Minutes 1 – 15: Go to the bathroom, eat the first food you can find, guzzle beverage of choice, fold one load of laundry, possibly run a marathon because you are so used to doing everything you need to do for the day in those 15 minutes or so.
Minutes 16 – 20: Ignore the dishwasher that needs to be emptied because you don’t want to have to stop half-way through/because you hate unloading the dishwasher, opt for scrolling through Insta while you brace yourself for the fuck-you-mom-I’m-awake-again cries.
Minutes 20 – 30: Pulse quickens. Is he still alive? Stare at monitor for even the slightest hint of movement, but don’t actually go into the room to check because you’re not trying to ruin a good thing. A leg twitch! Breathe.
Minute 40: Maybe I could…respond to some emails?
Minute 50: Am I being punked?
ONE HOUR: Maybe I could…fold another load of laundry? Fold laundry. Realize that the Disney Pandora station has been playing the entire time as you catch yourself belting out Part of Your World. Decide to keep Pandora on because you know the baby will wake up any minute/you really like Disney songs.
1 hour, 15 minutes: Check monitor. Was that movement, or are my eyes playing tricks on me? He’s still alive, right?
1 hour, 25 minutes: Paralyzed by fear to engage in anything actually relaxing, enjoyable, or productive because you’re SURE he’s about to wake up any minute, you settle on watering the poinsettias due to the lack of required commitment.
1 hour, 30 minutes: Text your friend who you know will understand the monumental feat that is a 90-minute-and-counting nap and celebrate with you via all caps and celebratory emojis. But first, put phone on silent. You’re not trying to have a reckless celebration.
1 hour, 40 minutes: Look at the 1,193 pictures and videos of your baby on your phone.
1 hour, 50 minutes: Start to panic because you realize your baby has been asleep for almost 2 hours and you have nothing to show for it.
TWO HOURS: Realize you have to poop.
2 hours, 1 minute: Baby cries.