Ouroboros

Noah is still sick. I am still sick. Jason claims to be feeling better, but I think he just got sick of changing Noah's never-ending stream (ew) of sick diapers and decided going back to work was a good idea.

I'm sick of writing about Noah being sick. I'm sick of reading about other people's sick kids. The ClubMom gig has led to some serious mommyblog burnout, which makes me feel like an asshole, what with all the eye-rolling and God, can't anybody write anything that's not about their preshus boring baby, and also YOU! YOU THERE! GET OFF YOUR GODDAMNED PARENTING HIGH HORSE, CHILL OUT AND MAYBE THINK ABOUT GETTING A HOBBY THAT IS NOT CHILD-RELATED OMG.

(It just got verrrrry meta in here, didn't it?)

I guess I've veered into a blogjam, and I'm kind of stuck. I'm burned-out. I'm in a rut. I'm bored with myself, my writing, my whole "schtick" or whatever. Run-on sentence, lots of commas and modifiers, caps lock at the end for emphasis, rinse, repeat. Day after day. Over and over. Without the freedom (see: sellout, dirty whore money) to take a break or even (gasp!) walk away entirely.

Which is something I never would have even THOUGHT about doing until...I realized that I just plain couldn't.

Ugh. I feel ridiculous even writing this. "Hi readers! Thanks to your readership, I'm living the dream! The paid blogging dream! And now feel sorry for me while I whine about it, because oh, the pressure! 'Tis unbearable! Ack, alas, woe, bah."

Dear God, I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. Hell, I don't even feel sorry for me. I actually wish it were possible to deliver a backhanded bitchslap to my own damn self, because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN.

(See? See that? Caps lock at the end. What makes me do that? Why can't I stop doing that? Why is it taking all my strength from letting my pinkie finger hit caps lock RIGHT NOW?)

(My pinkie finger! Is posessed!)

Yesterday I decided to write about something different. Something besides Gymboree or Blue's Clues or moving or yet another entry about the endless all-consuming joy that is motherhood or blah blah tire blah baby snot poop blah.

I thought, "Hey! I want to write about what a not-so-secret nerd I am. I want to write about how I spend my days refreshing Lonelygirl15.com in hopes for a new episode (damn you Sweetney!). I want to write about hunting for cassieiswatching ARG clues because seriously: am uber-nerd. I wonder if anybody else out there wants to go geocaching (damn you Sundry!)? I wonder if anybody else is obsessed as I am with all these YouTube vloggers all of a sudden? I wonder if anybody else knows how to pronounce the word vlog?"

And every time I tried to write something, I froze. I mean, Alternate Reality Games on a mommyblog? What if people had no idea what I was talking about? What if people just whined because I didn't include any baby pictures? What if I really can't write anything that's not about my preshus baby?

Somewhere along the way this stopped being fun. Somewhere along the way I became too aware of my audience, my critics and their expectations. Somewhere along the way I stopped doing this because I wanted to.

The other night I dreamt I emailed my old boss and asked to go back to work part-time -- just a couple days a week. He said yes, and the feeling of pure relief -- the feeling of an enormous weight being lifted off my shoulders -- was one I still vividly remembered when I woke up.

Bah.

Molarball

Noah's first birthday was a day full of joy and wonder and balloons and wrapping paper and big toothy baby smiles.

HA HA HA.

HA!

Sometime between Friday night, when we drove up to Pennsylvania to my parents' house, and his party Saturday afternoon, Noah came down with all of the following:

1) A cold
2) A fever
3) Diarrhea
4) Diaper rash
5) A possible ear infection
6) One molar
7) Another molar
8) Hey, anybody want a couple more molars?

Photos from his party are very...moist-looking, to say the least, and feature shots of me wiping his nose and checking his butt, all while looking like hot exhausted ass. Noah, being the brave little toaster that he is, still seemed to enjoy himself, or else he merely chose to reserve his rage and misery for our own personal enjoyment between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m.

(His gums are black and blue, people. BLACK AND BLUE.)

We've traveled with Noah multiple times over the past year, and multiple times I have dutifully packed up every possible baby necessity into clearly-labeled Ziploc baggies. Nose bulb, infant Tylenol, infant Motrin, Hyland's teething tablets, Desitin, burb cloths, extra outfits and 17 million diapers.

This weekend I decided to streamline. We ran out of diapers by Saturday afternoon. We had no Tylenol or Pedialyte or even diaper rash cream. I washed the same cotton romper three times. We made four trips to the drugstore, one trip for each new symptom. The possibility of new teeth never occurred to me until Saturday night and I caught sight of Noah's bruised and swollen gums by accident while he was screaming his head off on my lap.

At least I always have the Corbett Family Parenting Brain Trust to depend on:

Amy's Mom (mother of four, step-mother of three, general knower of all): I thought babies didn't get molars until they were two?

Amy (mother of one, professional obsessive): No, I know they get one set around a year old, but why are his gums all black?

Amy & Amy's Mom: *baffled confusedness*

Amy's Sister (mother of one 18-year-old and one six-month-old): No, I read that some kids get bruising from molars.

Amy: But he still doesn't have his eye teeth? I thought he'd get those next?

Amy & Amy's Mom & Amy's Sister: *baffled confusedness*

So for anyone else out there who may be wondering, please benefit from the wisdom I have since gleaned from the Internet: Babies get their first molars BEFORE their canines, and sometimes the gums appear bruised. Some babies, particularly those named Noah Corbin Storch, get all four molars at once! Joy!

Oh, and you may also be happy to know that, according to the Texas Children's Pediatric Associates's website, "teething does not cause fever, sleep problems, diarrhea, diaper rash, or lowered resistance to any infection.  It probably doesn't cause crying."

GOOD TO KNOW! We've just hit on a remarkable string of coincidences, then.

Fuck off, Internet Research.

Anyway, Jason is home sick today with Noah's cold, and I'm kind of scratchy and blechy.

We're going to need more chocolate birthday cupcakes. STAT.

PS: Oh commenter-type people, thank you so very much for all your lovely birthday messages to Noah. I can't tell you how much they mean to me. I mean, I could try, but the entry would probably be very very long and very very mushy, and things around here are mushy enough, what with all the mucus, you know?

PPS: Also, a big thank you to Unexplored Territory, who gave Noah's birthday entry a Perfect Post award for September. Dude! So it's a good thing I went back and fixed all teh typoz thenn.

PPPS: What's that? You want to see more disgusting pictures of my child with chocolate cake smushed all over his face? OH, FINE, IF YOU INSIST.

(I made it myself, by the way.)

(Well, okay, I used a mix, but I still VERY LOVINGLY broke the eggs and measured the oil and water.)

(And canned frosting just plain kicks ass, especially if Mama gets to eat the leftovers with a spoon.)