As you know, I'm currently in a drugged-induced happy place with the new baby...gender and weight to be announced when I get back (you can still guess at that, here, until the end of the week) ... but you clicked on the blog, right? You say, "Paige, I'm glad you gave birth, but I'm here to read something funny and not about you developing a potential dependency on prescription drugs and free Jello." Right?
Lucky for you, I've dragged Robyn from Hollow Tree Ventures over here and made her write something funny. Because she wanted to. And because telling someone you're watching them from the bushes gets them to do pretty much anything you want because they think you might be stalking them...kidding... *lots of nervous laughter* End scene.
So, as a special treat, I hand the blog over to one of my favorite blogging friends, and soon to be yours, Robyn Welling... take it away, Robyn!
Greetings, Paige-lings! I'm Robyn from Hollow Tree Ventures, and I'm as excited as a toddler at an all-you-can-eat chicken nugget buffet to be here guest posting for Paige while she's away having a tiny person extracted from her body and also likely getting her sanity removed with equal surgical precision.
Like many of you, I've been tracking the development of Paige's beautiful baby via that vaguely creepy floating fetus widget on her sidebar, as well as tweeting with her about pregnancy-induced brain cell depletion and what a convenience it would be to have multiple sister-wives. Through her, I've been happily reliving my pregnancy days the absolute best way a person can (vicariously, and from a great physical distance).
However, after I finished squeeing with delight when Paige asked me to guest post for her, I started thinking more about the Next Stage - the part that Paige is experiencing right now, the period of time soon after the birth that I worked so long and hard to banish to the dark recesses of my brain where I put all the things I'd like to forget, like the lyrics to "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and the hairstyles I experimented with in eigth grade.
Of course, I'm talking about the Early Days With Baby.
All the experts and books and other sources of parenting lies will tell you this is a beautiful time for bonding and breathless cooing over the Wondrous Miracle that is your infant. They don't usually warn you about the real miracle, which is that the human population continues to expand exponentially despite the fact that people start out as screaming, uncooperative poop factories.
Experts leave out the fact that your body parts, which were once so boring and predictable, become surprisingly malleable and turn up where you least expect them. This is especially true of the freshly deflated midsection, where your bellybutton can easily migrate from inside your sports bra to tucked beneath the waistband of your pajama pants if you so much as hiccup. You never know, on any given day, whether or not you can expect your ankle bones to make an appearance. The thick, lustrous tresses you were gifted during pregnancy begin to fall out at an alarming rate; everywhere you turn you're startled by
Ewok-sized clumps of your own hair.
You also lose control of things in those Early Days, and I don't just mean your mind and bladder. Any sleep schedule you once enjoyed gets hijacked by your angelic little Sleep Terrorist. You begin to yearn for the dark, quiet hours when you would lie awake in bed at 4 AM, unable to rest because your pregnant belly felt like it was full of clog dancers and you were pretty sure your fetus was trying to strangle you from the inside using nothing but roundhouse kicks and heartburn.
On top of that, regardless of whether or not you're nursing, during those first several days your "upstairs area" gains the density of a thousand black holes, and starts to feel like that kid who ate the blueberry candy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory looks. You can't leave the house because your bra is stuffed with cabbage in a last-ditch attempt to quell the swelling, but that's probably for the best because none of your clothes fit and your eyes are two sunken ash pits and you're too tired to think about shuffling to the car, anyway.
And please, don't get me started on simultaneously trying to keep up with a couple of toddlers. Any and all antics get multiplied by a factor of eleventy bazillion as soon as they sense that Mommy's attention might potentially be focused elsewhere. If they would normally hound you to look at their latest Crayola creation, now their art installations will appear in permanent marker all over the walls. If they used to run around at break-neck speed, laughing at your inability to get them even slightly interested in dinner, after the baby comes they'll do the same thing while juggling light bulbs in the middle of a busy highway off-ramp.
But my guess is that the parenting experts don't tell you that stuff because, in the end, none of it matters. In spite of the sleeplessness and the discomfort and the occasional buyer's remorse, the little urchins are worth it. Plus, if the experts didn't trick us into having more kids with their lies and strategic informational omissions, they'd have to find something else to be experts about.
So thanks a million, Paige, for having me over to babysit your blog for the day while you're busy snuggling the little ones and having your days and nights reversed. Enjoy this time, because one day when your kids are grown and you settle in for a peaceful, uninterrupted slumber at a reasonable hour, you'll miss those wild, sleepless days when there was always someone hanging off your leg or asking for fruit snacks or licking an electrical outlet.
At least, that's what the experts tell me.
Until Next Time, Readers!