In between all the puking and diaper blow-outs (which? Can I tell you how much not fun it was to be at the Dr's office when his first blow-out of the day happened only to discover that Mr X had not restocked the diaper bag after he took the kids out on Sunday while I shampooed the carpet? Right. I'm sitting in the middle of the waiting room and the receptionist is 10 feet away asking what that smell is and there are no damn diapers in the bag! Also? What happened to his spare pants? He wasn't wearing them when he came home on Sunday. They aren't in the wash. So... the hell? Please? And to add to my level of stress, he lost a little more than 3 lbs in a week with all this puking. He's still well hydrated but the weight thing bothers me). Hurricane has learned a new trick.
He has learned how to freak mommy right the fuck out. Because there is nothing more thrilling after a grand total of 3 choppy hours of sleep than being woken up by a toddler standing at your door screaming. Especially when he's supposed to be in his crib.
Apparently he can fly. Or that tele-transportation thing is advancing. Whatever it was, I was not ready for this.
He's not ready for this.
He's not ready for his big boy bed. He can't sleep in the same spot for more than 5 minutes. He rolls and flips and grunts his way through the night much like his sister did.
I'm not ready for the battle of getting him to actually stay on his mattress to go to sleep when there are no bars to keep him there.
You weren't moving fast enough for me woman.
And now I can't keep his little feet on the ground. He climbs on the couch, the chairs, the bookcase the gate above the stairs, the dog, his toy shelf. I'm going to end up on Supernanny with those little no no stickers.
I'll be easily recognizable by the bald patches where my hair has been pulled out during one of his climbs. I'm hoping by then that I'll at least not be covered in puke. But I make no promises.
Listen kid, we had a deal. You were supposed to keep being the easy-going kid you were during your first year, meaning no monkey-business, and I was going to keep sneaking you cookies when Daddy wasn't looking. What happened?