The truth about pets, babies, and YOU.

Are you one of those people who adore your animals and let your child adore them too?

Even if you're not, YOU can benefit from this infoblogercial (so I made up a word, not the point here) about pets and babysitting.

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.

Case in point. Bonus: This dog can put a baby to sleep.

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.  No more diapers.  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.

Bonus:  Your kid will learn to read early.  Cats have a thing about grammar and education.

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!

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.

You have a problem, kid.

Separation anxiety.  It's heartwarming, heartbreaking, and utter wall-climbing misery.

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 fabulous 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 every night.  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.

I co-sleep.  That is, I bedshare.  All these words for parenting techniques drive me crazy.  Technicalities, blah blah blah.  My baby sleeps attached to my boob.  That is what I do.  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 lame 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."

I'm ashamed to even think about it.

Okay, back on subject; separation anxiety.  Ugh!  He will not only cry in the middle of smiling at a stranger because ohnowhere'sMommy! 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 maybe at some point it'll suddenly become awesome which of course it won't and he just keeps circling it over and over until he cries hysterically because nothing is happening.  It's great to watch, actually.  If you were a terrible parent.  Which I'm not.

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 if his belly has decided there is no vacancy.  And Mom is glued to an adorable little boobsucker all night.

Good news:  He's cute when he finally wakes up in the morning, all toe-grabby and cooing.

Bad news:  I have to wait until morning to see his cute side.

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 obviously sleeping isn't going to help him which is why he never wants to fall asleep and babies know freaking everything didn't you know that, and other obnoxious baby things.

I love it.

Most of the time.

Okay; pretty much all the time.  Because face it; when will they ever want us this much ever again in their lives?  I mean.  Besides when they're flat broke.

Wanted to come up with something witty. Decided it's not worth the effort.

I'm 7 months pregnant today.

I'm 26 years old today.

Third trimester, here I come... hopefully with a little more maturity behind me. Hah! Yeah, right.

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.

How 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.)

This was my conversation with my husband earlier today.  In retrospect, should not be getting legal advice from someone who thinks you're going to kill him.

Me:  Can a pregnant woman plead temporary insanity for killing her husband?  My baby site wants to know.
Him:  No.
Me;  You're a fucked up judge.  You're fired.
Him:  And you're going to prison.

(That wasn't quite the response I was expecting from my loving husband.)

Me:  I have alibis!
Him:  Uh, I have text messages.
Me:  I didn't say me.  I said my baby site wants to know.  Butthead.  :(

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.

Ultimate Guide to Motherhood

I have decided to share my well-learned secrets of motherhood with all of you because I'm too lazy to write a real post.

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!

• Breastfeeding is the best way to go.
• So is formula.
• Cloth diapers are gross.
• Disposable diapers are gross too.
• You can be a responsible mother by taking parenting advice only from your family.
• You can be a responsible mother by taking parenting advice solely from the internet.
• You can be a responsible mother by living by a "How-To" book, and it will cover everything you will ever encounter.
• There's no point in being squeamish about anything ever again because apparently baby poo is the most ick thing in the world.
• Baby poo doesn't bother you when it's your own child.
• Dogs and cats are terrible to have around babies.
• Dogs and cats are great around babies because it teaches them consequences.
• Dogs and cats are great around babies because they babysit for free.
• Your diaper bag will never be as cool as my diaper bag.
• Diaper bags aren't cool. Unless they cost $300.
• Strollers aren't just strollers, they're travel systems.
• 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.
• If you can't calm your crying baby, you're an asshole.
• If your baby keeps crying, the baby's an asshole.
• If you take care of your appearance, you aren't a good mother.
• If you don't take care of your appearance, you're a loser and can't take care of your child.
• If your husband takes care of his appearance, he's successful.
• 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.
• Your body pillow is your best friend.
• Your body pillow is completely obsolete and should be replaced by a real pregnancy pillow.
• Your body pillow is your new husband.
• Your body pillow is getting flat and needs to be replaced.
• Your body pillow is going to be a point of contention for the next 9 months.
• Back when your neighbor's sister's mother-in-law was pregnant, she didn't use body pillows.
• You cry a lot because of hormones.
• You're not supposed to cry a lot because it's not good for the baby.
• If you aren't crying there's something desperately wrong because there's no such thing as a happy pregnant person.
• Men suck and their dicks should be cut off.
• Unless you have a higher sex drive. Then men suck and should just shut up and let their dicks do the talking.
• You shouldn't plan your nursery now because what if you get free stuff at the baby shower a month before you're due?
• If you don't start your nursery now, you're a bad mother who isn't ready for motherhood.

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 God I've been enlightened.

Irrelevant, irreverent, and possibly insane. Thoughts of the day.

I wrote this over at BabyCenter and decided to archive it here, simply because it fits so well.  And I couldn't think of anything to write today.  And I'm swollen, and cranky, and my left foot is twice as big as my right.  Aaaahhhhhh!

• If Amy of Pregnant Chicken and I teamed up, we'd be unstoppable.  I'd market her to the masses -- wrapped up in bacon if necessary (it was the only way to get my animals semi-interested in her blog; don't judge me) -- and sit back and let the money roll in.  I'd be rich and amazing and one step closer to making my baby rule the world.  Or at least Manhattan.  (For those who disapprove; I at least vaguely informed her of my plans. Consent, however, is unnecessary.  Especially informed consent.)
• I don't like to share.  I mean, I do -- sometimes.  I don't mind sharing with Boy, for example.  Which is how I know I love him.  I don't mind giving him a bite of my food or letting him eat the last strawberry shortcake.  But in general, I don't like to share.  Especially my food.  Don't touch my food.  This mindset is probably why I'm fat.  Unfortunately, there's a thing in my tummy that may or may not be my baby (still holding out for an alien, or at least a cute blue devastatingly intelligent evil villain such as MegaMind), and it's eating my food.  At first I thought, "Sweet! I can eat as much as I want [not really]!"  But then I realized that it wasn't really my food.  Baby/Alien/MegaMind's Secret Child is stealing it.  From my belly.  Of all the sneaky, evil things to do!  My baby's a ninja.  Damn it.  At least his/her/its daddy will be happy.
• I have this inability to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time.  Except for the internet.  The internet is wonderfully bad for me and it is my happy drug.  Plus, I can shop for baby clothes at millions of stores at the same time.  So much better than walking around a department store with a whining partner in tow.  So far, I've decided that I must have this diaper bag by Isoki.  It's only been about 5 minutes of shopping, though.  I'll get a bigger list soon.
• Slightly related, I'm loving BabyLi.st.  Making a huge baby wishlist, even if nobody is going to buy me what I want.  And I haven't even started yet.
• My baby is probably going to look something like this.  I'll probably cry, scream, faint, or beam with pride.  Not sure which.  Taking polls.
• My dog is eyeballing my honeydew melon.  What part if I don't share do you not understand, big furry ball of evil?!
• My air conditioner is broken.  It can be turned on by plugging it in, and turned off by unplugging it.  (Plugging it out would sound more match-y, but unfortunately is not a real phrase. Boo to that.)  The nifty dials to change what settings you want the air conditioner to be are broken and may or may not, after several revolutions:  turn off the air conditioner until you panic and turn the dial a million times to turn it back on, turn off the air conditioned part of the air conditioner and use it as a fan (stupidest. idea. ever.), or blow hot air.  Not sure how it blew hot air, but it blew hot air once, and I was miserable and hot and cranky.
• Because of above air conditioner, I'm freezing as I eat cold melon squares for breakfast.  Technically, they're more melon trapezoids.  Or something.  Geometry was never my strong suit.
• A couple weeks ago, my neighbors brought me a fossil rock with oysters in it from Ohio.  Apparently Ohio had oysters many, many, many years ago.  I'm still not sure how to cook this rock, so it's sitting on top of my fridge until I learn more gore-may cooking skills.
• Mushrooms are the most disgustingly yummy things in this universe.  The slimy makes me want to puke, but the flavor makes me glee.

I hope you're all having an awesome, internet-addicted day like I am.  No work!  Too many chores!  Excited/playful puppy!  Annoying cats!  No food in fridge that isn't already cooked! ... oh, God.  This day is getting worse the more I think about it.  I should have stopped at "no work."

P.S. I love you all.  Except for you.

This is so not magical.

June 10, 2011 -- from my journal.

All of you terrible, terrible people who let me think pregnancy was magical, mystical, wonderful, and joyous LIED.

Yeah, that's right.  Lied.

I'm miserable. I'm constipated for the first time in my life (try having constipation after having a lifetime of diarrhea. Yeah. That's right. My ass hurts!), gas is trying to cramp me to death (something I once thought impossible), my heartburn refuses to leave and is apparently BFFs with my esophagus (NOT cool), and this whole dizzy-spell thing makes me feel like a fairy-tale princess.  An ugly, fat, bloated one.

And this is all at 6 weeks!

Oh; did I mention that I can't even hug my fiance, because it hurts my boobs?

Yeah. You all lied.  Don't worry; I'll get you back. We're raising our child to be the Evil Supreme Ruler, and we WILL take over the world.  (Perks:  Free healthcare for the rest of our lives, unlimited money, and no need to wait in line at Starbucks. Hell yeah, my baby's going to rule the universe. Pluto can come too.)

Much love,

Me.

My priorities will never be straight, backwards, sideways, diagonal, or in any rational order whatsoever. I'm so not ready for this.

So, I'm getting married in 6 days.

When you're getting married in 6 days, you're usually worried about the weather, or if your Wiccan mother-in-law is somehow going to say something to offend your Jehovah's Witness mommy, or your fiance is going to say something that makes Daddy pull out his nonexistent shotgun, or you're going to drop something gross and stain-y all over your wedding dress.

I'm worried about my first ultrasound.

Baby sucking brain out. Help. Send Skittles.

I've noticed a few fun and interesting things about being pregnant.


For examples:

• I haven't been able to hula-hoop in years.  (I used to be so good as a child!)  Working the evening shift with a bunch of crazy women like myself, we hula-hoop every night for a few minutes, just to get away from the desks and chairs and get some exercise.  Last night, I found out that if you want to hula hoop, all you need to do is be 7 weeks pregnant.  Voila.  Instant hooping magic.  (Why?  I don't know.)  Unfortunately, none of my coworkers were keen on the idea of getting pregnant just to be able to hula hoop.  However, they were keen on throwing me into a trash can out of sheer frustration.
• Zombie jokes run amuck. At least among my circle of peers -- and admittedly, we're a bit odd, nerdy, geeky, and believe in zombie apocalypses.  Sort of.  I can't count how many times I've been informed that I'm a zombie because the baby is sucking my brain out.