Keep the Diaper Bag Packed

When I was 8 months pregnant with Thing 2, I was exchanging horror stories with a coworker who was pregnant with her first. She is one of those women who runs marathons and grows all her own food and serves on committees and probably is really a body snatcher from another planet. Realizing I was a straight shooter, she asked "What is the hardest thing about being a new mom?"

           
 I said, “Sacrificing all personal agendas. Like going out when you want. Or going anywhere when you want. Or just going. Anywhere. To do anything.”

            
She looked politely puzzled, “I have heard that is hard. Why is that? I mean, you keep a diaper bag packed and ready to go, so why can’t you just walk out the door?”

           

            
I blinked at her out of my sleep deprived eyes. “Ummmm….hmmmm….good question…why hadn’t I thought of that, just keep the diaper bag packed….good idea…”

            
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that THIS is what happens when you try to go somewhere with an infant:

You wait for the infant to wake up.

You dress the infant in clean clothes. The infant thinks you are trying to kill it by exposing its skin to the air.

 You feed the infant. As stated in previous post, you are paralyzed while nursing and can do nothing else.

You lay it down so you can get dressed. This is when you realize that all your clean socks are in the dryer. In the basement.

With infant on hip you dig out infant jacket from behind couch, and attempt to put on your shoes.

You get one shoe on and grab your purse. Infant vomits the excess milk you just fed it all over its outfit, must change their clothes.

Put on second shoe and infants jacket/snowsuit/hat etc. while infant cries and you mutter over and over “It’s ok, you’re ok, Mommys here, your ok, it’s ok…”

You place the unconvinced infant into their car seat and look for the purse you were just holding.

You find the purse under infant's dresser and look for pacifier.

Infant is strangely quiet when you enter the room, and you think you might just make it out the door.

You get one arm in your coat when you hear the grunting. Yup, here comes the poop face. You want to ignore it. You do. But you know that if you do the chances of fecal matter leaking through everything are greatly increased.

SO you take infant out of car seat, strip off snowsuit/coat/hat etc. Remove your coat. Remove recently clean infant clothes. Remove blow out diaper. Clean butt, feet, legs, and back of child.  Put on clean diaper. Throw out soiled diaper and 200 dirty wipes. Wash hands. Find clean outfit. Put outfit/coat/snowsuit on infant. Find shoes. Grab purse. You are going NOW, damn it. You are an adult and you will not be defeated by this very very tiny pseudo person.

Pick up infant. Infant smiles at you and throws up down your cleavage. This is when you look at the clock and realize that in 15 minutes it will be time to start putting infant down for second nap. Which is exactly when you would be arriving at the grocery store if you left RIGHT THAT SECOND. Which isn’t going to happen unless you go with warm squishy vomit in your bra. You and infant stare defiantly at each other.  You take off your shoes, change your shirt, sit down with your now sweetly cooing infant and decide that you really don’t need bread.

So yes, it is a brilliant idea to have that diaper bag packed and ready. If you get to the stage where you are actually walking out the door.  And you didn’t run out of diapers late last night and use up the two you keep in the diaper bag. Or have a toddler to dress too.  And you don't care if you are wearing socks.

Zombie Children

   I once believed I would never let my children watch television until they were, say, 12 or so. Then I was stuck at home with a new baby for three months in the dead of a Minnesota winter and figured she didn’t even know what was going on yet, so it didn’t count. I stumbled onto a cartoon network,  and I noticed  my colicky-baby-from-hell-Thing 1 was alarmingly NOT screaming, but staring zombie-like at the screen. At that moment I decided I would rather have zombie children than, say, werewolf-banshee children. And here we are.

            
The day now begins with  “JUICE TIME!”, followed by “Watch’a Show! Watch’a Show! Mommy, Watch’a Show!”, at which point I sleepily ask, “What do you say?” in a vain attempt to redeem my parenting.  

Thing 1 then turns long suffering eyes on me as if perhaps my hearing is already going and yells, “WATCH’A SHOW!!!” 

This is when I break out my best mom voice, “How can you ask nicely?”  

Comprehension: oh, right, that trick; “Please,” with an angelic face and a sign language gesture to sweeten the deal.  Sigh. 

This morning was Back Pack Jack from the library (I do not recommend.) all about trucks, recycling, garbage removal, etc.  Unfortunately, the only 10 minutes she likes is when they crush cars. Naturally. As I stumble around (with Thing Two wailing on my shoulder because the lactose gas in her stomach is obviously trying to murder her), attempting to use the bathroom and check my email, every 10 minutes there is a heart wrenching cry from the living room, “Smoosha da cars? Smoosha da cars. Skip to Smoosha the cars?! PLEASE! SMOOSHA DA CARS?!” By now she has found me and is staring at me with intense desperate eyes. Must. Smoosh. A. Da. Cars. Here is where I really fail as a parent. Instead of teaching my child that she needs to watch the show until the end or find something else to do, I push the damn skip button right back to that smooshing car machine and buy myself another 10 minutes. 

            
As I finally get a clean shirt over my head and am looking for some pants, Thing One finishes her juice, and begins hyperventilating and running in circles yelling, “More Juice! More Juice. More Juice? MORE JUICE! GIVE ME JUICE OR GIVE ME DEATH!!!!!" I am heading for the fridge when Thing Two expertly turns her head and vomits down my clean cleavage, and I contemplate faking a nervous break down so I can go somewhere quiet.