Going to pick up Zac at his new daycare is like stepping into a refugee camp for people under 3 feet tall. The kids all swarm around my legs and follow me around the room, possibly asking me: "Have you really been to the outside? Did you see my Mom there? Can you help me get more graham crackers?" in a baby language that only dolphins can understand.
I look down at these kids, who range in age from 1-2 years old, and I'm thankful that we can't remember anything from that time period. Who would really want to remember staying in a room all day, playing with the same plastic toy and trying to prevent a large, friendly one year-old (a.k.a. my son) from sitting on you and giving you kisses? Honestly, I think the kids are considering a mass exodus to the 3-4 year-old room where they can at least go outside in the 100 degree heat. Maybe with a makeshift shelter and a canteen of water they would survive. It's questionable though.
Zac's bruise on his forehead from the older woman has turned a lovely shade of green and is now progressing into a yellowish hue. It's right next to his extremely prominent mosquito bite from our walk yesterday and right above the scratch on his eye from being so tired that he tried to rip his eyelids off to get some sleep (it didn't work). I look like the best mother - ever - when I try and explain to people that while I actually don't beat him, I apparently don't do a very good job of keeping him from hurting himself or other vertically-challenged individuals.
Lately, Z. has been so cranky that I'm quite possibly losing my mind, as this post might suggest. Once I wade through the refugee camp and temporary government-in-exile headquarters set up at the intersection of the plastic stove and kitchenette toys to pick him up from daycare, he starts screaming...and screaming....and screaming. He doesn't stop until I put him in the jogging stroller that V. and M. bought be for my baby shower. Out into the bright, evening sun and blistering heat we go! He falls asleep almost immediately while I walk around several blocks, pondering how my weight loss might be attributed to sweating profusely. It appears that I don't even need to be pregnant to sweat profusely - in July - in Houston.
Once he gets back in the house, the screaming continues. Feeding him, burping him, holding him, putting him down, giving him Orajel, giving him Tylenol, bathing him, putting him a dark room and closing the door until I regain my sanity, only help a little. Please, I don't need advice - I need beer. Lots and lots of beer. Afterall, how can you figure out what is wrong with him if he doesn't know and can't tell me?
Someone might need to remind me now, though, why I thought it was a good idea to be a single Mom. Who ever heard of the 'terrible ones'?!?