Bubba received a FedEx package from my boss the other day. It contained the following letter:
…and two pounds of lemons.
While TFW and I found them to be delicious, after just one taste Bubba decided these lemons must be destroyed like all the rest:
I don’t think a lemonade stand is in this kid’s future.
I like to think I’m an intelligent gal (humor me), but man do I love People Magazine. Celebrity-watching is a waste of time, sure, and the voyeurism is arguably quite creepy, but that doesn’t stop me from getting a little excited when I see that Jennifer Garner and those darling children ate dinner just two miles from my house last week. I’ve got my favorites, who in my eyes can do no wrong (Matt Damon and his adorably average-looking wife, Khloe Kardashian [don’t judge me], Alec Baldwin), and the ones I strongly feel deserve a smack in the face (Nicki Minaj, Gwyneth Paltrow, Alec Baldwin [it’s a love/hate relationship]). I love looking at the stupid paparazzi photos of these idiots out on the town, I love the superficial interviews and the “hard-hitting” exposés, I love the hookup and breakup rumors (I swear to God, if Matt Damon and Lady Average ever split up, I might cry)…it’s all one big delicious guilty pleasure.
That doesn’t mean I agree with everything these morons say or do, of course. In fact, a great deal of my celebrity gossip consumption involves copious rolling of my eyes (often accompanied by some serious tsk-ing), particularly when female celebs start yapping about parenting. More often than not, they come across as completely out of touch, condescending, or just plain dumb.
It’s great fun!
Enjoy the trainwreck along with me — here are my top ten favorite “are you serious right now?!” celebrity mom quotes:
10) “She’s my homey, my best friend.” – Beyonce, on daughter Blue Ivy.
No one talks about their children like that — this is the type of thing a teenager says about the cute cousin they babysit once a week. This does not make me think, “wow, Beyonce is a really dedicated and involved mother!” No, it just makes me think, “wow, Beyonce does such little actual parenting, she thinks this is what mothers sound like.”
9) “We have a rule in the house. Rule No. 1 is always to look cool, and rule No. 2 is don’t forget about rule No. 1. We have other rules … but the No. 1 rule is to always look cool.” – Heidi Klum.
Those kids will grow up perfectly normal.
shark hoodie, highwater sweatpants, and velcro Target shoes: COOL!
8) “I’m kind of scared of baby monitors, because I believe in the paranormal, and I believe ghosts will come through it.” – Snooki
To be fair, I didn’t read the rest of the interview. Maybe the next thing she said was “HAHA! I’m totally kidding; that’s just something I made up for a ‘things that are so dumb no human could possibly ever say them’ contest I’m entering.”
7) “I love the smell of diapers. I even like when they’re wet and you smell them all warm liked a baked good.” – Sarah Jessica Parker.
Someone please call CPS, post haste. A serial killer is raising SJP’s children.
6) “I do believe babies are born potty-trained.” – Mayim Bialik
Have you and SJP been doing drugs together?
that’s water on his pants, Mayim, not pee. I think.
5) “I would rather die than let my kid eat Cup-A-Soup.” – Gwyneth Paltrow.
I sincerely hope the interviewer spewed water all over Gwyneth when he or she burst into hysterical laughter upon hearing this pretentious nonsense. I want to move to London, find a way to befriend those idiotically-named children, get them over to my house for a slumber party, and then: CUP-A-SOUP FOR EVERYONE!!!!
4) “If the Lord sees fit to let us have another baby…” – Michelle Duggar.
Oh, honey. There aren’t any J names left, I’m sorry.
3) “There’s always a little bit of a discussion about how short the skirt is…or is there some cleavage showing. And I always say to her, ‘Do you want everybody to be staring at your breasts, or do you want people to talk to you?'” – Madonna, on daughter Lourdes.
And then Lourdes laughed and laughed, and wore whatever the fuck she wanted.
2) “We went into Prada yesterday and she loved it. It was as if she was saying, ‘Mummy, I’m home!'” – Victoria Beckham, on her infant daughter.
Ya know, like all babies.
1) “I was like, ‘Well, I don’t want him to think that the sex is going downhill,’ so now we’re on baby No. 4!” – Tori Spelling, on getting pregnant again SIX WEEKS after giving birth.
Do people really believe that you can’t get pregnant again right away? (Millions of “Irish Twins” would beg to differ!) Actually, a more important question: do people really have sex that soon after having a baby?! No one tell my husband, please.
The good news is, both Jessica Simpson and Kim Kardashian are pregnant right now, so…see you back here for Dumb Celebrity Mom Quotes Part Two next year!
After all the stressing, bitching, and moaning I did during the research and planning stages of getting dear Bubba off to daycare like a normal child, I must confess that I am finding it slightly embarrassing to admit just how fabulous it has turned out to be.
Wait, something I worried about wound up to be a non-issue and a total waste of my precious (and far too limited) brain space? Shocking, I know!
Shut up with your I-told-you-so’s, all of you.
We are now three weeks into our new lives as Daycare People, and not only has nothing terrible happened (yet), but quite the contrary: I swear my life has improved a solid 10% since making the childcare switch. Not only are we saving money — we’re paying less now for five full days of daycare than we used to pay for just four days of our beloved but oft-tardy babysitter (I was taking him to my mom’s every Friday to save money) — but in just three weeks those wizards over there have managed to accomplish something I wasn’t able to do in 13 months: Bubba now takes a 1-2 hour nap at the same time every day (even on the weekend!). I truly didn’t think it was possible — I had given up on this dream ages ago; I thought some babies just weren’t big on naps and I had gotten unlucky. Nope, turns out I’m just a terrible mother.
Furthermore, I have noticed a marked improvement in his behavior. Prior to starting daycare, I estimate that he paid attention to my requests/instructions maybe one out of ten times (and never when the instruction was to stop pushing the buttons on the damn cable box). Now, I’d say he obeys me (or at least acknowledges my request before forging ahead with his dastardly plans) at least 25% of the time! THAT’S A 150% IMPROVEMENT (I think; I was only the vice-president of math club in high school and if we’re being perfectly honest, I’m pretty sure I was the sole volunteer)!
Best of all, he really has the BEST time over there. Remember, this place is almost literally in my backyard; if I open my office window while they’re playing outside, I can hear him happily babbling and laughing and shrieking away. Does that make me sound like a stalker? TOO BAD! I’ve considered poking my head over the fence to say hello on my lunch break, but I think that might be taking things a bit too far — it might creep him out a bit, in fact. (I still might do it someday, though.)
And they love him, too — the employees send me photos and texts throughout the day (somehow they quickly ascertained that I’m insane and would benefit from constant reassurance), and his preschool “classmates” have essentially adopted him as a little class pet (he’s the only toddler amongst a gaggle of 4- and 5-year-olds; I basically begged my neighbor to let him join her crew despite his age and I am eternally grateful). This photo was accompanied by the text “tired after a long day of playing with the big kids!”:
I look at this picture every single day and its ability to make me smile has not waned!
So yes, I was wrong to have wasted so much mental energy worrying about daycare (I cried, you guys! Actual tears!). The question now is: do you think I might learn from this experience and take a more relaxed approach to the next parenting challenge that comes my way?
(The answer is no. Don’t be stupid.)
Thanks to my fascination with true-crime TV coupled with my inherent lunacy, I harbor a serious fear of being kidnapped, tortured, and (obviously) subsequently murdered. Every time I go jogging alone, I’m on high alert:
(When I’m running with the baby, I don’t worry at all…I seem to have convinced myself that a toddler and a jogging stroller are surefire deterrents to all manner of miscreants and malcontents. I never claimed to be logical.)
As you can see, I’ve really put a lot of thought into this — going running exhausts my brain as much as my body. But my fears don’t end with my hypothetical abduction and homicide: I have also done a lot of thinking about what will happen to my family after my untimely demise.
Specifically, I have a lot of concerns about the horrible wenches my darling husband could choose as my replacement.
“But you’ll be dead,” you’re probably thinking, “so why should you care what the hell is going on at that point?” OH, BUT I DO! I’m not going to let a silly little thing like logic prevent me from worrying about something about which I have no control! No, I’m really quite concerned about this. TFW and I have a very special relationship — I can’t be replaced by just anyone. And of course, there’s Bubba to think of — I certainly don’t want him to have an evil stepmother. And I obviously don’t want to be replaced by anyone better than me, either. Come on!
So like any totally sane and not at all crazy person would do, I’ve come up with a brief set of guidelines for TFW to follow in the (hopefully unlikely) event that I am met with a tragic fate:
And if you fail to heed these “suggestions,” I’ll haunt you from the grave.
above: murderer-repellant
No matter how young a kid is, people love speculating about little ones’ futures. Baby likes throwing a plastic ball? Look, he’s a future quarterback! Toddler cradles a doll? Oh my god you guys, she’s such a caring little mommy already! A few weeks ago one of my aunts heard Bubba belt out one of his trademark ear-piercing squeals of joy and announced that he was surely destined to become a singer.
(And now every single goddamn time Bubba cries, yells, shouts, or emits pretty much any sound louder than a whisper, TFW hollers “LOOK HE’S A SINGER!!!!!” and I kind of want to strangle him; this man can drive a joke into the ground faster and more thoroughly than you would ever think possible and he absolutely revels in it.)
I’m mocking this silly behavior, and rightfully so because it’s ridiculous, but I must confess that I have found myself doing something similar. My darling child is a bit of a jerkface sometimes, albeit an adorable one. He pulls my hair. He hits (I blame TFW for this one, since it was his brilliant idea to play “everything can be a drum if you bang on it!” with him). He cries when he can’t have whatever it is he’s suddenly decided he wants. He throws his food (and his bear…and pretty much anything he can pick up). He’s decidedly obnoxious and not at all considerate of the feelings of others.
I know this is all normal toddler behavior and none of it is done with devious intentions (I hope), but I still worry sometimes. What if he grows up and actually is an asshole? Or a bully? Or just generally insensitive and rude? It’s one of my biggest fears, right after freak injuries, chronic or fatal health problems, kidnappings, and dingo attacks.
I really, really value niceness. Growing up, I wasn’t particularly talented, beautiful, or athletic. I wasn’t a frequent winner of awards and I certainly wasn’t cool or “popular” in the teenaged sense of the word. I was fairly average in most senses, but I was exceptionally nice. Allow me to share the two best compliments I’ve ever received in all my 29 years:
1) In junior high, I overheard two girls philosophizing about popularity and what made someone popular. They both agreed that they didn’t care for a number of the kids who were a part of “the popular group” and wagered a guess that no one else really did, either. The word “popular” was a misnomer and had lost its meaning, they decided — all those “cool” people weren’t even well-liked. At the end of their discussion, one of them said “you know, the only truly popular person I can think of is Mo Ryan [that’s my maiden name, by the way, and yes, I named my son after my maiden name; it has caused some funny looks when people who knew me by my maiden name forget that I have a different last name now and think I named my kid Ryan Ryan like some nutjob narcissist], because she’s nice and no one dislikes her.” Sure, they were basically saying I was totally uncool — the implication, of course, was that it was absurd to think of me as popular — but they were sincere in their assessment of me as a nice person, and I was filled with pride to know that I was thought of in a positive light.
2) The summer before sophomore year of high school, I joined my friend’s family on a two-week vacation (during which I pathetically cried homesick tears every single night — remember my former loserdom! — but that’s irrelevant to this tale). A few days into the trip, my friend’s 7-year-old cousin told me that I was the second-nicest person he had ever met. Ever, people! And the all-time nicest was reportedly his tap dance instructor, so I can’t feel too bad about being runner up in that competition.
I wasn’t perfect, of course, and I’m sure I did my share of stupid, hurtful things over the years. But I did my best to be a kind person, and while I sincerely doubt my classmate’s assessment that no one disliked me (seems doubtful; don’t forget about all that crying I did all the time), at least I wasn’t going out of my way to hurt other people or being insensitive to people’s feelings. Unless I’m repressing some memories, I’m pretty sure I’ve never made anyone say “that horrible bitch Maureen is just so cruel!” (former love interests notwithstanding, of course).
And that’s all I want for my son, folks. I don’t need him to be a star athlete or a world-renowned doctor or a famous singer (all of the above are laughable anyway considering his genetics). But I do want him to be a nice person that doesn’t piss people off. I do not want him to be the cause of another person’s pain, and I never want to get a phone call from another mom telling me that my kid hurt her kid’s feelings. It would be great if his teachers report that he’s the smartest kid in class, but I’ll be just as proud if they tell me he’s the nicest (or even the second-nicest, if any future tap dance instructors are around to take the crown) child in the bunch.
So you can understand why all this maniac toddler behavior is concerning me. I cannot and will not stand for a jerkface child. Bubba better shape up — good looks (and extraordinary artistic talent) can only take a person so far.
(PS: I feel I must defend my child by noting that he’s actually very well-behaved for a 14-month-old and is honestly quite delightful to be around 99% of the time. I swear.)
I didn’t think of sharing these pathetic photos in time for a real Wordless Wednesday earlier this week, and I’m neither patient enough to just save this post for next Wednesday nor creative enough to think of a catchy alliterative title involving “Friday” (“Phraseless Photo Phriday,” anyone?), so I’m just rolling with it despite the calendar. Furthermore, I have no intention of actually refraining from using words, so a solid 80% of the title is a lie.
The part about Backyard Boredom is accurate, though!
Like most toddlers, Bubba enjoys exploring and playing outside. Unfortunately for him, unlike most mothers, I am a terrible human being and have done nothing to make our backyard remotely hospitable or enjoyable for a youngster. Poor Bubba has just a few options for outdoor fun:
Pick, eat, and throw lemons:
Carry around and/or chase a deflated basketball (which, as previously mentioned, may or may not have been left behind the garage by the previous tenants):
Pick up (and throw) sticks:
Climb over the useless little brick retaining wall thingy:
And of course, my personal favorite, wander around aimlessly looking for something to play with:
Someone send this kid a tricycle or something, please.
The scene: It’s the end of a very long day of work, daycare, and general baby-wrangling, and TFW has finally arrived home from his own tiring day at the office. I greet him at the door and practically shove the baby into his arms before he even has a chance to put down his keys or kick off his shoes.
I immediately begin regaling him with all the vexatious details of my day, culminating with my description of Bubba’s exasperating behavior over the past hour. “I’m fairly certain your son is clinically insane,” I explain. “He tried to eat the lemons again and got pissed off at their OBVIOUS sourness, then he bit my arm hard enough to leave a mark; when we came inside he kept whacking the TV as if it was an iPad touchscreen, and then he threw half his dinner on the floor AND PROCEEDED TO BE MAD THAT HIS FOOD WAS GONE! I am so freakin’ tired!”
TFW nods sympathetically throughout my little outburst. When I’m done, he waits a moment or two, then asks a follow-up question:
“Wait…how hard was he hitting the TV?”
I’m about to unleash a verbal assault upon him (seriously, that’s your takeaway from your frazzled wife’s rant?!), but then I think about all the joy that TV brings me (Baseball! 30 Rock! Seinfeld! Forensic Files! Smash! Idol! Survivor! WRESTLEMANIA IN HIGH DEFINITION!!!), and I can’t help but concur with my dear husband’s alarm: the well-being of that magnificent projector of entertainment IS the most critical of all my concerns.
We might have a TV addiction.
Of course, the bright side of our acknowledgement of our pathetic mutual obsession is that I immediately forgot about all the other insignificant annoyances that had been bothering me as I rushed to confirm that the TV hadn’t sustained any lasting damage.
Don’t worry: the TV is fine. WHEW!
(and yes, that is indeed an empty iced tea jug on the floor next to him…I swear he has real toys; I can’t help it if plastic jugs make the best noise when you throw them! Well, I guess I could just move the recycling bin out of his reach, but that sounds like an awful lot of work and I’ve got TV to watch.)
While reading a Beyonce interview today wherein she referred to her baby as “her homey,” I was reminded that the world is in dire need of a savvy, knowledgeable mother who can speak on parenting with both sensitivity and candor.
Unfortunately, you’ve got me instead.
Here’s part two of my answers to your parenting FAQs (part one can be found here)!
Question: Will I ever have time for my romantic partner again?
Answer: Yes! You’ll spend a lot more time talking about baby poop than you ever did before (unless you were some kind of lunatic, in which case I must urge you to rethink becoming a parent and in fact every single one of your life choices) and during the first few months you may find yourself wanting to strangle him at 3am when he’s sleeping peacefully whilst you have a small critter attached to your boob, but I assure you your love life shall not end. Hiring a babysitter every once in a while helps, and even better yet is to train the kid to go to bed nice and early so you always have plenty of time to snuggle up and watch WWE RAW together (or whatever equally awesome and totally normal stuff you like to do with your mate).
Question: Is traveling with a baby something that should just be put on the “nope, never” list?
Answer: I must answer this question with another question: would it bother you if an airplane full of people stared at you disdainfully for three hours while your child screamed his head off? Ponder that and you’ll have your answer.
Question: Does food really taste better when you’re pregnant?
Answer: I’m honestly not sure if food actually tasted better when I was pregnant or if I was just so ravenous all the time (what with that giant 6 pound baby I was marinating in there) that everything just seemed extra satisfying. Either way, eating was a delight and it’s one of my top reasons for wanting to get pregnant again! Is that weird? I would get pregnant again right now just to experience the true deliciousness of a giant corn dog once more (and no, that’s not a euphemism):
PS: if you get plagued by morning sickness, disregard this answer and accept my most sincere pity in its stead. You are really and truly missing out.
Question: Does labor hurt as bad as it looks (and sounds)?
Answer: Much like tattoos, anyone who says labor “doesn’t hurt” or “isn’t that bad” is a filthy liar deserving of a good old-fashioned smack in the face as punishment for their pretentious holier-than-thou attitude. I cannot stress this enough: IT HURTS QUITE BADLY INDEED! Don’t be an idiot like me: even if you plan to get an epidural, take the damn birthing classes anyway so that you have some strategies for getting through all those hours before you get the epidural. Otherwise you could wind up waiting entirely too long to go to the hospital and then grasping the nurse’s hand at 9cm and genuinely begging her to stop the baby because you “can’t do it,” and then the anesthesiologist will FINALLY get there and you’ll embarrass yourself by crying tears of relief at the very sight of his glorious needle. Oh, just me?
Question: What do you DO with a baby? Like, how do you entertain them? Are you just stuck at home all the time?
Answer: I was quite concerned about this one myself. As it turns out, it’s a non-issue! In the early days, you just pop them in the stroller or a baby carrier and you can take them anywhere you want (provided you plan a quick escape in the event of a cry- and/or poop-attack). And when they’re a little older, it gets even easier: toddlers really aren’t very smart, and you can entertain them with virtually anything. Bubba has spent at least fifteen minutes every day for the last two weeks picking lemons off the tree in the backyard, attempting to eat them, promptly remembering that he HATES them, and then throwing them as far as he can:
EVERY SINGLE DAY! I plan to continue this activity until he gets bored of it, at which point perhaps I can convince him that pulling weeds is his new favorite game.
(Disclaimer: I cannot yet comment on what you do with older children. I assume TV just takes over at some point?)
Question: Is having a kid really as expensive as people say?
Answer: Yes and no. Just not being a jackass who has to have everything brand new and brand name will go a long way; toys, clothes, furniture and other “gear” can all be procured on the cheap by shopping around or buying used. Even diapers and formula really aren’t that bad if you’re smart (pro tip: Target brand formula is exactly the same as the name brands and your kid totally will not die). Your biggest expense will likely be childcare. No sugar-coating that one: it’s ridiculously expensive and it sucks, and this is not a budget item on which you can scrimp (unless you want to send your child to the daycare I visited a few weeks ago, where an elderly lady and her daughter take care of ELEVEN BABIES in their tiny house and never even let them play outside; I got in my car and cried). Start saving now or marry rich: your choice.
Question: What do you do when you’re so tired you could cry, or your kid is acting like a maniac and you feel like you’re losing your damn mind?
Answer: Take a lot of photos and videos of your kid being cute and behaving like a civilized human. Then, at 4am when you’re rocking him back to sleep for the six hundredth time FOR NO GODDAMN REASON, you can flip through the photos on your phone and remind yourself that in a few hours he’ll be wearing a shark hoodie and playing peekaboo with the dog:
Congratulations! Just reading these FAQs guarantees that you’re already better prepared than I was when I gave birth.
If you’re enjoying my questionably “expert” parenting insight, hit me up with some more queries in the comments or over on the FaceSpace and I’ll be sure to address them in FAQ Part 33 1/3!
Like any mother worth her salt, I am wholly convinced that my child is exceptional. He’s obviously the cutest lad in all the land, and he’s probably a genius to boot (would a non-genius opt to chew on a book over some foolish toy?). And his athletic prowess! Surely the force and accuracy with which he throws food at the dog is an early predictor of his future career as a major league pitcher!
That said, I will admit that there are a few gaps in my son’s rich talent arsenal. For one, he totally sucks at using a fork. More troubling, his vocabulary is abhorrent. To date, I’ve heard him properly articulate just four words: baba (and we’re being generous in counting that, considering it’s really not a word), cookie (thanks, Sesame Street), yeah! (always delivered with with an exclamation point, no exceptions), and his favorite: dad.
Notice anything missing?
No mama. No mom. No mommy. Not even a ma! I’d happily accept a mumbled “meeergh” at this point, but I’m getting NOTHIN’. Meanwhile, I can’t go two minutes over here without hearing some more dad practice (“dad! DAD! Dad-dad-dad! Dada! DAAAAAADDDD!”).
What’s worse is that his fondness for dad (the word, not the man; I remain the favored parent and I intend to keep it that way) appears to be calculated, deliberate, and cruel. He knows exactly what he’s doing (I told you he was smart) and he’s drawing some sort of sick pleasure from tormenting me.
Exhibit A:
So until he broadens his lexicon, I’ve decided I’ll just be Dad.
After months of stress, research, planning, and heartache (yes, I’m dramatic), Bubba finally started daycare on Tuesday. I’ve been dreading this day for quite some time, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my worries were largely unfounded — Bubba was fine, and I survived somehow.
Anticlimactic, isn’t it?
It wasn’t completely smooth sailing, though. Here’s how the day shook out…
12:00 AM: Can’t sleep. My brain is torturing me with visions of Bubba sobbing in the corner while the caretakers are busy with other children.
12:30 AM: Still can’t sleep. Run through my mental list of everything that needs to be done in the morning, terrified I’m going to forget something and start the day off on a stressful note.
12:31 AM: Realize that the “list of everything that needs to be done in the morning” only consists of two items (dress baby, make baby’s lunch). My perception of a busy morning is somewhat distorted since I haven’t had to get ready for work and commute to an office in almost five years.
12:32 AM: Set a third alarm just in case. It could take a really long time to pack that lunch — what if I sleep through those first two alarms and don’t have enough time?!
6:15 AM: Bubba wakes up (meaning I, too, am getting up). Good thing I set all those alarms, totally needed them.
7:30 AM: Lunch is made and the baby is dressed! I did it — what a successful day this has been! Oh wait, we haven’t even gotten to the daycare part yet.
7:46 AM: Off we go! Bubba is getting concerned about why on earth we’re out in the stroller at this early hour…
7:49 AM: Arrive at daycare. He recognizes the owner and the toys but is overwhelmed by the kids (approximately twelve 4- and 5-year-olds; technically this place is more of a preschool but I cajoled my neighbor into accepting a cute baby into the ranks) and goes into hardcore shy-boy mode, gripping my arm for dear life and burrowing his head into my hair. The kids, on the other hand, are PUMPED for their new little mascot. They’re very excited to show him the class fish and the fun projects they’re working on, despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm.
7:54 AM: Time for Mama to leave. I hand Bubba over to the owner and start to say my bye-byes when the wailing begins (his, not mine…yet). I give him a few extra hugs and kisses and head for the door, praying he’ll get distracted by all the fun stuff and his new friends once I leave.
7:55 AM: I CAN STILL HEAR HIM SCREAMING FROM THE SIDEWALK.
7:57 AM: Somehow force myself to walk home instead of laying down on the sidewalk and crying or running back inside to check on him (both of which sounded like pretty good options).
8:00 AM: Log in to work. Briefly consider calling my boss to warn him that I may have to leave at any moment to retrieve my son. Realize that sounds insane. Resist.
8:05 AM: Still convinced I’ll be getting a call any moment to report that my son will not stop crying and to request that I promptly remove him from the premises. I put my phone in my lap so I won’t miss the call (because I might not hear it if it’s right in front of my face on my desk).
8:06 AM: Turn the ringer ALLLLLLL the way up. Don’t want to miss that call!
8:30 AM: Still no call…either he’s sitting abandoned in a corner or he managed to cheer up. Could go either way.
9:12 AM: Picture text received from daycare! “Hey Mom, I’m doing ok…eating CHEERIOS :)”
We won’t worry about how or why his face is already that dirty just 75 minutes into his career as a Daycare Kid.
10:56 AM: Woohoo, another picture text from daycare! “Doing yoga with the kids!”
The look on his little face as he tries to follow the instructions! The adorable way his little friend there is looking at him! Words cannot express my happiness upon seeing this photo. I’m starting to feel better.
11:30 AM: Open the window in my office so I can hear the kids playing outside. After a few minutes, I hear one of Bubba’s trademark squeals of joy. Remind myself how lucky I am that I found a daycare so close.
2:00 PM: Bubba’s back!!!!! (Due to a variety of boring reasons related to the aforementioned fact that the daycare is really a preschool and they don’t usually have babies over there, Bubba will be spending the last couple hours of my workday being babysat by one of the daycare helpers here at my house.) He is thrilled to see his mama (yay!) but is EXHAUSTED (obviously no nap occurred amidst all the excitement of his first day) and confused (“what the heck happened this morning? What was that place with all those strangers? And if I’m back at home now, why is this lady from that other place still here with me? And why won’t my mom play with me — I know she’s here somewhere!”). Much crying ensues.
2:00 – 3:30 PM: I get back to work and feel terrible as I overhear the babysitter attempt no fewer than six hundred tactics in an effort to cheer up (or at least distract) the baby.
3:30 PM: Bubba finally gives up and decides he might as well make the best of his sorry lot in life; relents and permits the poor babysitter to play with him for the last hour of the day.
4:30 PM: Wait a minute, it’s seriously only 4:30 in the afternoon? Hasn’t this day been going on for like 72 hours by now? At least I’m finally done with work and can reconnect with my dear lad at long last! Time for a few hours of quality Mama-Bubba time!
6:30 PM: Baby is sound asleep.
Perhaps a nap tomorrow?
Wish us luck on day 2…
The Baby Is Fine 