As the saying goes, there’s no sense crying over spilled milk.
Of course, if it’s 8PM on what feels like the longest day of your life, the baby has been screaming for hours, you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since August, you already have milk on your socks, and it’s the fourth glass of milk that has been spilled that day . . .
Just cry, man.
Just cry.
Floor gets cleaned, baby gets fed. Where I come from, that’s called ‘efficiency.’
Dear Analytical People of the World,
If you have a baby and are deciding whether or not to have a second/third/fourth/Duggerth, abandon your precious “logic” at the door. It will do you no good here.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
Sincerely,
Genetics
“What have we done? What have we done to our lives? Why would we do something like this? WHY, DAMNIT!? <<uncontrollable sobbing>> I haven’t slept. I can hardly see straight. Our friends are out there frolicking in sleep-in, watch football, go-to-dinner-and-a-movie happy super fun land and here we are, in this cage . . . that WE created. I HATE YOU SO MUCH I CAN’T EVEN DESCRIBE IT. WHY have you done this to me!? I knew my mother was right about you.”
“How could we have done this to ourselves? This is the ONLY kid we’re ever having. We’ll take shifts until she gets her driver’s license and then things will go back to their beautiful, normal, blissful, relaxing, child-free state of awesomeness. We’ll start charging her rent at 17 and straight-up kick her out onto the street if she’s not gone by 19.”
“I mean, even if I wanted to (and I DON’T, let’s be clear on this) . . . even if I wanted to have another baby, neither of us have showered today and we’ve both been peed and spit up on so many times in the past six months, this ain’t exactly like a sheepskin rug, a crackling fire and a Barry White album. No offense honey, but even if we wanted to, I’m not sure how we could possibly get pregnant any time in the next . . . like, let’s say 2 years.”
“I’m happy with our decision, honey. Really, I am. No, I am. I am. I am. I mean, I know lots of kids who grew up as only children and didn’t turn out totally screwed up. Lots! And yeah, I love hanging out with my sisters, and I know you love hanging out with your brother and sister, and yeah the holidays are SO much better with lots of family around . . . but yeah, I’m happy with our decision. Really, I am. No, I am. I am. I am. Love it. Love you so much hun!”
“What!? You don’t want to have another baby!? Are you kidding me? No, no. It’s okay. I mean, if you want to have one of those screwed up only children, that’s fine. I’ve wanted to have a second all along, but if you want to change that now . . . you know, maybe my mother was right about you, after all.”
Before I had kids, it absolutely made my stomach turn when parents offered my their babies to hold. It was nothing but awkward for me . . . and yet you really cannot say no.
When that happened, my thought process was always something along the lines of . . .
“How the hell do I hold this thing?”
“Isn’t there some neck support stuff I’m supposed to be aware of here?”
“Am I hurting it?”
“If I look at it wrong will it cry?”
“What do I do if it cries?”
“Should I rock it or bounce it or will that also hurt it? How does that work with the neck support stuff?”
“What if it pees on me?”
“Aren’t they like dogs and bees and can smell my fear?”
“If it smells my fear, won’t it cry and pee on me?”
“Well it hasn’t cried or peed on me so far, but what do they do, anyway? This is a little on the boring side.”
“How long do I have to hold this sack of meat?”
“Uh oh, its mother is watching me – quick, make faces and noises like you like her kid.”
“Hmm . . . that was embarrassing.”
“Maybe faces and noises but with less enthusiasm. More manly-like.”
“Wow, that’s didn’t work AT ALL. Now the baby’s upset and I’ve somehow managed to look even less manly. Now what?”
“Quick – find a grandmother or a single woman in her 30s. They’ll be all over this baby like Ke$ha on an unprotected shot of whisky.”
And now? Now that I have kids and another parent hands me their baby to hold?
Well, the only thing that’s changed is that I know how to hold it.
(Sort of.)
Before I had kids, I thought that a little cold or flu with a bit of a fever was really no big deal.
When our first baby had a bad flu and a high fever for the first time, however, our reaction was something along the lines of . . . .
OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD Call the nurse!! Call the doctor!! Call the vet! For shit’s sake, call SOMEBODY! Boil some water and bring some clean towels and the sharpest knife! Bring the car around so we can rush to the emergency room! No, don’t strap her in, THERE’S NO TIME!
Our second baby is currently sick with a fever and the current mood in the house is more along the lines of . . .
Sleep it off, kid. Thanks for getting me out of work.
After 4 or 5 years of parenthood, after all, it’s not as though you care less – it’s just more like your sharp-edged parenting instincts have now had several thousand sleep-deprived nights, sufficient to dull those instincts to something resembling C-SPAN at midnight on a Tuesday.
Which leads me to wonder what we’d be like if we had a third child . . .
ME: Honey, put down that knife.
HYPOTHETICAL THIRD CHILD: Gah!
ME: Please?
HYPOTHETICAL THIRD CHILD: Ma gah!
ME: Oh, whatever. Be careful okay? Daddy’s watching his stories.
Before I had kids I figured that it would be ridiculously difficult to wrangle babies into those cute little baby outfits.
You know the ones – those ohmygodsocute little outfits with the button-up shirts and the little socks and the baby khakis and whatnot.
I thought it would be ridiculously difficult to get kids into those things.
And you know what?
It is.
You know what’s easier?
A diaper with nothing over top of it.
And on Sundays, just extra special for church, a matching bib.
Cuz Daddy knows him some classy.
Before I had kids, I had no idea . . . but the Third Burp? The Third Burp is to be feared.
Burping your baby is necessary, of course. It can be a challenge with some babies, but then it’s just all the more satisfying to coax out that burp, and provide some satisfaction to your child after they’ve finished doing irreparable damage to their mother’s breasts.
In fact, it can be satisfying to the point that a parent may try to pat extra vigorously in order to coax out as many wee little baby burps as possible.
This is not advisable.
Burp #1
**uurp**
Parents:
“Oooh, that’s a big boy! That feels better, doesn’t it!”
Burp #2
**uuuuuurp**
Parents:
“Oh my, you did have a good lunch, didn’t you? Didn’t you? That’s Daddy’s big girl!
Birp #3
**uuuuuu . . . **
Parents:
“Oh god. Get the paper towel. It’s EVERYWHERE.”
Before I had kids, I couldn’t possibly have envisioned a time in my life when I would choose sleep over sex.
Now, I don’t know why one would even make the distinction, since at this point five consecutive hours of sleep would feel about as orgasmic as anything else I can imagine.
