Month 8: Jealous Again

We have a Diaper Bandit in the house. Several times now, when we’re all downstairs watching TV or eating dinner, someone has sneaked into the baby’s room, pulled a diaper out of the trash, and shredded it all over the carpet. I have a sneaking suspicion about who the culprit might be – a certain scruffy, four-legged, jealousy-riddled mutt, perhaps?

Gracie is not allowed in the baby’s room. She wouldn’t dare step a paw over the threshold when we’re upstairs. And she’s not really the destructive type. (Several stacks of junk mail and a pair of C.’s glasses notwithstanding.) So what’s going on? Gracie’s been bitten by the green-eyed monster. All the smooches, baby talk, walks, and other positive attention that used to be lavished on her is now bestowed on the small fuzzy-headed interloper who came out of nowhere 8 months ago.

Gracie used to be allowed up on the bed for the occasional snuggle. Now Miles has taken over her spot. She used to get daily walks. Now she’s too rambunctious to handle with the stroller, so she’s usually left at home. We used to take her to the dog park every weekend. Now trips to the tot lot take precedence. It’s no wonder she’s got it in for Miles. Or at least his diapers, anyway.

I’d like to think I’m more evolved than an animal who once fell face-first into a duck pond. But I’m no stranger to jealousy. (Or is it envy? I never could understand the difference.) Just recently, when my parents came to visit my newborn niece, but we couldn’t go because Miles had the teeniest hint of a cold, I felt a twinge of unpleasantness. And there it was again when the cute bookstore clerk completely ignored me but lit up like Times Square at the perky pair of college girls behind me in line. (Even when my butt did look like that in tight jeans, I was too self-conscious to wear them.)

If I’m totally honest with myself, there are actually quite a few things that incite envy in me:

I’m jealous that my friends with baby girls can buy cute clothes in colors other than baby blue, navy blue, brick red, army green, or burnt orange, and that they can dress their offspring in outfits that don’t feature sports logos or heavy machinery.

I’m jealous of people whose houses are cleaner and better furnished than mine.

I’m jealous of people who can afford to shop at Anthropologie regularly.

I’m jealous of people who have family nearby (read: free babysitters) and can go out on regular date nights without breaking the bank.

I’m jealous of my neighbors whose baby was sleeping through the night at 7 weeks.

I’m jealous of other married-with-a-baby couples who have sex more than we do. (You can just tell, OK?) But not as jealous as I am of other couples who get more sleep.

I’m jealous (or is it suspicious?) of couples who say they never fight.

I’m jealous of people my age who are already super-successful in their careers.

I’m jealous of people who excel at a sport. (A REAL sport, not badminton or archery or something lame.)

I’m jealous that I didn’t write this book, from a mom’s perspective.

I’m jealous of people who change the world. (Oprah: enough already! You’re making the rest of us look bad.)

I’m jealous of people who are completely confident in who they are.

But, you know, being jealous is really a huge waste of time and energy. And those are two things a busy mom can’t afford to squander. My time’s better spent cuddling my darling baby boy. And cleaning up those shredded diapers on his floor ...