Non-Maternal Instincts

This is why I pray for a self-cleaning baby.
 

Baby, I don't blame you, chocolate should be smeared madly across the face . . .

. . . hands, arms . . .

. . . legs and body.

Frankly, I'm jealous that I don't give myself the freedom and opportunity to eat chocolate like that more often (if ever). God knows I wear enough of it on my hips, why not make it my elbows and knees while I'm at it.

But the difference between you and me, son, is that I have the ability to clean myself. As for you, well, it is up to my ability to clean you. 

And that is why this chocolate-covered pretzel debacle drives me wonky. 

Not to mention that too-cute-for-words mini Buckeye chair (equipped with a cup holder!), and your brand-spankin' new blue onesie that makes you look more precious than I could have ever imagined. Yes, those things don't clean themselves either.

So one teeny, tiny chocolate-covered pretzel disaster later (thank you, mother, for indulging him), I'm busy at work cleaning baby, baby chair, baby clothes, and myself (because chocolate-covered baby equals chocolate-covered mommy).

It's days like this that I thank God for warm weather and a sturdy hose.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally published in December, 2008



The very heavy cost of leaving the house (if you dare)

I'm not one of those sit-around-my-house-and-watch-soap-operas kind of moms. Nothing against you Susan Lucci followers, but that's just not my thing. I need, I mean really NEED, to get out of the house everyday, at least once. It's my sanity, plain and simple. And because I have a seven month old, he tags along.

When we I leave the house (let's be honest, my son is merely being lifted from point A to point B - I'm the one trying to catch some fresh air), I resemble one of those street performers who balances a truckload of items on his head, hands, and feet while dancing a jig. Except I don't have a tip jar in front of me. I should work on that.

Getting out of the house isn't what is used to be. Before the baby, if I wanted to run out for a frozen slushy, I could be in my car, down the street, and slurpin' away in a speedy eight minutes.

But venturing out with my twenty pound companion ain't what I thought it'd be. Because venturing out with a twenty pound baby actually requires venturing out with an additional fifty pounds of crap very important and delicate baby things.

Like at the airport, there should be a weight limit to what my son can take with him on our little outings. If he goes over, than he must sacrifice something. The problem is, how do I make my son sacrifice necessities like food and hygiene? It's not like when I go over the 50lb. suitcase limit and have to find a creative way to carry-on eight pairs of but-I-must-take-these-with-me designer shoes (BIG joke - designer shoes are a thing of the past, back when I was running out for slushies, you know, the good 'ol days). Not to mention, getting out of the house with this twenty-pound dumbbell now requires as many trips to the car as I take to the bathroom in a day (It's important to note that I have a small bladder).

And it's inevitable that I'll forget something. Actually, several things. Have you ever forgotten an extra set of clothes and wound up on the other side of town with a baby who, um, had an explosion and is now wearing an overflowing diaper with poo down his legs and up his back? Yeah, that's fun. That's called learning a lesson. A major lesson.

So I suggest creating a checklist. Type it out, copy it a few dozen times, and have it handy the next time you are crazy enough to leave the house.

Heck, don't create a checklist. Let me do it for ya!

Here's the how-to-survive-an-afternoon-out-of-the-comforts-of-home checklist (I'm starting to think staying at home watching Days of Our Lives is a much better alternative after all):

• Diapers. Lots of diapers.
• Booty wipes. Just keep a stash in the car. I use booty wipes for a lot of non-booty issues.
• Booty cream. Butt paste. Whatever you call it.
• Purell. Keep this in your pocket at all times. And if you don't have a pocket, stuff it in your bra. You never know when one of those strange smelling old biddies is going to insist on touching your child.
• Pacifiers. Yes, I mean multiple pacifiers. You will drop one, and you will lose one. It's universal law.
• A baby bottle. Unless, of course, your baby is breast-feeding. I lasted four months. I tried to last longer, I really did.
• Baby formula. Again, unless your baby is breast-feeding. And PLEASE, if you are a member of the La Leche League, I don't want to hear it.
• Snacks. Lots of snacks. Snacks for baby and mommy, because snacks make baby and mommy very happy.
• At least one extra baby outfit, but why not pack two while you're at it?
• Baby blankie. Because babies need blankies. They just do.
• Sling for wearing your baby. Unlike what the Motrin Ad proclaims, we momma's wear our babies out of necessity, not fashion (okay, and for bonding, but let's be real, being able to "hold" baby while hands-free is a Godsend).
• Stroller. For strollin'.
• Lovey or soothie or whatever it is that your child MUST have OR ELSE . . !
• Tylenol. You will get a headache. That's part of motherhood. Deal with it.

This certainly is not an exhaustive list. So then why am I so exhausted?

Dear Lord of all things primitive,

How did we go from simplistic cave dwellers to stuff-infested creatures of stuff, stuff, and more stuff? How did we go from Baby Moses floating across the river in a basket to Baby-give-me-more floating across the sea of junk apparently required for baby's survival?

I sure have no idea.

Actually, I do have an idea. Remember the time you turned that fish into a meal of plenty? Let's try that again, but instead of a fish, I'll bring one baby item and you can turn it into everything baby needs in that moment. Wouldn't that be fun? Because not only would it make my job as a mother more efficient, but it would really save me a trip to the chiropractor's office.

But if I must lug around 20lbs of baby plus 50lbs of his junk everyday, can't I at least lose a pound or two. I mean, would it be so terrible if I actually used this baby lugging as a form of exercise so that I could stop feeling guilty about the dust accumulating on my treadmill? Okay, fine, I lied. I don't have a treadmill, but you aren't going to hold that against me, are you?

Ah, forget it. At this point, what's a bit of junk in my trunk on top of all this baby junk?

Non-Maternal Instincts

Because Honor Student bumper stickers make me batty.

We are women. We compare. Everything.

And it only gets worse when we become mothers.

We pretend it doesn't, but oh-does-it-ever. 

We've all heard the advice from pediatricians, counselors, friends, relatives, websites, teachers: "All children are different and develop differently at different rates. They have different strengths and weaknesses."

But we let that advice go in one ear and out the other. We see the freak show one-year-old prodigy on Oprah - a mere baby who can name and locate all 50 states and capitals while balancing Tiffany china spinning on her head.

Admit it. You DVRed it and had it ready to play for your husband when he got home. And then you rushed out to the bookstore and bought a mural-sized map of the United States so that you could immediately start teaching your lil' smartypants a wealth of good for nothing knowledge. Seriously, when's the last time you referenced the location of Cheyenne, Wyoming? (My deepest apologies if I offended all seventeen people living in the Western frontier.) 

So why do we do it? Why do we compare?

I'm terribly guilty of it. There is a little girl at our church who is two weeks older than my son. She can sign and sing and dance and speak and skip - on command. My son can grunt. And grunt some more. I'm learning that "uh" means more and "eh" means more, please. So technically my child can communicate quite well, thank you very much, but dang it's hard not to speed dial the pediatrician for reassurance that my son is not actually a caveman (my son's ped has the number three speed dial slot, second to my son's shrink and stylist - you know, just in case the little dude is having a bad day and needs to reconnect with his happy place or look good to boost his confidence).

Honestly, I wish I could bottle up my son's innocence. If he could talk, he would absolutely tell you that he wants to be a garbage man when he grows up. My son is fascinated by trucks. Every Wednesday morning we stand outside waiting for the garbage truck to come, and when it finally does, my son is captivated. I can see it in his eyes, "Holy moly, flinging trash in a giant abyss behind the back of a humongous truck is COOL!" 

But at some point my backward influence and society's flesh-eating ways taint him and he begins to believe that it's not cool. 

But does it really matter if my son is a garbage man? To whom? Not to God. I've looked. The Bible doesn't say a darn thing about job rankings or salary scales. God doesn't care if your child makes a dollar or one hundred thousand. All He cares about is intent. Is he/she glorifying God as he flings garbage or performs a heart transplant?

So in an attempt to teach my son that he really can be ANYTHING he wants to be when he grows up, regardless of status, prestige, or fame (and regardless of what the little church girl grows up to be), I'll have to start renaming these photos in his baby book. 

Chris Spielman in training - Watch out, Michigan!

My future scholarly professor

The next Dog Whisperer

Ty Pennington, here he comes!

Michael Phelps in training (God, I hope not!)

My future economist (hopefully not in this economy!)

A mini Larry Byrd

On his way to win the Kentucky Derby

Because worst case scenario is really best case scenario. My son doesn't amount to one of these, rather he turns out perfectly handsome, respectable, mannerly, and God-fearing, just like his Daddy.

Amen!

Non-Maternal Instincts

BMB - Parenting skillz that will save your life.

I'm not above bribery. I'm not above manipulation. And I'm certainly not above blackmail.

I'm a mother and a wife. Aren't these the skills that mothers and wives have learned (out of necessity, of course) to do frighteningly well?

Before you judge me, take this quiz.

1. Have you ever said to your child, "If you eat the disgusting dinner I nuked in the microwave nutritious meal I graciously prepared, then you can have a scoop of the ice cream that I bought (only because I had a coupon - do you really think this green momma would buy her children ice cream just because? Okay, yes she would; she's not above that either)?
   
2. Have you ever said to your husband, "Wow, you really are getting stronger. Is that definition that I see penetrating your beer belly flat abdomen? Oh, by the way, I spent $65 on shampoo, but like I was saying, you are looking so buff these days." (But in my defense, I get my hair done for pennies because my sister is a stylist, so I can splurge on fancy shampoo, dang-it)?
3. Have you ever said to the members of your household, "If you dare tell a soul about Mommy's little chin hair problem, I will post these pictures across the Internets like nobody's business" {flashes pictures of the boys playing with sister's Barbies}?

If you answered yes to these questions, and you know you did, then you, like me, use bribery, manipulation, and blackmail as a means to always getting your way lifesaving parenting tools. 

So the other day, when my son was a bit fussier than I wanted to deal with, I pulled out a special treat that some might argue is inappropriate for a young child of his age (and they call themselves experts; what do they know).

A bright blue sugar ball on a stick (also known as a sucker).

And boy, did it work!

"Look, Mom, I'm happy now."

You know it's good when you drool blue.

"See, Mom, sugar and sharp sticks in the mouth make everything better."

"That was delicious, can I have another?"

"What do you mean it's all gone???"

"No more? Say it ain't so."

So what I didn't prepare for was the even fussier baby I would have after the sucker was all sucked away. 

I never said that bribery, manipulation, and blackmail never backfire. 

But what I am learning is that when my mad parenting skillz do backfire {swallowing pride}, I simply need to be prepared with another equally deceptive brilliant form of BMB (bribery, manipulation, blackmail). 

Caffeine-laden, cotton-candy-filled chocolate marshmallows, anyone? 

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in November, 2008

Sleepless in Columbus

I'm about to lose my mind. Actually, I lost my mind. It is {poof} gone. Please let me know if you find it. I need it back.

I have now lost track of how many nights in a row that I slept like ___ (the word I want to use here is not appropriate. Forgive me, Lord).

Okay, so I'm not sleeping well. I have a sick baby who wakes up needing tlc in the worst way, and I am sick which means I hack and I sniff and I hack and I don't sleep. And my hubby is sick, which is a curse because on a healthy night, he snores HEAVILY. Throw in a stuffy nose and chest congestion - oh my good golly! There aren't words to describe the noises that come from him as he sleeps. If you were to peek in our windows at night, you would find me in bed with my mouth half-open (because I can't breath out of my nose because I have kleenex shoved up my nostrils) and drool running down the side of my mouth. And before you could even spot my hubby - you would hear the horn of a semi-truck blowing in your ear, but it wouldn't be a semi, it would be my hubby snoring.

And how is it possible for a baby to wake up three times during the night and still not sleep-in the next morning? If I slept like absolute crap you would have to blast a blowhorn in my ear to ever wake me up. But not my kid. During the night, he wakes up every other hour, yet he is still bright-eyed and babblin' at the crack-o-dawn. The problem is that I am a walking zombie. This morning when I made his bottle, I dumped the entire scoop of formula on the floor because I missed the bottle by six inches. I'm not joking. Ask my husband. He found formula dust all over the ground where I tried to mop it up with my sock because I was too exhausted to clean it up properly.

And instead of calmly going down for his morning nap, my baby fusses and screams and arches his back and shoots snot rockets out of his nose for what seems like HOURS until his snotty-faced-rosy-cheeked head nearly pops off and he collapses because he has no more energy left to continue his fit.

In fact, as I type this he is screaming in his crib although I am sure that I will check on him soon because listening to him scream is adding to my desire to leave this place and find a fancy, expensive hotel bed with 1000 thread count sheets {falls into a daydream consisting of a fancy hotel bed, a deep tissue massage, a warm bubble bath, and hot chocolate via room service} {Bbwwwaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh - nevermind, daydream OVER}.

And I cannot sit another day in a house that is a disaster. I just can't seem to work the vacuum as I am wheezing and hacking and sticking tissues up my nose. But if I could only find the energy and ability to lift a dustrag or just any old rag {hey, what about that sock I used to wipe up the baby formula?} then maybe I'd find my mind that's lost in this mess.

Dear Father of the Heavens {ahh, Heaven, that sounds, well, heavenly},

How did it get like this? One minute I was writing with my pink, sparkly pen in my flower-scented journal about the wonders of being a girl and falling in love and having a jet-setting life, and then BAM! I'm surrounded by poopie diapers and snotty noses and sleepless nights and, well, I've lost it. Can you help? Please? I need my sanity back. I'm sure you know where it is. Can you just give me one little hint? Is it here, under this pile of dirty laundry {peeyou - what's that smell} or maybe over here behind this stack of loud and obnoxious light-up toys {Motrin, please?}. Maybe, just maybe, you could give me that special "snap" like Mary Poppins has so that I could clean this place up in a jiffy and my family could all take a spoonful of sugar and we'd be happy and healthy and clean and sane once again.

Non-Maternal Instincts

To all the parents who have ever said, "you better like it or else."

Shortly before the birth of our son, my husband got on a bike "kick". Thank the good Lord that it wasn't a motor-bike kick; hubs simply became obsessed with buying a good old-fashioned manual bicycle. He had wanted a mountain bike for some time, and when a friend of a friend of a friend was able to score him a deal on a Trek, my husband got all goofy and started researching bikes and talkin' suspension and motion control.

To my amazement, the friend of a friend of a friend pulled through, and my husband became the proud owner of a fancy Trek mountain bike.

Side note: We live hundreds of miles away from any mountains, I'm just sayin'.

And because I feared that our now newborn baby might take a back seat to my husband's latest obsession, we started talking about literally making the baby back seat to the bike.

It must have been meant to be, because only weeks after the baby was born, I found a you-won't-believe-it deal on a bike trailer at a baby sale. It was insane - I spent $40 on a gently used bike trailer that retailed for well over $200. Ching!

But the deal-of-a-century was soon subjected to a year of collecting dust in our overstuffed garage as our little man was too tiny for his pumpkin carriage.

Until now.

Last weekend my husband strapped on the trailer, mounted the Trek, and explored the Central Ohio landscape with his mini-me in tow.

Well, not exactly.

Actually, this is what ensued when our now big-enough baby boy was placed in the $200+ mint condition you-better-like-it-or-else bike trolley:

So much for "Weeee, isn't this fun?"

But because we are horribly cruel parents, we tightened the harness and slammed the hatch gently closed the see-through plastic covering. My husband wasn't about to let a few baby wails stop him from an adventure that he'd been dreaming about since I came home with the $40 steal.

And guess what? After the initial shock and trauma subsided, our little fusspot was calmin' down. Heck, he was even starting to act as if he was enjoying it.

Could it be? Could he really have taken to the box on wheels so quickly?

Yeah right. It looks like the trauma shocked him right to sleep. Oh well. This kid's got all summer to get used to it. Or else . . .

Non-Maternal Instincts

Another recycled post. This one's from November, 2008.

Hold your nose.

I promise to keep this post short because the topic ain't pretty. The more details and the more visuals I present the uglier it gets. So put down your lunch, if you managed to squeeze lunch into your crazy mom schedule today, and let me tell you about the most unfortunate part of mothering a small child: poop.

I said it: poop. And for heaven's sake, it's not a bad word. It's a perfectly normal act of human nature. But why, oh why, oh why, must it be so unpredictable and stinky and squishy and runny and ugly and smelly? And why, oh why, oh why, must I be the one to remove the remnants of it from my baby boy's butter-soft behind? And why, oh why, oh why, must I be the one who stacks "them" in a pile set aside for the "outside trash" as if I have become a collector-o-caca-doodoo?

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful that my son poops. What goes in must come out. But certainly it didn't go in looking like that. And more importantly, it absolutely, positively did NOT go in smelling like that. So when I am peacefully and serenely (as if that ever happens) sitting near my son attempting to catch my breath, and I inhale (because that's called breathing), than why must that be the exact moment that my teeny, tiny child makes a face of I-think-I'm-gonna-blow followed by an odor that makes even my dog cower? How in the world is that possible? I've seen my child in the buff and his bottom end ain't that big. But the stench? It fills the house!

So I wonder, at what point will my sweet and precious young boy learn to do what the rest of us do when we must pass the substance accrued in our digestive tract - lock ourselves in a confined space, flip on the vent, flush the evidence down-down-down, wash up, and spray the area assuring absolute odor removal? That day cannot come soon enough.

Dear God of the flowers and the delicious scent of the seasons,

WHAT happened? You did such a superb job with nature - I am blown away every time I step outside and take in the fresh air. But my son, as natural of a being as there ever was, must simply have missed the flowery odor day of his creation. Because the air he passes is anything but fresh.

So what do you suggest? I do what I can to feed him delicious, yummy, and healthy goodies from your garden. Yet it never fails to re-enter the world in the most repulsive form.

I was thinking, as I watched a commercial for cat litter, that maybe we could work something out along those lines. If I could just train my son to go in a box full of powder fresh pellets, than I would simply scoop up the tiny flowers (because isn't it cuter to call it that), and flush the evidence away. So is he trainable? I'll let you know how it goes.

For now, I am investing in clothes hangers. I have them positioned around my home near the diaper changing stations, and you better believe that is the first thing I put on when it's time to change the diaper - a clip around my nose. Unfortunately my son thinks that funny, making him laugh, and causing him to squeeze out yet another foul-scented passing of air.

Non-Maternal Instincts

A picture's worth a thousand screams.

Recently my lil' dude and I gathered with seven of my girlfriends and their equally small children (12 collectively; the oldest three; the youngest three weeks) to permanently dye babies and destroy boiled eggs decorate Easter eggs.

Have you ever been in a room with 12 children ages three and under?

I'm not talking about in a calm and controlled daycare setting. No, I'm talking about mommy-is-having-adult-conversation-and-interaction-for-the-first-time-in-days-so-leave-me-alone-and-go-play as we shamelessly turn our heads when we glimpse our 12 small children picking each other's noses and cramming each other's heads through the stairway rails.

If you've been there, then you know what it's like to be trapped in a cage with feral monkeys, flying feces and all.

So when someone announced, "Let's get a picture of all the kids together," I immediately thought, five-months-pregnant or not, where's the booze?

Not to mention, said photo session was to take place AFTER we dyed our children orange, fed them sugar-stuffed sugar cups, and let them rip each other's hair out. Oh, and did I mention it was naptime?

So a shot of Easter juice later, I placed my darling-beyond-belief 12-month old on the couch among the 11 others.

Have you heard the phrase, shoot hit the fan (or something like that)? Well, shoot hit the fan. But the instigator wasn't the colicky newborn or the feisty diva, it wasn't the fussy two-year old or vomiting infant, it was:

MY Mister beautiful smile, happy-go-lucky, life is jolly, baby boy.

Go figure.

So as I scooped up Mister Nightmare, all I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, "more Easter juice, please!"

Non-Maternal Instincts

Another blast from my past (Nov, 2008). Instead of writing, I'm sprawled out on the couch, sippin' on Diet Coke and munchin' on Cheetos. {in my dreams}

Because week-old leftovers for lunch is better than no lunch at all.

When I found out that I was pregnant with my son, I was in utter denial. We were not expecting to get pregnant, not trying to get pregnant, and in fact, we were trying not to get pregnant. But I have learned that absentmindedness plus carelessness equals baby, and ready or not, baby was on his way.

So to be ready, I became a slave to Google. I joined every parent preparing webscription in addition to tracking the growth and development of my microscopic bambino via baby planning websites. And while I read endlessly about what to expect, eight months into parenthood, I am still far from prepared to be a parent. And I now realize that reading and researching are hardly enough as I failed to learn one important life-changing element about motherhood: cold lunch.

Yes, folks, that is my new reality: cold lunch. And by lunch, I mean any food consumption that occurs between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon, because as parenting will have it, lunch is never a scheduled or guaranteed event. It might consist of Mexican leftovers out of a Styrofoam container, or a frozen TV dinner that has occupied the far back corner of our pathetic freezer, or remnants of finger foods that are sitting on my son’s Bumbo tray.

But as each day is a new day, I wake up enthusiastically and optimistically pronouncing “today I am going to make myself lunch!”

Let me share with you what lunch is like on those rare days that I actually attempt to fix it.

Pull out ingredients for grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. Baby starts fussing. Sing Hokey Pokey while clamoring around in the kitchen looking for frying pan and spatula (the former is in dishwasher – dirty, the latter is in the sink from my husband’s attempt at breakfast – also dirty). Baby now fussing loudly. Sing louder in the hopes that baby will be so shocked at my obnoxiously loud and out-of-pitch vocals that he’ll stop fussing. Temporarily abort lunch mission. Tend to fussy baby.

Return to kitchen to prepare and cook sandwich. Phone rings. Answer phone (why did I answer the phone?). Realize sandwich is burning, cuss while speaking to very important person on other end of the phone, drop phone because now I’m flustered, and realize baby is now wailing. Wrap up phone conversation. Tend to fussy baby. Back to kitchen after baby settles. Flip and cook non-burnt side of sandwich. Baby fusses, again. This time turn off burner as to not burn other side of sandwich. Grab baby, and back to kitchen with baby in tow. Realize not good idea to fry sandwich while baby reaches toward hot stove. Decide to abort cooking and eat half-burnt-half-uncooked sandwich as is.

Sit down (if I’m lucky) to eat sandwich. Baby spits up. Back to kitchen for dishcloth to clean baby. Pour self glass of Diet Coke while in kitchen. Back to table to eat sandwich. Baby knocks over drink. Back to kitchen for dishtowel to clean up spill. Back to sandwich. First bite – crispy, smoky, room temperature, and undercooked. Say to-hell-with-it and back to kitchen for no fail meal – potato chips.

And I only have one child.

Dear Lord of all things good and yummy,

Let’s be honest. I don’t need a hot ham-and-cheese sandwich. I’ve got plenty of meat on my bones to survive two weeks stranded atop a snow-covered mountain (thank you very much). I’m merely adjusting to a slight misconception that I had before the birth of this roly-poly lunch-delayer. See, I thought that I would be enjoying delicious and nutritious lunches that I prepared fresh and promptly at noon while baby is quietly nuzzled in his crib allowing me time to sit in my neat and tidy house while reading one of my devotionals highlighting scriptures relating to peace, serenity, and blissful mommyhood. Somehow lunchtime at my house doesn’t look quite like that (assuming a time for lunch presents itself at all). But I am patient, Lord. I don’t have to eat promptly at noon. I could easily wait until two or even three, if that is a more optimal time for fresh cooked pasta and grilled asparagus. And until we work out this cold-lunch dilemma, I thank you for preservatives and all things pre-packaged, especially those found in aisle eight (better known as the candy aisle).

Non-Maternal Instincts

I planned, executed, and celebrated my little man's first birthday. And now I recover. So here's another post from the archives (Oct, 2008). Don't hate me for being lazy.

Yes ma'am, that is corn in my eyebrow.

My little man is eating now, and I mean really eating. Not just sucking or drinking or slurping from a bottle (or boob). No, he is EATING. Eating crackers, puffs, yogurt, fruit, cereal, rice, pasta, veggies, mashed stuff, pureed stuff, chopped stuff, cold stuff, warm stuff, not-quite-hot stuff, and his favorite – nearly-frozen stuff.

Combine that with two fat teeth poking out of his once soft gums resulting in a never-ending string of drool hanging from his lip, and ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a HOT MESS.

Cute, right? Yeah, it was cute, for a second, maybe. Now it’s a nightmare. And my sweet-and-tender, “oh look at the cute baby” mommy voice has turned into a constant drone of, “oh look, more green crusty crud in his hair, and in his ear, and between his toes, and oh look, my couch has speckled cracker crust splattered across it.” I’m covering the house in vinyl.

But the part that really irks me, I mean just takes me to a whole new level of mommy’s-gone-cuckoo, is that my son is not the only one layered in meal bits. Naturally a six-month-old cannot feed himself. No, mommy must feed baby. And baby reaches out and tries to grab mommy with baby’s mushy-crumb-encrusted fingers.


I kid you not, I disrobe every night only to find dried up sweet potatoes and vanilla wafers stuck underneath my bra and in my socks. Only God knows how this baby-food-in-the-undergarments phenomenon occurs, but it never fails that my son manages to cover me and all my 2000 parts in regurgitated snacks (isn’t it the mamma bird that is supposed to do the regurgitating?)

It’s one thing that mommyhood has caused me to revert to wearing elastic-waisted cotton sweatpants and wrinkle-free t-shirts, but must I look schlumpy and dirty? Honestly, on those rare occasions that I manage to leave this pigsty and enter civilization, people must wonder if I wash dishes for a living. Except a dishwasher is probably wearing an apron (good idea) and manages to wash, not soil, themselves.

I, on the other hand, am a walking dog biscuit, and it is a miracle that I have not been eaten alive. But then maybe the remnants of my son’s dinner are even too dingy for the appetite of a stray dog or sewer-dwelling rodent.

Dear God of all things pure and clean,

Why did you decide that babies should first learn to crawl, walk, and talk before they learn to properly feed themselves? I wonder if you realized that those things could come second to a clean and tidy meal experience. And in case you are still contemplating that decision, maybe you could rewire things so that my future children (if I dare) learn to carefully and meticulously feed themselves shortly after, let’s say, month six.

Or, maybe we could work something out similar to what goes on in my oven when it gets all yucky and crusty. Shut the hatch, lock ‘er up, and self-clean she goes! Babies can be self-cleaning, can’t they? My dog is (and thank you very much for that, by the way).

But in the meantime, help me to scrounge up the last particles of my patience so that next time my son flings mushy carrots across the room and it lands in my over-priced-shampooed hair, I grin and say, “eating is fun, isn’t it baby!” rather than beckoning the dog in hopes that he'll clean my son with his coarse yet effective dog tongue.