Last night was rough. The baby guy was up over and over again, and he was not easy to put back to sleep again. At one point, he and I were both on the floor of the nursery–me huddled under the quilt my Gramma made him, and him swaddled up. I figured maybe if I stayed next to him he might settle down and sleep for a minute (and maybe I could, too), but that was not the case.
Sabbath morning came all too quickly (but also agonizingly slowly), and my husband left early for church. I was so tired that I spent the last few minutes before the baby guy’s first morning nap with him on my bed next to me, my eyes closed, but periodically dangling his plastic toy keys over his face and patting his belly so that he would feel interacted with.
Before the poor kid was halfway through his first yawn I had him swaddled, in his crib, and then stumbled blearily back to my bed to “sleep when my baby sleeps.” Of course the nap was all too short, but it was still too late to make it to Sabbath School by the time he woke up and finished eating.
I mustered all of my energy to get out of bed, then got the little guy dressed in his onesie, button-down, bow tie and pants, and sweater vest. If you have never dressed a baby in all of those things, you cannot understand the struggle. It’s worth it, though. It’s so adorable that it makes your brain hurt.
As for myself, I threw on a maxi dress, some boots, and a cardigan that may or may not have already had spit up on it. I took out my ponytail, put it back in, and added a headband to try to control my ever-present halo of frizz. In other words, I hoped that people would see my inner beauty (only) at church today. If that didn’t work, I figured I could hold the boy in front of me like the cutest little distractor you’ve ever seen.
I didn’t even make it to church on time, and ended up in the front row all the way over on the side of the sanctuary. That’s pretty prime real estate, actually–an easy getaway to the nursing room, and so far over to the side that no one is really looking at you. This was important because, as you recall, I looked like a ragamuffin. In fact, I looked like a ragamuffin even if you didn’t take into account the two jackets I had on over my stale cardigan and maxi dress. It’s cold outside. However, inside it was so hot that I thought I was going to die of heatstroke pretty much instantly. It’s not easy, though, to remove two jackets when you’re also holding your son. I did some pretty fabulous shimmy moves, which no one around me seemed to notice, got stuck with my shoulder out of the jackets and my elbow up in my sleeve awkwardly. I played it cool for another verse of the hymn, but then had to try a new strategy. Victory was finally mine, and I was free. Only then, when my turned my head and noticed my sweaty, frizzy, and generally disheveled reflection in the one-way window directly beside me, did I realize that all of the people in the mothers’ room had probably had quite an entertaining time watching me almost lose my struggle with my outerwear.
My son doesn’t even know how embarrassing his mother is. Poor kid.
Since that’s just how things go, as soon as all of this happened, my husband was able to come and sit with us. Apparently the whole ordeal could’ve been avoided, but where would the fun in that be?