I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this, but I’m afraid that I have to give you a progress report on the last four months which just happen to be the first four months of my life. Worse mothers could be found, no doubt, but there are a few things that you should work on to make this a better experience for everyone.
a. First off, this incessant need to talk in the first person plural at all times, in the most obnoxious sweetie-sweet way. “We don’t want to take a nap today, do we?” No mom, we don’t. I’m not an idiot, I know you’re talking about me when you say “we’ll eat in just a few minutes, baby” while your mouth is full of maple frosted shredded wheat (easily your tenth bowl of the day).
b. What planet do you live on that you think it’s ok to use disposable diapers? Clearly not the earth because you’re killing it. All my friends wear “FuzziGenuisBums” or “Snappibunz”, while I roll around like a peasant in my Huggies. And by the way, I’ve seen that package of Luvs in the closet… Don’t. You. Dare.
c. And while we’re sorta on the topic of poo, why is it that you’re the only mom out there who is not on an
insane humane elimination diet for the sake of my precious belly? Sure I act like this all day
but my occasional green poo clearly indicates that I don’t like anything you eat. I know Dad said it sounds like white nonsense to him, but I assure you, if you stop eating eggs, dairy, wheat, rice, whey, butter, creamer, beef, pork, nuts, soy, citrus, tomatoes, corn, coffee, chocolate, AND ESPECIALLY boxed wine, our lives (especially yours) would be much better.
d. Moving on, I know you swear by that Baby Bijorn contraption because I seem to like being hung by my crotch with my arms and legs dangling, but I’m telling you it’s shameful. All the loving moms use Ergos or slings because they’re better for baby development and mommy-baby bonding. Bonding. Ha! The time for that has long past as you clearly know since I like to keep you at a pudgy arms length. Just, please. Put me in the stroller. And for petesake, change my dangly stroller toy to something pink so I don’t get exclamations of “Hey, look at that big fella” anymore.
e. This next offense is recent and I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Last night. When you thought I slept through the night. And you really just forgot to put the monitor on in your bedroom. Worst. Mother. Ever. When I develop more control in my fingers, I’m calling CPS.
f. This last one is probably the most far reaching and will require the most therapy in the future. My name. You had to name me something very common, but spelled differently, so everyone spells it incorrectly. Oh, and then on top of that, you call me a combination of my first and middle name, but not all the time! “What’s her name again? Sarah? Sara? Sara Kate? SK? Her middle name is Kate? No? It’s Kathleen. I’m confused.” Oh the awkwardness of when Dad calls me Sara, you call me Sara Kate and the rest of the world doesn’t know what to say. Fail.
I could go on to the end of the alphabet and onto roman numerals but I see that you’ve had enough because you’re rocking in the corner licking the nutella out of the jar. Oh boy, here comes the green poo…