Postscript Poem

Little girl, I love you so,

But you’re a crawling tornado.

You’re cute – it’s true – but underneath,

You have the mind of a devious thief.

I found my brush in the soup pot.

You put it there, you sneaky tot.

What is the appeal of the commode?

And why must you destroy our abode?

You are my sweet little daughter

Who tossed her paci in cold toilet water.

You were filled with joy and elation

Whilst gnawing our wedding invitation.

You’ve made our couch your teething ring

And you demand that I constantly sing.

You are but mere flesh and bones

But I cannot leave you alone.

For if I did for just a sec

You’d find a way to raise heck.

I put you in the cutest clothes

Onto which you blow your nose.

But I forgive you. See? It’s alright

Because at least you sleep through the night.

Who? Me?

Who? Me?

Things I Don’t Understand: The Graduate as Comedy

Back when Wee Cee was just a glimmer in her daddy’s eye, I had the idea to start a blog about all the things I, as an adult, did not understand or was incapable of doing. That blog never occurred and taking a page from the Irony Handbook, I started a pregnancy blog instead. Oh wait, you didn’t know that the best possible thing to do when you don’t understand how to balance a checkbook is to make people?

Luckily, C has almost made it through her first year alive so I guess I’m doing something right. And just as luckily, I recently found out that this blog exists and whatever I could have written on the topic of being an amateur adult would not have even held a candle to Greg’s blog. The universe balances itself out yet again.

But in case you need more proof of how baffled I am with the world in general, I am hoping to start a new series (which, with any luck I will update more often than my Tales of the World series, may it rest in peace) about things that totally befuddle me. Today, I am kicking it off with this question that is basic to the human experience:

Why is The Graduate considered a comedy?

Other than the fact that Dustin Hoffman's head size is huge and hilarious

Other than the fact that Dustin Hoffman’s head size is huge and hilarious and he has a rhomboidal mouth

I really like this movie. No matter how you categorize it, you can’t deny that it is well-made, creative, and that it speaks to the insecurities everyone has in their lives no matter what their age. Plus the mayor from Jaws is made a cuckold so that’s pretty gratifying. However, it is largely classified as a comedy and I can’t understand why. When I was a freshman in college, I went to a local video rental place to get it because I had seen it before and found it so intriguing that I needed to see it again. When I got to the store, I looked around everywhere for it; everywhere, that is, except the Comedy section. How is it funny to have a quarter-life crisis and then play upon the desperation of a middle-aged alcoholic by having an affair with her? And how is it funny to take her daughter to a strip show and then make her ugly cry in humiliation? This movie is funny in the same way that the end of Fast Times at Ridgemont High is funny. It’s awesome, but funny it is not.

What a catch. And yes, that was a Jaws reference.

What a catch. Yet another intended pun. See right for the other one.

So I’m at the movie place and I can’t find The Graduate. I ask the girl working there to get it for me and she then brings me over to the Comedy section, and I write this bizarre categorization off as a mistake. Clearly Moovie Timez does not adhere to the same high standards as Blockbuster Video. Fast forward* twelve years to last night when B and I came across The Graduate on Netflix filed under whatCOMEDY.

*That was a VHS reference for my many eight-year-old readers who are learning right along with me. 

I do not understand. Did this movie suddenly become funny when William Daniels started playing Mr. Feeny like twenty five years after portraying Dustin Hoffman’s dad? That’s humorous I guess. Is it funny that Mrs. Robinson is actually a lot sexier than her daughter Elaine, who really needs some Frizz-Ease? I will concede that it’s funny when Dustin Hoffman has to jump in his parents’ pool with SCUBA gear on. And that $200 was a lot of money back in 1967. I spent $200 on quinoa at Whole Foods the other day.

Poor Elaine.

Poor Elaine. She gets dealt a pretty terrible hand in all aspects of her life, starting when she was conceived in the back of a Ford and ending when she inherited her father’s oily t-zone.

“The Sound of Silence” and “Scarborough Fair” By Simon and Garfunkel are played throughout the whole movie, especially during the scenes that are most passable as funny. If you are unfamiliar with these songs, this is like playing Sufjan Stevens over Monty Python: waaaaay too serious for a lighthearted movie. Again, nothing bad in that; they’re great songs. But funny? Um, no.

So, hopefully all you film buffs out there will be able to explain to me how The Graduate can be called a “comedy.” While you’re at it, I’d also appreciate an explanation of why Hardees gets to call itself a “restaurant.”

Extremely gross but critical information is in this blog post.

Take me to the head mommy blogger. I have a complaint I need to voice.

I feel I am owed an apology from the mommy blogger collective for something they failed to tell me. Sure, they told me that the first weeks would be hard. They told me that I should get used to the humbling experience of being essentially topless during the first months of my nursing baby’s life. They told me that I should probably document every single second of my child’s first year because it blows by so quickly. They prepared me for the horror of my child’s first fever.

These mommy bloggers are passionate in their cause to get us all ready for every possible contingency. They’ve done it all and seen it all and it’s their fervent desire to make us all as savvy as they are at this parenting game.

So why did no one ever tell me to think long and hard about feeding my child raisins AND cloth diapering her? WHY WHY WHY? Had I known the unfortunate consequences of giving C raisins and then having to launder her diapers after said raisins had run their course, I never would have offered her those nasty little things. Toxic does not even begin to describe their state at the end of the road.

Oh I'm sorry. I was just throwing up in my mouth.

Oh I’m sorry. I was just throwing up in my mouth.

I deplore raisins anyway. Always have, always will. To me, they look like globules of mashed-up ants that have been adhered together with tar. They have the consistency of snot. And that’s not even describing their flavor. Even though it was 1986 the last time I ate one that wasn’t buffered by a cookie or cereal, I recall the flavor being similar to what I imagine my mouth would taste like after vomiting up gummy worms after smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds. So, there’s that.

However, since C’s brain is not hardwired against raisins like mine is, I gave them to her (after checking with her pedia…gah.) What a mistake that was. Mommy bloggers, why didn’t you warn me? You didn’t have to spell it out and provide details as to why the combo of cloth diapers and raisins is the most horrendous thing ever. I would have believed you without those foul, explicit details. I would have taken your word for it. A small warning would have sufficed.

BUT NOOOOOOO, you decided that I would have to take one for the team and learn the hard way that those things blow through babies like a nor’easter combined with a dinosaur and Mike Tyson. I thought I had the cloth diapering thing down. Since it’s my baby’s poop, I could deal with it. Well, hell hath no fury and all that. The raisin poop is where I draw the line. That stuff could not have possibly been created by my sweet child.

I demand a refund.

I demand a public apology.

You, mommy bloggers, have dropped the ball. I’m mad as hell, and I’m not taking it anymore.

I’m picking up your slack. Here is my advice to those who don’t yet know. I won’t mince words: do not feed raisins to your baby. The end product simply isn’t worth it. Wait until they’re potty trained. Due to my discretion, I’m not going to tell you exactly why this is a horrible idea. You’re just going to trust me on this one.

I’m not freaking out this time.

When I started writing here, I called this space The Waiting because I was waiting on C to be born and also because Tom Petty is awesome and I wish I were related to him.* But then she was born and I realized that waiting is kind of a big thing in my life, as it probably is for everyone.

*One time I was listening to Terry Gross and she was interviewing him about his early life in Florida. He apparently lived in a university town so she asked him if and how that influenced him, to which he replied, “Um, we weren’t affiliated with the college. At all.” And that is why I love him.

Waiting is mashed in with my minor obsession with time. For pretty much my whole life, I have felt like I was entitled to the accomplishments that a certain age would bring me. If I only waited so long, I would get married. I would get to live in a house that I own. I would achieve a certain level of success in whatever professional field I entered. I would get to be a parent. If I didn’t hit those marks, I was supposed to worry them into occurring. That was my default response. I am an expert worrier in that I tackle it with the professionalism that I lack in all other aspects of my life. Worrying will bring into existence all that I lack, or so I thought.

So I hit the getting married thing pretty earlier when I married B when I was 24 and he was 23. I hit the baby milestone too so I will never have to worry about my ability to conceive again. It seemed like I hit the professional thing when I got my first real job out of school, but then I quit when it was horrible and I haven’t had a “real” job since (even though I loved working at a restaurant and then teaching in Korea, those don’t count as serious professions for me because I could not do them for the rest of my life without petering out or getting bored.) The personal life things have happened but the professional stuff and the other things that I have filed under “GROWING UP ETC.” in the file cabinet of my mind have never been all that satisfying. And so I have worried.

I’ve been worrying about B’s job search for awhile now. We’re still plugging away, applying applying applying. I don’t want to say too much else because I’m afraid I’ll jinx it. But at some point (I think it was about two weeks ago) I just relaxed. I don’t really know what did it, but all of a sudden I was able to sleep through the night. I had been telling myself all along that things would be alright, and in the space of I week I actually started believing it and realizing the truth of it. That we are not failures. That we will never be homeless. That we’d survive if we had to through the worst, worst case situation I can fabricate in my mind. Things are never as bad as they seem.

At first, it was disconcerting not worrying. I felt like my mind was broken and that I wasn’t approaching things with the seriousness they deserve. Surely B wouldn’t get a call back from the jobs we really like if I was sleeping soundly. LOGIC. But in the past few days I’ve given myself a pass. I am entitled to not stress myself out over these things. I’m realizing that the trajectory of my life is not always in my hands and that sometimes I just have to trust that I just need to wait it out. There is no shame in waiting. There is no shame in being safe and content. If we don’t get what we want to do this year, then we will try again next year. We all love each other so the world can’t harm us.

Right now, I am complacently waiting. I am gently reminding myself that worrying does not bring changes about. It only makes me not sleep and stuff my face with carbs past 9PM. Which is kind of fun at the time but this baby weight is burning a hole in my pocket.

Thanks to everyone who has been thinking about us through all this. I have no doubt in my mind that my replenished, more healthful mindset is due to your positive thoughts and prayers.

Would a C by another other name be as sweet?

…Or some other wrong paraphrase of a poorly-remembered Shakespeare line. This is the post where I write down all the nicknames we have made up for C and regularly refer to her with so I won’t ever forget them. Nicknames sometimes have a short shelf life, but that doesn’t mean they’re not special.

buney

Rainbow Brite would also work.

Bunny

Buney (pronounce BYOO-nee)

Baby

Sweetie

SweetbabyCC

Cee

CC Bunny

Connie Coney

Cuddle Bunny

Cuddle Buney

BB CC

And yes! I still call her Bebe like back in the day when she was still cooking! She will always be my little Bebe.

I don’t get the fixation on rabbits. That just sort of happened without much thought.

We joke that she doesn’t even know her real name. Oh well. She has a lifetime to learn it.

Do you have any pet names that only your family calls you?

Birthday Wins

Is the idea that when you turn 25, you blow out flowers instead of candles? What is this I can’t even

Yesterday was my birthday. You know this if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook because I let you know in the form of many, many notifications. What can I say? I’m thorough. I haven’t always been a fan of birthdays. The getting older part doesn’t really bother me at all because I am eternally youthful (LOL LOL LOL), but what does bother me is when the universe doesn’t deliver the acclaim I deserve on my special day. You only get 25 happy birthday greetings from people on Facebook instead of 200 or your husband only spends $200 on jewelry for you instead of the requisite $4000. Life is so hard. Yesterday, however, I had a wonderful birthday. And I didn’t even have to leave home! Thank you to everyone who gave me a shout-out. It made me feel warm inside.

As I was giving C her bath last night, I started thinking about birthdays. That detail about the bath has really nothing to do with anything but I think it indicates that I’m a swell person for caring for my child even on my special day. I was thinking about birthdays and it occurred to me that they are the best holidays of all. If there were a holiday competition, birthdays would for sure win. Would you like to know why? Good, because I’m going to tell you.

1. Birthdays are custom made. Even though you don’t get to pick when you’re born, your birthday is specific to you. You don’t have to share it with anyone and all the glory is heaped upon you and you only. This is another reason why being a twin would be horrible. First you have to share your room and now you have to share your cake. Tragic. I guess the idea of twin languages kind of cancels this out but I doubt those things exist in the first place.

2. You get to spend time with whoever you want to. Unlike Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, there is no requisite family misery. You don’t have to spend half the day with your sister and then schlep yourself over to your ex-cousin-in-law’s for the afternoon like you do on Christmas. If you want to hang out with all your high school friends on your birthday, you can. And if for some reason you want to hang out with your yoga instructor, you can. Since it’s your birthday, she can’t really say no. This is also known as Birthday Leverage.

3. You get to do whatever you want. There are no stupid traditions that are foisted on you by others. You don’t have to put lights on your roof and risk breaking your neck. You don’t have to buy a bunch of eggs and then hide them. What the heck are your supposed to do with the eggs after they’ve been found? You can’t donate them to charity. That’s gross and plus I doubt the needy want to get high cholesterol from eating your gently used eggs. The only real tradition that is specific to birthdays is eating cake, and if you’re complaining about that then we have nothing in common.

4. Facebook is fun for a day. Poor Facebook. It has become the whipping boy of every single blog post written this year. This one will be no exception. Facebook is not fun on holidays because everyone is talking about the holiday or complaining about the holiday. Even though Halloween is pretty great, you have to look at pictures of people wearing costumes they made themselves, as if it’s Pinterest or something. Ugh, just leave me alone, Holiday. Facebook on your birthday is fun, though. People tell you how much they love you and how awesome you are. Even though they may only say “Happy Birthday” with no exclamation marks or even your name, you know that they are telling you that they really admire you and your incredible nature.

5. There’s no cleaning up. Since it’s your birthday and the party is for you, you don’t have to clean up the mess. Even if you chose to put up a Christmas tree for your birthday and decorate it with rubber gloves and pictures of Rainn Wilson, you won’t have to clean it up at the end of the party because all the guests are basically your servants. So when you open your gifts, be sure to tear the paper into tiny little pieces of confetti because you don’t have to clean that mess up.

What is your favorite or least favorite thing about your birthday?

My Essay on Eloise

In my heyday I wrote a couple papers on books. Turns out that when you pursue a BA and an MA in English you have to read a little bit and then make sentences about those books and give them to a professor so s/he can tell you how you were using semicolons incorrectly. Then when you finally master the art of the semicolon, you get to put on a robe and play pretend that you’re as ready for life as the people who majored in business.

For all the tens of poems and books I’ve read, though, the one that actually exposed me to real life was one that my Mimi read to me in bed when I spent the night with her: Eloise. Apparently there are movies about Eloise now, but I’ve been too busy since 2000 knowing things about Hamlet and Beowulf to bother seeing them, so let’s just talk about the original.

250px-Eloise_book_cover
Here’s my thesis: Eloise, a six-year-old living at the Plaza Hotel in New York City in the mid-1950s, is more ready for the world than I’ll ever be. I’m probably not supposed to be writing in the first person since this is an academic assessment, but I’ve got the book out open next to me while I’m writing this so any credibility I could have lost is regained by my complete seriousness and commitment to this treatment.

First of all, Eloise takes pride in what she can do and therefore breeds confidence in those around her and her scant abilities1. Her marketable skills include but are not limited to: chewing gum, hopping around for a while, braiding her turtle Skipperdee’s ears, standing on her head for the longest amount of time, standing on her toes, getting dizzy and falling down, and making a terrible face.

Although she could use her time in perfecting these skills, she has an incredible sense of duty towards the minutiae of the place she calls home. Par example, “Then I have to go down to help the Switchboard Operators in case there are any DAs and there has to be some sort of message taken or something like that.” Just so you know I’m not making this up and taking that one example out of context, here’s another one: “I have to help the busboys and waiters get set up in the Crystal Room [.] They always wait until the last second for Lord’s sake and then we have to rush our feet off.”2 Despite the fact that most of Eloise’s daily tasks are tedious and boring, she does them anyway with a healthy amount of complaining. In contrast, I am way too passive aggressive towards doing the laundry and getting the baby to eat carrots, so I will probably implode. Or just take my frustrations out in blog posts3.

Secondively, Eloise makes people serve her and she supports local entrepreneurs. I’m just going to gloss over that first part if that’s OK. By expecting the Red Sea to part when she marches in, she shows that she is in control. She’s basically Janet Jackson.4 Admirable. Now on to the second part. The characters in her fleet of handlers include but are not limited to:

a. Nanny, her English nurse and mostly companion

b. Philip the Andoveran, her tutor

3 I mean c. Vincent, her barber

d. Thomas, her waiter at the Palm Court

Except for Thomas, it’s pretty clear that all of Eloise’s assistants are free agents, and Thomas has a Corvette so he’s clearly doing well enough to overlook the fact that he’s serving The Man5. I admire Eloise and her rumored mother for not supporting the machine by attending a big box nursery school or Fantastic Sam’s. I wish I had the discipline to be such a localvore, but alas, Target exists and I am a married white woman with a child and well you know. eloise and nannyFinally, we have reached Point Number Three of my thesis, which if you’re following along on the outline I had to turn in like seven months ago, should either be III, C, 3, or K if ya nasty6. It could actually be a subset of Point Number One but since I need to have a three point thesis we are going to pretend that this one is wholly unique and genius. It is this: that Eloise has her priorities straight and serves others at the expense of the tidiness of her living space. She gives absolutely no indication of remorse that her room is a train wreck. Her duties concerning the well-being of her dog Weenie, the aforementioned7 Skipperdee, and her dolls Sabine and Saylor supersede the order of her room. She resists every inclination to worry about her room because to do so would distract her from the pressing needs of those in her care. In contrast, it has taken me close to two weeks to write this blog post because of my currently undiagnosed OCD and its pertinence to the mopping of my kitchen floor. As much as I want to be Mama Emily and provide you all with thought-provoking reading material that powers you through the day, I simply cannot. My life seems to just get in the way. I wish I were more selfless like Eloise.

Eloise's Room

In conclusion, I just wrote an essay about Eloise. I extrapolated points from the book and described how they pertain to my life. I attempted to use correct grammar and I ignored the little jaggedy red lines when I made up words. I did all this because I pay back an ungodly amount of money each month on my student loans and I feel as though I should be putting my skillz to work. I probably didn’t do a very good job of describing how incredibly wonderful Eloise really is. Please don’t fault me for this, though, because it’s hard to comment on perfection without detracting from it.

1Actually, most of the characters who populate the Plaza fear to see her coming but don’t you think that the first point that I wrote sounds good? I do, so I’m not going to change it. Also, I really wanted to make some footnotes, so here you go.

2Should that have been a block quote?

3Sentence fragment. Tsk, tsk; it’s a good thing I know how to use semicolons. Oh wait.

4So maybe not really BUT STILL.

5“The Man” being Eloise.

6Why am I making so many early-career Janet Jackson references?

7Strunk and White definitely said to use this word often to indicate that the writer has done her fair share of book lernin.

To reward you for reading the footnotes, here is a picture of Eloise and Weenie.

To reward you for reading the footnotes, here is a picture of Eloise and Weenie.

Bibliography*

Thompson, Kay. Illus. Hilary Knight. Eloise. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1955.

*A note on the bibliography: I hope you appreciate all the work I did to kind of put this in MLA format. I probably did it wrong anyway, but make no mistake that effort was made.

Cover letters are also not so fun.

B’s job hunt continues. This basically means two things: 1, that I am not sleeping so well but the time I spend awake in bed at night is spent in prayer, which it probably should be all the time, even when things are going splendidly. Praying, meditating, and focusing on all that I already have is the one thing that is getting me through this job flux and the possibility of our moving. It centers me and makes me realize that things I’m not even privy to are at work. There’s a lot of comfort in the big picture.

The #2 in my itemized list of life minutiae is that I’m helping him with all his job applications. And there are a lot. A whole lot. Like, a three digit lot. When he’s at work, I am getting all his materials together, making sure all the forms are filled out correctly, double-checking cover letters, and emailing contacts to see if they know of any openings in their area. It is tedious with a capital T. Luckily, Wee Cee has been really mellow the last few days and she has been able to entertain herself while I’m sorting all this out, which is a tremendous help. She’s pretty much the best baby ever.

Sidenote: I actually have been able to comprise a small list of New Years Resolutions. One of them is to retire the “____ is pretty much the _____ _____ ever” construction. So that is the last time you’ll hear it from me. You’re welcome.

Cover letters are not fun. They are the birthplaces of words like “synergy” and “best practices.” I don’t appreciate their dryness and all the pressure they put on you to make yourself look like a superstar when those truths should just be self-evident without you having to write about them. But whatevs. I’m sucking it up.

It’s because of all this extra work that I haven’t yet responded to your comments from my post yesterday. Honestly, I don’t know when I’ll get around to doing that or if I’m going to answer them at all, but be assured that I seriously appreciated all of them (as I always do). Giving up this kind of vigilance of my blog for a time is just one of those casualties of being busy with really, really important things. I appreciate your understanding.

I know I said there were only two things, but I lied because there’s actually one more. I seem to be playing on the Tweeter a lot lately. I like its brevity. I like that there is no pressure to write words like “collaborative” and “technology” and “experience” except in a mocking way. It gives me quick breaks from cover letter purgatory. So if I overshare or say something drunkish, just ignore me.

The end.

Why Public Changing Tables Are the Bane of My Existence

Let’s talk about going out in public with babies.

Let’s narrow it down and talk about changing the diapers of those babies.

Let’s get even more specific and discuss the changing tables provided by establishments when you have to change said babies.

Let’s get tangential and notice that I have selected changing tables as a topic for my blog. Long time readers will recall the fear I had about this becoming a mommy blog. It appears that I am there.

So back to the changing tables and how they make me want to stick forks in my eyes.

They had to use a cartoon because no one has ever been photographed looking so happy after using their product.

They had to use a cartoon because no one has ever been photographed looking so happy after using their product.

Most places will put a changing table in their bathroom. I’m grateful for this because C has reached the age where I’m scared to change her in the car. It’s hard to eventually sell a car with skid marks on the backseat. I’m not even going to dwell on the places that are marketed as family-friendly but don’t have a changing table in their bathroom. Their proprietors will eventually get what’s coming to them when they meet St. Peter at the Pearly Gates and get assigned bathroom duty to all the porcelain thrones. Fact: “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” was written by Belinda Carlisle because she is in tune with the bowel movements of angels.

I can’t even make this stuff up.

So you go into the bathroom – and voila! – you find the changing table. It will likely be of the Koala Bear Kare variety where you pull it down off the wall like one of those beds that the detective from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? had. Random references: I’ve got ‘em.

You pull it down and struggle to find the changing pad from your diaper bag so that your dear sweet baby won’t have to rest her brow on the hard filthy surface of the table. Apparently the child who preceded yours took a crap directly on the table and his mom felt no need to even spit clean it. On many changing tables, you will find a little slot that is supposed to contain paper liners for you to put down, but you won’t see any in there because only Starbucks made of gold on the moon provide them. More facts.

You place your child in the sink while you unfurl your changing pad, which is also spotted in poo because who remembers to clean those things? But at least it’s your own baby’s poo so she won’t contract cholera as quickly as she would if exposed to the previous baby’s poo. You plop her onto the table and search for the ends of the safety straps, which you must use or face certain death warns the diaper-clad koala. The only problem is that the straps are caught in the hinges of the table. And even if they weren’t, a pack of hyenas has previously strong-armed its way into this bathroom to mangle the clasps beyond recognition, rendering them useless. So you hold your baby down with your forearm.

Because you’re a good mom and do not want to place the diaper bag on the bathroom floor and expedite the certain death of your infant, you search for a hook where you can hang it. Some changing tables have hooks, and by “hooks” I mean 1″ nubby protrusions that would not be able to hold up a shoestring. The baby is getting restless so you grab the diaper and the wipes from your bag and get to changing. This is the part where her pacifier pops out of her mouth and onto the poo table and she goes after it by twisting her entire body like a boa constrictor killing its prey. You intercept the polluted pacifier, stick it in your pocket, and wrestle the now agitated child to lie flat.

She is having none of it. She sees through your half-assed attempts to entertain her with the closest thing at hand: a tube of Desitin. She needs the disgusting suck-toy to pacify her. But it touched the table! And the pacifier wipes you purchased for just this occasion are in the car. So you make yet another sacrifice for your daughter and stick the thing directly in your mouth to wash away the foreign nasties and replace them with your own. She breastfeeds, so this should be OK, right?

You’ve now been in the bathroom for about three hours and you’re doing well, until another mom with her kid comes in. Because the designer of this public bathroom is a staunch practitioner of the art of feng shui, he has placed the changing directly in front of the door to the only currently unoccupied stall, which this kid is going to get into without paying much heed to your precarious situation. His mom is just swell and doesn’t do anything to hold him back. But luckily, the last snap of your baby’s onesie is closed right when the kid starts banging the stall door on the changing table in an attempt to get it open. Ah, the stubbornness of impossibility. 

And so it ends. You get out alive. And it’s OK that your baby is naked waist down except for her diaper. It’s OK that you accidentally tossed the $35 clothe diaper you changed her out of into the trash. It’s OK that you have a smidgeon of diaper ointment on your forehead. At least it’s not poo. It’s OK that washing your hands is the furthest thing from your mind. You promptly get your gal a snack and a cup to start the process all over again.

Momming: you’re all over it.