Why is is that one minute I can be super frustrated with my son and swear off having any more children, and the next I'm pleading with Marty to help me make another baby?
I think it has to do with how cute babies are when they're really little. Their skin is so soft, and they fit so perfectly in your arms. They coo and smile at you like little angels.
And let's face it--I've never really had a small child. From the day he entered the world, Marty has been a big boy, and proud of it. He weighed in at ten pounds, four ounces, and hasn't stopped growing since. He never really fit in my arms. I always had to kind of prop him on one hip in order to carry him around the house without hurting my back. Funny, since I had a c-section, the doctors sent me home with the warning that I was not to lift anything over ten pounds. Just carrying my son to the car for his first ride home was breaking the rules.
And all the cooing is long gone. My son is not a huge fan of just sitting and cuddling anymore. He has to see everything, hear everything, touch everything, put everything into his mouth, no matter how long it's been growing stale on the carpet. His shirts are always covered with crumbs or boogers or formula or apple juice, and I find myself just stripping him down to his diaper most days because he won't lay down long enough for me to put on a clean outfit without rolling over. I never knew I was so horrible at wrestling, or that an infant could ever manage to overpower me. And those diaper changes! For some reason, now that he's discovered a certain manly part of himself, he HAS to touch it every time I take his diaper off, no matter how much poop has been smeared on it. So we are constantly washing hands, saying "no", slapping his wrist, taking unidentified objects out of his mouth. Where did that little baby go? The one who'd sleep for hours on end and never cry longer than a moment?
It gets me thinking about how fun it would be to kind of start over with another baby. To remember all those precious moments, like the pre-walking stages when he'd be entertained for hours just sitting in one spot with a fun toy. And it doesn't help to have friends (thanks, Sarah) who have adorable, mini-sized children that are so well-behaved and don't require constant chasing after.
But I'm counting my blessings. A walking almost-one-year-old certainly helps to shed any leftover baby weight I've been hanging on to! Maybe I can continue hoping that I'll someday get back to my normal size and normal self. Knowing my luck, though, that'll be right when I find out baby number two is on the way.
Then again, if I keep this up, I'll never be content with where we are NOW. So, crusty hair and poop smears and penis pulls aside, I think I'll just love the kid I've got.
I think it has to do with how cute babies are when they're really little. Their skin is so soft, and they fit so perfectly in your arms. They coo and smile at you like little angels.
And let's face it--I've never really had a small child. From the day he entered the world, Marty has been a big boy, and proud of it. He weighed in at ten pounds, four ounces, and hasn't stopped growing since. He never really fit in my arms. I always had to kind of prop him on one hip in order to carry him around the house without hurting my back. Funny, since I had a c-section, the doctors sent me home with the warning that I was not to lift anything over ten pounds. Just carrying my son to the car for his first ride home was breaking the rules.
And all the cooing is long gone. My son is not a huge fan of just sitting and cuddling anymore. He has to see everything, hear everything, touch everything, put everything into his mouth, no matter how long it's been growing stale on the carpet. His shirts are always covered with crumbs or boogers or formula or apple juice, and I find myself just stripping him down to his diaper most days because he won't lay down long enough for me to put on a clean outfit without rolling over. I never knew I was so horrible at wrestling, or that an infant could ever manage to overpower me. And those diaper changes! For some reason, now that he's discovered a certain manly part of himself, he HAS to touch it every time I take his diaper off, no matter how much poop has been smeared on it. So we are constantly washing hands, saying "no", slapping his wrist, taking unidentified objects out of his mouth. Where did that little baby go? The one who'd sleep for hours on end and never cry longer than a moment?
It gets me thinking about how fun it would be to kind of start over with another baby. To remember all those precious moments, like the pre-walking stages when he'd be entertained for hours just sitting in one spot with a fun toy. And it doesn't help to have friends (thanks, Sarah) who have adorable, mini-sized children that are so well-behaved and don't require constant chasing after.
But I'm counting my blessings. A walking almost-one-year-old certainly helps to shed any leftover baby weight I've been hanging on to! Maybe I can continue hoping that I'll someday get back to my normal size and normal self. Knowing my luck, though, that'll be right when I find out baby number two is on the way.
Then again, if I keep this up, I'll never be content with where we are NOW. So, crusty hair and poop smears and penis pulls aside, I think I'll just love the kid I've got.
3 comments:
That last sentence-poetry.
It is kind of funny how you want to go back in time and I want to go forward in time...
You're right! Let's be content.
Don't worry cute little girl feel the need to "play with things" aswell.
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