Noooooooo! Stoooooop!" At seeing my obvious distress, she stopped dancing, laughed in my face, started wagging her finger at me saying: "No no no no!" and then fell off the table with a horrifying THUD. She was completely fine five minutes later and I am now scarred for life.
And so it begins.
Mini-mini-me has moved to the next phase of her development. The one where my life is essentially over for the next two years. Fantastic. This phase has many names. But let's start at the beginning:
Phase One: The Red Wiggler Phase (newborn - 6 weeks):
Whereby the baby is a non-communicative lump with its days and nights mixed up. You and your husband are convinced that your Red Wiggler is the most beautiful, awe-inspiring piece of perfection in baby form ever. Meanwhile, everyone else on the planet thinks your baby resembles a grimacing plucked chicken, and they are right.
Phase Two: The Happy Lumpkin Phase (6 weeks - 6 months):
The baby is now cute and sleeps all the time. And it smiles and then laughs and all is right with the world. Then it stops nursing for 5 hours and you react as if you were JFK and there are missiles off the coast of Florida. You may find yourself making frantic phone calls to your husband or mother and saying things like: "You don't understand. The. Baby. Hasn't. Eaten. You have to come here right now and make her nurse. RIGHT NOW. I don't care about the meeting with the shareholders! Tell them to suck it! The baby hasn't eaten since 6 am and it's almost noon. You have to come home right now! Gahhhhhh!!!!!"
Please note that my memory of this phase is only *slightly* informed by the massive amounts of pregnancy hormones I was shedding at the time.
Phase Three: The Five Minutes Of Happiness Phase (6 mos - walking/fully mobile):
The baby is now ridiculously cute. It may sit up and crawl around or even walk like a drunk person (happy drunk, mind you). The baby is easily distracted and interested in everything. My son Hawk could happily play with spoons for forty minutes. It's great. You can still watch inappropriate TV shows during the day and accidentally say "Sh*t!" without fear of immediate and prolonged parrotting. Thumbelina is still unaware that she watched seasons 1-4 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer while nursing. And don't even talk to me about 90210 re-runs. During this phase, the little critter just wants to hang out and be cute and be near you. Enjoy this all too brief window.
Phase Four: The Lydia Contemplates Going Back To Work Full Time Phase (Fully mobile to age 3): This phase has many names. Here are a few:
The I Am Not Having Any More Kids Phase
The Gain or Lose Ten Pounds from Unyielding Stress Phase
The Please Let Me Avoid What Appears to Be Imminent Death Phase
The My Baby is a Chicken Hawk Who Thinks I'm Foghorn Leghorn Phase
This is the phase where you question both the validity of natural selection and the existence of God, as you wonder how it is possible that any creature with such an obvious lack of self-preservation is depended upon to perpetuate the species. There is no logic. There is no reason. There is only the fervent hope that you can stop them in time. Because they never stop being naughty. And the only thing standing between your baby and the electric socket she is about to lick - is you.
Let's remember who we're dealing with. I am Lydia, and I am an idiot. I am outwitted on a weekly basis by laundry. I often wear my pajamas to drop my kids off at school. When I do make an effort to get dressed, I find that my cardigan is on inside out. This is BAD. I am ridiculous and because of this, my precious little cupcake could get hurt. And let me state for the record what we all already know: Nothing seriously bad is allowed to happen to our children or the world will end.
Mini Mini Me has been walking for five months. Trying to climb things with limited success for 2 months. And all the while, she has been so sweet and good that I thought I was getting a pass on this child. She is my third. Thirds are special. And she is such an angel in so many ways...
Wait. What's that noise? Oh. Dear. God.
My precious cupcake has just opened the dishwasher while it was running and is now splashing through the rapidly flooding kitchen with a steak knife in her hand cooing in a singsong: "Mine mine mine".
Do you understand NOW? Do you know how hard it is to open the dishwasher while its running? I can barely do it. And yet, with no apparent difficulty - she has mastered it. Actually, she's doing it again right now. Oh. Actually not. She's actually turning over the trash can so she can gain access to the empty container that held raw chicken.
Thirty seven minutes later...
I just cleaned the kitchen floor (with bleach) because she managed to mix raw chicken covered garbage and three days worth of coffee grounds with the water from the dishwasher. Then I had to bathe her. In the middle of this, the big kids got home. It's 3:02 pm on Day Five of Phase Four and I need an adult beverage.
I think my baby might actually be an alien. Or a Terminator. Because she never, ever stops. People, I am not Linda Hamilton. I am not Isis or Wonderwoman or Oprah. I have no super powers. Even if I did, the baby is made of 24 carat kryptonite. I fear for our future. I will post again when I am able. Probably after my baby starts preschool sometime in 2012, provided I am able to avoid the Cupcake Apocalypse (Cupocalypse?).
PS: Moms of mulitples, I need to say something. My grandmother is a twin. I have twin cousins. I avoided your fate for one reason. The Supreme Being (in charge of pregnancy, breastfeeding and parenthood) knew my limitations (considerable) and spared us all the rants I would have been posting from the Nervous Hospital. Because had I given birth to twins, that is where I would be. I salute you. I drink to you. I adore you and worship your awesomeness. Now please turn off the computer and go check on your kids because I think I smell something burning.
Lydia out. Again.
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