Newborns are a Gateway Drug

My sister-in-law had a baby last week (Hi, Penny!) and there are a couple of important things to note—First, I am now officially an Aunt! Second, being an Aunt feels way cooler and more special than I ever imagined, and third and most important, newborns are my crack.

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So many women I know would prefer to fast forward a few months and skip over that tiny, breakable, basically expressionless, sleepless, cluster-fed-filled phase. Me? I wanna live in it. I wanna pull a teeny, tiny baby right outta my unique vagina (Matt’s term, not mine) and keep him/her just like that (I mean, maybe cleaned off—-but basically just like that) for all of eternity.

And I’m not one of those Moms trying to glorify all of motherhood. There are parts of it that other women love and I think are the pits. I LOATHE every second of pregnancy and I am currently pulling my hair out chasing after Bizzy trying to make sure she doesn’t put every magnet and toenail clipping in her mouth. But those first couple of weeks with a new baby—ohhhh, it is my Superbowl.

I have actually decided that if Heaven exists, it will be me in sweats, sitting in my bed under a fleece blanket, taking turns holding all of my babies as newborns (while watching Queer Eye). It will be that scene, on repeat, for infinity. I will just be sitting there sniffing their breath, watching them sleep on my shoulder, and eating their faces off. Can you picture it? I can’t wait.

Like, what is actually better than an itsy-bitsy tree-frog of a newborn just sleeping on your chest?! Oh wait, I know—changing meconium diapers. It is such an underrated joy of life. Give me all of the sticky, weird, molasses poop. And ya know what now that I thinking about it, that yellow seedy exclusively breastfed poop that smells oddly sweet is actually pretty fucking awesome too. I wanna cry just thinking about Bizzy’s one-year-old hard, brown, smells-like-real-shit poop. It’s the worst.

And when I met my little Niece (!!!), it was a completely bizarre flood of emotions. I felt so much love for this little baby and also so much sadness that I hadn’t just given birth myself. THAT SOUNDS FUCKING CRAZY, I know. But I’m an honest MOFO and it’s just the truth. I also really wanted to do skin-to-skin with her but I didn’t, okay?! I understand my role.

But whenever I hold another person’s newborn, I instantly think about how I need another one of my own, STAT! Like, when Matt wants to get laid he should really spare me the sweet talk and teeth brushing and just find me a newborn to hold. Because the second I hand that little fucker back to Mommy I am like “GAME ON! LET’S MAKE ANOTHER WEIRDO!". But then I realize that I already have three kids and I can’t just keep having more newborn babies because eventually I will run out of sanity, and money, and space and cool names. (Just kidding, I have so many names left.)

So what is the cure for someone who feels completely depressed every time they see a newborn? Someone who starts obsessively thinking about how they will never again be able to smell their baby’s sour, rotten, spit-up on the shoulder of their favorite sweatshirt? WHAT’S THE CURE FOR THAT, HUH?!

I guess I will continue to snuggle the newborns in my life as they come along. And maybe I will start making friends with pregnant women I see at the park or the grocery store and visit them at the hospital. Or maybe I will poor spoiled milk on my shoulders occasionally just to get a whiff. It doesn’t feel like enough, but I guess it will have to do.

And all you mamas out there with a fresh new babe—give em a smoosh for me, And if you are pregnant, call me. I’ll be your wet nurse. And seriously guys, how cute is Penny?

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