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James Lipton reading Kevin Federline lyrics on Conan O'Brien.

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Sunday afternoon.

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Monday, January 30, 2006

Someone left me a comment in my last entry that asked, in part, what advice I might have for a new mom. I gave this question some thought over the last couple days, mostly in the context of imagining myself on a nationally televised program.

I shift slightly in my seat, hoping the microphone clipped to my crisp lapel does not pick up the rustling sounds of linen. She leans close, her hair seemingly immobile under the hot studio lights, her immaculately outlined lips open. "So," she breathes. I stare at her face, mesmerized by the eerie smoothness I see there. I always figured it was airbrushed on the covers of her magazine, but now I see that it's in fact at least an inch of foundation that covers what surely must be a network of fine lines. She's over fifty, after all. "Tell us, tell the world. What's the one thing you would tell all new mothers?"

I gaze confidently into Camera 3, positioned so that I appear to be taking in the audience, both in the studio and at home. "Well, Oprah," I begin.

That's where the fantasy ends (except for the part where I present a list of demands for the green room that includes an enormous bowl of mini-sized York peppermint patties), because I have no sage advice. There are certainly things I wish I could go back and tell my pregnant self, like don't buy that stupid Amby Baby hammock because you will never use it ever, or ration out those painkillers they give you after the c-section because trying to get a refill will prove to be impossible and you will experience a murderous hatred for the nurse who tells you to take Tylenol instead (way to fight the war on drugs with someone who just had abdominal surgery, UW Medicine!), or don't worry your feet will not always look like fleshy Goodyear blimps.

As for something I think would be applicable to all new moms instead, the only thing I can come up with is: buy a "Little Noses" snot-sucker. Yes, the hospital gives you an aspirator, but it's fucking huge. Seriously, you might want to use it on Jason Schwartzman, or anyone else who has nostrils the size of airplane hangars, but newborns have freakishly tiny snout-holes. I keep the hospital one around in case I need to plunge Riley's airway for, I don't know, a sock wedged down his trachea.

Riley has yet to catch a major cold*, despite being exposed to JB's viral gunk that hung around for days and caused him (JB) to develop the repulsive habit of blowing his nose on thousands of linear yards of toilet paper and then leaving the entire sodden wad in the bowl, unflushed and oh so unappealing. However, he's like a tiny human booger mine, and until he can pick his own it's our parental duty to go in there and excavate, and that's where the Little Noses thing comes in handy. Personally, I think it's the one aspect of baby care that is truly disgusting - I'd rather deal with a giant cow-pat of feces plastered to his (Riley's) rump any day over a pellet of wet snot in his nose. But anyway, that's my advice: buy a smaller sized aspirator. And start working on having a strong stomach.

(*I took Riley to the pediatrician last week and she asked if he'd been sick at all. No, I replied, he's been sniffly now and then but no actual colds yet. You know why that is, she said, it's because he's not in daycare. It sounded as if she would have used the same tone to state that did I know why he had all his fingers, it's because I wasn't sticking his hand into a guillotine, that's why. I said well actually um he is and boy did she ever backtrack. Well! only three days that's not so bad, and there's a school of thought that says it's good for him to be exposed to colds, and okay time to weigh him!)

The other questions were:

• Where did I get Riley's bouncy chair? It came from Amazon, and was a gift from the very kind and generous BlueMeany. We use it every single day.
• What did I pack for the hospital? Fucking nothing, that's what. I went to the hospital way before I thought I would, so I was completely unprepared. JB ended up bringing me some things, which included makeup, shampoo, and the book I was reading at the time (Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior, I am not even making that up).
• Can I trade in the kid if they're not as cute as Riley? Well, if you have one that doesn't scream For No Damned Reason Except To Hear the Sound of Their Own Voice, perhaps you and I could make a deal.

Also, you guys know I only post the cute photos, right? It might be false advertising (please don't sue), but Riley is not adorable 100% of the time. I mean, let's take a look at some of his less-than-memorable moments:

Holy unflattering angles, batman - look at the chins! The pig-snout! And are those ears in need of taping?

And what have we here: vacant expression, remote control positioned "hilariously" on his lap?

And this! Why, he's just...he's totally...

Okay, that last one was actually pretty awesome. Baby with reading glasses! Hee.

Anyway, I'm curious as to what you fabulous readers would say to the advice question. What would you tell a new parent? Pretend I'm Oprah, only without the scary latex skin.

:::

Sacked out in front of Dallas S.W.A.T. Look, *I* didn't pick the show.

The exact moment that a just-woken baby begins their transformation into a baby who realizes it's been three hours since the last bottle, and SOMEBODY NEEDS TO PAY FOR THIS INJUSTICE.

JB in his Dickies shirt, the boy in Old Navy.
We are fancy round these here parts.

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