Hit Me Baby No More Times

This weekend flew by and was jammed packed. The kid has his last baseball game of the season and I survived not being kicked out of the ball park. My mom brought me these cassette tapes on Saturday, so yesterday we decided to watch them and it was of my son when he was about 3 months old. It brought back so many memories. There were tears while nobody was looking of course. One of my step dad who passed away in January holding him in the air so proud and of his baptism in the Catholic church while we all were sweating like pigs. Gawd, it was so hot that day. 

There are so many bloggers I follow that are pregnant and as my kid is seven, they grow up so fast. Look out followers, this could be a one and only Mom blog post. I know your not used to that. And although I sometimes wish I could go back and kiss that baby face a thousand more times, I also don't miss all the work. At this age, I can sleep at least until 7:30 when he then comes in to tell me he's hungry or needs to pee. All the while staring right into my face about 2 inches away. I don't miss the dirty diapers although the poop now is more on display for royal purposes. At two years old, I had my own personal courtesy flusher because he loved the toilet, but now it's "mom, come look at this thing, its made a complete circle and looks like a snake." 

I especially don't miss the late night feedings. I chose not to breast feed. It was a weigh your options really. The kid on the boob or the husband. I chose the husband and now after 14 years it's mostly just choosing to put on a bra every day for them that's a treat. I remember when my milk came in and for the first time I had porno tits. Perfectly round softball tibbies. I cried. I wished for boobs all my life and someone told me if I didn't breast feed then they would stay like that. Effing liars! They shrank and droop. But there was something about the boob that my son always loved. I swear if you had them and he was crying like a wild wolf, lay him on a set of kahunas and the kid was out for the count. Big boobs to a baby are like a sleep number bed to an adult. Seriously, if you had medium boobs and moved around it could have been the quarter in the heart bed at a sleazy motel, but if you had double D's? Total make-out session on a water bed at sixteen. I prefer to think that he just loved me anyway and loved my singing. 

Babies are the greatest gifts from God, I truly believe that, but God didn't tell you about the maintenance kits that come along with it. There isn't a manual. And as they get older I am still looking for the manual. Cars come with manuals. Toys come with manuals. Kids come with "good luck sucker, don't screw it up, not returnable." When they are babies all you want them to do is say moma and at seven all you want them to do is stop talking for five minutes. There are days I want to change my name to something unpronounceable.

But I will say this, if I never do anything else in my life, I am perfectly fine with that. He's my best friend and at sixteen probably won't think so, but I could not love one thing more.  And yes, he's growing up so fast, but I cannot wait to see what he's going to become although if he doesn't get the mouth of the south in check he may be talking like one of the guys from Swamp People. So, now that my chest is nothing more that a piece of plywood to him, I am his source of food only through the grocery store and rattles have turned into baseball bats, my heart is what he will always have.

Congrats to all the new mom's and soon to be mommies. I hope your sleep number beds are on level 75 and throw in some memory foam. You're going to need it.

Happy Monday,

Dusty