3. No matter how large your home is, your child’s toys will take over.
4. Portable DVD players will break.
5. Men do not get excited over artwork done by their babies.
6. Mothers get very excited about artwork done by their babies.
7. You will be ecstatic when you miss changing a dirty diaper.
8. You will wonder what happened to your sex life.
9. Even though you are a mother, your mother will still treat you like a baby.
10. Babies do not mind sleeping in their own shit.
January 18
9 P.M.
I’m walking upstairs when I first inhale the disgusting scent. It’s like nothing I have ever smelled before. As I reach the top floor, the smell becomes overwhelming. I have never smelled anything so vile in my life. What could possibly smell that horrific?
“Get up here!” I yell to the Fiancé.
“What?” he says, taking the stairs two at a time. “What’s wrong?”
“Um, do you smell that?”
I watch him sniff the air. “Oh, God. What is that?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“God,” he says. “That is one very bad smell.”
We follow the smell, which is so overpowering we have to hold our hands over our noses and breathe through our mouths. The scent leads us directly to the Dictator’s room, where she’s sound asleep.
“I’m going to puke,” I say. “I think I’m going to puke and then I’m going to faint.”
It’s obvious the baby has pooed in her sleep. The Fiancé is practically gagging.
“Well, do we change her, or let her sleep?” he asks.
This is a very good question. We’re usually so grateful when the baby is finally asleep that we will do anything not to wake her, aside from rescuing her from a house fire. And, yes, sometimes we know she desperately needs a diaper change in the mornings—how could she not after sleeping in her urine for eleven hours?—but we’ll wait until she wakes up.
But those are only pee diapers I’m talking about.
This is different. It is a whopper of a diaper, I can tell. This, I know, is not just any poo diaper. This must have been an explosion. “We have to change her,” I say. “We have to. We’ll be very careful not to wake her.”
“How can she just sleep in her shit like that?” the Fiancé asks.
“I don’t know. She really doesn’t seem to mind though. She can even sleep through the stench!”
I pick the baby up gently, trying not to gag. How is it possible that someone so cute and small can make such a big mess and disgusting smell? The Fiancé and I work quickly together. We now have a rhythm to this diaper-changing thing, which happens after you’ve changed 6,036 diapers together. He holds her legs up while I take off the dirty diaper and clean her bum with the wipes. I always have sheets of wipes prepared before we undress her. It’s strange, but sometimes when she poos, it doesn’t smell at all, and it is a complete shock to see the dirty diaper. Not this time.
“Oh! Oh! Oh God!” the Fiancé says when I open her diaper. “Oh my God!”
“What the hell did she eat today?” I ask, gagging. “This is revolting!”
Poo is all over her butt, inching up toward her back. It becomes clear she’ll need to be changed into new pajamas as well.
The funny thing is, we’re still not quite used to the dirty diapers. It’s the one thing that doesn’t get better. I hated changing her first poo diaper, and I still hate changing poo diapers. As soon as her bum’s wiped clean—it takes nine wipes—the Fiancé grabs a plastic bag and I throw in the dirty diaper along with the dirty wipes. We put on a new pair of pajamas.
Thankfully, the Dictator barely knows what has happened and I place her back in her crib while the Fiancé races down the stairs with the plastic bag of dirty wipes and the diaper. He puts it in the trash can in our garage in the back of the house.
I sit on the bottom step, trying to get over the drama of what just happened—the nastiest diaper ever. I feel like I just swam through an underground sewer system, no joke, and somehow got out alive.
You’re probably wondering about the Diaper Genie. Well, the Diaper Genie did move with us, and is now in the baby’s bedroom. But I still haven’t figured out how to use it. It’s become part of the décor really, and nothing more.
“It smells so bad in this house,” the Fiancé says when he’s back inside.
“I know! I left her door open to air out her room, but the entire upstairs reeks! I think it was the peas she had for dinner. She’s not allowed to eat peas ever again,” I say.
“I’ll second that,” the Fiancé says. “You’d think we’d fed her Indian food for dinner. How can one dirty diaper stink up the entire house? It even smells downstairs.”
“You know, it’s times like these I really miss the garbage chute.”
“Why do you care?” he shoots back. “I’m the one who always takes out the trash.”
Okay, he has a point. What can I say?
He’s a man. Along with never having to worry that his bosses will treat him differently after he has a baby, like women do, he also will most likely always have to take out the trash.
January 20
8:30 P.M.
I turn on the television and look to see what TiVo has recorded for me. I am excited to find that an episode of Supernanny has been recorded. I hope it’s not a repeat. I’m sure I learn things watching Supernanny, not that I remember any of her lessons, aside from “The Naughty Chair.” But mostly I like watching Supernanny—and hearing her say with her British accent, “That’s unacceptable!”—because I get such a thrill knowing there are worse children out there than the Dictator, and that these unruly children are not mine. The Fiancé and I will watch Supernanny together (he watches only because I make him), and neither of us can keep quiet.
Usually, I’m the type of person who will not let anyone speak, except at commercial breaks, if I’m watching shows like The L Word or The OC. I need to hear every word the characters say. But with Supernanny, even I can’t refrain from talking. “Can you believe that that kid just slapped his mother like that?” I’ll say. Or the Fiancé will say, “That father is even lazier than we are!” Or I’ll say, “The Dictator is so much cuter than those babies.” And then he’ll say, “What is wrong with these parents? How did they let their children turn into such nightmares?”
But most often, we find ourselves saying to each other, “I really hope our baby doesn’t grow up like those kids.”
“You never know. It could happen to us!” is how I usually respond. I should probably try to be optimistic. After all, I know all about the Naughty Chair, and I’ll use it if I have to. It’s just that I know I can’t see into the future. I’m pretty sure all the parents featured on Supernanny never imagined their kids would turn out so bad.
January 24
6 P.M.
I’m trying to have a civilized conversation with Ronnie, which is impossible. What was I thinking, calling her at dinnertime? I’ve never had a civilized conversation with Ronnie while she is at home, and mealtimes are the worst.
If she’s driving, sometimes we can have a civilized conversation. When she sneaks out of the house for a smoke, we can have a civilized conversation, but only for seven minutes, which is the amount of time it takes to finish a cigarette. I know this because I used to be a smoker, and now I’m not a smoker (well, I am now a “social smoker,” which is really much better than being a smoker).
“STOP TALKING TO ME!” Ronnie yells.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask.
“No. Wait. I’VE HAD IT!” she screams.
“Okay, I’m going to go. Call me back later,” I say and hang up.
Thank God my child doesn’t really speak yet. I love Ronnie and her three children. But her house is so crazy loud all the time, I would go mental. And it will be even louder soon enough.
Yes, Ronnie, who already has three childre
n under the age of five, told me last week she’s pregnant with her fourth child. To which I said, “No fucking way.” And she answered, “Yes fucking way.”
I’m happy for her, thrilled even. But after her fourth baby is born, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get her on the phone again.
Also, Ronnie tells me she already spends most of her time in her car, driving her kids to school and to classes. I can’t help but wonder why the heck she wants another.
6:30 P.M.
Ronnie calls back.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say.
“That’s GOLD!” she screams.
“What?” I ask.
“No, not you. I’m talking to my son and he’s refusing to eat his steak. YOU EAT THAT STEAK RIGHT NOW! IT’S GOLD! GOLD!”
“Ronnie! Call me back later!”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I don’t like to be yelled at,” I tell her.
“OKAY, NOW YOU EAT YOUR SPINACH!” she screams.
“Ronnie, just call me back when you’re not busy,” I tell her.
“I just want to know if you’re going to be in town next week.”
“No, why?”
“I’m having a birthday party for Poppy. She’s turning three. Kyla’s coming.”
“Kyla? Who’s Kyla?” I ask.
“You don’t know who Kyla is? How could you not know who Kyla is?”
“I just don’t,” I say, thinking, “Please dear God, let Kyla not be someone who’s always featured in Us Weekly, because if I don’t know all the names mentioned in Us Weekly, then it means my life has really, really, really, changed.”
“Kyla’s a singer and a guitar player for kids. She goes to all the children’s birthday parties in town. She’s famous!”
“Famous for what?”
“Famous for playing at kids’ parties around town,” says Ronnie.
I laugh. Phew. Kyla is famous for playing at children’s birthday parties in the suburbs? It actually says more that I’ve never heard of her than it does if I had heard of her. It means I’m still kind of cool, doesn’t it? “She’s famous for kids’ parties around town? Whatever!” I say to Ronnie.
“Well, she is famous,” says Ronnie.
“At kids’ birthday parties!”
“I know, I know,” she says. “So will you be in town?”
“No, sorry, though I hate knowing I’m going to miss the famous Kyla.”
“Trust me, the kids love her,” Ronnie says. “You will be missing out. She even has CDs!”
“Hey! I know who Barney is!” I say.
“Everyone knows who Barney is! Even people who don’t have children know who Barney is!” says Ronnie.
“Yes, that may be true. But can they sing off by heart every Barney song known to man? Because I can.”
“Wow. I’m impressed,” says Ronnie.
“I know. Me too. Sorry I can’t come. I guess I’ll have to catch the very famous Kyla some other time,” I say.
“Your loss,” she says.
God help me.
January 27
8 P.M.
Somehow, our plan to keep all of the Dictator’s toys in the basement, so we can have some semblance of a nice home, hasn’t worked out as we had planned when we moved in.
The baby’s shit is everywhere (I’m talking figuratively, not literally).
The Fiancé is stomping around the main floor saying, “Her shit is everywhere!” Every five steps or so, he’ll kick a toy that’s lying on the floor.
The house, it’s true, is a mess. There are flash cards and books and mini grocery carts and mini plastic barbecues and plastic balls and dolls on every available surface in the kitchen, living room, and television room. I don’t understand how this happens. How did she get so many toys?
When I get home every day, at around 4 P.M., the house is spotless. The toys are where they should be, in the basement, which is the toy room, or in the cupboards in the kitchen. Somehow, Nanny Mimi manages to keep the house neat and tidy with the toys out of sight, as well as taking care of the Dictator. I don’t know how she does it. Nanny Mimi leaves at around 5 P.M. By the time the Fiancé arrives home, around six-thirty or seven, the house is a disaster.
All the Dictator’s toys have somehow managed to get upstairs and out of the cupboards. I find it hard to follow the whole “before we start on something else, we clean this up first” rule. The baby’s attention span is shorter than a flea’s. I can’t keep up with all the toys she plays with from minute to minute. I can’t seem to watch her and play with her and change her diapers and feed her and keep the house spotless. I’m just not that type of person.
“I’m going to have to get the housekeeper to come in two days a week,” says the Fiancé. “I can’t live like this anymore.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” I ask. We’re lucky to have a housekeeper come in once a week.
“Either we get a housekeeper twice a week, or I’m moving out,” he says. “I can’t live like this.”
“Fine. We’ll get her to come twice a week.”
“I thought we wouldn’t have this problem once we moved to a house,” he says grouchily.
Space is like money. The more money you make, the more you spend. The more space you have, the more toys you have. Or, as the Fiancé likes to say, “The bigger the house, the more shit you have.” Sometimes bigger is not better.
January 30
3 P.M.
“I’m going to kill you,” Tammy says when I pick up my cell phone. “I’m so mad at you.”
“What? What did I do?”
“I am so mad at you,” she says.
My heart sinks. Tammy does sound mad. I try to think of what I could have done to upset her, between last night and now. We had dinner over there last night, and everything was fine. I really don’t know Tammy all that well. We are just starting to become close friends. Did I not thank her for dinner? Was I rude to her? Did the baby leave handprints on her mirror?
“You taught my son how to play ring-around-the-rosy, and now he wants to play it all the time. He won’t leave us alone! We’ve played it, like, a thousand times today,” she moans. “I can’t stand it!”
Oh, right. Last night at Tammy’s house, I had taught Zack to play ring-around-the-rosy because the Dictator wanted to play. Since Zack really isn’t walking yet, we just stood in a circle and sang the song.
“He liked it!” I profess. “He loved it!”
“He won’t leave us alone!” yells Tammy. “We played it twelve times in a row as soon as he got up!”
“I’m sorry!” I say, trying not to laugh. I find this hilarious. It’s hard not to, especially since Tammy is truly mad about this. “Well, now you understand what I have to go through,” I say to her. “The Dictator has wanted to play ring-around-the-rosy about a hundred times a day for a month already.” It’s true. And it bites. But you don’t hear me complaining, do you?
February 2
7 P.M.
I enter the in-laws’ condo. I had gone to a yoga class and Nanny Mimi dropped the baby off at their place at 4 P.M. The Fiancé went there after work. I give him a kiss hello.
“You are so lucky,” he says.
“What?”
“You don’t understand the diaper you just missed.”
“It was a real doozy,” says the father-in-law. “We just changed her three minutes before you walked in.”
I smile.
“You seem happy,” says the Fiancé. “You must have had a nice day.”
I didn’t really. Work still sucks. I never heard back from the editor I sent the nasty e-mail to. I’m always tired. Heather, my oh-so-very-good friend, hasn’t called me in weeks, and it seems like I haven’t had any real fun in a very long time. All this makes me depressed. However, it makes my day when I just miss a dirty diaper. It’s like winning five bucks on a scratch-and-win lottery ticket. It’s not that big a deal, but sometimes that’s all you need to feel
like you have a little luck left.
February 7
I’m visiting my parents with the Dictator and Nanny Mimi. Nanny Mimi and I have actually started to become friends. We have also started to get the whole packing a carry-on for the baby on the airplane down to a science. Now, instead of the Dictator’s carry-on weighing eighty-five pounds, it weighs only seventy-five pounds.
We had a minor freak-out yesterday afternoon, when we realized that the portable DVD player wasn’t working. There was no way we were going to take a four-hour plane ride without the portable DVD player. The baby and I are both addicted to it.
“I think she may have spilled water in it,” said Nanny Mimi.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“Because she was shaking her sippy cup of water all over it this morning. I caught her and told her to stop, but it may have been too late.”
Great. I raced out and bought a new one. The Fiancé wasn’t impressed.
“We need a new one already? We’ve only had the other one for, like, a month?” he had said when I asked him where I could buy one.
“I know, but what can I say? It’s broken. We need a portable DVD player!” I couldn’t imagine life without one.
“Okay, but that’s it! No more. She breaks this one, we’re not getting another,” he had said.
Going through security with a baby—and all the crap we need to take because of the baby—is still not fun. We have to take the baby out of the stroller, then put the stroller through security, as well as all our carry-ons. I also have to take out all the electronics I’m bringing along: my laptop, BlackBerry, cell, and now the portable DVD player. Nanny Mimi and I are both sweating buckets after we get through, that’s how arduous it is.
5 P.M.
I’m also visiting friends on this short visit home, and today I’ve scheduled a playdate with my friend Sara and her baby. I’m to meet Sara at her office, we’ll go to her daughter’s daycare to pick her up, and then we’ll all go back to my place to hang out, for the playdate part. I’m eager to see the daycare Sara’s daughter attends and to see what I’m missing by having a nanny. Sometimes I think it would have been better to send the Dictator to a daycare. She would get to hang out with a lot of other kids, and that would be good for her.
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