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Holy Cat in the Pissed-In Pants (Week 6)

Holy Cat in the Pissed-In Pants (Week 6)

parenting4.1.13-4.3.13

Apparently yesterday and yesterdays’ yesterday I was too busy being awesome* to remember to write down the days’ happenings and earth-shattering revelations (I did remember to photograph you and wipe your butt [not while photographing you; I don’t care if you’re ten days or ten years old, that’d be weird. Weird in of itself if you’re needing somebody to wipe your butt well into elementary school. But maybe not college . . . Hey, have some fun. Wait—you’re my kid; I take that back.]. I remembered to feed you and burp you and swaddle you and love you, though).

baby swaddled

Besides rooting you on as you made your poop faces, you and I practiced some action-reaction relationships. We’ve done a lot with action and reaction:

–You cry, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

–You wake, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

–You stretch, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

–You fart, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

–You poop, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

–You spit up, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

–You look all quizzical, I ask, “Want a boob?!”

Probably you look all quizzical because you’re wondering if your mom has any other reactions in her life’s toolbox. Most certainly I do, but this one has gotten me pretty far in life.

Last night I dreamt not of boobs or college or the combination thereof, but of the trickle rainwater makes in the gutters outside. Of showering. Of running through the creek in the woods. Somebody stop my rebellious subconscious before it gets me into trouble, would you please?! So yeah. There was this theme of trickling and lo and behold it was probably inspired not by my peeing my pants or anything (what, no) but by the way too friggen peaceful alarm Daddy set that said WAKE UP TO FEED LITTLE MAN. Ambrosial light spring trickles hold such promise for jolting new parents out of their alpha waves, Daddy must have wisely thought; it’ll surely communicate the utmost important need to feed our helpless infant immediately.

Uh-huh.

Although usually you, Little Man, wake me before said alarm. Well before said alarm.

But you slept.

And I slept.

And Hobble slept.

And the four dogs and cat in the kitchen slept.

And the creatures in the woods slept.

Even this house’s Socksnatchers slept.

Everybody slept.

So come the sun over the hills and through the windows I am going to clean soon (LOL), you woke up with a look on your face that said, “What the fudge, Mommy, WTF? WHY DIDN’T YOU FEED ME? DON’T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE?”

At this point, sitting in puddles of breast milk on the sheets, my boobs full of rocks, Little Man whimpering (read: bawling. Howling. Hyperventilating. Yeah, I SUCK.) in my arms, I croaked out a weak, “Want a boob?”

And?

You put your palm to my face, shook your head, and waddled toward the fridge.**

baby learning

baby and daddy

*April fools!!!!!!!!!!!

**APRIL FOOLS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Or is it?

4.4.13

Below are some pictures documenting today that don’t have to do with the imperative question I must ask our reader (hey, Mom!) in un minuto.

(That’s Spanish, btw. Un minuto. Be impressed. Little Man and I are YouTubing and Rosetta Stoning Spanish and learning together. He’s about got it down and I’ve got the invaluable phrase meaning “one minute” because I imagine that’ll be a useful one later. Like—

“Mom, for how long can I hang out with Ella/Ava/Oliva?”

“One minute, son. You can hang out with Ella/Ava/Oliva for one single minute.”

In all actuality I’ll probably reply in English, just as I did there, but whatever. You see the value.)

Here’s a little taste of cuteness:

baby and pet

So, my question.

(No, I’m not asking again if you’ve had your chest shat on. But seriously. Have you?)

Have you ever had a cat in your pants?

I have.

I can absolutely positively say I’ve had a cat in my pants.

You see, Little Man, I insist upon exercising my non-obsessive traits by holding tight to you only 24/7. Sure I could put you down for a minute—un minuto—try out your swing or bouncer so I can clean my armpits . . . but I’m still reeling from that time I especially SUCKED. So I’m going pee, you resting your head on my shoulder, my biceps shaking in exertion because after so long 12 pound starts to feel like how much I must have weighed after working at Dairy Queen that one summer in high school, and everything’s la-de-da.

Usually I shut the bedroom door because there’s a huge plant growing out of dirt that Thor, our cat-dog, thinks is the outdoors. At least that’s my defense for his digging, shoving heaps of mud over the pot, onto the new white carpet, squatting, and crapping. ThorCat saw an opening and he ran for it—fortunately not the just-watered plant but the bathroom, with us, this time.

In his cat brain he’s got the idea that if anyone capable of doling out pets and accolades sits down, it’s a clear sign Cat ought to leap up the length of them and sit on their face. I put up my hand and said aloud, “Nuh-uh, cat, nope,” sort of pivoting on the pot, trying to keep everything organized. This would have been more difficult if I had a—never mind. Just never mind.

ThorCat is perched on the trashcan and looking 110 percent dejected. It’s straight-up depressing.

My attempted remedy consisted of pitching my voice up to girly and dragging out an, “I love love love you, kitty cat. Cute dog-cat. My cog. I l-l-l-l-l-oooooooove yyyyyyyyouuuuuuuu.”

I guess the high octaves did it. I guess the affectionate voice made him friggen soar from the trash can and practically touch the ceiling before gracefully landing not on the floor, not in the trashcan, not in Alabama, which seemed the most likely, but in my pants.

And hang out there. Just chill, like, wassup? Oh, hai. Hai. I’m just guna sit—no stretch—no lie down—no lie down on my back and purrrrrrrrr—in this here pair of pants that are currently being worn.

Nbd.

My pants are a good place to be.

cute baby faces

4.5.13

This week should just be the week of questions, because I’ve got another, this one even better than Have you ever had your chest shat on? or Have you ever had a cat in your pants?

Have you ever had your pants peed in?

That’s right. Not Have you ever peed your pants—no, that’s too easy, we all answer yes. Have you ever had your pants peed in?

I have.

Everyone from the guy who stocks produce at the grocery store to the snaggle-toothed old woman glaring at my skirt knows I love cloth diapers. I mean, I mumble on and on about them a lot. And while I don’t wear them, as glaring old woman can probably see, you do, Little Man, you do, and cloth diapers (BumGenius, in my experience, anyway) work wonders for helping keep you diaper rash-free, along with organic oils to keep rashes at bay.

However.

One of our last changings, you were especially missing the womb where nobody yanked your pudge from cloth to dig at your butt with something cold to replace your bum with cloth. When you cry during diaper changes, Little Man, Mommy’s brain goes blank except for these BIG letters dancing around: MUST. HURRY. MUST. HOLD. LITTLE. MAN. HURRYHURRYHURRY. I think probably you cry just to see me frantic about and slide around in the breast milk my boobs just poured onto the floor. I mean, hey, my tailbone’s fine: I shat out a cinder block, after all; I can handle back-diving onto the wood floor because my breast milk (and you?) got me good, real good.

My hurrying because I wanted to relieve you of your duress is why I missed a button on your simple cloth diaper. My hurrying because I wanted to relieve you of your duress is why I grabbed the pink diaper for was-supposed-to-be-a-girl you.

But I guess you didn’t see it that way. Because here we were, you on your Boppy on my lap, me with my gluten-free, I-tell-myself-it’s-sugar-and-calorie-free peanut butter cereal, typing away, and there’s this uber warm sensation in my pants, absolutely in my pants, not on my pants, which is why I asked myself, “Is my water breaking? Is my water finally breaking?” But then I remembered I did the push-the-baby-from-the-hee haw a good five weeks ago and that Baby is snuggled up to me, looking especially hahaha content.

Still, one may wonder, how did your pants get peed in?

That’s something I’m still trying to answer.

Perhaps it’s because they’re the pants I wore when I was harboring a human being in my person. Perhaps they were a twinge stretched at the waist from my having harbored a human being in my person and now harboring one, a defecating one, on my person. I guess that’s the story.

Little Man leaned on my shoulder, I slipped out of the pee pants and into the only comfy non-whole-in-the-ass* pair I could find that were clean. Daddy wouldn’t mind. He was miles away at work.

But I guess you didn’t see it that way. Because here we were, you on your Boppy on my lap, me with my gluten-free, I-tell-myself-it’s-sugar-and-calorie-free peanut butter cereal, typing away, and there’s this uber warm sensation in my pants, absolutely in my pants, not on my pants, which is why I asked myself, “Is my water breaking? Is my water finally breaking?” But then I remembered I did the push-the-baby-from-the-hee haw a good five weeks ago and that Baby is snuggled up to me, looking especially hahaha content.

Yeah.

My pants got not peed in.

In.

Twice.

Not by me, not this time. This time? I kept typing. Kept chomping. You know you’ve reached a certain point in your life when somebody pees in your pants and you keep on keeping on in the peed-in pants.

At least I’m not telling you about the cat hanging out in the peed-in pants. Immediately after my chest got shat on. No. That story’s for another time.

*I don’t know what to say.

baby cute

4.6.13-4.7.13

babyI don’t remember Saturday. There was too much drinking involved.

Sunday AM Daddy and Mommy decided to get up early because we never do that (LOL) and Zeke’s uterus was getting celebrated that early afternoon, hours away. We figured we’d get up early so we could leave sometime within the millennium and go sip coffee by the lake with Gma and Gpa, go swing by a couple antique stores if they were open, go be an hour late decorating for the baby shower Mommy was oh, just hosting.

Oh, that last one was an accident, but it happened anyway.

You see, Mommy was up at 2.30 AM because that’s what happens when you get up at 1 AM and don’t go back to sleep. Same story for Mommy’s having been wide-eyed with Little Man at 3 and 3.30 AM. Come 4 AM she did one of the hand-to-chest, suddenly-my-ass-sprouted-feet-because-I-just-sat-flew-five-feet-off-the-mattress when she caught Daddy’s eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe we should just leave now,” he said. “Then we can nap at your parents’.”

(End improper, awkward third person narration.)

“I can nap in the car,” I said, smacking him on the forehead with either my lips or my hand or my—I don’t know, I never know anymore.

“Rub it in.”

“Okay, I’ll drive,” I said, slipping some pants on backwards and inside-out because Everybody wears pants like this, don’t you know? I’d later ask the dude raising his brows at me at the gas station. “No problem.”

“I’d like to make it there,” Daddy said.

“Rub it in,” I said.

We tried the getting ready thing, but really, when you give birth to a baby and lose your short-term memory, there needs to be a getting ready to getting ready, and I don’t remember where I put the book on that one, along with the car keys.

“Oh, and where’s Little Man’s pacifier?”

“You mean the five you bought and the two your mom bought that he doesn’t ever suck on?”

“Yeah, those, we really need those, where are those?”

Daddy swigged back his coffee as if it something else. “I don’t know.”

“Where’s his nasal aspirator?”

“What’s that?”

“Where are Little Man’s disposables? I don’t want to take cloth diapers because I can’t find his wet bag.”

“His what?”

At my parents’ house, more blood relatives whom I consider in the Circle of Trust were there. The Circle of Trusters are excited to see Little Man (I, on the other hand, no longer expect a greeting. It’s like, “Oh, you’re in a body cast?” or “You’re being chased by a 5,682-pound black bear? While you’re in your body cast? Good luck where’s that baby I want to hold Little Man Right Stinking Now.”) and I assume they know how to hold you

until I see they don’t.

Then you’d seriously look behind me for the black bear and want to put my shrieking ass hole self in a body cast because I’m all,

“DON’T YOU KNOW HOW TO HOLD A BABY? HAVEN’T YOU HAD, LIKE, 24? PUT HIS FACE ABOVE YOUR SHOULDER SO HE CAN BREATHE! AND HOLD HIM TIGHTER! NOT THAT TIGHT! GIVE HIM HERE NOW! WITHOUT KILLING HIM! FOR GOD’S SAKE, CAN YOU HANDLE THAT? CAN YOU?”

holding baby

My family loves me.*

*Because I love you.

Once somebody in a family has a baby, if the family is a caring one, they will take a sledgehammer to their walls. They will then take 2,502 photos of family with Little Man to go on sledgehammered walls.

And it’ll be hot out.

And mosquitoes will nest in your hair.

When they’re not river rafting on the sweat gushing from your butt cheeks to your knees.

But all is well–“Nobody blinked!” so you can go be late to your only identical twin’s first-ever baby shower because you didn’t blink.

Good: I don’t ever want to blink.

 grandmanature babynature family

mom parenting

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