There is a moment in parenthood when you surpass the foreignness of your post-kid existence and start to think: I’ve got this. You know, when you can fold the stroller without cursing; breastfeed in any number of public places; and survive outside your home for at least an hour armed with only a swaddle blanket, keys and $20.
These moments can fool you into complacency. It is often precisely when you think you’ve got this baby thing dialed that things get weird. The universe will not hesitate to send an exploding diaper your way just to remind you that parenthood is the most humbling (and profoundly messy) of human experiences.
But still, it feels good to be a gangsta. In addition to nursing while hiking Mt. Tam and staging our entire San Francisco apartment while my kids had hand, foot & mouth disease (and my husband was gone all week on business), these are my finest moments:
Mastering the tandem kid hold. (I pity the fool who pisses off the natives when everyone demands “Uppy!” at the same time.)
Mise en place avec Ergo Baby.
Two kids, one swing.
Snapping the elusive two-kid selfie.
Walking a mile-and-a-half roundtrip for preschool drop-off (and a coffee break) without waking the newborn. (Three weeks postpartum.)
In case you were wondering, my husband is also a ninja. Moscow mule? Check. Sleeping infant? Check.
Taking a newborn and a two year-old to a super hipster-y brunch joint. With an hour-long wait list. (We so crazy.)