Just last night I was watching "Knocked Up," a movie about a woman experiencing an unexpected pregnancy. It's a terrible movie full of cheap humor and a contrite plot, but all throughout it, I found myself wanting another baby. I even went to school today figuring out the best year to have another (spring 2010, or so I determined)--that's how much I was really, really seriously thinking about how desperately I wanted another.
And then I come home and it takes me 30 minutes to put Max to sleep and 3 minutes after I put him down, he wakes up crying and I go in there again. Tired. Exhausted. Drained.
I'm pretty certain that people regret not having another baby and generally don't regret having it, but as I was rocking Max to sleep that second time, I started thinking about how I am not sure there would be much left of me were we to have another. Let's face it--I put 110 percent into everything I do, from being a mom to being a teacher, and that leaves very, very little time for just me being me. A problem all working mothers face, I know. And yet that's the time that I crave a lot(probably because it is such a rarity in my life right now)--that half hour I spend walking by myself is often one of the most relaxing parts of my day.
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I make Max go crazy. This has been determined by both myself and Max's sitter. As soon as I arrive to pick him up after school, he screams in excitement and runs (er, crawls) around supa fast laughing and giggling. Lindsey is certain that he is trying to show off for me or something because he apparently just chills all day and is fairly lazy. It's pretty fun to watch and makes me laugh every single time.
Brandon, on the other hand, makes other children cry. He has made Brendan cry at least 2 times just by coming into the house. Weird, huh? I knew Brandon was ugly, but I did not know he was that ugly.
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