A Baby Has Trapped Me In My House
Parenting's latest challenge: getting past the driveway
It used to take me exactly one hour to get ready, from bed to heading out the door. Now, by the time I'm ready to leave the house, it's too late to do the thing I was going to do. I've all but given up trying. If I need something, I ask Josh, order it online, or convince myself I don't need it.
There's something kind of fun about being temporarily trapped indoors when it doesn't happen that often. I once loved rushing home after work in time to catch a local news broadcast where the TV meteorologist would grow hornier by the minute for an approaching snowstorm, relishing their time to shine. I rebuke the naming of winter storms, but I find amusement in The Weather Channel's newest silly hyperbolic branding ("bomb cyclone," "triple rabies tornado," "high-pressure vomit of Chuthulu"). I enjoy stocking up my pantry with the last can of pinto beans on the Trader Joe's shelves. My natural state is being wrapped in a blanket.
As long as the danger remains outdoors, inclement weather and I have had some good times.
My fifth grade teacher once handed out orange half sheets of paper announcing that there would be no school for the rest of the week because it was going to be too cold, and during those exciting days my siblings and I would pull Little House On The Prairie antics like throwing hot water into the air to see if it would turn into steam, or dumping maple syrup onto snow to see if it would turn into candy. As an adult, I'd make hot toddies and watch bad movies when I was done watching local weather. I'd experience the cozy joy of knowing that all of my plans had canceled themselves for me. "Rain check," I'd text to a person who I'd already rescheduled with twice and didn't really want to see anyway. And I'd press "play" on "Sleepless in Seattle," a romantic comedy that does not know it's about a hot stalker.
I once loved a good hunker down. Like most people, I wish my days of hunkering were behind me. But they're not. I'm more hunkered than I was even during the most paranoid days of the pandemic.
I know it's easy to blame the baby; she can't defend herself. It's both her fault and mine-- hers for being an endless fountain of need, mine for having a broken brain. Here's how a typical attempt to leave the house in the morning goes:
Wake up.
Feed baby. (20 minutes)
Keep baby upright so she doesn't throw it all back up. (20 minutes)
Change baby's diaper and dress her for the day. (10 minutes)
Set baby down somewhere she won't roll or throw herself off of. Put on clothes while reassuring the baby that you're not abandoning her forever. Nevertheless, she is outraged that she has been set down. (10 minutes)
Baby throws up. Search for burp cloth and console baby (5 minutes).
Change baby's clothes again. (5 minutes)
Brush teeth, use bathroom, slap a layer of sunscreen on face while baby yells about the injustice from her bassinet-- my bad; I know the first commandment is The Baby Shan't Ever Not Be Held. (10 minutes)
Check diaper to make sure she hasn't rage-peed. (1 minute)
Carry baby around while looking for purse, car keys, and cell phone. (10 minutes, should take 5 but you're doing it one-handed and the baby sometimes does that thing where she tries to backflip out of her parent's arms.)
Put baby in carrier (2 minutes)
Head out door. Baby starts crying. Rifle through baby bag for pacifier. Baby takes pacifier. Phew. (2 minutes)
Oh shit, forgot that thing I needed to bring. Set baby down. Run back to get thing. (1 minute)
Baby has rage-peed. Give up. (30 seconds)
"Can't your husband help?" Great question. He does his share, but until he sprouts his own mammary glands and gets a job with hours as flexible as that of a freelance writer and podcaster, the biological fact of our parenting arrangement is that the baby is more dependent on my physical presence than it is on his.
"Can't you hire a nanny?" Don't want to. I have decided that being around my daughter as much as I can during her first years of life are a priority, and the price of that is that it takes for-fucking-ever to do anything. I'm slowly getting better at remembering all of the rememberables, but I don't think I'll ever be up and out of the house in an hour again. At least until she's able to dress and feed herself.
Original Illustration by Jack Dylan