Spoiler alert: there’s a lot of swearing.
It’s pretty overwhelming to become a mom: you’re having the most bizar thoughts while you’re hormone-infested brain and body try to adapt to your new life. I wrote about it in a previous post, but here’s the bad news: it doesn’t go away! I’ve been doing the job for over a year now and I can honestly say I fear I became even crazier than after I just gave birth.
“Did I just…stroke her boob? Again?”
Have you ever tried to hand over a small child, clutched at your breast, safely to another women who will also protectively press it against her chest? I don’t know about you, but I just can’t seem to get that together without awkwardly stroking the other woman’s boob, and I’m sure my unwilling “victims” get a touch of mine too every time. Get ready for a lot of unwanted intimacy between you and the scary lady at daycare…
“Ehm, is she possessed? Is this The Excorcist? Fuck I’m scared.”
Blame it on my overactive imagination, but I’m genuinely terrified of little kid’s ghost. I can’t be the only one, after all there are lot’s of scary movies (The Ring, The Excorcist, The Haunting,…) involving haunting infants in white pyjamas. Anyway, sometimes when my toddler screams at night, especially when standing upright in her crib, for a brief second I imagine her angelic little face being deformed by some demon inhabiting her. Or her chubby hands turning out to be little claws. Or a triangular snake tongue briefly flashing through pointy teeth. Or, when I finally give in and put her in bed next to me, her sleepy little noises (especially when she’s whispering what I’m sure must be nice baby language to me) to be a ghoulish slang summoning other demons from beyond the grave. Other scary thing, even in broad daylight: when she stands still in doorways (especially doorways!!), just staring at me. Aaargh!
“The Eagle Has Landed!”
I don’t know why, but this is how my husband and I communicate that she was delivered safely at daycare.
“Do I smell apples? Is that an apple?!? GET THAT FUCKING APPLE AWAY FROM US!”
It has recently come to my attention that a lot of scary stories, fairytales and real-life alike, involve choking on apples, so I don’t want them near the kid.
“OMG she doesn’t like me. She’s so mean.”
There comes a time when babies grow into toddlers: little humans with a will of their own and the intention to show it. I don’t know if it applies in general, but with my daughter it was suddenly all about dad. He was her hero and principal love interest, while I got the role of the slightly pathetic ex-friend still tailing her. A firm “no!” every time I tried to cuddle her, dramatic tears whenever he left her alone with me and pretty bitchy “you can’t sit with us!” behavior in general. I’m not gonna lie: I silently cried in the bathroom once, having an apple. And told my mom the kid didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. And even threatened to make a second child and start a new squad with that one.
Then one day she inexplicably came around and now we are the best friends in the world again. And on Wednesdays we wear pink. Just kidding.
Or am I?
“What the fuck is going on in there?!?”
What is up with all the secrecy involving daycare? My daycare lady suspiciously looks at me every time I try to find out what exactly happens there. Not that I think anything is wrong, I just like to know what the minion has been up to all day. “Good” and “lots of stuff” are the usual answers. And because I’m scared of her (see 9,5 Things You Think When Becoming A Mom), I don’t dare to push my questioning any further. Which leaves me with no other option than pathetically peeking through the back window of the building on my way back to my car. I’ve been caught doing that more than once, Daycare Lady’s face appearing on the other side of the window, and always ran away red-faced.
Being a mom also means giving up your pride, trust me.
“Why does she smell like puppy pee? Who peed on the kid?!”
It’s probably thé biggest mysteries of daycare: why does my girl go in smelling of the deliciously sweet baby shampoo I wash her with, and comes out with a sour scent in her curls. Like a savage pack of puppies just collectively relieved some call of nature on her head? I guess I will never know, but toddlers are dirty, really really savagely dirty.
“Is that her friend? Is, is that her play friend?? Does she have friends?? Who is its mom? Should I become friends with her too?!?!?” (While peeking through the back window at daycare.)
And before you know it, you become that pathetic friend tailing her again…
“Woopsy Daisy, I almost bit her there.”
Because I love-her-so-much-and-want-to-sqwwwwwweeze-those-chubby-little-cheecks-and-kiss-them-and-kiss-them-again-and-OOOOOOWWWW-god-I-put-my-teeth-on-them. Anyway, back to the order of the day.
“Can you explain the exact consistency of her diaper over the phone please?”
Worst mom moment in my life so far: there I am, a strong independent woman, home alone with the kid, casually changing her diaper, which I have done a thousand times before, musing over the fact that I’m such a chilled out and cool mom, when ALEEEEEEEEEEERT the content of her diaper has a red color!! Is it blood?! Oh fuck don’t let it be blood! I distinctly remember the nurses at the maternity ward, over a year ago, warning me to rush to to the hospital if I ever were to find blood in her diaper. So, there you have it: blooooood! Or is it red cabbage? Shit, impossible to tell. How does red cabbage smell? This situation for sure stinks. I hurry to my phone to photograph the mess and send it to my pediatrician-magician -she attended medical school for years, so I’m sure she’s had a class on distinguishing red cabbage from blood.
In my rush, I tumble down the stairs, with the baby in one hand, the Red Diaper in the other one.
“Oh fuck, protect the baby:” first thing I think while falling. “Oh shit, protect your interior:” second thought while flying through the air with the possibly nuclear content of the Red Diaper. I manage to land on my back, saving both my kid’s life and the pristine whiteness of my interior, while badly spraining my ankle. I limp to my phone and take the-most-horrible-picture-my-filmroll-has-ever-contained, press “send” and wait for three excruciating minutes, until the phone beeps and the pediatrician-magician delivers her life-saving diagnose: “why the fuck are you sending me a picture of a red cabbage-filled diaper?!” The relief…! And then the pain, realizing I won’t be able to walk for the next few days.
(Yes, I am fully aware I just wrote an entire story about a diaper. And it horrifies me.)
“Should I send a picture of a flowery field to the pediatrician-magician?”
Because I do feel bad about all the horrible rash-, diaper- and snot-related pictures our chat history contains.
“Hell yeah, I am a mother. I am STRONG!”
Especially after the Red Diaper episode, but in fact after all drama in general, I keep being amazed by the mere fact I survived it. Being a mom really means pushing your boundaries without even giving it a thought: suddenly you’re able to do stuff you never imagined yourself capable of and pushing all your own needs aside. So hell yeah, you are almighty and strong!
“Yep, still terrified of her.”
However almighty and strong you may be, Daycarelady-with-the-big-boobs will always be more powerful and scarier than you. Especially when you forgot to bring a new set of diapers. Again. Please don’t scorn me, I’m just a poor mom, nobody likes me…
“Is she breathing?”
Bad news, this one keeps popping up, even after a year.