Whine, whine, whine. Then some more whining.

I just read all the comments on this post, and I feel so much better.

(Also, I am at Panera, and the shitload of calories I just consumed make me feel pretty good, too. Seriously, the amount of mayonnaise on this menu could choke a Biggest Loser contestant.)

(And Panera! That's when you know I am back in the dissertation groove, this time-wasting blog post notwithstanding.)

It was reassuring to read hundreds of women saying that sleep deprivation made them crazy, too, and that they didn't always like being mothers, especially in the middle of the night with a baby who just won't go the hell to sleep.

Yeah, I'm talking abut you, spitty face

I am talking to a doctor tomorrow, which is good because I am losing my shit.

Not very often and not with the kiddies, but still. The anxiety.

I am often very overwhelmed when my dissertation is in flux, and as I begin the revision (and re-vision) process in earnest (Mmmm, there's good coffee here in earnest), I am little freaked out. All the old demons-- is this horrible, do I sound stupid, has someone else already written this, will I ever graduate, no, seriously, will I ever graduate, etc. I also do this thing-- It's a bona fide part of my writing process by now-- where I procrastinate and get very defensive about it. I invent work to do in other areas of my life and then act really put upon about it. In an effort to forestall this behavior, we upped our cleaning service to 2 days a week, so I wouldn't freak out about the house. Now I am freaking out about the cleaning service-- what if they miss a spot, what if they don't dust the blades of the ceiling fans, what if they wear their shoes inside our house because 80% of the dirt in your home comes from your shoes, so the place might look clean, but think of all the bacteria-- the list goes on an on. I even have a 2 page list of things I want to clean before the cleaning people come, which totally defeats the point. It's insane.

Twice now, Ben has had to come home from work and help me leave so the cleaners could come. WHAT THE HECK??? And it's not like I have to go to a beet field and toil away while they clean. I men, seriously, I can take the kids to a really overpriced kiddie cafe for lunch, or we can go to the gym, and others can watch them while I work out and get dressed in peace. These are not scary outings. They are supposed to make my life easier, in fact.

And now Harry is all weird, saying things to the cleaning people like, "My house a mess! Cleaning lady come and clean it up!"

I really need to get a grip on reality-- which I have 85% of the time. It's the other 15% that scares me.

Luckily Ben is awesome

Even though he is getting sick of all the cleaning drama.

Then there's this guy,

who might be the worst sleeper in the world. He has no idea how to self soothe, and we cannot stand to do any kind of sleep method that involves crying because his cry is very anxiety producing, and I am producing plenty of anxiety on my own right now, thank you very much.

But we are too lazy and lack the stick-to-itiveness of your typical Midwesterner to do any of the more complicated no-cry methods.
Also, he sleeps like crap during the day, too, and he must be held 24/7. If we put him down even for a second-- even to go to the bathroom or refill Harry's bup-- he SCREAMS like he is being tortured. This would be fine if I didn't have another child, didn't have a career, and didn't ever want to get dressed or brush my damn teeth. I started thinking of all the frumpy moms I see whom I dismiss instantly as not caring enough about themselves to reign in the back fat and slap on some under eye concealer, and then I think that they must be nicer than I am, more selfless, better mothers because they could never let their babies cry while they curled their eyelashes.

And my poor, sweet little Harry, who deserves a mom who is more fun and has more energy and can sometimes use both hands to play with him and hug him, who can say, "Sure," when he asks, "Mommy will you snuggle me?" instead of giving him a pat and rushing away to console the baby, do the laundry, read a quick bit of research. I know he won't request cuddles for much longer. (And you should see how big his feet are! So big they're almost not cute anymore! Also not cute? The man-craps in his diaper.) But the baby! He needs.

He is, in fact, a 15-ish pound ball of ceaseless need. And prunes.