Things that make you go shi%balls--baby blow outs and new mom woes.

As you know from my last post...I'm a new mom. I was a little on the crazy, irrational side before baby, and now...well, lets just say its hard to imagine that a pterodactyl isn't going to fly over us on a walk and steal her. Or maybe a tiny ninja Mexican drug lord might come in at night and take her. We DO live near Mexico you know. And human trafficking is on the rise. I don't have statistics to back that up so don't ask but I wouldn't lie to you, seriously. Its true. Point is, I am a worrier. A large, big ole, monumental worrier. This has always bothered my cool, calm, and collected big, bad, fighter pilot husband. I mean, clearly nothing bad would ever happen to that lean, mean fighting machine. Or maybe he just isn't a worrier. Its one of the two. But I AM. Last night, I woke up and stared at Baby T in her bassinet like I do every. single. night. every. hour. on. the. hour. I always see her little chest rise and fall and I know she is okay. Even then, I put my hand on her belly to make sure my sleep deprived eyes aren't playing tricks on me. Well, last night I thought I didn't feel her belly rising and falling. Panic isn't even in the realm of what I did. I woke her right on up at 3 AM by ripping her swaddle off of her and jiggling her legs. She looked at me like I was the Mexican ninja lord coming to get her. Anyway...you get the point.

The following happened when she was about a week old. And just as a warning, I'm not planning to censor this (Do I ever?), so if boobs and poop bother you, you should go back to hash tagging things about your selfie you just took...hopefully not in a dirty mirror with the toilet photobombing in the background. Seriously people, those are the worst. So. Gross. #nasty #lookatmytoilet #lookat mytoothpastesplatteronmymirrorohwaitmaybethatsnottoothpaste?

Back to the story: Baby T is a week old. (Not today, duh. But back when the story happened.) There were a few things that were bothering me. 1) Her umbilical cord did not look right. I mean, nuh uh. Surely that thing isn't supposed to look like the stuff that spews out of an alien when the hero finally slices its head off in those really swell alien-takes-over-earth movies?!? A gooey mess on this sweet precious baby? Nooo....that cant be right. And then she kept getting this blue tinge around her mouth-not to be confused with blue lips. Calm down folks.

I was worried. Husband was not. But he had already seen my postpartum hormones turn me into a puddle of patheticness, (yes I know that isn't a word), so he did me a solid and called the pediatrician which turned out to be the biggest clusterfu$% of our weeklong bout of parenthood. He called this lady which directed him to that lady and then she told him to call another number which sent him right back to the first lady. It was so ridiculous. All the while, the first lady is freaking out asking us when we were leaving to go to the ER. Why, you ask? Because my "potAtoes, potatoes" husband missed the fact that telling the nurse that there was a blue tinge around our newborn's mouth and telling her that her lips were blue meant two very different things. I am trying to mouth silently to him..."No, not her lips...you can't say her LIPS are blue. They will think she isn't breathing...this is different." After that confusion was cleared up, the nurse asked to call us back after she spoke with the Dr. *Minutes pass* I sit on the floor with two very odd cones attached to my boobs, ripping milk out of them in a way that should not be humanly possible, wondering if they will ever come back from this dark side that is breastfeeding and staring at the baby, wondering what the hell is wrong with her. Husband reads the news. I occasionally glance over at him wondering how he could read the news at a time like this and imagine ripping his phone from his hand and putting it in the garbage disposal, but then I decide that would take it too far and perhaps should be reserved for another time. I also wonder whether HE will in fact be able to bounce back after seeing my nipples stretched almost to the other side of the room with this torture pump device. I'm resentful that he doesn't have to have his boobs suctioned and so I ask him if he will let Baby T suck his nipples. Of course he said no. Typical. effing. man.

The nurse calls back and asks us to take the baby's temperature. Sure, no problem. We go for our easy peasy ear thermometer and just as we stick it in her ear, the nurse reminds us that she will need us to take a rectal temperature. Pause. We look at each other and both swallow hard. I mean, whoa. The days of taking shots until 4AM at a bar flashed before my eyes and I did a quick comparison of now and then. How'd I get here, I wondered? But! Good news. My cool, calm, and collected husband has this. There is no need for me to worry. Nothing is insurmountable to this think-on-your-toes, save-the-world kind of guy.

I feel like I should stop at this point in the story to say to my husband, "I love you, you roaring jungle beast."

Back to the story again: We've got a thermometer. Is it rectal? We don't know. But we go with it. Well you can't just stick it up her little bum without some lubrication. Who knew? (Soon-to-be parents...pick up some petroleum jelly now so you don't have to go the route we did) I'm wondering what we are gonna do, then in walks husband with KY jelly. See, he thinks on his toes. I got a good one, y'all. Alright, so we are ready. Baby is laying on the changing table, oblivious to whats happening. Husband has the lubed thermometer aimed at the target. The nurse is now on speaker phone.

In his most professional and polite voice, "I'm about to perform the temperature check now."

The nurse waits.

In goes the thermometer. I cringe, hoping he is doing is correctly. Im watching the baby to see if she is going to say, "Ouch", or "Umm, thats not very cool, daddy. Please stop." Nope nothing. But what I did see is the thermometer fly out of her bum at lightning speed--along with about a pound of poop splatter. Its everywhere. All over the changing table. All down the side of the changing table. All on husband's hands. Its running down the side of the changing table and she may or may not have doused a teddy bear's face with it. Everywhere. Seriously. My eyes were the size of watermelons as I registered what was going on. Think of a bomb exploding in a war movie--everyone is running for cover...the ground is shaking...fear consumes everyone's eyes--Thats what SHOULD have happened but we were stunned. We didn't take cover, but we should have. Husband stood very still for a couple of seconds at least, looking at all the damage from the bomb. I see his face and laughter begins to rumble in my belly-- something can in fact throw him off his cool train, and that something happened to weigh the same as a bag of sugar--but I try to keep quiet for the nurse's sake who is still clueless as to whats just happened. Also, for our reputation in the baby' pediatrician's office. After his damage assessment, he began trying to locate the thermometer and I stare at my phone wondering what would come up if I were to google "hazmat team...San Diego".

"What's her temperature?" The nurse asks.

*Shuffling sounds* on our end.

She asks again.

"Umm...one, one second. She just pooped." My husbands voice has risen a few octaves. "She just pooped the thermometer out all over the place...I wasn't prepared for this. Oh man. This is bad."

I begin to laugh uncontrollably. And I try to find something to clean the disaster that just attacked the entire nursery. Baby T is just staring around, kicking her little legs proudly.

"Did you get her temperature yet, sir?"

"Ummm....I...I got a lot going on here."

"Should I use a towel to clean this?" I manage to get out of my mouth through laughs. I've not seen my husband so taken aback by anything. Ive not seen him lose his cool or his ability to multi task. I cant stop laughing, then I feel something wet on my feet. Fearful, I look down.

Do you remember what I was doing before the nurse called back? Yea...pumping the udders.

So now I'm running around like a raging milk cow trying to catch milk with my hands while I look for a towel for him to at least wipe his hands with. Seriously, you do not want to come to our house anytime soon--not until I get that hazmat team over here.

It was a low point for us. We weren't prepared. We weren't prepared at all. Who knew a 5 pound baby could spew something out of her ass like a bullet bouncing around a ribcage, while not skipping a beat with her leg kicks? We do now I suppose. Yea, and experienced parents, why don't you warn new parents about this type of thing? I mean, we don't know what we are doing! We used KY Jelly on our newborn because none of you sons o'bitches thought you should mention that picking up some vaseline may be useful. A little help could have gone a long way and possibly saved a teddy bear's life. I guess its funny to you assholes to hear about little mishaps like this one. Jackassholes.

So, if you're a new parent or a soon to be parent and you need to take your baby's temperature rectally, let me help you newbies out--get some lube that's appropriate for babies and that you won't feel like shitballs for using on an infant, get some goggles, put on your worst clothes, and have a lawn size trash bag waiting at the end of the changing table for the explosion thats to come. Maybe you can catch at least some of it in the bag. You're welcome and may the force be with you.