the tiniest knuckle hairs

whew. she also boasts the tiniest knuckle sandwich. i think she's teething. is it too early to be teething? hopefully not. eating doesn't help, changing doesn't help, even carrying her around only appeases for a moment. one cannot argue, bargain, plead or reason with an angry, stressed out little grublet. why don't i stop trying and just sing when she cries? because i have empathy, and as a parent, it's a superpower - 'super' implying intensity, not capability.

i gave her a little teething ring, but her tiny mouth is too small - it's sort of fun to watch her try though. i'm going to try the chipped ice in a mesh chew bag-thing someone gave us. i'll try anything, i've no shame (chipped ice in the mesh bag totally worked; she was all "what the? - gimme that shit"). writhing octopus, tribe of hissing cats, bottomless pit. what do these all have in common? they're her new nicknames.

uh, in deeper matters, i'm definitely going through one of the mourning stages for my old life. i took a few days off from small town life to go to "the big city" with the peanut. the queen joined us partway through. the wife did her amazing childcare thing in exchange for some groceries, and the queen and i went to a live jam and got drunk with my sis, who later disappeared into a gross nightclub with lots of young people. it was nice to get some time off from the grublet. the queen and the wife let me sleep a whole ten hours - it was like a holiday, especially in the way that i felt as though i needed another one to recover from this one.

oh yeah, i was supposed to talk about deeper matters. i've noticed i am good at avoiding this lately. i think, to be honest, that i don't want to admit i am not particularly happy right now. it will make me feel like a failure in choices, since shouldn't i be happy laying in this bed i made? and if i'm not, doesn't that mean i made the wrong choice? i know it's more complicated than that, but the realisation doesn't stop the insecurity. also, if i admit i am not happy, doesn't that make me a horrible mom? these things i would scoff at as a non-parent are harder to discard now. stupid hormones-led-on-by-society-bullshit. i've been faking it, telling people about the deep sense of satisfaction i feel, but quite frankly, sometimes i prefer the previous fleeting quest for happiness to this "i am already content, give me more poopy diapers" attitude of motherhood.

a friend told me not to succumb to the image of motherhood, to remember i am still me with all my non-maternal instincts. i was all "i am SO not at risk of that" and then i thought about it for twelve hours and realised i am. horribly, horribly at risk. isolated, with only my queen (AKA sir mans-a-lot) and the cat to remind me of my previous desires - shit, see that's how it happens - my current desires that are muffled under a thousand bibs wet with spit-up.

she's cute, and i love her, but it ain't everything.