Bath wine and eating earrings
Y’all. I’ve been through it this weekend. I know I can be verbose and take a minute to make my point, so to quickly summarize, check out my recently used emojis:
Make sense? Alright, I’ll elaborate.
My baby turned one last weekend, and like most clueless new moms I felt a massive sense of accomplishment. We kept him safe and healthy for one whole year! We’re done, right? That’s parenting. Right? Ha.
From where I’m sitting, parenting is a wild ride of joy, exhaustion, patience, and personal gag reflex suppression. I have decades ahead of me, but I sort of understand what I signed up for, and I dig it. I’ve learned a LOT. I took a moment to reflect, and I started to relax.
Big mistake. Huge. My son was one week into being one, and my husband and I exchanged a look that said, “we got this.” It had been a long week at work, and I fed the baby his healthy dinner while my husband bought some fancy foods for us to enjoy after the baby was asleep. I put the baby down and opened a bottle of wine, relishing in my moment of being a total mom cliche.
I ran a hot bath and sank into the bubbles and season 11 of Rupaul’s Drag Race, accompanied by my trusty bath wine. My husband came home and started to prepare our lamb chops and various accoutrements, and I sipped away while the baby slept upstairs. Oh, y’all. The moment the chianti took ahold of me, I knew I was done for. The baby woke up looking for a bottle about an hour after he originally fell asleep, and my husband knocked to ask me to feed him while he finished our food. I sighed, drained the bath, and got out to tend to the little ginger.
I climbed the stairs with the stamina of a geriatric panda, stopping every few steps to catch my breath. I made it to the top without incident, and I guess I got cocky. As I stood at the sliding door to my son’s room, I must have lost footing. I came to a moment later (I think), eyeing a dribbling bottle and my impressively unscathed phone. I sobered up real fast, y’all, and I learned a valuable lesson - bath wine and momming don’t mix. I think I’ll have to delay more bath wine-ing until he’s in high school, at least, and Drag Race will be in its 35th season (God willing).
Saturday rolled around, as she do, and I got up to go to my ballet class. My husband watches the baby while I join a bunch of grown-ass women in leotards and tights, and it’s bliss. The baby was giggly and delightful, so I piroutte-ed all the way to the studio with confidence.
Y’all. About ten minutes into the class, a phone started buzzing with vigour. I knew. I just knew. I tour jeté-d over to answer the call from my panicked husband. After 12 months without incident, my baby had gone and potentially swallowed one of my earrings. Total and utter panic consumed us, as we thought about what a tiny costume studded earring may do to his little tushy. My husband called the doctor, and they advised the hospital. I threw some cash at my teacher and fouette turned my way out of the studio at breakneck speed.
We met at the hospital and proceeded to spend 3 hours waiting, x-raying, consulting, and waiting some more. The baby seemed fine, although his hunger wasn’t quite satiated by the earring. I bought some fruit from the sparsely stocked hospital shop, and fed him apples and melons while we waited for the results. Once the floor was covered in partially digested melon, we got sprung. The doctors couldn’t see anything on the x-ray, and it appeared to be a false alarm.
Cue the overwhelming relief. I meandered home with my exhausted baby so he could nap in his buggy, walking the hour or so back home and stopping on the way to stock up on groceries.
The end. Right? How about no, Scot, mmkay? I got home, and unloaded the food and baby from the buggy. No more than a handful of minutes passed when I was separated from my phone, so color me surprised when I saw I had a couple of missed calls and a voicemail. The hospital. They weren’t sure of the x-ray, and we had to come back for more scans.
Dread. Fear. Sweet potatoes. All of the emojis. My husband gallantly volunteered to take the baby back in while I was tasked with clearing the floor of any possible earring-like debris. Two more hours of x-rays and all of the emotions.
Eventually, we got the all clear. Either my baby did not eat the earring, or he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it within that tiny little body. In any event, I’m relieved and exhausted.
All of this is to say - Happy Mother’s Day! Parenting is one hell of a ride, and my mom does it with such grace and patience and she’s a true inspiration. I guess I’ll have to set aside my bath wine and stop leaving my earrings on the ground, so I can hope to be half the mom she’s been for me. Love to all the little mamas out there!