Wow, I’m so glad this week is almost over. It’s been a rough one. Three nights in a row, I’ve gotten home well past my normal time of getting home, because I’ve had to deal with camper repairs. On our float trip a couple weekends ago, we had a failure of the equalizer bars and had to have a piece of metal welded back on. So last night, I picked up the camper and drove it home. Now, I’m not that uncomfortable driving the thing. Wide right turns, that’s the key. That and not getting irritated with people who don’t know how to drive near a camper. That’s hard when someone cuts you off and you have to slow down. A 1-ton truck pulling a 29 foot camper doesn’t stop on a dime. If you cut me off in traffic and then hit the brakes, don’t be mad at me when you get me shoved up your ass all the way to my sleeper sofa. It’s not my fault, brake enhancers and all.
Anyway, I pulled into the alley behind the house where we have gracious friends who let us store the camper on a rock parking pad they have and things were going well. I thought, huh. I pulled this thing home in rush hour traffic. I’m feeling ambitious. I think I can back this honking camper into its spot. I’ve seen it done several times. Mike’s not here to laugh at me and won’t he be surprised when he walks up and I’m unhooking the thing? Yeah. I’ll give it a shot. If I can’t do it, the worst thing is that I can’t do it and Mike has to.
I gave it a shot a couple times, repositioning myself by pulling forward and trying to swing it more sharply into its spot. I stopped when I heard a screech. Looking at the side of the truck I hadn’t been looking at, I see that I made the truck get in a fight with an ill-placed tree. The screech was the bark of the tree taking the paint off the truck.
So I pulled forward, assessed the damage and cursed when I saw scratches down the side of the truck bed, about 6 inches long, back near the tail light. Mike? Didn’t speak to me much the whole night. We’ve only had the truck for a couple months, so while I didn’t like that he was giving me the silent treatment, I guess I can understand it. He’s speaking to me again, but damn. He’s meticulous about his vehicles and there will be no scratches on his truck. Nein!
Last night was just last night, thoug, so why am I glad to see the ass end of the whole week? Mainly Daughter. We’re weaning her from bottles onto sippy cups. And we should have done it a long time ago. I had cut the number of bottles in half over the last few months, but the few that remained, the first morning, naptime, and bedtime bottles were her Achilles heel for comfort. She would test my patience daily by slapping away a sippy cup, and despite their claim to be spill-proof, they’re not totally leak-proof. If she fell down and landed on a toy, her sobs were punctuated with requests for her ‘baba.’ She was coming to rely far too heavily on the little plastic drink delivery method, and so we said enough.
The first day was hell. She sat in front of the fridge at the babysitter’s and slapped the floor. She slapped my leg. She shouted, “No!” at me. She shouted, “STOP!” at me. She laid down on her back and screamed, red faced, at the ceiling. She angrily crammed her fists in her mouth and bit, then screamed in pain. She glared at me as if she would prefer my dying before she’s old enough to remember me so she needn’t be bothered with me at all. The only thing that works? Crackers. So now, instead of letting my daughter take comfort in a bottle, I’m teaching her how to emotionally eat, to associate food with comfort. WIN! Welcome to the beginning of the road to obesity, baby girl. Jebus.
Just when I think that it can’t get any worse, she perfected her fit throwing technique. Now, instead of flinging herself backwards, slowing her momentum with her elbows so she wouldn’t hit her head (she’s a careful fit thrower) she’s now started a half-twist so she lands on her hands and knees, sobbing at the injustice while hanging her head dejectedly. Between the screaming, garment rending, accusatory shouts and glares, and complete emotional wretchedness of her behavior, I’m wiped out. Picking her up results in a limp fish protest of throwing every part of her body as far away from me as she can get, because god forbid my skin touch hers. A few well placed kicks to my chest and she’s gotten her wish – I no longer try to comfort her when she’s throwing her fit. I ignore her, stepping over her and leaving the room.
In the meantime, I’ve begun browsing Craigslist for size 2T muzzles or small manacles that will hold her tiny wrists. But don’t freak out or send me nasty email: I’m looking for fur lined manacles. Comfort is my top priority here. And just for the sake of preparing for the future, I’m also seeing what the going rate is on chastity belts. Just to be sure. Mama’s sleep is preshus, can’t be up worrying now, can I?
See what I mean? This week cannot end fast enough. My mental fortitude is thwacking apart, thread by thread. The good news? This weekend is remarkably free, so there will be knitting. Lots and lots of knitting. And TV watching. The last disc of Battlestar Galactica Season 3 is in my mailbox as we speak and I’ve requested the entire series collection of Six Feet Under from the library. Hello, you lovely plasma TV, where’ve you been all my life?