You’d think after the 342nd time of trying to explain that I really need to sleep another half hour, please an thank you, that I’d be met with some understanding.
Oh wait, I’m reasoning with a baby.
I guess that means I’m insane. But living with a tiny tyrant who can’t understand a word you say can do that to a person. And since infant sign language doesn’t get much more complex than “potty” and “eat,” we’re both going to be a little frustrated for a while. I’d trade a year’s worth of cheese, chocolate, and heck, even Facebook for the ability to get my kid to understand the following:
1. If I knew just what you wanted, I would make sure you got it a whole lot faster. Mom’s not doing too bad of a job meeting your demands, considering all she can do is make semi-educated guesses on roughly a quarter of a brain and 45-minute fragments of sleep.
2. 3 a.m. is not a good time to be practicing karate moves on the crib slats.
3. No matter how mad my face looks or my voice sounds, I still love you.
4. I’m not leaving you to starve if I get up in the middle of your dinner. I just really need to poop. And if I wait any longer, I will need a diaper too. I will be back. I promise.
5. Enjoy being completely free of responsibility, because the minute I discover that you know how to fold your pants, you will miss your carefree life.
6. It’s not your fault that your only means of communication is yelling. But would it kill you to try something else? Like gentle cooing? Or playing a tiny harp?
7. I’m more than a little terrified when I see you repeatedly staring at the same spot in the corner and laughing. Do I need to call an exorcist? What do you see?!
8. Nothing makes me melt quite like the sound of your laugh. That’s why I always act like a drunken, idiotic lunatic around you. If it makes you laugh, I will do the chicken dance in my underwear with absolutely no shame.
9. I wasn’t permanently abandoning you when I put you to bed last night, the night before, or virtually any night before that, so there is really no need to shriek like I’m leaving you to a pack of rabid wolves.
10. It would be freakin’ fabulous if you didn’t wake up screaming. It may be good for getting my attention in a nanosecond, but ol’ Mom’s heart isn’t going to make a beat over age 40 if you keep that up much longer.
11. The amount of hell you put me through is directly tied to the amount of desire I have for providing you with a sibling. So if you want to be an only child, your chances are looking good, kid.
12. I would adore it if you would kindly aim your vomit somewhere other than 1) the shag rug, 2) my pants’ crotch, which will look like I peed myself after I clean up, or 3) your hands, which will inevitably end up on my face.
13. You will never know how many times I’ve dragged myself half-comatose from my extremely warm, soft bed to check on you in the middle of the night even though I know you’re safe.
14. When you were born, I didn’t know how to be a mom any more than you knew how to be a baby. And I’m still learning.
You deserve a perpetually patient mother who always chooses books over TV and doesn’t curse when her last clean pair of jeans is puked on, but what you’ve got is me. I know I make a lot of mistakes, and I almost dropped you the other day, and sometimes I don’t notice your diaper is full until the contents are on my shirt, but please bear with me, I’m really trying. And I’ll keep trying for as long as you are mine.
This article was originally published on