carl in casimirland.

Totally living up to that moniker of Bad Mommy today. I was thinking that maybe Casimir has a fairy godmother who just whispered to him that I suck sometimes and he should call me on it, even if for the wrong things. Maybe.

Anyway, big bad Carl is getting a little hard to get to sleep and keep asleep, especially with a singing, hollering toddler in the house. Sometimes I've worked so damn hard singing baa baa fricking black sheep to get him to sleep, and I set him down successfully and then there's some whining and then some hollering and then Carl is up and I'm stressed out. After Casimir's babyhood I have PTSD with the whole sleep issue, so I'm a leeeetle jittery and crazy on this topic when Carl gives me trouble going to sleep. It makes those times that he is just totally out that much more enjoyable. I just love it when he's so konked out in his pack and play in our room that I know I can saunter in, flip on the light, even open and close some dresser drawers, get dressed, hell- organize the closet, and still hear his rythmic breathing as he slumbers away. It's somewhat empowering in a warped way. I wish he always slept like that.

I took these herbal drops that someone recommended, and I'm not usually one for herbal drops, but boy, they rocked my sinuses and I was able to stop mouthbreathing within two days. I love health.

There. That should settle that for the three trillion hits I get a week from the google inquiry "can you take sudafed while pregnant?" Not that you should click on a BLOG to get an answer to that internet query. But anyway. You can. Pop away!

WELL, I awoke this morning with an itch in my throat and the feeling of a whole box of kleenex stuffed in my head and sinuses, so THANK GOD FOR THAT, because otherwise I would have been healthy for a whole month straight! Now I'm right back to where I was, clutching my Sudafed by the humidifier, and I can only hope this one sputters out quickly. I used to just adore four seasons. I loved the fall and the leaves and the snow and the brisk cold and rosy cheeks and hot chocolate and sweaters and blahfreezingblah. Now I'm like retired people and I think I require a milder climate for my fragile physical disposition. I just want to move to Arizona and live on a golf course and wear white pants. Thankfully we have Carl the Insomniac (this week at least) to cheer us up with his pudgy smiles and squeals. When he's not busy trying to pull my hair out with exploratory grabbing exercises, he's all excitement and joy, and everything! is! so! fun! I love happy babies. I'll bet I used to be like that, too. For about two weeks, and then I probably got gas and stayed mildly grumpy ever since.

Casimir has taken to calling me Bad Mommy if I commit an offense as egregious as tidying up his matchbox cars or something similar. I don't especially like being called Bad Mommy, considering that I do everything for him and would essentially give him my kidneys or liver or whatever he needed and even schedule the surgery at night so I could take him to the Children's Museum that day. I tell him that it's not nice. Yet, there's something slightly endearing about such grandiose anger coming from such a little person, and when they first start to use words to express that. It's hard not to secretly find it cute, in that condescending grown up way. I don't know where he learned it, considering that I don't run around calling people bad or good (that's Santa's job). But I do have memories of slamming doors when I was little and shouting "I hate you!" so I'm going to appreciate his expressions of anger while they're still cute.

I had forgotton what it's like to try and dress someone who is trying to shove their hands, your hands, and the clothing all in their mouth at once. Or what it's like to have someone grab your cheeks with their little hands, squeeze, and then slowly twi-i-i-iiiist while squealing so closely to your face that they begin to blur.

I recently saw these books at Borders Put Me in the Zoo and Are You My Mother? as well as Snow, that I absolutely had to get because as soon as I saw the covers I felt like I was six and being read to in my old yellow bedroom with the divine yellow shag carpeting. If you had asked me if I had heard of that cute kids' book, Put Me in the Zoo, I would have said no and asked if it was tied into Disney or PBS. But it's weird how one look and you can instantly remember and be transported back. I started to wonder, if I had been abducted by aliens or molestors and then, years later, recovered and escaped but never found my parents again and couldn't remember anything...and then saw these books? Then it would all come back to me! And that would be neat.
I guess it was just weird to have Put Me in the Zoo become such a powerful and suprising memory tool.

I think I may have to give up TV again, just to mitigate that occasional spasm of guilt I experience that our minimal time plugged in is rewiring and smouldering his brain. Last time we did it for a week and he begged, pleaded, and cried for it exactly zero times. It was harder on me. And now the show we watch is Balamory, which I'm not quite sure I can give up. It takes place in Scotland, and I'm thinking if I limit our TV watching to that, then I can weave a nice little lilt into Casimir's developing English. Plus, I'm just waiting until some fundamentalist protests against Archie, the kilt-wearing, pink-sweatered fellow who lives in a pink castle. He's my favorite.