I don’t like newborns.
That’s right, I said it.
Or rather, I didn’t like taking care of a newborn. It wasn’t his fault. My son was a great baby, but I was a hot mess. Exhausted, clueless, terrified, panicky, and continuously questioning my life choices about sums up those first few months.
“Enjoy it!” friends and strangers told me. “It goes so fast.”
Oh yeah? I imagined saying. “ENJOY THIS!” And then I’d shank them in the kidney with a Mum Mum. You know what goes so fast, kindly friends and strangers? 1 ½ hours of sleep. The time between feedings. Discretionary income. But secretly I hoped they were right. It would be so much easier when he’s older, right?
My son is fast approaching three so now I’m one of those well-intentioned-on-the-verge-of-getting-shanked-in-the-kidneys strangers who laments the passing of time. One day it’s sponge baths in the sink and the next you’re cleaning Paw Patrol training toothpaste spittle off the bathroom mirror.
Some things do get easier and there’s a lot to love about this stage, but toddlers are certainly not without their own set of challenges. The grass of the past is always greener and sometimes—dare I say it—I miss having a newborn. Especially when it comes to these things:
They put the TIME in bedtime: Bedtime routines are important and no one appreciates this more than toddlers. They love routines so much they don’t want them to end. What used to be a swift and sweet fifteen-minute pre-bed ritual consisting of two books and snuggles has morphed into the following (in a veryparticular order that gets reorganized and reshuffled on-the-fly):
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