tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12120055319563389742024-02-20T09:10:02.603-08:00bottled SHINYI am inappropriate at the best of times and downright terrible at the worst. If you want good advice, you shouldn't be here. Also, I like chocolate.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-69811343570618913072012-07-28T10:14:00.001-07:002012-07-28T14:38:08.636-07:00The truth about pets, babies, and YOU.Are you one of those people who adore your animals and let your child adore them too?<br />
<br />
Even if you're not, YOU can benefit from this infoblogercial (so I made up a word, <i>not</i> the point here) about pets and babysitting.<br />
<br />
Are you a babywearing, baby attachment kind of parent? Dogs are great for you. They respond to the child's every noise and lick them clean of their own vomit. It's really kind of a win/win situation. Not to mention, your baby probably likes the dog better than you already. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsWLq-IgVGuTepqVwBrxI3rehJVJ-JVn733WzhxEaCBvaTrg-AUOlRgdvECHUHN-PFMhzVL5Zdvgi_kT6N6ZnB-0sfQeEgvbmzYsCg4qaoB27wG8rCem1HmtAtYPRhlqO6jH5sG_PbPE/s1600/baby-and-dog-1-600x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsWLq-IgVGuTepqVwBrxI3rehJVJ-JVn733WzhxEaCBvaTrg-AUOlRgdvECHUHN-PFMhzVL5Zdvgi_kT6N6ZnB-0sfQeEgvbmzYsCg4qaoB27wG8rCem1HmtAtYPRhlqO6jH5sG_PbPE/s320/baby-and-dog-1-600x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Case in point. Bonus: This dog can put a baby to sleep.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Are you a cry-it-out sort of parent? Cats are what you want. They are the master of disdain and can teach your child to potty in the litter box. You heard me. <i>No more diapers.</i> Train them early. Plus a cat can listen to a child screaming all night without "giving in." If you're intending on going overnight for a little fun time with your husband, hire a cat. You'll have a new baby by morning.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVuXZqYWaOTSi46zUmSCCkHizXEQwB0bFQI1iFScuitslMGQBG6HtixWBXK0hx-tdHldfznjCYuIOUuO3_RwLBt1TxXm9prPRmSKIz-AYOOlCX4GC5cYclQLxdubsYpQEr3GlTjNqcla4/s1600/kid-and-cat1+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVuXZqYWaOTSi46zUmSCCkHizXEQwB0bFQI1iFScuitslMGQBG6HtixWBXK0hx-tdHldfznjCYuIOUuO3_RwLBt1TxXm9prPRmSKIz-AYOOlCX4GC5cYclQLxdubsYpQEr3GlTjNqcla4/s320/kid-and-cat1+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonus: Your kid will learn to read early. Cats have a thing about grammar and education.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
<div>
Not to mention, pets are far cheaper than nannies or babysitters. Feed them a treat or two and they'll be yours to love forever. At least around dinner time. Or breakfast. Or when you're sitting in the bathroom trying to get a load out. And when you really want to hoard those brownies, you can just brightly say, "Oh, Mr. Nibbles can take care of that!" as you sneak away with warm, gooey, delicious chocolate wonderfulness. How awesome is that? Sitters on demand!<br />
<br />
Just remember to keep the toilet lid closed when you're done in the bathroom... You're doing cats all over the world a favor.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8WC3CHZ3K_pXBH6893ipuUKue6FToyeAT1KpKi5ENuQgrpZNlSc0KQcuNdLr1u5EBL7BGJ5TGjY3FOXM3NZZtkuSNeyOdU2NpJokDCJYeGQT7WTjS_thN5sx5ubwUBhSeHd3nPyXcCQ/s1600/cruel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8WC3CHZ3K_pXBH6893ipuUKue6FToyeAT1KpKi5ENuQgrpZNlSc0KQcuNdLr1u5EBL7BGJ5TGjY3FOXM3NZZtkuSNeyOdU2NpJokDCJYeGQT7WTjS_thN5sx5ubwUBhSeHd3nPyXcCQ/s1600/cruel.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
</div>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-69412736651393198382012-07-26T21:56:00.001-07:002012-07-26T22:44:05.425-07:00In which teeth are evil and chocolate reigns supreme.My child's new favorite game is sitting on my lap and watching my monitor. He also loves to bang on the keyboard. I'm fairly certain this is a sign that he's going to grow up and create new fantastic technology and become richer than Bill Gates could ever dream of.<br />
<br />
In other news, I've learned one new fact of life. <i>Teeth are evil.</i><br />
<br />
You may not think much of this, as you chew on your hamburger or nibble away at a delicious, buttery corn on the cob. It might be a vague thought as that nagging little cavity spasms in pain as you get halfway through your bag of Skittles. It's kind of on your mind when you're pregnant with your first kid and think, "Man, everyone says the teething is the worst." But you don't have a clue.<br />
<br />
L.J. doesn't even have a hint of pearly bits on his gums. While this makes me happy (toothless baby grin is my favorite way to wake up in the morning), it also makes me feel this nasty little sense of dread. Like, <i>how much longer do I have to put up with this?!</i><br />
<br />
He screams. He shrieks. He flails about. He acts as though I am killing him when I try to coax him to nurse a little longer. He chews on anything he can get in his mouth, and some things he can't. He won't sleep. He's <i>too tired</i> to sleep. So go to sleep, you little <strike>bastard</strike> angel. You'll feel better when you wake up! But does he listen? <i>Of course not.</i> Because babies know everything. Which is why we're miserable.<br />
<br />
However, in the midst of this agony (in reality, this is nothing compared to "real" teething when cutting teeth, or so I hear) he has had some wonderful changes. He can now hold his bottle by his little baby hands. He constantly shouts/yells/mumbles/squeals "Mamamama dadadadadada babababababa", which is his new favorite sound. He can latch onto a nipple from about 10 feet away with unerring precision. And he's just plain gosh darned cute.<br />
<br />
Motherhood. Gotta love and hate it. If you want to survive it, just grab a pan full of brownies. It'll get you through at least a few hours. And <i>no</i>, you don't feed it to the baby. What a waste that would be... You don't think moms and grandmothers bake cookies for the <i>kids</i>, do you?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi0C8geLWLS23PDNYvi3AV-q-ns2hZFqde2ywrRogEA3LD9mAwwO_CGiICwV4_vbKbABz-B2YmXK8Fc2kzpM3rCLhyphenhyphenRyQ0zCwS6pYqyVHFYuJMbMEQLxxobS7WeDrOjVhtXfpgppVgXDI/s1600/IMG_4332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi0C8geLWLS23PDNYvi3AV-q-ns2hZFqde2ywrRogEA3LD9mAwwO_CGiICwV4_vbKbABz-B2YmXK8Fc2kzpM3rCLhyphenhyphenRyQ0zCwS6pYqyVHFYuJMbMEQLxxobS7WeDrOjVhtXfpgppVgXDI/s640/IMG_4332.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why is he wearing a hat indoors, while naked, playing in his jumparoo? Um. Because he wanted to. <i>Obviously</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-54470799645099758062012-07-23T00:21:00.000-07:002012-07-23T00:22:12.238-07:00Babies have favorites, too.There are days I feel like I'm the most important person in my son's life. And then there are days I feel completely disposable.<br />
<br />
When I come home from work, I come home to a fussy baby. Actually, I don't generally see the fussiness; the moment I walk through the door L.J. goes from screaming, shrieking banshee to tame housecat. He'll play in his jumper, sit on Daddy or Mommy and watch TV, suck on his toes, talk to his best friend (that would be the ceiling fan), giggle at the dog, and do his best to either smack or scratch anything in reach. He pulls the cat's tail and the dog's whiskers. He laughs. He naps. He's wonderful. This is the evidence my husband gives me to say that I'm my son's favorite person.<br />
<br />
On the <i>other</i> hand, that little booger sees Daddy and lights up like Independence Day fireworks. He giggles, laughs hysterically, and talks. He doesn't laugh for Mommy... Only Daddy gets that part of him! He'll shriek with joy just by seeing Daddy walk by. There's a special bond they have, that I don't have. It makes me a little jealous to hear L.J. laugh hysterically because Daddy tickles him on the changing table. I'm lucky just to get a big smile out of him when I do that! In fact, most of the time what I get is excited wiggling and fist-chomping. Not that it isn't adorable, <i>because it is</i>, but come on. I'm <i>Mommy</i>. Babies should laugh for their mothers.<br />
<br />
Babies discriminate. That's all there is to it. And I'm pretty sure they know what they're doing. They're playing Mom and Dad against each other for the maximum amount of love. It's in their ooey-gooey cuteness. It's just how they're made. It's evil. It's adorable. <i>It's working.</i><br />
<br />
Honestly, watching the two of them makes me tear up with joy. There's nothing more amazing than watching my husband be a father to our son. And there's certainly nothing that makes me happier than watching my family, day after day.<br />
<br />
It's all worth it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWI2N7oSrWlclWCXaOs_8cldN6Knqh07zWY73QNKaN7FP-taejp1nQsXWthBJsGd7y4yj0Dl7DH1kGRTDJTQ5GxMX-1AX_Ec8x-gxPdmFfKwAYZyl3-wQtJIkO8OOui0BgTLTfgZsYvw/s1600/IMG_3162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWI2N7oSrWlclWCXaOs_8cldN6Knqh07zWY73QNKaN7FP-taejp1nQsXWthBJsGd7y4yj0Dl7DH1kGRTDJTQ5GxMX-1AX_Ec8x-gxPdmFfKwAYZyl3-wQtJIkO8OOui0BgTLTfgZsYvw/s640/IMG_3162.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laughing for Daddy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-31493186129517081522012-07-09T00:31:00.001-07:002012-07-09T00:45:32.109-07:00You have a problem, kid.Separation anxiety. It's heartwarming, heartbreaking, and utter wall-climbing misery.<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to put my child down in his own bed for a week. I know there are many moms out there thinking (and please hear this like a <i>fabulous</i> gay man says it, because that's the voice in my head... No, it doesn't make sense, and I totally don't care), "S.L., if you would just properly sleep train your child, he would sleep in his own crib <i>every night</i>. Co-sleeping is bad, mmkay?" but my answer to that is... nonexistent. Okay. I'll get back to you when I figure out something witty.<br />
<br />
I co-sleep. That is, I <i>bedshare</i>. All these words for parenting techniques drive me crazy. Technicalities, blah blah blah. My baby sleeps attached to my boob. <i>That is what I do</i>. And let me tell you; I never even considered it while I was pregnant, and long before I had a cute parasite attached to the side of my uterus. I even thought, from my lofty pre-child days, "How <i>lame</i> that they can't even deal with crying long enough for their child to fall asleep in their own, wonderful, decorated crib in a beautiful nursery."<br />
<br />
I'm ashamed to even think about it.<br />
<br />
Okay, back on subject; separation anxiety. Ugh! He will not only cry in the middle of smiling at a stranger because <i>ohnowhere'sMommy!</i> and Lord knows he would totally fail at finding Waldo on the best of days, but he refuses to sleep without being held by either one of us. He wakes up, scrunching his cute little nose, grunting, whining, fussing, not sure what to do with any of his limbs, and circling his one arm in this demented little baby way like <i>maybe at some point it'll suddenly become awesome</i> which of course it won't and he just keeps circling it over and over until he cries hysterically because <i>nothing is happening</i>. It's great to watch, actually. If you were a terrible parent. <i>Which I'm not.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Of course this all happens about 5 minutes after I put him down for the night. It doesn't matter if it's the first time or the tenth time. He just wants boobs nuzzled against his face. That's all there is to it. Manboobs are a poor second choice, but still a choice. Pacifiers are gruntingly accepted </span><i style="background-color: white;">if</i><span style="background-color: white;"> his belly has decided there is no vacancy. And Mom is glued to an adorable little boobsucker all night.</span><br />
<br />
Good news: He's cute when he finally wakes up in the morning, all toe-grabby and cooing.<br />
<br />
Bad news: I have to wait until morning to see his cute side.<br />
<br />
During the day it's all anxious whining, wanting to be held (nothing new here, really), wanting Mommy to whip out the magic boobs of wonder and light, wanting Daddy to play nonstop, wanting Doggie to give him attention, talking to the ceiling fan, crying angrily when the ceiling fan doesn't talk back, fussing when he's tired because <i>obviously sleeping isn't going to help him</i> which is why he never wants to fall asleep and babies know freaking everything didn't you know that, and other obnoxious baby things.<br />
<br />
I love it.<br />
<br />
Most of the time.<br />
<br />
Okay; pretty much all the time. Because f<span style="background-color: white;">ace it; when will they ever want us this much ever again in their lives? I mean. Besides when they're flat broke<i>.</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3p4DbhnMrwXyQ1rvsg66bRPM0vZXOeOHxrQ0DywdfkCyHrz0ygX3YPb1VVnitBQaR02YIdoRe4kIDRD1atB9rtrlFKazip2GU21VnJtPoELdaeAPeWnHr1i5uu9AnFmVc5jBBMw48LsM/s1600/IMG_4086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3p4DbhnMrwXyQ1rvsg66bRPM0vZXOeOHxrQ0DywdfkCyHrz0ygX3YPb1VVnitBQaR02YIdoRe4kIDRD1atB9rtrlFKazip2GU21VnJtPoELdaeAPeWnHr1i5uu9AnFmVc5jBBMw48LsM/s640/IMG_4086.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-7346436556514969702012-07-02T10:47:00.000-07:002012-07-02T10:50:03.877-07:00Truth from the mouths of moms.I have a small, adorable, darling, downright evil little baby boy. With that said, I would like to just point out a few hard truths, as a first time mom.<br />
<br />
First, everyone was right. <i>Everyone.</i><br />
<br />
Second, you can't love your baby all the time. Sometimes they just suck.<br />
<br />
Third, your child is a budding genius. Everyone will tell you how amazing s/he is and you'll believe them, because... well, it's true. Your child will be the best at everything. So there.<br />
<br />
Fourth, you'll give in to "advice" because you're tired and exhausted and worn out and so-and-so has been telling you to try this every day for the past 3 months. Just remember, if you don't feel like it, don't. You feel worse taking advice you didn't want to take. Unless it works. Then you feel like a fool for not taking it. But really, only do what's comfortable for you.<br />
<br />
Fifth, have sex with your husband a lot. He has to deal with your mood swings, temper tantrums, neurotic first-time-mom freak-outs, and a baby. We get to cheat with our boobs (even if you are bottle-feeding, babies loooove to sleep on boobies), our hormones giving us natural maternal instincts, and our emotions can always be blamed on "those damn hormones". Men have to struggle to find their own balance with babies, and it's hard. Give them some credit. Also, when they've had their once-a-week roll in the sheets, they tend to be a little nicer for a few days. They might even do the dishes. <i>(Alternately: Hold off on sex until they do a lot of nice things for you. Train 'em right.)</i><br />
<br />
Sixth, there is nothing like that feeling of "I CAN DO <i>AAAAAAAAAAAANYTHING</i>!!!!!" after your very first successful outing, alone, with your newborn. Shopping? Getting gas? Driving to your mother's? It doesn't matter. You did it by yourself. <i>You. Are. SuperMom</i>.
<br />
<br />
Seventh, there's no such thing as too many pictures. Even if they're extremely blurry and terrible, you'll hate to erase them. They grow too fast and they're just so darn cute.<br />
<br />
Eighth, your ugly little baby is the most precious and beautiful thing on the face of this earth. Until you look back a few months down the road and think, "Ewww... wrinkles!" Haha. Nah. Your baby's still cute.<br />
<br />
Ninth, if you're usually the one being a shutterbug... make sure you have someone taking pictures of you with your precious bundle of joy. I have very few pictures of me and L.J. for this reason. I'm always the one behind the camera, and the older he gets, the sadder I am that I have so few of me and his little wrinkly red newborn self.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZsQAQCGlxygu4-zsNWbNViT-8N3bYfq6YSqJwoRzFSURgj_Sb8g1PF9NbCh3qU9Ylajfn2fxBB8XJjHba4yYF0pvm-5CEEG9rqpOLQXx4C5eZVBCRwgNPRIzRFXoM8abqNx7M11MxcA/s1600/IMG_0249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZsQAQCGlxygu4-zsNWbNViT-8N3bYfq6YSqJwoRzFSURgj_Sb8g1PF9NbCh3qU9Ylajfn2fxBB8XJjHba4yYF0pvm-5CEEG9rqpOLQXx4C5eZVBCRwgNPRIzRFXoM8abqNx7M11MxcA/s640/IMG_0249.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-37462749482544439672012-07-01T12:02:00.002-07:002012-07-01T12:02:17.083-07:00Ten easy steps to a perfect baby.Everyone asks me, "How do you have such an amazing baby?" I know. It's hard to believe that a first-time mom has such a perfect child. He's beautiful, wonderful, <i>never</i> cries, has a schedule down to nanoseconds, favors The Big Bang Theory over any other TV show, reads War and Peace, and even gives his father reproachful looks whenever he does something that makes Mama sad.<br />
<br />
This is how you do it, in 10 easy steps:<br />
<br />
Step 1: Ignore all advice you're ever given. Everybody's stupid anyway.<br />
<br />
Step 2: Do everything your way. You're always right.<br />
<br />
Step 3: Every time your baby cries, drink a little alcohol. You'll be <i>amazed</i> at how much friendlier your baby seems by the end of the night.<br />
<br />
Step 4: Replenish stash of liquor daily.<br />
<br />
Okay, really, there were only 4 steps. But see? That just proves how easy it is, and <i>obviously</i> they work. And if you just set him down as often as possible with a whole stack of books, he'll teach himself to read, too. You'll have a budding, perfect little genius on your hands in no time, and you'll be a happier mother for it, too.<br />
<br />
Then again, I <i>might</i> have mixed up these steps with the "how to get your child taken away by child services," but... hey, those are just minor little details anyway.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DkMQ1ME9AEvxYx5k8w5Qk__lVx_RfzY3TFX2JlL1E-C4tMPBP8vSxCHblWR5blK1O9Oh6XWNI2FeD43pJeiuH09JrM8eQfb_TrkZmy_4dJBswkuwgOgt0yXmSuFKJF099WwvUm6SUkU/s1600/IMG_1406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DkMQ1ME9AEvxYx5k8w5Qk__lVx_RfzY3TFX2JlL1E-C4tMPBP8vSxCHblWR5blK1O9Oh6XWNI2FeD43pJeiuH09JrM8eQfb_TrkZmy_4dJBswkuwgOgt0yXmSuFKJF099WwvUm6SUkU/s640/IMG_1406.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-37224106664722636622012-06-30T14:23:00.000-07:002012-07-01T11:42:50.661-07:00First rule of motherhood: If you didn't catch it on camera, it didn't happen.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As all mothers are aware, a camera is a necessity. Why? So you can catch things like this on camera... First time L.J. sat up and stayed there without faceplanting and whining about it. See, kids? Good things come to those who wait.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeycz_RBL_nexrIRcgmBY3L_8iZioM9x2uO_L-a992euQxh5Di66-bX1_gu5taxzWa6Y2BBPE0ZDlVpB7UkBeeG-SgirJb1JQd5ONTRg_OJA690D3SiphmjM83gaUScJ5rLMhWwJ6DP8/s1600/IMG_3455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeycz_RBL_nexrIRcgmBY3L_8iZioM9x2uO_L-a992euQxh5Di66-bX1_gu5taxzWa6Y2BBPE0ZDlVpB7UkBeeG-SgirJb1JQd5ONTRg_OJA690D3SiphmjM83gaUScJ5rLMhWwJ6DP8/s640/IMG_3455.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzH-5ywlIoPgkR2BpizuN42NFCzYEKtm1XtKg4MoT4ftDXNchy7JQC2almx-Zc9Tvf-qLtrxELLcfCUKZXmBSwfAH42iQdsiVyOQCLt4GJndvnQUP5BrcprUabdqpmklTU8-1IzfJv_ZU/s1600/IMG_3466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzH-5ywlIoPgkR2BpizuN42NFCzYEKtm1XtKg4MoT4ftDXNchy7JQC2almx-Zc9Tvf-qLtrxELLcfCUKZXmBSwfAH42iQdsiVyOQCLt4GJndvnQUP5BrcprUabdqpmklTU8-1IzfJv_ZU/s640/IMG_3466.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLUEEmoIvVXZ92W16Pk7fmi53PihIzo_3wNMgfww5lHK5j0RWskgp7tamPosfLzBmrD2aW1QIbzRUBJqjUGT_EDhnOYEv2d39l2onp8jUylv_u5ufV_9dB4mH0XPUV_5p0ax7OscrMkM/s1600/IMG_3475-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLUEEmoIvVXZ92W16Pk7fmi53PihIzo_3wNMgfww5lHK5j0RWskgp7tamPosfLzBmrD2aW1QIbzRUBJqjUGT_EDhnOYEv2d39l2onp8jUylv_u5ufV_9dB4mH0XPUV_5p0ax7OscrMkM/s640/IMG_3475-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcZOIJVA20s5ytRsFtuobKshSK5GwhKdR4tMoMRbmJ7_4jnWvN0uP6Mfvf-7pGO_AZha68EkH9kgyPKfc3hIXgQe9dunSSPYnltyw_Nv6mBGKQAHsHtWAbAHOU2yi86KXuLwfYR8mF_Y/s1600/IMG_3481-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcZOIJVA20s5ytRsFtuobKshSK5GwhKdR4tMoMRbmJ7_4jnWvN0uP6Mfvf-7pGO_AZha68EkH9kgyPKfc3hIXgQe9dunSSPYnltyw_Nv6mBGKQAHsHtWAbAHOU2yi86KXuLwfYR8mF_Y/s640/IMG_3481-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZurOEFFOTDzwMDk-Di_NLfQmnIZDdFIrK8xrYNwu5RKE7xxBKYR6dE298pUVKKl0VLXnuHjmfXUI2m-aGnHPJFk1_Rjtmngoqs4gF5hZ-ce8gOnyIIhIVs5YgXAw8g-kky9KngHRk-o/s1600/IMG_3558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZurOEFFOTDzwMDk-Di_NLfQmnIZDdFIrK8xrYNwu5RKE7xxBKYR6dE298pUVKKl0VLXnuHjmfXUI2m-aGnHPJFk1_Rjtmngoqs4gF5hZ-ce8gOnyIIhIVs5YgXAw8g-kky9KngHRk-o/s640/IMG_3558.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzizsLdfXvb4YNrP-zWSODcbW4WxS4uuTWOAqTajONzzi0qg9U1qH4POO3bgF8_bunI3JUbR2ZVdyzp_IGXj59-QO4UQ3Fc3cG4kD2x8jNs0qlJ8Kpxx6I4fYZVn8kTLIeVuBFU-AetA/s1600/IMG_3574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzizsLdfXvb4YNrP-zWSODcbW4WxS4uuTWOAqTajONzzi0qg9U1qH4POO3bgF8_bunI3JUbR2ZVdyzp_IGXj59-QO4UQ3Fc3cG4kD2x8jNs0qlJ8Kpxx6I4fYZVn8kTLIeVuBFU-AetA/s640/IMG_3574.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-41830372883334925832012-06-25T03:07:00.000-07:002012-06-25T03:32:45.195-07:00Seven months in a breeze.November? I haven't posted since <i>November</i>?<br />
<br />
Well, too be fair, I was kind of busy being... you know. Pregnant. And crap. And then I had a baby. Which, from what I'm told, is usually how being pregnant ends. As much as I hated being pregnant, <i>damn </i>were there some benefits to being pregnant versus having a newborn.<br />
<br />
But I should probably step back and explain this all.<br />
<br />
Third trimester? Check. Over and done with. Sucked big fat hairy donkey ballsack. No, really. All I remember is the pain, pain, pain. And numerous L&D visits for contractions (mild, stupid ones) 2 to 3 minutes apart. All.the.time. Apparently I just had to be super special like that. And then there was that one week I couldn't walk. After that, I had a walker in my trunk "just in case" until after the baby was born. Talk about fun times. I wanted that kid out so badly... hah. Little did I know.<br />
<br />
Labor? Check. I ended up induced because of various silly medical reasons, plus my big fear of shoving out a 10-pound baby. We were informed 2 weeks before induction that my kid was 9 pounds. Well, 2 weeks later I delivered a 7-pound, 4-ounce baby boy. Yep, that's right; a boy! We finally found out his sex! And I cried. That was an amazing moment. Labor, not so much. 86 hours, if I remember correctly, of being induced. My water broke spontaneously (not so spontaneous if you consider the fact that it was probably due to the 50+ hours of induction I'd been going through with no progression). It broke with a sneeze. An hour after I came home from the hospital for a well-deserved break and Red Lobster. Never got my Red Lobster. Stupid water breaking. I was very seriously considering going anyway, even with my water broke, and just saying "Oops" at the restaurant. I was that hungry. But there was meconium, so... No. Oh, well. I wanted so hard to avoid a c-section, but ended up with an emergency c-section at the end of day #4. Do I regret it? No. Does it suck? Yes. My scar area still hurts and whatever innards got moved out of place are constantly tender. Fun stuff.<br />
<br />
Newborn? Check. Awesome. Lucky to have the best baby in the world. You may THINK your baby is the most awesome baby ever, but you're wrong. Mine is.<br />
<br />
I got more sleep than I thought I would. Luckily, I have a husband who more or less held the baby for the first 2 weeks, did all the diaper changes, made sure I had "me" time for showers, breaking down and crying, eating, etc. Even today, he is usually the one with the cold meal after I cook, because he will hold our son while I eat. Awesome? Yes. Yes, he is. And no, you can't have him.<br />
<br />
So where does that leave me now? Well, let's see. I have a beautiful son. I have lovely belly fat that shall hang over my woman bits forever. I feel fat on a daily basis. I still randomly cry or scream or just plain get into funks. Some days I hate my baby. Some days I hate my husband. Most days I love them both. Some days I just hate everyone. Most days, all I want to do is curl up in bed and get some sleep... Yeah, sounds like motherhood to me.<br />
<br />
L.J. turned 4 months old a couple weeks ago. He's discovered his toes, squeals every few seconds he's awake, coos, babbles in adorable babyspeak to anything that will listen, up to and including our ceiling fans, and has a best friend in our dog. He's wonderful.<br />
<br />
Being a mother is great. Now I'm just trying to figure out how to sell him off when he gets to those annoying teenage years.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjnuO31QeJvw5xBXLPJFs3mihrhA1Xkl4JdrmdlQlESu4TOvhGfmepiSwqEHesQ3MEfxFY2zNsucT0Dm9mEv9MllirzxUqkYijOTrXSOba7-5MNv1OuEi5J5PYeuKtmZkPFbapVZblSmY/s1600/IMG_1388-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjnuO31QeJvw5xBXLPJFs3mihrhA1Xkl4JdrmdlQlESu4TOvhGfmepiSwqEHesQ3MEfxFY2zNsucT0Dm9mEv9MllirzxUqkYijOTrXSOba7-5MNv1OuEi5J5PYeuKtmZkPFbapVZblSmY/s640/IMG_1388-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-26633134301570528022011-11-17T20:57:00.000-08:002011-11-17T20:57:42.127-08:00Cloth Diapers can cause spazz attacks. You are warned.This is pretty much verbatim what I wrote over at BabyCenter's Cloth Diaper board earlier today. What a lovely bunch of ladies! I've snuck around there and lurked and gotten most of my CD knowledge (which isn't much, but only because I don't read enough) from them.<br />
<br />
***********************<br />
<br />
I just have to share with other cloth mamas out there -- or well, any mamas who may have the slightest possible interest in cloth diapering.<br />
<br />
I'm not a cloth mama yet. But I'm getting there. :) I'm hoping to have all my little prefolds and covers in order before the baby's born so I can CD from day #1! And I even convinced hubby dearest to be on board. He was totally grossed out until I mentioned dollars, and then his ears practically perked up like a dog's. Haha. Gotta love being married to someone who knows the meaning of poor! :)<br />
<br />
<i>(However, I graciously decided to withhold the information that CD addiction could quite possibly make CD a lot more expensive than I may have quoted him. He doesn't need to know, right?! And honey, you aren't reading this. I will deny it if you bring it up. And it's STILL cheaper than disposables, so hush.)</i><br />
<br />
Anyhow. With that said, I happened to google a few months ago and found a place that sold Fuzzibunz diapers in St. Louis, called Cotton Babies. They had a <a href="http://www.cottonbabies.com/">website</a> that for some reason I never really bothered to check out (I figured it was just a front and wouldn't have any good information). I go to St. Louis for my high-risk followups, so I figured I'd stop in one of these days.<br />
<br />
That day was today.<br />
<br />
And there were diapers everywhere. And the covers I wanted. (Unfortunately, they didn't have Bummis organic prefolds... but I will get those later!). And they had a TEST BABY. It was so eerily adorable.<br />
<br />
They had everything. And I could actually see how the prefolds looked after washing, and how they fit into the newborn sizes of diapers I wanted, and how the different brands' sizes of newborn were different, and and and it was wonderful and practically orgasmic. And they even have CLOTH DIAPERING CLASSES.<br />
<br />
That's right.<br />
<br />
Cloth. Diapering. <i>Classes</i>. In which they show us fun things like folds and how to do... stuff... and and... cloth diapers... and... um... cloth... diapers... yeah I have no idea. But they are <i>free classes</i>.<br />
<br />
I'm still in cloth diaper bliss right now. Too bad I went in with no money... but, my mommy bought me some infant-sized prefolds and preemie prefolds and a Bummis Super Whisper cover and a Thirsties XS, so I could have a start on my CD pile (and have something to play with).<br />
<br />
Too bad I don't have a doll. :( That would make today complete.<br />
<br />
And they have gorgeous diaper bags. That's a plus too.<br />
<br />
********<br />
<br />
My husband was like "Seriously? Do you have to take a class on <i>everything</i>?! I'm NOT GOING." Then after I went silent (read: kind of sulky) on the phone, he eventually turned around to, "So... how long is the class?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know, probably not more than 2 hours. And! THIS IS THE STUFF YOU WILL PROBABLY LEARN. And CD has a bit of a learning curve and I want to do it RIGHT! From the BEGINNING! BLAH BLAH BLAH CUTE THINGS BLAH BLAH BLAH STORE IS ADORABLE BLAH BLAH BLAH..." Yeah he probably didn't listen to all of it, but he did agree to go as long as it wasn't four hours. LOL.<br />
<br />
But he still didn't understand my sldkfjsldfkjsldfjksldkf glee when I called him about it. Men!S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-65623589359402854842011-11-12T19:44:00.000-08:002012-07-09T00:45:32.118-07:00Wanted to come up with something witty. Decided it's not worth the effort.I'm 7 months pregnant today.<br />
<br />
I'm 26 years old today.<br />
<br />
Third trimester, here I come... hopefully with a little more maturity behind me. Hah! Yeah, right.<br />
<br />
I am really into that freaked out, "I'm not ready yet to be a mom!" phase of being pregnant. I'm not talking about the idea of being a mother, but the actual reality of needing a crib, diapers, bottles, separate laundry detergent... You've got to be kidding me. There is way too much to remember about something that sleeps a million hours a day, pukes, pees, and poops. Oh, and looks cute, too. I forgot that part.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-54262968216119280822011-10-27T23:28:00.000-07:002011-10-27T23:32:00.527-07:00PSA: $5 could equal jail and CPS custody of your children.We've all heard crazy stories.<br />
<br />
This week, this pregnant woman's story about being <a href="http://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/story/15896456/couple-arrested-for-forgetting-to-pay-for-sandwiches">arrested for $5</a> gets to me. She and her husband went to the deli for 2 sandwiches, because she was tired, hot, dizzy, and pregnant. There was no one there to check them out and she needed to eat, so she ate and placed the wrappers in the cart, intending to pay for them later.<br />
<br />
As we all know, shopping with a child can be frazzling, and this woman had her young daughter in tow. They finally finished buying $50 worth of groceries, and she was pregnant and worn out. She hardly thought to double-check that the wrappers had been brought out and paid for -- and she certainly hadn't intended to steal $5 sandwiches only to pay $50 in groceries! So, because of one little lapse of brain function (commonly known as baby brain), she and her husband walked out of the store and were detained by employees. Ultimately, the Safeway store manager <i>demanded</i> the arrest of the mother and father, despite them being more than willing to pay for the sandwiches and explaining the situation. And their child was sent to CPS custody overnight.<br />
<br />
This horrifies me. Granted, yes, everyone can argue that the couple should have been more diligent. That they should have gone straight to wherever any employee was and gotten checked out, to avoid this mistake. But how many of us do this? We open sodas or other food items in the store to snack on, or for our children to snack on. And most of us do not intend to defraud the store or walk out without paying for these items.<br />
<br />
For those of you who do, <i>shame on you</i>. But this family was different.<br />
<br />
Apparently, "store policy" did not allow the manager the leeway to allow the parents to pay for the $5 sandwiches and move on, realizing an important lesson in paying before eating, because you never know if you'll forget to pay down the line. Instead, they arrest the couple and traumatize their child, leaving the mother wondering -- did her baby girl brush her teeth? Cry herself to sleep? Ask about mommy and daddy?<br />
<br />
I'm not saying that the couple is blameless. I just believe that the response to this incident was overbearing and ridiculous. Yes, of course we should be strict with theft. Loss prevention is important. <i>But so is being human.</i><br />
<br />
Safeway, the way you have handled this is pathetic. All of your shoppers are people, generally with families. This hits home to all of us. After all -- who's next? And certainly, since the wrappers were in the cart, your <i>cashier</i> could have been a little more observant, too... and asked politely, "Were you going to pay for that?" Because Lord knows, it could be yet another of us next, because somebody didn't catch the Pepsi that fell to the bottom of the cart. or the case of water under the cart. Or the Skittles our 2-year-old was holding.<br />
<br />
Redeem thyself, Safeway.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-16838211976657184262011-10-20T11:53:00.000-07:002011-10-20T11:53:40.182-07:00My baby's a prankster in the making. Send intervention.Dear Baby,<br />
<br />
Honestly, darling, how much more do you want Mommy to take? The cramping and bleeding -- I'm getting used to that. It's been a month and a half now. Still creeps me out when you <i>wake me up with it</i> and I go to the bathroom with blood, but you know, I figure you're a prankster and my life is going to be delicious hell when you come home one day with a poisonous toad in your pocket. It's okay. I still love you.<br />
<br />
But next time, please don't join forces with the nurses to scare the crap out of me with vague answering machine messages like, "Can you call me back at your earliest convenience?" Your mother is going to die of a heart attack and you're going to be the one brownieless because Daddy (probably) can't bake.<br />
<br />
<i>Remember the brownies.</i><br />
<br />
And don't try to make me think you don't like them. I know you do, because I'm craving them right now.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Your Mother<br />
<br />
P.S. If I ever become pregnant with your sibling and you tell her some of your evil pranks while in the womb, you're going to be grounded until you're 60.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-24527831583939267742011-10-13T10:13:00.000-07:002011-10-13T10:18:20.317-07:00Daddy, I hope you miss me, too.Note: I wrote this back in August and am just getting around to putting it on my blog. Appropriate, because I'm missing him a lot today. If you want humor, you should go <a href="http://bottledshiny.blogspot.com/2011/10/ultimate-guide-to-motherhood.html">here</a> or <a href="http://community.babycenter.com/post/a28533011/thoughts_of_the_day.">here</a>.<br />
<br />
What was an innocent browsing of Disney videos on Youtube is turning into a complete and utter meltdown. This one has a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUCcXDvjeVQ&feature=related">sweet little look at Disney dads</a> and it made me realize -- I'm not ready to stop being Daddy's little girl just yet. Granted, most of it is the song -- but now I'm just bawling my eyes out for no real reason, just missing those days of cuddling up to my daddy on those bad days when I needed nothing more than a hug and to know that everything will be okay. The days I threw tantrums and cried desperately in my room, certain the world was against me, only to be laughing an hour later after daddy came home with ice cream and a lecture that should have just made me feel bad, but instead just made me realize how stupid I was being. The days I couldn't handle growing up and daddy let me be a little kid, just for a while.<br />
<br />
And just all the little things.<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Getting yelled at in the restaurant because I'm too old to be blowing bubbles into my drink.</li>
<li>The sighs when I tore apart my Subway sandwich because it was just "too much bread."</li>
<li>The grudging "I love you, too" after I did something exceptionally terrible, like slipped one too many things into the shopping cart.</li>
<li>The rolling of eyes, sighing, well-intentioned but ultimately failed attempts to ignore me, and eventually the giving in because I couldn't go another day without a new book so help me God or I'll pester you the rest of this week until you give in later so do us both a favor and give in now.</li>
<li>The annoyed looks whenever I would interrupt his concentration just for a hug.</li>
<li>The annoyance I'd feel when he'd do the same to me.</li>
<li>The phone calls just to see how I'm doing.</li>
<li>The random lunch dates, just because he misses having me around.</li>
</ul><br />
Daddy is my best friend, my adviser, the devil's advocate when I just want to bitch, the person I can go to with anything and not be judged, and even now if all I need is a hug, he'll sit there and hug me until I feel better.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm married. I'm pregnant. And Daddy is still my daddy, who sighs when I'm being unreasonable, hugs me when I cry, and buys me ice cream just to make me feel better because I've had a hard day.<br />
<br />
For the past week I've been stressing over budgets, paying off bills, and trying to figure out how we can get to a point where we don't have to rely on our parents anymore and can stand on our own two feet. I get angry and frustrated because life isn't working the way I want it to. And I forget just how amazingly blessed I am, because my mother and father never judged me. They support me. They are giving up their years free of children to help watch mine. They're spending money they don't have to make sure I'm eating right and that I'm happy. And above all, if I ever need them, they'll be here in a heartbeat.<br />
<br />
Money can't compare to that. And I'm so, so thankful for what we do have. A wonderful family -- on both sides -- and a lot of love for each other and for this baby we're bringing into the world.<br />
<br />
Daddy, Mommy -- I love you. And thank you. Even though I can't tell you any of this because you'd probably get nauseated and hurl.<br />
<br />
And yes. I'm still crying. So I think I'm going to take a shower, maybe get some hot chocolate, and try to sleep so I can get up for work in the morning. I'll tell you what -- these introspective kicks are killer.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-56963107953652063482011-10-12T19:42:00.000-07:002012-07-09T00:45:32.116-07:00How to NOT tip your husband off to his demise.I was talking to some ladies on my baby site about mood swings, and we came up with the awesome plan to kill off our husbands and plead insanity. (Okay, not really. But we did mention it briefly. Also, we have plans to make alibis for each other. We stick together like that.)<br />
<br />
This was my conversation with my husband earlier today. In retrospect, should <em>not </em>be getting legal advice from someone who thinks you're going to kill him.<br />
<br />
Me: Can a pregnant woman plead temporary insanity for killing her husband? My baby site wants to know.<br />
Him: No.<br />
Me; You're a fucked up judge. <em>You're fired.</em><br />
Him: And you're going to prison.<br />
<br />
<em>(That wasn't quite the response I was expecting from my loving husband.)</em><br />
<br />
Me: I have alibis!<br />
Him: Uh, I have text messages.<br />
Me: I didn't say <em>me</em>. I said <em>my baby site wants to know.</em> Butthead. :(<br />
<br />
He never did respond after that. Obviously, I won and I'm not going to jail. I think. But I'm probably never going to get a chance to collect that insurance money, now that he's been tipped off. Oh, well. I can still dream about it.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-64562274111330494732011-10-11T22:44:00.000-07:002011-10-11T22:50:25.962-07:00Don't be that creepy boundary-crossing voyeur-like person. Please.Probably the thing that irritates me the absolute most when it comes to pregnancy is the whining.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>No, not <i>my</i> whining. My whining, coming from a pregnant woman, is perfectly acceptable. (Shut up; I'm pregnantist.) I'm talking about those stupid arguments you end up having with other people about their so-called "rights" to the 9-month show that is your pregnant body.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We've heard it all, seen it all, or been through it all, right?</div><div><br />
</div><div>"<i>My husband thinks that because my mother has [come to all my appointments/ultrasounds/has listened to the baby's heartbeat], his mother is allowed too." (And sometimes even his <a href="http://community.babycenter.com/post/a29786869/dhs_little_brother_at_midwife_appt?cpg=4&csi=2361424013&pd=1">12-year-old younger brother</a>.)</i> Okay, let me think about this one for a minute. Let's see... <i>No.</i> Good God. It doesn't matter who you are, you have <i>no right</i> to be at <i>my</i> doctor's appointment. Even the baby's father has no real <i>right</i> to be there. Why? Because I'm the one that gets to be poked, prodded, and has to answer uncomfortable questions. My mother-in-law does not need to know when the last time I had sex was, or if my vaginal discharge has smelled fishy. My father-in-law does not need to see my belly and my waistband around my hips while cold gel is slathered all over my belly. Hell, if I'm uncomfortable with my doctor seeing my belly, I can request a new doctor. What makes you think anyone else in the world is exempt from this? On a similar note, what if my baby's father is no longer my significant other and demands to be at every baby appointment? Sure, he has a right to the baby and all, but he doesn't have the right to see up my vagina, how often I've had sex, what my discharge is like, and how I'm feeling. That's <i>my</i> business, thank you very much. And there are women who are uncomfortable with imparting that sort of knowledge in front of their husbands, too -- so no. I'm sorry. Baby daddies don't have the "right" to be there, either. Other than a past medical history, the doctors don't give a shit about how Daddy is doing -- much less how Grandma is!</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>"If your mom is going to be there to see the baby being born, my mom is too."</i> I've already <a href="http://bottledshiny.blogspot.com/2011/09/why-your-mother-in-law-does-not-have.html">said my piece</a>. Labor isn't a freaking show.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Let me just put it this way: If somebody is babysitting your child in their house, that does not mean that you are allowed to have a key to their home to give out to whomever you wanted, security cameras set up so you can watch everything that's going on in every nook and cranny of that house with your friends while eating popcorn, and you certainly don't have the right to watch people in the bathroom or while they're getting dressed/undressed. <i>Especially with popcorn</i>. That's sick.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But, that is <i>exactly</i> what you are doing to a mother when you <i>demand</i> that somebody be there for these things. If she's uncomfortable with it, it doesn't matter<i> </i>who you are -- you've just been labeled "creepy boundary-crossing voyeur-like person." You're violating her body, and to me, that's a seriously creepy thing to do. Just because there's a baby in there doesn't make it <i>okay</i>. And how many of you men out there would invite your mother-in-law to your colonoscopy? Prostate exam? Vasectomy? I'm going to guess very, <i>very</i> few.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Well then, Sandra,</i> I can hear you asking, <i>what about the father's rights?</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>I know my husband doesn't agree with me over this, but I really don't care: <i>For the most part, the daddy's rights are less than the mom's.</i> (There are exceptions, as far as I'm concerned, though not everyone agrees.) There is a reality to the "it's my body" thing.</div><div><br />
</div><div>For example, I want to be on antidepressants during my pregnancy. (I need to reschedule my appointment with my psychiatrist, now that I'm thinking about it...) My husband doesn't like this idea, though he's finally agreed to it (for the second time). And he drove me nuts during the 2 times we've had this conversation. In all honesty, honey-dear-darling-dearest, I don't give a flying fuck about whether or not you want me on antidepressants or not. If it's okayed by my doctor, it's <i>my decision</i>. My health is <i>just</i> as important as the baby's, and can even affect the baby's health.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It's not just antidepressants -- <i>any</i> medication. And yes, that includes medication with serious side effects. Now, I would absolutely inform my husband or ask his advice <i>if that is what I wanted</i> if I were to take something with serious side effects for the baby. But I will not ask his permission. Why? Because it's my body.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I know -- men <i>hate</i> that line, and disagree with it strongly. But the fact remains that it is 100% true. Yes; it is my body. <i>You</i> do not "share" my pregnancy and its side effects on my health, physical or emotional; or, for that matter, my health's side effects on the baby! And before you say "Oh, yes I do, because I'm the one that has to take care of you if something bad happens/I have to deal with the mood swings and craziness/I'm the one that has to pay for everything", that's not "sharing." Bearing, yes. (And you can stop at any time if you really wanted, but that's a whole different bag of worms.) Sharing? No. If you "shared" my health and complications, we'd <i>both</i> be getting treatment. We're not. <i>I</i> am. Any decisions on what to do during pregnancy for <i>my</i> health is done by <i>me, </i>because you have no right to make a decision on what I can and cannot do for myself. Even if, in the end, that impinges on what you see as your right as a father.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Let's go to an extreme and say I have high blood pressure, heart failure, diabetes, seizure disorders, and I'm schizophrenic. My doctor is probably going to take one long look at my list of issues, wonder <i>why the fuck</i> I got pregnant in the first place, and is going to put me on a lot of medication. Much of it is probably not going to do the baby a lot of good. So let's say that you, as my husband, say "Absolutely not!" and I'm not put on this medication. How are you going to feel about your "fatherly rights" when I die of complications due to heart failure because you took me off my medication<i>? </i>How are you going to feel if I jump off a balcony, survive as a quadriplegic, and lose the baby, because I had a very bad "episode" with my schizophrenia? How are you going to feel if I have an aneurysm and die on the operating table, baby and all? How are you going to feel if I die, and that baby survives... with severe issues and the inability to live a "normal" life, or even one past the age of 10?</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Oh, you're being overly dramatic. Being on an antidepressant/migraine medication/the occasional Vicodin is different than <i>that</i>. You're not going to die without them." No, dear, it's <i>not</i> different. It's still risks, benefits, and probability.</div><div><br />
</div><div>When a doctor looks at putting the mom on medication, they weigh the probability of the baby having any sort of side effects/defects from that medication and the severity of the defect/side effect against the benefits of the mother being on that medication. Whichever looks more important in that case is chosen. In some cases, that means the doctor isn't comfortable putting the mom-to-be on certain medications. In others, the risk of the baby being born without a left leg is less important than the mom dying in her 18th week of pregnancy. Or the mom being unable to get out of bed due to extreme pain. Or the twice-a-week ER visits due to her disabling migraines.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>You</i> may think it's not a big deal. But then again, <i>you're</i> not the one going through it. So again, the <i>my body</i> rules apply, with doctor approval.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm pretty sure men hate me now, so let's just take a look at some math I've put together: In pregnancy, 50% of decisions go to the pregnant body owner, 25% to the mom, and 25% to the dad*. <i> (In cases of surrogacy this percentage is probably not used. I think.)</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>So I, being the mother of the child, have 75% decision-making power. You, as the father to my child, have 25%. In any "fair" world, I have more decision-making power than you do, and I have majority vote. In other words: <i>Screw you. It's my body. Pregnancy isn't fair. Get over it.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>With that said, I firmly believe that all fathers should have a say in such things as abortion that is not medically necessary for the health of the mother. I believe all fathers have the right to basic knowledge about their unborn child, such as whether or not the pregnancy is high-risk and how it is progressing. I believe all fathers have the right to demand you stop abusing the child by using illegal substances, because <i>duh that's illegal. </i>So it's not like I'm saying daddies out there have <i>no</i> rights during pregnancy... They just have very few in which there is an equal "weight" to their opinion.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And if you have a problem with that, you should probably talk to whoever or whatever created pregnancy in the first place. Don't look at <i>us</i>. We're just the baby factories. And we thrive on chocolate.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Also I probably shouldn't have written this when I'm so tired. I'm also in pain, I'm grouchy, and I feel like there are a million stressful thoughts floating around my head, but I can't grasp a single one to figure out what I'm stressed about. I probably jumped from point to point and was incoherent. But who cares? It's my blog, not my thesis paper. I think.</div>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-90611202785020288552011-10-09T10:52:00.000-07:002012-07-09T00:45:32.121-07:00Ultimate Guide to MotherhoodI have decided to share my well-learned secrets of motherhood with all of you because I'm too lazy to write a real post.<br />
<br />
I have learned so much in my almost 22 weeks of pregnancy. Thank you to the general public for clearing up all of my concerns, and sometimes even informing me of things when I didn't even know they could be issues!<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Breastfeeding is the best way to go.</li>
<li>So is formula.</li>
<li>Cloth diapers are gross.</li>
<li>Disposable diapers are gross too.</li>
<li>You can be a responsible mother by taking parenting advice only from your family.</li>
<li>You can be a responsible mother by taking parenting advice solely from the internet.</li>
<li>You can be a responsible mother by living by a "How-To" book, and it will cover everything you will ever encounter.</li>
<li>There's no point in being squeamish about anything ever again because apparently baby poo is the most ick thing in the world.</li>
<li>Baby poo doesn't bother you when it's your own child.</li>
<li>Dogs and cats are terrible to have around babies.</li>
<li>Dogs and cats are great around babies because it teaches them consequences.</li>
<li>Dogs and cats are great around babies because they babysit for free.</li>
<li>Your diaper bag will never be as cool as my diaper bag.</li>
<li>Diaper bags aren't cool. Unless they cost $300.</li>
<li>Strollers aren't just strollers, they're travel systems.</li>
<li>Don't put that big old stroller/travel system in the car, just buy a lightweight one for the quick jaunt to the grocery store.</li>
<li>If you can't calm your crying baby, you're an asshole.</li>
<li>If your baby keeps crying, <a href="http://www.pregnantchicken.com/pregnant-chicken-blog/2011/10/5/anatomy-of-a-baby-rager.html">the baby's an asshole</a>.</li>
<li>If you take care of your appearance, you aren't a good mother.</li>
<li>If you don't take care of your appearance, you're a loser and can't take care of your child.</li>
<li>If your husband takes care of his appearance, he's successful.</li>
<li>If your husband doesn't take care of his appearance, he's still more successful than you are because men don't do shit like that.</li>
<li>Your body pillow is your best friend.</li>
<li>Your body pillow is completely obsolete and should be replaced by a real pregnancy pillow.</li>
<li>Your body pillow is your new husband.</li>
<li>Your body pillow is getting flat and needs to be replaced.</li>
<li>Your body pillow is going to be a point of contention for the next 9 months.</li>
<li>Back when your neighbor's sister's mother-in-law was pregnant, she didn't use body pillows.</li>
<li>You cry a lot because of hormones.</li>
<li>You're not supposed to cry a lot because it's not good for the baby.</li>
<li>If you aren't crying there's something desperately wrong because there's no such thing as a happy pregnant person.</li>
<li>Men suck and their dicks should be cut off.</li>
<li>Unless you have a higher sex drive. Then men suck and should just shut up and let their dicks do the talking.</li>
<li>You shouldn't plan your nursery now because what if you get free stuff at the baby shower a month before you're due?</li>
<li>If you don't start your nursery now, you're a bad mother who isn't ready for motherhood.</li>
</ul><br />
And that's only a sample of the pearls of wisdom found in your local grocery store/church/workplace/doctor's lobby! I don't know how I managed to get through life this long without knowing all of this. Thank <i>God </i>I've been enlightened.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-29478130951069884782011-09-18T21:00:00.000-07:002011-09-18T21:00:47.068-07:00Why your mother-in-law does not have a first-row ticket to the delivery room.<i>Prescript: If you're my mother-in-law, I love you dearly and </i><i>none of this post is directed to you. :)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
This issue came up on the <a href="http://www.babycenter.com/">BabyCenter</a> boards. I'm sure it's not the first time. It certainly won't be the last time. And this is very much an issue many mothers will have to face, fighting tooth and nail with their husbands (fiances/boyfriends/baby daddies). And -- this is the part where you're going to attack me for being cruel and mean -- you know what? This applies to those husbands/fiances/boyfriends/baby daddies, too.<br />
<br />
<i>You are not </i><i>entitled to be there at the baby's birth.</i><br />
<br />
Please don't hang me up to dry just yet! I know that's one of those "taboo" things to say, and I certainly know that my husband <i>does not</i> agree with me one whit. However, in our case it doesn't matter, as I couldn't dream of going through this without him there. I <i>want</i> him to be there. I also hope that he will be allowed to "catch" the baby when he or she is born. This isn't a question in our family at all.<br />
<br />
That doesn't, however, mean that I automatically think all fathers, mothers, mothers-in-law, fathers-in-law, best-friends-since-they-were-five, and the lady that you always see on the coffeeshop at 8 a.m. every Monday are entitled to be in the delivery room.<br />
<br />
Most people seem to look at labor as The Great Debut of Child X. I look at labor as what it is: A medical procedure. Regardless of whether this is performed at home, on the highway, or in the basement when zombies attack, this is Mommy X's Medical Procedure. It's not about little Zach -- <i>yet</i>. He just so happens to be the <i>reason</i> this is occurring. When does it become about little Zach? After little Zach is cleaned up, no longer attached to Mom, and ready for public viewing. For those of you who might be unaware, when a lady in labor comes into the hospital, she's generally checked in under her own name. Not her baby's. Guess what that means? Everything is about <i>her</i>. The baby gets its own record -- after it is born.<br />
<br />
<i>That</i> is where "entitlement" begins. Not when the contractions start. Not when the contractions are <i>this close</i>. Not when that little head is being pushed out poor mom's vajingo.<br />
<br />
"But that's not fair," people say, and it honestly <i>shocks</i> me that people think this way. It's "fair" for daddy to see the baby's first breath. It's "fair" that he sit through the entire ordeal, because after all, <i>it's his kid too</i>. Fair this. Fair that. Fair <i>poop</i>, okay? I want to know, why doesn't "fair" come into play when the mom can't hand off her expanding uterus to daddy so she can have a night off? Why doesn't "fair" come into play when the daddy feels hopeless because he can't "feel" the flutters of quickening? Why doesn't "fair" come into play when moms get to bond through breastfeeding, while all dads can do is hold a bottle? Why doesn't "fair" come into play when hormones run rampant and uncontrolled? Why doesn't "fair" come into play when the vagina is torn and needs to be stretched back up? Why doesn't "fair" come into play when a woman has to go through major abdominal surgery just so the baby can be brought into the world alive?<br />
<br />
I can tell you why; you just won't like the answer. <i>Life isn't fair. Suck it up.</i><br />
<br />
In all honesty, who can tell me that everything about pregnancy is fair? It's <i>not</i> fair. It isn't made fair. The woman's body goes through the brunt of physical and emotional symptoms and men never seem to understand it. That's not fair. The dad has to deal with a pregnant, hormonal bitch in full rage without a fucking boat when the tears are enough to make a lake in the basement. The dad has to be understanding, because "But honey, it's the hormones!" And then he has to pray that he has the wherewithal to survive until that nasty little red-faced, crying, weird little creature is shoved into his arms and he can think, "Aww. It's my son/daughter/alien!" Is this fair to <i>him</i>? No. Of course it isn't.<br />
<br />
So take fair out of the damn equation. Fair doesn't belong in the delivery room. If fair was supposed to exist in the delivery room, men would be having contractions and their asshole would be dilating. Is it dilating? Yes? No? I'm going to guess "no."<br />
<br />
Who can walk out of a 27-hour labor and eat a sandwich? Let me tell you: it's not Mommy!<br />
<br />
Who can take a nap after hour 32? Again, it's not mommy. Take a guess. I'll give you 3.<br />
<br />
Stop talking about "fairness." Labor is not about fairness. Shoving a baby's head out of your vajingo isn't about fairness. <i>Pregnancy. Isn't. Fair. </i> <br />
<br />
With that said:<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<i>"If your mom is going to be there, then my mom should be too."</i>What do you think we're arguing about? A birthday present? For crying out loud, stop trying to trump one another and <i>grow up</i>. This isn't about "who's going to be there to see the baby's first few moments outside of the womb." It's about pain, blood, more pain, screaming, possibly fainting, and poop. The baby comes <i>after</i> all that. There's more than just "the baby" involved in labor... Mom is going to need any tears stitched up, bleeding stopped (if there was anything insane going on!), and the placenta still has to be delivered. Guess what? That's still part of that whole "labor" thing, too. <i>Now</i> do you see why I say it's a medical procedure...?<br />
<br />
<i>"Sometimes the dad-to-be needs support, too, and if he needs it from his mother, then she should be allowed in the delivery room."</i><br />
If the dad-to-be needs support, he can get his support outside of mom's safe haven of misery and/or drugs. He's not in labor. He's not possibly hooked up to monitors. He's not having contractions. He probably has two feet, one foot, or a wheelchair. He can walk out there and say, "Mommy, I'm scared." She's perfectly capable of giving him support there. And if he can't <i>handle</i> the entire ordeal without mommy being there, then maybe he should consider <i>not</i> being there -- because that's just going to burden his wife/fiancee/girlfriend/baby mama.<br />
<br />
And, on that note, what if dad-to-be needs support from his daddy? You can't tell me it's okay to say that, then, it's okay for the father-in-law to be in the delivery room. <i>Hell fucking no, it's not.</i> I don't care who you are -- if you think that's okay, there's something wrong with you.<br />
<br />
<i>"It's his kid, too. He should be there."</i><br />
Great -- if Mom is okay with that. Otherwise, wait until the nurse brings that baby out to you. I know that men hate the saying, "It's your baby, but it's her body" -- but guess what? It's still true. And if your presence is going to stress Mom out so much that she can't push and labor stalls, forcing her to undergo the C-section she <i>wouldn't have needed</i> if you had just stayed in the waiting room, that's ridiculous. Your "right" to see your child born does not outweigh the seriousness of labor and its effects on mom's body. I'm sorry. Again, labor isn't about the child -- the child is just the cause of labor, and a happy result of it.<br />
<br />
<i>"This is a special bonding moment between you and the baby's father."</i><br />
Maybe. Depends on their relationship. And quite frankly, if Mom doesn't <i>want</i> to bond, then she <i>doesn't have to</i>.<br />
<br />
Quite frankly, everyone's different. But in the end, there is one woman dealing with every contraction, every gush of <i>ohmygod</i>, did that come out of <i>me</i>?, every urge to push, every tear, every drop of blood lost, and who <i>may</i> even get PTSD from having a terrible experience with labor. Yes, it <i>does</i> happen, and no, it's not lame, or stupid. It's very real, and it's very, very scary.<br />
<br />
Are <i>you</i> going to be able to say, "Honey, I'll take the next 5 hours of pain for you"? Is your mom going to be able to push that last push?<br />
<br />
Unless you can bear some of the pain, the pushing, the bleeding, the tearing, and the long-term consequences on your body <i>for</i> that person giving birth, then no, you are <i>not</i> entitled in that room. You can be the husband, the mother-in-law, my mother, a bored nurse from the hospital 2 cities over, or the family dog -- <i>you have no right to say who stays and who doesn't</i>. And no, it isn't fair. But that's life.<br />
<br />
With that said, I'm hoping to have my husband and mother there through the whole thing. And I'm hoping my mother-in-law will be able to stop by while my vagina isn't on view. And, knowing how fucking <i>amazing</i> she is, I'm sure she won't have a problem if I ask her to wait outside because I have the urge to get naked and comfortable and don't want to be naked around her. I just need to be lucky enough that she has the time and willingness to stick around for it! :)S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-59531564955211213932011-09-16T10:33:00.000-07:002011-09-16T10:36:17.768-07:00Sometimes life isn't funny. Then it's funny that it's so serious.<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I should be writing a hell of a lot more than I have been. <i>But I'm pregnant. </i>Oh, how I love universal excuses!<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry; I can't get my own hot chocolate. <i>I'm pregnant.</i>"<br />
<br />
"Do you know how bad typing is for a pregnant woman? <i>Do you</i>? No? Well, then trust me when I say it's bad. Very bad. Can't do my homework. Doctor's orders." Okay, I haven't had a chance to use this one. <i>But I would.</i> Preferably not on someone with kids.<br />
<br />
"I can't pour my own cereal. I'm pregnant. And I'm on bedrest." This would probably work on my mom. She wouldn't let me lift the cereal when it was in a plastic bag in the grocery store -- (with her wonderfully funny/awesome Korean accent) "Don't lift! You not supposed to lift! Doctor said!" -- but it was okay when I wanted to pour my own breakfast. Question mark.<br />
<br />
"But Moooooooooooooooom, the <i>baby</i> wants this ridiculously expensive meal. It's not my fault. <i>I'm channeling the baby.</i>" This works. Sometimes. Then sometimes she gives me this <i>I know what you're doing, I was pregnant with YOU!</i> look and I get scared.<br />
<br />
So yes. My excuse for not blogging <i>on a</i> <i>pregnancy blog</i> is that I've been pregnant. Personally, I think it's a <i>wonderful</i> excuse. Do you?<br />
<br />
More seriously, however, I have been on bedrest for the past 2 weeks due to issues with cramping and intermittent spotting. At first we thought it was because the placenta was low, but we found out on today's ultrasound that it's moved up. <i>Interesting</i>. At this point, we're waiting for an appointment with Maternal Fetal Medicine (the "high risk doctors", for those who hate medicalese), and I'm trying not to be bored brainless from laying around all day. Which is hard. But I comfort myself with the knowledge that it's for the baby. Meanwhile, I'm moving in with my mother and my dog and cats are going to Ohio to save my mom from fur overload until everything is settled down. Also, my husband is off learning crime-fighting secrets and probably gleefully rubbing his hands together and gloating over how he does not have to be near my pregnancy crankiness. (But it's the <i>hormones</i> making me glare at you, honey. The <i>hormones</i>. Totally not my fault! I blame the baby!)<br />
<br />
I'm bored. Entertain me. Send me boxes of Skittles. <i>Something</i>.</span>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-79470463472868867572011-07-28T11:09:00.000-07:002011-07-28T11:29:40.050-07:00In which mommies have sex too. Except mine. Maybe.<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><u>This post is brought to you by the letters <em>M</em> and <em>S</em>. Please turn your underage eyes away.</u></strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It seems odd to me that "pregnant" and "mommy" go hand-in-hand with "sexless." Funny, because that isn't quite how MY "birds and the bees" talk from Mommy and Daddy went. Granted, the talk was mostly given by Daddy, which is totally not awkward, but that's only because Mommy was never very good at delivering Important Talks in English, which meant that I could only understand about half of what she said in Korean. Take, for example, menstruating. I did understand that I was going to bleed a lot and it was going to happen a lot and I was going to bleed from down there, <em>oh my sweet baby Moses</em>, and that someday bleeding would given me children and maybe I was going to die. Except she didn't say the dying part; I figured that one out on my own by listening between the lines. Oh, and I didn't quite understand why my brother couldn't bleed from down there either. But eventually I figured it all out. Eventually.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But nobody cares about my morbid fascination with Them Times Aunt Flo Comes to Visit, or the fact that I was convinced that bleeding meant I was pregnant, at one point -- or that I was convinced I was dying, like many little girls believe -- or that I thought that if I could just get my uterus cut out of me, my life would be better. Or that I was then introduced to the concept of menopause. Like I wasn't having a hard enough time figuring this shit out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">More importantly. Sex. No, seriously. I was fully and properly grossed out by the fact that I wasn't delivered by a stork (I still maintain that I was), or appeared one day beneath a cabbage leaf, or popped out of a pretty flower like Thumbelina. I'd already figured out the flower thing -- for one, Thumbelina was way smaller than I was, and for two, I'd never seen a flower big enough to hold my head, much less the rest of my body -- but I still vastly preferred that idea to the idea of Mommy and Daddy doing the nasty. There was that one time I opened the door at an inconvenient time, but I'd blocked that whole thing out. Kay? <em>Never. Happened.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So yes. Mommy and Daddy were Mommy and Daddy, but Mommy and Daddy had sex. Possibly a lot. And Daddy liked to blow Mommy kisses. Gross, but obviously a fact of life. For a couple years I would look at my friends' parents and think, "Ewww, they had sex." Then I realized that was also gross and I blocked it all out of my mind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Obviously, I dislike the idea of thinking about mommies and sex. Specifically, my mommy and sex. Or my friends' mommies and sex. However, I've known since That Discussion About the Birds and the Bees That Totally Wasn't Awkwardly Delivered by my Daddy that mommies and daddies do have sex, and I didn't invent the idea of having sex. (Damn it.) And yes, I was one of those obnoxious children -- getting between Mommy and Daddy when they dared to hold hands in front of me, gagged when they blew kisses/were sappy together, rolled my eyes every time my dad tried to shake his booty for my mama -- and tried as hard as I could to bury my head in the sand, but I always knew -- mommies had sex. Mommies had to have sex, because otherwise they couldn't be mommies. Unless they adopted. Then they were mommies sexlessly. <em>What the fuck. </em>I never considered the adoption angle. I could so be adopted. Then Mommy wouldn't have sex. <em>Interesting.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Anyway.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The point here is that mommies and sex go together (most of the time). Mommies and no sex at all is like a fairy tale -- you grow up and you find out it isn't real. So why, oh why, does Society frown upon mommies who have sex -- and blatantly point out how much they like it?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Quite frankly, people: I love sex. I adore sex. It's infinitely frustrating because, ever since we got pregnant, Husband and I have been having issues with doing our typical marathon sex runs. Either I'm just not able to lube it lube it naturally (in which case, hey! Look! A nifty bottle of lubeyness!), or he lasts approximately 5-10 minutes, which is far from the 45+ minutes that I'm used to and need. And, unfortunately, we can't have sex every 6 hours like we used to. (Mostly because we work, but also because of the fact that Husband's dear little friend (DLF) is having some issues with chafing and not healing because we have no discipline at all when it comes to bedroom antics.) And you know what? When we conceived, it was probably amazing sex too. So there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm a mommy. I also like sex. I'm a wife, a lover, a best friend, a maid (?!), and my husband's conscience -- all of that adds up to sex, as far as I can see. Wife? Sex. Lover? Sex. Best friend? Occasionally awkward sex, but only if it applies to a FWB situation, not "Wife" and "Lover" as mentioned previously. Maid? Totally sex. In uniform. Possibly with a little roleplaying. Not that we've tried that yet (hint, hint, husband dearest). And conscience? Definitely sex. Because I'm the one that wears red horns and a little tail too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sex.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sex.</span><br />
<br />
<strong><u><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sex sex sex sex sex.</span></u></strong></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Judge me if you will, but I'm damn proud of it!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Unless you're my mother. Or my father. In which case <em>oh God, Mom, I don't know who hacked into my blog and wrote that terrible slander.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">P.S. I forgot my husband was going to read this. I'd like to say that even if it's sometimes only 5-10 minutes, it's a <em>really good</em> 5-10 minutes. *heart?*</span>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-66752971892095778312011-07-13T22:49:00.000-07:002011-07-13T23:12:41.505-07:00Artistic.<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I haven't been around lately. This is because, as I've been told, I created a spinal cord. In my womb. Yes, that's right; I'm a freaking artist. A miracle-worker. <em>A genius</em>. And I did it while I was sleeping. Probably.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Not that any of you probably care. But that's okay too. I'll just make my own awards and give myself a pat on my own back and use such various fun milestones to point out to my husband that I truly deserve to be pampered, adored, loved, spoiled, and altogether deferred to in all situations. After all, it's not like he can make a spinal cord. He can donate 23 chromosomes toward the creation of one, though, and he doesn't let me forget it. But everyone knows THAT doesn't count! <em>He's a terrible con man</em>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On a slightly related note because it involves babies, we have a new kitten. Yes, I know; ohmygod you have 3 cats and 2 dogs in that tiny 1 bedroom apartment and you're expecting a child?! Yes, we do. To be fair, one of the dogs is being taken in by Husband's friend, who can give her much better care than we can afford, and it wasn't my fault we are keeping the kitten. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Oh, sure, I bribed him into bring her home, but that was with the promise of finding her a home. HE was the one who decided we had to keep her! I was against this from the start! Kind of like being against pumpkin pie when you crave it, but you know -- pumpkin pie isn't there when you're done with it. So there. The analogy works. Leave me alone.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-36380755008805127272011-07-12T10:21:00.000-07:002011-07-12T10:23:09.785-07:00Epiphanies aren't always intelligent.<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I had an epiphany when getting up early for my Sunday shift. I realized that I hate the sun. Yes; the sun. It's evil. It's cruel. It's bright and it shines through my windows and even when I am trying to go back to sleep, once I'm awake and that damn sun is streaming in, it's so hard to get back to sleep and have it be restful. I blame the sun for all my fatigue and stress. THE SUN IS AT FAULT, PEOPLE. We should revolt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Only if we did that, we wouldn't have vegetables and fruits and summers and WATERMELON and swimming pools and life would kind of suck. Plus -- oh, shit. Vampires.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I take it back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No revolt today. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe when I'm safely dead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~~~~</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Secondly, I've come to the conclusion that when somebody comes up to you with bright, beaming smiles and rosy cheeks and perfect hair and ohgodyouhateher and she says, "I'm pregnant!!!!!!" (yes, with all the exclamation marks), what she's really saying is, "Save me. I'm miserable. I sleep too much. Then I sleep too little. My stomach never feels quite right. I'm craving food that everyone tells me isn't good for the baby. Everyone is suddenly a baby expert. Everyone watches what goes into my mouth. I'm everybody's property all of a sudden and my husband complains because I'm too sore/tired/cranky/hungry/whiney/in desperate need of love, affection, and pampering. The kids are annoying and I think I still love them but I'm not sure anymore because seriously, hit me with a nerf bat one more time and you're going to the orphanage. And if you don't understand this plea I'm going to break down and cry after we're done talking because NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME. Oh, and this hair? Totally faked with a visit to the salon. And these cheeks? Blush, baby. Blush."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now, whenever somebody tells me that they are expecting, I'm going to give them a sympathy card, many pats on the back, long-suffering sighs, and understanding looks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I hear pregnancy is bliss. I think this part of pregnancy happens about a year after the baby is born and our memories are mysteriously wiped clean and replaced with ones that glitter and gleam and beckon temptingly. I'm pretty sure this is the work of aliens. Or at least the FBI. Or the CIA. Or maybe George Washington. I don't know, BUT IT IS AN EVIL PLOT AND I WILL NOT BE SO GULLIBLE, ALIENS. I WILL KNOW THE TRUTH.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'd make an awesome X-Files person-thing. I, too, will always search for the truth. It's out there. Somewhere. Possibly in my food.</span>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-45355942544585962282011-06-24T23:16:00.000-07:002011-06-24T23:16:50.542-07:00Insomnia is wonderful. Kind of like melted chocolate in your car.<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm bored to tears and I know some part of me is crazy amounts of tired, but of course I can't sleep. Why would I sleep? It's not like I work tomorrow or anything.</span></div><ul style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><li><span style="font-size: small;">White Dog just hacked a lung out, then started licking the floor. Because, obviously, it tastes good. (?)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Small Dog ate her food, nosed my ankle to tell me thank you, wagged her tail, pawed at my thigh for a while, enjoyed some love, and then curled back up in her bed to sleep, which is what she was doing before I rudely awakened her for food. <i>There's a word for dogs like you.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Still cranky because dog is sleeping and <i>I can't</i>.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Big Cat keeps meowing pathetically at me because he can't reach a bug on the wall. Honestly? What do you expect me to do?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Husband is in my ear because he works tomorrow and is staying the weekend in the City. I'm not talking because I'm too busy reading <i>absolutely nothing</i> and also, I'm bored. This totally makes sense because having a conversation with Husband is so much worse. Obviously. (This is why I think I'm crazy.)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">I just told Husband I think I have insomnia. He tried to say something but I ignored him because I was typing. This is not how conversations work, I think.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">I'm freezing because the air conditioner is on full blast, but as some of you may or may not know, it's always on full blast because it can only do full blast and unplugged. And my replacement air conditioner is on backorder. Damn it, Landlady, just buy a different one from Walmart. Everyone else does it!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">I want a Target.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Big Cat is now chewing on the piece of my Bluetooth headset that broke off. It finally has a use.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Husband is still quiet because I haven't said anything in 5 minutes. I should say something.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Oh. No. It's because my Bluetooth ran out of battery. Fuck.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Now I'm typing with the phone against my shoulder. And a cat in front of my face. Trying to peer around the cat, type, and keep phone from falling. Trying to have conversation with Husband. <i>This is not working.</i> Move it, cat.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Epiphany:</b> Cats don't read.</span></li>
</ul>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-19144323568210059822011-06-24T12:13:00.001-07:002011-06-24T22:27:20.157-07:00My name will never be the same.<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm married.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh, dear God.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>What have I done?</i></span></div>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-48924679976011953602011-06-23T05:56:00.000-07:002011-06-23T05:56:18.522-07:00This post is brought to you by the phrase, "Oh dear God."I'm getting married today.<br />
<br />
<i>What was I thinking?!</i><br />
<br />
In desperate need of escape routes. If they involve spaceships, that's <i>fucking awesome</i>, but I need to make sure the aliens will be able to deliver my baby without killing me. Or maybe we can go with the classic, cowboy shoot-outs. Except I don't really want to go to jail and I'm terrified of guns. Maybe booze. But I need like, a booze bypass so that the baby doesn't get any. I never liked sharing anyway. <i>My booze, you little brat.</i><br />
<br />
Only, crap. I don't really like alcohol much either.<br />
<br />
Oh, God.<br />
<br />
I'm screwed.<br />
<br />
P.S. In case you read this before we're married, uh. I love you. No, really. I do. Maybe. But I'd really like the spaceship option right about now.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. Should probably go blow-dry my hair now. <i>Fuck</i>. This is really happening.S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1212005531956338974.post-59966008066663829052011-06-19T21:18:00.000-07:002011-06-25T00:02:29.418-07:00I have two words for you.Mood. Swings.<br>
<br>
Yeah, I know you all know <i>exactly</i> what I'm talking about.<br>
<br>
<a href="http://bottledshiny.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-have-two-words-for-you.html#more">Read more ยป</a>S.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10937551232349868868noreply@blogger.com1