New Rules

The veterans say the first six weeks are a complete and utter blur. However, I have managed to jot down a few quirky revelations amidst the foggy haze that hovers over the carcass of a new mom.

First and foremost, our baby is adorable. Brad and I are completely smitten. The most perfect button nose, darling squeaks and squawks, and a soft spot speckled with fuzz divinely designed for smooches. We could stare at her expressions for hours. But, life has changed dramatically. We now live in a world where Baby writes The Rules.

Rule #1: One-handed finger foods are the only realistic options. Get creative and ditch the silverware. Cookies for lunch = perfectly acceptable. Peeling a banana with one’s teeth – practically driver’s ed for motherhood. And don’t feel bad if you drop a few crumbs on your mini bundle. You can lap them up the next time you smother her with kisses.

Rule #2: Shit happens...on your shirt. Typically when you about to leave the house for the first time in five days so you don’t have to scarf down pretzels for breakfast AND after you have meticulously planned to ensure your little stinker is breastfed, diapered and sleepy before passing her over to Daddy. Shockingly, this will not faze you. You! You who is convinced the world’s amoebas are out to infect you with the bubonic plague. You who scrubs up to her elbows with Purell after you ride the “el” in the city. You who uses a separate sponge (good and evil) for the dishes and countertops. Suddenly, it is “poop schmoop”. It’s not like you won’t have a coat on over it and besides, people will just assume it’s Dijon mustard.

Rule #3: Speaking of poop, the baby will always wait to take that giant dump three minutes after you have changed her, reswaddled her, and settled back into bed with the boppy on your lap and your boob hanging out, dripping breast milk onto her forehead. Clause A: If you risk waiting to change her until after she is done feeding, said poop will invariably seep out through the side of the diaper like ectoplasmic slime onto your pajama pants. This actually can feel pleasantly warm, especially if you are fighting to keep your eyes open. Until, of course, the waft of stink hits your nose.

Rule #4: When she is finally settled down after methodical rocking, back-patting, and singing The Muffin Man refrain fifteen times (which by the way is an incredibly dumb song), you will come to realize that everything is just out of your grasp. Your water glass will taunt you two feet away on the coffee table. The TV remote will cackle. You will suddenly discover that your lips are incredibly chapped and you have an insanely violent itch on your right hip.

Rule #5: At 5am, after finally getting your little fat-cheeked cherub to sleep after a two-hour marathon of her staring at you wide-eyed and expectant, you will spy the early morning sun streaming through the windows. A sense of doom will set in as you realize your opportunity for sleep is shrinking like a ninety year old man. This will be a low point. The point at which you will become so cranky and crabby that you will actually consider grabbing that slobbery silicone pacifier on the nightstand and sucking on it yourself.

Rule #6: As tempting as it may be, refrain from playing “nap roulette”. If you put off zzzzz’s to finish those thank you notes, she will invariably wake up approximately twelve minutes after you have finally tucked yourself in and started drifting. And on the rare occasions she doesn’t wake up, you will be expecting her to, anticipating those slight tell-tale grunts, so you won’t be able to snooze anyway.

Rule #7: The crevices in her neck will befuddle you. No matter how many layers of cute baby fat you attempt to lift up to wipe off the dried milk during bath time, the neck will remain elusive. Attempting to clean this body part might be on par with fracking in North Dakota. It is a two-parent job that is not for the rookie couple. It demands skill, choreography, and cunning trickery to get a washcloth under there. And trust me, she will be pissed the entire time.

Rule #8: Your baby may occasionally give you the finger, especially while nursing. Yes, your sweet innocent Tabula Rasa will flip you the bird now and again. Try not to take this too personally. Focus on those impossibly cute little phalanges. You will attempt to document this phenomenon, but the fact that your exposed boob will appear in every photo might be a tad inappropriate for posting on Facebook.

In the last six weeks, I have come to discover that life now is all about choices and two hour intervals. Do I want to eat breakfast before 11am or wash the grease out of my ponytail? I am also boggled by how few nursery rhymes I can actually recite by heart. Weren’t those ridiculous songs about rainbows and farm animals drilled into my hippocampus? I have been chanting Puff, The Magic Dragon (which I believe is actually about marijuana) and You are My Sunshine on banal repeat to the point that I want to blow my own brains out. Even worse, I have been making up lyrics. I know that “If that looking glass gets broke, Papa isn’t gonna buy you an artichoke”, but for some reason that seems to make excellent sense at 2am. In fact, “If that artichoke should rot, Papa’s gonna buy you.. a bag of snot”. Sadly, the night this slipped out of my mouth, I giggled like a six year old and consequently woke her up after a significant rocking-chair investment. I am so desperate for fresh options that my sister came over the other afternoon and was singing Old Mac Donald to her son. I was ready to nominate her for a Grammy. What a revelation! This opened up a whole new repertoire of pig snorts and duck quacks that could be incorporated into our playtime. Totally the highlight of my day.

And so, we are slowly adapting to parenthood and making up our own Bill Maher version of New Rules. This about knocks out my two hour interval for today. In fact, I think I hear her grunting. I’m coming, darling... “Puff, The Magic Dragon lived by the sea and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee...”