I only have about 10,000 things to say. While she sleeps for the next 12 minutes in her bassinet, before realizing she’s been abandoned and we’re having fun without her, I can only hammer this quick post out. Not writing every day is eating away at me almost as much as the lack of sleep. My poor brain is arm wrestling with itself: LET ME REST. F*ck you, LET ME CREATE SENTENCES FROM WORDS!
But instead, I happily rock a girl that can’t poop, for hours and hours. Not in an actual rocking chair, that would be too rad, just thrashing my poor back to and fro in a seated position in a too soft bed or too deep couch.
Chanting some amazing homemade "Let's go poop! P-double O-p! Poop!Poop!Poop!" cheers and rubbing a rounded tummy.
The teeny tiny red turnip face, unlatching from my amazingly rugged nipples, little sharp hands flailing and yanking down every neckline of every shirt I wear as she, in a mad gas panic, attempts to scale me.
How can I help this girl? By just being there. I have to stop crawling up the walls because the laundry is threatening to overtake the apartment. I have to be content with one meal until Pops gets home. I have to steel myself against the cries of agony and confusion and the 1940’s car brakes “urch, urch, urch” wails.
Bicycle the little legs, greet each fart and burp with hearty congratulatory kisses on the noggin and ears, and even whisper that it would be totally okay if this poop busts out the back of her diaper again. Hell, get it up into your hair. Paint the bedroom brown baby, whatever it takes to get you back to the sweet girl I know.
A shower can wait, dishes can accumulate, and the sun can rise, set and rise again. Until this bubs poops, I’ll be there waiting. Oh my bubs, Mama is here.