I have got this baby thing down, can I just tell you? Four months into the third offspring, and I GOT this. Seriously, this is awesome:
- Nap time? Well, yeah, the baby at this point should be taking one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and maybe a cat nap in the evening. I can predict it. Plan my day around it. I know this now. I KNOW THIS.
- Got a little case of thrush from breastfeeding? Well, just slap some jock itch cream on those miserable boobies and on with you, now. Maybe buy some stock in Lotrimin while you’re at it, ’cause that stuff is HANDY.
- You need a nursing tank? Special bra? Just talk to me, because I’ve been through ’em all and can recommend the best–no plugged ducts here! Oh, you want to borrow the tanks? Um. Just give me a few more months–say, eight? And we can talk.
- Paul Simon sang “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.” But did he know 50 ways to burp your infant? BECAUSE I DO.
- Green baby poop got you down? No worries, mate! It could be a virus, could be a horrible allergic reaction to something in your breastmilk, but hey, what can you do but wait and see? Just take it from me and chill already. I know it looks gross, but it’ll get better. Even if you do have to give up eating ice cream for the next year.
- Breast pads. Necessary, especially in public.
- You got a problem with latching? I’m like an unofficial lactation consultant, over here! Talk to me, I got it!
- I can clip those little baby talons–I mean, nails–in 30 seconds flat while keeping the little tot giggling. And I can warn you to keep your eyeglasses on, because a baby nail in the eye is akin to the pain of childbirth. Experience, people. EXPERIENCE.
- Baby clothes. Buy big, buy early. It took me three kids to get this down, but some things take a little more time, okay?
- I can strap that baby into one of three carriers faster than a pit crew at the Indy 500. Wait, I think I have four. But still.
- FOOD. Rice cereal, solids, baby spoons, all that stuff. I can tell you when to start, what to start, and what to expect. BOOYAH.
I’ve got three kids, you guys. THREE. Three babies and three rounds of diapers and three times through every single stage and milestone known to the preschool-age-and-under crowd. I am breathing easy, living large, cruising down Parent Street with a tank full of gas (mainly because the baby needs to burp–Ha! Get it?! “Gas”??).
I was sitting in the glider with Cian the other afternoon, nursing him before his afternoon nap (always around one p.m., until about 3:30 or so. Set your clock by it). I was smiling, smug with the assurance of a parent who knows the other spit-up-stained shoe is going to drop but chooses to ignore it, because, you know, you only get about five minutes of peace during the day so DAGNABIT I’M GOING TO HAVE MY PEACE.
And then, from downstairs, the voices came.
“MOOOOMMMM!! Saoirse hit me!”
“No, I didn’t! She pulled my hair!”
“SHE TOOK MY CAR!”
“I had it first!”
Yeah, I got this baby thing down, all right. It’s just the other seventeen years I’m worried about.