My dearest sweet baby Julian has some big news to share...Uh oh! That is the news, ladies & gentleman, this is what yon bebe has waited 11 months to share with us. His very first non-word, carved forever in the annals of history, is "uh oh." He's even got the context down pat...The finger pointing at dropped object, the disappointed tone...We are thrilled. Finally, we can hit Stop and Play on his internal transcriber, which has been seemingly stuck in reverse since birth. Shortly hereafter I shall be teaching him the proper use of subjects and predicates. You can't get into Harvard with "uh oh," buddy. Let's get cracking.

Spencer, not to be outdone, piped up with, "I can say uh oh spaghetti-o's." Yes, honey. Yes you can. Sometimes I wish I had more time to devote solely to the baby, as I did when Spence was his age. On the other hand, I often wish I had more time to pay attention just to Spence, as he's had to deal with getting less than he was used to since the beeb's arrival. I try to divide my time evenly between them, and patiently await the day they will play more together, thus simplifying my job immensely. When we can all get down on a game of Chutes & Ladders or put a puzzle together, well...I may even end up having (gasp) time to myself at the end of the day. IMAGINE THAT.

So the Bee has said his first word. Let it be forever cemented in history that he did NOT in fact say, "Dada," a popular choice among the toddler set. I'm still suffering from the arrow Spence shot through my heart when he gazed lovingly at his father, addressed him as Dada, and threw all of my hard work and devotion out the window. I was even changing his diaper at the time, if I recall, and his father was in his custom-fit ass indentation on the couch. The nerve of that baby. Some day I'll forgive him. Some day when my heart heals.

Good-bye, gibberish, good-bye, formula, good-bye, jarred food, good-bye my baby. Hello my son.

We're in the single digits with the wind chill here in good ol' C-Town today, folks. You know what that means. Oblivious snot-noses and nipples that could cut glass. Every year about this time I threaten to pack up and move to Arizona, somewhere with a nice dry heat. They always say that, a nice dry heat, when describing an ideal location to you. Is tropical so bad??

Right about now I'd give anything to be anywhere, tropical, dry, whatever. Is it wrong to consider signing up for the Army because you hear it gets up to the triple digits in Iraq? A rough & tumble sauna, but a sauna nonetheless. I'm IN.

We're coming to that point, ladies and gentleman (I know there's maybe ONE out there reading this), that I spoke of earlier...The height of Mad Indoor Person Disease. We are trapped in the home of our own making, the toys underfoot and each other's clutter liable to set someone off. Then that person takes out their frustration on another, a chain reaction til the baby gets pushed down and we're all in a crying mess on the floor. Ok. It's not that bad, all the time, but SHEESH. Some days are bad. Some days I just sigh as I'm crossing the deck to get to the door and remembering when all of that was living space. I'm dying til I can say, Go play outside! And not have to worry about bundling octopi into underwear, outerwear, gloves, hat, mittens and scarves, only to hear that someone has to use the restroom. Badly. Holy abominable snowmen, Batman, please shoot me with your stun gun. Thanks.

My tired vent on the wintry weather and all it entails shall end, mercifully, with just this...In my next life, I hope to be a bear. I wouldn't mind hibernating this dreadful season away ONE BIT. Lay down, curl up, snooze, awake to the twittering of gay birdies and, what's that? I've slept the whole winter away? FAN-EFFING-TASTIC.

I've been in the most musical of moods today. Friday, thank GOD it's Friday, started off with a rousing rendition of Eye of the Tiger sung at the top of my lungs along with the radio on the drive in to work. What a tiger's eye has to do with anything, I couldn't say, but the beat, man, the beat will get even the most exhausted slug worked up to fever pitch. A great start to the day.

Then, throughout the course of my ho-hum workday, an umanned jukebox slipped discs into my head at random...Spence's #1 all-time fave, "I Like to Move It Move It," was in the mix with Beyonce's "Irreplaceable," Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely," and of course the theme song to Sanford & Son. Don't ask because I don't know.

And approximately 2.5 minutes ago, I was in the restroom on the upstairs floor, doin' ma thang, yuh know, when a law clerk wandered into my private concert and busted up laughing. I'm not sure that's a good sign of my future as a vocalist. I mumbled something about the acoustics being first-rate and shuffled out. Damn uppity law students, like you never sing to yourself? If you don't, well...I feel sorry for you. The background track to my life is ever-evolving, as am I, and I think John Denver would be proud, so suck it.

Although I usually listen to Opey & Anthony on the drive home, I'm considering channel surfing on the radio instead. I'm just so pumped, so jazzed. The baby slept through the night last night, bills have been paid, another paycheck is in my pocket and I've got a weekend stretching out before me with nary a plan in sight. I LOVE it.

Now if only there were some way to program the baby to acknowledge a weekend morning like I do the thermostat, I'd be absolutely set.

Oh my, a week since I've posted? Please forgive. I hope all of you (whom are interested) have been able to access the link to my brand-spanking-new journal, updated weekly, at babycenter.com. It's been wonderful to actually write for a reputable site! (Nothing against Blogger, you understand, but really any schmoe can create a blog, no offense fellow bloggers.)

I find myself here needing to vent, as this morning was a rather rough one.

Dear Julian,

There are no parties going on in the middle of the night that you are missing. 2:30, while technically "morning," is entirely too early for any civilized child to be rising. For a smiley momma, try 6 or so.

Love,
Momma

~~~

Dear Spencer,

I know life is a little more difficult for you than it used to be a mere 10 months ago, when you were an only child. But we can't go back, only forward with this new, quite loud bundle of joy whose internal clock frequently goes on the fritz. I do apologize for that.

However, an interrupted night of sleep does not an excuse for bad behavior make. If I want to zip your coat, LET ME. If you should feel like continuing to scream and carry on once we're in your classroom, well...Stifle it til I'm gone, then let 'er rip. Teachers are much better equipped to handle your punk arse than my sleep-deprived behind, Ok? All right? You got a lot more sleep than I did, so PUH-LEEZE. Work with me.

Love,
Mom

~~~

So dear Reader, as you can see, you're not missing much in The Chronicles of Chaos, a.k.a. Sleepless in Cleveland.

I have a dream, a dream I hold high on a golden shining pedestal. It goes like this...The entire family goes out to a restaurant. I order something for Spencer, something for Julian, place each plate in front of each little capable set of hands, and...this is going to sound plumb crazy...enjoy my own meal. Well, a girl can dream.

Someday, dear Reader, some day when I sprout wings and fly over the fence in the backyard, second star on the right and straight on til morning, some day I will have my peace and quiet and take up some hobby long lost by the wayside...Something really ambitious, something wild and crazy...Maybe I'll read a BOOK. A whole one. Right to the end. All at once. I'll have a lot of time on my hands in the funny farm, anyway.

You knew I had issues, but what you may not realize is that I have ANGER issues. Yes, I fully realize all caps constitutes yelling.

It's this thing that lives inside me called The Morning Monster. By the time I get to work, work my little 9-to-5, pick up the kids, have dinner, give baths, la la dee da, I'm fine, the comfortable old Cera/Mommy you know & tolerate. But between the hours of, say, 6:00 a.m. & whenever we rush out the door, this thing inside bubbles to the surface & TAKES OVER MY BODY. It's all very Cybil.

I awaken not to my body saying I've slept enough, not even to the alarm clock, but to WAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH...Which must have been broadcasting for some time, since my head is already pounding from it. It's like the baby knows which nerve to touch in my head to make me absolutely crazy, then plays it like a freaking banjo. Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee duuum...Doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee dooooo...

Then I cater strictly to the baby for approximately three-fourths of the morning. Baba, check. Dipey, check. Silly baby non-words, check. But then, should I be so bold and outrageous as to expect a shower for my darn self, fugghedaboudit. WoooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! I take him w/me, close the shower door...woooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! He slides it open & stands there in the mist, bawling like just I ripped the head off his favorite teddy bear...Which is when I start fantasizing about doing just that. I think I may be pure evil.

Sleep deprivation does not look pretty on me. I am not one to bounce out of bed & whip up effing pancakes on four or five hours of sleep. Screw you, June Cleaver.

I read an article once about "sleep debt," in which it lays out a study showing how a body accumulates sleep debt. Anything less than seven or eight hours a night is recorded as a debt, which will need to be replaced at some point in time. So I'm thinking when the boys grow the hell up & move the hell out, I will stand on the front step, waving good-bye, where I will then collapse the moment the car is out of sight & sleep, right there on the porch, for approximately the next decade or so. I can't wait.