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What was I thinking? What was I THINKING?

Around 12am yesterday, I hear a scream. The usual: “Ma-MAHHHH”! (Honestly? You have to hear this scream. It is hilarious. I’ve thought about recording it for you, but I don’t need all the trolls coming out and saying how bad a mother I am  for letting my baby cry for the sake of THE BLAWG. But, I remind you, he’s not a baby. He’s a TODDLER. And he’s a RASCALLY toddler. The kid’s a master manipulator. He’d do very well in politics.)

I go upstairs (because, of course, I’m hard at work still at 12am. And, apparently, most of this post is going to be in parentheses, but, as you’ll see, I’m tired. VERY TIRED). Rascal’s standing in his crib, red-faced, tear-drenched, stomping his li’l feet and looking at me accusingly (how dare I just stand there?).

And so (the beginning of the end) I pick him up out of his crib. Immediately, he starts squirming himself free and runs — pitter patter pitter patter — to the gate at the top of the stairs, pointing, POINTING and pointing to the stairs.

“No, Rascal,” I say, “It’s bedtime.”

Figuring my work is doneth…, I pick Rascal up and take him into my room. I PUT HIM ON MY BED, figuring he’ll sleep with me. Josh is out of town, and it’s thundering and lightening outside — this could be CO-ZY, right?

No.

Not cozy. Terrible. And Horrible. Terribly horrible. Demanding little bugger (shut it, Trolls) kept pointing at the TV and then the flipper (converter? flicker?). He won’t sit still. I give in and turn on the TV for five minutes, and it’s all downhill from there….

Gorgeouses, he spent the entire night ON TOP OF ME. I couldn’t MOVE. And, not only was I claustrophobic under this 22-pound bundle of cuteness and CRAZAY, but I had NO SPACE. I was half off the bed. To make matters worse….

Pitter patter pitter patter — THE MONKEY hopped into bed with us.

What a mess. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Not a wink. Well, maybe a wink. But every time my eyes started closing (you know, to wink), he’d, like, slam me, or slam the monkey. And by slam, I mean SLAM: he stands up, and then, KABOOM, slams himself on you. It’s his favourite thing. Grrrr….

Even so…, I kicked my hot ass: I went to kickboxing class tonight. And, luckily, the hot instructor took it easy on us and let us sit and watch HIS HOT ASS for parts of the class. I had to work HARD not to drool, had to work HARD to de-contort my face out of its pathetic expression of LO-HON-GING. (I’m pretty sure that de-contorting burns calories…, no?) He’s probably 25 years old, or less, so, like Clive Owen, Brad Pitt and Will Ferrell, he’s safe for me to drool over. Ooo, and he has a thick Romanian accent, always telling us we’re doing “velly good, velly good.” LOOOOOVE.

Okay, to bed. At last. Rascal IN HIS CRIB. It would be great to snuggle with him all night. Him and his uncannily bright blond little head. But, alas, NO FREAKING WAY.

Good night, Gorgeouses!

Love!

xo Haley-O

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