Being a stay-at-home mom was all fun and games when there was also a stay-at-home dad in the house. Now, the only game I’m playing is a solo round of Russian Roulette. You know, you think you’re fully recovered from surgery, until you’re forced to spend your day chasing after a 20 lb speed demon in order to keep her from killing herself. Which seems like a lot of effort for a child that I’m not even sure is mine. At least she was able to answer the age-old question of what Patrick Sullivan would look like if he were two feet tall and had a vagina.
In any event, the perils of stay-at-home-momdom was just one of many realizations I’ve come to over the course of the last month, so I figured I’d share these revelations with you, so that you can all share in my newfound wisdom.
1. Sh*t gets weird when you have kids. The other day, I found a cheerio lodged in my underpants. Which was strange, because I normally don’t wear underpants. Children, they change you.
2. I love Blue Apron. In a Glenn Close Fatal Attraction kind of way. I could eat that stuff every night of the week, so long as someone else prepared it. At this point, I honestly feel as though they should hire me as their spokesperson. After all, every Subway needs a Jared…minus the child porn.
3. Exclusive pumping is hard. Sure, pumping seemed like fun when it was just the casual fling that I rendezvoused with occasionally over the course of my breastfeeding relationship with Brooke. But now that it’s moved in and purchased Tobasco instead of Texas Pete? It’s the worst. While my nipples are somewhat less cracked, they are certainly no less sore. If anything, they may be more so. Each time they attempt to cram themselves into the flanges in rhythmic, painful fashion, I feel like I’m watching Michael Jordan squeeze down the golf course hole in Space Jam. And in the end, they’re left looking like they were in a very one-sided fight. I mean, one of my nipples now looks straight forward, while the other looks awkwardly off to the side. They’re like the Stuart Scott of mammaries. And yes, I know that it’s simply due to the lazy way that I hold the flanges (one-handed) and that it’s quite a fixable problem, but unless someone is going to give me a third hand to navigate Netflix with, I’m at a loss. Otherwise though, my boobs do look great. In fact, this might be the best my body has ever looked. After all that I’ve been through, I like to think of it as the universe finally throwing me a bone — something I hope my husband will also be doing later.
4. Steri-strips are no joke. 5 weeks post-surgery, and I still have marks where they once were. They’re like the world’s worst tattoo. And by that, I mean the world’s second worst tattoo, because I once got Memphis slang for “to party” tattooed on my foot.
5. Publix does not sell Proganix Quench. I know that this may not seem like some grand revelation, but it is if your hair closely resembles Troy Polamalu’s pre-Head and Shoulders. Anyway, I was forced to buy John Frieda’s latest Frizz Ease shampoo and conditioner, and I quickly discovered that it smells like the perfume I wore in my preteens. Read: Like a Jersey girl. In the 90s. In case I’m still not making myself clear, do. not. buy.
6. Preemies are small. And yes, that should be obvious, but I don’t think you can properly appreciate just how small they are until you’ve held one. Blake seems so fragile to me that I honestly worry that she may break at any moment. She’s like a tiny, white Derrick Rose.
7. I’ve amassed a tremendous amount of knowledge over the years. I have so much wisdom to impart. For any young minds who may be reading this blog, take heed. When you’re in college/graduate school, make sure to do one thing. Drink a lot of beer. I mean, a lot. That way, you’ll be at your fattest when you meet your husband, so when, years down the line, you give birth to his baby and weigh less one week postpartum than you did when you first met, he’ll feel like the luckiest man in the world. You’re welcome.
8. Power 96 played the Thong Song this past weekend. I still like it.
9. Having a child in the NICU can turn even the most staunch atheist into someone open to prayer. While I consider myself more of an agnostic, I confess to not having prayed many times in my life. I guess I just believed that if I did it too much, it’d dilute their power and I’d use up all of my good grace. So I resolved to only pray when the need was greatest. Like when Miami was losing to FSU. That being said, that mantra went out the window with the quickness once my child broached those NICU walls, and I’ve found myself on my knees time and time again (and not just because of the forced abstinence).
10. I am addicted to having my husband’s babies. After two miserable pregnancies, you’d think that a third would be the furthest thing from my mind. And yet, the thought of having another comes almost as naturally to me as it would a Duggar. I am just so insanely in love with this man that when I think of bringing another person who is half him into this world, I cannot associate that thought with anything but positive connotations. Which is precisely why I am putting myself on three-month-long birth control shots, so that my subconscious mind cannot lure me into “accidentally” missing a pill.
And this brings me to my final point: Bitches be crazy.