I can tell that with a baby, we will become quite connoisseurs of poo, and all poo-related phenomena. For instance, when you prepare to become parents, you may be lucky enough to get a chart from your hospital of choice which contains a color guide to baby poo. It’s like a really demented Sherwin Williams color swatch. Essentially, once the meconium is out of their systems (the tar-like crap which we have officially included as the fifth state of matter), it transitions to a “mustard-like” color and consistency. I’m happy to report that Stella has moved from Grey Poupon into French’s Yellow. Now. Does anyone want a hot dog?
Also in the poo category, we experienced more potty drama at about 4 AM last night. During the diaper changing cycle, we learned that not only can babies projectile vomit, they can also projectile poo. It shoots straight out of their little butts like an angry pigeon. In the meantime, the babies will often be red-faced and kicking vigorously. It’s like a tiny Chuck Norris with an ICBM shoved up his butt, spraying the landscape with jets of French’s Yellow Mustard. Now. I bet you REALLY want a hot dog.
Leaving the world of poo (for now…I have no doubt we’ll revisit at some point), I am finding that I am beginning to transition into either Rainman or Stevie Wonder. Maybe it’s the fatigue, but I find myself rocking or swaying back and forth, even when I’m not holding the baby. There’s something about holding a baby which makes you feel compelled to rock or sway. It just looks much goofier when you do it while sitting by yourself.
Finally for today, I am relieved to report that my feet are beginning to lose some swelling (especially in the morning). They had become so grotesque and cartoonish, that I was beginning to seriously fear that either I would end up with stretch marks on the skin of my feet or with skin such as that possessed by the Saggy Baggy Elephant. That would certainly look attractive pooled over the top of my pumps (whenever I can actually wear shoes again).