Time Flies

Ah, Spring! And with it, Spring Fashion. Since these days I'm still sporting a robe and p.j. bottoms 24/7 because I'm (a) lazy, (b) constantly covered in another person's fluids, and (c) still not fitting into my pre-preg pants and yet now rattling around in my just-purchased post-preg pants, I'm going to comment on Spring Fashion for babies, namely baby shorts, and particularly the fantastical style beast known as "shortalls." (GAK, but OMG AREN'T THEY ADORABLE?!)

Here's the thing with the short(all)s: I'm so used to Wombat being covered by long-sleeved onesies and full-length jeans that these days I completely freak out every time I feel a bit of his unexpectedly bare skin against mine because, wow, it's so smooth and so soft and so WARM that I'm convinced he's leaking poop on me again, which, if it's never happened to you, I can assure you is the exact opposite of awesome. It's a shame that the combination of smooth, soft, and warm now makes me think of liquid feces, but there you have it. Next time I say parenthood hasn't changed me all that much, feel free to bring this up.

One more thing about shorts and the filling thereof and then we can move on. I think it might be that Wombat has already grown too big for his Size 1 diapers but whatever the reason, we've had an unusual number of blowouts (aka poopsplosions) recently. Fortunately, we've figured out a way to avoid at least a few of them: Since they seem to happen most often when Wombat is sitting on someone's knee (the poop has nowhere to go but up), we now know that whenever we hear his telltale butt trumpet, we lift him up off the knee, high into the sky, thereby facilitating the poop's staying in the diaper where it belongs. We're sticking to this technique not only because it works but because it looks pretty funny. Imagine that every time Wombat farts he launches into the stratosphere as if propelled by butt rocket.

Okay, moving on.

Today is March 23, 2009, which, according to all the online gestation calendars that squired me through my pregnancy, is one year to the day that Wombat was conceived. I don't know how accurate this is considering I never had a 28-day cycle and who knows how long it took that particular pointy-eyebrowed sperm to find that particular pointy-chinned egg, but still, one year! One year ago my son didn't exist, like, AT ALL. Does that make any kind of sense to you? I think I just had a brain blowout; can someone hand me a wet wipe?

There's a certain harmony that we're passing this benchmark at this particular time. With the end of this "fourth trimester" also comes the end of winter, the end of my maternity leave, and the end of every last one of Wombat's 0-3 footed sleepers, may they rest in peace in a box in the attic. It's a happy/sad time, all sunrise/sunset and win some/lose some over here. I go back to work next week, but there is asparagus coming up in the garden. My baby is growing out of his baby clothes, but fitting into some adorable big-boy clothes. (And STANDING UP OMG.) The sun is shining brighter and setting later, but my little-big boy has dropped an afternoon nap in favor of tummy time. This afternoon I put him down on his stomach and stood agape as he made many valiant attempts to scooch himself across the floor on his face. Is it really possible that just fourteen weeks ago he was a shrimpy little grub, and just nine and a half months before that he was a microscopic zygote?

wrote Leah at 6:37 AM | Comments (12)