Another year older and not dead. That has to be a good thing. At least most days.
I've become one of those women that marks time by their child, even though I swore I would never do that. I was 23 when I got pregnant with Mr. Z, 24 when I gave birth, 25 at his first Christmas, and now 26 at his second. When I see all those numbers written out, I feel like he and I have been together for such a long time, yet I'm still unable to figure out why he likes dumping an entire bag of Cheerios out on his carseat.
I've been in one of those periods (hell, it could be a month or maybe year) where I need people to constantly remind me that parenting will get physically easier and emotionally harder. Cue in on the "physically easier" part because this Momma is tired. Zac was up two nights ago, teething furiously, from 2-4am. After not going to sleep until 9:30pm last night, he woke up at 3am for an unknown reason (perhaps because he was out of his beloved milk, which I finally started giving him again yesterday after the Pukapoolza Tour). I brought him in bed with me because I'm a tired idiot. He spent the rest of the early morning hours kicking me in the ribs and karate chopping my head. It was like sleeping next to a practicing self-defense coach.
It's the wrapping paper, scissors, tape, ribbon, photo frames, small glass ornaments and stockings hung by the chimney with care that make living with a toddler make me want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming. He wants to be in EVERYTHING. CONSTANTLY. I now understand why women in previous generations would go into their bedrooms and work their mysterious gift-wrapping magic. It's not to keep it a secret. It's to keep the kids from unrolling that wrapping paper one more time, goddamnit!
The funny part is that I don't even like wrapping paper or bows. Put all of my gifts in recycled brown paper bags and I'll be happy. Better yet, just give me the bag. I'll put it over my head until January or so when all forms of tissue paper are out of the reach of my son.