Thursday, December 31, 2009

Poop Face

It always happens when I decide to be productive. Something bad, that is.

It started when I decided to clean house. I had just gotten back from Walmart (try going at 8:00 am; the quality of people is surprisingly less than troll-like and more human-friendly. Well, not really. But maybe since I was more tired I was less inclined to notice the 400 lb woman wearing biking shorts...). I was going to vacuum, mop floors, wipe counters, and eat oreos. You know, basic house-wife crap, and Rip was going to watch. Rip was sitting in his bumbo on the counter, chewing and trying to inhale my grocery list via slobber, to which I decided that you can always make a new grocery list and you cannot always eat oreos uninterrupted. So I was chewing and Rip was chewing and we were both fairly content. Well, there's only so long a baby can enjoy a grocery list before he decides that eating the words 'milk, cereal, bread...' does not actually constitute eating the real thing, and so Rip started to cry and whine. I ignored it for a while, but really, it started to get louder and the oreos lesser. So I picked up baby and headed to the bedroom to put baby down for a nap. I smelled poop and so I bent my head down, and without looking, put my face up to his bum to smell and see if what I was smelling was indeed poop. It certainly was. And there was certainly so much poop, that my face now was covered in poop, along with my hands, and everything else making contact with baby, including my grocery list. The baby had basically just pooped on my face. This was kind of like the last straw, except that it really wasn't, since he will undoubtedly poop on my face again, and I still am not allowed to spank him (I guess he's too little or something? I dunno, the logic confuses me too).

As I sat down later and contemplated the events of the day, I started getting confused. When did this happen to me? When did my face start getting pooped on? When did I start going to Walmart at 8 am and start considering buying clothes there? And most importantly, when did I start eating oreos at 9 am? I'm like an alcoholic. I'm disgusting. No wonder the baby decided to poop on my face. My life is definitely different than what I had imagined as an 8 year old. What happened to owning my own zoo and letting all the animals out of their cages for walks? And what about turning into an Indian so I could live in a tepee and ride horses all day (inspired by Dances with Wolves)? Nope. I'm getting pooped on and going to Walmart instead. At least I still have half a bag of oreos left...

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Into the corner

I'm tired of being tired. And I'm tired of Rip jamming his tiny head into the corner of his crib, wailing and waiting to be rescued. Seriously. He refuses to even consider sleeping through the night. He used to demand to be fed and now that I'm letting him cry it out at night, he has opted for plan B, which consists of him scooting himself into the nether part of his crib with his head crammed into the corner. I can't just let him cry because he just keeps jamming his wee body harder and harder into the corner, testing my motherly limits of compassion. I inevitably get up, drag him back to the starting line, plug the binky back in his mouth and wait for 3 hours later where I will undoubtedly do it all over again. He might be lazy, but he's pretty clever.

"Think you're just going to let me cry all night? We'll see. We'll see..."

He's so small and yet so evil. It's hard to do anything but be impressed by his sheer spite. He really is doing it out of spite, I'm sure. He's teaching me a lesson and I'm learning quick. I'm trying to determine if it would be better just to feed him at these merciless hours. Would he stop doing the head jamming thing?

Rip- "Nobody sleeps a solid 6 hours in this house! Nobody!"
Me- "No, of course not, your liege. Of course not. We would never. Pulling your small body from the perils of the corner of the crib at 3 in the morning is our greatest accomplishment! We desire more of it! Never sleep at night again, your wickedness."

Anyway, I think I'm just really tired and really hateful of all the idiots who have babies who willingly sleep through the night. Rip has done it a total of 4 times and that was months ago. And if you start volunteering advice, be prepared to find an evil package on your doorstep at 4 in the morning. And it will be wailing. And not rolling over.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Snow? Why?

We moved back to Utah. For an explanation, please find loaded gun and shoot, either me or yourself, since I can't bare explaining why we moved for the 9 billionth time.

I haven't updated for a long time, being somewhat busy with moving, trying to find a house to buy, and just wanting to do other things besides inform the 5 people who read this of what they already know. So here is the update. We moved, we're still trying to find a house, and Rip still ceases to amaze me with his sheer laziness. He won't roll over because instead of getting frustrated and trying to move his big body, he lays his head down and begins wailing. Fine. When he's 17 years old and I'm still carrying him around in my arms, please do the polite thing and avert your eyes.

We went to our Springville ward (where we're currently renting while we look for a house in the more north, more normal parts of Utah), and let's just say there were some differences from our San Diego ward. If you know what FFA stands for, you're better off than we are. Not knowing that almost got us kicked out. **Please see Future Farmers of America for any questions** I'm not complaining I'm just saying that it's all very different and I'm trying to adjust by saying things like 'folks' and 'rootin' tootin' (no one has said that yet, but I'm pretty sure they're all thinking it...). Anyway, I might just be mad because I tried to take Rip in the baby jogger and suddenly realized that baby joggers are not meant for 3 feet of snow with ice packed on top. In fact, nothing is meant for 3 feet of snow with ice packed on top. Not me, not Rip, not the baby jogger, not nuthin.'