The Snot Sucker

The Snot Sucker. The first time I heard of this simple little device, I wrinkled my nose in disgust and filed it away in my brain files under "Never Gonna Use It. Ever. In a Hundred Million Bazillion Years. You Will Have To Kill Me First." And yet, here I am writing a rave blog post about the grossest and most effective little thing in the whole wide world.

We've made it 7 months, 1 week and 2 days without the little baby terrorist getting sick. Now that she is on the move, I am constantly trying to save her from self destruction, but I have managed to keep her from catching any germs that might have the wild idea of manifesting into a cold. It's not that I have been proactive in germ prevention department. I've just been lucky. Sadly, my luck ran out and the baby terrorist began sniffling a few nights ago. By yesterday, she was a full fledged snot machine, blowing nose mucus bubbles I couldn't help but admire.

I quickly emailed the doctor and was told to avoid cold medicine but to use either an aspirator or a NoseFrida - aka the Snot Sucker. Well, naturally, I was all oh hell no, not gonna use that snot sucker! That puppy is gross and I am never going to be the mother that sucks snot out of my baby's nose.

Fast forward 3 hours, and I am totally that mother who sucks snot out of my baby's nose. I would do anything to make that poor little terrorist feel better.

It wasn't such an easy sell on the husband. I was going to sneak out to Target, tricking him into thinking he was going to get to do some yard work. Trust me, the man loves doing yard work. Backyard time is his version of my watching Real Housewives while binge eating chocolate. Yet on this day, he was all about accompanying me as I ran errands. Shit. I was going to have to think fast.

I began with talking about buying a humidifier. I then eased into talking about this really awesome thing called a NoseFrida! It's so cool! And fun! And the baby is going to love it! The husband was on board until I quickly sandwiched the phrase "andyousuckthesnotoutwithyourmouth" super fast between It's so cool! and Fun! He went silent for a moment, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and finally asked me if I was serious.

I laid on a healthy dose of guilt even though I, too, was mortified at the prospect but, because we love that little congested baby terrorist, he finally consented.

As we unstrapped the baby from the car seat, a peculiar smell met our nostrils. I started to laugh hysterically as I often do in very uncomfortable situations as we realized that there was a poop-tastrophe of epic proportions splattered all over the baby and the car seat and now, my poor husband. Because I am nothing short of a hot mess, I had neglected to grab the diaper bag which was conveniently stocked with diapers and an extra outfit. So, in we marched to Target, heads held low in shame, two of the three of us covered in poop, and proceeded to make our necessary purchases (the humidifier and the Nose Frida) and a couple of unplanned purchases (diapers, wipes and a new outfit for the baby). One of these days I will get it together. That, however, was not the day.

The baby terrorist of course screamed bloody murder when we began the snot sucking process. She probably thought we were trying to suck out her brain and at one point I began to think it might be a possibility, because this contraption really is that amazing. And now I am not sure which is more alarming, the fact that I am now an unapologetic snot sucker or the fact that I am willing to share it with the world. File that in your brain file under "No Shame - This Shit Works."

When You Don't Know What You're Doing, It's Best To Do It Quickly

Worry could have been my middle name. I worry about anything and everything. I stay up at night worrying about worrying, and then when there is nothing to worry about, I worry about that. I am a human version of Chicken Little, with whom I have always felt a bit of a connection. He had a legitimate concern. Although the sky may not have literally been falling, in his world it was crashing down and that is definitely something to worry about.

If I thought I worried before, nothing compares to the worries I have now that I have my very own little baby to raise. She keeps me up at night, both literally and figuratively. 

I don't just worry about tomorrow. I am constantly fretting over what will happen in two weeks, five months, ten years. I enjoy bringing up my concerns with my husband right as we are going to bed, which he does not enjoy and usually dozes off as I am mid worry rant. So, naturally, I worry that we don't talk enough about the things that worry me most.

This is a laundry list of the things I am most worried about at the moment. I am leaving off quite a few items so as not to overwhelm you.

I worry the baby is not gaining enough weight, and then I worry I feed her too much.

I worry that she doesn't like bananas. For crying out loud baby, bananas are delicious!

I worry when she doesn't fight me when I put her to bed at night. 

I worry when she fights me when I put her to bed at night.

I worry when she sleeps through the night, and when she doesn't I worry that she never will.

I worry that I am not absorbing every moment I have with her because I am too tired, too distracted, too busy worrying about what is going to happen next.

I worry that she thinks the only clothes I own are yoga pants.

I worry that I don't worry enough.

I worry about that my husband and I are way too into talking about the baby's poop. We talk about poop with genuine interest over dinner. It's disgusting and fascinating.

Now that the baby is mobile, I worry just about every second that she is going to get injured on my watch. I envision the courtroom proceedings as the mean old prosecutor tells the jury, "She put the baby to bed and then made herself a vodka tonic as if nothing was wrong." I'll be splattered all over 20/20, Dateline and 60 Minutes and yes, as you can see, I worry about that.

I worry when I enjoy being at work.

I worry that this nanny thing is working out. 

I worry that if I get a babysitter on the weekend I am a horrible mother because she was with the nanny all week. No date night for mommy and daddy, unless you count a rushed dinner and binge watching Homeland as romantic.

I worry that her first word will be "nanny."

Scratch that. I actually worry that her first word might be of the four letter kind, as I have been horrible about watching my language around her sweet baby ears.

I worry that I cram a 40 hour work week into 22 hours so that I can spend more time with her, and then I worry that because I am rushing through work I am failing professionally.

I worry that when I have to put in longer hours at work, I am failing as a mother.

I worry that because I stretch myself so thin, I am bound to drop the ball at any moment. That once I screw up, a domino effect will ensue and my carefully stacked house of cards will come crashing down.

I worry about the way having a baby has changed the dynamic of most of my relationships.

I worry that all of this worrying is causing premature gray hairs and wrinkles. Oh wait, that's actually not just a worry. That's a reality for this girl.

I worry that I forget everything. I trail off mid sentence. This mommy brain thing has me worried that I am suffering from an early onset of Alzheimers.

I worry about school districts and what her musical taste will be when she is a teen. God help me if we don't share a similar love for the banjo.

Then there is my husband. That sweet man with a head full of zzz's, who falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Who doesn't even worry about what is happening in the next hour, let alone tomorrow or the next ten years. I worry about his life of bliss. Who does that?! 

Whenever I answer something with "No worries," the irony is not lost on me. No worries exists in the land of every little thing is gonna be alright. And yet, despite my atrocious number of neurotic worries, it seems that for now, maybe although every little thing isn't perfect, it really might be alright.