I’ve been sick with the flu and strep throat since Wednesday, which means I haven’t been at work since TUESDAY and haven’t kissed Preston since TUESDAY NIGHT. But who’s counting? I’m going through serious baby withdrawal. And by withdrawal I mean, it’s absolutely killing me not to smother him with my wet kisses, in a slow death sort of way. Imagine an alcoholic not being able to take a sip of vodka, or someone obese who has to quit eating cold turkey and become anorexic overnight. Can you imagine not being able to kiss this face for even one day of your life?
But as Jay put it yesterday, “Do you think we’re ready to handle a sick baby?”
Point taken. No kisses.
So I’m staying away from him as much as possible, or at least keeping a safe distance with a doctor’s mask on when we’re in the same room. Before you say to yourself, Internet, that we’re turning into those crazy germaphobe parent people, the types who still make everyone wash their hands and sanitize before holding our baby…well…you’d be sort of right. But we only make Koby, Joe and Emma—heretofore known as The Cousins—wash (and sanitize) their hands before holding Preston. They’re under the age of 10 afterall, so who knows where their hands have been (up their noses, up their friends noses…). You can never be too safe, or clean it turns out.
The funny thing is, Preston has turned me into a clean freak. That’s only funny if you know me (just ask my BFF and former roommate Jamie). Never thought I’d say this, but the chaos that comes with having a baby has actually made me clean up my own act. And here’s the real shocker: I like this new neat-freak me. My mom, on the other hand—who herself is a card-carrying clean freak—likes to make fun of me. Ironic, since she spent the first half of my life nagging me to death to keep my room (car, bathroom, college apartment, condo, office) clean!
“Preston is the cleanest baby I’ve ever seen,” she said tonight at dinner in the burbs. “I’ve never so much as seen a drop of spit-up on his clothes.” I’m nearly certain she meant this as an insult. But why would I have him wearing dirty clothes he just spit-up on? If he spits up, I change him into something else, pronto. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do, as a responsible, fashion-minded mother? He has all these adorable clothes, why would he need to wear something dirty when he has a closet full of CLEAN clothes, many of which I may never actually get to see him in, because he’s growing at warp speed.
So I usually change when he spits up on something, not into a new person—just into something clean, and preferably Polo. My mom shouldn’t be that surprised; allegedly, at the ripe age of 2, I was a clothes horse, and would dump everything out of my drawers and try on all my clothes before leaving the house. She also “alleges” that I liked wearing summer clothes in the winter, and winter clothes in the summer, but I have yet to see proof of these allegations. For now, I’m going to assume that my need to change Preston into clean (and designer) clothes stems from my fashion sense; even my Cabbage Patch kids were dressed to the nines.