I just woke up from a nap. A 9-11 nap. PM, mind you. On my couch. Saturday night. Could I be any more lame? In my defense, I did host a cocktail party this afternoon (and I only mentioned baby poop once-success!). But, I didn't even drink--talk about a lightweight. I think passing out immediately after dinner was my body's way of telling my mind to STFU already. It's been a busy week, with a number of outings big and small. I tend to overcommit and then feel incredibly guilty when, inevitably, I can't follow through on a plan. It likely stems from wanting to prove that I'm still cool and fun even though I have a baby. Clearly I'm not. Time to drop the charade--no one wants to hang out with someone who would rather be sleeping.
Also, I've been breaking things lately. At first it was a glass here, a blender there, but now I've moved on to seemingly unbreakable things like a stainless steel water bottle (it's just dented enough on the bottom to render it a disaster waiting to happen) and a bra in the Bloomingdale's dressing room (shhhh). The kicker was when I dropped a full bottle of breast milk and watched it dribble over my kitchen floor. Whoever came up with the expression "don't cry over spilled milk" was probably not talking to the baby. I'm fairly certain my sobs were louder than his. Again, I think this might be a sign that I'm more than a little tired or that I should just stop touching things altogether.
Luckily, the baby daddy and I are headed for a little vacay this week. With Mr. Monk, of course. What's a vacation without a teething, constipated, constantly-moving baby boy? I wouldn't know anymore. Perhaps I'll get to find out one of these years. We're excited to take Mr. Monk back to the ocean-hopefully, he'll be more interactive this time. When he was two months old we put his feet in the Caribbean Sea, though he likely was asleep at the time. He napped a lot back then. Oh, those were the days. A week of sunshine, shave ice and turn down service should restore my feeble mind and butter fingers back to their natural teetering state.
Here's hoping the house sitter doesn't realize why the kitchen floor is still so sticky...