Guess what! Guess what guess what! I AM FEELING SLIGHTLY KIND OF A LITTLE BETTER. Definitively, objectively so, even.
(Still in bed, however. I left the house exactly once this week, to take Noah to karate, but I sat down the whole time. I PROMISE.)
(The previous parenthetical written for 1) my mom, and 2) several of you adorable people, who have been leaving clucking comments of concern and ordering me not to do anything at all, YOU MEAN IT.)
The turnaround came from the proper combination of drugsdrugsdrugs, in my case an antibiotic and 12-hour maximum strength Mucinex. The problem, however, is that one of these drugs lists "tiredness" as a side effect and the other one lists "drowsiness." Taken together, I have been experiencing something that can only be described as "HOLY SHIT COMPULSIVE ALL-CAPS EXHAUSTION."
Oh, and did I mention it's Noah's spring break this week? Yeah. I did enlist as many extra babysitting hours as I could finance, but still. It's been super edumacational and stimulating around here, with a lot of "Hey! you know what's fun? Watching Nick Jr. in bed with Mommy! Yaaayyy!"
(Also: The hidden stash of Easter candy somehow managed to end up in my nightstand. I don't know HOW that happened.)
(Also also: We somehow don't have any Easter candy anymore. Another profoundly mysterious mystery.)
However, I do have one parental moment of victory to report: Ezra is finally, completely, oh-my-God-it's-for-real-this-time potty trained.
*here is where I totally planned to include a picture of the Mighty Ez with a pair of Buzz Lightyear underpants on his head, but then thought better of it, AKA my husband was like, "DUDE HE'S OUR SON" so never mind*
Despite an early, optimistic start at something like, 18 months old or whatever insane nonsense I'd been fed by fellow cloth diaper users about OH IT'LL BE SO EASY THEY ALL TRAIN EARLY IN CLOTH DIAPERS YOU WON'T HAVE TO DO A THING*, Ezra quickly changed his mind and steadfastly refused any and all suggestions/bribes/boot-camp-style approaches, to the point where if I offered big-boy pants to him in the morning, he would simply march over to the changing table, pull a diaper out of the drawer, lay it out neatly on the floor and then plop his bare butt on it, arms folded, like, I have made my choice, woman. Now snap this thing up so that I might take a crap in peace.
All I wanted in the world was to get him out of diapers before The Coming Third arrived and we're all transported back to the magical days of mustard poops and 8-10 diaper changes a day. So I am really ridiculously pleased that we managed to hit that goal, right as we're closing in on the final weeks. This will really free up my schedule to maybe finally getting around to finding the missing crib screws and that box of nursing bras that I know is around here SOMEWHERE, just...not in any place that would seem to make any logical sense. I dunno. I haven't looked in the crawlspace where we keep the extra paint cans yet, so....
I promise I'm not posting the underwear-on-your-head photos, okay? Stop looking at me like that.
(But for the record, I have them. Just so you know.)
(AND THEY ARE ADORABLE. JUST LIKE THE WAY YOU SAY "I GOTTA GO BAFFROOM, C'MON.")