My baby is turning me into something I didn’t want to be.
I love Emmy, she’s great. The time we spend together is fun and wonderful. The best part of my day is getting up and spending those first beautiful giggled filled hours together.
Yes … the giggle filled hours. Those are fun.
Hey, did I mention that Emmy peed on my lap and laughed about it this morning?
I was giving her a bath and kept that little diaper on until the very last second, resting her in my lap as I undid the Velcro. She was uncovered for two seconds as I was turning her around to lovingly place her tiny tush into the little plastic baby tub when she took full advantage of those brief moments to pee all down my leg.
And then she laughed.
She also threw up on many, many things today. Not the least of which was about half the clean shirts I had in my bureau and all of my clean jeans. She also threw up on the floor, the cat, her swing, herself, her shoes that she wasn’t even wearing, the car seat, and my husband.
Seeing as all this primordial baby ooze is being thrown around at an alarming rate and most of it is directed at me, it is hard to find the energy or the guts to put on anything I’d care to be seen outside in.
And that wouldn’t be so bad … if I would just stay inside. But I don’t, I’m going out and about. I am running around the city in sweatpants and oversized grody t-shirts.
I’m becoming a sweatpants mom.
I don’t want to be the sweatpants mom.
I gave my clothing choices a once over today and found out that my post-baby closet is a far cry from the stacks of clothes that used to inhabit that too narrow space in my room. Thinking I would be more inspired to dress like a normal human being (and stick to my diet) I decided to bring up all pre-baby clothes from the basement.
Only … I had forgotten something. Something rather important. I lost a good portion of my clothes in what is now being referred to in my house as the great pregnancy purge of 2008.
See, when I was about eight months pregnant I came home on maternity leave and ended up with too much time on my hands. After I had cleaned my walls and given both cats baths, there wasn’t much left to do, so I had the brilliant idea that I should get rid of all the clothes that weren’t suitable for a mother to wear. My basic criterion was that if I would be embarrassed if MY mother wore it, I shouldn’t wear it.
I got rid of a lot stuff.
Bags of stuff.
In went the mini skirts and crazy low rise jeans. I finally got rid of that sleeveless t-shirt that read, “I was looking at your friend” across the chest in sparkle writing I’d bought as a freshman in college. Pretty much anything bedazzled was cast aside because I decided that it wasn’t cool for a mom to wear anything with fake jewels … even if it was a great shirt that had a lion head with RUBY EYES. I was afraid people would look at me and shake their heads sadly. They’d turn to each other and make disparaging comments. Comments like, “Oh, there’s Mrs. Myers, Emery’s mom … she wears ‘rubies’ on her shirt.” Just like her daughter has “diamonds” in her plastic tiara. I made the tough calls about tiny bikinis and separated my “I got drunk (bar name here) and (clever phrase here) t-shirts from the respectable ones that I got for free for filling out credit card applications.
