It takes a few months to settle in and get to know and understand a new daughter, work at which I have been diligent since, oh, before her arrival. And now that it’s been a tad over three months I feel confident in stating that I will keep her. That said, there are some parts of The New Daughter that I have felt to be challenging.
There’s no question that The New Daughter brings with her innumerable joys: that moment when she first laughs when carrying her in her car seat and she bumps up against your leg somewhat violently, but she likes it and you’re thinking “okay, kid, you’re gonna love roller coasters”; when she looks at you and arches her eyebrows, smiles, then scrunches her face and looks away in such abject joy that you know if she could articulate it she’d say “I JUST CAN’T FUCKING HELP MYSELF I LOVE YOU!!!!”
There is, however, all the puke.
The New Daughter pukes all the time. Most of it is what moms tenderly refer to as “spit up,” but let’s not fools ourselves: it’s puke. She pukes on herself, on me, on her mother, on the floors, on her car seat, on her “Bouncy Thing,” on the dining room table, on her changing table, in her crib. Due to voracious puking the New Daughter goes through approximately 6-7 outfit changes per day. I am, at this point, somewhat immune to the puke. I get puked on, and I’m like, “There’s puke on me whatever.”
One must balance the puking against The New Daughter’s obvious and absolute reverence for The Old Daughter. One looks on The New Daughter with love, knowing that a limited window exists wherein The New Daughter will reciprocate said love, as her own existence will soon forever become absorbed by hers and the Old Daughter’s collective judgmental thoughts and commentary about you and the other parent’s behaviors/habits/living conditions/lifestyles/aesthetic choices/&c. However, The New Daughter’s current adoration is adorable and fills you and the other parent with some feeling like the aforementioned, what the textbooks describe as “love.”
The texts of The New Daughter are as varied as “oooooaaaaaahhhhhhwwhhhoooopppp,” and ” … ” But don’t let the subtext fool you; she’s calculating the time for manipulation plus love divided by devotion, multiplied by a factor of 2 and algorithmed out until your inevitable death.
And that last bit might not come—surprise!—as soon as you once thought it would, when you were in your twenties. SCIENCE suspects that offspring enhance your living cells’ longevity.
Prosper.
Tags: dads, jamie iredell, parenting, the butter
Awww, congratulations (and lol).
One note, from a mom of an also-puking baby daughter — turned out my bean had reflux, and life was immeasurably improved by a little bit of oral medication that stopped her ralphing so much. There’s spit up, and there’s whoa-really-way-too-much-spitup, it was even affecting my kid’s ability to gain weight. Maybe keep a record of the number of upchucks and show your doc next time you’re in!
All the best!
I feel like maybe the Toast decided to publish this to make us all feel a bit better after “Drunk-entitled-dad-gate” and I am deeply appreciative.
What was “Drunk-entitled-dad-gate”?
I don’t understand. A male parent doing “baby work”? Clearly the author’s wife must be an Irish novelist (of all things) without any younger siblings or maternal instincts. Frightening, really.
I don't understand. A male parent doing "baby work"? Clearly the author's wife must be an Irish novelist (of all things) without any younger siblings or maternal instincts. Frightening, really.
Immunity to puke is very helpful in life. And your daughter is already smart. She’s getting you to get her more clothes already so that she can vary her outfits. Because she’s classy.
All that puke, leading to all those loads of tiny laundry? Watch out. Make sure the tiny socks are contained with a mesh bag or something.
Because speaking from Nieceling Experiences, the expulsion of fluids is in fact an elaborate ploy to make you buy a new washing machine.
(Alternate lesson title: several hours, pairs of chopsticks, pliers, and scissors later, a team of 3 adults retrieve the tiniest-ever sock from a washing machine pump, thus saving the Nieceling’s Brand New Parents a good deal of money in washing machine repair and water damage.)
All that puke, leading to all those loads of tiny laundry? Watch out. Make sure the tiny socks are contained with a mesh bag or something.
Because speaking from Nieceling Experiences, the expulsion of fluids is in fact an elaborate ploy to make you buy a new washing machine.
(Alternate lesson title: several hours, pairs of chopsticks, pliers, and scissors later, a team of 3 adults retrieve the tiniest-ever sock from a washing machine pump, thus saving the Nieceling's Brand New Parents a good deal of money in washing machine repair and water damage.)
Did I write this accidentally and forget about it?
Twelve weeks, and ALL THE PUKE. I never needed a category of “enough puke to be worth changing my clothes before”. I naively assumed that ANY puke would be a reason to change one’s clothes. Now, not so much.