I’ve neglected the blog of late. I could tell you it’s because I’m knee-deep in shitty diapers, trying desperately to console a wailing infant and wondering if I’d be criminally liable in a case of Shaken Baby Syndrome. But that’d just be an excuse.
The truth is it’s work that’s keeping me from blogging, not my child. Ava is lovely – quiet, gorgeous, and sleeping most of the night. Admittedly, she does have legendary poos. Baby Mama was recently victim of an IED (Infant Exploding Diaper) – apparently, the force of the dookie blew the diaper right off Ava’s body. I find this more impressive than disturbing. So I guess having a baby so far has been rather easy, and that, I’m told, is a serious problem.
“Real Babies,” as other, more seasoned parents tell me, are supposed to be incredible amounts of work. “Real Babies” wail like they’re being water-boarded for hours at a time. “Real Babies” spread their poo around the house like an oscillating lawn sprinkler. They suck on their mom’s boobs until they look like empty gunny sacks. “Real babies” rob their parents of sleep, sex, joy, financial security, and eventually – sanity.
Because I don’t have a “Real Baby”, these besieged mothers and fathers tell me I’m not yet a “Real Parent”. In the game of “My Child Is Worse Than Your Child”, I’m a big fat loser. If parenthood is a character-building experience, then my underachieving child has failed me miserably.
Which is not to say she won’t eventually step up her game, or that I haven’t learned anything. Quite the contrary – I believe my learning curve has been so steep I need rappelling gear. Here’s just a small sample of some of the things I’ve learned:
