My bed is covered in suitcases and clothing.

We’re packing up and leaving town, and the kids and I will be back East for the next two-and-a-half weeks. It’s been a long while since I’ve been back to our hometown for any length of time, and I’m excited to settle in for a few weeks.

There’s nothing worse than packing for four people, driving 700 miles, and then turning around and heading home after just a few days. This time I can see all my friends without feeling like I’m shortchanging my family, and we’re even sneaking in a goodwill visit to the in-laws on the way to New York.

We leave tomorrow morning, and I won’t have internet access for two entire days. That’s 48 hours, people. And you know what?

I’m really looking forward to it.

Yesterday The Poo made up a little song about me, and one of the verses was “My mommy likes to play on the computer all day …”

No, I don’t like to. I have to. My writing gigs keep me online all the time right now, because I never have a solid block of time long enough to meet my deadlines. So I have to sneak in snippets of work here and there, whenever I’m not fetching, carrying, feeding or bathing.

I need some time off.

Now, I’m not sure most cultures view 12 hours in a minivan with a spouse and two kids under 4 as a holiday, but I do. I can sit in the back and read, or daydream or talk to my husband and kids.

Or nap.

Oh, my kingdom for a nap!

I hope y’all have a good week. If you pass a silver Honda Odyssey on the road and see a woman in back catching flies, that’s me.

Peace out, mah peeps.

I’m beginning to believe The Poo dropped on our doorstep fully formed, able to sleep, eat and poop all by her own self.

That’s what it feels like, ya’ll. Like I am a first-time mother for the second time. What’s THAT all about? Huh? Huh?

I can’t remember how to get him on a schedule. I can’t remember how much I should feed him. I can’t remember to change his poor diaper. I’m all, hey kid, this is a seriously wet diaper! Oh, yeah, its been four hours since I changed you!

Don’t go reporting me to social services, m’kay? I’m telling you this because I need advice.

Yes, that’s right. I am asking the interwebz for assvice, on purpose. I know that’s like putting out a dish of vitriol and asking ye olde trolls to come and have some, but I’m desperate.

Here is the 411:

Shaggy Boy is eight weeks and three days old. He seems to be taking two good naps a day, but he won’t sleep in the crib. He only wants to nap in his cradle swing. Which is, totally, my fault. I conditioned him into sleeping there, mostly because it was the only way he would sleep.

Now, my little Pavlov is addicted to it. And I admit I use that to my advantage, because the kid is powerless against that thing. He sleeps for hhhhhooooourrrrs. Hours I need to get shit done.

Very, very occasionally, he will sleep through the night. Like last night, he went to sleep at 9 p.m., woke at midnight for one feeding, and put himself back to sleep when he woke again at 3 a.m. But typically, he is up every three to four hours for a bottle.

Now, The Poo went to sleep the night she turned eight weeks old and slept like - wait for it - a baby for years. She has sleep issues right now, too, but that’s a post for another day.

I am putting Shaggy Boy in the crib, but most nights he falls asleep (*ducks*) in the swing. I know, I know! Terrible idea. Just ask Linda. I can’t help it. I NEED HIM TO SLEEP PEOPLE.

He is eating four ounces every four hours or so, and we are still fiddling with his formula. He is getting doctor-prescribed juice and soy formula, to see if we can curb the constipation. Should he be getting six ounces at longer intervals?

I’m still not convinced that he doesn’t have reflux. He spits up a lot and he also gets gas like nobody’s business, no matter what formula he is on. Any thoughts about/experience with that?

I need assvice of the eating and sleep-training kind, oh ye wise mamas. Because as it turns out, waiting three and three-quarters years to have another kid means that your memory has been wiped clean.

Otherwise, everyone in the world would only do this once - because LET ME TELL YOU, this shit is hard.

Now let me have it!

These are crazy days and nights.

I have a friend who, when I said I was considering a second child, gave me a dire warning:

“Two is HARD,” she said, coming from a place of sleep deprivation and honesty. “Really, really hard.”

I dismissed her a bit, laughing it off and taking it as a joke. But you know, two is hard. I don’t regret it. However, my personality is one that prefers tasks that require little to no effort on my part.

Writing? Easy-peasy. Reading? My favorite pastime. Eating brownies and drinking coffee? I’m a champ.

Two kids, one who has major digestive issues and another who NEVER STOPS TALKING from dawn to dusk?

NOT. EASY.

HARD.

Sleep is elusive, although I spend many precious minutes floating on a sea of deep-seated mama-love. Those moments are my reward, my renewal, the energy that drives me to get up at 5 a.m. and start trolling the interwebz for ideas for my latest posts.

I took a new gig, you see.

Yeah, it seemed like JUST THE RIGHT TIME to commit to writing EVERY SINGLE DAY. I’m the new blogger over here, thanks to this awesome lady over here.

I love it. It is super-duper fun.

And it is a lot of work right now, mostly because I am so tired. If Shaggy Boy would sleep well, just a few times a week, I would be fine.

But he doesn’t, and so my center is off. I’m a person of extremes, either happy or sad, awake or sleeping, centered or totally off-kilter. Finding a balance is hard work for me, one that sometimes takes the assistance of therapy a disinterested third party.

There’s no time or money for that kind of self-indulgence right now. I’m doing that work on my own, remembering the lessons of my favorite shrink (Dr. Clark, I miss you). A few years back when I struggled with grief and fear over our impending move to Chambana, Dr. Clark wrote me a note.

Fretting about how our move would affect those who love me most, how I felt responsible for everyone’s happiness, my good doctor scribbled on a piece of notebook paper and tore it off.

Silently, he handed it to me. It read:

“You have permission.”

I carry it in my wallet.

Sometimes I need to remember that I have permission to be me, a big hot mess. While I strive for inner peace, I’m smart enough to know I am more likely to find inner hysteria. That’s just who I am, and I have to go with it.

This is a very long story to tell you that I’m not hanging out with you as much as I used to. My feed reader is on steroids and I can barely plow through it. I feel guilty, because so many of you come here and lift me up when I spew this nonsense.

And continue to spew I will, in order to keep myself on track. This stuff needs to come out, so I can keep moving forward.

I’m heading back East next week for almost 2.5 weeks, and maybe that will be the remedy I need. I haven’t been home for any length of time since last year, really, and I need to see the water and some trees. I need to go apple picking with my niece and nephew, and I need to get exasperated with my family of origin.

All these years I’ve lived on adrenaline, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have so many shoes now that I can’t even keep track of them. I’m trying to find a balance between being on high alert and being sanguine.

Bear with me.

***

Because I don’t have enough to keep me busy, I write at this awesome review site, too. We’ve revamped our look and we’re giving some cool stuff away. Check it out, will you?

Together we rocked, the sky changing from day to night. He snuggled harder against the crook of my elbow, sighing softly as he sucked. Skin like fine velvet, his cheek rested against my bare arm.

I felt it.

A wave of love washed over me, soft and cool and cerulean blue. At last. At last, my heart swelled with the mother-love I waited for, longed for, hoped for in the deep crease of so many midnights.

I loved my son the minute I found out I was pregnant. I held him inside me like the finest china, cradling his fragile cells with my own stronger ones. I sacrificed my body to his for so many months, culminating in the brutal violation of my flesh.

I have the battle scars to prove my loyalty. That cannot be disputed.

When we took him home from the hospital, I gazed at his small face with wonder.

I made this, we made this.

I loved him, yes, with a primal, feed-protect love. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. Animal instincts to sway and shush and swaddle.

But finally, last night, as we struggled together to achieve his peace, I felt it. I felt the all-encompassing, in-the-pit-of my-stomach devotion.

I am in love, at last.

I admit to checking sitemeter as often the next blogger. I’m not ususally one to write about the results, but this begs to be told.

Recently, some poor soul landed at my blog by googling this phrase:

“i totally fucked up my life”

That kind of sums it up, doesn’t it?

I had a bit of a meltdown this morning, when, after I just finished telling my husband how I never get any time to myself, I had to feed Shaggy Boy clad only in my underpants.

Mr. C was at his office, doing something too silly to even mention. He asked permission and I granted it, so I can’t really blame him for not being home to help me.

The problem is, I am giving permission too often. I am run ragged right now, with more paid work than I can handle in the amount of time I have to do it. I wanted the work, and I took the jobs because now, more than ever, we really need the money.

On top of managing The Poo and Shaggy, it is just a lot of pressure. Especially with The HOT Fuss!™ making its triumphant return in the form of extreme constipation. Our switch to soy resulted in a a serious back-up, making the boy just as cranky as he was on the milk-based formula.

Good times.

Anyway, there I sat, naked from the waist up and a towel twisted around my still-wet hair, fuming about the inequites between men and women.

My husband really stepped it up, ladies. He is chipping in with the kids and the chores in ways I never imagined in my wildest dreams, but the reality still stands that if he wants to go get a haircut or work in his office that has a door that actually closes, he can just do it.

Oh, he asks me for permission, and I say yes. But he never has to worry about who will take care of the house or the children when he is gone.

When he told me he has a faculty dinner tomorrow night, I almost wept.

Today he asked me why I always seem so angry, and we hashed it out. I promised to ask for what I need, and he promised to listen when I tell him, no matter how subtly, that I am walking the razor’s edge between normal harried working mom and totally insane fishwife.

A few hours later, I sat on the couch and fed Shaggy once again. The Poo snuggled up next to me, hungry, as always, for my affection. She removed her dress-up shoes and waved her feet in the air.

“My feet are hot, Mommy,” she said. “Will you cool them off?”

And so, with my hands full of baby and bottle, I leaned over and gently blew on her pudgy toes. She giggled and kissed me on the face.

My life resembles nothing more than the theater of the absurd. There are plenty of days when I feel like the hamster wheel I’m on will go spinning off its axis, sending me hurtling through the universe toward certain death.

At least I know I’ll be laughing all the way there.

Yesterday was a bad day, yo.

I didn’t get a shower and I freaked out because the baby slept too much (I know, someone, please give me a Valium), and the only clean underpants I had were those huge, stretchy ones that reach my ribcage and dude, I was not in the MOOD for those panties.

Can they even be called “panties?” Panties are wee and lacy. Giant pink cottony thingies are UNDERPANTS.

I am all over the map. In fact, I think someone took my map, and doodled all over it, and I am following the deranged doodle of a person who has clearly never had a child before.

Sigh.

Today is better.

Today I ate. Some food. I know! Food! Did you know they have this stuff called “fruit?” And it is, like so good, like NOM NOM NOM GIVE! ME! ANOTHER! ORANGE! good?

I also showered, and fed Shaggy some soy formula. We had a doctor’s appointment yesterday to follow up on the hospital stay, and doc thinks the boy is developing a milk protein allergy, so soy it is. If that doesn’t work then onto that other really expensive formula that starts with an “A” (aluminum? allumenium? olly olly in free?) and/or Zantac.

The stridor gives him reflux. And the formula gives him a wicked bellyache. Shit, I’d scream, too. It’s a relief to know there is a cause for it.

Because I secretly, shamefully, thought Shaggy was just acting kind of like an asshole. And who wants to think their baby, especially one who is, let’s face it, SO FUCKING CUTE, is acting like an asshole?

He’s not. He’s a darling boy whose smile makes me want to fall on the floor from THE CUTE. He loves me, too. At least, I think that’s what he’s trying to say when he smashes his skull into my collarbones.

Knowing there is a cause, and possibly a cure, made The HOT Fuss!™ so much easier to cope with last night. And I won’t say anything else about last night, lest my bravado let loose another round of karmic ass-kicking.

Yeah, yeah, I should have just breastfed the little guy. Dudes like the boob, ya’ll. Unless you’re in a plane. Then they want you to cover that shit UP.

What’s with all the swearing today? Geesh.

I still have that sinus infection, and never fear, my congenital pessimism will rear it’s ugly head again soon, and I’ll commence whining about how HARD this all is and HOW do people DO it and hey, Gywneth, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

You know, I used to feel a kinship to old Gwyn. Her dad died, you know, and she was pretty broken up about it. Then she got all Hipper Than Thou. Not cool, buddy, not cool.

Today is better. I have a shitload of writing to do, and the laundry is off the HOOK, but I’m alive and so are the kids.

Baby steps, friends, baby steps.

Been there, done that.

Just like riding a bicycle.

Deja vu all over again.

Everything old is new again.

***

I was cocky going in, that’s for sure. I’ve done this before, remember? I have a thriving three-year-old, whose current fascinations are choosing chapter books from the library and adding words she knows to a list we keep on the refrigerator. She’s also got a new girl-crush in the form of Lily, the new kid at preschool.

The Poo, she’s thriving right now, despite the gazillion times a day when I tell her “just a minute,” or “you have to wait.”

I’m not failing at being a mother.

No.

I’m just failing at being Shaggy’s mother.

***

He isn’t like The Poo was, or at least, this isn’t the way I remember it.

I knew there would be sleep deprivation, and fussy times and plenty of garden-variety frustrations. Newborns are tough nuts. You have to hold on and go for the ride with them as they learn to navigate the world.

I mean, they’re basically exposed nerve endings at this stage. That’s uncomfortable. I get that, really, I do.

Shaggy is unpredictable, even as babies go. His sleep patterns are so erratic—for example, last night he slept from 10:30 p.m. to 5 a.m., went back to sleep at 5:30 and is still sound asleep now at 8:45—that I cannot even pretend to start getting him on a schedule.

He wants to eat two ounces of food every 45 minutes, or he wants six ounces and then won’t eat again for seven hours.

The periods when he is content are few and far between. The smiles I captured last week are fleeting, although heart-wrenchingly sweet. His stridor wakes him from his infrequent naps and makes feeding him an athletic event, for both of us.

I love him so much, and I worry so much. I am grateful that he isn’t suffering from some really awful disease, which I feared when we went into the hospital recently.

Right now, though, I feel wretched and overwhelmed, exhausted and sick. I have a sinus infection that clouds my perceptions even more. My tendencies toward PPD loom large right now, although I am not quite there yet. I realize this is a stage, and that all things must pass.

Yes, pass it will, and I’ll mourn the days when my son fit in my arms just so. I’ll mourn the intimate moments we share in the red light of dawn, when I trace his eyelids with my finger while he sleeps.

I believed I knew what I was doing. I was so sure of myself, so confident I would handle these first few months with aplomb this time around.

The truth is, you forget. You forget the hard parts and all you remember is the scent of their small bodies when they’re tucked against your neck. You forget that babies are human beings, too, and each one of them is different.

I will forget this, too.