TWO. MONTHS. OLD.
According to most pediatricians and nearly any and every baby website you can possibly scour, this means we *more than likely* have just one more month left doing time.
By doing time I mean dealing with a baby that has "colic." Any parent of a child that has had colic knows exactly what I'm talking about. It's basically the equivalent of being in parent jail. You don't have any control over your fate, you have to watch other people poop and while you might have a slight idea how much hard time you're putting in, you're never really free until you're actually on the outside.
We've seen the light at the end of the tunnel. And trust me, it's glorious. It's filled with huge, toothless, one-dimpled smiles, bursts of 'coos' and gurgles and five uninterrupted hours of sleep at a time. FIVE glorious hours can do wonders when you've been getting up every two to three hours.
He's grown up so much in the last month. It feels like the longest, but blurriest two months of my life. Some days I wake up and it feels like we just brought him home, like we're still tip-toeing around our house doing anything to not wake the baby. Heaven forbid you have to cough, blow your nose or receive a text message in the presence of our little man; if he's within earshot he will get seriously, seriously angry at you. And in turn, you will get seriously, seriously angry at whomever the culprit is.
We got spoiled this past week. On Wednesday night he slept five hours, woke up to eat for an hour and then slept another four hours. That was nearly nine consecutive hours of sleep. The next night, however, he wouldn't even consider shutting his eyes until nearly 3 a.m.
And speaking of the boogie man, once upon a time my best friend and I used to joke about how getting pregnant and having a baby would get us out of conditioning for softball. (What can I say, we were in college, we wanted to party and it was hard to run two miles with a hangover). We used to sit and conjure up ways we could keep our scholarships but get out of the timed mile, from throwing ourselves down a flight of stairs to getting knocked up.
Now, after living with the product of being knocked up, running has become my only escape from the little bundles of joy waiting for me at home. Don't get me wrong, I love love love my daughter and I adore my little punk rock man, but sometimes, the only therapy I can find from the daily stressors of being a woman, a wife and a mom comes from putting on a pair of ear phones, setting my iPod Touch onto shuffle and just running until I'm so miserable, tired and out of breath that the only thing I can be bothered to think about is whether or not I'll be able to move the next day.
Speaking of being able to move the next day, I've officially gone crazy and decided to sign up for the a half marathon in June with my cousin. I know, me, running 13 some miles seems highly unlikely to begin with, let alone five months after having a baby. But it's something I want to prove to myself, something I need to prove to myself.
Sometimes I find myself feeling like the awkward middle school girl dork I used to be. Constantly worried what everyone thinks about me, valuing my self worth on what said people think about me and feeling like I'll never quite measure up. At 27 years old, it's just not acceptable to me to feel this way anymore. Instead of just being good at exuding confidence, I want to actually BE confident. And competing in and finishing this half marathon, is just going to be the start of that.
In more exciting news, Pearyn has decided to become potty trained over the last three weeks. It was the strangest thing. We knew she had an idea of when she was going to the bathroom (and by knew I mean she would literally tell us 'I'm going to go pee in my diaper in the corner and then you're going to change me), we just had no idea how to get her sold on the whole potty business.
Turns out cute underwear and bribery is the way to go. She woke up one day and decided she wanted to wear panties to school. After remaining dry the whole day we rewarded her with a toy she'd picked out months ago (like seriously, seven months ago). We told her if she kept wearing panties all day and didn't have accidents we'd get her something else small. And now, three weeks later, our little girl hasn't had one accident. She's even tackled potty breaks while out and about.
I can only hope that Braeburn will be as smart as his sister, because I have absolutely no idea how she managed to figure this whole potty business out.