Being Kendra_ Cribs, Cocktails, and Getting My Sexy Back - Kendra Wilkinson [84]
Am I overdoing it? Probably. I guess I overcompensate because the whole world just assumes I’m some dumb Playboy Bunny who got knocked up, so I want to prove everyone wrong.
One time I was in the only place on earth where you can’t just go and get whatever you need—on a plane. We were on a charter flight from Indianapolis to Miami for the Super Bowl with just the wives, kids, and some team staff. So here I am on the plane, and it’s the one and only time I forgot baby wipes. Wipes: the must-have for all things involving poop, pee, throw-up, cleaning, wiping, and everything that could possibly be wet, crusty, or smelly. I was like, “Oh, my God, no wipes!” My body temperature immediately began to rise, my face turned red, and my heart started beating fast. Real fast. I was minutes away from a nasty case of mom hives and, of course, right while I was in the middle of this panic attack baby Hank pooped badly. Real bad. Like a four-alarm poop, with odors spreading from row to row. So I had to improvise and get a pile of cocktail napkins from the stewardess (can I get a drink with that too, please?)—or in this case a whole box! It’s kind of silly, having a panic attack about not having baby wipes, but I made out just fine. I just had to spend a few minutes doing a little extra scrub on baby Hank’s butt cheeks. Things like wipes just make it easier to take care of a child, and we freak out when we don’t have them. But I know decades ago wipes didn’t exist and everyone made do. Yes, I was crazed, yes, everyone was staring at me while munching on their snacks and drinks, but looking back everything was fine. And he got a clean tushy in the end.
Being a mom has completely transformed me. Freaking out over baby wipes and packing enough diapers to cover the butts of an army of babies is part of that paranoid, overprotective, neurotic frenzy that we moms all seem to have in common nowadays. We just want a better life for our kids. We try to be prepared for everything. But at what cost? About a thousand days ago I was prancing around the Playboy Mansion with not a care in the world. Now any time I walk into a room I automatically look for the safe zone. That’s my latest “parentnoia.” In case there’s an earthquake, I need to know exactly how to get the hell out of there. It’s like I’m in a video game, scoping out the lay of the land, eyes and red lasers focusing on the exits and windows and doors. I always have to have a safe zone and plan an escape. I even travel with electrical socket covers everywhere I go so the baby doesn’t accidentally get electrocuted. I feel like I have eight eyes in the back of my head, looking at everything suspiciously and always wanting to know who’s around me.
I also have these new OCD habits that came with motherhood. I spend half of my day obsessed with disinfecting everything around the house, spraying, mopping, washing, polishing, and, of course, vacuuming so we all are breathing in good air. And we have humidifiers running all over the house, one in the baby’s room, one in the bedroom, and one in the living room, and I turn them up to the max like it’s Miami in there. I know that’s overdoing it, but I honestly want nothing but the cleanest, safest, most perfect environment for my baby. Plus, when I’m vacuuming and cleaning, I get immediate results, and how often can you say that?
Since I became a mom, I’ve become a little paranoid about baby Hank’s overall safety, and I’m very cautious