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I Think Things. Maybe. Actually I Don’t Really Think Anymore; That’s My Thing. (Week 14)

I Think Things. Maybe. Actually I Don't Really Think Anymore; That's My Thing. (Week 14)



A day this week:

Yesterday when Daddy and I were checking out from Kohls, his zillion pairs of Dockers slung over his arm, you and a couple or twenty toys in my grasp, the cashier asked us an easy question:

“Zip code?”

Coolness, I love a good coupon; send away to 123 Not Telling My Address Online Rd., Smalltown, Missouri 6—-

“Oh, uh, gah. Crap. Good gah. Dude? Dude, what’s our zip code?”

Daddy and you lifted twin brows and turned to the cashier. He did the talking: “6—- is our zip code. Has been for”–he turned to me–”two years.”

“I was just testing you,” I said as we left the store.

Daddy put his arm around my shoulders and held the door for us. “Yeah, that was a toughie. Did you really forget our zip code?”

“Pssh. Pah-lease. Who graduated college in two years, with multiple degrees, honors, and a head start on graduate credit? Who won state math competitions like it was a cool thing to do? Who was All-District typing and– Yeah, I’m going to make somebody jealous.”

While you upchucked onto my cheek the sustenance I’d fed you in the dressing room, Daddy smiled, memories undoubtedly abounding of 80-cent burritos, intense make-out sessions, and sleeping through finals. He looked proud of something. So did you.


I forgot our effing zip code.

I swear it: I forgot our effing zip code.

Don’t even ask me for my phone number, anyone.


Another day this week. Or a couple:

We trekked to the place where when people run out of butt wipe they don’t have to ask about what’s growing in the back yard . . . where people can get a SPECIAL EDITION DQ Blizzard without having to map it out on their calendars and corral their animals to guard their homestead . . . where the air quality parallels that of coal mine and, “Holy crap, I just saw a cougar!” means something completely different.

The city.

Where Aunt, Uncle, and Newborn live.

You see, Auntie has had people at her house helping clean toilets and baby butts since she came home with your little cousin. In other words, she may think she knows sleep deprivation, but she has no idea.

Upon being at Auntie’s for a couple total weeks, I’ve noticed a pattern among moms, or at least between these two, upon having their first baby. I think it goes like this:

  • Intense emotions throughout pregnancy. Duh. The good, bad, and ugly, some more than others.
  • Excitement upon the birth showing it’s near, whether the symptoms were water breaking, Braxton Hicks, etc.
  • Rose-colored goggles falling off once real contractions make themselves well-known.
  • The feeling that death is impending once one is dilated to about a seven or eight.
  • Dissociation with body once one goes through ‘transition.’ Not transitioning into a vampire, but it feels like that. Because I know.
  • Relief when one starts pushing or is done.
  • Disbelief, overwhelming love, pride, everything good, upon baby’s birth.
  • Taking up residence in the Twilight Zone for a week or two, it’s easy to swing from ecstasy to blueness to complete exhaustion faster than baby can projectile spit up.
  • After a week or two, when Baby takes a nap or two less and has a lot to a little more to say, exhaustion and frustration (in my case, I’d get so frustrated with myself. Apparently you can’t parent perfectly. Who knew?) might pepper the love.
  • If help had been there post-delivery–say, Daddy, Gma, etc.–and is gone . . . feeling as if you’re one of those sullen cartoon characters slugging through the Zoloft commercial is okay. I hope. I mean, I feel better now. I focused on Little Man’s face, told myself this gets easier, that I can do it on my own and will. Trite and simple but true.
  • Weeks three to five were the most . . . ample in learning experiences  . . . for muah. The Happiest Baby on the Block is a godsend.
  • Six-ish weeks on: I’ve got this. Got it. I’ve got sleep, less diaper changes, less weight, and all the smiles, coos, and kicks to make me consider another labor. Ha. Haha. HAHAHA.
  • Three months and teething: I have no clue what I’m doing here.

Days from this week:

Little Man, you–

  • kick your legs. Kick-kick-kick.
  • drink milk and regurgitate cottage cheese.
  • poop once a day. ONCE A DAY. Life is bliss.
  • sleep through the night. I AM UNDESERVING.
  • sleep through diaper changes  if they’re at night.
  • love mirrors.
  • abhor shopping.
  • love car seats when Mommy’s not in the back, too. And my name is Michael Jordan.
  • get ‘exercise’ by Mommy helping you sit up.
  • make a thumbs-up and try to suck your little thumb, but it ends up being a whole fist in the mouth, a mad show-off skill come elementary school.
  • have added consonant sounds–”gooh” and “gah” and “g-/k-/l-/w-/m-/tee” and “kaasfoisodhfkoasdhsncoiex”–to your previously mostly vowel coos.
  • laugh at your farts because Mommy has taught you that they’re ridiculously funny and nothing to fuss about. You still strain to push them out sometimes, but it’s seriously funny business. (“Why isn’t it that funny when I do it?” Daddy wonders.)
  • are at the end of the onesies I bought for nine-month-olds.
  • hear things like, “HE’S SO CUTE! Is he, what?, five, six months old?”
  • still appreciate a baby straight jacket upon sleeping.
  • school every living entity in cuteness since the Earth’s genesis.
  • were in the womb a year ago. Mommy was getting up an hour after she went to bed to teach summer school. There was, because I didn’t know about you, a good amount of organic coffee in my mornings. And trying to get it across to kids that reading is SO MUCH COOLER than the games on their iPhones.
  • think your Uncle is quite funny. Daddy too, of course. Mommy gets smiles but rarely giggles like that of which your fellow shiny head gets:

happy baby

laughing baby




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