In the land of new mothers, I am a dinosaur. Actually, I like to think of myself as vintage. Like the Louis Vuitton fanny pack your grandma might have owned, now only available through a Sotheby’s auction. That bag and I have been through wars (WWII and 17 hours of labor, respectively), we have wrapped ourselves around some questionable waists, and both our surfaces are now worn out leather. 

I’m done with the baby game. My friends, however are not. Some are just getting started. People, I’m 39. I go to bed at 9pm and I’ve started doing that thing where you squint and pull the restaurant menu up and down in front of your face until the focus is right. My kid is thirteen. He wants nothing to do with me. I can watch Netflix and go to the casino and basically act like I’m a member of AARP. I want nothing to do with diapers or formula or sleepless nights, and my tubes are tied so tight I sometimes see stars when I do a pelvic tilt in pilates class. 

But these vintage mothers (let’s call them the LVs in honor of grandma’s bag) just starting their journey might have the right idea. They have mortgages and 401k’s, and possibly even retired parents ready to babysit. When I found myself pregnant at 25, the only thing stable about me was my blood alcohol level. Life would be totally different if I found myself a new mother tomorrow. 

First of all, I would put. that. baby. down. I used to carry my child around the house the way I currently carry my cell phone: forever attached to my body. As a result, he never figured out how to entertain himself. It might also be why, despite being taller than me and weighing as much as I do, he still tries to sit on my lap. 

I would feed him anything and everything, from sushi to tandoori chicken. Broaden that palate beyond waffles and pizza. While ordering from the children’s menu is still moderately acceptable, I don’t think any future business deals will be won when the CEO asks for an order of chicken fingers with chocolate milk. 

I would hire a sleep trainer. Did you know that is an actual career? God bless whoever first decided her path in life was to take screaming, crying babies, and perform some sort of algebraic equation or voodoo or interpretive dance to lull babies into a routine sleeping pattern. My own ‘sleep training’ consisted of turning the TV volume up louder than the baby’s cries and praying for morning. 

LVs, I salute you. Your kids will be raised with cell phones, nannies, and the internet for support. Mine was raised by Baby Einstein and (gasp) processed food, and the whole operation was loosely held together by my mild addiction to Chardonnay. Do yourselves a favor, LVs, and get thee to Sotheby’s. 

© Calling All Cool Moms 2019