Ohmagawsh. I was just re-reading some of my older posts and reminiscing about the days when little Bubbalooshki was a baby. Sigh. Oh, yeah. He still is a baby. But he changes so much every day, it seems like he’s an entirely different little being than the wee slug with dark hair that he once was. I remember looking down at him and thinking about how impossible it seemed that he’d be rolling over one day. Then he did. It seemed outrageous that he’d sit up one day. Then he did. Preposterous that he’d actually crawl at some point. Now he is. Not to mention that his hair all fell out and then came back in as fuzzy blond down. It’s so soft and warm and luscious and…oh, I can’t stop rubbing my face on his head. I rub my cheek against his furry head like David Bowie must have snorted coke. And I imagine the high is just the same. It’s an addiction for which I’m unapologetic. Now, if you see me busting out into the processional at his high school graduation, tackle him to the ground, and rub my face against his head, then please, by all means, commit me. For now, I think my use of his head as a topical stimulant is merely recreational, and therefore harmless.
Aside from learning how excitingly (and somewhat miserably) fast a baby grows and changes, here’s what I’ve learned since my first Lessons Learned post when he was just over a month old. He’ll be 9 months old in another week. Garsh.
Babies make me sick.
Yes. And I mean that quite literally. I think I used one sick day in three years preceding Bear’s birth. Post daycare…uh, I’ve used…three? Four maybe? Just since January. That doesn’t include the three or four that Nick has used. I blame the baby. But not personally. He can’t help that he crawls around invisible germ land mines at daycare, then comes home after a hard day’s work to relax and put his fingers in my mouth for me to say, “Nom, nom, nom, I’ma eat your finners!” Nah. He can’t help that. I can. But, I won’t cuz his fingers are too damn tasty.
Babies are sick.
I mean that both ways. Babies are sick, yo. And babies are, well, sick – with disease and infection, and rashes, and clogged this, or bumpy that. This isn’t true for all babies, but it is true for a fair amount, including (unfortunately) the spawn of yours truly. B-Bear has had four ear infections, a clogged tear duct that gets infected whenever he gets an ear infection, and he’ll likely be getting both surgically repaired soon since four rounds of antibiotic and all the eye-massages in the world seem to laugh in our faces. Oh, and add teething to all that, which produces the lovely side effects of gushing snot and flaming red, ruddy cheeks. On his best days, he looks like an angel from heaven. On his worst, he looks like Rocky Balboa (post Apollo). The good news is, it’s all stuff that will eventually go away, and thanks to daycare, B’s immunity is such that he’s never had an actual contagious ailment. That’s saved for Daddy and me.
Poop. Is. Not. Awesome.
Here is a flashback from Part I of Lessons Learned:
“…[poop] gets a capital “P” in this house now […]. Taking the uncouthness a step further, one of my favorite things is watching his face when he makes a poopy. It is hilarious.”
I rescind my claim that poop is awesome. It was awesome…back in the good ol’ days when it didn’t really stink. It’s true – breast-fed babes don’t have uber stinky nappies. But once babies start eating solids, it don’t matter none whether it’s breast milk or goat milk. It stinky-stanks! It also gets all thick and pasty and grooooss. “Blowouts” become a nightmare that, at their worst, involve poop on your hands, poop in baby’s hair, and end with Daddy holding him over the kitchen sink while Mommy hoses him off and hopes he doesn’t pee on her to add insult. Poop me no likey. That’s why I strategically plan for Nick to change the nasties. As for the face Bubbalooshki makes while making a poopy? Well, that’s still kinda cute.
Buy stock in Energizer.
Every mother f*&$^ing thing you have in your house for your baby takes a mother f*&@#ing battery of some sort. Ok, not everything. But the four or five things you have that do require batteries will run out at the most inopportune times. Then you have to spend ten minutes unscrewing a tiny plastic panel to get the batteries out, only to discover it takes not two, but sixteen double A’s. Or even worse…D batteries. Why do we even still have those things? I could probably buy twelve McFlurries for the cost of one pack of D batteries. I’ve never purchased batteries at the rate that we do now. I avoid toys that require batteries now, if I can, and opt for wood blocks and unassuming rock chunks instead.
You’ll be one of “those moms.”
So, I used to love to go to Target on a weekday, because there’s hardly anyone there except moms with their babies. But I would get so annoyed at the babies because I could hear them screeching from across the store. I’d always wonder why the moms would just push their red carts along in a trance, as if they didn’t hear their kid being super effing annoying. Turns out, it’s not annoying after all? Or, wait is it? I dunno. I don’t care either. I love watching Bubbalooshki when he figures out he can make a new sound. Lately, he does a dead-on impression of the velociraptors from Jurassic Park. Imagine listening to that over and over again. Sorry to all of you “former me’s” out there. I know it’s annoying to you, but it’s music to my ears.
Milestones are amazing.
Duh, right? But really. Even though they sort of make me sad, once your baby is able to sit up and crawl, life becomes a lot easier. I can plop Bubbalooshki down anywhere, hand him an empty Kleenex box, and he’s golden. At least for 10 minutes or so – long enough to Swiffer the floor or do a few dishes. Oh, and now that he has mastered pinching his chubby little fingers together to pop a Cheerio in his mouth, I have even more time to get things done while he snacks. He’ll sit there, completely entertained with his banana puffs, while I blabber to him about Brown Bear and what he sees. (It’s a red bird, by the way, if you haven’t read the epic best-seller Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?).
Baby feet are just as delectable as they were back then.
In fact, they get fatter, and fatter, and juicier, and juicier, until…. [someone may want to come over and check to make sure he still has his feet.] Oh, and the hammy hocks get fat and juicy too, like squishy little cheeseburgers you just want to squeeeeeeze.
Well, I guess that concludes this segment of Lessons Learned (Part II). It seems like I learn something new every day, but these are the highlights.