From the category archives:

screaming into the void

I Know Why Wild Animals Eat Their Young.

by Amber on September 18, 2011

I feel like I have a newborn again.

Tori woke me up for the first time at 4 a.m. Screaming. Why? I don’t know. Despite the fact that she’s fully verbal, she really couldn’t give me a good answer. Or an answer at all, as a matter of fact.

We eventually went back to sleep, her hands pulling the hair on both sides of my face, her nose dripping snot on to my forehead. And then? And the damn sun decided it was morning. And so did my Sunshine.

So I dragged my ass downstairs and it’s been one screaming fit after the next. All. Day. Long.

I’ve lost count of how many time outs we’ve had. I’m pretty sure I have bruises on my arms from where she repeatedly pinched me.

My house is destroyed. My patience is shot. You know it’s bad when you find yourself borderline yelling, “just tell me what you WANT!!!!!!!!” while pulling your own hair.

And then, of course, taking a deep breath and feeling like the worst mom in the world.

And in the middle of it all? We decided to start cleaning out the garage  for a potential garage sale next weekend. You’d think, after a day like this, it would be easy to just toss all that baby stuff – the toys, the bouncy seats, the cute little outfits, the smiling zebra on the swing – all of it – into a giant pile labelled FREE.

But it wasn’t. I couldn’t do it.

Because, what if? 36 isn’t that old. I still have one ovary left. I could still do it. If I wanted to.

But right now, she’s screaming again. And throwing things. This time in the bathtub. Because I ordered asked my husband very nicely to wash her hair. And I think why? Why would I want two of those?

And that, my friends, is why certain animals eat their young.

Those cute little babies (because babies are all cute, no matter what the species), they get to a certain age. An age when they no longer have the helplessness of babyhood to blame for their actions, and are not yet old enough to send to their rooms.

So they eat them and start over. Hoping that the next time they’ll have better luck.

But, since we’re more evolved than that (sigh), I’ll have to rely on my wine glass to make me forget. Or at least knock me out for a few hours so I have the energy to do it all again tomorrow.

Bottom’s up!

{ 12 comments }

Run, Baby, Run.

by Amber on May 13, 2010

I am aware that overall, I have a darn good life.  A great husband, an adorable daughter, good friends and a good job. But there are days when it’s easy to forget about all that.

Days when the baby starts screaming the minute she wakes up, and doesn’t stop until after I put her to bed at night.

Days when the high maintenance people (and clients) I work with all turn the crazy knob to 11.

Days when the dog has liquid butt (again) all over the baby’s bedroom carpet.

Days when my husband says all the wrong things, at all the wrong times. Things that send me slamming off into our bedroom to muffle my screams of frustration  in a pillow.

Days when the cat pukes…right where I’m bound to step in it (again).

Days when there doesn’t seem to be enough coffee in the world to keep my head from wanting to collapse into a pillow.

Days when I have to find a new daycare provider, come up with the money to re-tile the the bathroom tub and fix the kitchen ceiling, and write 50,000 brilliant  headlines, all with a migraine the size of Texas.

Days when I want to run away. Far, far away. To a city on the other side of the country. Or a country on the other side of the ocean. To a place where there are no responsibilities, no problems, no demands on my time.

To an island where I can lie on the beach and read books all day, selling macaroni necklaces to tourists for money.

To a cosmopolitan city where I can get a job in a big, glamorous agency, write award-winning work and go home to a sleek bachelorette pad, freshly cleaned by my daily maid service.

To a cabin in the wilderness where I can gather nuts and berries to eat while crafting The Great American Novel.

To a place and a life that’s as different from mine as it’s possible to be.

But you know what? Even if I were to run for the hills, pull  up stakes and start over, I know it’d only be a matter of time before I found myself a host of new problems.

Besides, I really do love my life – inarticulate husband, screaming baby, disgusting animals and all.

But sometimes, when stuck in the middle of the chaos that is my life, I dream of running. Tell me I’m not the only one?

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