It's a Journey...

We've now officially left happy Newbornland and have entered the slums of Betsville.

You know happy Newbornland! Your baby is so cute, so smushy, and even though you haven't slept since you were pregnant, you don't care. Cause you're happy you're not pregnant anymore, and you're so happy to see you new lil munchkin, and he sleeps for 22 hours a day in your arms, in the car, at a restaurant. Hell he'd probably sleep through a Lady Gaga concert. And people send you things, and bring you dinner, and visit and help and all is right with the world. I mean, did you see my last post? I was blabbering about freakin' flowers blooming and fuzzy ducklings!

And then its four weeks later. No one cooks dinners for you anymore. Everyone goes back to their own lives. And you're left with your child. Yet, it's not the same child, it seems. This one is a dandruffy, pimply-faced mutant with weird hair. He's decided not to sleep anymore. Ever again. And if you try to make him he will cry in your face with his newly discovered windpipes. Oh, and you better watch out cause he will pee and poop on you too, just to prove his point.

Ah, yes. The slums of Betsville. This is where the laundry sits mildewing in the washer for days, having been long forgotten until the last spit-up-free onsie is desperately needed but can't be had because it has grown mold. This is where crusty dishes pile up night after night. Half eaten bowls of cereal sit curdling on the table because you were interrupted mid-bite and never would return. Come on! This is my cereal time - is nothing sacred?! A cup of coffee spilt as you tried to constrain the flailing limbs of your baby congeals under the side table, never having seen a paper towel. Used bottles and baby-care books (useless, btw) and dirty diapers lay strewn about. And you smell and look like a homeless person. Spit-up spots your t-shirt and crusts in your hair. Your teeth have film. Your fingernails are ragged, your legs unshaven, and your underwear unchanged for who knows how long. And yet, having existed on only 3 broken hours of sleep a day for the past four weeks, you are so disoriented you don't give a shit!

This gets funner, right?

You are counting down the days until your child will start to sleep through the night. Your husband is counting down the days until he can "be intimate" with you. He's imagining role play. Ok. Let's role play. You tell him to imagine himself as a woman with torn privates, a handful of itchy stitches holding together said privates, and a plethora of screaming hemorrhoids who exists on 3 broken hours of sleep a night. Wanna do it?

Things will get better. I'm sure of it. I mean, I've got friends with kids who actually smile once in awhile. Can't wait.