Where's the owner's manual for this thing?

I discovered this week one of the zillion reasons motherhood makes me insane. It's taken me a while...I mean, what's so hard about taking care of a protohuman all day? She doesn't get mouthy, she doesn't steal the car keys, she doesn't tell me she is SO OUT OF HERE when she turns 18.

She whines.

Constantly.

No no, don't defend her. She is absolutely insufferable. Geniuses are often tyrannical.

I love nothing more than just BEING with this child. She climbs on me, sometimes takes a break and just nurses sort of languidly, patting the top of my breast with her little hand as if to indicate this is good shit, Mom. Then she kind of rolls around, or pulls herself up by her miraculously strong legs. She likes to dance when she does this...a bit of the old soft shoe, you know. The girl would have made a killing in Vaudeville.

But you know...sometimes I have to do other things. Like brush my teeth. Or put on a bra. Pants are also useful. Not only that, but she seems to enjoy clean diapers, so I wash those once in a while too. Also, the aftermath of her meals makes the kitchen look like it's been through guerilla warfare, so I it's nice to have that cleaned up as well.

Whenever I make a move to do one of the myriad of chores necessary to keep the house from looking like we're just squatters here until the landlord catches us, she tends to become very VERY vocal about my OBVIOUS lack of priorities. I set her down, scurry off to throw some diapers in the wash,and she screams so dramatically you'd think I'd just thrown her down the steps of the cellar to the rats. I rush back to jounce her or dance to Beyonce, then scurry off again to wipe now-brown bananas off the floor, more of the same. I rush back to change her...the cycle continues. I have dubbed it, "The Mamarama."

I related this to her father, who generally regards me with a gentle smile and nod as if to keep my various personalities at bay, and he shifted his weight for a moment, cleared his throat, and said softly, "Um...have you thought of maybe putting her in the Pack and Play with some of her pals while you do other things?" I think I literally slapped my forehead with my palm. That's why he's the brains in this outfit, and I'm the boobs.

So I've been doing that this week, with good results. She sometimes moos a little, but then realizes she has lots of pals in that Pack n Play. Piglet and Giant Bunny are good for a laugh, for sure. She looks up at me now from inside the white mesh netting as if to say, "Mom, SERIOUSLY. These guys are HILARIOUS!"

I've decided not to feel guilty about gleefully singing the old Smashing Pumpkins hit from my fast-fading youth when she's in there:

Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage!

There's just something wildly amusing to me about singing about this googly-eyed bundle of snuggles like she's an angsty teenager locked in her room.

The girl is a genius though, no fakes. Just in time for the Big Birthday, she's holding up "Number 1!" She knows what's up. I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, and she said, "Oh Mommy, just being with you every day is a gift!" I'm pretty sure that's what she said. It was while she was being changed, and sounded a lot like, "Baba doo, baba doo!"

I've been trying to make a mix CD for everyone at her birthday party, with all kinds of fun songs on it that remind me of Miss Ivy Mae. I had to pause today when Matt pointed out, "Um...this one might be kind of vulgar for a mix of songs inspired by a one-year-old for her grandparents." Oy.