In which I write even though I don't feel like it

This is around the time that I would normally realize how raw and open I'm being, panic that everyone will hate me, and quit. But I'm not going to.

I woke up this morning with Baby Girl in my bed and couldn't remember why I did that. Did she wake up a lot? Or recently? I didn't mean to bring her to bed. Although she was awfully snuggly. But, wait, no, sleep associations. Bad mommy.

I decided to have decaf this morning because I was afraid I was getting too dependent on caffeine again. Too late.

I spent the morning, even through naptime, staring at my computer in a fog instead of cleaning the house for my in-laws' upcoming visit.

Baby Girl was out of sorts, too, poor thing. She's cutting a tooth. And pulling herself up on furniture and then screaming about it. And apparently she doesn't like blueberries. Who doesn't like blueberries?

I was about to lose my mind this afternoon, so I turned on the TV. I love the TV.

Now Baby Girl is asleep on my tummy. And I know this post is ridiculous and random and whiny, but I wrote today. So there self-sabotaging self.