My mother is big on sayings. I cannot
express to you how often she says “God works in mysterious ways” and “What goes
around comes around.” Obviously, her choice of saying differs depending on
whether she is riled up or not.
I have decided to join her and take up a
new mantra. Really, it should also have been my old mantra. I have chosen
to now live by these wise words: “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”
See, I am rapidly learning about the wide
world of parenting fails. For example, Henning turned 8 weeks old last Friday
and I just realized I have yet to sit him beside a stuffed animal and track his
growth for a scrapbook. I even bought this ginormous stuffed dragon shortly
after finding out I was pregnant for this express purpose and now we are
screwed. I guess I could start him off at three months, but that just seems
like advertising my own idiocy.
He also drinks cold formula. MADE USING TAP WATER.
I can’t figure out if I am the cool, laid back Mom or the ridiculously lazy
Mom. I know I am not the only person who does these things. I know that because
I stole both these ideas from other Moms, and if you don’t think I bless them
every day when I am standing in the kitchen after midnight running cold tap
water into my formula, you are sadly mistaken. But I still feel guilty about
it.
As it turns out, there’s a lot of guilt
that comes with motherhood. Maybe this is why mothers are notorious for laying
guilt trips on their children. Maybe there is just so much guilt that it has to
be spread around. The fact that Henning and I miserably failed at breastfeeding
has happily become less of a worrying factor just in time for me to find out
that I could be making my own floor cleaner. And detergent. And using cloth
diapers.
Truthfully, I would totally use cloth
diapers if Pete would let me. I think those new covers are suuuuper cute. But
even if we used cloth diapers, they would still be washed in Gain detergent
because I am wholly indoctrinated to the chemical-laden world and I love
that fresh, clean scent. We don't even buy Dreft for the baby clothes. Did I just choose a fragrance over the well-being of my
child and planet?
Yes, yes I did. And I feel TERRIBLE about
it, but not terrible enough to wear clothes-scented clothes. Maybe I just feel terrible that I don't really feel terrible about it? Henning also has a used
crib AND carseat, both of which I’m pretty sure are illegal in the state of
Georgia.
However, the thing that makes me feel most terrible is when I am busted mid-fail. My Dad, Big Daddy Lee, kept Henning for a
while one afternoon last week. We were running through the list of things packed in the diaper bag and I was feeling mighty superior. Extra clothes? Check.
Wipes? Check. Bottles? Check – I even packed one wet and one dry in case of
emergency. Socks? FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, CHECK!!!!! (My parents are
nuts about the socks. They don’t care if it’s 75 degrees outside. I can’t
decide if they are old or I am uncaring.) Baby powder?
Baby powder? Baby powder. Baaaaaaaby
powder. Huh.
I look at Pete. Pete looks at me. Dad
looks at us both like we are completely and totally inept.
Do people still use baby powder? Is that
still a thing? Did that not go away with Mad Men? We haven’t used any for over
8 weeks now and Henning has no sign of any rash or swamp-butt of any kind.
Several people gave us bags of baby
supplies at my showers. We have desitin. We have wipes for both sets of cheeks,
and the face ones smell like grape kool-aid. We have gripe water and gas drops.
We have creams and lotions, washes and soaps, medicines and remedies of all
kinds. I could be mistaken, but I don’t remember any baby powder. Surely the
diaper industry has become so advanced that baby powder has gone the way of
Brylcreem.
Apparently not.
So there you go. Judge not, lest ye be
judged. I’m not going to watch you, and you promise not to watch me, while my
Gain-scented kid sits over here probably not properly buckled into a borrowed
swing, while his gums are chattering from the cold formula and lack of socks.
I think he's onto us already.
