Baby Made Me Do It

Hi everybody! I haven’t written in over 6 months. You know why? ‘Cause I had a baby. Yep, the excuse that superwomen like CEO of Yahoo Marissa Mayer would never dare use, but smart women like myself do. Why not make use of it? I suffered through hours of what felt like two gigantic hands digging into my flesh and pulling my bones apart, a week with my downstairs blown-out and endured a new mom sentence of six weeks without sex. I earned this excuse card and shame on me if I don’t use it!

The excuse I HAVE A BABY covers everything from forgetting birthdays, to not contributing anything to potlucks, to flagrantly violating traffic laws. And unlike your usual rotating list of cop-outs that don’t involve saving for college–work, sick, sick cat–I HAVE A BABY can be used over and over again with your friends and you will never look like a dick. And don’t worry about coming up with an explanation either–no one wants to know because singles and single couples are afraid of babies. They believe as I once did, that newborns are a plague which, once contracted, wipes friends out from existence and prevents them from doing what those without spawn assume is prized above all else: hanging out with them.

Now that I’m on the other side, however, I’ve discovered that the whole thing is a sham. Sure babies deprive parents of their sleep and give them new problems to solve every day, but the thing new parents don’t share with the public is that newborns give them massive amounts of baby love hormones which make them perfectly capable of going out and seeing people. Thing is… they just don’t want to. Babies don’t turn parents into the walking dead, they turn them into selfish, socially undependable lying a**holes.

For instance:

• You think your friends couldn’t make it to your party because little Aiden was taking an extraordinarily long nap? Wrong! They’ve always hated your parties and are glad they finally don’t have to go.
• You invited your friends to see your band play on Saturday night but they couldn’t go because babysitters cost too much and they need to save for a house? Nuh-uh. Look on Facebook the next day to see what they’re doing. That’s right…checking in at a pricey mimosa brunch and spending money on friends they think are worth spending on a babysitter.
• You tried calling your mom-friend to cry about your boyfriend AGAIN but she said she couldn’t talk because darling baby Mackenzie was crying to be fed? BS! That little bitch Mackenzie cries all the time. EVEN WHEN SHE’S HAPPY!

Of course when I first joined the club I was dumb enough to prove everyone wrong about what it meant to be a new mom. I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t do it all even when I didn’t want to do it all. I posted photos like this one:

You know what that got me? Friends inviting me to work out with them when all I wanted to do was sleep in and eat pizza… at the same time. But after several mornings of Burpees, ab exercises on furniture sliders and jumping lunges, I smartened up. Who cares if taking on the public’s perception of being a parent makes me look like a shut-in slob. When else will I be able to not do all the things I’ve never wanted to do? I took inventory, held a meeting with my internal Board of Directors, saw what others in my field were doing…

Oh no she didn’t! Pretending to be exhausted with perfectly side swept bangs and make-up! Good for her.

Where’s momma heading to after this photo?

…and immediately posted my own version of this common mommy and me pose:

Do you think this image would tempt anyone to bother us with any invitations or obligations? Of course not. That’s because when you see photos like this splayed across Facebook and Instagram, you might comment, “Oh how sweet. Momma and child sleeping, Exhausted from so much love,” but subconsciously the photo makes you think, “F’ing stoner roommates.” Instantly this new look brands me as undesirable and totally useless. Success! A new parent through and through! As a result, guess what this pic has been getting me? Days and nights of doing nothing but sleeping and eating pizza. At the same time.

Fear Of Expulsion

I should be excited right? That’s how mom’s are supposed to feel as the time nears for fetal expulsion. We’re supposed to seem unstoppable walking for hours off-balance in hopes of getting that baby out. We eat spicy foods, drink castor oil, make a restaurant in Studio City, CA very rich by perpetuating the myth of its birth inducing salad. But in the frenzied impatience, does anyone stop to think what we’re impatient for?

For weeks I’ve been on standby expecting my child to blow out from whence it came, but it does not cometh. We’re now post-due-date and the time is maddening; everything’s been taken care of so I have little to do and can’t venture too far because I know I could go into labor at any second and give some poor stranger the awful task of mopping up my mess. So instead I’ve been lying around, brushing up on phone skills with family and friends, watching entire seasons of America’s Next Top Model and reading through Facebook every five minutes. As you would guess these passing time activities have led to boredom, boredom leading to frustration, frustration leading to impatience, impatience leading to killing time by taking long looks at my naked pregnant body’s proportions in a mirror which at last led me to realize: Holy Sh**! HOW THE F*$% IS THIS BASKETBALL SUPPOSED TO GET OUT OF MY COOCH?!

So while everyone is cheering this baby on, I’m feeling stuck and scared–real scared and with no one in my corner. My husband is talking to my belly: coaxing it, threatening it, bribing it. Friends, families, neighbors, the maintenance man at our apartment complex, everyone is cheering for me and my baby like we’re on a rooftop and they want to see us jump.

At this late in the game, I know I should be much tougher and cooler about it. It’s not like I’m a 13-year-old boy being told to imagine having a baby; I’m a mature educated woman who took a 12 week birthing class called Bradley Method. I’ve watched the creepy videos with grainy footage of exhausted mothers pushing babies out oozing in purple sauce, vaginas stretching (funny they never show the after shot…hmmm) and embarrassing private moments of mothers moaning in pain. I know what’s coming up, and you know what? To hell with the beautiful power of maternity and the excitement I’ll feel after the baby comes. For now, me and 13-year-old boys agree–this is some crazy shit and OMG it’s gonna suck.