If My Baby Could Talk…
7 months old. That’s how old my daughter is—and while I sometimes find it fun to narrate things for her, I have a feeling she’d have a lot more to say (if we’re going based off of her side eye, because homegirl is GOOD at judging) if my baby could talk. It’s kind of fun to imagine what her opinions would be, because I’m doing my best to raise a little leader who has a strong voice.
Here’s what I think my daughter would say:
Okay, so we’re just going to pretend like you’re still eating two breakfasts because we wake up early, Mom? I’ve heard you tell people it’s because you’re still breastfeeding, but let’s be real here: you know you supplement me with formula, like, 50% of the time, anyways. You’re basically on the same eating-every-4-hours schedule as I am. Either way, pass me the bottle. I want to throw it on the floor.
Yes! Bouncy seat action. Mom’s flipping on a little TV . . . I wonder if she’ll make me watch Friends for the 112th time. I’ve been alive for 7 months and hear “I’ll be there for you” in my sleep.
Oh! Hell yeah, it’s Daniel Tiger. DT, my man. What’s he up to now? Oh great. ANOTHER SONG. Daniel, your theme song is as good as they get: you probably can’t outdo it.
Okay, so that episode is over. Maybe she’ll stop folding clothes and turn it to . . . nope. Here we are in the neighborhood, again. Mom’s a creature of habit, but I’m not this basic—I’ll just start fussing so she gets the hint.
Lunch! LUNCH! LUNCH, MOM. LUUUUUUUUNCH. Okay, she’s taking one out—finally. I hate having to yell for my food like this is some kitschy diner. Then she has the audacity to tell people I’m grumpy?! No, Mom. Just no. Anyways, this is a good boob. I love the boob—wait, what was that noise? I’m struggling to eat and be as nosy as I want to be. Why won’t this nipple stretch more? Maybe if I clamp down with my gums just right and whip my head to the other side it’ll—what? Why are you being so dramatic, Mom?! It can’t hurt as badly as my gums do, you’ll get over it.
Woohoo! I’m just gonna lay here while Mom gets dressed. I love downtime—they act like I have to be doing something 24/7, and sometimes a girl just needs to relax.
Oh, God. I can’t relax now: MOM. WHAT. ARE. YOU. WEARING?! She hasn’t done laundry in at LEAST a week, and thank goodness I don’t sweat and it’s socially acceptable for me to be in pajamas all day . . . but Mom, you can’t go to work like that. High water pants with the same sweater you wore Monday? Bless. Stop buying me new clothes that I’ll outgrow, and maybe invest in some stuff that fits you. Although, I do love my clothes . . . I’ll meet you halfway here. Stop buying DAD stuff.
On the bedtime routine:
Ooh! Bathtime. This is my jam. So soothing, getting a little scrub action with Mom. Oh, sh*t! It’s cold. Sh*t is a word Mom says a lot, but then she says ‘shoot’ really quickly afterwards? Does it mean the same thing? Well, sh*t. I don’t know. I’m a baby.
Now, we’re snuggling in my room and she’s playing an audiobook while I eat. This is the life, and while my Mom is kind of awkward, hovers over me at every turn, and uses me as an excuse for things sometimes . . . I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love her, and I can’t wait to tell her one day.