Dear iPhone autocorrect, never once have I intended to type the word, “ducking.” Okay? Thanks.

Tonight Mark and I took Joel on a walk in the dark in his front-facing carrier, which sometimes we do before his bedtime (kid wants to see the world, even if it’s dark outside!), and we were having a conversation about something, and Mark was like, “They (children) grow up so fast,” to which I clarified, “IF they grow up…” In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of effed up now, and I’m not a downer at all.

After I posted about my self-destructive thoughts and my Uber experiences, my dad emailed me, “Wow! You’re on a rough road.” Tis true… Thank you for such an enlightening glimpse into the obvious.

Real Housewives of Orange County star and local celebrity, Meghan King Edmonds is pregnant with her first child, so I stopped following her on Instagram (obvy), but sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me, and I wonder if she’s had her baby (why?!?!?), so I stalk her page, and the other day I noticed she posted about banking her child’s cord or cord blood or whatever in hopes that the stem cells inside could come in handy should they be needed in the event of a cancer diagnosis. (I didn’t do this for Joel – maybe I should have?) But I can’t help but wonder whether those who bank their child’s cord realize that their child is much more likely to be killed by the actual cord itself rather than the theoretical cancer they intend to cure should it arise.

We’ve gotten into the habit of singing Joel a song each morning when he wakes up. It goes, “Good morning, good morning, it’s great to be alive, good morning, good morning, to you. Choo-choo!” And I don’t know where the hell we got this song (IBS grandma, perhaps?), but it feels weird (for obvious reasons) and like the lyrics are a bit off. Like, “Great to be alive,” should actually be, “Goddamn miracle to be alive – you better make the most of today (NO PRESSURE!).” Also, I feel like this song might turn Joel into an annoyingly happy morning-type person, but we sing it anyway, because the smiles he gives us are so irresistible. (NOTE: I tried to spell irresistible 17 times before giving up and googling it – I won the spelling bee in fourth AND fifth grade, so clearly my brain has deteriorated some since.)

Yesterday Mark cleaned out the refrigerator, and today I took a Tupperware lid out of the dishwasher, and it was so moldy that not only was it not clean, but part of it had also rotted away. (I know you’re judging me right now, but I don’t care, because I also know you probably have some nasty shit in your refrigerator too.)

I intended to do this Remembering Together ornament swap in honor of lost babies, but the thought of doing it was kind of overwhelming to me, so I might do it next year instead. This says a lot about my current mental state – that the thought of a Christmas ornament overwhelms me. Like trying to make a Christmas ornament could be what tips me over the edge.

So the other day I learned of an amusing workplace SNAFU – this employee applied for an open internal position and accidentally attached a cover letter for an external position. Whoopsie.

As mentioned in my last post, we recently (last Monday afternoon) parted ways with our nanny. I won’t say much other than nothing earth shattering occurred, rather our separation was due to a culmination of smaller things that ultimately added up for us, which also didn’t do much in the way of helping to alleviate the anxiety I was feeling.

Prior to informing her of our decision and issuing her a (fat) severance check, Mark confided in some close confidants who were like, “Don’t make a rash decision – first get a backup plan together for how Christine might get her job done, and maybe consider how you might pay the mortgage should she quit or not be able to meet performance expectations.” This was great advice, but we ignored it…

So I was SUPER stressed out, because it is budget season, and I am solely in charge of a very complicated company-wide budget, and its deadline is fast-approaching, and should I fail, it will be the end of me (career-wise). And then sometimes I think it could be easier if I actually do fail – so much would come off my plate, and a decision (to stay at home) would be made for me… But at my core, I’m not one who just fails. But there is a very real possibility that I could, especially when I lose entire days to grief and anxiety and, as a result, I don’t always manage my limited time in the best way possible. I expressed my fear of failure to Mark, who assured me that as long as I try my very best, I have not failed, which is very trite, yet very true.

But today our new babysitter (the one I mentioned in my last post) came over to hang out with Joel (and us), and she was so incredibly great (I hope I’m not speaking too soon) that I have some renewed hope regarding the entire situation, so… I don’t know – this saga is constantly evolving…

On an interesting side note, before we parted ways with our nanny, I couldn’t help but feel kind of awkward… She was helping with house chores, which was super nice, but I found it peculiar to have a stranger fold my underwear (though she did a great job). I also found myself wondering what she thought of us based on things in our house, and I pretty much concluded that she thought Mark was an asshole, considering she regularly folded two of his shirts (which I’ve asked him not to wear in public), one which reads, “Sleighin’ it,” and another which reads, “I start by rubbin’ my meat.” Without the back stories (that the former was a $3 buy from American Eagle *cringe*, and the latter was sent as a “bonus” by the company from whom we recently purchased our new barbeque grill), they make Mark look like an immature teenager, which he kind of is. Though clearly she thought they were my shirts seeing how they frequently ended up in my laundry basket.

And I guess in the end Mark truly did come out looking like the knight in shining armor hero that he is, evidenced by her Tuesday morning text, which Mark forwarded to me, which was like, “You’re an AMAZING man, and your wife needs cognitive behavioral therapy – she isn’t suffering from ‘grief,’ rather an extreme form of PTSD, anxiety, and depression…” To which I replied (to Mark), “Well, this is mostly true, though I would beg to differ on the grief in quotations part…” But I was still kind of irritated, because I believe people should generally focus on their own issues.

I really cannot believe how much has changed in a matter of a couple of years. If two years ago someone had told me that in two years I would have one dead child, one living child, the Cubs would win the World Series (which I just noticed, because I live under a rock) and that Donald Trump would be elected POTUS, I would have told said person he/she was one worthless psychic. It goes to show that no one ever knows what lies ahead, positive or negative. It’s terrifying and sobering and freeing and provides some hope all at the same time.

For those very concerned readers (you know who you are!), you’ll be happy to know we’re getting Howie back soon (possibly around Thanksgiving).

Joel grew so big that he no longer fits in his bassinet, so we purchased an extra crib (and an extra Angelcare baby movement monitor for our room). But now his crib is so big, and he moves around at night, so one night he scooted to the edge of the crib, and he wasn’t squarely atop the monitor, so the alarm sounded, and I lost my shit, but Joel was fine. But then I started reading about the monitor, and I learned that it isn’t recommended because it “isn’t proven to have saved babies,” but then I read about parents who claim it saved their babies. So if it’s saved only one baby, it actually is worth having (even from a statistical perspective), amiright? Like it can’t hurt anything.

Mark has just been a bucket full of wisdom lately with his inspirational words… He recently said something like, “Our family will never be complete, but maybe our family will be happy someday…” And I only believe this about 40 percent of the time, but I appreciate the sentiment, and it’s something to hold onto.