Its been nearly twelve weeks since Beckett made his debut into the Edelbrock household, and there are no words. NO. WORDS. Simply no words to describe how amazing, stupendous, wonderful, neat and just plain satisfying having him in our lives has been (okay, there are a few words).
I know, I know, who IS this woman who can hardly stop herself from spewing rainbows and sunshine and baby happiness all over you? I hardly sound like my typical, overwhelmed and neurotic self. But let me assure you it hasn't been all puppies and hugs over here. It has also been exhausting, mortifying and sometimes slightly horrifying.
The good news is that with each and every moment of total bewilderment, I seem to be learning at least a little something. Sort of.
For example, I have learned that the "quiet" is a relative term. My definition of quiet is vastly different than Kate's. Additionally, my definition of "play by yourself" is, once again, worlds apart from Kate's understanding. So when I ask Kate to "Please play quietly in your room while I put Beckett down for a nap," she understands that I am asking her to lay in the hall in front of the closed nursery door and sing/talk to herself loudly and kick at the floor until I either get Beckett to sleep or scream at her to STOP TALKING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD (Settle down, I don't REALLY yell that at her. Not out loud anyways).
I've also learned that it is more expensive to have a newborn in the winter versus the summer. When Kate was little and she would do that adorable little thing where a baby empties their stomach all over you (in polite circles its called "spitting up." I call it "icky vomit from hell") I would just peel off the ruined t-shirt and burn it in a trash can in my back yard. Or wash it, whatever. But when Beckett tosses his unholy milk all over me, it is typically on some kind of dry-clean only sweater. Which sucks, because burning (or dry-cleaning) all my sweaters at a rate of 2-3 per day is going to get expensive.
And speaking of unholiness, my son craps like a 300 pound trucker.
What? There isn't more to that lesson to summarize, I seriously just learned that my son craps like a trucker. Today he pooped through a diaper, a onesie, three layers of a swaddling blanket and my jeans. Soooo, yeah. Score.
Finally, I have learned that there is very little that can compare to hearing your daughter tell her brother she loves him. It just melts your heart.
Even when you are wearing trucker poop.