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>.
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| 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. |
[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!
