My break out role into television will be on the show "Hoarders."

Today I'm going to write about writer's block. Not very interesting, I know. But I feel like the only way I can get through the block is to just WRITE something. ANYTHING. I've tried writing in a Word document. I've tried writing in a notebook. But both times as I've stared at the blank screen or page, I've just felt as blank as the page I'm staring at. So I'm going to try the whole blog thing again. This is for myself, mainly, but somehow the idea of having an audience helps the words to come out.

I feel this pressing urgency to write about Angus. I know that this time in his life is so fleeting, and since I have the memory of an Alzheimer's patient already, I know that it's important to document everything, otherwise I'm going to forget! I don't want to forget anything! Already I know I've forgotten certain things from the last few months of his life, and that just makes me panic. The reason I write is so that I can hold on to these memories. It's the same reason those people on Hoarder's hoard things. They can't throw anything away because every little thing represents a memory of their life. Why are we so desperate to hang on to the past? I don't know the answer to that; all I know is that if I don't document everything in writing, I'm going to end up on Hoarder's. I'll be living in the last uncluttered corner of the house, wearing adult diapers because I can't find the toilet anymore. You'll find dead, flattened cats under piles of shit that have taken 30 years to accumulate.
Nobody wants that, now do they?

I should be working right now. I've been doing transcription from home for the last two months. At first, I was incredibly proud of myself for figuring out how to find employment from home, without any experience. I work for two amazingly nice people, who are reflexologists by day, and have a transcription company by night. They pay slave wages, but they're just so freaking nice, that I don't really mind.
I don't mind the work, because it combines what I like best; the English language, and not having to move much. I find something very therapeutic about typing.
But lately it's been losing it's appeal. Currently I'm transcribing a University interview with a dry, boring, uppity science major. I've done a lot of these, and it's the same boring old questions directed at the same narrow-minded, boring people. This particular student incites rage within me. She talks about how her father says of her and her three siblings, "As long as I have a doctor, a vet, an accountant, and a lawyer, my needs are covered." I want to climb into the computer, and slap this girl a little bit. She talks of how her parents are very encouraging of what she chooses to do, "as long as it's nothing artistic."
SLAP!
She even talks about how her mother got her bachelors in electrical engineering, and never used it! Now what is the point of that? I don't think it's the most important thing in the world to get a University degree. But then, I didn't even finish high school so I probably don't know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, supposed to be working. I have a very small time frame in which I can work; when Angus sleeps. It's about two hours during the day. Unfortunately, that's also the only time I get to myself, so I often all I want to do is surf the Internet and Google things like, "How to get rich without having to do anything." And stalk people on Facebook.
I complain about not having any time to do anything, and I complain about how the house is always a mess, but the real problem is actually probably my organizational skills. I am terrible at managing my time.
It takes me about two hours to wake up in the morning. I turn on The Mom Show and sit on the couch blinking, guzzling coffee and feeling hatred towards the morning, while Angus sits on the floor eating cardboard. By the time he goes down for his morning nap, I'm FINALLY awake and have stopped grumbling and swearing and bumping into walls. This is the time I start working, but then I get hungry, so I make breakfast and surf the net. By the time he wakes up, I haven't accomplished anything, and then the next three hours are spent entertaining or pacifying my Velcro baby. (That's a reference to the Separation Anxiety he is going through.)
Then he goes down for his afternoon nap, and I'm tired and I want to nap with him. Sometimes I do, and then hate myself afterwards because I didn't get anything done. Sometimes I "work."

Anyway, the point is, some people manage to shower and get dressed in the morning. Somehow I always miss that part because I'm too busy... doing what? I FEEL busy, so busy that it makes my head spin, but NOTHING IS DONE!? I don't get it.

The mess drives me mental, but I HATE HATE HATE housework. I feel like I'm always doing it, but it never gets finished.  And the reason I hate it is because I never feel a sense of accomplishment. You do the dishes, but then you have to eat again and make more dishes. You clean the floors, and your husband stomps all over them in his dirty boots and you have to clean them again. You do laundry and your baby barfs on himself and makes more laundry. You wash the baby, and he smears food in his hair and have to wash him again.
IT NEVER ENDS!
I guess it's a fact of life. I know I need to just accept it.

Angus is awake. I kind of went off in a totally irrelevant tangent. I wanted to write about Angus but I just didn't get there. I almost said "and I haven't accomplished anything," but I HAVE! I broke my block.
As a chronic under-achiever, this is good.

Pure Evil

HERE, BOY!

Sometimes when I'm talking to Angus, I'm aware that I sound like I'm talking to a dog.  For example:

"You wanna go for a walk?  Let's go for a walk!  Yaaaaaay!"

"Who's a good boy?  YOU'RE a good boy!"

"Roll over!  Gooooooood boyyyyy!"

said in a screechy, sing-song voice.  No wonder Angus looks at me like I'm a complete moron.

Well, it's exceptionally miserable outside today.  It's windy, freezing, and rainy/snowy.  I STILL don't mind winter though.  My two years in Australia seemed to cure me of any hatred of Canadian winters I used to have.  Two years of sweating in a steamy, tropical city, panting through soupy, cloying humidity, every single day.  My hair was a frizzy mess, stuck to my face all the time, my skin always broken out, and my makeup was always leaking into my eyes.  And all that ghastly sun!  Cartoonishly bright.  Every day, that Godawful, persistent sun in my face.  And you know what?  When I returned from Australia, I wasn't even tanned.  Two years of ultra-violet rays on my delicate Canadian skin, and not even a hint of color.

When I came back, I was just in time for summer in Canada, in which I was very depressed.  Then came winter and my mood lifted.  I have Seasonal Affective Disorder in reverse.

So as the wind howls and hurls rain at the windows, I'm inside, nice and cozy.  While Angus sleeps, I can avoid housework and read my book.  I can plan menus.  Which brings me to my next point, my new hobby.  COOKING.  It's not helping me shed these persistent twenty pounds though, in fact I seem to be gaining weight, which is the opposite of what's supposed to happen after you have a baby.  I've decided to blame my thyroid.  It's common in postpartum thyroiditis for the mother to swing between hyPERthyroidism and hyPOthyroidism.  I must be entering the HYPO phase, wherein the sufferer gains weight and feels tired and sluggish, thereby being exempt from any duties such as housework, and suffering muscle weakness, thereby being unable to participate in any kind of physical exercise.

Yeah.  That's it.

WHY WON'T HE POOP?

The kid will not poop.  So we all have to suffer and wilt from his stinky farts, wondering when the epic explosion is going to finally take place.  In bed?  In the supermarket?  HE'S A TICKING TIME BOMB!

Anyway, we tried prunes, (hasn't done anything yet) and  here are the pictures.  Those of you on facebook have already seen them.

More about sleep.

Well, some success, and some failure in the sleep department.

My nerves can't handle listening to Angus scream himself to sleep in the other room.  (And for some reason I have to have the baby moniter cranked up, just to torture myself even more, even though I can hear him just fine without it on.)
So last night I dragged a chair into the bedroom, and sat next to Angus while he angrily fought sleep for an hour and a half.  I had nursed him as usual, and he was drowsy and falling asleep, so I KNOW he was tired.  But man that kid is STUBBORN.  As soon as I place him in his crib, he falls apart.  I thought maybe he was going through separation anxiety, which is why I decided to try sitting with him this time.  (But not picking him up or anything.)  The whole thing backfired.  If anything, he was MORE pissed off, because I was RIGHT THERE, but I wasn't doing anything!  I'd stroke his hand, which just invoked more hand-flailing, and louder screams.  I lovingly stroked his head, and he bit me.  I cooed softly to him, and he drowned my voice out and thrashed around even harder.  HE WAS PISSED. 
Finally, I had to leave the room.  I was all jangly and worked up, my heart was pounding (these are the effects of hearing your baby scream next to you for ninety minutes).  And you know what he did?  HE FELL ASLEEP.  AFTER I LEFT.

And then he sleep for a solid six hours.  Woke up at two-thirty in the morning, nursed, nursed again at three-thirty, then at five-thirty, and then again at quarter to seven, which was actually sleeping in, because of the whole daylight savings thing, it should've been quarter to eight.  But besides that, he slept for a six-hour stretch.  I wonder what tonight will bring?

p.s. I can't understand why he goes down so easily for naps, but at nighttime he's a child possessed.