Good For Nothing

Apparently if Nibbles puts his running shoes on now, he’ll need to get into a good daycare so that he can get into a good montessori when he’s 2 so that he can get into a good school when he’s 5 so that he can jump across the hurdles – primary, middle, hiiiigh school- off to a good university so that he can land a good job. And then the good wife will follow suite, naturally. And of course, there’s nothing subjective about what’s deemed good.

I had it all, did it all – after all, I was a rather good girl. Fat lot of good that did me. I keep thinking that what I want most for Nibbles is for him to be able to pursue his dreams. That would be a whole load of phony baloney, considering I never had the balls to do so. And nothing accelerates a parent’s fall from the pedestal faster than hypocrisy.

But what does a good girl do when she forgets how to dream? Perhaps learn to forget her identity has a human, and come to terms with what she really is – code monkey, work horse, fat pig, stupid cow, corporate rat. If I must choose, I think I’d want to be a cockroach. Enviable resiliance + free lodging/boarding. Or perhaps I’ll stick to pig – playing in the mud + 30 minute orgasms.

Wake Up

blahness abounds. Weeks like this make me feel like I’m a WAHM for purely selfish reasons. Nibbles managed to escape some nasty falls, with stitches and scars as keepsakes. He appears bored and irritable, often banging on the front door/yanking his stroller screaming “bye! buh-byeeee!” Poor chap hasn’t figured out how to unlock the door yet, so he’s stuck with this ol’ hag for a bit longer.

My attempts at providing creative stimulation seem forced at best. I flip carelessly from one activity to the next like a jaded grad student selectively stimulating various nodes of the brain: giant animal marker – coloring time, digital drums on punk rock mode – music time, sleepytime stories and rhymes – reading time, slow dancing to fast songs – groovin’ time, soccer with oversized ball – sports time, ten reps on community slide – playing time, crash course on one hand cooking – uh – domestic time. And of course, all of this stuff together could total a whopping ten to fifteen minutes of…of what?

I’ve seen the way his face lights up when he sees other children. He dashes towards them with a brilliant grin spread across his milk-toothed face – only to be hauled away by me because I’m too chicken-shit to leave him alone in a social situation. What if he grabs her pretty curls or pulls her sharp nose? What if she punches back or starts crying? I’ve become the dreaded mama that spawns mama’s boys – the very kind that I’ve always detested.

Dammit Null Pointer! Time’s up. Loosen up those reins or it’s the Dreaded Daycare for your precious Nibbles.

Edited to add: Is tagging a post Post-partum valid after a year post delivery? Fuckit.

Murphy

Fuck Murphy and his stupid law. Or maybe it is my intellect that is running opposite to Moore’s law, whereby the amount of information I can process is exponentially declining.

I’d freaked out during my pregnancy when I read that the maternal brain size shrinks all the way up to labor. In fact, it was probably my paranoia that kept my neurons chiseled till I delivered a kickass project, right before I delivered Nibbles.

The research was not all gloom though – the brain was supposed to magically bounce back to its “normal” size within 6 months postpartum. I for one have come to believe that neurons gone, are neurons lost forever. Just like the abdominal flab is here to stay, safely tucked into elastic-wasited trackpants.

Seriously though, why would anyone let a solitary human being re-write the trade booking system with critical business impact and not have anyone else review/test it? It could’ve been beautiful – everything working smoothly, continents shifting without anyone noticing. And the glory would’ve been everyone’s to bask in, perhaps with an extra zero at the year-end compensation? But one lousy human error, and it gets mighty toasty for a scapegoat getting grilled. What can I say? Hold off on the salt, please.

Edited to Add: Nibbles just gave me a huge, gooey, banana-mouth-filled kiss that totally smacked all the blahness away. I suppose the lil’ goo monster knew that’s exactly what I needed. Yay!

Nibbles Sniffles

Sniffle. Cough. Fever. Rinse. Repeat.
Dammit! Chasing a viral bug with yet another one? What a sorry waste of possibly the only gorgeous days of the summer before the humid, merciless heat leaves me a slave to my air conditioner.

Not to mention, the damper it’s put on my rhymin’ skillz. There was Naughty-Potty, Silly-Billy, Funny-Bunny. Nothing to put an ol’ bard to shame. MIL’s nickname for Nibbles, “Sonia”, – after we all agreed Nibbles made an adorable girl in that frilly pink outfit – is the current favorite. And for the life of me I can’t come up with something catchier than “Sonia-Pneumonia!” (The second word needs to have 4 syllables. Yes, needs to). What does a lactating mom smoke for inspiration?

blah

Breakfast is overrated. And I need chocolate now.

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So much for not turning this into a whine-space *sigh*