My coffeemaker randomly overflowed AGAIN this morning, despite my remembering the inner basket and the filter and the carafe and it wasn't my fault and basically I HATE IT AND ITS ASS FACE.
The unthinkable (yet long-predicted-by-readers-of-this-blog) thing finally happened last night: Jason and I both turned to Noah -- our precious little speech-delayed child -- and begged him to please, just shut up for a goddamn minute, just be quiet, oh my God, my eardrums cannot take another second of full-volume chatter about goddamn Corduroy and his goddamn button and HERE COMES THE CAT! HERE COMES THE CAT! HERE! COMES! THE GODDAMN! CAT! and seriously, child, do you ever stop to breathe anymore?
(I assure you that last bit had a LOT fewer "goddamns" in real life.)
I went ahead and sent in our deposit to the Montessori preschool. I just don't feel -- right now, anyway -- that Noah's little quirks and "issues" and "whatevers" are enough to justify pulling him out of the mainstream. I...yes. I feel that. I'm still not totally back up to my old confidence levels regarding my decision-making skills for him, but I finally pulled my ass out of that "paralyzed by past actions into complete inaction" sinkhole I've been in for a few months now. If he succeeds at this school, he could potentially stay there through sixth grade. If it's still not the right fit, well, we've still got two more years until kindergarten to figure this shit out, and hopefully by then Ezra will be off the boob and Mama will be on the Xanax.
My dad came home from the hospital yesterday. YESTERDAY. It's been...I don't even know how long it's been. It's been a long bumpy story with no end in sight and more collapsed lungs! and pneumonia! and infections! and heart palpitations and chest pains and breathing treatments and incompetant cardiac rehab centers and...and...is it okay if I just mash my fingers down on the keyboard for a bit? Yes? Okay. OSFHGOSDHFOASJDASLMAEOHRHFFOEIJDJGPS.
Thanks. I feel better now. My dad feels better to be home, I know, but...he's not really better yet. He is and he isn't. I don't know. There's a lot of medical equipment in the house and therapy and my mom is pretty scared and I haven't been talking about it because it's hard to talk about because I'm NOT THERE and haven't been able to be there and I don't feel like I have a good grasp on the situation. And MAH GOODNESS, if I could get a good grasp on one! single! fucking! situation around here I WOULD APPRECIATE VERY MUCH, UNIVERSE.
Wait. Hang on. There is one thing going ridiculously well, provided this next paragraph doesn't up and jinx everything: Ezra is sleeping through the night, allllll night. Every night. In his crib. 9 pm to 8 am, at least. Unswaddled, even. He's gotten mighty proficient at getting his thumb into his mouth (with a bare minimum of face-and-eyeball poking from bad aim), and is completely in love with Noah's old Fisher Price crib aquarium. (We also took down his mobile, which apparently was scaring the crap out him.) We bathe, we rock and sing and nurse, and he just...goes to sleep, like a perfectly reasonable person. I keep the video monitor aimed direction at him (we're getting some rollage, people, and he's developed quite a penchant for tummy sleeping) all night, but with each passing night of solid, uninterrupted sleep and waking up to a perfectly contented and alive baby, I'm relaxing about it. Ever so slightly, with maybe only ONE nightly jerking awake in confusion because OH MY GOD WHERE IS THE BABY DID I JUST KICK THE BABY OH WAIT THAT WAS THE CAT.
He's also taking predictable daytime naps -- two nice ones, the second of which often overlaps Noah's nap (which is hit-or-miss some days, but at the very least involves a decent chunk of Quiet Time In Your Room Reading Books I Do Not Care If You Sleep But By God You Will Stay In Your Room Until Mama's Eyelid Stops Twitching).
My only guess as to the cause of this belated Christmas miracle is that we've been following Ezra's lead when it comes to solid food as opposed to the books and rules and such. (Within reason, of course.) He wants solids twice a day. He wants his cereals chunky and substantial and not thinned out (the initially rejected barley cereal became a runaway hit once it spent the night in the refrigerator and got really plump and sticky). He wants to hold and gum on his own rice rusk, dagnabbit. He wants MOAR SWEET POTATOES and you BETTER be planning to share that avocado slice from your sandwich, missy.
And because I am frankly, fresh out of Fretting, we go with it.
(I still have a really good supply of Hovering, of course, ready to whip out at the first sign of gagging or choking or...uh, allergy-ing. Although mostly I Hover to prevent sibling grilled-cheese-related plate swipings, because HOLY CRAP, this baby likes food.)
He still lovvvves nursing, even though I do miss the exclusive closeness we had before, even though my head sometimes spins by how quickly it's all happening this time.
He is still such a darling lump of baby, though, with insane little thighs and cheeks and funny squawks and faces, whose needs are uncomplicated and whose happiness is infectious, whose whole face lights up everytime I simply walk into the room. It's been a long winter, and I cannot even imagine what these past few months would have been like without the wonderful ray of sunshine that is This Boy.
(And that goes for this crazy monkey, too.)