Hidden Warnings

It should be in bold print right on the stick and on the packaging: Warning! But then again, it would be too many warnings for that tiny thing, and the packaging would have to be a Bible-thick book of warnings. But the pregnancy test says nothing at all. I never got any warnings. It was all wonderful sunshine and roses. But here is the truth. Anyone wanting to have a baby: here is your sign and your quick guide to “What to really expect when you are expecting.”

And They’re Off

Right out of the gate, you will be able to experience the joys of tender nips. Yup, I said it, and no one else will. Come to find out, nursing makes them irritated and angry all day long. Oh, they will give you remedies after the fact: salves, cocoa butter, and a slew of witchery, but it doesn’t go far enough to soothe something that is constantly being used and abused. A baby can literally suck a bowling ball through a straw, and that has this small downside.

Wise sages may tell you to use a loofah on them every time you shower while you are pregnant, but have you ever done that? It’s like using 60-grit sandpaper on the tender tissue under your eye. Yes, it is that brutal. I am fairly sure the Gulag uses it as torture, but we women are supposed to embrace this aspect of the wonderful world of motherhood.

Incoming!

I know an image comes to mind with that word: incoming! But it is so much more interesting and amusing than the image you are getting. You are probably thinking of toy projectiles flying all over the place, but that is not the projectile I am talking about.

Flying poo! Flying pee! That is the danger. Yes, that beautiful bundle of joy will baptize you, or, if you are lucky, someone else, with the two liquids at the most unexpected and inconvenient time.

My first experience with this was one day while I was visiting my sister, who had just had a baby. She was dealing with postpartum depression, so I would go over and help her take care of the baby while she got her hormones back in order. I was changing my nephew’s diaper while we were watching television, and he wizzed right at my face. Yes, you guessed it. It hit the target. Score! A direct hit!

A baby’s capacity for suction is only matched by how far that little thing can hit the target without flinching. It’s like a drone at midnight, too. You will never hear it coming. But there is an added bonus, too.

The grin! The grin a baby gives you, once he has done it, is akin to someone who has beaten you in a game you didn’t know you were playing, knowing he was cheating the entire time and not getting caught. My nephew gave me the biggest and best Elvis impersonation I have ever seen. I mimicked it for others for years, but clearly I couldn’t channel the rock legend the way a newborn did. He was a wicked little thing.

In addition, my sister broke out in a pee-inducing laugh as well, which was a good thing, but the victim had to shower off the toxic fuel from her face. Wait, I am not done.

Baby Pollack

Congratulations! You have given birth to an artist, a painter. His canvas? The diaper and you. Oh, the joys of the vibrant hues of baby poop. Earthy shades in browns, greens, and yellows, all splashed across his handy canvas. He is an Artiste. Baby Jackson Pollocks, all training for their gallery debut.

Sometimes that canvas is too limiting for the eccentric painters, and a mural is more appropriate. That is when it gets serious. But don’t call an agent yet. The paint has noxious odors that most gallery visitors won’t appreciate.

My artist was more of a three-dimensional aficionado, so he shot his paint at his target canvas: his mommy. Enjoy that one when it happens. That’s when you WILL want to loofah your whole body.

Side note: If you Google my name, you’re more likely to find the actor’s wife/artist. I’m also a writer and artist, but my son created the art for me, which I don’t believe she can claim. So I’m one up on her. Incidentally, you have no idea how much drama that causes with Amazon, Goodreads, and the like. The struggle is real.

Superman~

The warning that you have created your own breed of superhero never comes. I birthed Superman, or maybe it was Batman. Who remembers exactly 20 years after the fact, really?

At age 4, my son started preschool. He had what I would call a crush on a sweet little brunette named Michaela. They were buddies, really, but that didn’t stop him from needing to impress a girl. One day, his teacher told me to check on him and make sure his brain was still in his head and not scrambled eggs after an incident.

Mini Batman told the object of his desire to watch this, then ran full force toward a sofa. He wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet, but he leaped over a toy in a single bound and swan-dived into the couch headfirst. It’s not a party until something breaks. Apparently, my son wanted it to be his head.

The worries are the worst part of the warnings you should be given when you have a child. Maybe before you even start down that road, you should get them, actually.

My superhero didn’t start his antics at age 4. No. At two, he liked to jump on the bed. Ours. Once he learned to climb, he would amuse himself doing just that pretty often. Then he spread his wings, which should have alerted me right then that I had a real-life thrill-seeking hero on my hands. My baby spread his wings like Icarus, or maybe it was a phoenix, and dove headfirst to the ground.

I wasn’t one of those lucky parents with thick, lush carpeting on the bedroom floor. We had beautiful hardwood floors, and I didn’t want to cover them. So the wood carefully broke his fall.

Then came the screams heard round the world. I am sure you all remember hearing a weird wail 18 years ago that seemed to come from the sky. That was my son.

Horror!

Do you know what fear is? Do you know what scares you? This is more horrifying than the best horror flick. The scream that makes you pale like an ivory tower: the one that drains the blood from your overtired and worn mommy body. I thought he was dying!

Blood from his forehead dripped all over the place. Would he bleed out? I didn’t know what to do. I called his pediatrician and got the doctor on the line immediately. I told him what happened, and he asked if he was acting peculiar or disoriented. He wasn’t, and, of course, he stopped crying just as the doc got on the line, so I had no evidence of his anguish.

The doctor laughed and said, “Unless he is not behaving normally, he is fine.” He added, “You would be surprised how hard their skulls are.” I was left with my mouth open, relieved- don’t get me wrong, and I know I instantly grew 7 gray hairs right then, but the world was spared the loss of one superhero.

Fair Warning!

I could go on and on about the warning labels on having children, but as I intimated earlier, it would look like a Bible. Who has time for such a thing? My fingers would ache, and I might be dead before I finish it. The rest will have to wait for another prompt request, hint, hint.

Be warned-it will not end with a couple of examples, and you will have fodder for your own book after you have a child.

( Published by Write Your World on Medium, 2026)

Catch me on Patreon, Substack, Beehiiv, Medium, Vocal, Wattpad, or WordPress. Dealer’s choice! Check me out on Social Media too via Linktree or my website, Ink and Echo.

Want more drama? Read this one:

Two Pink Lines ©2026 Spilled Ink. All rights reserved.