In Which I Explain Why Getting Vomited On Is A Good Thing

I have no subject for this post. And it's impossible to be funny on 3 hours' sleep, so you'll just have to bear with me today.

Or not. See if I care.

Okay, I care.
Don't leave.
Come back (and if you bring a hot meal, you can be my BFF).

Simon came home two days ago.
It's been wonderful and exhausting and elating and absolutely chock full of bodily fluids. But for once they're not mine. They're his, so they're cute and endearing, as opposed to vile and un-maidenly.

Must be nice.

Motherhood is a weird thing. Sure, I've been a mom for 24 days now, but it was kind of a provisional role. Occasional changings and feedings, interspersed with long periods of non-parenting and Ghost Hunters marathons. Now...it's the real deal. And shit is about to get even more real when the other peanut comes home, but let's not go there.

It gives me the agita, just thinking about it.

So we're bumbling along, doing all the stupid first time parent things like getting peed on and trying to figure out why in the hell is he still crying?!?!
Yanno, stuff like that.

I've learned that babies spit up about a gallon of their food per day, which is odd, because they only eat about 16 ounces per day. The math doesn't exactly add up, so I'm assuming the explanation involves a little particle physics and maybe a worm hole.

I've learned you can never have enough burp cloths and towels and blankets and socks (don't worry - they were clean) to clean up this aforementioned vomit and hence, you will have to do a load of wash on a daily basis to keep stocked. Your laundry, on the other hand, won't see a washing machine for...well...ever. Forever. You'll never have clean clothes again. They've been sacrificed to the Gods of Parenting, so you might as well get used to wearing your skivvies inside out if you want "clean" underwear.

I've learned that wearing your child is socially acceptable, provided you have one of those trendy Moby wraps.
Baby.
It's the new black.

And I've learned that once you bring a baby home, you will never see your spouse again. You will sleep in shifts and barely manage to mumble some sort of greeting twice a day when you meet in the hallway. But that's okay, because even if you tried for a second to have an adult conversation or - god forbid - get a little frisky, the baby's spidey sense would go off like 5-engine alarm and he'd be screaming within seconds.

But all joking aside, it's honestly not that bad. I was prepared for extreme sleep deprivation and massive amounts of tears (mine - not theirs) and general chaos and misery. And yeah, you definitely don't get the sleep you need and your life revolves around feeding and changing diapers.

But the thing is, that's kind of how I wanted my life to be. Anyone who goes through invasive fertility treatment has fully considered the parenting lifestyle (or at least, I would hope so) and made a decision that the sacrifices are totally worth it.

So I'm changing diapers and feeding and hovering and obsessing about my kid's bodily functions by choice, and therefore even in the darkest times, it's still WAY BETTER than not having kids.

Of course...ask me again when we have double the babies and I might have a slightly different outlook.

But so far...so good.
WAY good.

And besides, wearing babies is totally slimming for your hips and thighs.