Yeah, this pretty much sums it up.

I should have given up when I found out about the bread.

My apologies for not updating sooner.  I didn't realize it had been so long!  I guess I've been using up all my random thoughts on Twitter.

Man, what a crap day.  And yes, I do mean crap, not crappy.

I got up this morning with dreams of sourdough toast still in my head.  We used half a loaf for hamburgers last night, and I knew there were four pieces left over.  I was really looking forward to crispy toast with butter.  (Sad, isn't it, that TOAST is what I fantasize about?)  Charlie got out the door on time, Austin was his usual meth-chimp self, and I was just waiting for his nap so I could get my toast on.

After I put him down, I went into the kitchen literally drooling.  I don't usually eat breakfast, and when I do, it's not til after Charlie's gone to work.  I was ridiculously hungry.  I looked on top of the microwave, where we usually keep the bread, and...it wasn't there.  Checked the basket next to the microwave...nothing.  It's kind of pitiful, but I started getting a little frantic.  Kitchen table?  Top of the fridge?  Next to the coffee pot?  O DEAR GOD DON'T TELL ME HE THREW IT OUT LAST NIGHT!  Nope, not in the trash.

Totally puzzled, I called Charlie at work:

"Thank you for calling X, this is Charles, how may I help you?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Good morning!  What's up?"

"Uh, where's the leftover sourdough bread?"

"Oh, we ate it."

"We, who?  There were four pieces left."

"Me and Austin.  I told you.  Sorry."

INSERT IRRATIONAL CARB-FIENDING RAGE HERE.

I said something snarky, and hung up.  I was so pissed!  That was MY bread, fucker.  MINE.  And no way did Austin eat it...his idea of "eating" toast is to gum a two-inch section of crust for ten minutes, then throw it at the pugs' heads.  What does that mean?  The Hubs scarfed down four pieces of toast and left me nothing for breakfast.

Subsequently, some feisty text-messages were exchanged; there was douchebaggery on both ends.  Highlights include:  me calling him an inconsiderate jerk, him making a passive-aggressive comment about me sleeping past 7AM.  Finally I realized I was laughing about the whole thing, and we gave up on the fight.  I shook it off, and got stuff squared away for the day.

I spent the day running errands and scouting houses for the MIL, swung by Charlie's office, the usual.  By the time I got to BJ's, it was after two.  I hadn't realized how late it had gotten.  We were well into the naptime danger-zone.  I looked at Austin.  "Doing okay, buddy?"  He gave me one of his super-grins, laughed, and threw Elmo at my head.  He was awesome through the whole store, not fussy at all.  I thought for sure he'd crash when we got home.

Ho ho ho, was I ever wrong.  I set him down after unloading the groceries, and he went apeshit.  Screeching (happily), throwing toys everywhere, trying to climb onto the coffee table, terrorizing the dogs (he has a new thing -- pulling their tails.  UGH.).  Wouldn't settle down to have a snack or watch a movie.  Wouldn't nap.  I let him play, but every time I tried to do something other than sit there and watch him play, he cried and screamed and (seriously) whacked me with whatever toy was within reach.  I couldn't get anything done, there were groceries everywhere, no dinner prep done.  Finally, I felt like I was going to lose it.  You know, that feeling like you're about to channel your mom and start screaming "EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO TURN IT OFF...RIGHT NOW.  TURN IT OFF!"

I knew I was really at my breaking point when I felt the urge to yell at him.  He's 14 months old, for Pete's sake.  He's not doing stuff to piss me off, he's doing stuff BECAUSE HE'S 14 MONTHS OLD AND THAT'S WHAT THOSE LITTLE FUCKERS DO.  I bit my tongue, picked him up, and carried him upstairs.  I set him in his crib, told him I loved him, and went downstairs to cry my eyes out.

After about five minutes of fussing, he fell asleep, and I took a break.  My awesome friend Lisa gave me some encouragement, and reminded me that I did the right thing by taking a step back.  She made a good point -- sometimes, our presence during the toddler rage-fest only makes things worse.  The wee monkeys need a break, too.  It was nice to get that reassurance from another mom, a mom I hold in very high esteem.  

Shortly after that, Charlie got home.  I'd filled him in on the situation -- it's only fair to give him the chance to bail, right?  Austin woke up at the same time, and the two of them went out together so I could have some time to myself.

I realized while they were gone that the reason I felt so lousy today was that all week, I've been taking care of everybody else.  I hadn't spent any time on or with myself.  Usually, I make it a point to have a little "me time" every day, but this week it got away from me somehow.

So here I am, 12 hours from the Toast Fiasco, and it feels like a totally different day.  I've had a bubble bath, a glass of wine, time to read and listen to music.  I can hear my boys upstairs, Austin giggling, Charlie doing the usual bedtime chat.  The house is peaceful, full of the quiet sounds of night.

When I checked Twitter this morning, I saw a Tweet from Mona (one of my favorite bloggers) about a family that had just lost their little girl. I don't know the Spohrs, and I'd never seen their blog until today. But I am so, so sad for this family. Maddie, the little girl, was only seventeen months old. She was born prematurely and overcame tremendous obstacles in her short life.

I can't even imagine what I would do if we lost Austin. My throat closes up just reading those words typed out. I can't even imagine the pain. In the words of Rabbi Yisrael Rutman, "Only God, who knows the secrets of the heart, is truly capable of fathoming such grief, and providing comfort."

If you're one who prays, please pray for this family and this tiny soul that left too soon. You can also help by donating to the March of Dimes in Maddie's honor here. Everything I've read tells me that she was a beautiful, happy little girl with the most loving parents a child could wish for.

Can somebody send me some tights? Maybe a mask?

Austin's diaper changes used to be pretty pleasant -- well, save for the fact that I was dealing with someone else's bodily fluids.  He would coo and stare up at me, maybe wiggle an arm.  It was all a very soft-focus, Johnson & Johnson ad affair.  He'd smile, as if to say "Thanks for getting the poop off my balls, Mom!"  Oh, I miss those days.  Because now, those idyllic changing moments?  They're wrestling matches, and I'm losing.  He's mastered what looks like a figure-four leg-lock, wrapping his hammy thighs around my arm until I can't move my hand.  (Imagine getting your arm stuck in a pair of fleshy elevator doors, and you've just about got it.)  Then he does some sort of Jet Li "my hips are too flexible to be human" roll/flip move, and before I know it, he's standing up on the changing table, waggling his cocktail wiener at the neighbors out the window.  I have to counter with fifteen rounds of "Austin, NO.  If you'd just lay still, we'd be finished already."  I keep waiting for Vince MacMahon to show up in the nursery and offer the kid a contract.

I thought this resistance to diapering might be a sign that he could be ready to start potty training -- he's been really curious about other bathroom activities lately, flushing the toilet, playing with TP, etc.  So, I took a chance and let him hang out (literally *snicker*) diaper-free for an afternoon.  I showed him the downstairs bathroom, read him his potty book, and even brought out his own tiny green potty (from Ikea, of course).  Now keep in mind, the kid can't walk or talk yet, so I wasn't expecting him to tug on my sleeve and say, "MOTHER, I NEED TO USE THE LAVATORY PLEASE." But I was a little taken aback when I looked over at him from the couch and saw him peeing all over his plastic hippopotamus.  (If I didn't know better, I'd say he was aiming for it.)

So, the diaper battle will rage on, at least for now.  I may have to invest in some of those tie-downs (kind of like what Joan Crawford uses on Christopher in "Mommy Dearest"), or else I'll just start scattering sawdust all over the floor.

Insufferable Douchebaggery

Nothing starts the day off right like a totally pointless spat with your husband.

As he was leaving, I told Charlie I'd call him when I was ready to come swap cars. He took El Heep today; he had to drop Austin off at Grandma's. That leaves me driving the truck, which I hate. Why, you ask? Well, where to begin: the cracked windshield? the seats encrusted in dog hair? the radio preset to god-awful "rock" stations? the sticky shifter that pops in an out of gear at will? Or maybe the defective parking brake? Charlie drives it most every day without complaint, but he also has his OTHER car, and his motorcycle. I have only the Jeep.

So when Charlie told me I should just keep the truck all day, I said I didn't want to. He said it'd use less gas, and I whined that I didn't care, I wanted the Jeep. He said something else, and I snapped "FINE! YOU KEEP ALL THE CARS AND I'LL JUST RIDE A BIKE." I stomped inside like a three year old (or a 13 month old, if he could walk) and fired off a Tweet about "insufferable douchebaggery." At the moment, it did seem as if he was being rather douchey.

After an hour and another cup of coffee, I of course have realized that there was no douchebaggery on his part -- just me being a spoiled brat. It would save gas, it would be less of a headache to just keep the truck instead of wonking up his day with a vehicle swap. So why is it so hard for me to just suck it up? Dunno. I like getting my way, I suppose, but who doesn't? I think it really boils down to my control issues (SHOCKER!).

So my question for today is, what do YOU have trouble "sucking up"? Am I the only one who battles Ye Olde Raging Ego?