That I can entertain thoughts like these even as I'm yanked off my feet by the undertow of powerful grief for the loss of babyhood and delicious infant snuggles- well, that's what raising a kid seems to be about.
But it does get easier after a year or so, and even easier after that, at least in the sense that you, the chief cook and bottle washer, have fewer bottles to wash.
Leaving the house: case in point.
When we leave the house with my four-year-old, we take my four-year-old.
When we leave the house with my infant, we take my infant. And a diaper bag stocked with at least five diapers, a pack of wipes, ready-to-eat formula, nipples and/or bottles for same, a portable changing bad, hand sanitizer, a blanket to shade the infant from the sun, an extra outfit in case of blowouts, a pacifier, a giant bucket carseat, and the ragged scraps of my sanity.
Eleven months.
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