I’m not coordinated enough for this kind of thing
Imagine:
Me, sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, at the second party of the day, wondering when I last slept and if it wasn’t two days ago, and would the bank be open the next day, and in the middle of all these important, egotistical thoughts having a six-week old baby unceremoniously dumped in my lap.
Er… um… and what does one do with a six-week old baby?
So now we have me sitting on the floor with a baby wrapped up in a blanket blinking up at me with a slightly cross-eyed expression that could mean she just can’t focus yet (like I would know) or might mean she’s pooping herself (like I would know). And she suddenly decides to start spitting up, except she’s on her back, and even I know that’s not a good thing (the choking sounds were a good clue, I have to admit).
So. Baby has to get from on her back in my arms to propped against my shoulder, which would be fine, except my sweater is dry-clean only and I’m not fond of milky drool all over myself. And the blanket that could go over my shoulder is under the baby, who is too young to prop up her own head, and I’ll be damned if I know how to get the blanket out from under her while still supporting her head so I can move her to my shoulder before she chokes on her own drool.
Don’t expectant mothers have to go through classes to learn this stuff?
Don’t worry. The baby got burped and probably only suffered mild whiplash.
I, however, suffered an evening of being told how maternal I look.
Maternal. Me?
Did hell freeze over?