The Mother of the Year Edition

The heat is zapping any energy I have. The sign at a bank yesterday said it was 103 outside. That is just plain wrong on so many levels.

I think I could fry up some burgers on the dash of my car yesterday.

Last night, after I got home, Zoe and I had to make a trip out in the heat. I had asked April James to make a measuring stick for Zoe's room. It turned out lovely. She is an amazing artist. I'm so pleased. This picture doesn't do it justice. If you like it, you can go to her blog and e-mail her. She's wonderful to work with.

After we got home to our air conditioning and cooled down. Zoe and I played a little. She's starting to climb. Which is great because it does eliminate the concern of cerebral palsy.

However, she is a woman on a mission. A mission to climb the highest moutain.

She was trying to stand on top of her pretend kitchen last night to reach Handy Manny on television. She's his biggest fan.

Which I don't understand. He only has three fingers and all his tools do all the work for him. Really it's not Handy Manny, it's Tools That Do Their Job Without A Human and Talk. I guess in the city they live in, people would think talking tools are weird without some handyman carrying them around. Then again this is the same city where Mr. Lopart and his cat Fluffy both have a comb-over and take baths in their candy shop. Who am I to judge.

I guess I need to watch some adult TV shows soon.

Back to what I was saying, all this climbing wears me out. I can only sit on the couch, eat ice cream and say, "get down from there" so many times. It's exhausting.

So exhausting that I turned off Zoe's monitor last night in my sleep. I'm assuming I did this when she started to cry. If that's not Mother of the Year potential, I don't know what is.

Fortunately for Zoe, her grandma got up and fed her a bottle since her mother decided in her sleep that her child could go without for one night.

Doesn't she understand that a mommy needs sleep. Deep, quiet sleep. None of this get up in the middle of the night for a bottle. She's climbing, she can get herself out of that crib, shimmy down the dresser and get her bottle.

Who am I kidding? I'm a big softy. The first little whimper out of sweet Zoe usually catapolts me out of bed faster than Handy Manny and his tools can teach my daughter Spanish. That's saying something.

Today I'm living with parental guilt. I ignored my child's cry. I wonder how much in therapy bills this is going to cost me later.