4/08/2015

The Routine.

Get up to crying baby. Change ginormous pee diaper. Change her out of her pjs and into something so cute I wish it were my size. It never is. Nurse her, half asleep with my head jerking backwards thumping against the wall. Burp her. Tuck her in bed, milk drunk, near daddy and pray she doesn't start screaming during the 3.4 minutes I'm in the shower. Barely spend enough time in the glorious warm water to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. Hurry to put my nursing bra on because, well, you other Mom's know. Get dressed. Realize those pair of pants don't fit like they used to and attempt to peal them off into a mocking ball of shame on the floor. Hurry to blow dry my hair, smear foundation over my face and mascara on my eyelashes. Start the Keurig. Run like a headless chicken filling the diaper bag with 45 diapers just in case an explosive code brown terrorizes the babysitter later that day. Yell to my husband to hurry up and get out of the shower, we're going to be late. Oh yeah, pack an extra change of baby clothes. Hurry to fill the cooler with breastmilk and my lunch box with food I somehow remembered to pack last night. Run back and make sure the change of clothes actually still fit her. Start the car. Begin brewing my coffee. Put my shoes on. Pick the baby up. Yell to my husband to hurry up because we're now late. Strap the baby into her carseat and sing my happiest tone deaf song. Tuck her into her blanket and put her mittens on...3 times in a row as she angrily waves them off. Pick the car seat up and begin the "carseat swing." Silence. Set the carseat down so I can grab my coffee. The baby starts to scream as if she's been told she'll never see a boob again. Beg my husband to hurry up and put his shoes on because we're definitely late. Pass the baby to hubby. Hurry out the door with my 675 bags and put the key into the ignition just in time for my car starter to time out and turn off. Start the car and put in drive to realize I've left my coffee sitting on the Keurig. Depending on the day 1) run inside, 2) say bugger it and carry on (normally option 2). Drive to the babysitters praying I don't get stuck behind the garbage truck or old woman who lives just off of Route 17. Drop Olivia off for the day, giving a preface of when the last major poop was. Drive to work hitting every single pot hole on the dirt road shortcut. Swear and wonder when I'll be able to actualy find time to bring the car in for another alignment. Arrive to work an hour early so I can pump and plan for the day. Spend 8 exhausting but wonderful hours chasing around 16 littles, dodging direct face sneezes and boogers and farts. Hop into my car feeling accomplished and deleriously tired. Meet hubby. Pick the baby up, who is wearing the change of clothes (thankfully it's puke not poop). Hurry home to nurse because my boobs feel like they're going to explode. Spend the next 5 hours with my child stuck to my chest and I desperately try to get organized for the following day. Eat dinner somewhere around 7:30/8. Hear the baby's exposive code brown. Realize her clothes are already stained right through, yet I spend the following 10 minutes desperately trying to scrub out that awful yellow stain. Now that she's pooped her brains out, she's happy and laughing. Until I give her a bath. Screaming. Like something from a horror movie. Put her in pj's. Cuddle her because she's so cute I can't stand it. Pump while hubby feeds her her giant before-bed-please-sleep-more-than-4-hours bottle. Change her new diaper that's full of pee. Put her to bed. Brush my teeth. Wash my pumping parts. Lay in the dark listening to that stupid singing seahorse as the baby talks and laughs. Kiss my husband and swear about how tired I am. Roll over and watch Olivia smile. Get up to rub her hand. Watch her eyes get heavy. Watch her breathing slow. Feel my heart explode with pride and joy. Wonder how I got so lucky. Stumble back to bed. Fall asleep with my head dangling off the bed. Wake up at stupid - o'clock to a crying baby and stiff neck. Do it all over again.