SEVENTEEN MINUTES

It was three fifteen in the morning and I could hear the baby stirring in her bedside bassinet. It was almost time to change and feed her again. I sat up like I was an old school car window being cranked up. Thankfully, I had already pre-made a bottle and put it in the mini-fridge my husband conveniently turned into a nightstand for me as a baby shower gift, so all I needed were the diaper-changing essentials that I never seemed to prepare ahead of time.

I reached over to my mini-fridge-stand and started laying everything out so I’d be ready as soon as Amayah was ready for me. Diaper, check. Coconut oil to keep babygirl from chafing, check. Extra outfit in case she’d spit up or peed through her diaper, check; I hadn’t become a diaper changing professional yet, so sometimes we had accidents. And now all I needed were the wipes. The ones that seemed to have grown legs and walked away, because they were nowhere to be found.

Where, for the love of everything that is holy, were the baby wipes, I thought to myself. With one eye still closed, and the other barely able to open from the utter exhaustion the first seventy-two hours of parenthood had brought us, I blindly got up and started towards the bedroom door. I remembered hearing Jamontae in the living room with the baby earlier in the night, or had that been last night, or the night before? At this point, who even knows. Everything had become such a blur since becoming responsible for this tiny garbage disposal-like, cute and cuddly poop machine that was our daughter.

In the ten steps it takes to get to our bedroom door, I had already stepped on three pacifiers—we hadn’t had much luck finding one she liked for more than five minutes; nearly killed myself on a day-old bottle that definitely shouldn’t have been on the floor—unless my husband was secretly trying to kill me, which wouldn’t be surprising with the royal…loving wife and mother…that my exhaustion had obviously led me to be since the moment labor began; and almost ran straight into the door that I already knew was closed, because apparently mom brain makes you think you can now walk through walls.

Alas, the living room was in sight. But not before trekking through the war zone that was the kitchen. I dragged my anchors, I mean feet, across the cold cellulite-looking tiles the previous owner had so proudly handpicked for God knows what reason—my, I had really become a Positive Patty these days.

From the corner of my eye, the one that was slightly open, anyway, I caught a glimpse of what looked like two clear snakes fighting each other on my countertop. The way that both of my eyes shot wide open, I’m surprised they didn’t fall straight out of their sockets. I jumped back and rubbed them, rationally aware that this clear snake combat dance was a figment of my imagination, yet irrationally thinking I’d be putting my brand new Mama Bear skills to the test. I had once heard about a mother who lifted a car to save her trapped son, and truly prayed that my newbie Mama Bear skills would be comparable to this Wonder Woman, as I fought these clear snakes like some sort of Crocodile Hunter stunt. Before opening my eyes, I remember thinking why couldn’t this man bring the baby wipes back to the mini-fridge-stand?! Now I have to fight snakes…clear ones, at that!

I cautiously opened my eyes. This time, to a normal size. Praise God because I don’t think my eyeball sockets could handle another abrupt stretch.

To my pleasant surprise, and insult to my fragile postpartum mental state, the clear snakes were absolutely not snakes. They were simply unwashed tubing for my breast pump. Tubing that I could have sworn I cleaned earlier in the night. But apparently not. Apparently I had left them on the counter in an attempt to give myself a near-death experience at three thirty-two in the morning. The time was on the stove behind said “clear snakes”, which is the only reason I even remotely knew what time it was. If it wasn’t dark out, I probably wouldn’t even know if it were three thirty-two AM or three thirty-two PM.

After stepping on three pacifiers, tripping on a bottle, attempting to walk through my bedroom door, and fighting clear tube snakes…at three thirty-two AM…I still had no baby wipes. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom where the heck they could be and judging by how long this whole debacle was taking, I knew the baby would be up any second.

Finally it hit me like a ton of bricks. And so did the piercing sound of Amayah’s siren letting me know that seventeen minutes was more than enough time to fight imaginary snakes, almost die a few times, find her wipes, and be there to wipe her butt for her. The wipes had to be in the laundry room! With the endless amounts of clothes that needed to be washed. But that was a problem for another day. Right now, I just needed the wipes so my little alarm could be unarmed. Who knew such a tiny thing could make such ear shattering sounds.

I dashed for the laundry room as if my life depended on it (and also praying I didn’t encounter any more obstacles), lifted up a few of the onesies I’d used earlier that day, and TA-DA! There they were! I darted back to the bedroom thinking how pleasant it must be to have people at your beck and call, ready to fight snakes and break a foot, all just to wipe your butt and feed you a warm bottle. Boy oh boy does exhaustion and parenthood make your brain think about the craziest things.