Dolls and dogs don't make realistic babies

When I was a little girl, I had one goal in mind.  Well, two if you counted my desire to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.  I wanted to grow up and have a baby.  

I might have explored the cheerleading thing more if I could have gotten in some good practice.  But try as I might, I couldn’t convince anyone that pom-poms were imperative in achieving my goal.  What I would have given for a pair of those little white boots with tassels.  I asked my parents; I even asked Santa Claus, but no such luck.   Not that pom-poms or boots possessed the power to change my life, in retrospect.   I've never been athletically inclined - which loosely translates into the fact that if it requires running, jumping, bending, throwing or anything remotely physical, really, I'm not good at it.  Plus, my young body never exactly morphed into Dallas Cowboy cheerleader material. 

 

I did, however, find ways to get hands-on experience for my main life’s aspiration.  When my baby sister was born, I'd turned five years old a few months prior.  We didn’t actually get off to a good start because my mom decided the day of kindergarten round-up was the perfect time to go to the hospital to get the baby from behind a closet door (because that’s where the hospital kept the babies, after all).  Yet, I became more intrigued by babies as the days passed, and wherever my sister was, I wasn’t far behind.  I needed to learn all I could about this mothering thing. 

While my sister was getting a sponge bath, I noticed something peculiar about her belly.  There was a raisin on it, and I told my mom as much.  She laughed and said something about a cord and that it was normal.  I never knew babies were plugged in while in the hospital closets, so this was all news to me.  It piqued my interest even more.   

Thought, it didn’t take long before I grew bored following my mom around trying to help take care of the baby.  There was little satisfaction in watching what she did.  Occasionally, Mom would let me hold her, but mainly, my mom and I didn't have the same idea of what constituted help. Nothing would have made me happier than to change a diaper, rock her, give her a bottle, or even give her a bath in the sink.  Thankfully, my mom had my baby sister's best interest at heart and didn't have a great amount of trust in my abilities.  She trusted me to watch my baby sister to ensure she didn't roll off the bed so long as I promised not to try to pick her up and carry her.  Beyond that, I wasn't getting much practice in this mothering thing.  I needed my own baby.  

I loaded up an old purse with all the things a baby needed – a bowl, spoon, bottle, blanket, and a roll of Lifesavers.  Okay, so the Lifesavers were for me.  I dragged my diaper bag and favorite baby doll wherever we went.  From the back of the station wagon, I nearly drove my mother insane in my quest to be a good mom.   

“What time is it?”  I asked. 

“Five minutes since the last time you asked me,” she said.   

“I just wanted to know if it was time to feed my baby.”   

It seemed to me that it was important to stay on a schedule, and since my baby didn’t cry to let me know she was hungry or wet, I had to rely on my mom’s time telling skills.   

I even talked my mom out of one of my sister’s diapers.  It proved to be frustrating because back then, diapers gave you one shot.  Once you peeled back the tabs, there was no resticking.  I grew even more discouraged that Mom wouldn’t give me more.  "Stop taking it off," she told me. 

 

How could I check if the diaper needed changed if I didn't take it off?  She didn't understand the importance of honing my mommy skills.  I finally commandeered some diaper pins and cloth diapers, which wasn't hard since she was often distracted by caring for a newborn.  Mom wasn’t too pleased when once clean diapers ended up in the laundry soaking wet after I’d dipped the “soiled” ones into the toilet like I’d seen her do.    

This baby of mine wasn’t nearly as interactive as I would have liked.  It wasn't one of those high-tech versions that cried, took a bottle, crapped itself from pretend food, or even said random things like "I want another drink of water" or "I'm sleepy."  The winging it thing was mind-numbing.  How was I supposed to know what to do next with no context clues?  I did the next logical thing in motherhood training.  I moved onto my grandparent's Chihuahua. 

 

He was nervous by nature like most dogs of his breed.  He didn't necessarily need to be scared to shake like a leaf or piss all over the place.  That came naturally for him.  When he saw me coming with the doll clothes and diaper bag, he wasn’t shaking because he was overjoyed at the prospect of being the baby.  I’d swaddle him and rock him, which did anything but comfort him because he'd pee all over his dress and receiving blanket.   

My grandma was a better sport than my mom, and she let me handwash his delicates that he’d piddled all over.  Once he’d wet all the clothes I had that fit him, I would release him from my clutches until his dresses and blankets were dry on my makeshift clothesline.   

I’d start all over again, and he’d pee all over the place again.  It started to get a little like work, and not so much like fun.  Who knew motherhood could be like that?  I hoped most babies didn't nip at one's face while you sang "Rock-a-bye-baby."  When he bared his teeth and growled at me while I was trying to teach him to patty cake, I realized dolls and dogs didn’t make realistic babies.  I’d have to wait until I grew up, had a real baby that cried when she was hungry, and hopefully, didn’t try to maul me. 

 

Of course, that was eons ago when I played mom.  After raising two sons into adulthood, I suspect it's too late to go after that other goal of mine.  That's likely for the best, and I'm okay with only obtaining one of my life's main goals considering I never learned to do a cartwheel.