14 months? wtf

this always happens.  I say I'm going to write, blog, journal, scrapbook, etc and then I do nothing.  Well, I guess I wouldn't say nothing.  I have after all been raising a baby for the past 14 months, yes folks, you heard me: 14 months.  I know, I used to hate people who said "my baby is 22 months old!" It's like, no, he's not. He's 2.  But now? I kinda get it.  It's like, no, Cora isn't a year old - she's 14 months, actually nearly 15 months.  And you know why I know?  Because I've survived them.  She's not a year damnit, she's 15 LONG months old - and I'm still alive.  And so is she, and so that's good.  So yeah, what have I been up to since the last time I wrote?  (juice fast aside - yeah, clearly that didn't take).  I've changed 9 million diapers, made 4 billion bottles, taught Cora 5 signs (yes, sign language) and I've started a job and moved.  No biggie, right?  My biggest accomplishment though?? Putting Cora in daycare.  I was terrified about this, like totally horrified.  I cried.  I worried.  I cried some more and then I looked at two places.  In NH you don't have the millions of options you have in Boston.  The first place seemed okay - until I walked into what would be Cora's room and there sat a lonely snot-covered toddler eating his food with his back to the teachers.  My insides screamed.  The mother in me was sad and mad.  The previous early ed teacher in me was noticing licensing violations left and right and both sides of my brain did all they could to keep my mouth from blurting out "WHAT IF HE WERE CHOKING!? YOU WOULDN'T EVEN KNOW!  CHOKING IS SILENT!"  So, I acted nice during the rest of the tour and then had a panic attack when we went outside.  I cried again.  What if I had to send Cora to the school where kids are covered in snot and are potentially choking on their homemade meatballs?!  I couldn't do it.  Then we went to the next place and it was like, yeah, this is what it's supposed to be like.  Clean floors, clean faces, laminated decor and a playground to die for.  I was sold.  And so yeah, what was once my nightmare is now my norm.  And you know what?  Cora is surviving and actually liking daycare because when I pick her up, sometimes she runs away and tries to climb on the foam things or stand on the oven.  So, clearly, she must like it.

Did I mention we moved and I started a new job?  The move was easy all things considered.  The job?  I was welcomed the same way you'd open your home to Hannibal Lector.  It sucked.  But then the girl who was super b*tchy quit, and now?  My job is pretty sweet.  But, I don't want to say too much good stuff because then tomorrow I'll end up crying at my desk miserable.  I believe in jinxes!  But the perks?  I have a computer, a desk (complete with photos of Cora) and access to as much free coffee as I want.  It's a dream come true.

Now you want to hear about Cora?  Okay.  She's doing well - like, she really is.  She's wicked funny and I wanna squeeze her face off most days.  She's been walking since 11 months and having full fledged tantrums soon after.  She legit thinks shes 3 or like 15.  She screams, becomes dead weight, falls to the ground and dramatically holds her face with her hands.  I swear she's practicing for an emmy (or whatever award you give out for acting).  And like, most times I can handle it and I just laugh at her or say, like, all calmly "That's fine, have your tantrum on the ground if you want.."  I try to be all cool and nonchalant, but this past weekend?  I almost lost my sh*t.  Like seriously, I was on the brink of a breakdown.  Moments away from selling Cora to a gypsy or on ebay.  And you think I'm kidding - but I'm not.  I was texting all kinds of scary curse words to Marty and he was all like "woah. take it easy. breathe." and I was all like "No! F$%#@* SHE'S ALL YOURS WHEN YOU GET HOME FROM WORK!"  We work opposite hours so most of the time we are like single parents.  It's weird.  So yeah, Cora was horrible and I hated her.  I mean, I still loved her, but I hated her.  And, she had every right to be miserable.  She had a fever, croup, a dripping nose and then it turns out she's probably going to have like 10 more teeth because her gums are all puffy and swollen.   And she can't tell me what's wrong or swear or go get ice cream and eat it to feel better.  So, part of me feels bad.  But part of me still hated her.  Don't judge me - sometimes you hate your babies, too.  And if you've never had a baby, but some day you do... trust me, you'll hate them at times.  So, anyway, now she's feeling much better and so I love her again and wanna squeeze her face off again.  Or bite her thighs or bite her bum.  She's wicked cute after all.

And so now I'll wrap this up because it's wicked late and I need to get up early and go to work and drink my free coffee.