The Opposite of Spring Break

It's been one of THOSE days.

One of those days when I panic at how much my life has changed and how unbelievably inefficient I've become.

One of those days when my hysterically crying child has ME in tears.

One of those days when I look back and admit it: I really had NO idea what I was getting into with this baby thing! People tried to warn me, but as usual I was so blindly overconfident (my motto: I'm just going to do what I do until I fall flat on my face) in my multi-tasking abilities that I secretly, deep down, believed that I was different.

Okay, say it with me, people: What cheek!

Ahhhhhhhhh. It's Spring Break, the very phrase which brings to mind images of fit bikini-clad girls partying in places like Destin, Florida, and calls up memories of my carefree college days and cathartic road trips, long gone. Everyone I know best--my mom, my sister, my Emily--are on vacation having lovely times. They are, respectively, getting home improvement projects done, getting amazing exercise, and getting drunk with great friends. I am on the inverse of vacation, the polar opposite of a road trip. My home is a mess, my body is untended and saggy, I am stone cold sober and all alone. Except, of course, for the one I love best in the world, my beautiful daughter, and a houseful and a mindful and an email inboxful of things that I have forsaken for her. NAGGING things. And I don't do them because she wants every atom of my eyes (to watch and laugh with her), my arms (to fly her around the house and support her while she, insanely ambitious two-month old, practices sits, stands, and jumps), and my patience (slowly. wearing. thin.)

And because she's an active baby and an energetic baby she has everything it takes to cry, loudly, lustily, FOREVER when she doesn't get what she wants. Like when she's in her carseat--and I'm in traffic. Or her stroller--and I'm halfway through a walk. Or her swing--and I'm starving and have to pee and my poor dogs need just an iota of love. People say let them cry it out. She DOESN'T cry it out. She cries ME out, every time. And note to certain father-in-laws who imply that this equates to SPOILING: she's a TWO MONTHS OLD. She needs to learn that her mommy is there for her. Besides, half the time I rush to her it's not for her sake (because I KNOW she's fed and dry and comfortable, and just wanting her way) but for the sake of ME and my dwindling Advil supply.

Oh god, the love of a baby is a beautiful, immense, hysterical thing.

The icing on the crap cake today--another long day alone with everyone who usually gives me a break out of town and my husband working long hours--was a trip to my parents' to water their houseplants while they are out of town. It look me thirty minutes to get there and Miss Baby caterwauled at top volume the whole way (I alternated yelling along with her, begging her to stop, and accompanying her with my own tears.) When I got there she would not let me put her down without more of the same so I tucked her under one arm and embarked on watering. As I filled, emptied, and refilled the tiny pitcher endlessly with my one free hand, I counted my dad's insane green progeny for the hell of it...FORTY EIGHT houseplants. (I have FOUR.) And that number doesn't even include the hundreds and hundreds of vegetables he is starting for his garden.

My arms are sore. I need a long, hot bath. I need a martini. I need a DO-OVER on spring break, please.

But even as I write this what I need most is my sweet little everything, the person who has replaced ME in my own heart (at least most of the time), and who OF COURSE is sleeping peacefully now that Daddy's home.