Less than a month and counting until the Second Coming (a.k.a., my precious daughter, Ellie). I’m no amateur at this point, and thus, I haven’t neglected my prep work: sleeping in, watching movies, catching up on television and movies, and obsessive shopping.
But there’s really no way to get ready, is there? Forget all the good stuff—the love, the joy, the gurgling and the giggling, the twinkling and gamboling and goo-goo-ing, and the like. I’m talking about enduring another two years of limited sleep, god only knows how long with the diapers, the screaming, the nap terrorism, cradle cap, booger suction, blender food, tooth drama, milk drama, mama drama, mommy groups, pampers, tummy time, meltdowns, eruptive poop, liquid poop, snack politics (to PBJ or not?), daycare confrontations, nanny ethics, the laws of the playground, gender facts, developmental milestones, educational opportunities—in short, your basic, all purpose, red-blooded, patriotic American domestic malaise.
Ah, I feel better now. Someone pass me a designer diaper. I’m ready to roll.
Excellent, excellent refresher graphic. It’s the only piece of even slightly relevant ‘advice’ I will attempt to give to any first-time expecting parent:
The head. If the child’s mother is delivering vaginally, there is a good chance that the child will come out looking like she is wearing one of those elongated time-trial cycling helmets, only it’s not a helmet, but her entire head. I hadn’t heard about this, and I seriously almost fainted when my first child was born after 3.5 hours of skull-crushing pushing.
Good luck!