I’ve been putting off writing my first post for a multitude of reasons and this morning it all fell into place for me. Translation: I didn’t want to go get that next load of laundry and fold it so I might as well write something.
It’s 6:58 am on Monday, and I’ve been awake since basically 4 am. Even though I am STILL sick (ugh) I nursed the baby and got her back to sleep, made coffee, put in a load of laundry, folded another load, made sure my significant other (SO) had socks, underwear and undershirts, started a grocery list and pulled out the ironing board. NO, I didn’t iron, let’s not get crazy. My SO spent 15 years in the Marine Corps, he knows how to iron (and I do not iron to his satisfaction, not that I tried or anything, I just make him take my word for it). And no, this doesn’t happen every morning, I’m just kissing up and trying to make myself look good after his awesomeness this weekend.
I opted to start the blog with a story and given that this weekend was our birthday and our first REAL planned date night since we had the baby, I figured we could just start there. If you know me and you’re reading this, you already know that I’m basically a walking disaster, and if you don’t, welcome to the sh*t show.
My SO and I have the same birthday, a year apart. I turned 41 and he hit the big 4-0. For a good year it was pretty awesome dating a younger guy, still in his 30’s. Now we’re just old AF. Literally, we bought a new mattress for our birthday because, well, back pain.
I didn’t make any plans for this birthday because I didn’t want to celebrate. I’m turning 41 for God’s sake. I am 9 years from 50. In 9 years I will be HALF A DAMN CENTURY old. No thanks, I’ll pass on the balloons and stuff, but if you wanna give me gift certificates for xanax and botox, I’m totally game.
My SO on the other hand, secretly planned to take four days off from work and take me to an amazing dinner. I didn’t find out about all our impending quality time until last week, and when I did, I did what any good future wife does, I made him a list of tasks to complete (which he mostly did, hence his awesomeness).
I dreaded this date night for a week for the following reasons:
- I breast feed. NOW I have to find time to pump on top of everything else.
- Who is going to keep the baby? And what if she cries the whole time I’m gone (again)?
- I have nothing to wear because my ass isn’t a size 4 ass anymore.
- It was going to take ten razor blades, a landscaping crew and three days to shave my legs.
- I’ve worn my hair in a bun on top of my head for so long right now that I’m considered an honorary Pentecostal.
- I haven’t worn makeup in so long that every time I look at my makeup bag I wonder to myself if I was auditioning for Rupaul’s Drag Race prior to getting knocked up.
- AND if I can solve all of the above, I’d rather just take a nap than have to go through what it’s going to take to make myself look like a human being again.
I did manage to get one single bottle pumped shortly after lunch. HOWEVER, as my luck runs, I’ve been sick with a head cold for over a week and by Thursday my SO came down with it, and just to keep life interesting, by lunch on Saturday, my mother who was going to oversee the babysitting for us came down with it. Scrap the babysitting, we just got a miniature third wheel.
I got my clothes together and headed to the shower. Or at least I tried. Of course I couldn’t find the shirt I bought to wear to dinner. I was really looking forward to wearing something other than a Walmart tank top. I’ve lived in them for three months straight because they’re easy to nurse in. In fact, it’s Monday and I STILL haven’t found that stupid shirt!
In the bathroom I took my hair down and discovered I had a huge knotted mess on one side of my head, and a full out dred in the back of my head. Pretty sure it took half a bottle of conditioner to get that out. I can’t believe it actually worked.
Fast forward to dinner, and the baby is doing great. She’s quiet and sweet. I swear she does it and waits until we get confident that it’s going to be a good night and then she just blows. Needless to say, she got tired/fussy/and hungry all in the same second.
Now, I don’t mind breast feeding in public. I’m modest about it, but I’ll do it. I fully believe I have the right to feed wherever, whenever, but I’m also not going to throw a nipple in some strangers face, or leave parents to explain things to kids that they’re not ready or comfortable explaining. It’s more of a “just because I can doesn’t mean I should” sort of thing.
So I proceed to get myself situated. I’ve got myself covered, my boob is out, I attempt to get the baby comfortable and latched and as luck would have it, the booth seats are too narrow. Damn you Outback. Instantaneous end of the world for my little baby. I look at my SO and ask him to cut my salad up for me when it arrives. I can eat with one arm and hold the baby with the other.
So I proceed to walk to the bathroom, which of course requires a full lap through the restaurant. My boob is still out. My baby is screaming. The hostesses are giving me sympathetic looks. Other patrons are giving me “THAT” look.
I get to the bathroom and Miss Losing My Ever Loving Mind decides we’ll play with dinner. She latches, then dramatically unlatches, throws her arms back, looks at me and smiles. Super cute kiddo, now eat and let’s go. After half a dozen more times of this I cut her off and head back to the table.
My salad HAS arrived. I wolf down as much as possible and low and behold she fussy again. I swear it’s just a game at this point. It’s intentional. She totally knows what she’s doing. As I get up from the table my SO asks me if I want my steak cut if it arrives before I get back… Well, of COURSE… I can already tell I’m not going to get to eat in peace here.
In the bathroom we finally decide to eat and go to sleep, which means that we’re awake again by the time I get back to the table – but we’re quiet. Long enough for me to inhale just about all of a 9 oz of Filet Mignon before all hell breaks loose in the form of a writhing sleepy, frustrated, yelling 3 month old.
I spent the rest of my birthday dinner sitting in the handicap stall of the ladies room on the toilet. It’s fine. I had to pee anyways. I managed to latch a baby AND get my pants down with one hand. Of course that ALSO requires thought and planning because you’re not going to have a free hand to zip and button them up when you get done. Guess it’s a good thing I was born without hips.
Just about the time the baby finished I got a text from my SO that everything was boxed, the check was paid, and he was waiting for me at the front door of the restaurant. Awesome. Pulling my pants BACK up was going to require some maneuvering. I finally figured out if I duckwalked over to the sink and balanced the baby’s behind on the sink that I could pull my pants up without waking her up.
Of course she slept the whole way home, and went right back to sleep after we got home and got her into some pjs. As for us? I laid the baby in the bassinet, and my SO rolled over then wrapped his arms around me and we shared a super romantic 15 second kiss and then we passed out because we’re sick, old, exhausted, back pain, new baby, it was past our bedtime… I could go on here, but you get the point.
I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world, but man there are moments where it’s tough! I am not one of those mamas who thinks every single second is the most amazing thing that has ever happened. I sincerely love all my kids, but I’m also not afraid to say that any particular given moment REALLY sucks. But you know, it passes so quickly. It’s only temporary. And she sure makes every moment worth it. Sometimes it’s hours or days later, but it’s worth it. 🙂