Apparently, when you have a baby, the Halloween pressure is kicked up a notch or 10. Starting in like July, everyone wants to know what your baby is going to be for Halloween. (Other than a total buzzkill who requires you to be home at 7pm.) He can’t trick or treat or even eat candy yet, so really a baby at this age only serves one of three purposes on Halloween:
You’ve probably heard it all before: all the amazing and wonderful (and condescending) ways you’ll grow when you have a baby. The new light that will shine upon you, brightening your whole world with a new bounty of knowledge and love only known to those who’ve been graced with the title of “mom” or “dad”.
There’s so much wrong with that, I can’t even begin to cover it, but one thing that’s on-point is that you will learn a lot from your little bundle of poop and spit up. It just may not be the ethereal sense of enlightenment you expected. In my (very limited) experience as a parent, these are just a few of the very important things I’ve learned:
Why yes, kind stranger who drew the short straw sitting next to me on the train, that odor you’re smelling is me. I see you covertly trying to sniff around and identify that odd stench, in hopes of distancing yourself from it. Sorry boutcha, looks like you’re stuck with it for the next 45 minutes.
It’s not my fault, though.
This blog is served with a heavy helping of snark, which doesn’t always translate appropriately, so I want to be very clear: my baby is very, very loved. Like, obnoxiously so. He’s for sure going to be that overconfident jerk who thinks he can do no wrong when he’s older. (Sorry about that.)
Sure, I make fun of him occasionally (a lot). Yes, I complain about my exhaustion (if you’re not going to whine about how tired you are, are you even a parent?). And yes, I call him names like “monster” and “demon baby” sometimes (okay, almost all the time…). But hey, I bought and paid-in-full for his crazy ass; you better believe I’ve earned my right to a sarcastic comment every now and then.
You see, he was a long time in the making. Over two years, to be exact.
Ah, the breast pump. A nursing mom’s best friend and worst enemy. On one hand, it gives us the option to continue breastfeeding when we go back to work, or when baby struggles with his latch, or any of the multitude of reasons that could otherwise prevent a mom from nursing. But on the other hand, it sucks (…see what I did there?). It’s uncomfortable, it’s time consuming, and it downright messes with your mind at times. Between watching the ounces creep along in the collection bottles while simultaneously watching the minutes of your life tick by in solitude, the inner monologue can be confusing, to say the least.