Better Than a Punch in the Face

Look. I love my husband. From the minute I saw his sparkling green eyes, I knew we would eventually end up together. He's helpful. He's chivalrous. I mean, to the point where it almost makes you puke. He's the kind of guy who helps little old ladies across the street. The type of dashing dude who rushes to hold the door open at the grocery store for the pregnant lady struggling to corral three unruly children while balancing an armful of groceries. The handsome husband your friends adore because he keeps a low profile on girls nights, appearing just long enough to make sure that their wine glasses are never empty and the snacks never run out. He's handy. There isn't anything he can't fix, nothing he can't build, although a lot of the time it is stuck together with spit and duct tape. He's funny. Half the time he doesn't even mean to be, which is even funnier.

But sometimes I want to punch him in his helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny face. Don't flash those dimples at me, buddy. This Greene is seeing nothing but red.

The delicate eco system that is a marriage can be easily disrupted by the strangest and most mundane of things - random rock collecting, plant hoarding, the blatant disrespect for throw pillows - seriously, those aren't meant to be used as real pillows! - but you throw a baby terrorist into the mix and not only do I feel like a punch to the face is warranted, it should be expected.

Now, I've never considered myself to be what one might call a reasonable person. I am highly emotional, quick to react, slightly neurotic. I'm a Virgo, so that just goes without saying. However, I find my blood boiling over things that were never in my vocabulary prior to birthing a baby terrorist. The Diaper Genie is overflowing again? Revenge is a dish best served cold with a side of old poopy diapers. I'm up in the middle of the night for the zillionth time in a row because I have super sonic powers that allow only me to hear the baby cry? I'm sorry honey, I didn't mean to kick you on my way out of bed to comfort our child.

The poor husband works an insane schedule to bring home the bacon. I've never been all that good at math, but my non robotic brain does not quite compute how one person can work 90 hours in one week. Add a work schedule that includes travel and it's a recipe for resentment. I too am gainfully employed and the work day doesn't end when I clock out. That sweet little baby terrorist is awfully demanding and pretty stingy with the paychecks - she owes me 10 months of back pay. I've tried a mob style shakedown of her piggy bank, but no dice. So, if you add the 40 and carry the 1, subtract the free time and divide it by 2, this leaves about exactly zero hours for the husband and I to be husband and wife. We become all about business, all did the baby poop today and did you pay the mortgage and baby did you throw away my growing hoard of carefully stolen rocks?! You know, the stuff normal couples fight about.

So when the opportunity for a date night shows it's fickle face, you obviously have to put your right hook back in your pocket, comb your hair for the first time in a few weeks, brush the cobwebs off your makeup bag, put on your best pureed fruit free outfit, drink a few thousand cups of coffee because good god, 7:00 is awfully late to begin your night, and head out on the town with your helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny partner. And after a few glasses of wine, you remember that you kind of like old what's his face! (Though if we're being honest, after a few glasses of wine I pretty much kind of like everybody.)

We spent our night acting like younger, more carefree versions of ourselves punctuated by the sudden need to compulsively spy on our mini terrorist on the baby monitor. Staring at her sleep through the monitor app on my phone made us the weirdest couple at the bar, but I'll tell you this much - it sure does beat a punch in the face.

Little Miss Holy Terror

A while back, we had our little baby terrorist baptized. We figured it couldn't hurt. She got to wear a pretty white dress, we got to hang out with our closest family and friends, and if God smiled down on us and helped the little terror sleep through the night and wreak a tad less havoc, then it was all worth it.


I spent a good portion of my youth quietly suffering through Mass, bored but well behaved because of the divine promise not of heaven but rather donuts afterward. Throughout my teen years, I rebelled and insisted on making my mother rue the day she decided to enroll me in Catholic school. Though fun, I was eventually plagued by the Catholic guilt that inevitably follows no matter how enjoyable giving the middle fingered salute to the religion (and the Catholic school uniform) that I love to hate and, as I got older, begrudgingly hated to love.


And so, for the cosmic and profound reasons stated above, I began the process of attempting to have little Miss Holy Terror baptized.


Those Catholics don't make it easy. First of all, my husband and I weren't married in the Catholic Church. I really wanted to get married by the ocean and I wanted the ceremony to be really short because let's face it, as seriously as one should take marriage, I wanted to zoom through the vows and get straight to the booze. I do, I do, smooch smooch, lawfully wed, let's drink to that. Unfortunately, in my haste to toast to marital bliss, I inadvertently made it difficult to baptize the baby that was but a twinkle in our buzzed eyes.


The Church wanted us to get remarried by the priest. Not only that, they made us attend Mass three times and then attend a class before they would even agree to take our monetary donation that would ensure our daughter's salvation. We went to the mandated Mass, took notes because I was worried that there might be a pop quiz, and eventually were cleared to baptize the mini.


The day of the baptism was beautiful but intimidating because I was convinced that the priest was trying to trick me. First off, he indicated that the parents should sit in the front row. Completely forgetting that I am indeed a parent, I ushered my mom and dad into the front row. The priest raised an eyebrow at me as he questioned whether or not I was the mother of the baby. Oh right. Sometimes I forget that I was not just a gestational carrier, that I am not just keeping the baby terrorist alive until her real mother returns. Sheepishly, I traded places with my mom and took my rightful spot next to my husband as the actual parental units.


He then proceeded to ask what we were asking of the church today. I knew there was going to be a pop quiz! I was not prepared. I started to sweat profusely. My heart raced. I am such a fraud, I am hardly Catholic, I didn't know there was going to be a test, I didn't study...I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, at a loss for words (which is a rare occurrence for this babbling Brooke) and gave an alarmed look at my husband. He looked at me, worried that perhaps I was having a stroke, and answered the priest.


"We are here to baptize our daughter," he said calmly.


Oh, right. That's what we're here for. Well that was a trick question! Anyone could have been fooled by that. I gathered my composure, sat up straight, and assumed what I thought was the air of a no nonsense mother there to guarantee her child a coveted spot in heaven.


"And what name have you chosen for your child?" the priest asked.


SHIT! I didn't know I was supposed to pick out a NAME! I racked my brain quickly for a nice sounding Catholic name. I should have paid closer attention in my high school religion classes. All that Vacation Bible School wasted. Ruth? Esther? Esther! That's a good one! I opened my mouth to shout my well thought out choice when I heard my sister say slowly -


"Reeeeeaaaaagannn..." with a sidelong glance in my direction.


Wow. The answer was that easy, huh. I just had to tell the priest her real name. Again, what a trick question! That priest was shifty, I am telling you. I quickly regrouped, hoping that God was too busy to read my thoughts, and left the question answering to my husband and sister for the remainder of the ceremony.


So though it wasn't without a hitch, the baby terrorist was upgraded to a Holy Terror and this mama was reminded that I am in serious need of some salvation.

The Poop, Scoot & Boogie

I thought I had reached a point in motherhood where nothing poop related could gross me out. I was pretty sure I had seen in it all. In fact, I was pretty cocky in the poop department. I pretty much fancied myself a veteran of domestic poop wars.

You know what they say, pride goeth before the great poop fall.

My husband had been out of town for two weeks on a work trip. He finally returned home, and I was more than excited to have an extra pair of hands helping me wrangle my tiny terrorist. He came home sick, however, and being a man and therefore an even bigger baby than, say, my actual baby, he went straight to the doctor. So there I was, rocking the mommy thing alone again - or so I thought.


I ran the bath like I do every night, completely unaware of the impending crisis that was about to go down. Just as her baby toes hit the bath water, a pooptastrophe of pretty epic proportions struck. Because this has, believe it or not, happened to me before, I was grossed out but still relatively unphased. I thought I was an old pro at handling this type of situation. Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen next.

Just as I was about to whisk her out of the tub, she grabbed a handful of poop and with a devilish gleam in her eye she crammed it into her mouth! Not being as cool a cucumber as I thought I was, I started to scream. At the sound of my wail, her eyes widened in fear and she began to match my screams.

And there we stood, both of us screaming, when it occurred to me - I literally don't know shit.

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.