The absolute only thing that made me equally as anxious about being a new mother as my God-forsaken breastfeeding drama was the continuous struggle to master all of the baby gear and equipment.
The morning we were leaving the hospital to take our daughter home for the first time in the fifty dollar Etsy outfit she had already spit up on, a car seat installation consultant eagerly entered the room.
She wanted to be sure we knew how to properly install the car seat and put Maeve in it.
No, actually, I didn’t. Maeve was teeny tiny. I had zero clue as to how to get her in the car seat safely, let alone what to do with her for the rest of my life.
My heart raced.
I couldn’t handle more information and equipment.
This little girl came with an encyclopedia of advice and instructions, it seemed, and all I wanted to do was hold her. I had been a mother for three days and my brain couldn’t hold all of the information people kept spewing at me.
I defaulted to what I default to when I can’t handle anymore.
“Mark? Go with her,” I ordered.
The lactation consultant had just left the room for the millionth time after manipulating my breasts more than Mark ever had. She had essentially high-fived the lady who needed information for our daughter’s new social security number and a myriad of other experts who kept talking to us like we were official parents.
“I’m still a kid,” I wanted to scream. “I’m not a real adult yet. I sleep with a Care Bear. Mark keeps his bills in a shoe box labeled ‘Bills 2002.’ We’re not qualified.”
Mr. Boogitty
When I was in elementary school, there was a substitute bus driver the neighborhood kids and I loved, who, for some reason, was lovingly referred to as Mr. Boogitty. (I mean, we can’t even stop to question this because the year Mr. Boogitty was driving me to school was also the same year I had Mr. Nye as a teacher. Mr. Nye honestly taught for about 15 minutes and then let us all just hang out and eat candy for the remainder of the day.)
Everyone knew Mr. Boogitty was the best bus driver because he would slam on the brakes to the tune of Jingle Bells and take extra turns around a bump on Lamour Street so we could all jump out of our seats and laugh and scream.
He wore a knit Squirt hat and a navy blue utility jacket and always smiled when he stopped to pick up a new passenger. He sat behind the steering wheel of that bus like a boss and turned it like the captain of a ship of 80’s kids.
He was bothered by nothing.
He never got mad when someone threw Skittles or chased Calvin Beaver home off the bus.
It was as if Mr. Boogitty had already lived eight lives and his ninth one was driving a bunch of silly neighborhood kids around.
Thirty year later, I need to channel Mr. Boogitty’s juju.
Leaving The House and Packing The Gear
Leaving my house, driving my MomSUV full of gear and babies, packing their bags and navigating my own reality ship makes me a manic mess.
The first time I left my house with both my newborn and my toddler, I cursed the heat. The unforgiving July sun beat down on me like a spotlight, revealing to my neighbors and other parking lot occupants that I was a rookie mom of two and completely intimidated by the gear necessary for our morning outing.
But I learned Tuesday that only thing harder than hauling an infant and a toddler and all their gear in the summer heat is hauling an infant and a toddler and all their gear in the winter snow.
When Mark and I moved into our house five years ago, we were engaged, childless, and clueless as to how the steps on both entrances to the house would make my daily departures as a mother just pitifully difficult.
And now, every trip outside our home begins with multiple descents down this treacherous staircase of doom.
Because, first, I have to go put our fifty bags in the car. Then I have to load Maeve in. Finally, after he’s sat in his carrier for twenty minutes wondering what the hell his mom is doing, Maverick joins us.
Yesterday, I had the pleasure of driving Mark’s truck while he took my car for new tires.
I decided we’d head to the almighty Target to return a Spanx bodysuit I never wore and I’d let Maeve look at display Christmas trees to burn time before naps.
I had to bring our double stroller. The Double Bob.
I parked far from the entrance in a spot with ample room around it for unloading and adjustment purposes.
Because has anyone else ever been lucky enough to play “A Boomer scrounging for the closest spot to the entrance just parked next to the door from which I retrieve my baby and his carrier?”
I just kept running the same inner dialogue through my head.
“Go get it, Sarah. You’re doing it. You can do this. Two kids is not a big deal. Just do one thing at a time.”
Because God must know that I’m always looking for new blog content, I had to use the restroom immediately upon arrival at Target.
“Alrighty-roo,” I thought to myself after having unloaded the double Bob and loaded both kids. “Let’s go take a family bathroom break.”
I wheeled the stroller through the entrance, headed directly to the restrooms (because the irony of my children accompanying me to the bathroom is that my bladder can now hold nothing), and was flagged down by an elderly woman who asked, “Do you work here?”
“Um, no,” I politely answered, astutely aware of the fact that I was wearing my new Sam’s Club sweatshirt which read “GRL PWR,” not khakis and a burgundy polo. “But I can help you if you need something.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “It looks like you work here because you’re pushing that big cart,” she explained.
“Oh, this is my stroller,” I informed her and laughed. “It has my kids in it. We don’t work here. But maybe we should.”
I quickly used the restroom while Maeve yelled, “Mom, are you done yet?”, washed my hands, and wiggled the double Bob out and into the aisles to begin our examination of the dollar spot, unbothered.
Because, of course, that’s how Mr. Boogitty would have handled it.
Finding My Voice 