I Am Ridiculous

I am hoping it will be years before my son can make fun of me the way I have made fun of my parents. It's never been mean, mind you, just an appreciation for their parental ridiculousness, their benign insanity.

I am hoping it will be years because, if he could do it sooner, he'd have too much ammunition. Like the other day, for instance. My goals were simple: clean the kitchen and pump breast milk so I could go to an afternoon yoga class while my dad watched the baby. Accomplishing these goals by myself with a baby who does not like to be put down, even when he's sleeping: not so simple.

Enter mom brain. "If I put the baby in his carrier while I do the dishes, he'll be lulled to sleep by my movements. Then I can put him in his little chair on the floor next to the dishwasher, the sound of which will help keep him asleep. I can rock his little chair with my foot to ensure his continued dozing while I pump standing at the kitchen counter."

I decided to call this-- and other moments like it-- "happy mommy" pose: doing the ridiculous in the name of preserving sanity, and occasionally remembering to breathe.