Posted on | March 15, 2010 | 9 Comments
There is an over sized, over-zealously colored alphabet mat in my kitchen. There is a Rain Forest swing in my formal dining room, just next to the cherry finished table and across from the china cabinet. Inside that china cabinet, there is my wedding china and crystal along with some pieces of china brought over from Ireland and the silver goblets my Great-Aunt gave me. There is also a silver rattle and a Christmas ornament with a tiny, three month hand print lovingly inked on it that I’m terrified of losing one day.
In the den, there is an Exersaucer, aka Poop Chair, and sometimes a Jumperoo, set haphazardly around the glass-top coffee table that my gut tells me to get rid of STAT before J becomes mobile. The guest bathroom has a giant blue whale tub in the shower basin and the guest bedroom has an outgrown bouncy seat next to the bed and below the framed picture of Frank Sinatra. (Don’t judge, I love him.)
In short? This house is now, an perhaps forever will be, entirely J’s. There is no doubt when you enter either the front or back door that a baby lives here. And I wonder how that happened and why it happened to me. Not the baby part, I remember how that happened. I mean the complete and utter hostile takeover of all things that used to be mine.
Seriously? What happened to my dreams of hosting fancy dinner parties and hopes for a perfectly coordinated living room. Now I’ll settle for ordering pizza with friends and hoping no one notices spit up on the sofa. My whole life revolves around nineteen pounds of pure energy and that includes my wardrobe, my diet, and now every single part of my house. I swear, he’s like Kudzu. I used to love having everything in its place; everything organized and placed “just so.” I used to like nice things… fancy dishes, fancy food, fancy clothes, and dear God fancy shoes… when did that give way to eating PB&J over the sink in a rush and wearing spit up covered sweaters? There isn’t a single aspect of my life that he hasn’t touched. And as cluttered and messy and crazy as it is, I’m learning to adjust. I think. My house will never be as perfectly lovely as that house I babysat in… at least not for a while, so I’m learning to make the best of the situation.
There are bottles of milk in my fridge, stacks of “Stage One” baby food on the counter next to my sink, and Technicolor plastic spoons in my dishwasher. I’ll get over it… I’m a mom, now. Please take off your shoes before you step on the new foam carpet, ‘k? Thanks.