Sorry I'm not sorry.
Getting out of the house with a child isn’t an easy task. Throw in being seven and a half months pregnant and you’ve got yourself the perfect recipe for tardiness.
I’m not going to front like I’ve ever been a super punctual person to begin with. I undoubtedly push it with the amount of shit I try to get done prior to leaving the house. I’ve been guilty of this way before motherhood or pregnancy. It’s a flaw and I’ve definitely gotten better at it since marrying someone who thinks that if you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re late.
I’ve worked really hard on being on time. And I got pretty successful at it. Until I had Mickey.
Once one or more kids is involved, it becomes an obstacle course to get out of the house. Even if you’re foolish enough to think you’re a head of the game, someone is undoubtedly going to pee their pants or spill something all of over their outfit when you’re about to walk out the door. Getting a toddler put together is just like coaxing an extremely drunk person to do something they don’t want to do…like drink water or not pee in the middle of the hallway.
They fight you tooth and nail. They use a slew of indistinguishable gibberish that only makes sense to them. They throw their arms up in the air like one of those inflatables dancing guys at car lots. They scream. They cry. Sometimes they puke. And then they go fully limp. Their bodies are now dead weight and your only option is to pull them across the floor by their feet. My daughter may be only 34 lbs., but when she goes limp, she feels minimum 250.
After you’ve wrangled their clothes on that they ‘HATE", it’s time to move onto the hair. I have to physically wrap my legs around Mickey to put a ponytail holder in her hair. This wasn’t too difficult before I had a giant bowling ball in my stomach. Now that my range of motion is definitely hindered, she uses it to her advantage.
Her new game in the morning is to hide in places that are extremely difficult for me to reach. Before if she hid under the table, I’d full army crawl to pull her out. Now, I can’t physically get her. I have to get on all fours and try to bribe her with play-doh or a cookie, until she crawls out just enough for me to snatch her up.
Once I’ve successfully tamed this wild stallion into a half-ass ponytail and whatever clothes I was able to throw on her, now I have to get my giant hormonal body ready.
If you’ve ever had to blow dry your hair and put on makeup on a 90 degree day with no air conditioning, then you know what it’s like to get ready mid hot flashes. At least twice during the getting ready process, I have to stop, go downstairs and put my head in the freezer.
Getting dressed at this point in pregnancy is super tricky. What could have covered your bump last week somehow have morphed into a crop top this week. Some of my go-to XL maternity shirts make me look like Winnie the fucking Pooh. It’s literally a game of hit or miss with every garment you try on.
I’m also at the stage where I’m solely wearing leggings. Maternity jeans are out. I’ve written before about how I carry 99% of my pregnancy in my ass and thighs, so one can imagine how shimmying into a skin-tight pair of leggings goes. It ain’t easy. And it ain’t pretty.
To give you an idea of how pathetic I’ve become; my husband shaved my legs for me last night. That’s where I’m at. I’m no longer able to see or reach my legs well enough to shave them. I have little to no dignity left.
Between wrangling my headstrong toddler and dressing my growing body, it is inevitable that I will be late for 100% of the plans I make. So if we have plans, that I don’t cancel due to puking or crying, please know that I will not be on time. I promise I’ll be a better friend down the road, but right now, I’m just surviving.
