Dadisodes: Oh honey. That is not a nice thing to ask.  See, mommy’s belly is smaller than it was when your baby sister was inside, right?

Me:  *sobs*

(Postpartum day 9)

I know that not even two weeks have passed since I gave birth, but I don’t remember being this “poochy” after having Babisodes.

My guess is a new insatiable, breast-feeding hunger will be of no help either.

Anyhow, I am finally home. Actually, I have been home from the hospital for several days now. I’ve just been lamenting my departure.  You know?  Clean linens. Hot food and beverages served 3 times a day.  All done for me by the hospital staff.

*sigh*

It’s the closest thing to resort living I’ll ever have.

The baby and I came home just in time for the monsoon that took over New England this week.  Just in time for our basement and roof to drip water.  And just in time for Babisodes to spike a high fever and catch a cold.

The upgrade from one kid to two is already proving to be quite an adventure.

I promise to post something cohesive one day.

Perhaps when my sleep deprived mind can manage to string together a full sentence, or when my boobs don’t turn into leaky faucets at the thought of the baby.

I totally forgot how far breast milk travels.

Same goes for poop.

You’re welcome for not posting pics.

Well it was nice while it lasted.

We somehow managed to skirt past November without any snow, but December has wasted no time in sprinkling winter on us.

I can’t complain though.  This is officially my fourth winter in Massachusetts, and I’m realizing that this is my favorite kind of winter storm, the ones that leave only a few inches of snow behind.  I can’t deal with footage.

I am also realizing that first snowfalls really throw me for a loop.  Especially this year, being pregnant.

Snowflakes floating gently in the wind act as a white flag. A warning of the final lap before the long, dark days ensue.

When the biting cold reaches down to the bone, and is unrelenting for months.

Makes me want to fill my basement with canned food and toilet paper.

People cook for you. Bathe you. Chauffer’s even drive you around town to the places you need to go.

However, aside from what seems to be a life of leisure, there really is work to be done.  Work in the form of play.

And there is much of it to be done.

Don’t be mistaken though.  It is no easy task.  There are many potential roadblocks along the way.  Things such as colds, flu, and other hazards that come with falling temperatures.

But with youth, comes resilience; the ability to find your feet quickly, always adaptable.

Especially when you move from warm southern California, to the bitter cold of Massachusetts at the unripe age of 15 months.

The transition was seamless.

Now at 3, she even complains of being “too hot!” when the mercury barely reaches 50 degrees F.

Unfortunately, the same laws do not apply to those lacking youth.  Especially when you’ve been raised in sweltering, hot, and humid south Florida for over 25 years.

The adaptability curve is a little bit steeper.

————————

*PLEASE vote for my blog here. I need your votes!

**Don’t forget to enter the free giveaway for a $25 gift certificate for See’s Candies here!

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

It’s been over 2 years since I last worked the graveyard shift, but in all this time it’s been a struggle adjusting to my new schedule. I had to wean myself of my regular midnight-2am lunchtime, and sleeping while the sun was out. All of these tiny nuances took months and months to overcome. And last week, I noticed the greatest progress yet. I began feeling tired around 10pm.

*Gasp*

You have to remember that for years, by this time in the day, I had not even had lunch yet. This was a huge breakthrough. Or was it?

Several days later I woke with a nasty head cold (which I still have). Could my body have been trying to fight off something? Possibly. But I was sort of eating well, going to bed earlier. What went wrong?

On Friday night, I climbed into bed beside Dadisodes. My eyes squinted at the alarm clock across the room to see the time reading 10:37pm. “Yes!” I said to myself as I lay down on my side and pulled the soft, worn comforter over my body. Beside me, Dadisodes lay flat on his back already drifting off. I leaned in closer to his body for warmth and placed my head right on the inside of his shoulder. In the gap perfectly suited for the side of my cheek. As I closed my eyes I whispered, “Good night, night. See you in the morning,” as I always do. I lay still for a few minutes with my eyes closed. Feeling his heartbeat beneath the palm of my hand. And then, I turned over onto my other side, curled up, and fell fast asleep facing the other way.

What?

I can only cuddle for so long. I can never fall asleep that way.

Hours passed through the night as we both slept. While lying on my side I felt the urge to curl up more and bring my chin to my chest. My eyes still closed, I began to shiver. My right hand slowly drew up my left forearm to discover it freezing! I creaked my eyes open at the green alarm clock light reading 4:28am. Directly in front of my face were both my knees and arms, curled up into a fetal position. None of the blankets were on me anymore. I sat up in shock in the cold, dark room and looked over the edge of the bed in search of covers. The floor was barren. As I turned to my side Dadisodes laid still, tightly bound inside all of the covers. His cocooned body all snuggled and warm, unyielding even an inch of fabric.

I nudged his shoulder with my finger.

Nothing.

Violently shook his shoulder with both hands.

Nothing.

His blanket force field was too strong. So I grabbed a sweater from my bedside table, put it on, and feel back to sleep.

Wash, rinse, and repeat for an entire week, and I find myself alone in the house with this nasty cold. I’ve heard it is common for older couples to sleep in separate beds. Could this be why? Would it be wrong to start in our 30’s? I tried starting the night with 2 separate blankets, but my covers still end up stolen.

Perhaps I need to stay up later in the night. Watch the shadows of trees dance on my bedroom walls. And then, slowly…pilfer all the covers to create my very own cocoon.

Take a stab at which side is mine.

So if you are looking for a June Cleaver perspective on how my world is a drop of golden sun, please click your mouse over to the address bar on your browser and enter WWW dot I Need a Reality Check dot com (dude, I just looked that up, and it totally exists. Is every domain in the whole freaking WWW hosted these days?).
So. Have all the readers with an extra appendage clicked elsewhere? If you did, then I’m telling your wives. Or sisters. Or MOTHERS (they’ll come and get you for it next month).

Just to be clear, I promise to not showcase my blog as a bitch and whine bulletin for the next 25 days of NaBloPoMo- so… I will do my best to limit my bitchfests to once a week or less, and will designate Thursdays for being “thankful” (just for November kids).

Anyhow, I have a ton of work to do for a charity event launch tomorrow, two newsletter drops, an interview to edit, and a million emails I must reply to. All the while, my worn out body just wants to S-L-E-E-P.

Moms just cannot afford to be sick. There are no sick days, no one to cover a shift, and certainly no paid time off. Since I came down with this cold/flu, it feels as if my sleeve’s been caught in a car door as it continues to drive off. I just cannot keep up with the pace of everything around me as my body is fighting off this monster bug. If only someone could just come over and do the laundry. Or vacuum. Or rinse the freaking dishes off so crap doesn’t harden into slabs of cement while sitting in the sink!

Since I’ve been out of commission, there have been a series of events that has proven that my husband merely serves as another child under this roof:

1) No one has clean underwear.

2) None of the toilet paper rolls are on the toilet paper holders.

3) My husband nearly burned down the house when I asked him to boil water for tea.

4) There are no clean forks. Just spoons.

5) There is a trail of dirty clothes leading from our bathroom floor to the washing machine. It’s the yellow brick road leading to Oz, but the wizard knows nothing of this laundry business.

6) I took a shower in our master bathroom today (I’ve been using a second bathroom’s shower for the past week) and I discovered my husband has not had a bar of soap to clean himself with for days. He never mentioned anything, and he never went to buy more. Gross.

7) Dirty sippy cups are piling up in our kitchen sink with remnant curdling milk tightly sealed within them. I’m considering wadding up all the curds and placing it in the shower as a decoy.

8. I’m currently typing this in a bathroom because my husband and daughter are giving me a headache.

9) And lastly, this is what my living room looks like:

I’ve cleaned this mess up 37 times today. But a category 2 hurricane keeps coming back to spread it’s fury.

This room is exactly how my husband’s apartment looked when I first met him. Only this one is slightly cleaner and has furniture. Hard evidence of just how blind love really is.

Whew! All right, I feel a little better.

If you made it this far, you deserve a prize. I’m reaching out to put a pretty pink tiara made of tampons on your head.

Wait.

I also woke up this morning and found a painful zit the size of Mt. Everest on my chin that is directly attached to every nerve in my body.

And I’m still sick.

Oh, and did I mention I’m turning 30 in 2 days?

I need a vacation, in solitude.