I see all these mothers with makeup on, in nice outfits, strolling with a Starbucks cup, walking their kids.
Their kids are also in nice outfits, and they all look all clean and shiny and their clothes match their strollers match their toys.
And I wonder, how? Just, how?
We had to go back to get the rest of our shots this morning.
Our pediatrician's office does not allow you to be late for an appointment. They make you reschedule if you are.
This causes me a lot of anxiety. Because I am a person who has trouble getting myself out the door all organized and presentable. And now I'm responsible for a whole nother human.
Plus, with a baby, you (or anyway, I) have to start getting ready waaay ahead of time. And hoping there is no poo emergency. Or anything of the sort.
But this morning, my boy was napping soundly, and I just couldn't bear to wake him up abruptly.
He'd gotten up, nursed, eaten oat cereal and peas - num! - nursed, and crashed hard for his nap. And was so heavily asleep when it was time to get dressed and out the door.
So I let him sleep till the very last minute.
This meant that I squoze him into overalls over his PJs, hastily pulled on hat, sweatshirt, blankets, and sprinted out the door with him.
And then I had to run most of the way there, because we were late late, and I am a first-born-rule-follower, and also they have put the fear of God in me, those pediatrician people.
We arrived with two minutes to spare. Me, sweating profusely, as I do ever since having the kid. Him, cool as a cucumber, all chewing on his teething toys, delighted to see all the people.
So we are ushered in to a patient room, and the nurse says she just needs access to his chubby little thighs.
At which point I unsnap his overalls. Which exposes his pajamas. I'm all, "He was napping, and I, uh."
She just smiles. They're very nice there.
And so she gives him his shots and he freaks out briefly and then calms down. He's on my lap, and I'm cuddling him and kissing the top of his little head.
As I do so, I realize there are kind of flaky chunks on his forehead.
She sees me inspecting. "Dry skin?"
I want to lie, but I'm just not good at it.
"Yyyyy. . .Oatmeal."