Poo Shrapnel, the Football Hold & A Promise Not to Always Write About Bables

I apologize, as this was written around a month ago.  Our Tiny Dreamer is much improved and has grown into a terrible amount of fun and general happiness.  Carry on.

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I’m working on a PhD in Fecal Analysis.  Realistically, I’m in the one-hundreds right now, as in, 101, 102, 103 – you get me.  I’d hate to think of what’s covered in the upper levels (parents of multiples, you are my heroes), but down here at entry level, I am getting schooled in the basics: Color, Texture, Frequency and The Blowout.  Later in the year we’ll get to: Solids, Diarrhea Preparedness, Diaper-Changing on the Fly, and Small Beads and the Infant GI System: What You Need to Know.  

I think the second year study packet comes with a prescription for anxiety meds.  It does, doesn’t it?  DOESN’T IT??

I’ll be honest.  This new adventure into small person co-habitation has been fierce.  Someone out there is popping out angelic cherubs: chubby, rose-cheeked babes who seem to spread rays of snuggly warmth and send the aroma of new baby sweetness wafting through the air (inspiring many to jump the baby broom, as it were).  This is not qualitatively bad, as we do need the population to amble forward.  However, I must confess to having a little bit of a complex regarding easy infants.  In fact, a friend and I saw a mom of newborn twins (1 ½ week old) the other day, and in response to my friend’s “how are you doing?”, she commented that she was bored.  BORED.

B

O

R

E

D. 

I have pacified myself by noting that life is not likely to be boring for long in her house, and for this double duty, my prayers go with her.  In his first couple months of life, my son was not boring.  I imaging many or most of you feel as though you have also gifted with very, um, exciting children.  So exciting, in fact, that they feel the need to shout their excitement to the rooftops with great strength and enthusiasm.  This leads to terrific conversations during which people stop me and say, “wow, your son was really going ballistic earlier, huh?!”.

Yes.  Yes he was.  Crazy, right?

Honestly, despite all of the madness that we often feel and his exceptional knack at peeing sans-diaper when we least expect it, our little Captain is a great addition to the family.  Even the cat approves, which certainly counts for something.   And though, truthfully, there were some things that were simply more fun before (let’s be real, folks), it’s impossible to look forward and not see him there, fussing, farting and yammering far into the sunset.  

Under Construction

I recall waking up on the morning of C and I’s wedding.  It was a dreamy, blue-skied, warm day in early September, and I had this thought:

It’s Sunday.

There was no euphoria.  No blissful haze.  No romance-induced fog.  No “jitters”.  There was only a sleepy, strangely normal, terra-firma confirmation of reality, of recognition: It’s Sunday.  And I have to pee. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my husband more than a fat kid loves cake (is it even ok to still use that phrase?).  I loved him then, fully and completely, though in a smaller way, similar to how you can occupy a studio apartment fully, and then somehow a two bedroom cabin, then a 2,000 square foot house, and then wonder how in the world you managed to get from A to B.  I loved him.  I was fully invested, only with different square footage.   And I hope that just like the Winchester Mystery House, we continue to be under construction until the day we die (in a blaze of glory, of course, together, base jumping, somewhere completely fabulous).

Stairway to nowhere, anyone?

With all of that said, I woke up that morning under no delusion that there was a glass slipper somewhere, and a prince waiting to wedge my hot, swollen toes into it, which would actually look really gross.  Yes, there would be a handsome guy waiting for me later that afternoon (and for every appointment/date/carpool/opportunity to leave the house following), but dangit, it was just another Sunday.  I had to pee.  Am I making this clear enough?  It was a day like so many others, and it was certainly starting the same way.  I will say that it felt strange and different that I would in fact, be getting married that afternoon: strange and different and surprisingly anticlimactic.  It's likely that someone out there has put their head in their hands and deemed me completely heartless, but I don't feel bothered.

And here we are.  I’m due with the baby we’ve been calling Swimmy on this coming Sunday (I’ve apparently cultivated a thing for scheduling life events on the Sabbath), and with absolutely no expectation of actually birthing a child during that predicted 24-hour period, I am still confronted by the idea that – hold the phone – this writhing, aquatic, and so far cooperative being will soon be spit out into the world and onto the map of our lives, pink and screaming and primed to deliver some exceptionally nasty poop.  I am pretty sure that it will be simply another day, as extraordinary as the events will likely feel.  And if I were a betting woman, I would wager that at some point I will find myself thinking, “How in the world did this just happen?”

This is life though, isn’t it?  I can’t begin to number the conversations with friends or family or perfect strangers that have included that sort of phrase.  How did I get here?  When did this all happen?  We don’t suddenly wake up with 3 kids and a dog, a corner office, a career as a newscaster, or government food stamps in our wallet, but sometimes it feels that way.  As much as C and I have tried to prepare for a child in practical ways, you know – with a crib, blankets, therapy sessions on tape – I’m realizing that we cannot

                                                                 really 

                                                                         be 

                                                                            prepared.  

      

source

No more than a person could ready him or herself for an alien invasion or for finding zero peanut butter at the grocery store could we ready ourselves for the person that is about to land his rocket ship in the middle of our living room.  

In light of all of this, the mantra that I have been continuing to tell myself is:

Don’t sweat it.  

Don’t lose your mind over the things you can’t even wrap it around, and quit thinking you can hold back the Pacific Ocean with a couple of sandbags.  It’s huge.  It’s coming.  It's unstoppable.

So bowl me over, little guy.  Land your rocket ship in my living room and poop on our carpet.  Make me wonder how in the world we got here.  And grow our love-house an extra room, while you’re at it.