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!"