I'm not a Paramedic, I just play one in real life

A good friend suggested I start blogging. I suspect it’s because I seem to be on a run-on rant which probably has lasted, let’s say, five years. I’m not a negative person by any means. I think I’ve just found myself at odds with the rest of the world, especially as of late. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the vast majority of my socializing is with a toddler; a genius, but a toddler no less. So I thought to myself that maybe this will be good; a healthy way to express my many qualms about society and people in general. Not only that but also it could be a great way to convey the joys of my day. As mother of two and wife of a shift worker, I actually experience some hilarity that may be worth sharing. Or maybe it’s perceived hilarity and it’s actually the by-product of being cooped up all day long because I’m too much of a suck to go outside in the winter. My husband Mike, whom I casually referred to as a “shift worker” is a Paramedic. I used to be one too, but since the commencement of my maternity leave I’m feeling more like a dairy cow/chambermaid/professional laundry sorter. I guess you could say that I’m not a paramedic, I just play one in real life. Don’t get me wrong, I love everything about being a mother. Isla’s sweet little voice calling me from her room in the morning, telling me that yes, she would like a combination of cheerios and rice krispies in the green and white bowl, with enough milk left over to spill all over her bare legs because, incidentally, I forgot to put pants on her again. Every morning, in spite of the very specific requests regarding her cereal, I still manage to screw up the ratio and, like clockwork, we engage in the first battle of the day. Cue time-out, followed closely by a scream so shrill I’m sure it’s the reason my van window cracked last week (seriously, how can something so small be SO painfully LOUD?!), followed by a brief exchange of somewhat insincere apologies (after said time-out), and then finally the eating of the now soggy cereal. Wow. Don’t get me wrong though – carpe diem. Bad, good; love it all. Then there’s Sam, oh Sam, with his perfect little face with the perfect little dimple in his right cheek, looking up at me expectantly, wondering why I’m walking around with a boob out but not yet feeding him. I say wondering and there’s probably an implication of patience, but this child, like his father, does not like to wait when it comes to mealtime. So I try to breastfeed whilst doing all of the other things on my morning to-do list. It’s quite the sight. It’s like I’m a primate. I’m just waiting for the day that I walk outside to take out the recycling or something only to realize, much too late, that during the conversation with the neighbours I’ve had one or both boobs exposed. It’s going to happen one day, there’s just no way around it. So if any of my neighbours are reading this, I’ll just go ahead and apologize for flashing you in advance. You have to understand, things can sometimes be a bit chaotic with a two year old and a three month old. Having a boob out is the least of my concerns at this point.