A year ago, I was just a fat, swollen, blob, counting down the eight weeks I had left in my pregnancy. A couple of years before that, I was a strong willed, hard headed, high walls around myself, brash, bitch who was sure I would never have children. Not because I couldn't, but because I didn't want to. And oh boy, I never imagined what I was getting myself into. The thought of attending a kid's birthday party, zoo, or really anywhere polluted with children, was comparable to poking at my eyeballs with a needle.
Throughout my pregnancy and until now, people really didn't butt in as I had expected they would. I mean, there are the few who did and will continue to, but in general, it's been uninterrupted. Perhaps they knew I would have told them to fuck off. I am not saying I didn't receive some great solicited advice, I did. However, there were several things no one bothered to inform me of. Where do I begin?
The spit up. Wow. Do babies spit up or what? Everywhere. Often. Varying amounts. With no warning. I remember getting dressed to go somewhere and turning to my side to check how my hair looked in the back via a mirror. I'm not sure I ever actually checked my hair as when I turned, I saw a dried stream of breast milk spit-up about a foot long. How did I not notice this? How long had it been there? What if I would have gone to lunch like that?
Then there's the whole shit thing. Cleaning a baby after he shits in his current version of underwear over and over and over and over and over. By the way, it isn't just contained to his bottom. Nothing is off limits including legs, stomach, back, hands, and everywhere else it gets or he helps it to get. Honorable mention to my pants, the tub, the car, my hair, the carpet, and my hands.
Sleep. Ahhh. Some of the best advice I read and received. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Fuck. You. About three weeks in, after basically no sleep, I remember looking at my husband as he snored and considered stabbing him with a rectal thermometer. You know, babies wake to eat every two hours the first few months. I remember the first night I slept a continuous three hours. It. Was. Heaven.
Another thing I was never warned about. The most important thing, that not one single person mentioned. Love. I was about to be introduced to the purest, truest, strongest love I would ever feel. To be fair, I don't think anyone could have prepared me for it. My offspring. Pre-baby me couldn't fathom the excitement that comes from a first smile or a first roll. The laughter of my son is one of the greatest sounds I have ever heard. My life is no longer about me and you know what? I don't care. I don't care about any of it. The piss, the shit, the long nights. None of it ever bothered me. Cleaning crap off of my pants mid-flight? Don't care. Wiping boogers on my sleeve? Don't care. Not having a full night's sleep since my bladder was introduced to pregnancy? Don't care. Raising this little boy to be a loving, patient, kind soul? Now that's what I care about.