Turd by Turd

The woman who wrote that last post has gone missing. That overly optimistic, chipper, look-on-the-bright side blogger isn't here today. Little Miss Sunshine has left the building. Instead of taking on life bird by bird, it seems I'm now taking it on turd by turd. Sleep deprivation will do that. Any kind of bird--even the beautiful brightly colored ones--look like turds when you're working on three weeks of scattered sleep.

And I look as bad as I feel. The other day my three-year-old was gazing into my eyes. I thought she was about to say something profound in the unique way of three-year-olds. Something so loving that I could excuse all the naughty behavior that comes with being a toddler. She was looking deeply into my eyes and I was waiting for it... waiting for that melt-your-heart-moment (something I'd email grandma about later) when instead she said this: "Sponge Bob has blood in his eyes too." I must say it took me a moment to connect the dots, to fully comprehend she was comparing my blood shot eyes to those of the creepy cartoon character. You know you've lost that pregnancy glow when mommy looks like Sponge Bob Square Pants.

And there are the real turds, too. You would think by the time Baby #4 comes along I would know this fact: Babies poop a lot. And I am mostly OK with that, except at 2 a.m. Who poops at 2 a.m.? And he's rather noisy with his business, too. Sounds more like a big burly trucker than a newborn. It's hard to fathom, really. Every time The Boy passes gas my girls ask, "Mommy was that you?" Because they can't believe a cute little baby could do such a thing. 

The turds, real or perceived, were piling up on me today. I am so cranky. Have you seen that trailer for the upcoming sitcom "In the Motherhood"? I can completely identify with Cheryl Hines when she yells at the top of her lungs, "Stop screaming you're going to wake the baby!" 

When my piddly nap got interrupted today (sleep when the baby sleep only applies when you don't have other children) I lay there practically paralyzed... with exhaustion, fear, pity, self-loathing and your garden variety post-nap inertia. In that crippling fog I wondered if a workout would help. I don't crave the exercise physically--I'm too tired for that--but considering what a workout would do for me mentally, well, that appealed to me. I am certain my coping skills are more readily accessible when my brain has had a whiff of endorphins (especially when they come with a dose of fresh air and sunlight). 

Oh for the love of a brisk walk outside! I will have to fight the fatigue in order to get out the door, but I'm certain a little exercise will bring back that look-on-the-bright-side blogger. It seems impossible: a walk, outdoors, by myself. However, more possible than getting eight hours of sleep. I will need one or the other in order to start seeing birds instead of turds.