It amazes me how Mondays still have a tendency to be more miserable than any other day, even when there's very little variation for me from one day to the next. It's not as though we have no routine: Thursdays usually mean a playdate, and Sundays are for church and visits from family. But with Tom working from home, it's not like I have to readjust to his work week starting again (much), let alone mine. Though he doesn't have calls to take or scripts to write on the weekends, he's more likely to run longer errands and make more extravagant dinners on those days, which leaves me with long periods of time wrangling the kids by myself regardless of where we are in the week. (Not that I'm complaining- I'll take Tom being around most of every day over having a reason to give him more child-rearing duties than usual on the weekends any time- it's just an observation.)
Of course, it doesn't help that this past Sunday involved packing up and moving back home from a brief stay at Mima and Granda's (any amount of travel is stressful for both me and the kids). To top that off, I had to finish out the evening in attendance at a rehearsal (the very first of the season) for a concert choir that I crazily signed up to participate in again, instead of decompressing in the messy comfort of my own home. I still haven't the slightest idea where I will find the energy to get my tired self out to each and every rehearsal, or where I will find the time to practice the repertoire, but that's another matter, entirely.
And so I began the day more tired that usual, more sore than usual (thanks to throwing out my back yesterday while lifting my nearly-100th-percentile-in-height-and-weight toddler). And it hasn't been a particularly good one for Michael, which means it's been a tough one for me.
It started out okay- in fact he took an incredibly long nap this morning. So I'm thinking that his later discomfort was my fault. I've been feeling gads of guilt about the fact that I still haven't gotten it together to figure out how to feed my little guy some "real food," since he's not into the whole puree thing, and baby-led weaning involves so much more work, and mess. As I snacked on a yogurt, I was thinking how I'd have to voluntarily enroll myself into some Mommy Hall of Shame somewhere soon for providing him with a solid food diet consisting entirely of Mum Mums for the last couple of weeks, when it occurred to me to let him try what I was eating. I've read here and there to wait until eight months, but he's almost there, and I've read there and here that six months is okay, too, so I figured it should be fine. And he seemed to really like it.
But ever since he's been really fussy, and really pukey. Really pukey. So I'm thinking it was a bad call, and I hope that he got all of the tummy sadness out in that last, huge vomit of the evening, or we're all going to have a miserable night for it.
Abby, thankfully, appears to be immune to the ill-effects of Mondays (apart from a post-nap meltdown that I presume to be entirely non-day-of-the-week related, since it was as unexpected and mysterious in origin as all of the past ones have been). So, we got a lot of cuteness out of her today.
Some random Cute Abby Moments:
Tom walks in to Abby's bedroom wearing a Mets shirt. Trying to capitalize on that one time (a few days ago) that Abby proved her team loyalty by spotting the logo on the shirt that I came to breakfast wearing by immediately exclaiming "Mets!" at the sight of me, Tom asks her about the shirt.
Tom: "Abby, what kind of shirt is this?"
"That's right! It's black. But what kind of shirt is it?"
"And what else?"
"Abby, it's a Mets shirt."
Then, as though in the midst of an internally-derived epiphany, a wondrous exclamation: "Mets shirt!"
It's dinnertime, and Abby wants some Mum Mum action. She still loves the things, which I don't get. To me, they taste like slightly sweet, crunchy communion wafers, and as a relatively un-picky toddler, I'd think that her tastes are more refined than that by now. She begins pointing at a package that Tom tucked next to his plate. We redirect for awhile, and I inconspicuously move the package out of her sight line. At some point, Abby notices its absence and asks, "Where'sa Michael Mum Mum go?" (I'm aware that I'm dangerously close to channeling Jar-Jar Binks, here, but that's really how she says it.)
Giddy, sleep-deprivation-borne parental laughter ensues.
And on her evening walk with Tom, Abby is quite the social butterfly. She's smiling and waving, and repeating back Tom's observations in all sorts of adorable ways.
"Look, Abby, there's a little girl and a little boy. Say hello!"
She waves hello, and as they turn around to head back the way they came, says, "Bye bye little boy! Bye bye little girl!"
"Look, Abby, what a nice little doggie."
"That's a nice doggie!"
And upon her return home, I am amazed at the chill on her little hands and cheeks as she snuggles in my lap.
"We take a walk in stroller."
Yes, my sweet girl. I can still smell the fresh air in your soft baby hair. And just like that, my "case of the Mondays" has passed. For this week, anyway.