If My Baby Could Talk

If My Baby Could Talk

It’s safe to say my baby has figured out she’s been born into a house of crazy people. She hasn’t said anything yet, but I know she’s thinking it. I can see it in her eyes.

Which got me thinking – what else would she say if she could talk?

Here’s a list of things I’m confident my baby would say to me if she could:

“Could you brush your teeth or pop in a mint? Thanks so much.”

She still has the breath of a sweet angel so it must be fairly offensive to have your mom’s dragon breath singe what little eyebrow growth she has going without the slightest ability to defend herself.

In the morning, I refuse to resist every urge to cover her face in kisses, and she always gives me that look when you find a rotten cucumber in your refrigerator. Fine, I’ll brush my teeth already!

“I know you’re happy to see me, but can you take the enthusiasm down a peg?”

I wonder what it’s like just to be chillin’, trying to live your life and then some crazy lady starts screaming and man-handles the hell out of you with pure love and devotion in her eyes. Now that I think of it, I should probably ask Justin Timberlake.

I’m a little embarrassed about this, but I sense my baby doesn’t always share my same enthusiasm for celebrating her existence. There’s just something about her that makes me all crazy inside, so when I see her cooing to herself quietly in her swing, I wanna scream my love to the rooftops!

Meanwhile, my love scream completely shocks her out of her little baby coo trance and scares the crap out of her. If she could talk, she’d definitely tell me to calm down.

“Get that camera out of my face, or so help me. So help me God.”

If she’s looking irresistibly adorable, then it is my duty as a mother to take 1000 pictures of it. The only problem is that she looks adorable all the time. Okay, maybe I don’t need to text my mom 15 pictures of her while she’s taking a nap, but if I don’t, who the hell will?

She gets particularly irritated when I try to amplify her adorableness by contorting her body into camera ready positions. It’s like she’s Beyonce and I’m the paparazzi — she’s trying to cover her face with her purse and I’m desperate for a million dollar shot. It’s not that she doesn’t understand frenzied adoration comes with the job of being my baby, she just needs a break sometimes — just a moment to be normal like everybody else.

Well, that’s too bad. I want to put her whole body in a hoagie with mayonnaise and mustard and I make no apologies for it.

“Is it time for you to eat dinner? I could eat too, I’ll start screaming so you can stop what you’re doing and feed me.”

Interesting. My baby’s favorite time to breastfeed is when I’m about to eat something delicious. This isn’t a coincidence, this is a cool, calculated power move. I’m convinced she’d rather go hungry so she can wait until my juicy steak is off the grill. I’m still trying to find out her motivation for hurting me in this way. Honestly, if it wasn’t for all the peanut M&M stress binges happening after she goes to bed at night, I’d probably fit into Victoria Beckham’s jeans thanks to all the dinners I haven’t been eating.

“Don’t get excited, I’m just taking a 10 minute cat nap. I’d stay close if I was you.”

When she awakes from her 10 minute cat nap, I get the feeling she’s wondering why I look like I just got bad news from the doctor. As I lay her down, I know the chances I’ll be able to get anything substantial accomplished are a depressing 3%, but my desperation keeps my hope alive. Right as I settle in to relax, shower, eat or lay on the couch while staring blankly at the ceiling, I hear her little baby voice. She’s technically speaking babble, but the translation is clear, “I told you not to get your hopes up. Put your bra back on. You can shower when I go to Kindergarten.”

“Why do you always act like I’m covered in thorns when I poop all over you? Calm down!”

She acts so perplexed when her poop gets all over me. Like, “Why are you freaking out? It’s completely natural. Now stop acting like I’m a hot coal and feed me. Thanks.”

Baby poop is a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes her white shirt has turned completely yellow but her diaper barely has anything in it. It’s one of life’s great mysteries, but to her it’s just another day in the life. Who knows? Maybe her poop is even good for the skin, but I’m not about to find out.

“I know you think you washed out all my chubby creases, but you missed about 14 of them.”

Her hidden, cheesy creases are my arch nemeses. The minute I think I’ve cleaned all her nook and crannies, suddenly I find a new crease that’s all inflamed and angry. It makes me feel guilty like a mommy should have known they were there, but it’s not like she’s doing anything to help the cause. Ever tried to get a warm cloth under a baby’s chin? She could crack a walnut under there. After I get the jaws of life to pry her chin up, I have 2.3 seconds to get in a few swipes before it drops down like an anvil. I do the best I can, okay?!

“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

No, not really. Isn’t it fun?

Source: www.babble.com

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