Back To The Future of Motherhood

Dear Laney,

Today, you are 18 months old, which is almost impossible to believe. Being your mother has been the most rewarding enterprise I've ever undertaken. You have the ability to make me incredibly happy, like this morning when I was jolted awake by your finger probing my inner ear while you shouted "Hiiiii!"

Yes, hello.

Looking back, there isn't a thing I would change, but I sure wish I had known what I was getting myself into when your dad and I decided to have a baby. In fact, I wish I was able to write a letter to 18-months-ago Brooke on the eve of your birth, so I could warn her about a few things. It would probably go something like this:

Dear Brooke,

Congratulations on becoming impossibly fat. Right now, you're holding on to the hope that moments after the baby is born, you'll be able to return to your skinny jeans. You are delusional.

For the first month of your child's life, you're not going to like Thor very much. This will not be because of anything rational, and certainly not because of anything he did wrong. Instead, as a result of sleep deprivation, you will resent him for not having his own pair of boobs. BECAUSE AT LEAST THAT WOULD BE HELPFUL.

Like Lady Macbeth, you will wash your hands a hundred times a day. Out! Out, damn poop!

Petty grievances that used to drive a wedge between you and friends and family will be instantly forgiven. In the end, all that matters is how they treat your daughter. Conversely, if anyone says anything negative about your child, you will be amazed at how quickly you will turn into a mobbed-up Sicilian and declare them dead to you.

Any time you spent judging how another woman was raising her child was wasted. After a few months in the trenches, you will learn that everyone is just trying to get by as best they can. There is no such thing as a perfect mom, just a lucky mom. Laney will get herself in dangerous situations daily, and it's only divine providence that will keep her from tumbling off the slide or tripping on the stairs.

Right now, you have a favorite writer, a favorite politician and a favorite Supreme Court Justice. Soon, you will forget all about them because you will have a favorite Backyardigan. What's worse, your husband will ALSO have a favorite Backyardigan, and it won't be the same as yours. You will spend critical "date night" time debating the merits of each. (Tyrone, for the win).

Speaking of date nights, you will get about three of these a year. Try not to fall asleep in the car.

Your outlook on the world around you will change. You will encounter strange meteorological events like this:

...and while your husband is droning on about the conditions that made the cloud mass possible, you will be quizzing yourself on the symptoms of ringworm.

You will call all of your female friends who had children before you - ok, just Amy - and apologize for not understanding her plight at the time. You will tear up and start babbling, "I didn't know! I didn't know!" ...because looking back, you should have gone over to her house every day and held her baby so she could take a shower. She will forgive you and laugh, because she'll recognize the sound of a hormonal crazy person.

Speaking of showering, you will write a post on Facebook about how you fell asleep standing up in the shower, and other mothers of babies will respond, "You got to shower?!?"

With this child, don't bother baby-proofing. You will install a baby-proof oven lock, and your child will learn how to take it off on day #1. You will be left with a feeling of defeat and a white plastic contraption super-glued to the front of your oven. Within weeks, she will also learn how to open the baby gate. Trust me on this one: you will only inconvenience yourself.

You will come to learn that anyone who attempts to have a baby without the help of laminated flooring and two dogs is crazy.

Silence is your enemy. If your toddler is in another room and making no noise, it's because she's busy inspecting Dad's drill, licking your deodorant, or stirring the toilet with your good spatula. When the playful clatter stops, investigate at once.

Skype will be like a gift from God.

All that baby paraphernalia you think you need, you don't. 18 months from now, Thor's wood shop will look like Thor's House Of Lumber, Bolts, and High Chairs.

You'll think you're failing left and right, but you're not. Your baby will love you, and your husband will be an amazing dad. He will even tell you early and often how much he appreciates you. You will feel bad for that month you spent cussing him under your breath for being boobless.

All will be fine. Breathe in, breathe out. She's worth it.

Love,

You