I’ve always hated labels, but Josephine, my 3-month old, she is a real b—let me explain.
She’s not a fan of the swing. She fights her swaddle. Her car seat is not her favorite. The stroller’s a nuisance. Her sleep is sporadic and unpredictable. It’s too cold or too hot at the same time. Baths are ok for a minute. She sort of likes me sometimes.
in the time it takes me to push the camera icon on my phone.
Just a few weeks ago, while wearing Josie in a store, a well-meaning woman approached and guessed Josie’s age. She was close and prided herself on her accuracy, sharing, “I have four, so I’m pretty good.”
“Oh, me, too!” I said, swaying back and forth and bouncing.
“Aw. I love big families.”
I immediately felt a comradery with this woman. Her children were grown, but she was standing before me smiling and seemingly in tact. I was staring at my future, and it looked good.
“Doesn’t the fourth just raise herself? So easy, right?”
And just like that, I hated her.
Josephine is High Maintenance. Capital H. Capital M. And that’s the most delicate way I can say it. Every time I’m out, someone asks https://www.viagrasansordonnancefr.com/ me if she’s good for me. The answer is plainly no. She is not “good for me” and quite frankly, she would not earn gold stars on any behavioral chart. She fusses and screams and kicks her legs on the reg.
Between 5:30 and 7:30, she is almost inconsolable unless I’m bouncing her on an exercise ball or wearing her outside. If we’re in public at those hours (rare) or if we have company, I’m in a full sweat trying to prevent my little ticking time bomb from going off.
“Oh. Is she colicky?” Strangers and viagra femme france generic family ask in an effort to understand her or me or us. And then they say, “awwww” or some equivalent while internally thanking God that it’s me and not them.
“I think she’s just a b (and then I pause) yeah probably colicky.”
Rock. Bounce. Sweat.
I joke that her resting face is a furrowed brow.
I say with a chuckle while she’s grunting and grimacing and gearing up to blow in anyone else’s arms but mine, “she’s just discerning.”
I sit to nurse my girl, but the rest of the day we’re moving because that’s how she likes it. She’s opinionated and doesn’t care who knows it. She likes what she likes. So there. Total b (well, you know).
In a moment of weakness, I asked Jo to please stop. I had foolishly made plans to exercise while she napped. I watched the minutes tick by. The nap was not happening. It was probably (definitely) because she knew I wanted her to take one.
“Please stop, Josie,” I sang as I bounced.
“Mommy! Don’t tell Josie to stop!”
“Why not, Sylvie?”
“Because she. is. a. baby!” She scolded.
There. She said it. Josie is a complete and total B.A.B.Y.
And despite having to type this on my phone with her swaddled on my chest with the sound machine going, I adore her: my high maintenance, gold-star hating, colicky, discerning, rarely easy, opinionated baby.
Her sisters who were nothing at all like her were babies once, too–cooing, smiling, chill babies. Her brother? Total baby years ago. For whatever reasons or no reasons at all, they are exactly who they are whether it’s convenient for me or not.
If you ask me mid-meltdown if she’s colicky, I’ll say, “maybe.” Or “well, it might be a growth spurt.” Or “a developmental change is coming.” Or “we had a busy day 4 days ago.” Or “there’s a Blood Moon, so…” Or “have you heard about the sharks swarming the coast?” Because I have no idea. At all. I’m guessing. She is a baby, a tiny person figuring things out, and I’m her mom, a bigger person trying to do the same.
In the meantime, I will bounce and sway and shush and sing to comfort my baby while I plot my eventual, unexpected revenge.