Broke Wife,
Big City
From
waddle to swaddle
By
Aprill Brandon
One
month. That's it. That's all that's left on this prison
sentence...er...glorious maternal journey of mine.
Yes,
it's only four weeks until my due date (meaning I'm destined to have
this baby six weeks from now as payback for all the times I called
this kid a demon wizard and dragon fetus). And I must confess, I'm
getting downright giddy at the prospect of finally meeting the tiny
human who has been using my bladder as his own personal trampoline.
And not just because it means I finally get my body back (although
admittedly that is a pretty big perk...heh...get it?...BIG
perk?...anyone?...hello?).
But
walking around like I have 30-pound ham hidden underneath my shirt is
a small price to pay for (and there really is no other way to
describe it) this miracle. Seriously, my body is turning food into a
person. It doesn't get more miraculous than that, folks. That is,
unless the miracle involves wine. Booze miracles are always the best
miracles. Mmmm...booze. Man, I miss drinking.
But
I digress.
Now
that I'm close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel (or
perhaps, more accurately, now that my baby is close to seeing the
light at the end of the tunnel) and all the major preparations (such
as buying pacifiers that make it look like the baby has a mustache)
are done, it leaves plenty of time to ponder the inevitable Big
Questions.
No,
not "will I be a good mother?" Pffft. Please. Technically
we won't even know if I am a good mom until he turns 18 and is set
loose upon the world. So, the way I see it, no need to stress about
that right now. That's almost two decades I can put off that inner
reflection nightmare.
No,
the Big Questions I'm talking about are much more practical.
Questions such as:
Have
I ever changed a diaper before?
I
must have. Right? You can't get to your 30's without changing at
least ONE diaper. A friend or family member's baby perhaps. Or maybe
during my Claudia from "The Babysitter's Club" phase when I
terrorized the neighborhood kids I watched with my fashion sense. Or
at the very least my little brother, who is 17 years younger than me.
I had to have changed his diaper. Right? Except I don't ever remember
changing any diapers. And I feel like wiping a butt that is not my
own would stand out in my memory.
Oh
my god, I have never changed a diaper in my life.
Can
I swaddle a baby?
For
those of you who don't know, swaddling is the ancient art of wrapping
up your baby, orgami-style, with a blanket. Considering it looks like
you need a black belt level of ninja skills to achieve this supposed
swaddle, my baby will look like a poorly gift-wrapped Christmas
present (complete with duct tape).
Do
I know how to use a breast pump?
Nope.
But judging from the scary beer bong-looking device awaiting me in
the nursery, it will be a highly unpleasant learning experience.
Will
I be able to do seemingly simple "mom" things, like cut my
baby's tiny fingernails?
Considering
my dog looks like he's walking around on stilts because his nails
haven't been cut since 2009, I will not.
Yeah.
Well,
the good news, as I mentioned before, is that I have almost two
decades before I have to admit failure as a mom. In the meantime, I'm
going to head to the store to stock up on duct tape so I can attempt
to swaddle my kid once he's out.
Can’t get enough of
Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at
http://aprillbrandon.com/
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