I’d love to tell you that the face above is the face of our child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, but if you believed that, I’d also have a bridge to sell you and let you know that the word “gullible” isn’t in the dictionary.
The truth of the matter is, eventually babies stop being the 23-hour-a-day sleeping, pooping, eating, sleeping, pooping, eating, occasionally crying, pooping eating machines and start to become slightly functional human beings. But it’s that “slightly” that makes it tough.
For some reason, we’ve been calling our child NPP around the house. For anyone that knows our family, you know that we have a dog and that there’s a good chance you don’t know our dog’s actual name. MOMPC and I have about 100 nicknames for Dirk (his actual name) but seldom call him the same name twice. NPP, or “Noah Pants Potato” as he’s been dubbed, is just one of our son’s nicknames.
The newest addition to that group, however, is FPP. What does FPP stand for? Fussy Pants Potato.
It seems like kids start growing, and when they start growing, they need more food. Because they eat more food, they poop and pee a lot more.
Point in case: The other night I had just finished feeding NPP (we’ve started introducing bottle feeding) and I decided, per the rumblings down below, that he needed his diaper changed. Diaper #1 was removed, NPP was cleaned up, and I placed diaper #2 into the “ready position”. It was at this point that NPP made eye contact with me, and as if it was through some sort of telepathic Daddy/Baby ESP, let me know that a warning shot was coming, and I should probably get Diaper #2 a bit closer.
Diaper #3 joined up with NPP’s butt shortly after that, and that was the story of how we went through three diapers in 45 seconds.
But that point aside, we seem to have hit the point in our son’s life where he knows he needs something, but because he’s yet to master the English language (a point that continues to disappoint me), he has absolutely zero way of telling us what he needs. This then becomes some sort of confusing game of cat and mouse, where one cry could mean, “I’m rolling in my own poop” and the next could mean, “I don’t like the way your lights look on that stupid tree”. Honestly, it’s easier figuring out what’s wrong with MOMPC when she says everything is “fine” than it is trying to figure out what’s wrong with NPP. Or FPP.
I guess this is just another dot on the map to becoming a parent, huh?
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