The Hardest Job

This is something I've wanted to write for a long time, but events from today finally pushed me into just doing it.

Remember, not very long ago, when a little boy climbed into a gorillas enclosure at the zoo? Remember how the gorilla dragged him around, nearly killing him, and eventually the gorilla was shot to save the boy?

Remember how upset the Internet was over that one? Remember the "hilarious" memes about the so obviously neglectful mother of the boy who "should have been shot instead"?

Those were a riot. That's real comedy.

And remember, a few months ago, when that mom in Arizona accidentally left her baby in a shopping cart at Target? Remember how distraught she was in that video, still beating herself up about a mistake she had made weeks ago, even though everything had worked out ok?

Strangers, safe behind their phone screens, tore her apart. They would never do something like that. They were more responsible parents. This woman clearly deserved to have each of her five children taken from her. 

All of this has been happening with me sort of as a silent spectator, the new mom taking notes, always reminding myself not to pay much attention to internet trolls. 

But what about when it's you? What about when it's real life?

Today, I was babysitting my 9 year old nephew, and he wanted to go for a drive and play Pokemon Go. (Of course.) So, trying to be a fun aunt (and also because I have a major sugar addiction) I stopped at Maverick to get us a treat. My nephew was sitting in the back with Dayen, so I left the car on, parked right by the door, and ran inside. I couldn't have been gone more than a minute.

When I got back to the car, the lady parked next to me was staring me down. I tried to ignore her while I handed out treats, but she wouldn't stop. When I looked up, she mouthed, "wow."

And, just so you get a good idea of the scene here, she was sitting in her car, with her windows rolled up, and smoking. There was a young teenage girl in the back seat. Lucky for her, my mother taught me not to stare. 

Now, had this happened two years ago, I probably would have just driven away, feeling slightly embarrassed. But these dang maternal hormones sure kick in at the worst time, and probably because this blog post has been brewing in my head for awhile now, I was on fire. Livid. Bursting with the poetic energy that I can only ever write, not speak. Dang it.

So, I did the un-Christian thing and rolled down my window. She ignored me at first (still staring, naturally) then finally rolled hers down. Very politely, I asked, "Were you trying to say something to me?" (My mother also taught me to kill people with kindness.) She said, "Did I look like I was trying to talk to you?" I just shrugged, trying to stay happy, and said, "You were just staring so I figured you wanted to talk to me." She rolled her eyes and replied, "Were my lips moving? Then I wasn't trying to talk to you."

After which, I may have said something mean as I rolled up the window and drove away.

Here's the thing: you may fall on either side of this issue. Maybe I was right, maybe I was in the wrong. But if her concern, truly, was the welfare of these children, then she approached it in absolutely the wrong way.

Which is why, in most cases, I don't believe that is everyone's biggest concern. If it was about the kids, if it really concerned her so much, she could have sat by the car to make sure they were safe until I got back, and then kindly told me that she knows a kid who got kidnapped, or a family whose car shifted into gear and drove out onto the highway. She could have reminded me that I could have just brought them in, even if it's a pain, even if I trust my 9 year old nephew to watch my baby for one minute while I'm 10 feet away.

She could have said any of that, but instead she hid behind her screen (ok this would be so much more poetic of cars had screens) and judged me. She judged what kind of person I was, what kind of mother I was, and she decided I was trash. She decided I deserved to be treated that way, even though it couldn't lead anywhere productive. 

If you're a mom, you get it: the most hurtful thing you can do is question the love they have for that child and their wellbeing.

Clearly, that random stranger was not here while I woke up every couple hours all through the night for months to feed him. She doesn't know that we spend our afternoons playing hide and seek and doing crafts, and that I have taught him most of his letters already. She has no clue that I would give my life for this sweet little boy who means the world to me, as well as for my nephew.

One single moment in my life she judged me for. And I could defend my reasonings, but it wouldn't matter to her.

All winter long, I watch my friends post things like "I saw a baby in the store with no shoes. Come on people! If you need shoes, your kids need shoes!" and it just makes me cringe. You can't judge someone off one moment. You just can't! Whether it's what they are wearing or what they say or whether or not their kids have shoes: you don't know them!

Dayen and I were walking through Wal Mart the other day when he kicked off his shoe. I didn't notice at first, and after we retraced our steps and found it, I realized it had probably been gone 10 minutes before I noticed. 

And have you people ever had kids before? They don't keep shoes on!!! Shoes are a joke! Especially if your kid can't even walk yet. Not worth the effort.

Maybe that person you are judging doesn't realize their kids kicked off their shoes 10 aisles back.

Maybe they can't afford shoes!

If you're concerned, get off Facebook and KINDLY help! 

I will gladly spend the rest of my life worried about the safety of my children. But I shouldn't have to worry about what everyone else thinks about me as a mother.

It just drives me crazy, this mom-on-mom bullying. I used to be part of a Facebook group for moms that I LOVED. Then one day a girl was getting attacked for circumcising her son. (HER son!!!) I came to her aid and immediately had moms, who had once been my friends, jumping down my throat. One mom threatened to call CPS on me because she couldn't believe I would mutilate my son like that. 

MY SON!

My son who I take care of every moment of every day!

Can you tell it makes me livid?

I am not just livid for myself, but for everyone who has had this happen to them. And I will admit: yes, there are some crappy moms out there. But I think, for the most part, we are all doing our best. The world is not full of heroes and villains, people who are either good or bad. Like it or not, we've all got a little of both in us.

And we can't please everyone all the time! What one person thinks is ok might be horrible to someone else. Everyday you make the decision how to raise your kids. And you have that right!

Why can't we just have each other's backs? Why can't we support and help each other with this insanely difficult job called parenting? Why can't we put ourselves in their shoes and realize how much it hurts when someone criticizes our parenting?

I don't care if you're just telling me my baby needs a jacket. If he's not wearing one, I've already assessed the situation and decided, as his mother, that he was fine. 

So, as we say in elementary school... Mind your own business. And if you see a kid that is truly in mortal danger, then KINDLY HELP. Don't judge! Judging helps no one.

I have to wonder, as that lady sat staring at my car, waiting for me to come out so she could stare at me and make me feel like dirt... What would have happened if it had been my husband instead? I could be wrong, but I truly believe she wouldn't have done a thing. It's just not the same with dads. We give them a free pass. Good for you for not watching sports tonight. But moms... You're supposed to know better. 

The poor mom who had to watch her son being dragged around by a gorilla because she looked away for a second. The poor mom who had to relive her worst mistake over and over again because strangers who didn't know her couldn't let it go, and wanted to see everything taken away from her. 

Pardon my massive soap box, but not a lot of things make me this upset. 

Mom on mom bullying. It's a thing. And it's something we can, we must stop doing to each other. 

A Challenge To All

There is a lot to love about summer. Snowie shacks are open, the splash pad is running, and we even have a quaint, though slightly ghetto, ice cream truck that brings me back to my childhood every time it goes by.

There isn't a lot not to love about summer. But I think the absolute worst thing is the salesman, those darn traveling salesman that suddenly appear at your door.

You know them: they are always either boys aged 18-27, or foreigners who ask way too many questions about your kids. I know about summer sales, because plenty of my male friends (aged 18-27) have left for the summer for the same jobs. Which begs the question: is it against the rule to get a sales job in your own hometown? I mean, why do all the Utah boys have to leave for the summer, only to be replaced by a bunch of weirdos who always, always, always ask me the population of Tremonton. (Which I always forget, and I can't even make an educated guess because I am phenomenally bad at that, like guessing how many jelly beans are in the jar. I'm usually off by like a thousand.)

I have gotten pretty good at avoiding the salesman. Our kitchen window looks out onto the front porch, so if I do some stealthy ninja moves I can usually avoid answering the door for anyone other than invited guests. I don't mean to be unkind, but they've really brought this upon themselves. There was a salesman last year who, after ten minutes of me telling him I was not interested and then finally shutting the door in his face, proceeded to yell through the door for another five minutes. I'm not kidding.

So, generally, it is not a problem for me because I don't let these strange obnoxious pests into my life. But, as is their mission statement, they can't be avoided forever. Tonight, I went outside for literally ten seconds just to turn the sprinkler off. From down the sidewalk I heard someone shout hello. I turned, said hi back, but realized it was a salesman and booked it for the door.

Too late. Like lightning he was suddenly on my porch, acting like he had made the trip out here just for me. (Side note: one of our friends is out on summer sales right now in Oregon, and he's always posting cool pictures of his after-work excursions, because Oregon is cool. I wonder what this poor sap is writing home about. "Well... Tremonton is small, but rumor has it they're getting a Dollar Tree." Clearly he is here to WORK, not for the free vacation.)

This particular salesman was a pest control guy, the worst of the lot because you can pretend you already have a security system, but everybody has bugs. After asking me a lot of personal questions while I tried to inch my way into the house, he proceeded to show me a laminated picture of all different kinds of spiders and wanted me to point to which ones I usually saw in our house. Like I want to relive that! He then explained how for the low low cost of 150 galleons, he could knock down those pesky spider webs between the shingles, but I'd have to be on my guard because it would, obviously, need to be done quarterly. 

Let's get one thing straight: if you could get rid of every spider in my house and GUARANTEE me that there would never be one again, there would be no price I wouldn't pay for that service. (Caleb may disagree.) But you can't guarantee that, can you, you sly little man who doesn't carry a business card when I offer to give you a call if I'm interested?

My problem is I just can't be mean. I can't! And they know I can't, and they play off of it! However, it was 9:00 at night and I really just wanted to go inside and hang out with my husband and I don't know, do anything but stand here and talk about spiders with this stranger, so I had to at least lie to get myself out of future entanglements.

I just don't lie well. For some reason I lied and said Caleb wasn't home, and then I spent the rest of our encounter in fear that Caleb would show up at the door. That would really test my improv skills. "Oh! Manuel! This is my butler who speaks no English!"

Finally, he realized I wasn't busting out the credit card any time soon, despite his constant references to some neighbor who I must know and trust and strive to emulate, who was getting her webs removed on Saturday. But he had to log me as a maybe-sale anyway.

"Can I get your name?"

"Anndee"

As he's typing it on his company iPad. "Is that with an i?"

"...yes."

"Great. And can I get your phone number?" Ah! Now I had him! Since it is beyond my capacity to just make up a 100% fake number when I'm put on the spot like this, I gave him my real number, but one number off. It's a trick I learned at the singles ward, when all the crazies would ask for my number repeatedly, and if I gave them a real one they would call FORTY TIMES in one day. Yes this really happened.

Of course, it wasn't until I came in that I realized I had missed a golden opportunity here. After all, he was a stranger who would soon be gone. As far as he's concerned, I could be anyone I wanted. Why stop at Andi? I could be the crazy cat lady who asks if he'll come back tomorrow to hear more of her stories. I could turn the tables and try to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

And this is where I challenge all of you to really go crazy with these salesman. Think outside the box. Don't hide from the salesman: embrace the experience! Step into the role of the worst person you can imagine encountering. And if you do it, I want to hear about it.

Let's make next years training session for summer sales one they will never forget. (Because, I assume, they prepare them for everything... Just not me. Mwahahaha.)

A Disney Princess

Guys, I've finally figured it out. After all these years of complaining, all this time spent trying to accomplish things and become someone I finally realized I am already right where I need to be. I am- are you ready for this?- a Disney Princess.
Now hear me out.
Like Ariel, I have a strange collection of things that seemingly have no purpose, but that I can't seem to get rid of. My basement bears a scary resemblance to her underwater trove of nonsense. (And ironically, our basement frequently floods, making the comparison even more real.) You want thingamabobs? I've got twenty. But who cares? NBD. I want more.
Also like Ariel, I frequently forget the names for common human things like feet and fire.
The most obvious resemblance is between Cinderella and I. We both live to clean and wait for the day a slipper made out of glass is actually comfortable. Glass? Come on.
Although with the cleaning thing I may be more like Snow White. I lived at home with my mother and never cleaned a day in my life, but the minute she chased me from the castle I had to find a shack to live in and clean up and hope that would be enough for the true owners to let me stay.
Like Merida, I have a sweet Scottish accent and killer aim with a bow and arrow. Ok, you caught me. I've never used a bow and arrow that wasn't Nerf brand. But I so wish.
Like Mulan, all it takes is one bad haircut with a blunt sword, a top bun, and a day with no makeup and the entire Chinese army doesn't question that I am a Man.
Belle and I obviously share the whole love of books thing, although I would never go so far as to marry a wolf-bear-mammoth hybrid just for his library.
Tiana and I have both had nasty bouts with salmonella. Mine came from cookie dough. Way more worth it.
When the wind blows, it's scary how close my long, ebony hair resembles that of Pocahontas. Seriously, pay attention next time we're in a hurricane or a topless car together. It's glorious.
Like Sleeping Beauty, I need my beauty sleep. I mean, this was kind of the most boring Disney movie ever, so forgive me if I know nothing about the plot.

As was my Princess duty, I of course married the Handsome Prince and am currently in the midst of the Happily Ever After.

And I spend a disproportionate amount of time cleaning up after my little dwarf, Happy.

And there is this wild animal that for some reason I let live in my house, and some days I have more conversations with him than any human.

And, like every good Disney Princess, I frequently break into song when you least expect it. All I need is for my tea pot to come to life and harmonize with me.

You have no idea how badly I wish I was kidding about any of these.

Finding Happy

One of my biggest pet peeves these days is that no one is real anymore. Not online, not in person. We are all in silent competition with each other with who lives the best life, and no one is winning. So, I'm going to do my best to attempt to be really real here.
Last night Caleb and I were both just feeling really low. It was weird, because yesterday was a really good day. Caleb got to work from home, which was awesome. He wasn't busy, which was even more awesome. We spent the whole day as a family, and it was great. So this dark cloud that settled over our home was a surprise to both of us.
We started talking and decided we both just felt sort of dissatisfied, I think we're having a quarter-life crisis. 
As most of you know, Caleb just started a new job. And it's a great job. He's really liked it. And with the pay raise, I've been able to stay home with Dayen, which has basically been my dream forever.
We feel like everything we've been working towards and dreaming about is here. Obviously we still have goals and dreams, but suddenly we are on the wrong side of a lot of the BIG things. The wedding, the first kid, the first home. We are officially settled into the day to day. We feel like all that's left is the "enduring to the end."
We feel like we've arrived, and it was sort of anti-climactic.
We feel like now that we're settled into these lives, we can both look into our futures and see where we're going to be twenty years from now. And it's kind of unsettling.
I know that sounds strange. Three years ago I would have killed to be in this position, but now it feels strange to be so stagnant. I feel like I spend all day every day taking care of this person who has yet to appreciate it, and who loves to throw spaghetti all over my clean floors. I feel like even though I'm so happy and fulfilled to be where I am, I might wake up in twenty years and wish I had done more. Caleb feels like he's fallen into a routine that he's going to have until retirement.
I can acknowledge that in twenty years I will probably laugh at myself that I thought I had it all figured out right now. I know that lots will change, and we may end up somewhere I never expected.
It's just that right now, it all feels pretty predictable and monotonous.
And the reason I wanted to blog about it at all, was that I know we're not alone. I see it, and general unhappiness and dissatisfaction, all around me. And I have a groundbreaking theory that I'm going to talk about in my webinar, for only 39.95! (Spoiler alert: the fix is essential oils!)
Just kidding.
But I do have a theory.
It has to do with something we learned about in High School: Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.

It basically says that until our needs from the lower tiers are met, we can't even be concerned with the needs of the higher tiers.
It makes sense: If you don't have food, water, or air, you're not going to be concerned about whether you have friends. (Unless, I guess, they're the ones providing the food, water, or air.) You need those basic things, and then your concern becomes having shelter, and making sure your financial needs are met. Once those things are all in place, We worry about having friends and a companion. And only after that are we concerned with our confidence, or the need to be a unique individual.
My theory is this: we are all way too high up on that gosh-darn pyramid. We're spoiled. We've had it so easy. If you want to take this moment to have a little pity party about how your life hasn't been easy, then go watch a Netflix documentary about starving children in Africa and then get back to me.
Of course we have our challenges, but from day one MOST of our needs are met. Most of us have food and water, a home, friends (or at least access to Facebook and the idea of friends) and we're all stuck on that green tier that tells us the ONLY important thing now is our self-esteem, our emotional needs.
Is it really that surprising that depression and anxiety run so rampant in our society? It's all that's left! No one is going to be on Facebook complaining that they are trapped in a box and don't have any air. If we're being honest, we've all arrived. We might still be saving for our first home, or searching for our soul mate, but ultimately we are way up on this pyramid and we aren't very happy about it.
Like I said, I just had a theory, not a cure. If any of you have any grand ideas, we can collaborate and make millions (although if gluten ends up being the problem, we'll just have to admit they told us so.) 
As far as I can figure, and because most of us pampered babies aren't going to reach self-actualization in this lifetime, the only thing we can really do is CHOOSE happiness. Every day, over and over. Even if we occasionally get knocked down a tier or two. Even if that anxiety monster is eating away at you and telling you there is nothing to be happy about. It seems like every study ever done on a human tells us that we all follow the same basic patterns, we are all predictable and basically animals in a zoo.
But I believe that's why our agency sets us apart more than our giant brains or our fancy cars. (Take that, zebras.) We get to choose, but we also have to choose. Everything else may have been easy, but this one won't be. This is our challenge...should you choose to accept it.
Or, you can just go cry to your mom like Dayen always does. It works well for him.

I'm Not Good at Sports

It's a known fact about me, something I will willingly admit: I am not good at sports. It's my excuse to not look like a fool when I end up needing to play some sport. It's something that, at 25, I can accept and laugh about. It's just not one of my skills! I don't play sports, or do college math, or perform onstage. But it's ok, I'm crafty! I write! That's who I am!

It's become a mantra of sorts: I don't play sports. I don't play sports. I'mnotathletic, IDONTplaysports.

Which is why it was a surprise for me, and everyone who knows me, when I decided to join a league softball team this year.

(Disclaimer: I now realize that a city women's softball team isn't a nationally syndicated event. The other players are not body-builders on a roid rage and out for blood. But before signing up, I truly did not know this, and it was terrifying.)

The thing is: I haven't always been bad at sports. In fact, I used to be really great at Basketball. I played at my house almost every day, even in the winter. I could make a basket from my knees, which usually helped me beat my brothers and dad at HORSE. I beat all the boys in the hoop shoot contest that year. I wasn't badatsports then.

In fact, the more I search my brain, the more I realize at that age I didn't have any reservations about sports, even the ones I wasn't the best at. I never remember feeling nervous during gym. I never sat out certain events pretending I was sick. It didn't matter if I was the best because only one person can really be the best, and good for them, right?

So, what gives? Why am I so convinced that I'm terrible now?

The furthest I can trace it back was 6th grade.

Picture it with me: the most awkward years of your life. You are growing up, but you're still a kid. Suddenly they make you shower in gym class, just what you've been needing to come out of your shy-shell. All your friendships are rocky, boys are starting to seem less obnoxious, and suddenly your mom is embarrassing you everywhere you go.

It's not exactly the Golden Years for your self esteem.

Dance class was bad enough. Please, someone explain to me why twelve-year-olds absolutely MUST learn the Boot Scoot Boogie? But gym was the icing on the cake. Suddenly it was apparent who was good at sports, and who was not. I remember one girl was really good at soccer, and she became instantly cool. She also had pretty hair, which probably helped.

It was the year you started pretending to be on your period to get out of attendance. It was the year my teacher made me run the mile even though I had a doctors note that I had strep. (After reading it, she backed away and covered her mouth so I wouldn't get her sick. She was not my favorite.) I remember one day we split up into groups to play volleyball. In reality, none of us were probably very great at it, but that doesn't stop the one competitive poophead (I usually refrain from using words like "poophead" on my blog, but it's necessary here) who thinks it's the Olympics and yells at everyone who isn't good.

That whole class was like a slow unraveling of my self-confidence. First, I realized the girl was pretty competitive. Then, that she was really competitive. Then, I realized she would yell at people if they missed the ball, or the serve, or failed to perform to her standards. THEN, I realized she would yell at ME. Publicly! It was humiliating and I was terrified that she was going to do it again. She did.

Of course, there were plenty of other girls in the class like me, who didn't have a competitive bone in their body and who were just as frustrated with her as I was. But none of us stood up to her, and by the end of the class I was a lot worse at volleyball than I was in the beginning.

I think, at all ages, we do this. We listen to what people tell us about ourselves, and we absorb it, and we become it. That girl and I even ended up being sort-of friends, and I'm sure she has no recollection of this day. But it was that day, and many like it in the years to come, that have led 25 year old Anndee to shy away from all sports or anything remotely "athletic." She told me I wasn't good, and to this day I believe it.

Thankfully for us, I think it goes the other way too. For some reason I can distinctly remember this day in 1st grade: We were learning math, and our teacher was a little frazzled. She taught us something, then got distracted and came back a few minutes later to teach us the same thing again. One kid raised his hand with the answer (which she had given us a few minutes before, unbeknownst to her) and she went crazy with praise. "You are so smart! You are like a math genius!" All of us tried to protest: we all knew the answer! She had just told us! But it fell on deaf ears. "I can't believe you knew the answer to that! You are going to be very good at math."

That day always stuck with me (probably because of the gross misjustice of it all) but the crazy thing is: he really did end up being good at math. Maybe he would have been a "math genius" anyway, but I firmly believe that positive affirmation like that made a big difference in who he would become.

On the same token, I think my love of writing came from a teacher and positive affirmation early on. In 2nd grade we would have "writer's workshops" everyday and they were always my favorite. My teacher would constantly tell me that I should write children's books someday. When I published A Place Like Heaven, I sent her a copy. 

Overall, I think it's unavoidable. Us, and our kids, are going to hear from some sad soul, somewhere along the way, that they aren't good at something. All of our self esteems take a hit sometimes. But I think it's important that we don't take it on: don't make it your mantra. Other people can tell you what they want about you, just don't tell it to yourself.

Which I guess, if I was to be psycho-evaluated right now (which I probably should be) that would be why I joined this softball team. A tiny step towards being good at sports.

And I will be the first to admit, the natural athletic abilities are definitely not there. My main goal in every game is just to make some contact with the ball. I stand in right field and pray the ball won't come to me. When it does, I'm tempted to run it to the bases, because that would be less embarrassing than my attempts at throwing. I strike out a lot, I spend more time swatting at bugs than I do playing, and I don't understand 80% of the lingo. ("I got a popfly and the short stop fouled the umpire." "...Yeah you did.")

BUT... it has been a lot of fun. I have been really lucky to have a fun team that doesn't take it too seriously and helps to point out my strengths. They try to help me do better without tearing me down, and I'm very grateful for that.

I see a lot of people making fun of it for kids these days, but I am a firm believer in the participation trophy. When I used to figure skate (Oh yeah! I did that too!) every time I fell down, my coach would clap. Because it doesn't matter if you catch the ball every time, or hit a home run. It doesn't matter if you land that Waltz Jump. What matters is that you are out on the field, or lacing up your skates (be careful not to combine these two), what matters is that you TRY.

Now, Dayen keeps crawling up here and trying to type, and I told him, "You can't write a blog!" which I immediately realized went against everything I just wrote, so here is Dayen's two cents.

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Baby Therapy

You know how if you are having a hard time in your marriage, you can go to marriage counseling? Well it's come to my attention (the voices in my head pointed it out to me) that what we are seriously lacking in our society today is counseling for the other relationships in our lives! Sure, I believe our marriages are the most important ones, but I'd still like to have healthy relationships all around. Mother-daughter therapy, to get those rough teen years out in the open and so she can finally confess that she holds the fact that she had to give birth to me against me. (I've been through it now, mom. I understand.) Brother-Sister Therapy, so they can finally apologize for chasing me around with dead spiders and ripping out all my dolls hair (ok that one was 100% Cody) and I can apologize for... Ok I can't think of any transgressions on my end but I'd still like some healing over the spider issue. Even Stranger Therapy, so I can finally discuss how it felt when that jerk cut me off in traffic, or when that lady at the grocery store parked her cart in the middle of the aisle for 20 minutes while she mulled over cereal choices.

All of those would be beneficial, but what we really need is mom-baby therapy. I say specifically mom-baby because dad's (in general) don't seem to have the same problems. Dads are the fun ones who make them laugh and play on their level, then mysteriously disappear when the diapers are full.  

Moms are different. We're there from the beginning. I remember right after Dayen was born, he was screaming like a banshee (that metaphor is overused, but what else can you say? Screaming like someone who got their leg chopped off?) and the second they laid him on my chest, he relaxed like, Oh there you are! It was incredible, but any close relationship like that is bound to run into some problems. 

The first thing I've noticed, and only recently, is Jealousy. He's possessive. I'm telling you, if he was my boyfriend you'd all be telling me to run. Neither of us are allowed to get too close to anyone else, because... Well in his mind, the world would implode. Sometimes, when he feels he's not getting the attention he deserves, he will go to someone else and laugh and play and pretend to be having the time of his life, and all the while he will sneak dirty looks over in my direction like see how quickly you can be replaced, mother? 

This all seems to lead into general inappropriate behavior. I mean, the kid has no concept of what is socially acceptable. To screaming (like someone who just got their leg sawed off) in the grocery store for no apparent reason, to yelling nonsense at the top of his lungs during the prayer at church, it's like he does the opposite of what etiquette and common courtesy require on purpose. Along those same lines is the physical abuse. I remember as a rough and tumble kid always having bumps and bruises, but I never realized being a mom was easily as dangerous. I am always getting kicked, smacked, and poked in the eye. He thinks my hair is a perfect tool to help him stand, and he flings toys at my head just to see what will happen. Just yesterday I walked into the bathroom with him on my hip, and before knew it he had grabbed the bottle of soap off the counter and hit me right in the temple with it. You never know when it's going to happen. You have to constantly be on your toes. And when you inevitably get hurt in public, you have to fight back tears and paste on a smile like, "Really, it's no big deal! I was asking for it!"

And of course, because I feel I should admit some guilt in this relationship, there is the codependency. Although he can go awhile being entertained by someone else, eventually it all comes back to needing mom. His brain must be a constant loop of, "I'm hungry, where's mom? I'm tired, where's mom? I'm bored, where's mom? I pooped, where's mom?" (Which of course leads us right back to the inappropriate behavior!) Whenever I try to edit pictures he will pull himself up by my chair and say "mommommommom" until I can't take it anymore. I mean it's adorable, don't get me wrong. And like I said, he's not entirely to blame here. I've been known to miss him so much in the middle of the night that I sneak into his room and wake him up just to rock him. In my mind, this is a beautiful gesture of maternal love, and bonds us for all time. In reality, it is a nightmare which I always immediately regret, because Dayen is not a kid who takes his sleep being interrupted well, and no matter what I do he is not going to fall asleep in my arms after that. Apparently the only mom who can really get away with that is the majorly creepy one from that majorly creepy kids book, Love You Forever. (You know what I took away from that book? That the moms creepiness was apparently genetic because the son eventually creeps into her window to rock her- forget the fact that she clearly didn't want him to have a key- and that they also might have a sleeping pill abuse situation going on in their house- and also that the author did not put much thought into the phrase that is repeated ten million times throughout the book. You really couldn't make it rhyme, at least?)

I truly believe some sort of mother-baby counseling could really benefit us through this rocky time in our relationship. Until then, I will show him some ink splotches and see what I can glean from that.

Sleeptalking

Our whole marriage, Caleb worked late nights & slept in most mornings. Now that he's waking up early day after day, he falls fast asleep really quick every night. Which should be great, but it's also had one super-creepy side effect: he's started sleep talking. Like, nightly. 

Now this isn't totally new to me. In college I shared a room with my friend who sleep shouted things at me all the time. (My favorite: "You, me, and Kayden! Six o'clock!") But she at least had the common decency to sound groggy when it happened, and she'd fall right back asleep afterwards.

My dear husband, on the other hand, is a wild card. I never know what he's going to do. And I genuinely can't tell if he's truly awake or not. He just says things so clear, too clear for someone who is apparently REMing it up.

Like tonight: I stayed up reading for awhile after he'd gone to bed. When I clicked off the lamp it must have somewhat woken him up, because next thing I knew, he was sitting up on his elbows, his face not one inch away from mine, and just sitting there. 

Me: Caleb? What are you doing?

Caleb: What do you mean?

Me: You're just sitting there all creepy! Stop it!

Caleb: I'm just looking at you!

Me: It's pitch black in here!

Caleb:... But I can still see you. 

Me: (pocket dialing 911) How? 

Caleb: What do you mean how? (and then he scoffs, like I'm the crazy one.)

It's not even like you can talk to him and learn his deepest, darkest secrets. It's literally like being thrown into someone's dream. It makes no sense.

A few nights ago, he turned over and, clear as day, asked me, "Do you still have the same iPhone?"

You mean the same one I had when you fell asleep? Believe it or not, yes! 

Sometimes we play the "you're not really awake" "yes I am" "prove it" game, but it generally produces confusing results. 

Me: Prove you're awake. 

Him: I really am! I don't know how to prove it. 

Me: Ok, you sound normal. I guess I believe you. 

Him: Good. Thanks. I'm really proud of you for throwing this party. 

Me: ....aaaaannnnnndddd apparently you're asleep.

The problem with these late night chats is that they usually wake me up, and I have a hard time falling back asleep. And what's even worse, he never believes me about it the next day! It's getting to the point I think he really believes I make it up for attention or something. I'm starting to feel like I'm losing my mind. And he's the crazy one, not me! I'm normal! I'M NOT CRAZY.

So, I'm laying here trying to fall asleep, half afraid that my husband is going to turn over at any moment and ask me if I want to go snorkeling with the queen tomorrow. And there is nothing I can do about it.

This isn't really where I thought life would take me. But at least he's cute.