I woke up this morning in a wet spot. Before you finish that smirk, you should know that the “wet spot” being referred to here was due to the fact that my husband and I are currently bed-sharing with our wee little one, who likes to wee a lot. Hiccup wet the bed, and here’s my confession: I realized his diaper had leaked sometime around 3:30am but did not get up to change him (or myself or our sheets) for another three hours. His sleeping through the night is a relatively new and suspect development. After experiencing one sleep disturbance after another – wonder week upon wonder week, an insane holiday-schedule that is not to be repeated, teething (One. Tooth. At. A. Time) and then yet another wonder week – we’re understandably skeptical that this will last. Considering how many months it has been since his birth, nothing – NOTHING – is a big enough deal for me to risk waking him when he is sleeping peacefully, not even the realization that I am lying in the dampness of another person’s urine.
The kid’s a light sleeper and the kind of full wardrobe/set change that was required at 3:30 this morning, I can say from experience, would have been more than enough to usher him into full-mode wakefulness. It then would have been an hour and a half to two hours before he was tired enough to shoosh to sleep again and by then, well it would have been time to get up. So this was a legitimate dilemma and I stand by my decision! This story illustrates a new trend in my life however that I’m not exactly proud of. A trend towards grossness. In my previous life, I was fastidiously ungross, especially when it came to what I was willing to touch, taste, smell, or lie in; but motherhood is making me gross and the evidence is really beginning to stack up.
For instance, this is not my first “it’s only pee” story. In my early weeks back at work, there was one morning when I sat down with the baby for one last nurse before I ran out the door and his diaper leaked onto my skirt. It was a black and white, patterned skirt so you couldn’t really tell and there wasn’t another outfit lined up that was pumping friendly; so I just went to work in the pee skirt. It dried fairly quickly and didn’t really smell. No one knew.
The other day at the park, I brought graham crackers for us to snack on but forgot wipes to clean up my little cookie monster’s face. In hindsight I could have just wiped the mess off with my hands and then onto my jeans but no, not this mama. Without even hesitating, my instinct was to lick the pasty cracker streaks off his cheeks. In my defense, I once read there are some cultures in which parents do this with their babies’ runny noses, which is probably what planted the idea in the deep recesses of my baby-addled-brain (so if you’re going to judge, do so within the context of knowing that!).
If I’m not going to work, I don’t always bother taking the time to brush my hair or wash my face (FYI, real life messy ponytails are not that cute).
That partially sucked-on piece of cheese on Hiccup’s tray that he was clearly done with yesterday – I ate it. Waste not, want not.
Cleaned poop out from under my finger nails the other day. Not my first time.
Made dinner…after cleaning poop out from under my fingernails.
Speaking of poop – we’re cloth diapering. Our laundry is gross now too.
I frequently wear the same tank top for two or three days (and nights) in a row. It’s comfy with easy boob access (I should probably just buy more though).
Squished a spider with my bare fingers when it got too close to the baby (pretty proud of this last one actually – that fight or flight instinct finally resulted in a fight, and it was a fight to the death!).
All I have to say for myself is that being a full-time working mama (which basically means having two full-time jobs…two and a half even) is very consuming. It doesn’t leave much time for sissy stuff like napkins and personal hygiene. What I’m realizing is that this is totally fine. For the record, we’re all ridiculously healthy here at Casa Lovejoy; and Hiccup couldn’t care less that his mama sometimes smells like old man sweat. You might be thinking, “Poor Professor!” (I certainly do some days); but this is where I get to brag because my hubby loves me with a heart so true, he doesn’t seem to see my grossness. The days I’m feeling particularly worn down or unattractive are frequently the ones in which he will spontaneously take note of how beautiful he thinks I am, how huggable, how kissable, and then quickly take steps to prove it to me. Somehow he’s able to look at me with my greasy hair pinned back from my makeup-less face, still wearing that milk-stained tank and just see his beautiful wife.
That’s a pretty lavish love…I must confess.