I sit down to my laptop and wish myself luck. Luck because naps have been touch & go the past few days and the odds are she’ll be up every five minutes wanting for her pacifier and a set of arms. Luck also because my brain is still a bit mushy at this point. I don’t even feel like apologizing for my mush-brain which is fairly out of character. I apologize for everything. Almost annoyingly so. But what else can you expect when the last full night’s rest I got was somewhere around six months pregnant and I spend the majority of my days interacting with a tiny human who is really more animal than human at this point? So, no apologies for mush-brain. We all just have to accept it and power through, I’m afraid.
This morning during one of those touch & go naps I had (one of a million) ridiculous mom-guilt moments. She had settled down a bit and it seemed like she was REALLY asleep this time. For that I was grateful as I had been needing to pee SO. BAD. for the past half hour without a window to escape. Once my foot stepped outside her door however, those little eyes opened and so did that mouth. To my surprise, my foot did not abruptly turn back but instead CONTINUED WALKING TOWARDS THE BATHROOM. I know. I know. “Oh my God, I’m terrible,” I thought. For all seven weeks of her life she’s never gone more than ten seconds of crying before someone (usually me) is consoling her. Mind you, that doesn’t mean she’s only ever cried for ten seconds — just that it’s at least being done in someone arms. I’ve never had such a guilt-ridden pee; every second felt like hours. Of course, while her sweet little face was red and wet with tears she did survive and hopefully no lasting damage was inflicted (I picture her in a therapist’s office as an adult, “It all started when I was seven weeks old and my mother chose the toilet over me.”). I knew everything was fine and OF COURSE you have to pee. It’s a basic human need and not all of us have our bums wrapped in adorable cloth diapers that are someone else’s responsibility — I’m looking at you, Rosalyn. But logic has no place here apparently and it didn’t stop me from bolting into her room the next time she cried out (they should have a Kentucky Derby for newborn moms, I think – “Grande Iced Chai Latte takes the lead!”). I spanned the hallway in a step-and-a-half, threw open her door, and burst into her room with a heroic triumph only to find that she was still sound asleep. There was even a perfectly scripted smirk on her little slumbering lips. You’re killin’ me, Smalls.
We’re taking her to the beach next week. Well, “taking her” as in we wanted to go to the beach and Robin is a terrible babysitter so we’re packing her up along with everything else. She won’t be able to do much beach-wise; she’ll barely understand what’s going on let alone remember it. But again, logic = no. So despite the fact that these hips need to find a swim suit (hoping for something more “hot mama” rather than “new mom” but I wouldn’t hold your breath) I’ve spent most of my preparations fantasizing about what she’ll wear while we’re away. I’ve already laid out her outfits and damn she’s gonna be cute.
That should surprise no one though. Have you seen this kid?