An Open Letter From Your First Friend to Have a Baby

Dear Friend,

Last week when you shared that article, "21 Baby Photo Overshares," I couldn't help but feel like your post was directed at me. I am, after all, the first of our friends to have a baby. And you did post it on my wall.

Yes, my life has changed dramatically, but my life is not a comment on your life. If I occasionally ask if you want to have kids someday, I'm not trying to be a nag or judge your life choices. I just want to be able to talk to you about the changing consistency of my baby's poop without you thinking I've joined a suicide cult. This sh*t is important to me. And I mean that literally.

While we're on the subject, I know it seems like the only thing I'm capable of talking about is my baby. I get how annoying that must be. But I need you to understand that I've spent every waking hour with this guy since he arrived. And I only sleep about four hours a night now, so the waking hours really add up. My only reprieve is a five-minute shower once a week, twice if I'm lucky. (Sorry if I smell like sh*t. Again, literally.)

Seriously, let's put this in perspective: I started with an egg and my husband's best swimmer and built a human being. Inside my body. In only nine months. And now I'm adding pounds to his weight every week, again, using just my body.

I'm a godd*mn superhero and my baby is magic.

If that doesn't deserve more than a passing mention at your dinner party — which, by the way, Greg-"I-just-bought-a-little-fixer-upper-in-Santa-Monica" totally monopolized — then I don't know what does.

Alright, I promise to cut down on the baby talk (though that will limit my life updates to what I thought of last week's SNL clips) if you promise to invite me out more often. Just because I have a baby doesn't mean I don't want to go out.

Granted, I probably can't go out because you're going to a bar and my baby isn't allowed inside. (And before you ask, yes, I would totally be the woman holding a Manhattan and a baby at the bar if that was allowed in California.) But I don't want to be a hermit, and I miss hanging out with you. The best times to meet up for me are 6 a.m. to 4 p.m. on weekends, ideally at my place. Cool?

When we do hang out, you don't have to stare at the ground while I breastfeed. I'm not going to use a cover because ugh. But don't worry — the baby's giant head covers most everything. And if you catch a glimpse, I honestly don't care. After you've had eight different people poke and prod your vagina for 12 hours — not to mention the ninth little person who shoves his massive noggin right on through — nothing is sacred anymore.

And please stop asking me how the baby is sleeping. Why does everyone insist on asking this? His sleep is terrible. My sleep is terrible. Everything about sleep is terrible. Come up with a new ice-breaker. Ask what makes him laugh or about the stupidest parenting advice I've received. I promise we'll both enjoy the conversation so much more.

Just one last request: Let me complain a little bit about my baby without you gawking like I kicked a puppy. Being a mother has a lot of amazing ups, but it also has some serious downs, especially in the first few months. This sh*t is hard. (Not literally this time.) And it would help to have friends I could talk to honestly about it.

Then we should talk about the Jeremy Renner look-a-like you've been boffing for the last few months. I still really want to talk about that, too.

Your friend with a baby

P.S. Sorry about any typos. I typed most of this one-handed with a baby on my boob. I know you think that's gross, but you once called me from the toilet, so . . .