I’m pretty sure everyone I know thinks they have an easy baby. I think this is wonderful because obviously the parenthood propaganda is working – we’re all so convinced that becoming moms will be the hardest thing ever that when our little tiger turns out to only have colic for three hours a day instead of eight we think, “Ah, I have SUCH an easy baby!”
Part of me want to call all these folks up and say Really? Really? You consider THAT easy? And then I remember the only thing that keeps me going each day: the fiction that I’m doing it right. And we all rely on that bit of knowledge – true (for all of you , of course) or not (me). So I’m here to tell you that I have SUCH an easy baby. She slept nine hours each night for the last five days! SO EASY. And then I’m also going to tell you this:
She will not roll over.
She routinely smears sweet potatoes all up and down her arms like it’s a spa treatment.
She sprayed poop all over my wife, the airport floor and her stroller.
She has had poo in her ear two times in the last two weeks.
She will not take baths, only showers, and will stiff-body you till you acquiesce.
She has an alarming squeal.
And the kicker: This morning, I put my hand flat down in a pool of poop and then had to wear an apron while I hosed her down screaming in the sink.
Judging from my friends’ portrayals of their offspring, they all have perfect little angels who are advanced, breathtakingly gorgeous and charming. They bring their mother’s tea, craft sophisticated refrigerator art, and wash off their own pacifiers. My own sister even said to me today, “How can I ever compete with RR or her cousin? They are just so brilliant and so beautiful!” So I’ll tell you what I told her just in case you were wondering. They aren’t all like that. The Princess of Poop isn’t like that.
Easy? My ass.