What I meant to blog about today is really amazingly scary.
But, since I went out with Mr. Big(Ideas) tonight for an impromptu date night after visiting friends and their new baby, and since that date night involved a bottle of wine, and since I no longer have anyone to drunk dial so now I live in fear of drunk blogging instead — I leave you with this video, which will explain to you what I mean by:
I’ve read a lot of parenting books. Partly because I am the sort of person who likes to do her research, partly because I’ve spent a lot of the last five years on bedrest, growing babies, and I haven’t had that much else to do. (Ok, fine — I didn’t read that much when I was sitting in the hospital waiting for Pancake and Sausage to arrive. I watched the first three seasons of Dexter on Netflix instead. Lots to be learned there, too.)
But no matter how much I’ve read, I can honestly say the first book I ever picked up on my Mommy journey remains, for me, the first, last, and really most profound WORD on parenting ever penned:
Yep — that’s right.
The biggest fight we EVER had was over packing a diaper bag.
Seriously. And I say this after nearly eight years of marriage, four renovations (one still in progress), and four kids. We have had a lot of fodder for fighting — right back to the blow-up we had three days into our honeymoon when I literally got so angry at Mr. Big(Ideas) I left him standing on a street corner in a small town in Denmark, shouting after me as I marched purposefully towards the train station, trying to figure out exactly how I could get back to LA and annul our short marriage without having to turn around and get my passport back from the Big(A**hole) I’d gone and idiotically yoked my life to.
At which point we would have been saved all this Kardashian madness and they could have just called it a ChecklistDivorce.
Anyway: back to the diaper bag.
Before there was a blog, there was a list — the first ever, original, one-and-only:
I started writing this list almost five years ago, shortly after Diddy was born. Diddy was that classic, easy first baby, the one that nurses on schedule and sleeps through the night and pops all her teeth without a whimper, the kid who makes you think you ought to have more of them. The kid who makes you think parenting is easy, the kid who makes you think you’ve got it all figured out.
Until one day you look around your house and it is filled from floor-to-ceiling with useless baby crap.