Ok, I thought to myself, Let's do this! I'll take a quick shower, get us both dressed and fed, and we'll get out the door! We'll visit the midwife, take Chloe coffee, pick up prescriptions...that will still leave us plenty of time to come home, fold laundry, bake cookies, and make dinner before we head off to Life Group! And then reality struck.
I look back on yesterday-morning-Sarah the way one might look at a child who says they want to be a dinosaur when they grow up: Aw, that's sweet. They actually think that's possible.
Nothing on my to-do list got done. Instead, I spent my day trying to trick my son into going to sleep. He's teething again, and it's worse than before- and somehow, the sweet escape of sleep has become his greatest enemy. Where three days ago my child would lay down in his crib and go peacefully to sleep, now he looks at me suspiciously just for carrying him into his bedroom.
We spent the entire day in a tug-of-war between wakefulness and napping. Each time I went to lay him down, he looked at me like I was making him sleep on the back porch in a rainstorm while angry coyotes circled- yes, my baby is THAT dramatic- and burst into tears. Saddened by his supposed panic, I scooped him up and rocked him, thinking I would let him fall asleep on me. But having been freed from behind the horrible prison bars more commonly referred to as a crib, Judah was immediately tense and alert, awaiting the next attack. The next "attack" (or, "Attempt his loving mother made to lull him to sleep so he could get the rest he needed") was to cuddle with him in my bed, thinking the closeness of his beloved mother would be soothing. Not. Judah refused to be so easily trapped into napping, kept his body tense, and looked sharply from side to side every few seconds as if on the lookout for Daddy, knowing that if Daddy showed up the fight would be over and sleep would win.
"See," I told him, "You need to be in your crib, you always sleep better in your crib. Let's try this again, buddy." So we marched back to the soft, warm, snuggly prison cell. Upon realizing he had received the Go To Bed sentence, Judah once more began his cries of injustice. This dance went on all day. Short naps, and long periods of tired Mama and tired baby.
Once Arthur got home from work I did manage to take a shower and wash my all-too-obviously-dirty hair, which you can see in all it's greasy glory the photo above. I never got dressed. Judah wore a cute outfit for all of five minutes before he melted into unhappiness and crying, at which point I just put him in a onesie so he'd be easier to bundle up in blankets and cuddle with. We most certainly never left the house or ran errands! The laundry is still unfolded, sitting in a heap on our bed in hopes that I will get to it today. I made neither cookies nor dinner- instead, Arthur picked up chips and pop on the way home for me to drop off at Life Group, and we ate Triscuits in bed at dinner time before finally throwing some frozen meatballs in the oven at 10:30pm...which was when I realized all we'd had for dinner was Triscuits. We stayed home from Life Group to try not to throw up, cut teeth, and cry about how little we'd gotten done, respectively.
Of course, I was the one crying. It was discouraging to realize that I hadn't gotten a single thing done that day. My to-do list was sadly intact, with no check marks to be seen. I want to say that I went to bed smiling, content in knowing that caring for my sad baby and sick husband were greater accomplishments than laundry or errands, but I didn't. Instead I sobbed for ten minutes, scrolled through other people's photos on Instagram for a while, and finally fell asleep.
But here's the thing: Even though it didn't feel like it last night, I DID accomplish something yesterday. I accomplished a lot, actually. I prayed for my child. I prayed for people who were frustrating me on Facebook instead of posting nasty comments. I brushed my teeth...or at least I'm pretty sure I did. I put the needs of my teething, dramatic son ahead of my own checklist. I encouraged my husband. I made being sick as fun as I could for Arthur- bringing him orange Gatorade (which he loves) instead of kombucha (which he hates.) I laughed. And ALL OF THOSE THINGS COUNT. They count as accomplishments. They count as getting something done.
Having the opportunity to spend all of my time raising this child- even though I've only been at it for five months- is one of the single most valuable things I've done with my life. I need to remember that. It is a beautiful thing, which I am mightily blessed by each and every day- no matter whether it FEELS like it or not.
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