It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I just spent a long weekend with a five-year old and a two-year old. (And by long weekend I mean: a weekend that lasted longer than two days, not a weekend that seemed long.) (Although there were moments.)
And those kids were funny and wacky and generally thoroughly enjoyable but…
I have seen my future. And it is whiny.
Also, its poops really smell bad.
This morning the Buddha and I were hanging out for a little bit. Life tends to be pretty hectic when I get home in the evenings, so I make a concerted effort to play with, read to, or snuggle with the Buddha every morning (unless I’m home with her that day because, then? Eh? Who cares?).
Anyway, she was on my lap facing me, and she kept smashing her face into my chest and then leaning back and looking at me. Smash and lean. Smash and lean. Smash and lean.
I thought she might still be hungry so I offered some boob. Not interested.
I thought she might want to chew on something, so I handed her a toy. Nope, not it.
Smash and lean. Smash and lean.
What? What do you want, Little Buddha Baby?
Suddenly, I realized that when she leaned back, she would look at me with a particularly mischevious expression.
Holy merciful crap. She was initiating a GAME.
So we played “Where’s the baby?” (SMASH) “There’s the baby!” (LEAN) over and over while she became more and more hysterical. Just fits upon fits of giggles. It was glorious. (Right up until the point when she let loose with a giant poop. Then…game over!)
How about that. A game. What will that crazy kid think of next?
On Monday I got into a car accident.
On Tuesday I got a really terrible haircut.
The car accident was minor, no one was injured, it was 100% totally not my fault, and it was the company car, not my own.
The haircut is incredibly unflattering, is too short to pull back yet too long to stay out of my face, makes the back of my neck itch, and was last in style somewhere around 1985.
The car repairs are being completely taken care of by our administrative director and paid for by the other guy’s insurance company.
The hair requires two kinds of product and an additional 10 minutes every morning to coax it into something vaguely decent.
When I walked into the office after the accident everyone asked if I was okay and made a big sweet fuss.
When I walked into the house after the haircut, the Alias Father asked if I requested they make me look like a Republican wife.
Yes. I am definitely more upset by the hair.
Are you ready for this? I am about to take my bad mothering to a whole new level. A possibly negligent level. A level that could get some people’s panties in a giant wad and get me reported to child protective services.
But…
but…
but…
…it’s funny.
You see…
Well, lately…
The Buddha has a new habit…
Oh, never mind. This is one of those occasions where a picture truly is better than words.
That’s my daughter (can’t you tell by the cheeks?). That’s me she’s strapped onto (can’t you tell by the fact that you can only see about two inches of my hair and yet you already know it looks like hell?). That’s us at the bowling alley about a month ago.
And that’s my beer bottle she’s sucking on.
(As an aside: yes, it is totally possible to bowl with a baby in a Moby. In fact, it improved my score.)
(Another aside: nobody I was with saw fit to tell me that the Moby had gotten hitched up and my baby was riding around in a Moby thong. I noticed shortly after this point and fixed it.)
(Yet another aside: I don’t usually drink Budweiser but people, I was bowling. When in Rome and all.)
(Have all these asides sufficiently distracted you from the fact that my baby is drinking a beer?*)
I don’t know what to tell you. The girl has a thing for beer. She repeated this grab-and-suck maneuver at home a few days later with a Guinness.
And then there was the Cinco de Mayo party:
Look at the face. She isn’t even remorseful! She’s all, “Whatcha gonna do about it, huh? HUH?” Such a bad attitude so early. Where could she have gotten it from?
(And yet one more aside: do you think I should branch out from the black shirt + cardigan fashion statement, just maybe?)
I think we may have a problem developing. Or should I say brewing? Ahahaha.
Ahem.
Now, I know that some of you are all, “Well, the easiest solution would be to stop drinking beer around the baby, you dumbass.”
And to them I say:
You really don’t know me at all, do you?
*Okay, really, don’t get upset. I wiped off the bottle each time. She wasn’t getting any alcohol. Really.
Him: Would you hurry up already?
Me: Quit harassing me. You are such a pain in the ass.
Him: Oh, no. You already told the internet that I was the best husband and father ever. You can’t take that back!
Me: I CAN HIT DELETE.
I’m supposed to care about Mother’s Day, aren’t I? At the end of the day on Friday, all of my co-workers kept wishing me a happy first Mother’s Day. Random friends have been asking how we are celebrating. Even the Alias Father is beating himself up because he didn’t get me anything.
But I don’t care. I’m not one for Hallmark holidays, or even my birthday. I’m just not into the self-celebratory holidays. It’s not my thing.
The day care sent home a little bookmark with the Buddha Baby’s painted thumbprints and the saying, “Thumbody Loves You!” (Boy, am I sorry I missed that craft project.) I’m getting french toast for breakfast. We might have a family hike later in the day. And that’s about it. And that’s plenty.
Maybe I’ll care later in life. Maybe I’ll care when the Buddha is older and more difficult. Maybe I’ll care when I feel more taken for granted every other day of the year.
But right now, every morning I walk into the nursery and get greeted by a big, drooly grin. She clasps her fat little hands together and looks up at me with blue-eyed adoration and I feel sunshine fill my tired, uncaffeinated soul.
And that’s enough for me, every day of the year.
The Alias Father is a great dad.
I mean, I always knew that he would be a good dad. But I didn’t know that he would be this good.
The first day that he stayed home with the Buddha Baby when I went back to work, I could sense his panic. He only made it to 10:30 before he called me, pretending like nothing was wrong but really needing some reassurance.
The next week he made it until lunchtime.
The week after that he made it to late afternoon.
And then he stopped calling all together. Because he had it down.
Their days together are full of adventures. He takes her shopping, on walks around town, to visit friends. He sets up playdates, people. Playdates.
The Buddha Baby can’t keep her adoring eyes off him. If she’s nursing when he walks by, she pulls off to watch him go across the room. Tickle games are funnier when he’s the one tickling. When he carries her around, she sits up proud like a queen on his arm, one pudgy little hand resting on his neck.
Being a parent has made him…not a better husband, exactly, because he’s always been grand, but more of a team player. It has made us both team players. We fight less, split chores more, and don’t keep score as often. When I come home from work late to an almost-ready dinner instead of a “Hey, what are we going to have?” I’m so happy I could cry.
He is, in short, a champ.
Why am I telling you this? You know there must be a reason. The Alias Mother does not dole out praise easily and without purpose.
It’s because he doesn’t know about this blog. I’ve never mentioned it. He doesn’t know that for over a year I’ve been posting somewhat intimate details about our life, our pregnancy, our child to the world at large. He doesn’t know that he’s been nicknamed the Alias Father, or that his kid is the Buddha Baby, or that I talk about my boobs this much. I didn’t not tell him to be sneaky; I just needed a little place of my own in the world. A place where I didn’t have to censor anything. Our marriage is one of separate hobbies and activities. We have our own interests. He goes off and does sporty things and I write ridiculous diatribes on the the internet. It’s what we do.
But lately I’ve been feeling, I don’t know, that this is starting to become A Thing. A Thing that is just hanging out there, becoming a bigger Thing by the moment. I keep thinking, “Should I tell him? Not tell him? Tell him later? Tell him now?” And once I started thinking I should tell, then, by default, I was now actively keeping it from him. Which didn’t feel right. I’m not a proponent of active secrecy in a marriage.
So I’m going to tell him this weekend. But before I do that, I wanted to let you know just what a tremendous man and father he is.
So that with a clear conscience I can say: Okay, yes, I told the internet that you had a big nose. And then there was that time I mentioned that you weren’t getting any. A couple of times I may have shown your tendency to say exactly the wrong thing. But, baby, I also told them that you are one of the greatest dads and husbands ever. And that’s got to count for something.
Honey? Welcome to the party.
I have my annual performance review in 23 minutes.
Does anyone else, despite all evidence to the contrary, always secretly suspect that they are going to get fired at these things?
No? Just me?
I guess we can keep “Confidence in Job” under the Needs Improvement section.
Today was another krrraaaazzzy work day in a string of krraaazzzzyy work days and somewhere around 5 o’clock I realized that I had forgotten to pump this afternoon. I thought about just waiting until I got home, but then I was worried that I wouldn’t have enough time and if I didn’t pump then I wouldn’t have any milk to send to day care tomorrow and then the Buddha Baby would starve. Plus, my boobs were huge.
But there was the problem of it being 5 o’clock, which is when the majority of my co-workers clear out for the evening. And I got very worried that while I was locked in the bathroom everyone else would leave and, not knowing I was still here, would set the building alarm. Which I would then set off when I left the bathroom. And can you imagine me having to explain to the nice cops that I really wasn’t breaking into the building but was instead locked in a smelly bathroom trying to pump milk out of my boobs?
So there I am, crouched on the toilet, double-pumping, leaning over and squeezing the hell out of my boobs in order to make them empty faster, adrenaline shooting through my system because I am convinced that I am totally going to get busted by the cops for pumping after hours when I once again I am totally shocked by the realization: they actually let me be in charge of another human being’s life.
This just ain’t right.
Tuesdays are the day I work from home. This can be challenging, especially since the Buddha Baby’s napping is terrifically unpredictable. Sometimes she sleeps for two hours, sometimes she sleeps for 20 minutes. This is my best time to get some work done, so as soon as those little eyes close I race to the phone or computer and work like crazy until she wakes up.
Which explains why, after my daughter drifted off while playing on the floor mat, I left her sprawled out in the middle of the floor and erected a half-hearted barricade of pillows so that the dogs wouldn’t step on her. Moving her to the crib might wake her up.
And then when would I have time to update the blog?
