Life As a New Mom: The Tale of the Missing Car Keys

Does this whole “mommy” thing ever get any easier?

 Seriously—does it? If so, I’d like to know when. I’ll gleefully mark the date on my calendar; until then, I am living my life in an exhausted stupor. It’s as if the neurons in my brain just aren’t connecting properly, like a thick haze of extreme fatigue and general confusion have clouded my judgment, memory, and ability to form coherent thoughts.

Case and point: The Tale of the Missing Car Keys

I woke up to cloudy skies and rain. After uttering a few unmentionable things to my alarm clock, I got up and began my morning routine. I got ready for work and got Dolly (my daughter) ready for day care. I know that reads like a simple sentence, but there is so much work involved. I have to get dressed, wash, dry, and flat iron my hair, brush my teeth, and put on makeup all while attempting to entertain a still groggy and borderline fussy two-month-old… and then I start getting her ready: cleaning bottles, preparing bottles, feeding her, cleaning more bottles, changing diapers, changing her clothes, finding her car seat, getting her in her car seat…

 I am well into my morning routine when I notice it’s a bit chilly outside. I go to start my car so that the heater will have a chance to get things nice and toasty for little Dolly.

The moment I exit the car is the precise moment that the bottom drops out. I am caught in the downpour and totally drenched. I bolt back inside and begin the process of preparing myself for work all over again. Great way to start a Monday, right?

 I have Dolly nice and snug in her carseat and offer her a pacifier. BIG MISTAKE. In my early morning haste, I grabbed the wrong pacifier. We have at least fifteen pacifiers in our house—an array of makes and models: it’s like the baby aisle Wal-Mart when it comes to pacifier selection—because I wanted to be prepared. Lucky me: Dolly will only take one particular pacifier—ONE. Not one brand, not one color, but just ONE SPECIFIC PACIFIER (who, by the way, is referred to as Mister Paci).

 I scour the house in an attempt to locate Mr. Paci. Dolly is in official meltdown mode and screaming like a tiny banshee which concerns our two dogs who begin incessantly barking to inform me of the baby’s distress. After what felt like an eternity in a very loud hell, I find Mr. Paci in the floor of the hallway and quickly sanitize him and return him to (a still wailing) Dolly. She is comforted, and we’re finally ready to head out the door.

I get Dolly’s carseat secured into its base and then get into the car. It is then I think to myself: where are my car keys?

I check my purse, and they are not there. I check Dolly’s diaper bag: no car keys there. I am beginning to get upset. I locked the door when I left the house, so I can’t get back inside to look for my keys. A million different scenarios are running through my mind. How will I find the keys? How can I get back in the house? Do I leave the baby in the car while I look or do I bring her back out into the rain?

Where is my phone? Do I need to call a locksmith? Do I even know a locksmith? Let me turn the radio down so I can think... Oh, wait.

After a good three minutes of sheer panic, I realize I do not have to break into my own house to find my car keys because the keys are in the ignition of my car.

Which is running and has been for the past fifteen minutes. I have never been so relieved and humiliated at the same time.

So, please, tell me this whole “Mommy” thing gets easier. Or find me a personal assistant. And a chef. And a nanny. And a maid…