Where'd we put that manual?

First of all, let me say that I continue to be amazed by the blogging world and that mothers much like me; juggling work, a child, a husband, a house, and being a semi-put together woman, somehow manage to find time to blog. I can't seem to carve out 15 minutes of the day to eat, much less sit down and make myself type my daily diatribes. However, I shall use these moms as my inspiration and do just that...sit and type. So here goes.

I love my child. I love my child. I love my child. I found myself repeating this mantra ALOUD at 2:40 a.m. this morning. We have been lovingly experiencing little Ethan developing a personality. A personality which seems to be mimicking that of his mother's: stubborn and impatient. A combination that, while I find reasons to defend quite often, has already posed some interesting parental challenges that aren't in the Ethan manual.

The little munchkin has decided that bed time generally isn't his thing, nor is sleeping through the night anymore. We've done our best to develop a nightly routine, but we all know how that goes. You jump in feet first and with high hopes. "Okay, every night it's playtime, then dinner, then a nice bath, then a book, then bed". Well, that's all fine and dandy...until life happens and gets in the way of your plans. You decide, on a whim, to make enchiladas (thinking to yourself how long could this really take? It won't be that bad). You make the filling, which takes way longer than you anticipate. You're attempting to corral your 8 month old into one room to keep an eye on him. You realize that you've had the oven heating up for an hour and 15 minutes. After getting everything prepped for the enchiladas, you open the fridge to find....your husband has taken the tortillas to work...and you now have enchilada filling only. Perfect. It's now 8:00. There's no hope of a bath in sight. And as for reading, your little man has decided that every book you grab belongs on the floor, not in your hands.

Like I said...life happens. So, while we have the best intentions with our nightly agenda, a wrench generally gets tossed in at least a couple nights a week (hence our evening last night).

Back to I love my child. I love my child. I love my child. At 2:40 a.m. Ethan starting scurrying around in his crib. As usual, my quick-footed husband gets up to tend to him. Call me the hard-core mommy, but I've taken a stance that it's best to let him fuss a bit before running in to rescue him. Just as I'm starting to figure this kid out, he, too, has his mommy and daddy's number. "If I start crying, they come running in like fireman and bring that thing with milk in it". So, I choose to let him cry it out for a few before I rush to his side. My husband, on the other hand, traipses into the nursery and, in a dense fog, picks Ethan up. I let my heavy head fall back on my pillow and let out a sigh. And it's not a sigh of relief that Ethan has now stopped crying. It's a concerned sigh of "WHAT are we teaching this kid!!!!". Gabe can sense my frustration and, in  belated compliance, puts Ethan back in his crib. You would have thought the world was crumbling down around his little head. Oh the tears. Oh the heavy breathing. Oh the drama. This went on for the better part of an hour. We both stayed in bed and kept our calm. I kept telling myself "He has to stop at some point, right?". My better judgment tells me no. I think he would have kept right on crying all morning if I wouldn't have finally crept into his room. When I walked in, Ethan was standing up in his crib with a look on his face that was half mad and half amused that he had won the Ethan vs. Mommy war.

We've discovered that there is no easy answer to parenting. Recently, we dealt with a double ear infection (which brought along its own lovely baggage in the form of high temps, throw up all over our couch and IN my socks and one cranky boy). After making a phone call to the pediatrician and having no success at getting through, Gabe and I looked at each other and said "What do we do now?" and we simultaneously said "I have no idea".

Then, there was the norovirus. Or whatever devil-of-virus we both had at the same time. And this was no cold. This was a can't-make-it-to-the-bathroom kind of virus (I'll spare the graphic details). Thank God for daycare. This particular morning Gabe and I both had to stay home from work, but still had to get Ethan ready for daycare. We were in no condition to peel ourselves off of the couch, much less prep an 8 month old for the day. But together, we managed...until the "incident". I'm sure all parents have experienced an "incident". And by incident, I'm referring to those of the diaper nature. Yes, that's right. It was all over him. Quickly followed by all over me and all over Gabe. So bad, in fact, we sacrificed a onesie (that had to be cut off of Ethan). My husband was still at the point that he was getting sick to his stomach, so you can imagine how the aroma was effecting his already queasy state. He was running to the bathroom while I was attempting to carry our child up a flight of stairs and into the bathtub. I had zero energy to breathe, much less tackle THIS bath time. It's times like these when I realize just how much I love my husband. Mid bath, we both rested our heads on the edge of the tub in an attempt to regain some sort of umph. We caught glances and started laughing. Because really, in a situation like that, what else do you do.

I've come to realize that you never quite know what you're going to get with parenting. One day you have an angel baby, the next day he's raising his eyebrow at you as if to say "You may think I'm going to sleep..."

And through it all...I love my child. I love my child. I love my child.