I feel obligated to mention that the McDonald’s cups got moldy not because we’re festering piglets, but because free supersize cups aren’t all that sturdy in the dishwasher and hence, get moldy. Surprise! You cannot build a cup arsenal from Subway, Moe’s and McDonald’s! We have other cups/glasses, clearly, but I have a thing for the 32-ounce beverage — no ordinary glass with quench my thirst, no sirree bob. Sometimes I’ll drive through McDonald’s JUST FOR THE CUP.
This also explains why I end up going to the bathroom with a baby attached to my chest multiple times in the night. Oh please, you’ve all done it. Um, right?
One of the (albeit stupid) observations I’ve had about parenthood is that when you’re faced with a really tough conundrum, no one can really help. No one can say, here, THIS — this is the right thing to do. Do this, and it will be fine. It’s patently unfair, really.
You guys, I have some LINGERING RAGE to discuss. Before I had Samantha, I read every baby book under the sun. The Whisperers! The Wise People (OMFG)! The Happiest Baby People! And mostly, I want to kill them, because I can’t help but wonder if these people have had Actual Babies, or if they just practiced on a litter of pugs. Honestly, if I could have three rounds in a ring with anyone, it would be The Baby Whisperer, who … well, good Christ, if she calls me “luv” one more time while she tells me how E.A.S.Y. this is, I’m going to hunt her down myself and carve it into her ass with a razor blade.
I remember a while back when Linda wrote this super-controversial post for Parent Dish (yeeeeeah), wherein she admitted that she was having a hard time conjuring up love for Dog after Baby. And, at the risk of bringing out the same brand of crazy, I have to confess: me too. It’s not that I don’t love her — I do, so very much — but you guys, I spend 24 hours a day with an infant attached to me in one form or another, and MY GOD, really, Sunny? Do you have to try to nurse? Must you sit on my shoulder while Sam eats? Do you ever stop licking? Do you HAVE to eat diapers? No, really, DO YOU HAVE TO EAT DIAPERS?
Sigh. It all makes me feel terribly guilty, because before Sam was here, she was our baby. I practically carried her around in a sling, for God’s sake, and now every other word out of my mouth is “Sunny NO! NO!” But really, I can’t imagine who wouldn’t lose their patience after wandering around the house for the five-hundredth time, scooping up gelled-up poopy diaper remains from the carpet after the crafty little minx knocked over the diaper pail and ATE THE CONTENTS.
I’m going to go ahead and assume that this isn’t what it’s like to have a second kid right? Or … is it? Because if it means I’m going to want to throttle Samantha on an hourly basis the way I do my beloved little Sunbun (I love her! I do!), I’m done having kids, even though I feel quite strongly that the answer to “Is everybody here?” is “Definitely not.”
And finally, I’ll leave you with a video you may have seen before, but it illustrates the hell I’ve been enduring for DAYYYYS OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU SUNNY BUT PLEASE STOP BEING SO CRAFTY WITH THE DIAPERS.
(In this case, uh, however, I left them out. Smooth!)
I can already tell that a few years from now, I’m going to be wandering around with a second kid wishing I could tell my hand-wringy new-mom self to stop worrying so damn much, because it’s all going to be FIIINE. Fine.
I mean, I think. I’m pretty sure. Once in a while I take a step back and think, my LANDS, is there anything I haven’t worried about? The amount of calls to the pediatrician, the fretting over whether her swaddle is SWADDLY ENOUGH and … God, well. Gee howdy, I’m a hilarious mess.
Mostly about co-sleeping. The thing is, I’m not against co-sleeping. Truth be told, I’m kind of PRO co-sleeping, if I may say that very gently and not raise anyone’s ire, but for me, I am too much of a pansy to put her in her own bed when she’s THIS LITTLE and then there’s also the fact that uh, she won’t sleep anywhere else, thanks to the lingering reflux.
GAH GAH GAH. And we’re very safe, etc. etc. safetycakes, but my family is up my ASS about it, like I’m going to turn into a wild X-treme AP messageboard-type person who has sex with her husband in front of her toddler or older kid (“Very gently!” they say. OMFG.) Or or OR, breastfeeds on-demand in the side-lying position into Sam’s teen years. Or worse, as I read on one of those, um, sites, decides to up her breastmilk supply so that she can … can ….
FEED HER HUSBAND WITH HER BOOBS. LIKE, ON A REGULAR BASIS FOR NUTRITION AND STUFF.
And while yes, judge not lest thee be judged, I … well, I have a hard time with the sex in front of kids and the feeding husband bit. That’s the kind of shit that gives co-sleeping and breastfeeding a bad name, yo.
This is what happens when you spend too much time worrying and Googling about co-sleeping because you’re nervous that sleeping with your two-month-old means DOOOOOOM.
(It doesn’t. Unless, you know, you do it until she’s a teenager and never give her the option of her own bed. Which we will. Very soon.)
Anyway! Dude, you guys, my life is incredibly boring at the moment. Lovely and rewarding, but BORING. The most exciting thing on my to-do list this week? Buy new giant cups for the kitchen because the McDonald’s ones we’ve been reusing are getting moldy. No, really. THAT’S IT. Other than an endless cycle of diapering, book-reading, bouncy-seat playing and some Baby Einstein gym-sitting. The last song I got in my head? Some classical tune from said baby gym.
Send help, is what I’m saying. I’m a SHELL. A MERE SHELL.
That’s sort of a lie, when you consider that this week I’m starting to feel like I’m coming out of the newborn haze and beginning to resume life as normal. A month ago, for example, the aforementioned cup errand would have sent me into apoplectic fits because a) THERE ARE GERMS OUT THERE, MAH BABY OMG; and b) who the hell can gather up that much shit to go out there and do anything, much less buy something? Are you serious?
I’m proud to say I get out every day now, and I shower every day as well. Yes, yes, fine, I still get myself irrevocably stuck in the Baby Bjorn, leaving me to waggle about like a fish out of water while Sam wails from the floor or bouncy seat, because my GOD, woman, HURRY YOUR ASS UP. Invariably, by the way, Sunny is circling the floor, desperate to pee, while I my arms flail about awkwardly, my wrist caught in the waist, threatening to break any minute. Whimpering, screaming and flailing! The ultimate parent soundtrack. But still! Small victories, folks. Small victories!
However, all of this delightful time with my infant allows me to ponder these points, some of which are excitingly pop-culture related, and you’ve likely seen me freak out about them on Twitter:
– Jon & Kate, The Downfall. You guys, I am awfully excited about this, which is cruel when you consider there are (many) children involved. But I DESPISE Kate, and her hair in particular. I don’t understand her, and I don’t understand it.
– Real Housewives. Kelly is NOT a girls’ girl. That sums it up nicely, and how awesome that Luann, who I usually despise, brought it up.
– Um, American Idol? Can I tell you how much I LOOOVED Kris Allen’s version of Heartless and how suddenly it seemed like the whole world sort of OPENED UP and for ONCE I wished I wasn’t hopelessly devoted to Adam Lambert, with his penchant for tranny-style make up and all.
I know I said this before, but I think we’re turning a corner here, and I hope to see you again very, very soon. Like, maybe tomorrow. The hopes! The dreams! The … whatever. We’ll see.
*Kanye and Kris Allen. I bought Kanye’s album with the iTunes gift cert that Samantha got me for Mother’s Day, along with a handwritten card (ha!) where she denied having reflux, and claimed she just liked snuggling with me at night. And then I died. Adam, PS, did his own awesome things, including a gorgeous necklace with her birthstone that I love. LOVE. Best day ever, I swear, and I’m not just saying that because he also got me a peanut butter cup sundae.
You know, Television Without Pity just isn’t the same. It’s INFURIATING. What is this mockery of the site I once loved so much? Seriously, what IS that? It — dare I say it — SOLD OUT TO THE MAN. “The Man,” in this case, being Bravo, who I normally love, but come on. COME ON, BRAVO.
I ordered Transitional Pants today, because honestly, one cannot continue to wear maternity pants a full eight weeks and change after giving birth, and it was in a size I’ve never seen before, not even when I was at my heaviest. But the maternity pants were not only winter-ish, they’re actually too big. The thing is, I’d like to say I care — and really, I do, or rather, I will — but for the moment, I get how moms say that they get too busy to be able to do anything about it, so I kind of don’t. I don’t look AWFUL, I mean Jesus knows I feel downright SVELTE since walking around as a whale and weighing a number that rhymes with “fun-shmeighty,” but you know, back then there was a whole person in there, and now it’s just me.
I haven’t been able to cook since Sam’s been born, and I miss it. I also miss eating food that didn’t come from a box or a deli counter, but I’m trying to have faith that some day we’ll get there. This WILL get easier … right? Right. Yes, right. We’re not allowing for anything else here. RIGHT.
And working out — HA. Dude, no. No. Some day. I kind of miss that, too, but not enough to bring Jillian Michaels into this cocktail of fresh hell while Sam stares at me from the bouncy seat. And when she’s sleeping, I’m sleeping, because this co-sleeping thing is working out for exactly one of us, and that person still pees in her pants, or occasionally on mama’s belly when she’s not paying attention.
Funny, I never had an identity crisis after Sam was born — I was warned about it, warned that I would wonder who I was, and what I was doing with my farking life, other than wiping butts and rocking small people to sleep. While I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t pull a stroller out of the back of a car after taking an HOUR to get ready to go on the simplest errand and think, what the fuck? No, seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?, I haven’t mourned any of my old life. I haven’t decided if this is because I’m remarkably well-adjusted, or if it’s because I didn’t have one before. The only time I feel differently is when I push the stroller through the college campus and see myself for exactly what the students must: a cautionary tale. God, you guys, when I first moved here, the dudes would occasionally CHECK ME OUT. HA HA HA. Oh God. No more, clearly. Never again.
What I HAVE had, is the occasional freak out because this job, as it’s been noted before, is both incredibly challenging and mind-numbingly boring. I have exactly two (2) mom friends who get me out a few times a week, and it helps more than you can imagine, but still, I wish sometimes that Sam would ask me a really tough question. They should make onesies with buttons you can push to simulate stimulating conversation until she becomes a bit more present.
Finally, related to the pants issue, have you guys seen the new-fangled Oreos? The Cakesters were a giant, chemical-laden bust, but y’all, the strawberry milkshake ones are HEAVEN. And cool mint! Like mint-chocolate chip ice cream IN A COOKIE! MY GOD. Where were these delicious items when I was pregnant? WHERE?
Happy almost-Tuesday! Sam and I have a lunch date, and it’s getting us through the week!