“You’re not a real parent unless you have two or more.”
Easy for him to say. I’m heading towards 42 and although I must admit I’m still very much on my baby-making game, it’s still a stretch to envision starting over again. Hell, C is just now heading in to week two of being quasi-potty trained … she’ll be four in August. #latebloomer
I remember the days of lying on the bed praying that the baby would sleep. Please, sleep. Drifting in and out of consciousness. Discovering Harvey Karp and “The Happiest Baby on the Block” in the nick of time. Projectile vomit. Flying poop on the new drapes. Endless bottle washing and … please baby, please. Sleep. Baby Einstein on loop while administering breathing treatments. And barely surviving the news that open-heart surgery was definitely in our future.
“You’re not a real parent unless you have two or more.” Riigghhttt. I’ve had enough real parenting to last me a minute.
I remember the days of lying on the couch watching our beautiful child sleep in her swing. Lulling her to sleep with the bass hits of Jay-Z in the car. Picking her up from school and the unbelievable feeling of the running hug into my arms. Endless trips to the Louisville Zoo. Swim lessons. Gymnastics. Dance recitals. Mickey Mouse on Spotify with a side of Kool & The Gang for daddy. No more diapers! Hatching butterflies from caterpitters. Gigs and gigs of images and video on ye olden Dropbox … memories of the greatest days of my life.
I don’t care how many you have. Parenting is a crap ton of work, but nothing compares.
Chapter 2 begins 11/1/13.
Hey Dewey. Look, I’m a real parent now!