parenting fails, 25 days old

First. I am really sorry. I am totally behind on reading everyone’s blogs and commenting. I’m working on it, I swear. Right now I’m just too busy failing as a parent to make time for thoughtful commentary BUT I am reading. Comments soon to follow, scout’s honor.

And now, without further adieu, eight ways[1] I’ve failed as a parent in less than thirty days. At this rate, child protective services is on their way who knows what gems the next 18 years will hold!

1. Visits from guests who have not demonstrated satisfactory immunization histories

Friends of ours mentioned that they had once tried to visit another friend and her new baby only to be turned away until they were up to date on ALL OF THEIR VACCINES AND HAD RECORDS TO PROVE IT. We laughed our naïve little heads off for hours at these silly, overly cautious and foolishly prudent parents. And then we cried. Because we are bad, bad parents who barely required our guests to wash the snot off their hands.

2. Copious hours of forbidden “screen time”

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that you refrain from exposing your child to screen time before age two. But with Netflix as my new breast friend[2], this child is bound to grow up thinking that the Duggars and the Kardashians are his parents. So he’ll be a… fundamentalist Christian with between six and nineteen children and a series of very short Hollywood marriages. NOTHING CAN GO WRONG!

3. Formula is liquid poison

As my three loyal readers already know, we descended into the world of formula feeding last week after a few unsatisfactory weight checks and what appears to be low milk supply <waves to the crowd, gesturing at boobs>. And now, at least from what I can read on the big, bad interwebs under the cover of night, deciding to supplement is basically akin to feeding my delicate snowflake liquid poison/committing child abuse AND all cans of formula should come equipped with (a) no fewer than four pre-written rejection letters from ivy league schools and (b) referrals for a bevy of psychotherapists. Dearest child, you’re welcome.

4. Our empty baby book

Our empty baby book. In which I have literally written not one word. But we did save the NYTimes from the day he was born. Because he’ll DEFINITELY want to read coverage of the “crisis” facing the Insane Clown Posse as of December 9, 2013. (And while I haven’t written a thing in his baby book, I did totally give myself a GIANT pat on the back for saving his itty-bitty hospital bracelet that looks like it would fit around the ankle of an ant. I intend to present it to him at his high school graduation/his first meeting with his probation officer. I’m pretty sure he’ll thank me.)

5. Allowing my developing-bad-habits-as-quickly-as-possible newborn to sleep everywhere other than his crib

I know. This is a tired, old story. But nearly a month in, it still holds true. E will sleep anywhere as long as it’s not in his crib. In my arms. In his stroller. In his carseat. In C’s arms. In the arms of unwitting and possibly intoxicated strangers encountered on the street in the dead of night. Etc. It’s a fine balance because on one hand, you want him to sleep, but on the other hand… I forget. I’m too tired.

6. Humiliating onesies

I have allowed my son, on three non-consecutive occasions, to wear ridiculous and humiliating onesies – Hand-Me-Downs all of them, I swear – that say things like “Daddy’s little hero!” (above a little embroidered taxi cab because, um, obviously?) and “I love hugs!”

In my defense, on at least one of those occasions, it was 4 am and my adorable boy had just sent a stream of hot urine at least a foot in the air, landing directly in his left eye. As soon as I finished laughing hysterically[3], I had to dress him as soon as possible and the little taxi cab number just happened to be on top. <hangs head in shame>.

7. Baby as dinner napkin

As aforementioned, see (5) supra, my son, the little devil, prefers to sleep in my arms over literally everywhere else. And because I’m nothing if not a pushover, I indulge him. Which means that I eat most of my meals while he’s draped underneath me like a dinner napkin. So far, I’ve pulled sandwich crumbs from his hair and pretzel crumbs from the tiny folds of his neck – seriously, who knows what lives under there. And, if I’m being honest, it’s possible that a piece of veggie burger got wedged somewhere in the depths of a striped SwaddleMe. So far he doesn’t seem to mind.

8. More germs

As if our unvaccinated visitors weren’t enough cause for health department concern, I would be remiss not to mention the added germs[4] of our beloved six-year-old Labrador retriever. Truth be told, during one lazy afternoon breastfeeding marathon, during which I was glued to the couch and allowing the Kardashians to parent my offspring, I may have looked on idly as our dog did a drive-by lick of the baby’s bare newborn head AND his pacifier. Also, we let him have a pacifier. I guess that’s nine parenting fails. <Curtsy>.

 

Contemplative Ezra. Day 25.
On which he looks like he's already about 10 years old
and his mother weeps while mumbling some cliche about the passage of time.
Scene.

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[1] Truth: this started out as “five ways” but then, wouldn’t you know it, I just kept thinking of other ways I have failed.

[2] See what I did there?

[3] For those playing at home my laughter would be yet another parenting fail.

[4] I know, I know, baby + pets = stellar immune system!