I’m stuck in traffic and crying over spilled-milk. Literally. And you know what?
You would cry too if it happened to youuu. ♫
Thing is, I pumped around the clock (sunrise-to-sunset) to create a single and glorious bottle of milky white. That bottle meant my husband could feed our newborn while I attended book club.
Book club! I love gathering with my favorite girls to discuss The Girl on the Train or All The Light We Cannot See while swapping stories about Tinder and diapers and karats.
My husband watched the milk splish-splash across the kitchen counter just 20 minutes after I arrived at Deepta’s house. My friends and I were gathered around a table of cupcakes and hummus chatting about The Good Girl when my phone rang-out ♫wee-bob-dee-bop-doo♫.
I answered on speaker, so everyone could say, “Hi, Jon!” And that’s when we heard it: WAHHHH WAHHH WAHHH. My husband informed us that the milk was gone, Max was hungry, and my boobs were needed.
When baby calls, my mom-boobs answer. I bid adieu to my friends, got in the car, and went home to soothe my favorite 2-foot man.
One week later?
The Michigan State fans screamed, clapped and cheered on TV, but they were no-match for my darling babe. No sir, no ma’am: Max, resembling a caged, angry lion, opened his lungs and roarrrrrred from his crib. His mighty message? I want to play NOOOOOW. No matter that it was 9 p.m. on Saturday, and I needed to defend my title as Rummikub champion.
Once again, baby calls (errr cries), and I answer. My husband and friends wished me luck as I entered the jungle (err nursery) to console my raging bitty bean. Max spit the pacifier and screamed louder and LOUDER when I tried to gently rub his belly.
Time to administer the ultimate sleep-solution: lullabies, swaying and lots of milk. Visions of board games and football danced in my head as I sang hush little baby once, twice, three times.
Thirty minutes later, Max was wide-eyed and cooing. That’s right people, my surefire sleep-system failed, and now my socialite babe wanted to join the party in the living-room.
What to do? Surely he should sleep, but I was too tired to fight—and to be honest, I really wanted to spend QT with my friends. What’s more, my DINKY friends (dual income no kids yet) wanted to hear the game (not a baby wailing from bed) and finish the board game before midnight.
And so, I let Max come to the party. That’s right, the raging lion donned his party hat and settled into his Bumbo chair at 10 p.m. on Saturday night. He watched as I played 36 points, Chrissy served fun-fetti dip, and Jon told jokes about Olive Garden’s $100 all-you-can-eat pass. (Hubs wishes he could time-machine back to college and use it for dating. Hmph.)
Good (book club and game night) and hard (merging friends and babies) gets all mixed together on the calendar and in everyday life. The encouraging news, however, is that imperfect days create wide-open opportunities for compassion and, every so often, laughter.
For example? Compassion when my book club brings over coffee because they know I’m craving a heart-to-heart with my best friends. Or laughter when our friends convince us that insects playing banjo on BabyTV is actually more entertaining than the Michigan State game.
Murphy’s Law says: “Anything that can go wrong, will.” Let’s take that to heart and make a defense-plan for everyday living. From now on, instead of aiming for perfection, let’s work at offering grace during periods of chaos and moments of stress.
No, nothing is perfect, but friends showing support (whether at game night or book club) as we attempt to grow our family and strengthen our friendships comes pretty gosh darn close.