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.
The Last Byte 