Ah, Crap

By: Allison Norris

Fall is here and it seems that the changing weather has caused a major writer’s block. It could also be because I’ve been responding to emails with one hand as my baby is in the other, making typing a bit of a challenge and discouraging me to write any more than I absolutely have to. I’ve been using “text lingo” in emails – and if you have received one of these abbreviated messes, I’m sorry.

Bay is growing so quickly and I am getting the hang of this mommy thing… I think. I’ve now started looking at newborns and inserting the oh so annoying, “awww, I remember when they are that small…” like I have multiple children who are all full-grown and in college. Then they look down and see my 8 week old and wonder what the hell I am talking about.

Being out and about with Bay, I think my favorite question has been if I like being a mother. What would happen, exactly, if I answered in a less desirable fashion? “NO, I REALLY HATE IT.” It’s sort of a no brainer… Everyone is going to initially say yes, because they are spending every minute of every day trying to be the best mother, and if they don’t feel like the best mother, they are definitely faking it to seem like they are. Women were put on this earth to have babies, right? We should just KNOW what to do! I’ve decided to share a few of my favorite things about being a mommy.

Bay pooped and I went to change him. As I lifted his little legs into the air to get a good wipe, a rocket fart shot poop directly onto my hand and up my arm! Mortified, I looked down at the mustard feces and then at my little darling who, like clockwork, gave me the most adorable smile that I had ever seen. Pulling my eyes away from my new arm decor, I reached over to the wipey container and there it was. MORE POOP! Scanning the surrounding area, I discovered it everywhere! Little yellow blobs freckling the entire changing station. I quickly covered Bay in a new diaper fearing that another rocket explosion would occur and stuck him in his swing – which, by the way, is the best invention ever. My laundry pile grew and everything got a great wipe down, but the whole thing is just a little gross. I felt like I needed a hazmat suit with sanitizing chemicals. I mean, this was poop, right? Is a moist cloth really going to sanitize all that needs to be sanitized? Are little green, microscopic monsters breeding and going to invade my home, starting with the changing table covered in smeared poo?

This is my life. Poop. Wearing poop, worrying about poop, wiping poop, and dodging it as it flies across the room. No wonder I’ve had a writer’s block. I swear, I really do love being a mother.

Now that Bay is here, and visible instead of inside of my belly, there are a whole slew of new questions. “Awwww, cuuuuuute, how old is he?” “Awwww, just a new one! What’s his name?” “How’s he sleeping?” “CAN I HOLD HIM?” Can you hold him? Hm. Creepy lady working in the safeway deli with a hairnet and gloves? No, you may not hold him. Four year old little lady with hands about the same size as Bay’s? No, you may not hold him, sorry. It’s tough to deny people the pleasure of bundling my little man in their arms. I’d just rather not endure the agonizing feeling I get when I hear him cry because they are doing it wrong and instinctively want to rip him out of their arms.

People talk about schedules and patterns and all of this very technical stuff when it comes to babies. What does each cry mean and how long can they go without eating in the night? Such complicated little beings, always changing and growing and right when you think you have them figured out – they throw something new into the mix. Mommies are obsessed with their babies, as they should be, and are forever trying to figure out exactly what they are doing, saying, feeling, implying, requesting or craving. This is a good thing, but it can also make you feel insane.

Every mom likes to think their child is just a little bit more advanced that other babies their age. I know I do. We praise them for a hearty belch, we ooo and ahhh over a big poop, and we even console them when they’ve puked all over a recently dry cleaned top. When does it switch over to punishing them when they forget to say, “excuse me” after a burp, or reprimand them for not flushing their little turd down the toilet? Not cute to puke on people? Say what? Sometimes I think Bay fully understands what I am saying as he has amazing conversation skills, obviously. Eye contact… a polite and adorable smile… a perfectly timed coo… and then he tries to fit his entire hand into his mouth right after he’s just punched himself in the forehead. Can you imagine your date, a grown man, trying to do that at dinner? “Oops, sorry, I just like to punch myself in the face sometimes (shoving fist into mouth while simultaneously trying to finish his sentence). Babies are cute. They get away with everything…

Perfect timing. My little prince has just awoken and is trying to tell me something with his wailing. I bet he’s crying in Spanish or something. He’s super advanced.