This is our life

Me: I'm simultaneously craving a cup of coffee and a cocktail.

Husband: Oh, uppers and downers.

Me: What does that mean?

Husband: It means you're a parent.

this is our life- the wee hours

It's 5:30 a.m. Emerson, who is lying beside me, begins to wiggle and stir. She flips over to her left side. Still asleep. Flips over to the right side. Still asleep. She calls out "daddy!" Still asleep. But, I. I am awake. I'm trying desperately to ignore all the thrashing, but knowing it's a losing battle makes it impossible to fall back asleep. I pull out a boob and shove it in Emerson's mouth. She instantly settles, and I think maybe…..just maybe. But, a minute later, there are limbs flying in every direction. Emerson (still asleep) stretches both her legs up in the air and then splits them with a violent force. One leg on mommy, one leg on daddy. She does the same with her arms. Up in the air, and smack! I get whacked in the eye, and then she rests her hand on my cheek. Alex is lucky (at this point). He only gets hit in the back. Emerson is now lying completely spread eagle, while Alex and I cling to our respective sides of the bed.

5:45 a.m. Emerson gets sick of nursing. Instead, she begins to round house kick Alex. Bam. Bam. BAM! After about eleven kicks, Alex is frustrated so he turns over to face us. He falls immediately back to sleep (while I stare at him, full of resentment). As soon as he's asleep, his mouth opens and he begins to breathe heavily. Into my face. And I can't turn over, because Emerson has decided to start nursing again and I don't dare move her….I don't dare wake her up! So now, I am choking on Alex's horrific morning breath. Right into my face. I push him. I manually close his mouth for him….and it pops right back open. The bad breath fan continues. I use my pillow to create a barrier. 

6:15 a.m. Emerson is still asleep, but begins to crawl across my body. She collapses with the upper half of her body on top of my chest, and her legs on Alex's stomach. She rhythmically kicks Alex in the gut, over and over, until Alex finally puts his arm over her feet in an attempt to stop the pain. Emerson gets annoyed. So, she rolls away. Onto my head. The weight of her body is now suffocating me, meanwhile, she seems perfectly comfortable to lie on top of my face. But, then she's not so comfortable anymore. She rolls away toward Alex. She is now lying horizontally across both our pillows….butt in my face, naturally. She farts. Still asleep. I am not amused so I move her back into a normal position on a normal part of the bed. 

6:30 a.m. Emerson wakes up. But, she's still drowsy so she continues to lie there while singing to herself. The singing gets louder. And louder. Until she is screaming out random words—some real, some made-up. She gets stuck on the word "daddy," which reminds her: oh my god, daddy is right here in bed with me! She sits up and starts smacking daddy on the back. 

"Hi, daddy. HI, daddy! HI, DADDYYYY!!!" 

Alex whimpers, but doesn't budge. Displeased with his reaction, Emerson crawls onto daddy's pillow and begins to poke him in the eyes. She sticks her fingers up his nose. She pries his mouth open and pokes his teeth. She grabs his ear and wiggles it back and forth. Alex is trying his hardest to fake that he is sleeping. So, Emerson grabs his eyelids and opens them. 

"Hi, daddy!!"

"Hi, Emerson," Alex mumbles.

I lie there secretly smiling, because damn. If I'm not sleeping, I sure as hell don't want to watch my husband lie there, immune to the miniature acrobat in our bed. But, Alex still refuses to accept that sleepy time is over. He pulls the covers up over his head. My resentment grows.

6:45 a.m. Emerson gets bored with daddy so she crawls back over to me and proceeds to open the shirt I just buttoned up. 

"No, Emerson. Num nums have closed up shop. No more num nums!" 

Emerson ignores me. She finds her way into my shirt, literally laughing, and begins to nurse again. I want to stop her, but I also don't want to get out of bed….so I let her nurse. Back and forth, back and forth. She switches breasts like she's eating at a buffet. 

7:00 a.m. I can't take anymore. And I'm definitely not getting any sleep. I get out of bed and open the shades. Eventually the bright sunshine annoys Alex enough and he gets out of bed, too. "Emerson, you are one thorough alarm clock," he says.

Good morning.

This is our life.

this is our life- our first break from parenting

We hired some help recently. Just a little help. So I can have a mere hour or two a week to actually get things done, work on my career, or maybe just sit in an empty room doing nothing. Because, after a year of being with Emerson every waking (and non-waking) moment of my life without even one day (or night!) off…..sister needs. some. help. And so, I asked an amazing high school girl I met a few months ago to help us out.

But then, the day arrived. For the first time EVER, I was off the clock. And Alex came home early from work. So, we were both off the clock. The problem was we had no idea what to do with it. Emerson—who usually will not let me leave her alone with anyone other than Alex—suddenly didn't need me. She was totally in love with her new friend and didn't even notice, let alone cry, when I left the room. I was astonished and suddenly found myself wandering around the house, feeling nervous and confused, not knowing what to do. 

But then I bumped into Alex in the living room and felt a spark of excitement. "We are alone in a room without a baby!" I said, expecting to be met with equal excitement. But, my husband just looked up the staircase to the bedroom, and said he wanted to take a nap. 

"A nap?! But, we're alone in a room. Isn't this what we've been missing the past year? What about all the months you've spent feeling lonely, because I'm always with Emerson?"

"Yah…..I guess you're right. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. Maybe we could just sit on the couch and talk. Or cuddle? We never get to do that!"

And so, we sat down together, but it felt strange. No one was interrupting us. No one tried to tackle us apart when we cuddled. Was Emerson okay? What was she doing right now? No. Push it out of your mind. Enjoy this moment. Talk about something interesting. Make out. Come on...

We tried.

The thing is, in the absence of our baby, we felt free. But, we were not free in the way we used to be. No. Now, freedom meant not having to find our second, third, fourth or fifth wind of the day. Freedom meant not having to ignore our needs and aches for the well-being of another. Freedom meant abruptly feeling the weight of an entire year tending to our child come crashing down on us. And so, after five minutes of talking about Emerson, the room began to spin. All that cuddling on a soft, comfortable couch was too much for us—we were just two exhausted parents.

"Just go take a nap, baby. That's really all you're capable of right now."

Alex rolled off the couch and dragged himself up the staircase as I sat in the living room comatose...until I was needed again. 

This is our life.

this is our life- lowering my expectations, part II

I wrote about lowering my expectations yesterday….more specifically about a poop on the floor incident. But, that was more of a thoughtful piece, unlike my usual poop posts. Have I said the word "poop" too much in the last three sentences? Or in general? Interesting side note—I actually would not ever say the word "poop" until I was 23-years-old, and that was only because I started working at a daycare center and had to. Before that, I would literally cringe whenever someone would say the word. I couldn't stand it. In fact, my college boyfriend used to taunt me by listing various ways of expressing the act of pooping. And I would scream and beg him to stop while he laughed hysterically. True story. 

This might be the biggest tangent I've ever gone off on….

Anyway, what I meant to say here is that while my thoughts about the poop on the floor incident were more profound than funny when looking back on it, it wasn't exactly that way in the moment. Here is the actual conversation (in part) Alex and I had while I cleaned poop off the floor (by the way, I've said poop seven times so far, but here's some more):

Alex: You're actually taking this really well.

Alexa: Actually, I'm just so pissed that I have to keep it inside.

Alex: Oh, that's going to work out really well for all of us. Just say it all to me now. Come on, let's have it...

Alexa: Okay. Are you an idiot? Why didn't you just put the poopy diaper in the bucket meant for poopy diapers? It's right there! Why the floor?!

Alex: There was still poop on Emerson! I didn't really give any thought to the poop in the diaper. I just threw it on the floor to get it out of my way.

Alexa: It's a turd! It's round. You can't just cast it aside. It will fall right out of the diaper and roll away like a log!

Alex: Um...I did not know that.

Alex: *Long pause*

Alex: You know, the worst part of all this is knowing that it's going to end up on the internet.

Alexa: Yup. I'm writing the post in my head right now.

Alex: You could always not post this one. Maybe just skip it.

Alexa: Not going to happen.

This is our life.

this is our life- a conversation in the car

Alexa: Remember when we used to take vacations, just the two of us?

Alex: I don't remember being just two. 

Alexa: We totally glutted ourselves on attention, affection, and romance. We were obsessed with each other. Totally and completely obsessed. We spent all our time together. Remember?

Alex: *Blank stare*

Alexa: Then POUF! It was gone. Just like that...I can't even access all that stuff now.

Alex: Now it's like we're two co-servants to some greater God, and we're just tripping over and annoying each other in the process. You know, like co-workers arguing over who gets to take their break first.

Alexa: Yes.


This is our life.

this is our life: on dinner

At dinner last night, Emerson was very insistent that she take a break from eating peas and instead have some nums nums (breast milk). She was strapped into her highchair at the time putting a 3-point harness and tray in between her and a nursing session. But, she didn't want to get out of the chair and give up what was on her plate. She just wanted a boobie juice break. 

This happens semi-regularly—Emerson wants to nurse at the most inopportune time. Given I am fully committed to nursing her on demand, I have done some serious acrobatics in order to get her some milk (or comfort) at times. This was one of those times as I was starving myself and needed to finish chowing down my meal in order to get Emerson down to sleep afterwards. So, with one leg still on my chair and one arm still in control of my dinner fork, I bent backwards and sideways allowing my other arm to drape over the back of Emerson's highchair. I shoved tacos into my mouth as Emerson happily sucked down milk. This arrangement was a new one for us both, and Emerson was quite pleased with the service. She had a few peas in one hand and a boob in her mouth. To express her glee, she reached up and began to lovingly caress my face. As I awwwww-ed at her, her caresses slowly grew more aggressive until she was (lightly) slapping me across the cheek as she nursed. Bam. Bam. Bam.

"Emerson, stop slapping your mother!" Alex pleaded. "Now there's something I didn't expect to say in a situation I didn't expect to find myself in." Long pause and stare. "Dinners around here keep getting weirder and weirder."

"I don't know what you mean," I replied.

This is our life.

this is our life: it happened again

Emerson pooped in the tub. I definitely felt better prepared for the situation this time, but I'm not sure it will ever not bring out the heightened emotions crazy person in me, which is why there is still a story to be told. 

***

It was Saturday, and I was getting dressed after my shower. As I rummaged through my underwear drawer, I had the spontaneous urge to put on something sexy. I had no intention of showing off my undergarments to my husband (sorry, dear). This was just for me. Because, sometimes it really does make a girl feel good about herself to know she is secretly wearing black lace underneath her sweatpants.

As soon as I was done getting dressed, I called to Alex to bring Emerson up for her bath. We plopped her in the tub and spent the next ten minutes smiling and applauding her splashes…until she got that look on her face. The look every parent knows—the "she's-about-to-poop face". Emerson kept standing up in the tub, trying to get out, so she could do her business elsewhere. Unfortunately, I did not read the urgency of the situation. I was almost done scrubbing her down. I can get away with another thirty seconds, right? I can get her out in time. 

Just then, I saw something dark-colored rolling around on the bottom of the tub. And then another.

I was a pro at this now, though. I grabbed Emerson and wrapped her up in a towel and handed her off to Alex, who was less than pleased with his role. "You want me to just hold her? She has pieces of poop on her!"

"Relax! She's wrapped up in a towel. Just deal with it. I have work to do!"

I collected my arsenal in front of the tub—rubber gloves, non-toxic disinfectant, paper towels, sponge. A hundred de-pooping strategies swirled through my head while Alex continually suggested that I simply dump the tub water down the drain.

"I cannot do that! What is wrong with you?! There are solid poops in the water and they cannot go down the drain! Just be quiet and let me think!"

I decided to carefully pour as much of the water down the drain as I could without letting Emerson's lovely gifts seep out. Then I'd pour the rest into the toilet. This made perfect sense in my mind, but was a little difficult to execute. As I frantically tipped the baby tub back and forth, the murky water kept splashed up on me. 

"Noooooo! Why?! Again?! Why must the poopy water hit me in the face every time this happens?!"

I peeled off my soiled shirt once the tub was clear. But, Alex yelled at me to take my pants off too, because he saw the poop dump all over them. So I yanked them off, revealing my black lace secret. Trying to ignore my outfit, I strapped on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, bent over the tub, and began furiously spraying disinfectant in every direction. 

Alex stared at me, confused and slightly intrigued. 

Alex: What is happening here? I mean….what are you wearing? Those are some pretty racy underwear.

Alexa: Yes, I am wearing sexy underwear today. It was supposed to be a secret. It's a girl thing….I didn't expect to suddenly be wearing nothing but this during family time.

Alex: I'm really confused by everything you just said, but look at you! Sexy underwear and rubber gloves, cleaning a bath tub in a very provocative position. You look like a character from a Kurt Vonnegut novel.

Alexa: Leave me alone!

Alex: The greatest part is that you left your socks on and they have giant peace signs on them. Your outfit doesn't make any sense.

Alexa: What about the fact that I'm not just wearing regular rubber gloves, but the disposable medical exam kind.

Alex: I didn't want to say, but that's kind of creepy. I'm pretty sure only perverts have a 100-count box of those at home.

Alexa:You know they are for cleaning Emerson's cloth diapers in the toilet bowl. But, you are right. They are creepy……What exactly do you think creepy people do with exam gloves? Weird kinky stuff we can't even imagine?

Laughter.

Alexa:This is an inappropriate conversation to have in front of Emerson. I need to get this tub clean.

Alex: Babe, please! You already sprayed that spot like four times! Can we get the baby back in the tub yet?

Alexa: No, I need to spray it again. And then I need to clean the big tub, because I poured the poopy water in there.

Alex: It's just poop!

Alexa:You take baths in there like four times a week. Doesn't bathing in Emerson's poop remnants bother you?!

Alex: No, it's just poop. People used to live in poop and they were fine.

Alexa: Why are you always referencing yesteryear? Like you know exactly what people went through in the 1600's. I'm sure they got sick, just like we get sick from accidentally eating or bathing in poop.

Alex: Actually, I know everything about the 1600's. But, we should really be talking about the 1500's and the bubonic plague. You would have hated to live through that. Think of all the germs.

Alexa: Are you kidding me right now?! I don't care about the bubonic plague, I care about the poop in my bathtub!

Alex: I need to open a window. I'm getting dizzy from all that spray. And look at your poor daughter. She keeps sneezing.

Alexa: I'm using all natural products. It's not hurting you! Stop being so dramatic!

Alex: Oh, "all natural" products, sure. What kind of "natural" chemicals are in that one?

Alexa: Actually, it's just a combination of oregano oil, rosemary and thyme because they are natural antibacterials.

Alex: Well, that explains why it smells like some strange Indian poop dish in here. It's your spicy spray.

Alexa: I'll give you that. It does smell exactly like Indian food and poop in here.

Alex: Honestly, I don't think I can ever see you in sexy underwear again. Sexy lingerie has been ruined for me. I'll always associate it with poop from now on, and poop is not sexy. Why did you have to wear that today?

Alexa: I told you! It was supposed to be a secret!

Alex: Can we please bath our child now? She is violently trying to free herself from my arms.

Alexa: Hold on….

Alex: Emerson! Stop kicking me in the balls! Babe, come on!

Alexa: Okay, fine, put her in.

***

This is our life.

this is our life: a trip to the bathroom

Emerson is getting pretty tough to corral these days. Little by little we've baby-proofed or removed (many) items from every room of our house. But, our efforts always end up feeling like a failed attempt to make things safer for Emerson while minimizing the exhausting, frustrating, perpetual battle of keeping things away from her mitts o' destruction. That girl still finds a way to hurt herself, and destroy or damage several items a day.

This is best illustrated by taking a snapshot—one room, fifteen minutes. So, here we go...  

It's mid-morning, the dreaded time of day when I have to would like to attend to some of my needs for just fifteen minutes. I've been holding my pee (and possibly other things, as well) for hours. My breath is rank with tea and decaying bacteria, and far too many hours without brushing. I need to wash up. I'd like to run a comb through my unwashed hair. Meanwhile, this is the time of day when Emerson is raring to go. She wants nothing to do with being restrained or stuck in the smallest room of the house, which is part of why I've waited so long to attempt this. Fifty percent of the time, I'm lucky to get Emerson buckled into her bouncy seat while I do my thing. But, this is not one of those times. 

My only option is to let the creature roam free while I try to attend to my declining personal hygiene. 

I start to brush my teeth, and Emerson finds the garbage can, which is lined with an enticing plastic bag. She grabs a fistful of bag and immediately lights up when she hears the sweet crinkle of plastic in her hands, one of her most beloved of illicit substances. She stuffs it in her mouth, while I try to pry it out of the insane grip she's got on it with those four sharp teeth of hers. But, as soon as I get her to release her jaw using the technique I learned when I took my dog to obedience school as a child, she discovers the huge pile of pretty awesome items inside the garbage can that us adults were silly enough to deem unusable. She's pulling things out, one after the other, faster than I can retrieve them from her mouth. Oh my god, that q-tip in her mouth has so much ear wax on it!! Really, the tissue I just blew my nose into?! Come on, not the dirty diaper, puhleeeeeaaase! F*&%#K@, that one touched Alex's ass! How am I going to kiss that mouth of yours ever again, little girl?!! 

Meanwhile, I was trying to hold my electric toothbrush (still on) clenched between my teeth while attending to the disaster before me, but it buzzed itself right out of my mouth splattering toothpaste all over my face and Emerson's head.

The garbage can now lives in the bathroom closet.

While I try to clean up the toothpaste explosion, Emerson discovers her next obsession. The removal of the garbage can revealed the hole in the floor that the garbage can was previously hiding. This hole was the displeasing side effect of removing our ancient radiators when we installed a new heating system. It also happens to be the right size to get a small hand stuck, and possibly cut with questionable metal and jagged sub-flooring from the 1940's. I really need to use the toilet, which is going to make it more difficult to head off Emerson's next move, which I'm fairly certain will be that hole. So, I grab Emerson, run to the office, dig around until I find some packing tape, then head back to the bathroom and cover the hole with a few layers of said tape. Ahhhh. Better. 

I attack the mess on my head that used to resemble hair with a brush, while Emerson gets down on her belly and proceeds to lick the tape on the floor while intermittently smacking it. She's absolutely tickled by this. Lick, smack, lick, smack. This goes on for a few minutes. Then she gets bored and heads over to the sink where I'm doing my hair. She pushes her way between my legs and tries to open the cabinet underneath the sink (I'm assuming so she can consume all of its contents). She immediately finds nine million items housed in or made of plastic so I throw a hair band around the knobs on the cabinet doors to keep her out (I keep putting off the 45 minute drive to Babies R' Us to purchase a baby lock for the one and only cabinet in our house). Emerson quickly voices her opinion on my makeshift lock, holding on to the knobs while violently pulling the doors back and forth, like an inmate loudly protesting her imprisonment. This inevitably leads to one of her fingers getting crushed in the crack of the door.

Shhhhh. Shhhhh. You're okay, baby. I know it hurt. Awwww. Shhhh.

Back on the floor.

I finish up at the sink while Emerson discovers the toilet paper. I was hoping I'd somehow bypass the toilet paper craze with my child, but that was just silly thinking on my part. Emerson sits down and begins to unroll the entire jumbo 3-ply roll while simultaneously stuffing it in her mouth. She has a genuine taste for paper-related materials, so I'm not altogether surprised by this. But, I'm a little puzzled when she starts to shove the toilet paper into her mouth with greater intensity than usual. She has a look of guilt on her face that seems to be saying I-must-have-this-or-I'll-die-oh-please-don't-let-mama-find-meeee! I try to teach Emerson that eating toilet paper is icky….it's a losing battle. I once more use the dog-jaw technique and relegate the toilet paper roll to the back of the toilet tank. Awesome. One more thing that takes this place one step closer to resembling a frat house rather than a family home. Of course, this strategy will only work until Emerson grows another inch and can reach the top of the tank. Then what? Suspend the TP from the ceiling on a dangling hook? Actually….that isn't a bad idea. I've got to check Pinterest for something like this.

Okay, I've got to use the bathroom or I'm going to need a diaper. Things look pretty secure. What else is there? I sit down very tentatively. Emerson is sitting on the floor chewing on actual teething toys. Clean ones. Oh, wait. She chucks them at the wall and stares at them with disgust. She moves on to the bathtub. First she finds a couple of dirty, wet wash cloths to suck on….the ones I used yesterday to scrub her bum. After tossing them in the tub and not being able to retrieve them, she attempts to eat the shower liner. She quickly tires of this, though, and I think thank goodness, that's literally everything she could possibly attack in this room. But, she's bored now that she's attacked everything in the room. What is left to entertain her? Mama, of course. 

Emerson crawls over and lurks beneath my feet while I'm sitting on the toilet. What the hell is she going to do?! She caresses the now empty toilet paper holder, looking at me scornfully. She then shimmies her way into the small crevice between the wall and the toilet and proceeds to smack the toilet seat. She then attempts to stick her hands in the bowl while my ass is mere millimeters away from her face. I scream. This cannot happen. This is not okay. Emersonnnnn!!! I pull her out and put her back on the ground beneath me. 

I guess I better wrap this up, ready or not. Emerson decides to pull herself up by holding onto the drawstring of my pants while I do some sort of crazy back bend in an attempt to stabilize her and grab the toilet paper off the back of the the toilet tank simultaneously. I hurriedly try to get some TP off the roll before it is ripped from my hands and ingested. I pull my pants up.

This is our life.

this is our life: on marriage

Me: Baby, can you bag up all the recycling and take it out to the garage?

Alex: Sure, if you do what you hate to do the most and make some decisions! Starting with…what do you want for lunch today?! I've asked you about four times and all you keep saying is that you feel 'uninspired by your options.'

Me: Ugh. Okay. Let me think...

Alex: Does it seem like we just keep exchanging torturous tasks today?

Me: Yes, I think that's what they call marriage.

this is our life: on privacy

Wow, so I don't post for a couple of weeks and now that I'm getting back into the swing of life post-holidays, Emerson has had me up like alllll night the past week on account of her two front teeth coming in. And, let me to you, when mama is pushed past her normal state of exhaustion into the realm of delerium….well….it's tough to formulate thoughts and write. In the meantime, a quick installment of "This is our Life:"

My dream mornings consist of being able to shower, towel off, lotion up and get dressed all without the baby in the room/in my arms/pulling on my leg/somehow attached to my boob while doing all of the above. Those mornings are a rarity, though, and this is not one of them. This is my standard morning, so I am starting out my bathroom routine with Emerson in her bouncy seat next to me. About ten minutes later, Alex comes and takes her to play downstairs just as I step into the shower. This is also not one of the mornings on which I have the luxury of washing my hair (those are also a rarity) so I shove my hair back into the large, purple shower cap that my daughter is all too familiar with and I fear will always associate me with. I soap up, wash my face, and then spend twenty seconds just standing in the warm water before I remind myself that I can't stand there all day. 

As soon as Alex hears the loud, metal-on-metal sound of the shower curtain being opened, he is already halfway up the stairs. On this occasion, I decide to close the door before he has a chance to come in. But, my personal space barely exists anymore. Alex simply opens the door without knocking and proceeds to drop Em in her bouncy seat so he can get in the shower himself. Slightly annoyed, but also resigned to my existence, I blurt out, "a closed door means I'm doing something private!"

Alex looks at Emerson and says, "what do you think she was doing in here, Em?" Emerson looks perplexed. "Probably something with her vagina," he whispers.

Alex and I go back and forth about my top secret private acts for a minute until Alex says, "you'd think that there wouldn't be anything private between you and the man that literally pulled a baby out of your vagina."

I had nothing to say to that.

This is our life.

this is our life: on the lesser of two evils

It's late morning and time to give Emerson a bath. I sit her down on the bathroom floor and get all her supplies ready—wash cloths, cotton balls, lotion, hair brush, shampoo and body wash—all while singing our usual song: It's time to take a bath, take a bath, take a bath. It's time to take a bath, take a bath, take a bath. Emerson squeals with delight as she watches me fill her tub and sing. This girl loves her baths. And soaking mama with splashes. And drinking soapy water. Bath time is the best.

As the tub fills I take Em into her room to change her diaper. I unlatch the diaper and then wait for the inevitable flow of pee I know she's going to unleash once diaperless. She always does this. Is it the cold breeze on her lady parts? Is it the freedom from a life shackled in binding diapers? I don't know. But, I caught her in the act this time. Haha! 

I take Emerson back to the bathroom and plop her into the tub. I look down at the water and it begins to turn yellow immediately. Not twenty seconds in and she already peed in the tub. Obviously, this happens all the time. She's a baby. It's not a big deal, but personally I can't stand the thought of bathing my child in her own urine, so I always empty the tub and fill it back up. I pull Emerson out and put her on the floor while I put some fresh water in the tub. Nobody likes being wet and cold, but Emerson never seems to mind when I do this because I turn the heat in the bathroom way up when I bathe her and have her towel ready so she's nice and snug.

I put Emerson back in the tub. She pees again. Twice in a row? Hmmm. This has never happened. I feel horrible pulling her out of the tub again, especially since she's playing and having a great time. She's slightly displeased, but sits quietly waiting on her towel. Okay, now we're going to have a bath. Or, so I think.

Again, I put Emerson in the tub. I look down and see something I've never seen before. At first I think she's peeing again because the water is turning yellow between her legs. But, then. An explosion. It looks like a boat propeller is being started under the water. Particles are flying left and right. I'm being further initiated into parenthood. I've been dreading this moment, knowing it would happen eventually. I soon realize that Emerson is pooping in the tub and because she's a breastfed baby, her poops are basically liquid, which means there is no containing it. The entire tub is filled with brownish yellow water with random bits of who knows what floating every which way. 

I stay calm for my child on a daily basis, especially when freaking out might cause some sort of complex for her. But nope. I can't do it right now. My baby is sitting in a sewage tank. To her, of course, she's just in the bath tub so she continues on with her bath time activities. Number one is kicking her legs as hard as she can, which normally means she playfully splashes the heck out of mama while mama giggles at her cuteness. In this instance, however, she is splashing poop all over me. And I just showered. I open my mouth in a gasp of horror, and she splashes poopy water….into. my. mouth. I start to scream. I cannot help myself. Emerson looks at me like I'm crazy and proceeds to put her hands in her mouth, rub poop into her eyes, and drink the bath water. I scream even louder. I'm completely losing my sh#t. I'm sweating on account of the heater being cranked all the way up. I want to take Emerson out of the tub to stop all the poop eating and poop splashing, but SHE'S COVERED IN POOP. HOW DO I GET HER OUT WITHOUT TOUCHING MORE POOP? I cannot figure out a plan of attack. This is when I call for Alex. Thank God for Thanksgiving vacation, because, otherwise, I'd be dealing with this one on my own. 

At this point, Emerson starts wailing. She can handle a lot of things, but watching mama freak out is not one of them, especially when she knows she is causing the upset. Alex comes upstairs and rescues a red, screaming Emerson from the poopy tub and attempts to calm her...without touching her. Emerson poops some more on her towel. I go into panic mode and start spraying every cleaning spray I can find in the tub, scrubbing furiously and cursing the fact that I buy non-toxic products. I need some chemicals up in this biatch STAT. And listening to poor, cold, wet Emerson cry is making me even crazier than I already am. 

After a good scrub down, I figure the tub is clean enough for another bath so I put my baby back into some warm water. 

And.

She.

Poops.

AGAIN.

I'm just cursing at this point. Cursing and shaking from the stress of every surface and person in the bathroom being poopified. I mean, my hands are literally shaking. And Emerson is melting down as I pull her from the tub for the fourth time. I scrub the tub once more wondering why this initiation into parenthood must be so thorough and unfair. I actually would have preferred a solid, formed poop floating in the tub over what is basically diarrhea being splattered in my face, and Emerson's face, and coating the sides of the bath tub. The fact that I'm even having this conversation in my head about wishing for solid, formed poop is just upsetting, but that's what it comes down to in parenthood. There are so many gross or less than ideal encounters on a daily basis, so which would you prefer? Which is easier to clean up? Which can be contained to a smaller area? Which poses less health risk/disease potential/injury? Yes, I'll take the solid poop, please.

I finally get Emerson into a (somewhat) clean tub and quickly wash her before any further excrement decides to leave her body. I have beads of sweat trickling down my face and cleavage, my hair looks like I just journeyed through a rain forest on account of all the humidity in the bathroom from hot water and a hot heater, my face is bright red and frazzled. Emerson looks a bit traumatized and can't bring herself to splash or play in the water. She just sits there as I silently soap her up and rinse her off. She cries as I attempt to dry her and put her lotion on. 

I spend ten minutes snuggling and nursing Em, and then hand her off to Alex as I inform him that I'm going to need a solid half hour, alone, in the bathroom to decontaminate and recover mentally. Alex retorts, "what would you have done if I was at work and you had to deal with this all by yourself?" I'm nearing a panic attack just trying to imagine it. I say nothing and close the bathroom door, defeated. 

Later, I google "what can happen if my baby drinks bath water that she pooped in." 

This is our life.

this is our life: on sex after baby

It's 4:00 in the afternoon on a weekday. Alex just got home from work. This means we have a half hour before it's time for one of us to start cooking dinner and then the bedtime routine begins. There is no leeway. Emerson is on a tight schedule and she lets us know that she is less than pleased when we deviate from her plan. So, a half hour is what we've got. Every time we have a window like this, I panic. These windows don't come around too often, so I obviously want to use this time wisely, but I've got a running list of about 789 different chores, business to-do's, emails to respond to, phone calls to make, and things I could do to just relax or enjoy myself so it's a tough call. I can't decide. 

Alex plops himself down on the futon in the playroom, looking completely defeated by his day at work. 

"Funky Town?" he asks with a deflated attempt at a wink. (Parenthood fans out there?)

I look at my husband. He hasn't had a haircut in almost two months. He used to go every two weeks, religiously, and I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until we moved to the middle of nowhere, had a baby, and he stopped looking in the mirror. He shaved his head over a year ago, thinking this would simplify things, but really it requires more maintenance in order to not look like a Chia Head. Falling in line with his lax approach to his appearance, he's also stopped shaving. Because, you can't have an unkept head and tidy beard. No. He's gone all Alexander Supertramp on me.

Then I see my reflection in the sliding glass doors of our sunroom. I'm wearing a pair of maternity yoga pants. It's been SIX MONTHS since I gave birth, and I am WELL beyond the still-kind-of-look-pregnant-and-need-maternity-pants phase. I just don't have any clean clothes. Or the time to raid my wardrobe in search of something else that does not say "Motherhood" or "Gap Maternity" on the label. So, I'm wearing maternity pants with the stomach panel folded down….several times. On top, I have a tee-shirt that is way too big, but it's a v-neck and makes for easy access to my boobs...for the baby. And then there's the sweater I grabbed without looking as Emerson was crying—a very Mr. Rogers-esque looking zip-up cardigan. Don't get me wrong, this cardigan can be cute when worn properly. But, with the aforementioned items of clothing, it's frumpy and shameful. It does, however, go well with my mess of hair—half curly, half straight due to a lack of styling time, unwashed for three days with random sections sticking up thanks to my daughter's love of pulling on and eating my hair.

"Sooo, Funky Town, babe?"

"Honestly, your beard is getting so long it smells like dreadlocks. I can't even talk about your hair. And I look like a bag lady. We're not very sexy. Maybe tomorrow?"

We both laugh, not in the least bit offended. 

"What happened to us?" Alex shouts out.

"We used to be so sexy!" I yell to the sky, one fist clenched.

Alex collapses back into his seat and closes his eyes while the baby plays on the floor beneath him. I use the half hour to do chores.

This is our life.

this is our life: on improvising

Emerson is going through a new phase. She now fusses and cries from 5:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. every night, making dinnertime….challenging.  Most nights I'm not even sure what I ate, because this time has become a chaotic blur of try-to-distract-Emerson tactics. Our first attempt is Emerson's little tabletop seat with her tray piled high with toys. Emerson violently bangs said toys against the tray (and her head) and whirls them in every direction while blowing angry raspberries. Last night a rattle ended up on my plate. This situation quickly becomes unmanageable (and quite frankly, unsafe) for all involved. The next step is mama holding Emerson. Emerson digs her head into my shoulder, intermittently biting me (and occasionally giving me hickeys) and blowing slimy raspberries all over my neck. She pulls my hair. Attempts to detach my nose from my face. Grabs at my fork or smacks her hand down right in the middle of my rice. I tell Alex to eat faster, I give him looks of disbelief when he stops shoveling his food into his mouth for even a second. Emerson has had enough of sitting down. I stand up, press her cheek against mine, and ballroom dance with her (she loves this). After a few spins and dips, I toss her across the table into Alex's lap. He pretends she's flying, he stands her up on the table and makes her put on shows for me. I'm 3/4 of the way through my meal, but I can't handle the fussing (or at times, all out sobbing). I put down my fork. 

We all head upstairs—I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth while Alex takes Emerson into her room to change her diaper and put on her pajamas. This is the apex of the madness. Emerson wails as Alex tries to negotiate four flying limbs and somehow diaper a baby who is spinning over and over like a cyclone on the changing table. I cannot stand the tortuous cries of my baby for long so I decide to brush my teeth while standing next to her. The sight of mama calms her a bit, the fact that I'm brushing my teeth distracts her. She stares at me in silence for a moment, enormous tears painting her face, her eyelashes wet and matted together. Then she remembers she is being tortured and proceeds to sob. I cannot pick her up, because Alex is currently wiping her bum and she still has no pajamas on. And I need to brush my teeth so I can get in bed with her. She is bright red, I can see all the way down her throat as she cries a cry so mighty I wonder if she's in some sort of physical pain. On other nights, I've tried picking her up, calming her down, and then resuming the diapering/pajama-ing again. It doesn't work.

Panic. Panic. Panic. 

And then. With one hand I continue to brush my teeth. With the other hand, I free my right boob from my shirt, bend over the changing table and stick it in her mouth. Silence. Happiness. Emerson looks up at me with a surprised, but pleased look on her face as to say, "genius mom, pure genius." And there we are—a butt naked Emerson holding my boob with both hands and both her feet (yes, for real), Alex trying to get a diaper around a curled up baby body, me in some strange, downward dog type position with my boob dangling over my child's face….while I brush my teeth. I look at Alex, and mumble with a mouth full of foamy toothpaste, "annnnd, this is our life."

[So, I didn't quite demonstrate the art of brevity here, but you get the gist of this new series, right?]

this is our life

I've been struggling to post on a regular basis for the last few months. There are two reasons for this: #1, I had a baby and need to readjust my expectations, and #2, insecurity. I won't get into #2 in this post, but I am trying to do something about #1. 

I am not skilled in the ways of being brief. My husband likes to say that I "talk in essays." This is true. Also true, I write in essays, and that is more than I can do most days of the week nowadays. So, I'm trying to learn the art of cutting to the chase. To that end, I've come up with one solution to my posting problem and it is called: This is Our Life. "And, this is our life" is something Alex and I started saying in the middle of crazy parenting moments that sometimes seem totally bizarre objectively speaking, but feel totally normal to us (or sometimes, don't, but it's still our life). As I was saying this very phrase to my husband last night, a lightbulb went on and this idea was born.

So, I will post very real, very small (and hopefully very entertaining!) unfiltered morsels of our life—sort of the blog equivalent of Twitter updates. This will be a series, stuck in amongst the other series pieces I've been working. I hope you like it! The first will be posted on Monday….as long as I don't lose power courtesy of frankenstorm/moonapocalypse. Oh, please. No, we will not lose power. In fact, we'll be totally fine and untouched by disaster. Just putting that out into the Universe.