The Pitter-Patter of Little Feet

July 22, 2009 by attic4fester  
Published in Motherhood

I used to have a beautiful, very expensive bottle collection I had amassed over the years. After years of marriage and motherhood, I now refer to it as my beautiful broken glass collection.

My mommying technique has changed considerably with time.  Take the bottle for example.  When my oldest would drop her bottle, I would rush to run the nipple under scalding hot water before giving it back to her.  When her little sister dropped her bottle, I would rinse it off under the cold tap.  When her brother dropped his, I would wet my fingers and wipe the nipple off between them.  When the next one would drop his, I would hold it up to light to see if there were any hairs long enough to warrant picking off.  With my youngest?  Hey, who couldn’t use a little extra fiber in their diet?

As a parent, I find myself doing a great many things I never imagined myself doing before my children were born.  I was one of those people who would never use the same fork or spoon as anyone else or take a drink from a cup that had been sipped out of by someone else.  Oh boy, have I changed my ways.  Now when I take a drink and there aren’t little things floating in it, it actually tastes funny.   These little floaters are known in our house as geebs.  It is also used as a verb in sentences like, “She geebed in my drink.”  I don’t remember conjugating that one in school, but it’s possible – I geeb, you geeb, they geeb…  Children, at least my children, are not terribly particular about what they drink or from what.  Anyone’s glass is fair game.  And I use the term “glass” out of habit more than anything else.  It’s a carryover from my single days when I actually owned glasses.  Wake up and welcome to parenthood.  I now buy those plastic tumblers.  I can’t replace everything with a polymer resin substitute, but I do what I can.  I was taken in by the “pitter-patter of little footsteps” trap.  It’s their selling point.  Babies have a great marketing strategy.  After being a parent this long, I cringe at the sound, knowing a question beginning with “Mommy, can I…”  can’t be far behind.  Now when I hear the pitter-patter of little footsteps, I pray it’s mice.

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