I slip into the next room to grab something, and I overhear Adelaide babbling to herself. “Blah blah blah” she says, all kinds of baby nonsense. And I say (aloud, to no one), “Listen to that crazy baby in there talking to herself.” And Adelaide leaps out of her lamb Rock ‘n Play and shouts “HYPOCRISY” with jazz hands and a box step. And I’m like, “Wowzers, this is so my baby.”
That’s kind of what motherhood is like as far as I can tell. A little piece of you blabbing about nothing yet all the while making you realize so much about yourself. Too much about yourself. It’s kind of like how I thought I was this agreeable person, and then I got married, and God went, “HA!” Or how I thought I was so patient, and then I became an eighth grade teacher. Also hilarious. And now I’m a mother. A mother to a brilliant baby, a wise little babbling Yoda. And in the name of full disclosure, I spelled wise with a “z” on my first try of that little fragment that would’ve cost a student of mine two points on a paper. So yeah, HYPOCRISY, and also I’m a little dumb. But that’s hardly my fault.
Babies take your brains. Did you know that? They are squishy little aliens that poop themselves silly and take every bit of intelligence you once thought you had. When I was pregnant, I couldn’t remember how to unlock the door to my house, so I had to stand very still at the front door until I remembered. That was humbling, and I should have realized then that it was only the beginning of the foolishness. Because while Adelaide learns to reach for things and dominate tummy time and kick her little legs when she hears music and stick out her lower lip to manipulate me into doing whatever she wants (“okay fine you can have a pony”), I can’t remember if today is Wednesday or Thursday, but nope, it’s Tuesday, and I’ve missed The Bachelorette again. DANG IT, ANDI, I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE even though it will inevitably irritate me and I’ll get all high and mighty and swear off the “trash TV” once again, but this time I mean it, forever. HA! God chuckles.
|Adelaide, who refused to be the only girl at camp without a pair of Nike shorts.|
I took that baby girl to camp with us last week, and MAN did she yuk it up. (Again, full disclosure, I have no idea what that phrase means but I’ve been really wanting to use it.) This girl was smiling and giggling and cooing at everyone, and just gobbling up the attention like her dad eats peanut butter. (STRAIGHT FROM THE JAR Y’ALL WITH A HUGE SPOON.) Whose child is this that loves attention? Certainly not her mother’s, although I do seem to recall my nine-months pregnant self performing for my sister a strange dance to “I Live for the Applause” by Lady Gaga. OKAY FINE SHE’S JUST LIKE ME. And her dad. Talk about two people who love to talk and have people listen. She’s doomed.
I had all these ideals before I had a baby, like “I won’t be that girl who talks about/posts pictures of her baby incessantly” and “I won’t be that mom that thinks her baby is better than the other babies,” but that lasted about zero seconds because I saw that baby for the first time and I knew two things:
- I am obsessed with this baby.
- This baby is superior to all other babies.
In conclusion, it is inevitable that I will become the stage mom everyone hates, and let’s all pray to God that I do not turn this baby into the big brat that I am just now realizing that I am.