On Being “That Mom”

When I got pregnant, John and I had a few conversations about being “those parents.” You know the kind I’m talking about: the people who want to talk about NOTHING but their children. Baby this and baby that. We would love this kid to death and would give him all the attention we could…but we would not let him be our defining feature. After all, we weren’t defined by the fact that we were married to one another. We still had identities apart from “John’s wife” or “Molly’s lucky husband who gets to be married to that hot young thing.” You know what I’m saying here? So we weren’t going to be defined as “Jack’s parents.” We wouldn’t be “those people” who had a picture of their child as their facebook profile picture. We wouldn’t be “those people” who stayed at home on Friday nights—there ARE things called babysitters. And surely we wouldn’t let our blog be all about baby.
Ha.
Not only is my facebook profile picture me and Jack, John and I went out for the FIRST time on Friday night since Jack was born. And all we did was talk about Jack. And text the babysitter about Jack. And look at pictures of Jack. Gag me with a spoon! And look at this blog! Baby, baby, baby!!
And I gotta tell you folks: I took it a step further. I was reading a book (the hilarious “Sippy Cups are Not for Chardonnay”) and she was making fun of “those moms”. You know: the kind who never let their kid have bumpers on the crib and even make their own baby food. Holy crap, Molly! You have become “that mom.” And not only do I only let that kid eat MY baby food, it has to be made with organic vegetables and boiled in filtered water. Come on! COME ON! I didn’t really think much of it until we were in St. Louis. John’s grandma wanted to go on a walk around her neighborhood. It was a beautiful, breezy day around 80 degrees and a walk sounded fantastic. We loaded Jack up into the stroller and begun our stroll (because he was in a stroller, after all). About 200 yards in, I realized that the sun was hitting Jack directly on his pale white skin (as an aside, it’s pretty pathetic when a 25 year old woman has the exact same complexion as her 6 month old child who has never seen the likes of the sun. Molly = Cullen white skin. And much to the surprise of many a 14 year old girl and Megan, vampire white complexion is NOT hot). So anyway, there we were outside on a walk and I was terrified that Jack’s porcelain white skin was about to get burnt to a crisp. But wait! I was wearing a little sweater and a scarf. I’d just place my sweater over his legs and arms. That’d work to block the sun. So there! Perfect. Ah…much better. We walked a few more yards and I realized that his beautiful bald head was still smack dab in the sun’s rays. So there went the scarf. Wrapped around his head. And there went any shred of confidence this kid may have had as we walked the streets of Illinois. John kept saying, “Molly! He looks ridiculous!” My response, “He’s a baby! Better for him to look ridiculous than to look sunburned! Besides, it’s not like he knows he looks silly!” But clearly, he did. And his face in this picture proves it:
John snapped another picture as I was bending down to properly adjust Jack’s ridiculous coverings. I feel like this picture sums it up nicely:

Me (realizing I’ve been caught on film being slightly obsessive about my child): “What’s the big deal? I’m just trying to take care of him!”
Jack: “Ha! And you thought this handsome mug wouldn’t make you ga ga over me? Get real! I’m even cute when I look like this!”


Honestly, it’s probably a good thing that I WAS a breastfeeding failure. Can you imagine if the doctor hadn’t told me that it was dangerous to nurse Jack with all his food allergies? I mean really, I’d be “that mom” again: the one who nursed her children until they went off to 5th grade. I fear I’ve already doomed this kid for a life of embarrassment. Whatever. I gotta go make some organic peas to feed to my child on his hypoallergenic spoons while he sits in his ergonomic high chair. Don’t worry though. I’m not obsessed.