Point Break

No, not this Point Break . . .

But rather, that one time I thought I broke my pointer finger. Ultimate teaser, though. I apologize.

Back to the story:

The following events occurred this past Saturday.

It all began in what we all believed would be a very fine evening. We finally got into St. Louis to use our Schlafly Brewery Air Force Ball door prize. We went to the Taphouse downtown. The atmosphere was great, the food was delish, and the little guy even managed to behave himself for a small, but significant portion of our visit.

The real drama occurred on the our drive home, which I can only describe of the most bizarre turn of events that occurred in quite some time in this oddly documented life of ours.

I thought it like any other ride in the car. Will was screaming his head off. (The baby, not the husband.) Just informing us of his continued disliking for the car seat.

I was doing like any other mom who'd given up trying to entertain a baby fed up with his car seat. I did my best to ignore his cries and took to biting my fingernails as a coping mechanism. But like any clean freak mother, I wasn't just going to toss fingernails in the back seat of the car, so I did the old crack-the-window-just-a-bit to let her fly. You know. You just crack the window the teeeeniest bit, and the wind sucks the nail right on out of the car.

Well, I misjudged. And I rolled the window back up onto the tip of my finger.

I swore I felt my finger snap in half at the tip, and when I rolled the window back down, got my finger dislodged and saw the blood, I proceeded to FAINT. That's right. I went UNCONSCIOUS in the back seat of the car while baby Will screamed at the top of his lungs and husband Will, screamed over top of the screaming baby Will, cried out my name in an effort to determine whether I was, you know, conscious and okay and would live.

When I came to, I responded that no, I don't think I will survive this, but do go ahead and keep driving.

And then I almost vomited. The end.

Will admitted that he was only thinking of himself during the entire ordeal. You see, he had a similar point break episode whilst choosing to buy this particular ladder:

during a particular episode of his particular wife's pregnant nesting.

We were at Lowe's buying painting supplies and he accidentally sliced his finger open folding the ladder shut. His face turned white and he said he felt lightheaded. I IMMEDIATELY told him to sit down for a second to collect himself, but he tried to play it cool and walk it off . . .

THAT particular story ended up with his hugely 7-months pregnant wife, with the athleticism of an NFL offensive lineman, pinning him up against additional Lowe's merchandise in order to catch his fall. Those two years I spent playing tackle football finally came in handy in this game called life.

And then he almost vomited. The end.

The worst part is that I literally thought the damage to my finger had been CATASTROPHIC. Instead, all I have to show for my intense pain and suffering is what looks like your average unmanicured housewife's hangnail:

Oh well, at least it wasn't for a booger.

Myths vs. Realities

There are so many myths/old wives' tales associated with pregnancy and parenting, I'm still wading through it all in this little adventure called parenthood. At least, I'm praying this novena that is, like, supposed to help you figure out your life and such. So anyway, things like "the two week wait" symptoms, Chinese gender prediction charts, and natural induction methods, I'm convinced are myths. Epidural ruining your chance of breastfeeding. Myth. Special baby detergent is a total scam, I say. 

The whole wonder weeks thing - jury's still out. Will seems to do things at his own pace in his own time, whether or not his little baby head is in the stormy lightning part of the charts or the happy sunshine area.

Marches to the beat of his own drum, this one.

I was hoping the old "four month sleep regression," or what I like to call "bay bay go cray cray" (I don't really call it that), was also a myth, but in my experience, the struggle is real. So so real. 

It's great because his super baby brain is developing and he's becoming so much more interactive, showing off his little personality. He finally FINALLY rolled over. And it's becoming less like clumsily toppling over and more like actually intending to roll. (It was a long awaited milestone because my niece and my cousin's baby of the same age are practically baby gymnasts. Rolling around like a couple of circus performers. Show offs.) He can use his hands to grab toys and tries to claw my nose off. He gets excited when he sees his dogs and giggles and is even chattier than usual. 

But with his newfound skill set comes with it a new 'tude:

Stink eye to the max.

Oh, did you not get me in my crib within a 5 second window? SNAP!

Oh, did I grab my own pacifier out of my mouth when I really wanted to remain sucking on it? SNAP!

Oh, you didn't just walk away from me when I was trying to have a goooogooogoogoogoo conversation with you? SNAPPITY SNAP SNAP!

I mean, he's still a happy baby most of the time, but he has this new ability that I like to call raging.  When he threw his first tantrum like a week and a half ago, it caught me totally by surprise. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I thought. Clearly he was in agonizing pain. Was he teething? Was he sick? Was he choking on something? Something in his eye? I even had Will stop for baby Tylenol AND baby Advil on his way home from work. (Fans of modern medicine right here. You can take away one of my crunchy cards.) 

Nope, none of the above. Just needed a nap apparently. . . . 

Got this mom thang down, ya'll!

Onward. 

Part I is the rage. Part II is the inability to stay asleep. You see the vicious cycle. The professionals call this wakefulness. This mom calls it an excuse to ingest twice her usual amount of coffee and refuse all physical activity. (And speak in the third person, naturally.)

Will was sleeping really well for like a month and a half. He woke once or twice a night. Any time he woke more than that was a rare "bad night." Well, shoot. Ever since we got back from Maryland, he's waking every couple of hours like a newborn again. Homey. Don't. Play. That. And naps? Naps are like whenever he darn well pleases, take your Baby Whispering self and go run and whisper that.

I mean, I hope no one sees this as me complaining - just keeping it real and seeking humor in the every day toil - because let's be clear, becoming a mom is one of the best things to ever happen to me in my entire life. Forever worth the sleepless nights. And years from now I will apparently have perspective and grow used to it and get better at it, but hey, coming to terms with sleeping in one to two hour increments for the indefinite future is hard. Sanctifying. Death to self and all. 

I know that "in the blink of an eye"/"before I know it"/"next thing I know" Will will be sleeping through the night and I will be sentimental about our cuddle time in the middle of the night and how I used to wake up to wipe his butt and gosh, he just grew up too fast! Because momnesia is a reality. 

That I can't find the humor and joy and good in even the funkiest, frustrating sleep regression? Myth.