I want to tell you all about last night

Warning, there is mention of breastfeeding in this post. So if you are Bill Maher, or any other douchebag who thinks baby's magically feed themselves at Spago, don't read any further. Also go suck an egg. 


This is a story about one night. Well not really one night. It's a story of many nights run together through, one after the other, bleeding mercilessly into days packed with running here and there, peppered with laundry, occasional application of mascara, and many, many, many insurance, school, and bank forms to be filled out. This is my life. It's not war, and it's not bad, it's just...wow, its just endless. We're past long days, short years. We're into short days, short years, short hours. There are not enough seconds in each minute. I can see both of the boys changing daily, and even though I'm here, watching, I am worried I might be missing something. 

I'm not complaining. In the year 2011, this is a very good life. We have a home, a garden, the best swing chair ever, full dental, clean water, organic cotton socks, each other, you know, the good stuff. But I can't help but think that something is amiss. Don't worry, I'm not going to check out, and move my family off the grid to a farm in the ozarks, or anything, but when life's pace faster is than Usain Bolt at a square dance..that doesn't even make any sense. I'm sorry. 

(woah! I know! Shocking!) 

Ok, here's one example from this week and then I'll tell you about night. Yesterday I bought THE BRA. What? You don't know about THE BRA? I was told about THE BRA, by another actress and new mom at an audition a few weeks ago. She's a pilates instructor, as well as a new mom, and an actor, so she does a lot of driving. A lot of times our appointments are within an hour of each other on opposite sides of town. We were discussing when to pump, how to pump, etc... and she said "well you have THE BRA, right?" "NO! I don't have the bra! What is the bra?" and then another woman who had been eavesdropping chimed in "oh yeah, she's right, you have to get THE BRA." 


They explained that THE BRA, was actually a sort of tube top with a zip front, that has cut outs around the nipples (kinky! but not...) so you can put the little cups for the pump inside them, screw on bottles, connect the tubes, turn on your pump, and make milk out of BOTH SIDES at the same time. SO smart. I don't know why I didn't know about THE BRA before. I have a double pump, but I always just pumped one side at a time, and held the bottle in my hand. Now it takes only half the time. But that's not the best part about THE BRA. The pilates/actor/mom tells me: "this way you don't have to pull over to pump, you can just do it on your way to your next appointment". DID YOU HEAR ME? I can make milk out of my breasts while driving. This is the ultimate in mommy efficiency and it fills my heart with both joy and anxiety. OMG! Think of all the other things I can get done in the 20 minutes, I'm saving every 2 hours, from not having to PULL OVER and make milk. I'm sorry I'll stop shouting. I just can't imagine what my grandmother would think about me hurtling down the 101 freeway, milk pump attached under very stylish nursing cover. And I'm happy about it. I think. 

SO about last night. Here's how it went, give or take. Baby goes down around 6:45 after a very short nurseyloo. No problem. 45 minutes later he's up. Normally I'd just send Nipper in to soothe him. But I don't mind giving him a little more milk because he didn't really nurse much, and I'm pretty rested because I got to sleep until 7:45 that morning because my darling husband took both kids downstairs at 6:30, or maybe it was 7. I don't know. So he nurses again, this time for a long time, and I put him back in his crib. Good night Charlie. Now I join Jack's bedtime already in progress. We negotiate who is going to read, (daddy) and who is going to get the shaft with a "you can read tomorrow night" (mommy). We remind him not to suck all the toothpaste off the toothbrush like he does every night. We remind him not to pick his nose or he'll get a nosebleed (again). We say "ok, let's settle down, it's time for bed" 18,000 times. We say I love you, and kiss eyelids and cheeks, and he says cute, funny things, that we think "I have to remember that". One of us reads, and the other one RACES downstairs in order to get a precious 30 minutes to do WHATEVER they want. FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOMMM! (I usually opt for laundry, the daily show, and checking email. The man's not going to keep me down) All of this takes an hour total. 


During all of this I'm thinking about those awful morning news programs, and magazine blurbs about how you shouldn't just eat the kids leftovers before you scrape them into the garbage, and how you can exercise in your "downtime" as a parent. "Just a few crunches while you bathe the kids! Take the stairs!" Who the FUCK do these people think they are? There should be a law. 

Now it's almost 9 o'clock. We don't usually eat dinner. Just a big late lunch. Sometimes I make us a green smoothie for dinner (racy).  But last night I had cereal instead. He's been asleep 2 hours, so I pump a bottle. Because the milk train NEVER stops. But I don't get very much because it's night, and I had to do that 2nd bedtime nurse, and I'm irritated, that I spent 15 minutes of my "me" time pumping, when I could be sprawled on the couch not thinking about anything. I'm so irritated that I go to bed. Well, I SAY I'm going to bed, and then I spend 30 minutes perched on the edge of the couch watching whatever Nipper has on the tv, and stating every commercial break that I need to go to sleep. At 10 I give in, and go upstairs. 


But I don't go to sleep. I check facebook, twitter, email, read a blog or two. I go over the day in my head, make lists for the next day in my head, try to solve everybody's problems IN MY HEAD. After I come with a solution for world peace, and a good retirement plan, I fall asleep. Moments later, I hear Jack's door open. He trundles across the hall, piles into the bed, lays on top of me and whispers "mommy I want to snuggle you". Fine. All of my daytime fight is gone. "Ok, shhh". We fall back to sleep. This for me is a minor miracle and a sign that I am no longer me. Most nights, if so much as Nipper's toe is touching me foot, I can't sleep. It's like that toe is trying to BURN A HOLE IN MY SOUL. 


I used to read. Books. I used to read books. Before bed. Every night. Now I don't even read magazines. I don't even pick them up to look at the pictures. It's too much information. My brain can not contain any more information than it now contains. Not one more item. 

Because I made a bottle at 9, I assume Charlie will wake up early just to torture, me. But not tonight. He sleeps. He sleeps like a motherfucker. I wake up at 2am TWO AY EM! I slept for almost 4 hours with Jack and his jimmy legs sprawled on me. He's managed to have his 100lb head on my neck and somehow at the same time have his pointy little elbows and knees in my sides. All of them. All 4 elbows and knees are poking into me. I sit right up in bed look at the clock on my phone. I grab the monitor in a panic and watch for signs of life. He's breathing. Ok. I pee. I'm up. I just slept for 4 hours. Longer than I've slept in months. I'm going to pay for this. I am wide awake. 


Charlie wakes up at 2:30 and I go in his room to nurse him. I go back to bed. Jack has noodled all the way over to my pillow, and so now I must wedge myself 1/3 of the way down the bed on the side. I check facebook. I check twitter. Why? I don't know. I look at pictures of the kids on my phone. Charlie wakes back up at 3:20. He slept too long. Now he's up too. Fuck. I nurse him again and he goes back to sleep. Jack wakes long enough to mumble "mommy I want to snuggle you". Tomorrow we are going to have a talk. His head is on my pillow and the rest of his body is sideways across the top of the bed. His little behind is right in front of Nipper's face. He farts. LOUD. And for about 4-5 seconds. It must be like a nuclear cloud over there, but Neither Nipper nor Jack wake up. Serves them right for sleeping through all of Charlie's fussing. I'm laughing, trying not shake the bed. It is now 3:40. 3:42. 3:51... At last I sleep. 


At 5:40 Charlie cries again. I drag my carcass out of the bed. I want to pee, but it's early, and if he cries too long and it get's louder, he's going to wake Jack up, then Nip will be tired, and Jack will be tired, and everything will be TERRIBLE, ALL DAY LONG. So, I hold it. Charlie is sort of wide awake when I put him back in his crib, but I give him his pacifier and his eyes roll back in his head. I go back to bed. I go through Jack's room (we have a Jack and Jill bathroom) so I don't walk on the creaky part of our bedroom floor and wake anyone up. This is the kind of information that is now in my head, replacing other important information. Sigh. 


Jack is now starfished, kitty corner across my entire half of the bed. I'm mad. I'm not going to lie. What the fuck kid? You've got a bunk bed in your room, A BUNK BED! With a shark nightlight, and stuffed animals, and a moby light, and a feather bed! My 4yr old has a feather bed, because I'm aiming to make my kids as poncy as possible. I'm sure they'll get roughed up by the world. Why not expect a comfortable bed? So that's TWO beds, and he doesn't even have to nurse a baby, or wear mascara. I contemplate going into his bed to sleep, but I know that's not going to work. I'll just lay there pissed. SO, I pick him up and move him 12 inches, into the middle of the bed. I know it's a mistake, but I'm fed up. He wakes up. DUH. I know he's going to wake up the moment I scoop him up, but I can't help myself. My brain is scrambled. 

He rouses a little, rolls over onto my pillow (does this thing have a gravitational pull?) and says "mommy I want to snuggle you". It is 6:04. Good morning Nipper. 

Signs

Should I be worried?

Full disclosure: On the way home from our Jack and Mommy night out the other night, he was playing out a scene in the back seat where the Boba Fett lego was asking the Mandalorian Clone lego if he wanted to go on a date. Fett sounded pretty nervous, but when the clone said yes, he was pretty cool about. This charming boy with decapitation fascination is my spawn...

You got Mike Tyson'd

Have I ever told you guys the story of how Nipper and I met? I'm turning into the old ship's captain who regales you with the same boring fish story every night at dinner time. Except this one begins with me trying to throw the catch of the day back into the drink. 


The night before I met Nipper I had a little birthday party with some friends. And by friends, I mean, my friend Stephanie, her husband, and 3 guys who wanted to date me, went bowling. I had been single for about a year, after two long term relationships in my twenties right after each other ran their course. Oh to have the perspective I have now! 


So we bowled. We drank. I wondered repeatedly if the pink seersucker corset top I was wearing was really appropriate bowling attire, and wished that I had just worn a dress, or a t-shirt, or pajamas. It was really too girly to go with the seven jeans and bowling shoes, and YES, I do remember what I was wearing, and I regret it even now. SO. Stephanie's husband had this friend named Teddy, who was a stone cold fox. He was a man child who was ALL bad news, but I was single and totally willing to disregard all signs that this person would torture me emotionally until he moved on to his next victim, or I imploded. I feel much the same way about Colin Farrell, who I ran into in the elevator at Cedars Sinai when I was 9 months pregnant with Charlie. He didn't seem to notice me. Weird. 


SO this Teddy guy showed up at my bowling party. He drove up from Newport Beach, or some far flung land like that. I took that as a sign that he LOVED ME. But then he didn't bowl. He had one drink, didn't talk to me, and left. WHAT? Boys are so confusing. Did he drive all that way to see Steph's husband? Did he come bc he was like "what girl? oh ok, I'll come check her out, like it's a sale at the meat packing plant". Then he got one look at the ground chuck and bolted. 


I turned to Steph and said "that's it. I'm done. I have dated half of Los Angeles and I'm done." I had been on so many 1st (and last) dates that year, that I was starting to get bored with my own "this is who I am" spiel. Who cares! I decided I was swearing off men for the foreseeable future. I was going to play my guitar, and take pictures, and shop, and eat dinner in my pajamas, and to hell with dating. I met Nipper Knapp the very next day. 


I was in my agents office the next afternoon when she caught me walking by her door and shouted "MARIJA THIS IS NIPPER, HE'S FROM MICHGAN TOO!" "So what..." I thought. But then he and I started talking. Our families lived really close to each other, we  both loved the blues, he showed me pictures he had of his niece and nephew he had in his wallet, and he was thinking of quitting acting. We got all of this out in a 1 hour conversation we had AFTER we had walked outside together. Our agent said she was watching us out the window talking after we left, and she just knew. Well, I didn't know. I gave Nipper my number and walked away. I was wearing my favorite paper denim and cloth jeans (oh how I miss those jeans) and a peach eloise rib tank top, oh and my caramel suede boots. Much better. 


He called me the next day. Which made me laugh. Who does that? He asked me if I wanted to go to the oldest blues bar on the west coast. To which I said "sure, so long as it's not a date". WHAT?! I had never said anything like that in my life! I even said yes to guys I knew I would never date, just to get them off the phone. Who was this new me? And then, he surprised me even more by saying "Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed, but ok". WHAT?  He didn't say "fuck you", or "you're a twat", or "well in that case forget it". He said "I'm disappointed". I should have known then this man would have the power to make me return a $1600 Chloe bag (true story). 


When he came to pick me up, I peeked out the window and thought "oh he's cute". We went to sushi. I wore a white blouse with a black bra, which was pretty sassy for a girl who just said she didn't want it to be a date. We went to Sushi, before going to Babe's and Ricky's. We sat at the sushi bar. Half way through dinner, I turned to him and said "remember how I said I didn't want this to be a date? I changed my mind." He laughed, put his hand on my back, and said "ok". I asked him years later what he thought when I said that. He said "that I was going to get lucky". Boy howdy. Welcome to mortgage-land honey. 


At the Blues bar there were more people in the band, then in the rest of the bar. We were the youngest people by about 50 years. It was awesome. We were disappointed to find out there was no all you can eat fried chicken buffet, but the music was awesome, and a couple who were about 90 years old, were dancing with each other, the whole night. I knew about half way through my drink that I was going to marry Nipper Knapp. I went outside to have a cigarette (yes it's true, I was a rebel) and he came out to smoke with me (mr. asthma WAS trying to get lucky). I was leaning against the wall of the club, smoking my stupid cigarette, and Nipper Knapp put his hands on the wall on either side of my head, and kissed me. After we kissed he told me about he saw Mike Tyson do that to a girl in NYC one time. This was true love. 


We said "I love you", within two weeks, married six months later, and didn't spend a night apart for almost three years. After running as fast, and as far from my childhood home as I could, I found a boy from Michigan, to make a new home with a million miles away. We've been married seven and a half years, and since we don't have real jobs, and spend every waking hour together, I figure it's more like 42 in dog years. 


Two days ago on my birthday, I was having a hard time saying the actual number of years I am now, out loud. I was feeling pretty blue. Nipper Knapp, love of my life, excitedly said to me "you aren't even half way to your expected death age!"


ladies, can I pick em or what?

so this is happening

I'll be thinking of you all day little man. 

12pm Santa Monica
1:10 Hollywood
2:15 Santa Monica


That's my audition schedule tomorrow. Those of you who live here and do this for a living are just laughing at me right now. For those of you who don't here's what this means. The babysitter get's here at 10:30, I only have 2 bottles in the fridge, so hopefully I'll have time to make one in the morning, after Jack goes to swim class, and while I'm putting on my make-up, probably with Charlie in the bjorn, PRETTY. I'll nurse Charlie one last time, that means, I need to pump somewhere around12:30-1:00. Right around the time I'm in my callback in Hollywood. Uhm. Ok. This isn't stressful. Not at all! At least I'll be in my car. In traffic. And then intermittently being judged by strangers. Don't forget, I will have slept from 11pm to 6 am, in hour and a half intervals, then gotten up to nurse and soothe a fussy baby, so Ill be SUPER well rested. My armpits are going to smell SO good.


Also, everything in LA is 30 minutes from everything else. Except when there is traffic. Then it's 45 minutes to an hour. Also, you always wait an hour (at least) at every audition. So if you have gotten through the basic math, something's got to give. I'm actually just hoping to make it to the first one early, get through fast, without a casting assistant sneering at me when I check where I am on the list for the 17th time in 37 minutes, get to my 2nd one, a callback, do that fast (hahahaha, yeah that's going to happen, when you add agency people, a director, and a client, it ALWAYS speeds up the audition process), pump in the car before going back to Santa Monica for my 3rd one, which I'm hoping they don't mind me being exceptionally late for. It's for the new show Whitney, I have one line. Can't they just look at my picture and imagine me saying "what's the name"? I won't feel cheap at all. 


Then race home because by the time I get there I (and Charlie) should be ready to nurse again. By which I mean, my boobs will hurt, and Charlie will be crying his little eyes out. 


SO, to that grade A suck bag who called Maternity leave "a racket" last week: (Click this link here), you sir can go fuck yourself. Also to Megyn Kelly, "sigh..." 


Now hold your breath and tell me to break legs. 

patent #965,456,782,349,784,219,888,537

This hippo doesn't have anything to do with anything. I took her picture at the LA Zoo last year. 

I dunno how many patents there are. That was just a guess.


Here are two things I would like someone to invent. 


Some kind of pop-up lap cradle for airplane travel. It would have to be small enough to fit in a diaper bag, but then unfold quickly (pop-up) to cover your lap, while keeping the baby off your actual lap so your ass doesn't fall asleep on the plane, and you can't move because if that baby wakes up and cries so help you god you and everyone around you is going to FREAK OUT. Someone get on that. Might I suggest using some space age fabrics and mechanisms? Great. 


The second thing I think would be great is some way to wash your armpits when you are just out in the world. Not like a portable sink and soapy washcloth, but something more like the flowbee, but for armpit cleaning. I dunno how it would work. But it would have to be quick, quiet, and (obv) discreet. You don't want to be all "excuse me folks, I'm just going to go use the ladies room, if you hear a jet engine sound coming from that direction, it's NOT my portable armpit washer. Not at all." All I'm saying is there are times when I would like to just duck into a bathroom and take a mini shower. 


So how's YOUR week going? 

Mommy Dearest

In case anyone missed it, Nipper Knapp called me Joan Crawford when I asked him to throw the kitchen towel he used to wipe up the floor into the hamper instead of putting it back on the towel rack. This from the man who gets the boojeebees when there is MAIL on the kitchen counter. 


Oh ok, I may have also mentioned that he didn't rinse all the soap off the frying pan, so Jack's quesadilla was all soapy. I know, I'm a monster. NO SOAPY FRYING PANS!


I'm going back to work today. My still slightly larger than usual arse is packed into my "hip mom casual" pants, and my blotchy face is covered with spackle. The only upside to taking 8 months off is that my eyelashes have repaired themselves from 20 years of curling and mascara and are long long long. It's the little things that are going to keep me going today. 


Fingers and toes crossed today people. Legs breaking. 

I got down so low

Some of you were probably speculating as to why I haven't been writing lately. I'm sure you think "oh she just had a baby", or "she's on summer vacation". But no, it's not either of those things. Yesterday when I got out of bed, I noticed a tiny little spot of what can only be described as baby poo juice on my sheets. Charlie's diaper had leaked a little while he was nursing before we got up. By the time I noticed it, it was dry, and really only the size of a quarter. You see where this is going right? I stood there, about to pull the covers over it thinking, "it's not really poop, it's just the poop juice, which is sort of like pee really, and that is STERILE, and he's only a baby, and it IS dry, and oh I'm so tired."


I just feel that a person who has slid so low as to consider sleeping in her baby's poop, really shouldn't be writing about much of anything. I should be seeking help. So... As soon as I'm able to master paying all the bills, feeding my family, and conquering the nightly poop/sleep/laundry battle, I'll be back. Did I mention I go back to work next week? 


Lord give me strength. 

I'm trying really hard to fall asleep. But we're at "the cottage", Nipper Knapp's parents house in northern Michigan.

This photograph is hanging next to the bed in my room. It's really bothering me. Who are you trying to call baby Nipper Knapp? Is it a wrong number? You look sort of like you just got caught.

Or maybe you just said "just a sec, let me ask, hon, do we want to add a second pizza for $9?" and are waiting impatiently for the answer. Like "yeah, ok, c'mon, the pizza phone guy is waiting, gah!"

Also, I like your red phone, and the cheeks you passed down to both our boys.

Good night.

Caution

Jack had his end of the year parent teacher meeting a few weeks ago. The kid's doing just fine in case you were worried. His teacher says he's often passive in conflict situations, and we should allow him to solve more of his own problems. You know, to build confidence in this arena. I know she means, let him punch a kid in the face once of twice for taking his toy, just to see what happens. But I figure it's good for him to be more autonomous in other areas too. So I've been trying to get him to get himself dressed, pick his own clothes, blah, blah, blah. He's a boy, so 90% of the time he doesn't care what he wears. My friends with girls say outfit changing happens 3-100 times a day. Around here, we're lucky if we can get him out of his jammies. "Why would I take off these super comfortable clothes to put on other clothes just to play?" He's right too, but SOMEONE around here is a stickler for the rules and not walking around looking like a hobo. Hint: it's not me. 


To that end, I took him with me to get some things he needed for school. This is what happens when you let a four year old pick out his own water shoes: 

This makes me question if he's actually my child. My eyes are burning from their hideousness. And of course he wants to wear them every day now. ALL THE TIME. FML. (that was for you Nipper Knapp). He might as well have just punched me in the face. 

Oh my toe! The one where I don't even tell you what happened to my toe, it was THAT BAD.

Yesterday was the worst day of my life. Worse than the day my dad told me my parents were getting divorced, worse than the day my grandma passed away, worse than the day my egomaniac boyfriend told me he had taken his ex-girlfriend to New Zealand with his family over Christmas vacation for two weeks, after we'd been dating for over a year, worse than the day... Ok, ok, you get it, yesterday was bad. Maybe not as bad as all those days. Maybe that's hyperbole, but it was pretty bad. Not a memorable day. Not one I'll be able to pick out of the other 365 when I think back on this year. But one of those days that makes you lay in bed and fantasize about emptying your bank accounts to take the whole family away with a full time nanny and a masseuse to Hawaii for 2 weeks. That might cure the shit day that was yesterday. 

It began normally enough. I woke up. I had two kids, a house, a husband, I felt like I was coming down with a cold, and I had no real plans. I suggested we go to get pizza for lunch after Jack's swim class, since Nipper didn't have to be at his first audition until 1:45. Sounded like a good idea, until Jack SOBBED when Nip told him we were going to get pizza instead of my original idea of picking up In&out burgers, which we've eaten so many times this week I'm actually ashamed. (that number should be 1 time, but it's way, way, way, more). What kid cries when you tell him we're having pizza? My kid. You'd think I'd have said we were having brussels sprouts and liver. Jesus. Ok, note to self, more meals at home, and no more separate kids meals. Yeah right. I saw an expensive cookbook in a fancy store on La Brea last year that was about cooking for "picky" kids. Most of the recipes had stuff like shrimp and rutabagas in it. The book cost $45. This bitch obviously had never seen a child or a rutabaga in her life. It reminded me of the time I went to photograph a piece for a magazine a few years back. This Pacific Palisades socialite had written a book on table manners, and how to set a table. We were shooting at her parents bajillion dollar house in Malibu canyon. And...I shit you not, when I got there, she had me set the table for the shoot because she didn't know where the utensils were supposed to go. But I do. I do, because I was raised in the midwest...here on EARTH. How do I live in this world without so much as a switchblade?! 


So fine, we go to pizza, but the only way we get Jack there is to say he can play with Nipper's iphone when we get there. "Is this really a good idea anymore", I'm wondering as I stuff pizza in my mouth as fast as I can because Nipper is holding the baby because he was too hot in stroller and started to cry as soon as we got there. I mean if one kid won't eat the pizza and won't take his eyes off the fucking iphone, and the other one is dying of heat stroke so one parent has to forego eating and just bounce and coo like a dumb dumb, are we really having "family pizza"? IS this what a meal together has come down to? I have lost the war...

I find myself thinking these battle/war questions all the time. I want us all to eat around the table all together more often. I also want to eat a meal without saying "can you take a bite" and "can you please sit down" 17,821 times. I also want to eat at home more, but our schedules seem to drive us all out of the house at different times, and Nipper and I are never ready for dinner at 5:30-6 when Jack is having his, so... Lunch, that's it. I have 4 opportunities a week for us to have a meal together and it's lunch. Starting in September when Jack is in school 4 days a week, I'll have 3. You'd think I could make that happen, but no, and one kid is only a baby! 


So as I'm shoveling in the pizza, and having this argument in my head, the day is unfolding. Nipper is going to take Jack to his 3 auditions because we no longer have a babysitter (10 million word blogpost brewing in my head about that situation). He has promised him he can play games on the ipad, which is like telling a junkie he can have a wheelbarrow of crack. He's in. He woke up at 5am again and was out of his mind tired, so I offered to take him home with me and Charlie instead of being dragged around to work with daddy. NO WAY. He was going to get to smoke some serious ipad, why the hell would he want to go home with me and REST?! Narc. 


So off they go. I return home with Charlie, my throat now on fire from the beginnings of this cold. I'm praying for a nap. The boys won't be home for 5 hours. Surely at some point the baby will sleep and I will close my eyes when he does. Hahahahaha. Stupid woman. Don't you know, you should have kept that hope a secret, even from yourself? Of course Charlie doesn't sleep, and of course Nipper texts me from his 2nd audition that Jack has dropped the iPad, and smashed it to pieces. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. 


Jack is devastated. He can't stop crying. Nipper is pissed, but trying to console Jack. It was an accident. I'm now, sick, tired, mad, sad, trying to tell Nip to not be too hard on Jack, and Nip is texting me that Jack is inconsolable, and he sort of wishes that it hadn't been an accident, because he's so mad, but obviously not at Jack, and... You see where this is going. How can you be mad at a 4 year old when he breaks your $800 toy. You're the grown up who gave it to him. Dumb dumbs... I tell him that I'm going to give him a big hug when he gets home and I wait.


Well obviously, Charlie falls into a deep sleep 20 minutes before they get back around dinner time. I'm too fried to even get irritated at this point. I lay on the couch with my eyes opening and closing involuntarily. Watching my baby sleep, wishing for sleep myself. Listening for the car door slam, so I can get up and hug Jack as soon as he gets here. 


I made an appointment for Nipper to take the iPad to the apple store at 8:50pm. Thank the "geniuses" at the "genius bar" for having late appointments. Figured we might as well find out the extent of the damage ($) as soon as possible. ($419 in case you were wondering, and they just give you a new one. So now we have a $1200 iPad) Also figured both kids would be in bed. MARIJA ARE YOU REALLY THAT STUPID? The universe had a good laugh at my expense yesterday. 

Because Jack was so sad and sleepy and shaky, I told him, he and I could crawl into my bed and watch a movie and have popcorn after I put Charlie down, and daddy left for the apple store. Because you know Charlie has gone to bed at 7 every night for weeks. No problem. But guess what? They were both up until 9:45 last night. 9 forty fucking 5. For those of you without kids, you might be thinking "big deal". But 9:45 is the parent equivalent of 4:18am to you. I need that extra hour or so at night. I need it to clean the house, write emails, watch R rated tv, talk to Nipper about everyone we hate, and just stare into space. Oh, and I was sick. so... Boo-fucking-hoo. 


Poor Jack was so patient as I kept getting up from our movie, and then from our bedtime books to try to rock Charlie, pacify Charlie, and finally nurse Charlie back to sleep. He finally gave up on mommy and fell asleep looking at Pinocchio. Poor baby. He asked me as I was getting up out of the bed for the last time "mommy, when is Charlie going to be a big boy?". Sob...

Oh and don't worry, I was positive, sweet, and patient, with the kids the whole time, lest you think this post is about how I lost it. I was texting Nipper stuff like "FML" and "FUCK THIS WHOLE FUCKING DAY". But the kids, well, the one who is conscious, and most likely to remember this day, will only remember that we laid in bed and watched Pinocchio while mommy tried to get that his rascally baby brother to sleep. Because fuck all if I'm going to turn my day from hell, into theirs. 


I'd tell you about how Jack ended up in our bed, and because I was worried about him getting enough sleep I got up (now fully sick) and took Charlie, who sounds like a badger when he nurses, into Jack's room to nurse, and tried to go back to sleep at 5:45am, only to lay there, with Charlie only being happy to sleep ON ME, until my arms fell asleep around 7am. But I'm too tired. 


Oh and yeah, I wrote this post yesterday but forgot to post it because I was brain dead. In better news, Jack rode his bike, saw a lizard, had a "seaweed" popsicle, and I saw Midnight in Paris, which revived my hope for humanity. I also had a dream that apple started making iphones in jadite green. SO... one day up, one day down...