Oobi…oobi, oobi, oobi,oobi,oobi, ooo-ooobi. He’s got alot to see. He’s got alot to do and he’s always with you…
Are you feeling my pain yet? Do have any idea how hard it is to get the damn Oobi song out of my head? For those of you who aren’t parents of small children, you probably are wondering who in the bleeding hell Oobi is. Well, let me tell you. He’s a tv show. Uh-huh. On the Noggin channel. Bet most of you didn’t even know there was such a beast. Yep. The Noggin channel. Great thing- educational kids programs, no commericials. Brilliant. But then came Oobi.
I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself, “Oobi must be some new cartoon.” Bzzzz. Wrong. Oobi. Oh Oobi. He’s a hand. With eyeballs. And he has a sister, Uma. And a GrandPoo. And a best friend named Kako. And they’re all hands. With eyeballs. And an occasional bow or other decorative item. Some of the hands have hair. I’m hoping they’re wigs (they’re about as realistic as William Shatner’s hairpiece…actually, maybe more realistic) Really, it’s not a bad show (although Josh hasn’t shown any interest in sitting down to watch an episode with his daughter) but the song. Ohhh…the song won’t leave my head. It’s all I’ve been able to hum, sing, or mutter for the last week.
Suddenly, now that I’m Brianna’s Mommy, I’m not singing some cool new rap song. Nooooo….I’m singing Oobi. Of course, it could be worse. I could be stuck on the Barney song.
I realized today that I haven’t even looked at Brianna’s baby book. She is going to be the only child on the planet not to know the date that she first laughed, first rolled over, first said Mama.
Okay, well, she’s not going to be the only child, but shouldn’t I be wildly enamored with the idea of recording my child’s every occasion? If I really loved my baby girl, the light of my life, my little monkey, wouldn’t I be waiting, pen in hand, for her to commit her next act of brilliance? (Which, if I’m being perfectly honest, is of course, about every five minutes.) Wouldn’t I have remembered to write down every detail of her first Thanksgiving, her first Christmas, the first time she pooped all over me?
Sadly, I think my child is doomed to live with a mommy who is, at times, mildly disorganized when it comes to certain things. Like organizing pictures, saving toenail clippings, and catching stray eyelashes as they fall from her eyes 😉 I promise myself every day that I’m going to find time for that, I’m going to get started on that baby book. Tomorrow. Right after Oobi.
For those of you who don’t have a MIL, you might be wondering what “IT” is. For those of you who do have a MIL, you probably don’t want to read any further. I wouldn’t want to dredge up bad memories and recurring nightmares.
No really, I think my MIL – her name is Susanne but seeing as how this is a public blog, I probably shouldn’t name her by name *snicker*- is a delightful woman. Most of the time. But I liked her better when I was just plain Angie or Josh’s girlfriend. Yeah. I liked her alot better before I became Brianna’s Mommy. And she’s not the first MIL I’ve had so I know how MIL’s work and I like her much more than the previous model (we won’t even go there) but she is one of the few people in this world who can send me into an absolute tizzy with just a look. See, I’m telling you. The Mother-In-Law has it.
I finally decided after much debate back and forth that I was going to attend the RT convention. Without my daughter. I’m going to leave her in the….errrr….capable hands of her father. And my MIL. It’s only for four days (really there will only be two days where she won’t see me at all), she’ll be eating a combination of solid foods and breastmilk by then, and I figure I can survive for just that long without her. And, of course, my MIL is beside herself with joy that she’ll get the baby to herself (technically there are 5 other people that live in that house so she’ll have to share the joy) for 8 hours a day for several days in a row.
So, I’m thinking “yay. Let’s buy the plane ticket. Sign me up for the companion pass. I’m going to St. Louis to sit on Charlie’s lap and to stroke Sire Don’s floggers.” Uh-huh. Then the MIL did it. She told me she thinks Brianna should start spending a whole day with her every week. To get to know them (forget the fact that the girl is there 3-4x a week for several hour stretches) After all, Brianna’s Mommy, “she’s going to be traumatized enough not having you around. We wouldn’t want to traumatize her more.”
Anything after that was heard like the teacher in the Peanuts cartoons…”muahmuah muah muah muah….muah muahmauh”
So now I’m convinced that I’m going to scar my daughter for life if I leave her for 4 days to selfishly persue something that’s just for me. I saw it in my MIL’s face. I heard it in her voice as she expresssed disbelief that I was going. And the message came through loud and clear when I was informed that she was going to be traumatized. I’m surprised she didn’t tell me to start looking for therapists for my daughter now, because she’s clearly going to need them with a Mommy like me.
Now who’s traumatized?
Yes, with that sentence, my MIL sent me right back to square one and into indecision. I don’t believe anyone else could have done that. She’s a crafty woman, my MIL. But her evil plan went awry. Because she’s not getting my .5 for a whole day a week (that’s a whole other blog though) and now…well, she’s probably not getting Brianna for 4 days either. Because as soon as I can convince myself that doing something fun and leaving my daughter is a good idea and won’t cost me thousands of dollars when she’s 15 and telling her therapist “it’s all because my mom went to St. Louis to hang out with the other Playmates when I was just a small, defenseless, needy six month old. No, not Hugh Hefner’s playmates. Who’s Hugh Hefner? Charlie’s Playmates. No, not the guy from Charlie’s Angels. Dumbass. He’s not a real person. Charlie. You know, the guy that’s married to that famous author Jaci Burton.Can we talk about ME now? Sheesh. You adults are all the same.” Yeah, as soon as I can convince myself my daughter won’t be having that conversation with her therapist, Josh is going to take vacation days so HE can have 4 days with his daughter.
And for those of you who are still wondering what “IT” is, you clearly don’t have a MIL. Or you are one yourself and you’ve blanked all this out so as not to disrupt your evil powers.
When did it happen that I became not Angie, not Josh’s girlfriend (or now wife), but Brianna’s Mommy? I have, until recently, had my own identity, my own job….and hey, Josh and I were the only ones with free access to my nipples.
But I’ve noticed a new trend when I see old friends, talk to my dad, get a phone call…everyone wants to know how Brianna’s doing. What she’s doing. Heck, they even want to know what she’s wearing. Run into someone you know in the mall and they immediately head for the baby and begin talking to her. This child who, being only three months old, is about as likely to start conversing back as I am to write a book (well, all things are possible so I needed to pick something that wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibilities!) I’m just the ornamental, purely decorative object holding her 🙂
And to top it all off, I’ve lost the rights to my purse (perfume has been replaced by diaper cream, lipstick and spare make-up by a zipper bag to hold the poopy clothes. Yeah that’ll come in handy on date night), I’ve lost all self-consciousness (well, most) about showing my boobs in public. Used to be I would only flash my boobs for beads at Fat Tuesday bars or for beer while tubing down the river in Arizona. Now you can get a free show any time Brianna wants. And we won’t even talk about who has the better wardrobe.
So, when did my identity morph? No one warned me when I got pregnant (even if that was an accident) that I might as well change MY birth certificate to read Brianna’s Mommy. I guess I’m just lucky I didn’t name her Gertrude. Or Petunia. Or Apple.