I'm considered a "geriatric" parent and I have some things to say to you, Susan.
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At almost forty I had a baby. As a card carrying member of the geriatric parenting team this is what we want you to know:
We absolutely hate the term geriatric.
Hate. It. Seriously Google “geriatric-” I'll wait. Nothing about getting old inspires confidence about cultivating another human being for the next eighteen years, Susan. Nothing. Listen, I guarantee you we are just as surprised as you to find the sun is setting on our thirties while we stare down two pink lines in the third bathroom stall of the local Walmart supercenter, but here we are and dammit if we aren't kind of attached to the little bugger already, but I digress.
We don't want a Nose Frida.
Listen to me closely when I say this, we have several generations of younger children that have survived the blue bulb syringe thingy. We like it. It's totally doable and you don't have to suck out a thing. Listen to me. A. Thing. Just run some warm soapy water through it after you use it and spoiler alert store it upside down. Susan, your life has never tasted less salty. I guarantee it.
You can have our disposable diapers when you pry them from our cold dead fingers.
Most of us live with an entire generation of people who have plagued our lives with stories about when cloth diapers were the ONLY option. They can tell you things. Things that will change you. Do you want to hear about the time that my mom's diaper bucket fell over and coated her carpet in a Willy Wonka River of regret? Well, do ya? I didn't think so.
We are team Gerber.
Once you reach the toddler stage, they will literally pluck a McNugget from the darkest crevasse of their Graco Click Connect and wash it down with that long lost miracle cup of curdled milks before you can Google salmonella so believe me when I tell you that apples and chicken are the least of your worries. You'll even get to poop more often, spending less time in front if your Baby Ninja. It will be so great.
We buy used clothes.
Nothing feels better after your infant blasts a gravity defying poop up the back of that cutie shmootsie onesie than THROWING IT AWAY because it was three for a dollar. My soul costs more. I know. I priced it on Etsy. It will never come out and the time you spend trying you could be sleeping or summoning the priests required to vanquish that odour, which is time you can NEVER have back.
We are 100% here for you.
We have teens so we know how painfully freaking short this time can be, BUT we ALSO have a baby so we are also right behind you ordering that venti double shot in the drive thru line because you have lost the will to put on actual pants. If anyone gets it we do, and our soul has a fierce aching for more friends who get it and shamelessly refuse to use their mouths to suck mucus out of a baby's nose. We are your closest ally.
Your baby will be fine.
As long as they have a warm and nurturing consistent caregiver breast, bottle, person in a fur covered suit that emits body temperature (scientifically proven btw) they will be FINE All they really need is to know that they are loved, a little Gerber chicken and apple and maybe for someone to use that blue syringe thingy on their nose boogies.
Which age old parenting practices have you found yourself incorporating?