Sometimes.

Sometimes... I'm just not funny. I'm sorry.

Sometimes I'm just pissy and a monstrous, rabid, unrepenting bitch, and anyone who knows me will attest to it. And not even the fun kind of bitch, like how I'd make fun of customers who were especially huge pains in the ass at work, or how A and I love to make snide, cynical and all-around hilarious comments at whatever TV garbage we're staring at. No. Sometimes I'm just not fun to be around.

This is one of those nights where I just need to emote.

There is so much I wish people would just freaking tell you about having a baby aside from that "Babies are such a blessing" bullshit. Okay, it's not bullshit, but sometimes you just want to go insane. And it's such a weird combination of anger, resentment, and exhaustion, topped off with extreme guilt for feeling all of the above. My friend Jaime put it the most accurately, I think: if it weren't for the blind, unconditional motherly love, humans would cease to exist.

Baby E is screaming right now. Again. There is absolutely no reason for it. She just got two full boobs' worth of milk. Her diaper has been changed -- and changed again after she pissed on me when I was finishing up the first initial changing. She doesn't need burped. I think she just senses that I am tired, that it is 2 a.m., and therefore, it is time to be a fussy, nasty little demon.

A. is an incredible father. He adores her, dotes on her, and does whatever he can to help during those moments -- and there are many of them -- where I'm almost certain that I am going to go running from the house screaming. We are best friends, and we make a fabulous team in this whole parenting nonsense. But at night... that's when I feel the loneliest as a parent. He goes to work in the morning and since I'm on my self-extended maternity leave (when will I go back to work? Couldn't tell ya...), I feel obligated to be the one to handle all E-related fussiness. There's a lot of it.

And so I sit in the dark, Baby E on my lap still reeling from her latest raging tantrum, the glow of the laptop in front of me and CBS morning news on (it comes on at 2:30 a.m., so the tired mothers like myself can catch up on the real world that we miss during the days of poop, puke, feed, poop, change, rinse, repeat). Deep down I hate A. for being fast asleep. There's been a few times where she starts crying, and I've started to sit up to take care of her, which with infected stitches (yeah, vaginal stitches are still there and they're ANGRY) is a slow and painful motion, and he rolls over to face AWAY from me and the baby. I just want to punch him in the back sometimes. Oh, I'm SORRY we woke you up, babe. Don't worry, you go back to sleep, I'll take care of this for, oh, the next four hours.

I love my little family, I really do. But some days I just want to run away, get in my car, and drive. Just drive. But then I'm reminded by the scary 3 a.m. news that gas prices are insane and we're in a recession. Which makes me feel even better about the fact that I'm not working, that I have run out of my personal money that I'd saved up, that there's a leak in the plumbing that we've yet to figure out, that the dog is behind on getting his immunizations, that I need to find a new pediatrician for Baby E (one I don't hate, like the current one).....

Being awake at 3 a.m. eventually causes you to lose your mind.

That's all.