Thursday, September 24, 2009

I'm No Indonesian Mama

I've not had an easy week.

Much like I did 2 and a half years ago, I agreed to be a transitional baby sitter for my friend M's new babe. Unlike his predecessor, Baby T is needy. In fact, he's reminiscent of my own child during her tenderly aggravating newborn phase. Big Brother Z just lay there like a happy 18 pound slug. Baby T wants to be held and bounced and talked to.

Damn baby. Doesn't he know I've got blogging to do?

But, the baby is also deliciously warm and squishy and he smells like clean laundry and breast milk (a fragrance idea sure to repel men and cause spontaneous ovulation in passing ladies). I sort of breathe him in and get high on baby pheromones, until he kills my buzz with a spectacular, wet fart.

And, I'm rusty, so very rusty. My newborn instincts have atrophied. My diaper skills are laughable. I've been peed on three times by this kid and I am haunted by the bloody raw crease of his fat right thigh. I nearly passed out when I realized my gentle cleansing had actually drawn blood. I welled up relating my harrowing experience to his mother who gave me the calm, patronizing look of a woman who can handle waaaay more drama than I can. I tried not to draw attention to myself as I quietly minimized my page of panic induced google search results.

Of course, my week could have been worse. Instead of providing temporary care for a normal sized, healthy newborn boy, I could be recovering from having a 19 pound infant excised from my withered womb (in Indonesia, no less).  So, today I look on my little charge with softer eyes, knowing that his yeasty neck smell is nothing compared to the aroma that must emanate from the forgotten, milk filled crevices of the giant Indonesian baby, who weighs more on his first day of life than my Violet weighed on her 365th.

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