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Broke Wife, Big City
Day
in the life of a new
mom
By Aprill Brandon
For those of you in the
betting pool who picked that I would fail as a mother within a month,
bad news: Riker is still alive. Not even maimed yet. Or as far as I
can tell, permanently psychologically damaged (granted, that might
change once he finally learns to read and goes through all my old
pregnancy columns…”Really, mom? My nickname in utero was Demon
Wizard? Really?”).
However, now that we have
made it to the one month mark fairly unscathed, the real test of
parenthood is beginning. All the visitors have left. My husband has
gone back to work. And I am now solely responsible for the lil’
Nipple Slayer (“Really, mom? Really?”) for most hours of the day.
Now, I was never one of
those people who thought that stay-at-home moms had it easy. Nor did
I think working moms were walking on down Easy Street in their
pantsuits. And this is because (…brief pause while I dust off this
here old soapbox…) I believe myself a true feminist who recognizes
that women should not be judged for their life choices just because
it isn’t the same as your life choice (…steps down and gently
places soapbox back in its hiding place in the closet, right beside
seven year’s worth of BUST magazine…).
But now that I am a few
days into this new visitor-free, husband-less child care routine,
while simultaneously still working from home writing my (WARNING!
WARNING! Shameless self-promotion ahead!) award-winning newspaper
column, I feel I can fully empathize with both sides.
In fact, just for fun, let
me take you through a typical day of mine.
It usually begins at 4 a.m.
That is, if my son decides it starts at 4 a.m. He could also decide
to start it at 2 a.m. Or 3:17 a.m. Or, if he’s in a really festive
mood, we simply blend the previous day into the next day with no
discernible break in between.
Still half (occasionally
all) asleep, I attempt to change his diaper, which he has turned into
a fun game I like to call “Let’s Poop And Pee As Much As We Can
In The Tiny Window Of Time Between Removing One Diaper And Thrusting
The Other One Underneath My Tushy.”
He usually wins.
He also almost always wins
what I call the Bonus Round, which is when he manages to pee on me no
matter where I’m standing at the changing table.
We then eat breakfast, and
by we I mean him and by breakfast I mean he gnaws on my breast for 35
minutes like a starving, feral piranha. Repeat three times until
mid-morning when I finally get 47 free seconds and use it to eat my
own breakfast of a moldy blueberry muffin, daintily crammed into my
mouth whole.
After that, I usually
kjfjfjfjfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff…
Oops, fell asleep on the
keyboard. Sorry about that. What was I saying?
Well, anyway, at some point
he finally falls asleep again, which is when I put him down in the
crib for a nap, which is apparently the international baby sign for
WAKE UP IMMEDIATELY AND START CRYING HYSTERICALLY! So I pick him back
up and try to calm him while at the same time trying to clean my
house at least a little bit considering I haven’t seen the dog in
about three days and I suspect he’s stuck underneath the world’s
largest pile of burp cloths.
At some point, I will
actually get to go to the bathroom, which is when I notice I have run
out of maxipads, and with necessity being the mother of invention and
all, I make the executive decision to use one of Riker’s diapers
until such time as I can get to the store (which I’m guessing will
be in June).
By now, I’m
lkkdkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk…
Oopsie. Fell asleep again.
Um…where was I?
Well, it doesn’t matter.
Let’s just say at this point I realize I have a looming deadline
and need to finish (re: start) my column. So I put the baby in the
magical vibrating bouncy chair I got at my baby shower and proceed to
write exactly one sentence before I start to feel guilty because the
baby is just sitting there, staring at me, doing nothing. And all the
stupid baby books say you have to stimulate your baby CONSTANTLY or
else he’ll end up as a drooling vegetable by the time he’s an
adult. Or worse yet, an employee for the Department of Motor
Vehicles.
So I then pick him up and
try to write with him in my arms but this, as you can imagine, is
less than sldddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd…
AH! Where am I!? Oh. Sorry.
Happened again.
Well, at this point we’ve
reached what is usually called “the witching hour,” which is when
your baby decides to cry for three hours straight for no discernible
reason. Although if I had to discern the reasons why he was crying,
it would look something like this:
Ten percent because he’s
hungry.
Ten percent because he
needs his diaper changed.
Eighty percent because that
spot on the wall he’s been staring vacantly at has suddenly done
something to offend to him.
And now it’s the end of
the day (the term “day” being subjective to my son’s whims, of
course), I still haven’t showered, I have a tiny diaper shoved in
my underwear and my column has exactly one sentence written and this
helpful note below it:
“Something funny about
soapboxes here.”
So,
to all you mothers out there, I feel your pain. But let me share with
you the one piece of advice I received that has truly saved my life
and works whether you’re a stay-at-home mom or working hard at the
office or doing both like me. And that advice is
dffffgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg…
Can’t get enough of
Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at
http://aprillbrandon.com/
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