A is for acne. Who is showing off their one month old to friends who ooh and ahh over it? I’m keeping mine holed up in a belltower Quasimodo style because until he hits like 8 weeks his face is gonna look like puberty hit him with a sledgehammer.
B is for bilirubin. This is a thing that matters. If your kid isn’t Pizza Face McGee, he may end up looking like Pac Man instead.
C is for caterpillar nipples. This is the only way to describe what happens to your nipples when you breastfeed a ravenous newborn like, twenty hours a day. Have you ever seen that episode of Tosh where the weird masseuse guy has those giant, weirdly long nipples? He’s got nothing on you.
D is for dead skin rolls. Every now and then you take off those baby oven mitts your little one has been wearing because you’re wayyy too scared to cut his nails and wish you hadn’t. He’s shedding skin like a snake and it’s all rolling up and bunching between his fingers and it’s gray and it’s gross and it’s incumbent upon you to pull it off because you’re the parent and why didn’t anyone ever warn me about this?! [We just did. You’re welcome.]
E is for erection. There’s not much you look forward to being greeted by when changing a diaper less than a big ol’ blowout. A baby erection is one of those things.
F is for Frida Baby. You da real MVP. I want to find Frida and kiss her.
G is for getting pooped on. Like, constantly. The cold air hits that butthole and it’s anchors away, my boy!
H is for hands that smell, bizarrely and pungently, like cheese. What? How? You’ve never even seen cheese. But OMG you smell so cheesy. It’s a mystery.
I is for is this normal? If by that you mean “do all other babies do this?” then yes -it’s all normal. But it’s still weird AF.
J is for just bend your legs already so I can get these adorable effing footie pajamas on you already! Damn.
K is for koala baby. Wanna take a poo by your lonesome? Too bad. You’ve acquired a [very cute] barnacle that refuses to do anything but cling to you in desperation.
L is for Lamaze. Who are those suckers kidding? There’s nothing you can do to trick yourself into enjoying labor. But I hear those classes have snacks, so you should go anyway.
M is for Moro. The cutest of the reflexes.
N is for nipple zits. It’s a big ol’ whitehead right on the tip of your baby’s nipple. It’s gross.
O is for outie. Find the doctor whop clamped that cord and bring him to me. Someone must pay.
P is for padsicle. Aloe vera and witch hazel all frozen into a giant overnight pad? Yes please; I’ll take twelve. Your netheryaya will thank you.
Q is for questions. I have so many. But WebMD pretty much keeps telling me that my kid is gonna die when I ask innocent questions like why he smells like cheese, so I’m not allowed to Google anything anymore.
R is for rectal thermometer. Because you’ll convince yourself he’s got a fever at least twice a day. So go ahead, get comfortable with sticking things in your kid’s butt.
S is for spit up. So. much. spit up.
T is for tears. Where you at? It’s creepy and sad to watch this misshapen little nugget wail with no salty payoff to add to the drama.
U is for unsolicited advice. Your mom has it. The neighbor has it. That random hipster who is literally always at Starbucks has it. Guess what? They all think you’re doing it wrong.
V is for vagina. I hardly knew ye. RIP.
W is for waist. Remember when you had one? Now you’re pretty much just a corndog with legs and hair [except all your hair is falling out, too].
X is for the rating of the sex life you used to have. [Which is why you now have a baby, which is why you have no sex life. Ahhh, the circle of the life.]
Y is for yes, I would like a mimosa. Because babies.
Z is for zzzzzzzzz. Goodbye forever, sleep.