I have three minutes to write in this blog. My husband, Bryce, is currently feeding our son his breakfast and the housework needs to be done before a busy day of driving to Port Coquitlam to celebrate the marriage of someone he went to high school with 100 years ago. I'm looking forward to it in a way. Though part of me would rather hunker down on the sofa and watch season 1 of "Da Vinci's Inquest" on DVD. However my viewing experiences are reserved for after bambino's bedtime so why not get out into the sunshine in the backyard of someone I've never met before and say "Shalom to you and your fella we hope your marriage is a happy and successful one. What's that smell? Oh excuse me. My son's butt cheeks have just released a symphony featuring the dulcet tones of a trombone in E flat. Do you have a spare room covered in a rubber sheet? Where there's smoke there's fire..."
And now a word about poo. Yesterday at this time Bryce and I were both elbow deep into the stuff which had us wiping Zach's feet, legs and hands after a massive poo-splosion which could not be contained and could not be handily managed by one person. This one required four hands (six if you count the lightening speed at which the Zachinator can whip his little fingers into the muck of his own diaper-based productions). I dread those sheepish and slightly terrified words, "Honey, can you give me a hand?" which waft through the walls from the baby's room into the small space I have reserved for three minutes of me time. But what are you gonna do? Point and laugh at a tall, imposing man cowering over in terror at a tiny baby whose butt has just unleashed a fury of feces? That would be mean. Ish.
But such are the joys of raising a baby. And they are joyful. If not smelly. And sometimes a little painful. The other day, my son (who now has four teeth proudly glowering at me like a beautiful little jack-o-lantern) decided to exercise his little chompers while I was breastfeeding him. The throat hollering scream that came from my very core probably prompted several neighbors for blocks around to jump out of their skin. In honour of my baby's dental achievements, I even considered calling this blog "Fuck He Bit My Nipple - I've Fallen And I WON'T Get Up - A Memoir By A Mother With An Accosted Areola." (My agent suggested I advertise this book title in the child-rearing section of Chapters nationwide.)
But today the chompers have behaved, the nipple has recovered and I have decided to go with the more aptly titled "I Ate Enough To Stop The Heart Of A Donkey" after my fondness for all things snack-related. An enjoyment which has not helped me lose all my baby weight in short order, I can tell you.
In spite of the little pitfalls listed above, my life is more glorious than I ever gave it credit for before. Yes, the shit still hits the fan from time to time as we navigate the sometimes dicey waters of employment, finance and ultimate career goals but this baby, I'm telling you, is DIVINE! To be a mommy to him is to truly stop and smell every amazing flower that ever grew in dirt. Never have I been instructed so beautifully by the Universe to stop and pull my once self-involved head out of my own ass. Every day brings with it a new milestone, a new first and a new delight: An impromptu play date with just-made baby friends at the park, yams smooshed in every strand of hair at lunch time, the grace and stillness of my baby's head resting on my shoulder before bed as he negotiates from me one last snuggle before closing his eyes for the night and, of course, the pure and delicious sounds of a 10 month old's hearty and genuine belly laugh. That is the best thing on the planet Earth...
Wow, my three minutes has turned into an essay. Must run and rescue my monkey from his highchair. Papa is done feeding him and he will not be contained a moment longer. After all, the cat's water dish isn't going turn into a lake on the kitchen floor by itself, is it?
Me-time is over. Let the good times roll...