You know you're in the midst of parenting an infant when:
Your breasts can tell time as well as a swiss time piece (too much, but true, information).
Your laundry has more onesies and footies in it than underwear.
You keep on your sweatshirt because the spit up stain "isn't that big".
You always know where burp cloths, swaddle blankets, pacifers and bottles of myliccon are.
You determine that you must change your sweatshirt because five pools of spit up on a sweatshirt is just one too many.
You can do everything one handed, and not with your dominant hand.
Getting your teeth brushed and hair combed is the equivelent of being ready for the day.
Four hours of uninterrupted sleep seems like more than enough to tackle the world.
Your clothes have to be changed because you've been pooped on - again.
Your meals are eaten, or rather inhaled, in under six minutes even when dining in a restaurant sans children.
You don't realize that breast pads are stuck to your elbow - or your ass - until your preschooler informs you.
Leaving the house involves a overstuffed bag full of diapers, wipes, clothes, pull toys - all to be shoved in to the huge stroller that houses the heavy carseat.
Seventy two percent of your spousal conversations start with "When was the last time she ate?" or "Does she need to be changed?" or "What? She's crying." or "Hmmmm? I was sleeping.".
Your neighbors think you look dressed up because you're wearing jeans and a tee shirt instead of fleece pants and a hoodie.
Your carefully decorated house is peppered with bouncy and bumbo chairs, play mats and burp clothes and your furniture and carpets have spots of dried spit up on them.
You find your self instinctivly swaying and bouncing even when the baby you hear crying is not yours.
A good night out ends by 10 p.m. and yet it still feels fabulous.