Life in Slow Motion

Before I had Marshall, I remember my mother telling me that I will relish the chance to do the groceries on my own once the baby is born. I didn't think much of it at the time. Now that we are nearing Marshall's five-month mark, I have to admit that Mom was right (aren't they always?).

"Why don't you take Marshall with you when you go on a grocery run?" Jon asked me the other day. "Think of all the new things he can see and discover." I felt a pang of mother's guilt. Why don't I take him to the grocery store? Why am I keeping him from ogling the brightly coloured fruit or batting his baby lashes at the cashiers? And then it hit me: the mundane routine of grocery shopping alone, without my kid, is one of the only actions I can do at normal speed.

Life with a baby is one interruption after another. Baby needs a diaper change. Baby is hungry. Baby wants to be held. Baby is having a hissy fit. I remember the days when I used to do my groceries, pick up my prescriptions, grab a couple of bottles of wine and return a video in the span of a half-hour--on foot. Nowadays, it's a feat when I can brush my teeth before noon. And there are entire days when I pace around the house in my pajamas against my will. It seems that as soon as I can get my boy to sleep, possibly put on a wash and cram a couple of cookies in my mouth to soothe my nerves, he's screaming again. Time for ME to eat, Mommy! he wails in baby talk. Shake a leg, woman!

Dishes get done in intervals. Laundry looks at me pleadingly from overflowing baskets. Fold me! Please! The bathroom gets washed hastily when my parents tell me they're coming over.

And the dog, the poor dog, gets walked sporadically. Our walks are nothing like they used to be, when I'd cram a handful of dog biscuits in my jacket pocket, slip on my shoes, clip the leash onto Shadow's collar and away we go. Baby has to stop spitting up before I can wrestle him into his snowsuit. I have to weave the stroller out of its parking spot in the garage and strap my howling son into it. I have to bring the boy back up to his room after he drops a shit bomb in his stroller. Once the baby is back in the stroller, I locate the dog, locate his leash, yell at the overly excited dog to calm down (who in their right mind wants to calm down when they are being yelled at to calm down, anyway?) and, finally, away we go. Only half-way down the driveway do I remember that my pockets do not contain any biscuits. To hell with it. There's no turning back now. Away we go, dammit.

The only thing I have managed to do more quickly since Marshall was born is eat. And that's because he's usually howling to be picked up/fed/generally entertained fifteen minutes into supper. The other night, Jon and I managed to scarf down an entire large pizza in five minutes, I kid you not.

No wonder I have heartburn. And no wonder I don't blog as often as I wish.

And on cue, here comes another baby tantrum. It's a miracle I got to wrap up this entry. Gotta go.