It started with a really busted-looking eye. On Thanksgiving my left eye turned redder than Santa's rosy butt cheeks and everyone kept telling me I looked exhausted. The next day it started oozing. Jeff suggested that I might have pink eye, and when I laughed him off he gently reminded me that someone who handles another person's feces all day AND who has a penchant for dramatically rubbing her eyes to communicate just how many kittens she would drop-kick for a decent night's sleep might have a pretty good chance of getting poop in her peepers. He also pointed out that using a bed pillow as a nursing pillows might be getting fecal matter all over my entire face, but if that's true it has also cleared up my postpartum acne, so I'll turn a blind, disgusting eye, I think, to that theory.
I've also not had the best week. We took S. on his first car trip, to Jeff's homeland of Massachusetts for a wedding, and ten minutes into the drive I realized that I had neglected to bring the head support accessory that saves your baby's head from turning around, Exorcist-style, in the event of an accident. Being the McGyver wannabe I am, I fashioned an impact-absorbent ring around my son's head using sweatpants from Baby Gap. But then the panic set in: HAD THESE TINY LEISURE PANTS BEEN CRASH TESTED??? I made Jeff go 20 as I cursed myself for being a bad mother.
Later, after we made it to the Worcester Marriot, our eardrums shattered from the brain-bending screams that result from strapping an infant into a confined space and then deigning to get stuck in weekend traffic, I made the mistake of giving our wailing, gas-afflicted son gripe water. Gripe water is basically just fennel and ginger extract, and is supposed to calm colicky babies. But S. was having none of it. After feasting only on my Twix- and root beer-flavored breastmilk for ten weeks, he was unable to appreciate the subtleties of homeopathic herbs. Which is to say, he gagged and then promptly projectile vomited into my cleavage.
Which brings me to my 2011 Christmas list, much simpler than those of years past:
- I want to not have puke in my hair all the time, like it's my new product (I thought I was past that after the night in college when I mixed vodka, Mountain Dew, and independent film), and while we're at it, I want a retractable ponytail a la the 1971 Growin' Pretty Hair Barbie so that my adorable spawn cannot twist my locks into his death grip whilst screaming directly into my ear.
- I want someone to weld a bassinet onto a Roomba so that S. can sleep in perpetual motion while the sediment of two months worth of take-out is simultaneously removed from the living room rug.
- I want to be able to wear a shirt that does not pull down easily to expose my boobs. I had no idea how constrictive a postpartum wardrobe is. You don't fit into your old pants, and all tops must be flasher-friendly. Oh crew neck sweaters and underwire bras, how I miss thee.
- I want to be able to wear any shirt--even matronly nursing tops--without putting yarmulke-like breast pads on my nipples to avoid those ever-fetching milk stains that mark new mothers like wet, twin bullseyes.
- I want to be able to regularly eat foods that do not come packaged in convenient bar form, and that do not have to be cut up and fed to me while I bounce on a giant ball and half-watch Community (fudge excepted).
- And despite all of the petty bitching above, I want to be able to spend forever just being in the company of my gorgeous, charming, magical, cleavage-vomiting son.
Yes, I know, puke. Literally and all over your heart. Did you like that kamikaze dose of Christmas cheer? More's a-comin. As soon as I fit in a shower.