crying sounds authentic or manufactured???

– Oh, the glorious terrible twos, you are so prompt. I share one little humble victory in hopes that you, too, can apply its truth. Sam has the cute little habit of asking, “Mommy, what’s that?” It sounds innocent enough, until you realize it will be repeated, consectutively, on end, over, and over, and over again, for a good ten minutes every hour on the hour. It is not an inquiry, mind you, it’s a control mechanism. I joke not. It’s not usually obvious what he saw/heard/etc that prompted the question, but I have found that if I reply, “airplane” to each question, somehow that ends it. Not sure why.

– lastly, I can’t stop thinking about this song (faith), or this song (marriage).

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