My little boy is seven now, but I remember bringing him home like it was yesterday. I remember the jitters and anxiety of being a first time mom. It’s natural to worry. You are venturing into uncharted territory and it’s hard to know what is normal and what is cause for legitimate concern. You end up worrying about things that you never dreamed you would worry about.
You spend so much time changing diapers of endless baby poop with explosive contents. Your hormones are on overdrive and you are cramming pieces in chocolate in your highly emotional mouth. At a certain point, you leave the house and look down at your shirt and wonder if that stain is chocolate or baby poop.
What does that face mean?
Is he pooping? Is he hungry? Is he teething? Trying to learn the subtle furrows of his brow is like trying to predict the weather with the aid of a magic eight ball.
Don’t you know who I am?
He looks at you with his big eyes and you wonder if he has any idea who the heck you are. Does he recognize me? Does he know I’m his mom? Am I some big blur with boobs?
What about our pets?
What is going to happen If they end up alone together? Is the cat going to suffocate him? Will the cat actually get in the cradle? I mean they wrote a whole song about it. It must have happened at least once.
Germs are everywhere
It is so hard to resist the urge to coat your offspring in hand sanitizer anytime something touches him. What deadly germs lurk on the tongue of the family dog? Where has that tongue been? Where is the antibacterial soap?
How is he already a food critic?
Is he making that face because this isn’t organic? Can he tell the difference? Does he suspect I didn’t personally puree those peas?
What if he breaks?
He is soft and squishy and not a very good crash test dummy at all. Turning your back for even a minute is scary as heck.
What is he doing in there?
You try to get some sleep, half listening the baby monitor. You hear noises and wonder if he is dancing like the baby on Ally McBeal. Is he moving furniture? What is going on?
Should his poop look like that?
You study bowel movements like a fortune teller reads tea leaves. What does it mean? What is that supposed to be? It’s like one of those ink blot tests. Eventually, you have to concede you are not the diaper whisperer.
Is this barf bottomless?
Where does it all come from? This is like the exorcist. Is his head going to spin around? Eventually he has to run out. This can’t go on forever.
Over time, I learned to chill out. Ok, that’s not entirely true. I learned to worry about different things and learned to chill out about those specific things. I’m just glad he’s old enough that now the stain is probably chocolate.