I have been finding Facebook to be an invaluable resource when it comes to answering the myriad of questions Mike and I have about this whole parenthood thing, and we have crowdsourced solutions to a number of topics, including whether a rocking chair is really a necessity in the nursery (verdict:  it is) and how much time Mike should plan to take off when the baby arrives (answers ranged from a couple of days to actually going back in time to pick a different career so he could have the entire summer off with pay).  Last night I posted an innocent question about laundry (namely, how such tiny creatures could produce the mountains of laundry I keep hearing about) and, at time of writing, there are now 18 comments on that thread, all dealing with poop in some way. 

The discussion (which was both enlightening and horrifying) raged on even as I went to bed last night, so it was no surprise I dreamed about changing a very disgusting diaper that also required a costume change for the baby.  I sent Mike back to the closet to pick out something else for her to wear, and since it was 6:30 I figured she’d be going down for the night soon anyway, and instructed Mike to grab her some pajamas.  He came back over and over and over again with clothes that were decidedly NOT pajamas (jeans, dresses, and an adorable yellow outfit my Mom actually bought in real life and showed me last weekend) until I finally just went and DID IT MYSELF.

I have no idea where all of this came from, since Mike is a very smart man with a graduate degree and, as far as I know, the ability to tell the difference between a baby sleeper and a tiny pair of bedazzled jeans, but nonetheless it was very upsetting, as was the realization a few minutes later that the baby had arrived a few days prior and we had FORGOTTEN TO TELL ANYONE.  We got the word out somehow, and family started arriving in droves.  At one point, someone sneezed, and our wee little offspring, barely a few days old, actually said “Bless you!”  I commented that surely this was a sign that our baby was some sort of SUPER GENIUS, not just talking already but also understanding the social conventions surrounding the basic sneeze, and my mom patted my arm and said, “Now, honey, EVERYONE thinks their baby is the cutest or the smartest!”

At this point, the baby (the one in real life, not the one in my dream) kicked me right in the hip and I woke up, still feeling sort of panicked about the whole thing.  Thankfully, there was another comment on my Facebook thread that attempted to answer my laundry question with a different approach, involving the amount of effort required to fold pairs of tiny socks.  Anything that wears tiny socks can’t be that terrifying, right?