When I was a new, first time mom, I was easily rattled. If my son cried in public, I was mortified. If I had to nurse him, I wanted to be in a locked, windowless room that yielded no chance of anyone even remotely seeing what I was doing. If we were out in public, I wanted him to look cute at all times, because I thought it made me look like I had my life together (even if I was in yoga pants and hadn’t showered in days. New mom logic isn’t the strongest, am I right?)
As a new, second time mom, I’ve found myself to be much more relaxed since my son was born a month ago. I don’t (normally) cry when he cries, I’ve nursed him in public without a cover, and I’ve realized that putting him in anything other than footie pajamas is a waste of my time; and hey, it even gives ME more time to get ready. What a novel concept. If I’m being honest, I’ve been feeling pretty confident.
But that’s how motherhood works, right? As soon as you congratulate yourself on a job well done, your kid does something to remind you that you’re not in control.
That’s what happened to me this past week, anyway. A new friend had so kindly offered to make and deliver dinner to my hot mess of a family. I did my best to straighten up before she arrived, but I wasn’t fooling anyone; burp cloths and onesies covered in spit up were strewn across the living room, my toddler resembled a savage animal, and my right eye had been twitching for two weeks.
It doesn’t help that this new friend of mine is the epitome of put together. She’s the kind of person who’s gorgeous on the inside and out; her hair always has volume, she’s never without lipstick, and she always has on the cutest blouses. And she’s NICE, guys; like, honest-to-goodness nice.
When she floated in, I tried to will my eye to stop twitching. Can she tell how exhausted I am? I hoped she didn’t notice the tufts of dog hair floating across the kitchen floor or the completely neglected baseboards. I even used all seven of my functioning brain cells to remember to offer her a drink.
This is going well, I thought, as we walked into the living room to visit and catch up, my friend cradled my son in her arms. Not two seconds after she looked down at him and commented about how beautiful he is, things took a terrible turn. What happened next was nothing short of a volcanic eruption.
Of spit up.
This catastrophe rivaled that scene in The Exorcist. My tiny infant son projectile spit up the entire contents of his stomach all over my friend’s FACE. It got in her mouth, on her glasses, and all over her blouse and pants. IN HER MOUTH, PEOPLE.
My immediate reaction was a loud gasp and taking a burp cloth to my sweet friend’s face. I not-so-gingerly wiped her mouth, tried blotting her cheeks, and finally realized I should just take the dang barf machine of a baby out of her arms so she could clean up the mess herself.
Because she has a pulse, I can only assume my friend was absolutely appalled, but her southern charm never faltered and she barely batted an eyelash. Poor baby! she said, as she literally wiped spit up off her mouth without smudging her lipstick. All the while, I was basically crawling into a black hole, never wanting to return.
Needless to say, my eye is still twitching.