Circus Act

Wow. A pathetic little collection of seven blog entries got written for November. It is not for lack of material. It's for lack of hours 25, 26 and 27 in a day.

I'm trying to keep afloat, working full-time. In addition to the heartbreak of being away from my baby ten hours a day, five days a week, I'm trying to figure out how to get the rest of life squared away. For example, things that happen daily include at least three bottle feedings, three or four diaper changes, refilling the diaper bag with new burp rags, at times a two-hour struggle to get Oliver to sleep (thank you, new teeth, you can appear any day now), making dinner, cleaning up after dinner, making two lunches for the next day, and picking up things that will make us trip over ourselves. Oh, and now that I have another ingrown toenail (am I eighty years old?), now I have to soak my foot again for 20 minutes in the morning and 20 minutes at night. At least twice in the week, there's also a grocery run, a baby bath, and laundry.

It's a wonder my teeth get brushed or my clothes changed each day. There are two reasons it happens: I have a fantastically helpful husband. The other reason is because I don't go to bed until the basics are done. And then I have to hurry up and sleep before I have to wake up and get ready to do it all over again the next day. I felt like a disheveled circus act trying to care for both myself and Oliver on maternity leave. Now I feel like a disheveled circus act on speed, and the dirty vinyl tent cover is beginning to deflate over my head.

It's a good thing I can occasionally call up a sense of humor about it all. Oliver sure thinks it's funny. One morning this week he thought it cute to wake up for the day at 5:30 am. I made up a bottle in the bathroom next to his room, and his crying had quieted to a stop. Could I be so lucky? Did he really fall back asleep? I stealthily tippy-toed to his crib and peered over the rail like a cat burglar. His big blue eyes, wide open, met mine. As he called my bluff, his mouth fell open in the widest silly grin. His silent gaping smile reminded me of one of those plastic clowns you sometimes find at a mini-golf course, where you have to hit the golf ball in their mouth. What a goof.

Oliver's new skill of blowing raspberries has helped me to lighten up a bit, too:

Welcome to the circus, baby.