Some friends mentioned that my new life with baby is kind of like one of those ridiculous, slightly unbelievable romantic comedies. Here's an excerpt...
Scene: Sitting around the kitchen table. Two friends have come over to visit baby Diana. I am flustered; my plan to take them to the pub across the street was foiled because it was full, meanwhile, the other pub/lounge nearby turned us away because "children under 18 aren't allowed after 6pm." It's amazing how you spend ages getting yourself and the baby together just to leave the house and then you have to turn back home, dejected.
Not only am I embarrassed I didn't know about the 6pm rule and starting to feel the full weight of what motherhood entails (I'm never going to get to the pub after 6pm. for the next decade and a half unless I find a nanny or babysitter, and that's kind of a scary thought) but my house is also in that new motherhood state of complete shambles (even though I'm probably past the stage where I'm still allowed to be living in squalor) and I didn't want to have to clean/cook/entertain there.In addition to general mess, the wooden floor we had installed in our kitchen a year ago has decided it wants out and has raised itself into a little hill in the middle of the room (Isn't it so typical that it would wait until the most inconvenient time, after the arrival of the baby, to act up?) And there are three oversized bin bags unglamorously slumped in the corner from when I decided to clear out the garage (i.e. dump my maternity clothes and hope to fit into some of my old wardrobe items) two weeks ago and never had a chance to go through.
Other than feeling like a failure as a hostess, I am excited to see my friends, to chat about their work and relationships and to feel like I'm somewhat mastering this whole new mother-but-still-my-old-self thing. My bulldog Bolshy, who loves company, is bounding around the room and baby Diana is adorably sitting in my friend's lap. I pour myself a bit of red wine, take a sip, and start to relax. I'm really doing it, I'm functioning and everything is under control for once.
And then it isn't. Baby Diana makes her now-habitual grunting noise which indicates that the biggest-poo-of-all-time is on its way. The accompanying explosive sound confirms this and yes, it's a big one. Not only does it go through her babygro and leggings, but this poo is so adventurous that it lands right on my friend's lovely dress and proceeds to kind of ooze its way down onto the floor (these are breast milk poos, so they're not at all solid, but gooey, runny and mustardy in colour. Until baby Diana's turn green. Which is a story more fitting for the plot of a science fiction film).
Cue mortification. My baby just used my friend's chiffon dress as toilet paper. And I don't even really have time to be horrified, because suddenly Bolshy's at the scene of the crime, happily licking the poo up off the floor.
And that's how I learned (the hard way) that little Diana had grown out of her nappies. And that there's no such thing as being in control anymore.
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