Mascara and diapers

When I broke the news to my girlfriend that I was pregnant, both of us glee in delight. The next few months of pregnancy were filled with fantasies of me pushing my unborn baby in one of those giant strollers in a cafe at Dempsey Hills, sipping tea while people watching…. and being watched by people. E.n.v.i.o.u.s.l.y.

 

The next thing I knew.

 

P . O . P ! ! !  Goes the dream bubble.

 

I was sweating over diaper changing, wiping drool, squeezing that drop of precious colostrum from my sore nipple, struggling with the concept of a losing identity, dealing with falling strands of hair on a once celebrated crowning glory. Flabby tummy. And worst, at the mercy of a wailing baby!

 

This isn’t supposed to happen. No! No! No!!! Noooooooo!!!!!

 

“We” (Amelia and me) were supposed to be watched and be envied. Sipping tea and having brunch without a line of worry on my face. I, am suppose to have my mascara checked in place, where every single strand is meticulously applied to perfection. Not SMEARED just because Amelia has pooped and I’ve accidentally used the back of my hands to wipe my eyes while changing her diapers.

 

Am I not supposed to be part of that Hollywood scene where calmness is key?

 

Damn. I don’t even know what to say next, or how to conclude this blog post.

 

Try harder?

Next one will be easier?

 

LOL.

 

Maybe, don’t wear mascara!