Lucky #13. Face Sneeze.

I'm so glad that this is truly not a blog because otherwise I would be failing at providing, you know, stuff to be read regularly. But here I am again because this little experience was too perfect to keep to myself.

Last I wrote, I most often referred to our little human as The Tiny. We've come to calling him 'the bud,' or, when addressing him directly, simply, 'Bud.' So henceforth, you know to whom I refer.

I love all the bud's smells. When he was still The Tiny his little newborn farts smelled like peppery eggs and I loved it. I know that's probably gross to 99.99999% of people in the world, but THIS IS A MOTHER'S LOVE. I also love the smell of his little sweet head (maybe that redeems me a bit for some of you), and sometimes his face smells like Elmer's glue and I love that just as much.

And then there's the breath. A baby's breath is reeeeally something else. It's wonderful, and hard to come by. So whenever I see an opportunity, I take it.

Fast forward to the other day when I got the bud out of his crib after a nap. He was still in a snoozy daze with crib sheet crease marks on his face and was as cute as ever. I was holding him belly-to-belly, face-to-face with me. Then, the moment. He leaned his head back, opened his mouth - what a treat, a yawn! So I leaned my face in to the perfect distance, approximately 2 inches away from him, and prepared myself to take in the scent of angels - and...

He sneezed.

A Big. Fat. Adult-like. Sneeze.

In my face.

Then he smiled. (He loves sneezing, he smiles every time.)

I'm not sure what's worse - the sneeze in the face, or the let-down of not getting a whiff!!

12. A pop quiz.

QUESTION: At what point is an individual considered an official adult?

A) When an individual becomes a parent.

B) When an individual looks forward to having the heel for toast in the morning.


ANSWER: B. It's obviously B.

11

Putting socks on a baby is like trying to swat a fly. You might start with confidence - I'm a big person and that's an itty bitty fly. I can swat that fly. But the fly moves fast and darts in all directions. You're always one step behind the fly, following behind it like a ninny, darting this way and that. So you stop, collect yourself, try a different approach. You attempt to anticipate the fly's next move. But you fail. You might have even received a whack on the wrist by a flailing baby heel, which stuns you at first and then impresses you with how much it actually hurt. Hey, maybe this kid is a soccer player. Anyway. The only successful way to catch a fly is to trap it. Cover it with a glass, slide a piece of paper under it, and carry it outside to it's safety and your sanity. This is where the fly analogy breaks down. You can't very well trap a baby foot under a glass and let it fly free outside. If you did that the baby foot still wouldn't have a sock on it AND you'd be down one baby foot. If working with only one set of hands, my latest and most successful technique is to gather the sock between the index fingers and thumbs. Using the middle fingers, ring fingers, and pinkies, grab onto the knee and shimmy your way down to the foot and swoop that sock on.

Then reminisce about your college education and how it's being put to good use.

Ten: the one in which I capitalize a lot of words and continue my practice of starting sentences with 'and.'

I'm here to talk about nips. And breast milk.

I've gotten breast milk on a lot of things - clothes, babies (well, one baby), wash clothes, towels, sheets. Also my cell phone and my face. That's right, my FACE. Straight from the boob. That's right, STRAIGHT FROM THE BOOB.

When pumping breast milk it's important to get every last drop because BREAST MILK. It's worth about one billion dollars per ounce. One of my favorite mamas was sharing with me her pumping experience and in her words she would "squeeze 'em like lemons" for those last few drops. I've adopted this technique because BREAST MILK.

Now. Did you know that the nipple is designed like a fancy shower head? I'm talking about those shower heads that have multiple holes for the water to come out and all the little holes go in different directions. So imagine squeezing a lemon with a spigot like that but the spigot is actually kind of like a water balloon consistency and then whoops squeezed too hard at the wrong spot and that thing just flips backwards and boom - got milk in yer eye. And whoops wrong angle - sprayed milk all over the table and now my phone is freckled as if I accidentally left it out by the bathroom sink when I was spraying hairspray. We are talking milk spraying from boobs. WHAT?! This is real life. Real. Life. I am a mammal, pushing humans (well, one human) from my body and then feeding said human special juice from my body to keep it alive so it will grow and learn and think and change the world and reverse global warming and end poverty and stop all the bad kids of trafficking (including the kind found on the 101 South please and thanks).

So, okay, I'll take some of my own human mammal milk from my boob in the eye. But ONLY if The Tiny is for sure going to fix the traffic on the 101.

9th, finally.

The best part about this thing being a NON-blog is that the expectations of a blog being updated regularly doesn't apply. So here we are nearly two months since the last post and, and...what it is, too!

I was with a friend the other day and this little non-bloggy-blog came up in our convo and I told her the craziest part about this is that people actually read it. Ha! I mean, I write these things in solitude and no one proof reads them. Did I really talk about titties? My titties?? Publicly??? Yes I did. And I've decided I'll keep doing it - because sometimes boobies just need to be talked about (that's mostly a metaphor). Get ready, people (I'm mostly talking to myself).

8

Before I had a kid I used to notice that a lot of moms wear dirty clothes. I would wonder - did that spot JUST get there? Or did you [more likely] put that shirt on knowing full well there is a baby marking on it!! I mean LADIES - can you just choose a different shirt? Grab something from the clean pile instead of the dirty pile?

So…

I have to ask forgiveness from every mother on the whole planet for ever having this judgement of mothers. I know now that, no, you cannot just 'choose a different shirt' because a mother (particularly a new-ish mother) only has two shirts that meet the criteria for public wearing:

     1) The shirt fits well (read: the shirt flatters - if you can call it that - my BELLY FATZZZ & ARM JIGGLEZZZ)
     2) The shirt is fashionable enough to wear out of the house (read: it's at least slightly above the fashion police's Frump cutoff and if it's a maternity top it's not noticeable to the naked eye)
     3) It is easy to nurse a Titty Sucker in this shirt (read: this shirt won't flash my boobies and midriff to all the world when nursing the Tiny in public. And I know what you're thinking. 'Can't you just use one of those nursing cover things?' Yes, you can, and you can also have that thing slip off a shoulder and, WHOOPS! There's a booby. Or it will get whipped open by the flailing arms and legs "hiding" underneath it and, WHOOPS! More booby. So please, for the love of all that's holy, dear Tiny, can you just get the blasted milks out of these hooters and let's move on because Mommy's got some escaping to do at Target OKAY).

Furthermore, the "Clean Pile" and the "Dirty Pile" have now become the "Willing to Wear Again Pile" and the "Can't Pretend This Isn't Dirty Anymore Pile." Struggle is real, people. At this point you might be thinking, 'Hey, why don't you treat yourself to some new clothes?' To which I would reply - YEAH RIGHT AND FIND OUT WHAT SIZE I REALLY AM? And also, OWN REAL CLOTHES IN THAT SIZE? No way, man. Mama's got some more stroller strides to take before she gets in that dressing room.

Don't even get me started on the mutha trucking PANTS!

Seven!

Since having a baby I think a lot about all the adults of the world and what they might have been like as babies. I think about how every single person in the whole world has at one time had their butt wiped by another person. I wonder if they were good sleepers and if they cuddled a lot or not and when they got their first tooth. I wonder if they were fussy brats just like they are now. Heh.

At this risk of sounding blasphemous, I wonder A LOT what Jesus was like as a baby. Did Mary and Joseph have to sleep train him? Did he latch well? When did he roll from his back to his front? How often did he have a blowout? Did Joseph bond with him skin-to-skin? And if he was a perfect baby as I imagine he probably was, I'd really love to ask Mary about the reality check of her second kid coming into the picture. Also, when all the people met up with Mary, Joseph, and the Heavenly Babe in the manger, how did they wrap up their time together? Did Jesus wake up crying and they were all like, "Oh, um, I don't know, uhh... Well I guess we better get home now, it's pretty late." And you know Mary's got to be thinking, "Well thanks for the frankincense GUYS that'll be really helpful during those late night feeds and diaper changes."

So anyway. Here's one last thing:

The other day my husband and I were doing the sleep training thing and we were both glued to the baby monitor (which is silly because our place is so small we can literally hear the Tiny fart from the other side apartment - but this monitor has a video so we can see if he starts squirming…which really only robs us of a few more precious, blissful moments of ignorance before we start hearing the squawks - ANYWAY). Emmett was laying on his belly, which makes my husband crazy. Wayne is afraid Emmett will suffocate, like, immediately, if he isn't flat on his back with both nostrils in clear view of the camera at all times. So we're staring at the monitor and the Tiny's legs move and I say, "Ah! His legs are moving!" and Wayne says, "Good that means he's alive." As if he really thought our baby might be dead?! He did. He couldn't see the nostrils so he really thought our baby might be dead. This is just further proof that, even though we have a healthy, thriving, 4-month-old son, Wayne and I are still just two dumb kids figuring ish out hoping we don't kill anyone in the process. #teamwork #responsible #breath #hashtags