Of Course I Would Start on a Monday

My invisible friends,

I have never "blogged" before, so I am unaware of any standards of etiquette or other expectations one's readers (should they exist) may have. This state of ignorance is actually quite convenient because I feel quite nervous when in the vicinity of "etiquette" and truly hate disappointing "expectations."

I believe I have been moved to begin this pseudo-narrative because it is Monday. It was a lousy and excellent day, but the combination of events that has compelled me to release my thoughts in this new medium could only happen on a Monday.

Because it is Monday, yesterday was Sunday, and Sundays make me tired. Now that my 10-week-old daughter Amy has awaken from her "infant coma" and become a real baby, she is a handful to prepare for and maintain through church. As a result, even if we have family nap time on Sunday afternoon, there is a grogginess that pervades Mondays and leaves me in one of my more exaperated (and exasperating) moods.

Today began fairly cheerily with an early (for me) wake-up call in the form of a request from my husband to add him to the Cox account so he could do something or other with our bill. In a half-coherent state, I practically begged some Julie or Katie or Mary to let my husband finish whatever it is he wanted to do so I could go back to sleep. She graciously acquiesced, but I got out of bed anyway, deciding to take advantage of waking up before the baby. Naturally, as soon as I had taken two bites of my oatmeal and settled into my mystery novel, the tiny screaming began.

After my interrupted breakfast, I took Amy to both the post office and the bank. Otto, the man who said "Next" when it was my turn at the post office, was one of those very helpful people, and he not only got my letter ready for transport to India, but also convinced me to buy a few extra airmail stamps so I wouldn't have to stand in line next time (I choose to believe that he was not trying to reduce the number of fussy infants irritating the patrons of the US mail service). My trip to the bank was also successful, and the genuinely happy lady behind the intimidating counter-to-ceiling, presumably bullet-proof plastic/glass only said "I'm trying to hurry" and looked at me with a pitying smile once even though Amy spit out her pacifier and began to wail three times.

Errands complete, it was time for macaroni and cheese with a baby on my knee (the placement of the prepositional phrase is intentional; the baby often feels like part of the meal). An exciting hour of dishes (why I let them pile up is a question I may never be able to answer) followed my few minutes of mastication (I have always wanted to use that word in a sentence, and now that I have, you need not fear that I will ever do so again). The baby tied to my stomach with some stange carrier I still do not know the name of makes dishes slightly painful to my out-of-shape shoulders and back, but at least possible.

After such a joyous morning, I was very excited to join my neighborhood friends for our thrice-weekly walk, but unfortunately Amy was not. Though I fed her half an hour before we were to leave and gave her (I thought) plenty of time to prepare herself, she managed to complain at a volume much louder than necessary for a period of time much too long to make our walk a reality (I suppose I could have marched down the street with my screaming infant and counted on our observers to draw conclusions charitably, but I must confess experiencing a wave of terror at the very thought.)

So, walkless, I passed Amy to her father to enjoy my evening piano lesson. I believe I did previously use "excellent" to describe my day. I also believe that I was in fact referring solely to my piano lesson. Today I felt like I finally made progress--Chopin's "Nocturne" came alive for me as it never has before. The piano lesson was, as a whole, exceptional. Indeed, I lost only five of the rather expensive thirty minutes to soothing another of Amy's erruptions of unhappiness.

The evening and night have been filled with Amy's favorite game: eat, fall asleep while eating, breath heavily enough that Mommy gains the courage to attempt to move towards the crib, and (her favorite part, I imagine) immediately wake up and demand to eat again.

And now, my friends (if you are still reading this absurd disease referred to as whining), my baby has finally fallen asleep and I am completely overwhelmed by how much I love her regardless of her behavior.

I really cannot appologize for the copious amounts of sarcasm and repressed frustration emanating from this, my first, blog entry. It has been highly therapeutic. Perhaps future entries will be more cheery. Of course I would start on a Monday.

~Heidi