Wordvomit (And Also, Perspective)

Yesterday, I was in the UPS store (where I seem to spend a lot of time. What is that? It’s almost as bad as the Quizno’s people knowing my order.), with Dane, when in walked a woman with a tiny baby in a car seat. She sat her car seat next to mine and we had the obligatory is it your first, etc. conversation. She was pretty well put together but she still had that newmommy shell-shocked look around her eyes, and so she says her baby is eight weeks and I tell her Dane is eight months and then, in yet another life moment in which my mouth went completely off on its own without asking permission or even giving me notice it was about to wordvomit, I said:

“It gets better, I promise.”

And I thought, oh hell, now I sound like a total pretentious ass and I suck as a human being (etc., etc.) and she’s going to smile politely and start studying the UPS postage chart like it’s US Weekly or something, but instead, I kid you not, her face sort of crumpled and I thought she was going to burst into tears. And then I thought I was going to burst into tears, and the guy behind the counter who looks like a grandatherly sort but is really kind of an ass was going to ask us to leave before we got snot all over the display of padded envelopes and boxes and bubble wrap. And then she says (in what I suspect was also a sort of word vomit):


And up until that point, the encounter had been a little endearing if also showing my pretentious-obnoxious side, and if only my mouth could’ve waited one second, ONE SECOND, y’all, I might have found exactly the right encouraging thing to say and her whole day (or at least the next half an hour) would’ve been made brighter and more hopeful. But instead, in a remarkable showing of double wordvomit in less than sixty seconds, I cocked my head and smiled and then the smile went all awry and I said:

“Six months.”

Yes, that’s right. I chose what might be the absolute worst moment in my life history to choose harsh and unrelenting honesty over kindness and fudging the truth. Her face, I swear to you, fell farther than Mariah Carey’s career after Glitter (which, by the way, being a movie about sparkly butterflies is probably just the thing I would like right now. But I digress). And then I realized what my mouth had done (completely independent of my brain) and I’m all backpedaling about how every baby is different and we had feeding issues and Dane didn’t gain weight and I have a sister-in-law who’s ten-week-old baby is already sleeping through the night, and even though she’s listening (and honestly, listening with a look on her face like she’s gulping in all the adult conversation she can stomach, poor, unlucky woman to be getting that convo from me ) I can see the exhaustion in her eyes and all I can think is seriously, could I be any more of an ass? I signed my receipt semi-backwards and raced out the door so that she actually took a step after me to finish her sentence. When I got to the car I had that argument with myself about how I should maybe go back in and offer her my phone number in case she wanted to get together or needed any help and did I just miss the opportunity to make friends with someone who could potentially live around the corner and loves margaritas and Las Vegas (the town, not the old tv show) and bad reality television? But in the end, Dane was all latched in and I felt bad enough already for not being more helpful and I didn’t want to make it any worse, and so I just started the car and went home. But:

It’s kind of amazing to not be the brand new mommy anymore, because I still feel like the brand new mommy. While I have clearly demonstrated I am not yet good at being the experienced, reassuring mommy, I’m not the completely exhausted, still trying to cobble together four hours of consecutive sleep mommy, either (most of the time, PLEASE KARMA DON’T SMITE ME). And it was amazing and even kind of empowering to have someone look at me like I might actually know what I’m doing.  Poor, misled, exhausted mommy, but still. WHOOP, y’all.


Today in the Mommyhood, Day 239, Part II

Ah, yes. Here we go:

Today in the mommyhood, I realized that I spent my entire lunch (detailed below) wearing a large, highly obvious white spot of rank-smelling spit-up on my left shoulder. I smell like a sour, fermenting cow. How did I miss this? Maybe THAT’S why our waiter was in such a foul mood. Regardless:

Mommyhood 1 – Mommy Su-Su 0

Today in the Mommyhood, Day 239

I’ve been on a profanity kick lately. It’s like I’ve emerged from the newborn-first-time-mommyhood stage and regressed all the through my (early) thirties and twenties and gone right back to college. Which should be fun, except in college I could drink more than one beer without feeling like someone was banging on my brain with a ball-peen hammer. But I digress:

Today in the mommyhood, at a really fun lunch with really bad service, in which Dane sat up in a high chair for the first time and was totally digging it, too, I dropped a massive – and I mean, MASSIVE – f-bomb in front of one friend’s nine-year-old daughter and another’s five-year-old son.

NICE, Su-Su.

Mommyhood 1 – Mommy Su-Su 0

On the other hand, the cuteness of this is not to be denied:

Mmmmm, Mommy, that brisket looks GOOD.
I’ll take the credit for that, thank you very much.
Mommyhood 0 – Mommy Su-Su 1

What Color is Anxiety, Anyway?

*Addendum (which I know goes at the end but that doesn’t work on a blog very well, and also, I just really like the word): I should never post about anxiety without (1) eating, (2) exercising or (3) drinking heavily. Life is way better after a run and some Chik-Fil-A (and some coconut rum, but I’m fresh out of the Captain. Maybe tomorrow.). Actually, everything’s better after some Chik-Fil-A.

I’ve been feeling so good these last few weeks. Dane’s been on a pretty consistent sleeping schedule (in his crib, even!), he’s eating well and gaining weight and is all active and trying to crawl and such, and so lately I’ve been congratulating myself for being the best mommy on the block, and then these last few days, BAM, I go to playgroup and realize that even though Dane looks huge to me, he’s still only the size of a five-month-old in the 95th percentile, and then I get a few comments about how tired he looks and start questioning our sleep schedule, and all of the sudden here I am trying to restrain myself from calling the pediatrician, my sister, my mother, Dr. Weissbluth et. al. and the Wake County fire department. I know you can’t compare your child to other children and every child develops differently and there’s nothing wrong with having a tiny little baby boy as long as he’s growing and developing like Dane. I know we’re blessed and I know he’s healthy, I really, really do. It’s not like I’m trying to let this stuff bother me, or looking for something to worry about (like my parents used to tell me). It just gets me sometimes, you know?

Screw this. I’m going for a run.


Warning: I’m in a weird capsy mood today so there are random asides here, all in caps, just for the fun of it.

So today (*actually, yesterday, because this post was bugging me and so I’m editing*), I’m going to recount a story that does not belong to me, and let me add, oh, how I love to rip off stories. Just wait until I get to the one about the stroller that rolled down the hill into the interstate, YES THAT’S RIGHT I SAID THE INTERSTATE (skip to the end: baby survived because of crack maneuvering of a SCHOOL BUS. seriously, you can’t make this stuff up.). But I’ll save that for another day when I’ve either had zero sleep or my writing brain has completely shut down.

My sister, whom I have previously mentioned re: Brook Shields, etc., etc., has three kids: Bear (boy, 7), Cakes (girl, 5) and Gracie (girl, 21ish months) (also, yes, I have changed their names WE ARE NOT THOSE PEOPLE WHO NAME THEIR KIDS CRAZY STUFF LIKE ALFALFA HYPERGLOW. but if you are one of those people, I completely respect you, really, NO INTERNET FRIEND PANDERING HERE LOOK AWAY.). Anyway, so she and Cakes and Gracie were out at Wendy’s with some friends, and their friends own a minivan of the species in which the door slides open and closed of its own volition (which by the way freaks me out, like those crazy cars that park themselves WHO’S DRIVING THIS TRAIN?). Gracie, who is a ray of edible yummy sunshine, was standing by the minivan and she and Cakey were examining their friends’ toys or floor mats or the gum under the seat, I dunno, when my sister heard this:


Sure enough, sweet yummy Gracie had done a faceplant into the edge of that sliding door (which, at least, was in a stationary position at the time). My sister, with her kung fu mommyreflexes, scooped Gracie up and was inside setting up a portable triage center with napkins and ice and plastic flatware before Gracie’s forehead had even bruised. She ended up swollen to the size of a small melon and imprinted with the inner workings of a minivan sliding door, but did not (miraculously) bleed. Not that this made the situation any better. Doctors were called, concussions assessed, sweet sleeping babies woken at all hours. She’s fine, other than that goose egg. But still. Lucky, right?

But that was my sister’s point: there is nothinglikeNOTHINGLIKE the sound of your child doing a faceplant or a bodily-injury-plant of any kind. I thought I was pretty tough before all this baby business came along (although perhaps you’ve read my other posts and are laughing at my self-delusion, uh-huh, right, THANKS.). Dane’s right at that age where he’s good with sitting about 99% of the time, but that 1% when he falls over backward or sideways and hits that sweet baby noggin is horrifying (despite the fact that he has yet to hurt himself, KNOCK ON WOOD RUB A RABBIT’S FOOT PLEASE KARMA DON’T SMACK ME DOWN). Almost as bad as the thunk is the silence immediately following, that one second where you and the rest of the world hold your breath before the giant-red-faced-open-mouthed-full-gum cry, because that moment is the moment of ANTICIPATION and I don’t care what anyone tells you, the anticipation is definitely NOT the best part. OF ANYTHING. PERIOD.

This is a Story About Poo

Let me be clear: This is a story about poo. It’s perfectly fine if you have no interest in poo-related stories. As a mommy, a solid third of my day (no pun intended) revolves around poo, so it’s hard for me not to have a few of these up my, ahem, sleeve.

So sometime around last Wednesday (ish), I stuck Dane in the jumpy seat (you know, the one that hangs from the doorway and spins around and in general presents a strangling, head-banging, life-threatening danger to my child, who loves it) and hopped in the shower (from which the jumpy seat is no more than four feet, less than fifteen seconds, away. Nothing to see here, baby cops. Keep walking.). So I shower and get all happy and relaxed as showers go, and then step out of the shower to find what appears to be goose poo on the floor under my baby, who is happily bouncing along without the slightest inclination of anything being amiss.

I can not lie: my first (slightly edited) thought was why is there goose poo on our floor? And then I realized it was, indeed, not goose poo, you silly first-time mommy, you. So I rush over, still in my towel, dripping water everywhere, and (as carefully as possible) extract Dane from the jumpy seat, and here’s where the story takes a turn in an amazing, I saw Jesus’ face in a carton of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter direction. In a completely unforeseen turn of events, Dane had managed to have a boomie that COMPLETELY BYPASSED his diaper. The diaper was not broken, leaking or incorrectly applied to my baby. No, somehow in the excitement and magic of leaping two inches off the ground, Dane had a boomie that leapt out the side of his diaper, fell through the very short pants section of his romper (just barely staining the fabric) and landed gently on our carpet. And the worst part is, all I could think of at that moment was when telling this story, how hard it would be not to end it with I sh*t you not. I’m trying, trying…

Nope, can’t do it. Seriously, friends. I shit you not. 🙂 Magic.