Wouldn't life be so much easier if your child could say, "Hey, Mommy, in T-minus 10 seconds I will have a load in my pants reminiscent of a 90 year-old man with IBS. Get ready!"? The stinky twinkies are finally developing a much more refined use of consonants, but at seven months, I've learned, it doesn't go too far beyond "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" and "MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!". Though, I suppose, after watching my mother for 18 years and seeing that particular episode of Family Guy in which Stewie shouts "MOM! MAMA! MA! MA!" over and over, I should be grateful that that's as far as it's gotten.
And yet.
I think I've gotten to be fairly skilled at determining what my stinkers are shrieking for: cuddles, food, poopy pants, boredom, teething pain, etc. And yet, I keep thinking back to the episode of Grey's Anatomy where Bailey says to Cristina about her infant son: "That's cry number four; you need to feed him". How the hell do moms do that? I don't know wtf a particular cry sounds like. All I know is deductive reasoning: he's fed, changed, dosed with Tylenol, and surrounded by toys... must want to snuggle up to my boobs and gaze wistfully at what used to be tasty, tasty breastmilk dispensers before Mommy failed and gave up. Or, what they are already learning from their father, which is that these wubbly funbags will be the purpose of their manly existence (and a crippling weakness) from adolescence, on.
It's funny how that unbelievably beautiful, clear, perfect sound you first heard when your baby(ies) was born is the sound that will later make you want to light your hair on fire. I cried... literally, sobbed, when I heard the twins' first cries. Brian and I both did. It was the most incredible thing I'd ever heard in my life. And now, when I hear it, 90% of the time I want to run shrieking from the house.
Well played, God. Well played.
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