Once you become a parent, you say a lot of things you never thought you'd say. Like ever. And oh, the massive amounts of things you said you'd never DO, and then you GO OFF AND DO ALL OF THEM. So yeah, I was a bit surprised (horrified?) when I barked to my husband as he made his way to the deep freeze, "Stay outta my milk!" And he was all, "Geez, calm down, I wasn't going to touch your milk, okay?" Wow. Two sentences I never pictured exchanging in my marriage with my husband. But as all breastfeeding mothers in the universe can understand, that milk is like liquid gold...or diamonds...or something equally rare and finite in supply. That milk is precious, that milk is important, and that milk needs to be cataloged with care and attention to detail. Deep-freeze milk apparently lasts only 6 months. And by "lasts," I mean is "good for your baby according to Google or whatever." So, not unlike my other tendencies to organize and put things in order, I dated each bag of milk before putting it in the deep freeze, and when we actually started using the frozen milk, I organized it chronologically so we'd always be using the oldest milk first. Did that desire to use older milk first merit a weirdo "stay outta my milk!" statement? Probably not. But my husband loves me, and therefore puts up with my ticks. To varying degrees.
Like our cloth diapers. We have a wide variety of colors. When stuffing them (they're pocket diapers, to those who are cloth diaper pros), we put one insert in for "day" diapers and two inserts in for "night diapers." After a load is dry, I sit on the couch and stuff them. My lovely husband often asks if he can help and asks me to toss him a few to stuff. I always toss him supplies for the "night" diapers...and always in the same color. Not because we need to match the Baby's pajamas to specific diapers, but because that weird, irrational voice in my head says, "why have two differently colored night diapers when you could have matching ones?" Yes, that's exactly what I think. And I don't think it's weird until my husband points out that it is. And again the whole, "wow, I never thought I'd be saying that" feeling surfaces. In fact, that feeling makes an appearance at least daily.
I can tell you that I've said the word "vagina" more times in the six-ish months I've been a parent than collectively my entire life before that. Yes, as a woman, I have a vagina. All my girlfriends have vaginas. All my female relatives do. And yes, even my baby girl does. Whose fault it really is that I say that word so often. I can't help myself! I, who knows why, feel the need to narrate everything I'm doing when I'm with her. And now we're going to wipe your vagina with the baby wipe and get all the poop off! Next, Mama's going to put some cream on your vagina so it's not so irritated! My baby is currently in a grabby phase, and shoots her hand out to grab anything and everything she can. Which, yup, you guessed it, includes her vagina. Stop grabbing your vagina, little lady! Mama doesn't want you to hurt your vagina! And now I fear all traffic on this site will be a lot of disappointed people who just wanted to see pictures of vaginas. Sorry! What a great way to start the week!