Stage 5 Clinger

What's that sound?

Is it the sound of the dog scratching impatiently at the door?
Is it the sound of an 8 month old screaming bloody murder for my attention?
Is it the sound of my Manchild (a very clever yet slightly derogatory name a fellow blogger gave her husband in her blog), asking me questions that have obvious answers?

NO.

It's the sound of me, eating my feelings, bent over a plate of pizza in a catatonic state, covered head to toe in spit up and pureed mixed vegetables. I have spit up IN MY HAIR.

Ugh what a stressful day, capped off with my Manchild enthusiastically asking me if I heard about Mike Leach getting his job back?

Who the shit is Mike Leach? And how would I know that? Do you think that I have time to check ESPN every 15 minutes? Do you think I periodically refresh the page so I can stay updated on the most recent coaches to be accused of unthinkable acts? Do you think that I purposely ignored shampooing the spit up in my hair so I could sit at the computer reading ESPN online?

My patience is being tested. This is a test. This is only a test.

Two weeks ago Collins was a sweet giggly litte baby girl who enjoyed playing with her toys, bouncing around in her Exersaucer, and sleeping for long stretches of time. Something happened.

She's a Stage 5 Clinger now. And let me tell you, she better drop that shit like a bad habit by the time she gets to college because nobody and I mean nobody likes a clinger.

Now, she's a sweet giggly little baby girl who wants nothing to do with her toys, her Exersaucer, or napping. All she wants is me to hold her. At all times. If I even think of putting her down, she loses her mind. I had to hold her while unloading the dishwasher, putting Christmas ornaments on the tree, folding laundry, etc. I didn't even get to make the bed. I hate not making the bed. I always make the bed.

I don't know what to do. Do I let her cry it out and stay firm? Why does she just want me to hold her 24/7? She's just being so needy. She's so happy but then I can't put her down for a split second. All hell breaks loose. I haven't gotten to take a shower since Monday MORNING. It is now Wednesday night. You don't even have to tell me how disgusting that is.

To add insult to injury, Clayton wants to use the small bulb Christmas lights on the roof. I only like small white lights for interior Christmas decorating. I have told him multiple times that I would prefer to use the large bulb white lights, because they look more professional and streamlined. The small bulb lights are stupid and so amateurish (no offense) and they always point in different directions, and they never align right and how can I enjoy the lights if they aren't in 100% perfectly accurate alignment????

The way that sounded in my head sounded so familiar to Gretchen Wiener freaking out about Regina George as she read her essay about Caesar. WHAT'S SO GREAT ABOUT CAESAR????!!!!

Sometimes I think he does this crap to watch me start itching uncontrollably as I get increasingly uncomfortable and anal-retentive with imperfection. I think it's entertaining for him, kind of like watching sports. Its like soccer, and I'm the goalie. He kicks all these balls at me (metaphorically, thank you very much), and usually I just kick them right back (literally). But every once in awhile, he gets one past me and I freak out like the OCD sufferer I am, and I can hear him internally yelling, "GOAAAAAAAL!"

Fighting the Plague

The Fox family has had our butts kicked by cold and flu season. Currently we are under quarantine, and our belongings are being burned in a controlled fire in the backyard. Just kidding. But seriously. It all started with the apple of our eyes, little Collins. It was the strangest thing. Clayton got home from San Antonio Tuesday night at 8. Shortly after he got home, I jumped in the shower (you're welcome, world) and Clayton put Collins down. She was perfectly fine, no symptoms, nothing. By the time I got out of the shower, she was screaming, her nose was running, she was all stuffed up and just miserable. That night she slept (I use that term loosely and ironically) in her bassinet, next to the bed.

Since then, Clayton and I have both gotten sick. Poor Clayton, he won't stop talking about it, either. Guys are so helpless and pitiful when they don't feel well. I feel so bad for him, but come on...just because my pain and sickness tolerance is exponentially higher than his doesn't mean I want to do everythinggggggggggggggg around here. When the sutures on your tonsilectomy open up and you start throwing up blood and have to be rushed to the hospital, let's talk about "not feeling well." When you spend an entire day tailgating for the Big 12 Championship game in Dallas while simultaneously pregnant and passing a kidney stone, then you can talk to me about not feeling good. When you didn't realize you were in labor and three hours later deliver a baby, doing crossword puzzles and napping in  between contractions, then we can talk about pain. When you pee out a metal sea urchin, come tell me about pain, alright?

But I am compassionate. I understand that pain is relative, so Clayton really does feel like crap, and he's certainly not one to complain so I'm going to try to make him feel as comfortable as possible. Collins seems to be feeling a lot better, but seeing as how colds in babies typically last 7-10 days, I'm trying to keep her away from other babies and kiddos so they don't get sick too. When Clayton got word this morning that OSU got beat by ISU, I thought his head was going to explode, leaving our entire house covered in a fine layer of phlegm.

Wanna come over?

Motherhood: Feeling Hungover when you're not Hungover

I used to think that Daylight Savings Time was one of fall's greatest treats. Falling leaves, pulling out the North Face fleece, warm apple cider, and Daylight Savings Time. Some people complain about how it gets dark so much earlier, but that doesn't really bother me...especially now that I rarely venture out of the house except to take the dog out, and between 2pm and 4pm to get a half-price Route 44 Diet Coke (easy ice, please) from Sonic. Wow. Typing that out really drives home the fact that I am a hermit. A shut in. A mom.

The greatest thing about DST was that the bars stayed open one extra hour, and we made the most of that hour. Pounding shots, just because we could. Cramming 4 girls in the bathroom at The Bar so we could tease our hair and talk shit about dumb chicks, pissing off all the GDI's waiting in line to actually use it. The next morning (okay, afternoon) when we woke up and looked at the clock which read 1:00pm, we didn't feel like lazy bums, it was actually only noon - so back off. The sun setting earlier made it acceptable for us to start happy hour at 3. The point is we used DST to our advantage, staying out later and sleeping in later.

I cannot stress enough how having a baby totally effs up DST. Collins didn't get the memo about getting to sleep in. Thanks for getting up at 6:45! Who could honestly get upset at that smiling face, kicking her legs with excitement when she sees me or Clayton coming to her crib to get her up for the day? Not this girl. But her naps are totally messed up now, too, and then she passes out at 7pm because she's so tired and fussy. And then as badly as I want to try to keep her up for a couple more hours, I can't do that because I'm thisclose to passing out as well. Boo.

Just making an observation, but I have seen numerous people doing this stuff lately: posting status updates to their babies, young children, dead relatives and friends.
"Happy 6 month birthday to my little baby! I love you sooooooo much and you light up my life!"
"RIP Jane Doe. I miss you every day."

Honestly, all I can do is shake my head, roll my eyes, and write out a rude, mocking blog post. Heaven doesn't have Facebook. I'm sure Hell probably does though. Is your baby the E-Trade baby? Does he have an iPad hiding under his mattress? I just don't get it, and it makes me feel embarassed for those people who post crap like that. Its like they are just begggggggging for attention. Do they expect that their infant is going to log into their facebook account and reply to their status update, "Thanks Mom! It's been a great 6 months! Hey can you come into my room, I can't be sure but I may or may not have just shat my diaper!" Their deceased loved one is not going respond via FB, "Hey thanks pretty lady! Doing great up here! By the way - you may want to block your photo albums. The Boss up here can see them, and He's starting to get into FB to trim down the number of people He lets through the gates."

Can you imagine if they did get a response from the baby or the dead family member or friend? Hahahaaa I can just see the poster scrolling through the comments, only to see a "Thanks! :)" from whoever they are posting about. Hahaha they would shittttttttt! I guess it's hilarious in my head.

I think that social media is totally undermining the importance of interpersonal communication. No one has to call me on my birthday anymore - they just write on my wall. I admit it, I'm guilty of it too. I rarely ever write on ppl's walls for their birthday, so I'm basically a huge bitch. But I don't mean to be - I'm just outstandingly self-involved.

Trick or treat, you clincally obese young bastards.

All across the world, millions of preteen hearts are shattered today. Some little skankbag who has a three month old baby is certain that her baby daddy is Justin Bieber. I guess she rode the Biebs’s baloney pony in a backstage bathroom after his concert. He told her that he was a virgin (um duh he’s like 14) and that he wanted to “make love to her.” I’m SOOOO sure he said that. Let’s face it, his hand was cramped from holding his microphone during his concert, and he was going to get after it, one way or another. She also said it lasted about 30 seconds (!!!) and that he didn’t use a jimmycap. I’m not sure which he should be more embarrassed about – the 30 seconds, not using a condom, or letting the words, “I want to make love to you,” come out of his mouth directed at a complete stranger.  But awwww, Bieber’s first paternity test! It’s pretty endearing, really.

Don’t even get me started on the famewhore Kardashians…I’ve had 24 hour flus that lasted longer than that “sacred” union.  Justin Bieber’s first time with a chick lasted longer than their marriage.

Ah shit. I got started. Here we go.

Are they really that desperate for money and attention that they would fake a marriage – a union that is supposed to be between two people who promise to love one another til their dying day? Man, that’s really pathetic. Let’s not forget that this is Kim’s second divorce, and she’s 31, presumably old enough to have learned how to make sound decisions. I have a little more compassion for a 20 year old who gets married after a whirlwind romance, only to realize that they don’t really know who they are, let alone how to be the person their spouse wants them to be. I’m not trying to be totally judgmental, but I firmly believe that if you have been divorced two times already, you should probably call it quits on marriage – unless of course you have completed extensive therapy. Let’s face it, if you have been divorced more than twice, you should probably take a long hard look at yourself: maybe you are purposely sabotaging your relationships by picking the wrong type of guys, or maybe you are just a colossal bitch. I’m just sick of reading, watching, and hearing about this narcissistic family. When Kris Jenner says that Kim didn’t make money off their wedding, that it was real and that Kim’s in a lot of pain, why do people believe her? Obviously she’s just lying to generate more attention – more attention equals more cash. And those whores are laughing all the way to the bank. Their wedding guests are probably pissed off that they purchased the $500 Hermes dinner plate as a wedding gift for a marriage that barely lasted past the reception. If I was a wedding guest, or even a human being with a pulse, I’d be a little offended that they even made a wedding registry. They made millions and millions of dollars, and their guests are expected to purchase them a gift to help them “get started?” Please. If they weren’t self-absorbed narcissists, they would have asked their guests to make donations to a charity in lieu of a gift.

Damnit. I got started. I’m done now.

Clayton has been in San Antonio for work again, so I was on trick-or-treater duty by myself on Monday. And 24/7 baby duty. And 24/7 puppy duty. And 24/7 laundry, dishes, and cleaning duty. I hate when he has to travel.

Collins and I sat outside on her blanket for awhile, handing out candy to the kiddos. She was dressed as Snow White, after she got confused as what she was supposed to be: I had dressed her as a lobster but she obviously thought she was supposed to be a crab. So crabby! But then we got overwhelmed and annoyed and went inside. I tried the whole “giving the baby a bottle while balancing the candy bowl on my knee, propping the front door open with my butt and using my third arm to hand out candy, but after one particular encounter, I said EFF IT and left the bowl outside.

Let me preface this encounter by mentioning that I love my daughter. I love my nieces and nephews and cousins, and kids’ kids. But I don’t particularly love random kids in general. I don’t hate them. I just don’t really like them. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that it seems like manners aren’t being taught they way they were when I was a little kid. I was terrified of being impolite to adults because I knew my mom and dad would chew me out big time. I am used to being put in my place, and so maybe that’s why I have no problem putting little brats in their place.

This little (the term “little” is fraught with irony) douchebag goes, “Trick or treat!” I said, “Happy Halloween! Only take one piece okay?” Kid goes, “Only ONE?” I reply, “Yeah, I’m already running out, and there are a lot of kids in the neighborhood!” He whines, “Yeah, but I’m ONE of them!!!” And I said, “Well tough nuggets kid. If it’s a problem, then you can have none.”

I highly doubt that taking only one piece of candy is going to prevent you from inhaling two weeks’ worth of calories, refined sugar, and fat in one night - which you will follow up by playing hours upon hours of World of Warcraft. All in the lifelong hope of contracting Type 2 Diabetes.

 “A minute on your lips, a lifetime on your thighs.” Ahhh damnit! Kardashians, you win again!