I combat the filthy nature of the job with my disgusting sense of humor pretty regularly. The reality of parenting an infant is that they are not particularly entertaining. Falling in love is magical. But magic won’t make your sides hurt with laughter. So, I really can’t look to Lucy to keep me amused. I have to take responsibility for that. Luckily I find myself pretty entertaining on a regular basis. Add in the delicious hilarity of being wildly overtired and I am like my own personal stand up show all day long.
I talk to my kids. A lot. Even when they are not listening. Especially when they are not listening. I can remember a day that I was jabbering away at Emily. We were taking a walk, she was in her jogging stroller and I was yammering on about someone we had just seen at the beach and it dawned on me… someday she will understand what I am saying. And lawd almighty she might even repeat it. I was going to lose my most frequent audience member. It was only a matter of time.
Enter Lucy. The newest and biggest fan to my twenty-four hour a day comedy show. The biggest difference to my parenting this go round? She is not my ONLY audience member. I have to mind my tongue as I jabber mindlessly when Em is in the room. And MQD? Will he appreciate my antics?
So far, so good. This morning was a good morning. Em left to catch the bus and MQD and I hopped back in bed with Lucy Q for a spell. She is her cheeriest in the morning so I have been encouraging him to spend a few minutes in the morning and take in that face. Because the evening, when the witching hours reign supreme, that makes up the lion’s share of his time with her. And that’s just no fair.
As she wiggled and squirmed and her face turned bright red I started to blather. Keep talking and you can often distract the little one from crying I have found. “Let it go, kiddo. That’s a poop face, isn’t it? Liberate the poop prisoners!!!” In the middle of chuckling over my fine moment of alliteration I looked up to see MQD’s face. The moments when you know you married the right guy, they can come in so many different forms. “From your ANAL PRISON!” and he smiled.
The man gets me. And evidently he embraces my perverse parenting style.
Give me an inch and I will take a mile. He encouraged me. Big mistake. “Hurry up and poop, little miss, and I have a BIIIG breakfast for you. No piece of fruit. No continental breakfast. Fuckin’ french TOAST on some thick ass bread, this shit is FIR REEAALL. They’ve got CHEESE BLINTZES!”
“And creeps. And Organic Coffee!” chimed in MQD.
And then breakfast was served. Evidently someone had sidled up to the all night buffet a few times during the night. But only one side. I woke up more than a little lop sided. I wasn’t kidding about that big breakfast.
And lest you think this entire elaborate tale was just a complicated plan to post a picture of my grossly uneven boobs? You should know that the Poop Prisoners were liberated. All over my shirt. Turns out this shit IS for real.