The Robbins Curse

Yup. I'm in one of those moods. You know what mood I'm talking about. That mood where you feel like telling the woman at the grocery store who just smiled at you to go to hell. The mood where your kid is desperately trying to hand you the same book you've already read 40 million times that day and all you want to do is huck that flipping book into a wall as hard as you can, just to get your point across that you absolutely hate Dr. Seuss' Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb book. The mood where you are seriously considering leaving your 18 month old in charge of the 2 month old, geared with a couple of bottles and some spare diapers and a slip of paper letting Child Protective Services know that you'll be back when the kids are potty trained and uninterested in being held 24 hours a day.

Now you might be thinking that this isn't as much a mood, but rather my personality, and you might be right. But regardless, I'm feeling especially irritable today and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that my bathroom is torn apart (Josh was going to re-tile it, found mold, ripped up all the subfloors, midfloors, and whatever else was keeping us from falling into the basement, and is now waiting until Saturday to fix it all), the garage door stopped working and Josh spent last night replacing that, the blinds in the front room got broken and I'm told they can be fixed and not to just buy new ones, and finally, Chet is doing is very best to puke on every last available surface in the entire house (reflux anyone?). I think what it comes down to is that Josh has spent every waking minute working, ripping, fixing, or replacing so I've been left with both kids day in and day out. I'm sort of sick of them.

It doesn't help that the small one seems to always be awake. He takes 30 minute naps and then is livid when I do not tote his small person around, showing him all the wonders that is our house. Needless to say, he spends a lot of time either in the bjorn or crying his little face off because he is not somehow strapped to my body. I've told him to man up, but he doesn't seem to understand. He has taken to trying to talk to me and although sort of cute, I've told him it's pointless since his brother doesn't really talk, I doubt he will either.

The big one isn't any better. He is turning 2 this year and is doing his best to demonstrate what 2 means. Many more dramatic tantrums to come, I'm sure. He is still refusing to speak, but he does use sign language (no, he is not deaf) to communicate. Very likely the reason he does not speak. Oh well.

He also has decided that when I'm carrying baby up the stairs, he is suddenly paralyzed and unable to climb the stairs either. Needless to say, my new exercise routine involves carrying both invalids up the stairs 40 times a day. I should be skinnier, but eating 28 cookies a day seems to be my undoing.

This is from this last Sunday where we blessed Chet. Nice background, I know. Whatever. Just oogle at our incredible family.