“All Mommy needs is 45 seconds.” I find myself saying this, or some variation of it, an awful lot. Usually preceded or followed by “Oh, I think you’re fine” or “I don’t think that tone is necessary.” Unfortunately, pleading with my baby boy is still fruitless even going into his 11th month. D@mn.
On a typical morning I’ll hear my sweet baby’s coos, screeches, or cries alerting me that he’s awake. I quietly open his door and softly greet him with a smile and a “good morning.” He’ll usually smile back and be happy and cute and my heart melts as I carefully turn on or let in light and turn off his sound machine. It’s one of my favorite things to see his little grin as he stands up holding onto the bars of his little cage, er…crib. I pick him up and give him snuggles and smooches, because those cheeks…❤️ And then it’s time to change his diaper.
Simple enough, take one off, put one on, voilà! Diapering complete.
Ha! I. Wish.
In terms of diapering, I’m not entirely sure which is worse – before the kid could move or now that he rolls, sits, and stands. Before he could move, removing and applying diapers was a breeze, however, it was like Russian Poo-lette – his pee-pee and bum were loaded guns that could and did go off at any given moment. I never thought I’d be urinated on so much in my life. Never failed…diaper comes off, time to pee on Mommy, the wall, the changing table, the stuff above the changing table, and/or the nursery chair. Gee WHIZ, that was fun. Now that he’s older I don’t get whizzed on even a tenth as often as I used to – woo! – and the amount of time he spends not in a diaper is waaaay longer. That’s because he’s a crazy person with the rolling and the kicking and the whining and the grabbing and the sitting and the standing and the yanking down of everything I so thoughtfully hung on the pegboard above his changing table. #pinterest. Now he has nothing within arms reach, whether he’s laying down, sitting up, or standing. Somehow that makes things easier. Maybe. And it totally screwed how cute his pegboard was…now his initials are strewn about out of order, the powder is barely within my own reach, and the mostly cosmetic yet somewhat functional tiny storage buckets are stacked empty and useless off to one side. #nailedit. Just looks sad.
I’ll admit, it can be cute & comical to see his lil dimply butt (he get it from his momma) rolling around and stuck up in the air. I’ve laughed to tears on occasion…usually in a state of delirium brought on by lack of sleep and the last straw. It can be incredibly frustrating, as well – like when I’m in a hurry, which is 90% of the time, or if I simply don’t want to consider suplexing my son just to get his junk covered. I would think he’d be happy and grateful for a clean, dry tooshie, and if he could talk he’d say “Thank you for wiping my butt and lovingly slathering it with petroleum jelly and sprinkling it with powder, Mommy. My privates feel like a million bucks. Again, Mommy…thank you. Also, you’re so pretty.” But nooOOOOOoooOoo, the little snot acts as though getting the poops off his butt is the absolute worst punishment in the world. All mommy needs is 45 seconds and you’d be diapered, kid. Same goes for getting dressed. 45 seconds. Just don’t flail and flop like a fish outta water and it’ll be over in 45 seconds, rather than dragged out miserably long enough for us both to break a sweat and mommy to crave a nap & a cocktail. 45 seconds and then you’ll be on your way to carry on with your complete destruction of the house.
All Mommy needs is 45 seconds to brew her cup of morning coffee thanks to the genius who invented the Keurig, yet I find myself cursing Mr. Keurig’s name for not somehow inventing a faster way to administer necessary caffeine into my system. Especially when Mister Guy decides he needs something NOW and 45 seconds may as well be a lifetime.
All Mommy needs is 45 seconds to pee. Really. He can’t give me 45 seconds to empty my bladder? Pretty sure he empties his every 45 seconds. I don’t dally when I’m on baby watch – I don’t just leisurely tinkle, I make a conscious effort to push it out as to take as little time as possible.
All Mommy needs is 45 seconds of minimal movement so she can trim your finger- and toe-daggers, squirmy worm. As it is, I have to take breaks between every digit or 2 just so I can shake out my tense muscles and mentally prepare to get the next nail clipped. I’ve resorted to using my upper body to smother the limbs of my prey, using a Kung Fu grip on his feet and hands, and focusing on them like a monk but without the inner peace.
Just 45 seconds.
Yes, I resort to begging and pleading with my 10-month old. It’s as pointless as drinking decaf coffee.