The Checklist

Laundry? Check.
Cook dinner? Check.
Change the diapers? Check.
Do a food run? Check.
Do the dishes? Check.
Sterilize the bottles? Check.
Feed the munchkin? Check.
Change the bedding? Check.
Put rugrat to sleep? Check.

Do this for my kids? Ah... no.

I spent today doing this for Cecelia. And I write it not to get validated for being a good friend, but to kick all of you out there to do the same. Being a new mom is rough. I know this is true, because not only have I been through it twice, but the normally modest Cecelia was walking around all day in her underware with a right engorged nipple screaming, "Get me an ice pack! Make me a sandwich! Why is this hungry child now passed out on my boobie?" I got to witness this completely together Masters' Degreed professional beseech me with, "Okay... the baby is in her carrier. She's just looking around. Now what do I do?"

Another friend of mine, a PhD psychologist, recently told me, "Everything has always been so easy for me. Then I became a mother. And it kicked. My. Ass."

Of course, to watch Finn, my mom babysat Pipqueak this morning. And then Cecelia paid my babysitter to watch Pip N Stink for an additional five hours in the afternoon. It kind of reminded me of "Hands Across America" (remember that, people, or am I dating myself?) Except instead of holding hands, all these women were in this big, swollen nipple, sleep deprived back scratch circle. While we rubbed each others' shoulders on the outer ring, the kids stayed on the inner ring, learning to share, practicing their ABC's, and lodging Cheerios in each others' nostrils.

I'm now off to get my back scratched by Rex.

Oh, wait, I can't. He's gone. AGAIN. This time to Nashville.

Ironically, the Country Music Awards are happening this weekend. If he ends up going, I will be the most bitter mother in the history of the universe. But if he comes home in a pair of stetsons and cowboy hat (making him officially 6 foot 8) I will laugh my ass off. And promptly forgive him.

Now for THAT you can validate me.

PS: I wish laughing my ass off could actually make my buttocks smaller. As I recently told Mrs. V., I'd do anything to get in better shape. Except diet and exercise.