Shame? What's that?

There's no dignity in mommyhood.

From your first prenatal ultrasound  (done with what looks suspiciously like a dildo covered in a horse condom), to the Strep B test (wait... you want to wipe my BUMHOLE with that giant Q-tip?? WTF???) your sense of modesty is slowly but surely chipped away. Then one day you find yourself comparing your chapped nipples with the woman who came to set up Little Darling's RESP, without a stich of embarassment.

Alternatively, there are those mommy moments where we sacrifice our dignity specifically for our child's welfare. Like jumping into a pool with no regard for hair and makeup or bolting out of a change room in your bra because Little Darling is no longer in your line of vision. Today it was my turn.

I was going to the washroom (I hate how many of my stories start that way), with the door open so Dawson didn't lose his mind. He didn't actually want to be with me, as he was playing in his room, he just wanted the option. (Isn't the needy phase fun??) Suddenly he started screaming. Full on, blood curdling screaming.

I chucked my Today's Parent into the bathtub and bolted, mid tinkle, down the hall with my pants around my ankles. Dawson had fallen against his door, trapping his little fingers in the jam. Because he was leaning on the door, he couldn't get his fingers out. Because his hand was trapped, he couldn't get himself back on his feet. Three itty bitty fingertips were poking through, shattering my heart.

Oh, and a trail of pee ran behind me. Klassy.

It took me a few seconds to figure out how to open the door without knocking him down, but eventually I was able to scoop him up and rock him back and forth, pee running down my legs and pooling on the floor. (Upside: I have a housekeeper now! Downside: she's not due for 4 days. Ew.)

At this point my husband walked through the door.(Ha! Welcome home, Honey!) He immediately offered to take the baby, but Dawson was still whimpering and I didn't want to pass him off yet. So for about 2 more minutes I stood in the hall, pantless and soggy, humming  and rocking and kissing his fingertips. Another crisis averted.

Motherhood is beautiful, rewarding, unlinke anything else. Just check your dignity at the delivery room door.

The secret lives of babies

I found something very strange when I changed Dawson this morning.  A feather. A little, broken, yellow feather. It popped out of his PJs as I undressed him.  Let me make it clear that I was the one who bathed him last night, who got him into his PJs, and the only one who interacted with him all night. Big Bird was not in the picture at all.

What the hell?

These are new PJs that Dawson had only worn once before (the night before last, in fact) and I had washed them before that. They were no feathers in the wash, and it wasn't there when he wore them the night before. But suddenly this morning, there it was, in all it's feathery glory.

I can only come up with one explanation: Dawson is moonlighting as a Vegas-style show girl.

I should have known, he's been dancing a lot more lately. Leave the music channel on the TV and he'll be grooving with the best of them. Beyonce and the Black Eyed Peas are his current favourites, but he'll rock out at any opportunity, even to Michael Buble. You haven't lived until you've seen the baby bop done to the dulcet tones of everyone's favourite Canadian crooner.

He has also been walking more than crawling these days, which is completely understandable what with the increased agility and stamina dancing gives.  It all adds up. I blame myself. I sing show tunes to him all the time. How could he not yearn for the bright lights of the stage?

What I want to know is where are the tips?? If he's bringing in an income, dude can help pay for his formula. If I find a stash of wrinkled fives in his diaper bag you can bet The House is taking 20% off the top.