The Wonder Weeks (also known as the Wonder Why I Ever Had Children, If I’ll Ever Sleep Again, and When The Last Time I Showered Was Weeks) are not for the weak. If you’re thinking that, after 6 weeks of abstinence, you and your significant other will resume a normal sex life, you are on crack. While some of The Wonder Weeks are supposed to occur at week 5 and week 8, if your child is an ostentatious over-achiever, he/she will experience two-to-three weeks of wonder in a row.
For Clark, “wonder” has included a desire to be awake as much as possible, the discovery of “shouting”, and a demand to be entertained. It’s great, really, because the reason I had a baby was so that I could talk to myself without looking like a total asshole. This morning, I was trying to eat breakfast. By morning, I mean 1:30 in the afternoon, and by “breakfast” I mean half of an avocado. My creep baby was all smiles until I sat down without him (I know. How dare I sit down by myself). Clark and I were able to compromise through the first two bites: “This is an avocado. Avocados are green. Mommy used to eat avocados to cure a hangover. Then she had you! Ooooo now mommy does nothing! Mommy has no fun!”
In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best idea to tell my 7 week old about my love for binge drinking, or, as rich people call it, “alcoholism”. Also, it wasn’t very nice of me to tell Clark that I don’t have fun anymore. I can kind of see how that might have been offensive. However, I don’t think it was deserving of the epic meltdown that followed. You’ll have “fun” one day, too, Clark. For real, though.
Since today is Friday, I am all alone with my giant, bobble-headed baby from 6AM-9PM. That’s right, I get a whole 15 hours of “quality” time with my munchkin. Every Thursday-night-into-Friday-morning I lie to myself and say that this Friday is the day I will conquer the suburbs alone and possibly walk into town with my little angel. I fantasize about visiting a coffee shop, grabbing a pastry, and sitting out in the sunshine while my adorable baby lounges peacefully in his stroller.
Ok, I’m totally lying, because I do not fantasize about coffee and pastries. I fantasize about having a pint of beer. And I don’t even like beer. Then I remember that I would be the “drunk mom”. Then I think about how I’m a “mom”, and that I’m seriously deranged for thinking about taking my baby to a beer garden. Then I remember I don’t live in England anymore, and there is no such thing as a beer garden in north Jersey. Then I cry about my life, and get over it. The end.