Childbirth
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Feces, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Uncategorized, Womanhood
Have you ever had one of those days where you got out of the shower and wondered, as you toweled off, whether you remembered to wash everything? As in, everything important? As in, YOUR BITS?
Come ON. I know I’m not the only one who’s ever done it.
Ok, you bunch of liars, it’s besides the point anyway. And for the record, I always get back in the shower and do said washing, just in case I did happen to forget. That is, unless I’m REALLY tired. Fuck it, I never get back in. You happy now? I’M FILTHY. Bastards.
And to think my husband’s colleagues read this shit while at work. Hey guys. How you doin’? Get back to work, you slackers.
SO ANYWAYS, the whole “forgetting to wash important bits while in the shower” thing reminded me of the times I COULDN’T wash the important bits while in the shower — like after having a baby. And that led me to wonder whether I had ever posted about childbirth, and lo and behold, I hadn’t. So for those of you who haven’t experienced the joys of childbirth yet, brace yourselves. Because MB is tackling this horrific subject matter.
Are you ready?….
It really isn’t that bad, relax. I mean childbirth. It really isn’t that bad.
Now, I know this is a very individual thing, and some women have terrible nightmare experiences, while others (you suck, by the way) push like they have a bit of gas to expel and TA-DA! baby is born. But the truth is, most of us end up somewhere in the middle. Meaning, while it’s neither a terrible nightmare nor the passing of a bean burrito, it sucks giant monkey nuts, but eventually ends with you holding your baby in your arms. (And with any luck, that baby is sleeping blissfully for the next eighteen years).
Now, let me qualify the whole “it’s not that bad” comment by saying one word: DRUGS. Take every. Ounce. Offered. And then ask for a bit more. Because seriously, ladies, there is no medal at the end of all this — just a squalling baby. And if you’re black and blue from the battle, how are you going to win the war? And yes, I just compared child-rearing to war. Sure, I admire the women who do it all without drugs, in a barn, out in a field, while on a yoga ball, in a jacuzzi, or whatever. Props to you. Really. But don’t tell me you’re better than me, or that your kid is better off than mine. I’ve known too many women who started out with the noble desire to have a “natural” childbirth only to end up in labor for days, having to have emergency c-sections. Look, go with what feels right, not what you think you should be doing. It’s your vagina that is getting demolished, after all.
My personal experiences with childbirth were pretty good (and by “pretty good” I mean they were one notch above getting my eyeball gouged out with a mechanical pencil. Not that it’s ever happened to me. I’m simply assuming). It was a lot easier the second time around, since I knew what to expect and wanted to delay my trip to the hospital as long as possible. With Ava, I was far more relaxed, annoyed, and reluctant. I was ordering the doctor around (”No, you MAY NOT cut my lady parts! And there is no way in HELL you’re using that thing to suck out my baby’s head! You know what? Just sit there and be quiet, goddammit. I can do this myself.”)
To be honest, the worst part for me was the immediate aftermath — taking the baby home and having to sit on a donut for days while my boobs threatened to explode everywhere. Let me make a recommendation to you ladies who have vaginal births and episiotimies: DO NOT take a mirror and look down there. BAD. IDEA. Refrain from looking, directly touching, or even thinking about your bits for a couple months. Because trust me, doing so will make you cry.
Now, before I wrap up this post, let me say a word about having everybody you know plus a camera crew in the delivery room: Another BAD. IDEA. Do you really want tons of people watching your vagina stretch to gargantuan proportions? Or possibly see you poop? Actually, come to think of it, tell your husband to get lost while you’re at it. Really. Husbands are totally worthless in the delivery room, unless they’re doctors. And even then – no point in having the hubby in there if he’s a, oh, ophthalmologist. TH really didn’t do anything helpful while he was in there. As a matter of fact, he scared the living shit out of me by turning white and muttering, “Oh my God” one too many times. The nurses had to ask him if he needed to lie down. Men are so goddamned worthless.
To those ladies who have had a baby: What was the worst part for you?
To those ladies who have yet to experience it: What scares you most?
Tags: baby, bits, childbirth, Feces, lady parts, vagina
It’s About Time…
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
…for another baby.
*Bursts out laughing, shoving an entire packet of birth control pills down throat with glee, washing it down with some vodka.*
NOT!
Have you ever met the woman who treats having kids like some sort of Olympic sport? Yeah? No? If not, I can introduce you to her. She's annoying as fuck. She's kind of like the woman who treats motherhood as a competitive sport, except that Preggo (what I will heretoforthwith call her) really stops caring about her kid the minute she has another one. Ok, not completely stops caring, of course. But kind of just removes the earlier-born child from her focus.
God, I'm a judgmental bitch.
But it's almost like… they aren't truly happy unless they're pregnant. Or have just been pregnant. Or are trying to get pregnant. As though their very self-worth teeters on their ability to make babies. Constantly.
I am happy / proud / thrilled to say that I think I may be done with having kids. I mean, I don't want to rule it out, as several years from now, preferably before my ovaries dry up, I may reconsider. It really depends on how drunk I am at that point. But I'm definitely not even going to think about it until I've completely forgotten how fucking miserable Newborn Land is. And guess what? I am not even close to forgetting at this point.
Plus, there's the whole Nip/Tuck issue. I want fake boobies eventually, so I have consider that as well. No point in lifting everything just to watch it drop again.
And for those of you who are thinking, "But you have to try again for a BOY!" No, I don't. NO, I FUCKING DON'T. I was given two beautiful, healthy girls. Why the shit would I complain? I'm sure having a son brings all sorts of different joys, but seriously, I'm fine. I'll survive. Really.
Plus, I've heard the stories about the shooting pee at diaper changes, and would rather not have to worry about it. I'm not sure I would know what to do with a baby that has those kind of parts to it.
So the other day I overheard a Preggo gushing, "We're pregnant again!" while I was at the gym. I happen to sort of know this woman, and I sort of know that her youngest (she already has two) is younger than Ava. And her oldest is younger than Nora. So she already has a three-year-old and a fifteen-month-old. And I have a question: Why? Don't tell me you love every second of it. Don't. Because I won't believe you. I'll think you're full of shit, dissatisfied with something in your life, and therefore use procreation as a coping mechanism.
Oh, and for the record, I am in a great mood tonight. *Beams*
Tags: birth control, boobies, competitive moms, Nip/Tuck, Preggo, pregnant, vodka
Birth Control
Posted by admin | Filed under Depression, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Uncategorized, Womanhood
Unless you're Michelle Duggar, chances are you'd like to NOT spend the rest of your life birthing babies. (Check out that 'do. DAMN.) Enter birth control, an issue that really shouldn't be only about women, but for all practical purposes, IS.
In answer to the poll question, I revealed that I took the Pill. Since creating that poll, I've stopped because, HELLO, I forgot how much it fucked me up emotionally. THE PILL IS EVIL. I was on the Pill prior to having the girls, and I'd gotten so used to being a bitch that I'd forgotten I wasn't like that naturally. When I went off the Pill to conceive, it was like a breath of fresh air. So THIS is how I am when I'm not perpetually PMSing! I'm actually enjoying myself!
I went on the Pill initially because my periods were inconsistent, long, and heavy. You have no idea how many times I started my period and wasn't prepared. Any of my college roommates can attest to this. My all-time favorite story is when I was at a sorority crush party and my hottie crush and I sat together chatting, when I felt IT. My period had started, and I was wearing this paper-thin dress and a thong. Why hadn't I predicted this, you ask? Because I was on day 21 of my cycle, and my period NEVER, EVER came this early. Normally it came between 27-32 days. I made excuses the whole night as to why I wasn't going to dance, and no, I'm not going to the bar, and I'm going to sit right here the whole fucking night, goddammit, and maybe I'll still be here tomorrow morning. It was this memorable incident that convinced me I had to get on the Pill.
I went on the lowest hormone Pill around, and instantly became a raging bitch. Which, in college, is not necessarily a bad thing. My periods got lighter and more predictable, but I suddenly started suffering from cramps, moodiness, and complete loss of libido. So when, after having Ava, my OB suggested the mini Pill, I scoffed at her, because I was breastfeeding and was fairly certain I was not going to get preggers. When I finally had a period, I decided I did not want to worry about it and just went on the Pill again. And holy shit, I couldn't do it. I was snapping at Nora and TH for no reason, crying at the drop of a hat, and felt the remnants of my libido vanish into thin air.
So what's a girl to do? When I asked my OB about a diaphragm, she rolled her eyes and said, "So we'll be seeing you again soon, I guess!" Look, lady, I don't want to pump myself full of hormones anymore. Next thing I know, I'll have to up my dosage of Zoloft to counteract the effects of the Pill. Thanks, but no thanks.
So according to the results of the poll, a few of you use "other" methods of birth control, and I want to know what those are. I have a sneaking suspicion they are "abstinence" and "absolutely no libido." But if they aren't, can you help a woman out and reveal your secrets? I'm not sure where to go from here.
Um… Someone missed a few days…Photo by Shemer via Flickr.
Tags: birth control, contraceptives, diaphragm, Michelle Duggar, poll, Pregnancy, the Pill
Pregnancy (Sucks Hairy Wet Ass Through a Straw): Part TWO
Posted by admin | Filed under Pregnancy
I thought my second pregnancy would be much like my first. I'd probably get gestational diabetes again, but this time I would be calm and composed (and request a different doctor. Dr. Fatty could go fuck herself if she thought I was going to give her any more of my money so that she could emotionally abuse me). I was going to be prepared, and everything would go smoothly. Everyone told me it was easier the second time around, so there was nothing to worry about, right?
Right?
Right?
….
Yeah, about that. I got pregnant with Ava when Nora was 13 months old – she was in that adorable phase between Baby Land and Toddlerdom, and she hadn't entered the Terrible Twos yet. And I thought, “Oh, I'm ready for another baby. I wouldn't mind getting pregnant in the next six months.” When I got pregnant just a couple weeks later, I was surprised, but not worried. Yet.
That's when the nausea began. What started off as puking up the occasional breakfast quickly turned into puking up every meal and each sip of water in between. HOLY. SHIT. If sleep deprivation is the seventh circle of hell, this landed me in the eighth. (Or is it sixth?) The smell of food sent me running to the bathroom lickity-split. Feeding Nora was torturous. My energy levels plummeted, and I started to feel dizzy all the time.
I wanted to die. Instantly. It was ridiculous. And the most frustrating thing about it was the number of people (mainly male OBs) who said, “It's all in your head.” All. In. My. Head. At the time, I was too sick to argue, but now? I'll show you what's in my head, mother fuckers. You know what's in YOUR head? My fist, that's what!
When I blacked out in the bathroom after a particularly bad morning, I knew I had to get my ass to the doctor pronto. I got my mom to come in to town to watch Nora (who, incidentally, screamed in terror every time I would puke). The doctor diagnosed me with hyperemesis gravidarum and sent my dehydrated ass to the hospital. I was there for three dismal days, hooked up to an IV and listening to TH crack Chuck Norris jokes.
TH: “Chuck Norris is a man of few words. Chuck Norris is not a man of few roundhouse kicks to the face.”
ME: “Uuuugh…”
TH: “Chuck Norris doesn't get wet. The water gets Chuck Norris.” * juvenile giggle *
ME: “Babe, seriously, can you go home now?”
TH: “Chuck Norris sleeps with a night light. Not because Chuck Norris is afraid of the dark, but because the dark is afraid of Chuck Norris.” * snort *
ME: “Oh, Gawd. I'm gonna puke.”
TH: “Again? Oh, this one's good: There is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist.”
Chuck Norris will forever remind me of those miserable days in the hospital. (Thanks, TH). My weight dropped to 98 pounds and my OB refused to release me until I was able to eat and keep it down. I somehow managed to con the nurses into saying I had eaten, and was finally released – with my very own Zofran pump. Jesus, would I not have a needle-free pregnancy? And let me tell you, nothing is sexier than a Zofran pump bulging out from behind your shirt as you bolt to the bathroom to upchuck.
I didn't start to feel somewhat normal until my third trimester, and at that point I was, well, in the third trimester. No pregnancy honeymoon for me. Dammit. Of course, I am truly grateful that Ava was born healthy and all that jazz, but seriously? Seriously? I know a lot of women had it a lot worse than I did, but this is my blog and I'm allowed to be a whiny bitch.
And about the whole “abstaining from drugs during pregnancy” thing… Let's see, I had Zofran pumped directly into my body non-stop during the first half, and then was on a delightful combo of Zoloft and caffeine during the second half…Oh, and the occasional glass of wine towards the end there. Right…
In summation, if you are contemplating getting pregnant, consider yourself warned. All those movies where the women get cute little bellies and remain unchanged otherwise? A big. Fat. Lie. And if you happen to be one of the few women who looooooved pregnancy and looked like fucking Heidi Klum the whole time, keep your mouth SHUT. And remember that I love you and hate you all at the same time.
Tags: Ava, Chuck Norris, hyperemesis gravidarum, Pregnancy, puking, Zofran, Zoloft
Mother’s Day
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Pregnancy, Uncategorized, Womanhood, schizo
Last night TH and I got a babysitter, went to eat at an Indian restaurant, and saw Wolverine. Sans kiddos. Let me tell you, I didn't know what to do with myself, I was so excited. I ALMOST shaved my legs for the occasion (and then decided, NAH. I'll wash my hair instead. What, you think I'd do both those things ON THE SAME NIGHT? What do I look like to you? A sane, hygienic individual? HA!) and put on lipstick. And while I'm on the topic of lipstick, can I just say, I don't wear it anymore. I used to put some form of lip color on my lips every day before having kids, usually this. Now, however, I just wear lip balm. When I wear lipstick on the rare occasion, it bugs the shit out of me. I walk around all fishy-lipped and awkward. Am I the only one who is over lipstick?
The same is not true for concealer, however. I go crazy with that shit. I went to the dermatologist recently for my raging eczema and asked her why I was suddenly getting more freckles and moles. She replied with a smile, "We all do, with age." Fucking great. Pretty soon I'll look like this:
Photo by bobbieo via iStock.
Damn, she's hot. That's the look I give TH when I'm trying to seduce him. Speaking of moles, I had a skin cancer screening while I was there, and if you haven't done that yet, do it. Especially if you're a mole/freckle-ridden hoebag like me.
So back to last night. I was too excited to actually eat. Yes, this is what I've been reduced to. I finally get a chance to eat at a restaurant and not spend the entire time staving off meltdowns, picking up sippy cups and bottles, wiping food from grubby faces and fingers, and I'm too excited to eat. Jesus. I was not, however, too excited to drink. And not to sound like a hermit or anything, but when did these signs start popping up everywhere?
I'm pretty sure those weren't around when I was pregnant with Nora. And they may have been around during my pregnancy with Ava, but I was too drunk to notice. Just kidding. I probably had my head IN the toilet, so I wouldn't have noticed it anyway.
The movie, according to my husband's inner geek, was dismal, but I hardly noticed since I was in Hot Guy Paradise – Hugh Jackman (spending an inordinate amount of time naked and showing off his muscles), Ryan Reynolds, random hot guy who plays Gambit… I was practically squealing with delight, and TH spent the entire movie with his eyes rolled back into his head. I took especial joy in sticking my elbow in his ribs every time hot ass flashed on screen. I have no idea what the plot was and the cheese factor was pretty high, but I'd recommend this movie anyway. Just be sure to take in some ice cold drinks *sizzling sound*…
I was actually depressed when the movie let out and we headed home. My moment of freedom was fleeting, and now it was over. Boooooo. And I know this post is all over the place, but HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY girls, milk it for what it's worth!
Tags: alcohol, dermatologist, Hugh Jackman, lipstick, moles, Mother's Day, movie, Pregnancy, restaurant, sausage fest, skin cancer, Wolverine
Pregnancy (Sucks Hairy Wet Ass Through a Straw): Part ONE
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Uncategorized
Photo by Rich Hobson via iStock.
I thought I'd hark back to those awful days for the sole purpose of your entertainment, gentle readers. No, I am NOT currently pregnant, and with lots of luck and some serious birth control, I won't be for a while (or ever again – ask me again in three years). Oh, and for those of you who aren't as hip as I am (yo yo yo), something sucks "hairy wet ass through a straw" when you think it just can't get any worse and it does. Sounds a lot like pregnancy, don't it?
I know very few women who claim to love being pregnant, but the few (one) that I know I suspect are being mendacious (SAT word for FULL OF SHITE). Why do I believe this? No, it isn't only because I'm a hater. It's because I have a friend who MODELED during her pregnancies and is drop-dead gorgeous, and even SHE admits that her ass tripled in size and Photoshop was her good friend during the whole process. That "pregnancy glow"? Photoshop filters hard at work (the computer geek in me coming out).
Well, not only did I not glow during my pregnancy (unless by "glow" you mean sweat like a greasy pig), but each of my pregnancies brought unique and exciting crapola for me to deal with for 10 months. With Nora, I had gestational diabetes. With Ava, I had hyperemesis gravidarum (i.e., nonstop heaving). With both, I had the following common but ever-so-fun symptoms *takes a deep breath*: Heightened thermostat, extra padding, stronger-smelling B.O., fatigue, headaches, faintness & dizziness, greasy hair and skin, depression & anxiety, hysteria, nosebleeds, nasal congestion, stronger sense of smell, breathlessness, heartburn, sore boobs, stabbing back spasms, nipple cheese, itching, bloating, flatulence, hemorrhoids, vaginal bleeding, Braxton Hicks, frequent urination, loss of bladder control, and my all-time favorite, cheeseburger crotch. (For a detailed description of these delightful symptoms, see here.) I shall address each pregnancy in separate posts (because there's so much to say, and because I am the all-powerful creator of this blog and can do whatever I damn well please).
While pregnant with Nora, I swore off all drugs, including caffeine. I wanted what was "best" for my baby. Uh-huh. So I spent that entire pregnancy exhausted beyond belief and completely spastastic, particularly after my diagnosis for GD. I cried regularly and spent every lonely night that TH was working late buried in the Outlander series. Note: If you haven't read these books, let me just say I recommend them. They're labeled as "historical fiction," but the truth is, they're literary porn. (TH would come home from work and find my pregnant self curled up and devouring these books, roll his eyes and say, "Reading about Scottish throbbing manhoods again? You DO realize that they were filthy back then, right? That they had rotting teeth and dingleberries? Does she talk about the nasty DINGLEBERRIES?")
Getting slapped with GD was totally unexpected, since I didn't fit the profile, and my stupid OB refused to acknowledge that I barely made the normal-blood-sugar cut (which, by the way, is totally arbitrary and varies from doctor to doctor). So off to a specialist I went, who put me on a strict low-carb diet. Each week I went in for my check-up, got berated by my doctor for eating a PIECE OF BREAD (who, by the way, was obese – go ahead and chuckle at the irony), and then got berated again by said obese doctor for not putting on enough weight. (Dr. Fatty, you're probably not going to read this, but I'd like to ask you how it was that you expected me to put on weight when I was on a diet of chicken breast and lettuce? Oh, and also, fuck you.) I got to draw my own blood before and after every meal, record the results down, and then cry because the numbers weren't low enough.
That's when Fatty put me on insulin. So not only did I get to draw my own blood 6 times a day, I ALSO got to shoot up before every meal and feel like I was going to pass out for the rest of the day. All this while enduring raging, uncontrollable cravings for doughnuts. I may have been reading about throbbing manhoods, but I was dreaming about crullers. With lots and lots of icing. OH. MY. GOD. I ask you, people: can you blame me for finding solace in soft-core porn?
At about week 33, I said "screw dis" and started eating whatever I wanted. I also stopped going to the specialist, taking the insulin, and checking my blood sugar. Call me irresponsible, but I'd had enough, and I was certain that the stress was doing far more harm to my baby than the supposed GD. Also, since I had gained a whopping 18 pounds TOTAL by the end of the pregnancy, I was fairly certain I wasn't going to give birth to a 12-pound baby. My OB predicted a 8-9 pound baby, and, lo and behold, Nora was born at the scale-shattering weight of 6 pounds, 9 ounces. Beeeeeooootches! Which leads me to wonder: How do some people become doctors? I mean, seriously? I thought medical school was all hard and shit? No? Maybe? Kind of?
Stay tuned for Part Two of this saga – you wouldn't want to miss the gag-fest coming up…
Tags: blood sugar, dingleberries, gestational diabetes, insulin, Outlander, porn, Pregnancy
My Kids Look Nothing Like Me
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Uncategorized
And now for a rant. (Pretend for a second that this entire blog isn't a rant and humor me here.)
You would think God would cut you a break and ONE of your kids would look like your very own Mini-Me. Call it vanity or selfishness or whatever you want – the truth is, after enduring 10 months of getting the shit kicked out of you FROM THE INSIDE by this parasitic, alien being, you would hope that, at the very least, the alien would look remotely like it's host as a tribute of sorts. You know, as a sort of “thank you for growing, feeding and sheltering me while you became sick, fat, weak, ugly and depressed.”
Alas, the joke’s on you. Because not only will your baby not look like you, he or she will look like a delightful mixture of your husband and your least favorite relative. As a friend of mine confided about her baby girl, “She looks like my mother-in-law, and I don’t even like my mother-in-law.” No one can say God doesn’t have a sense of humor when you realize that you’ve just given birth to Uncle Albert, who is called “Assface” behind his back. Or better yet, when you realize Assface’s look-alike will suckle your teat.
Things are not all that bad for me, since my girls look like their (very handsome) father (and not Cousin Spanky). But still, it irks me that one of them isn’t my spitting image, particularly when Nora is TH’s spitting image. With my luck, they’ll inherit nothing but my flat ass, and spend all of their teenage years blaming me for at least ONE of their physical attributes.
Tags: alien, Assface, Mini Me, parasite, Pregnancy
Competitive Moms
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Pregnancy, Womanhood, friendships
An alternative title for this post, if you prefer, can be “The Mommy Friend Dilemma Part Deux.” Okay, so everyone probably intuitively knows my thoughts on this subject. It begins with an angry eruption of expletives and ends with a plea to these women to stop reproducing. Hey, you guys are getting good at this.
I'm not saying anything new by pointing out that some people never really grow up, they just grow older. One of the great joys of Facebook has been finding old classmates from middle school and high school who were popular cheerleaders back in the day (and, in my defense, some of the most intolerable snotty bitches ever), but who now look like tired housewives. Oh, are those wrinkles I see? After three kids, her titties are probably not as perky anymore, eh? How unfortunate for her. * Evil cackle. * Granted, I may not look any better, but at least I didn't peak at the age of 16. I like to think I haven't peaked yet. Fuck, I hope I haven't peaked yet, otherwise my peak SUCKED.
Back to the subject at hand. The same chicks who competed ferociously over boyfriends, looks, smarts, whatever, became mothers and transferred all of their competitive energy to their kids. They want to make sure that their kids are the future popular high schoolers. Of course, no mother would admit this, but it's the truth. I mean, what mother actively hopes her kid is the friendless dork at school? Ok, maybe most of us hope for a middle ground, but most of us aren't competitive moms.
From the moment you enroll your 4-month-old in some baby gym class, you encounter the competitive mom (hereafter “CM”). She is the one who loooooooooved being pregnant, who is thinking about becoming a surrogate because she's so good at being pregnant. (I am not making this up – a woman actually said this to me). She is the one who was in labor for half an hour and had a completely natural childbirth, no epidural. She pushed twice and out came her perfect baby, complete with bow in its head fuzz. Now, someone needs to explain this to me: What the fuck is she so proud of? That she's good breeding stock? That she has a cavernous vagina? WHAT?
CM's baby never cries, except when it's hungry or dirty, and then it “mews.” CM's baby is always dolled up – no stained Circo jumper from Tar-JAY (which has trains on it and is meant for a little boy, but shit, it was on clearance for two bucks) on HER little angel. CM's baby started crawling at five months, walking at eight, was potty trained by twelve months, and was talking by eighteen months. Uh-huh. And all of this would be fine if she didn't turn, a malicious twinkle in her eye, and ask, “And what about YOUR baby?”
Eat my dust, bitch!
Another topic I've heard CM's bring up a lot is growth charts. “Olivia is in the 95th percentile for her height and weight!” Um, this isn't the SATs. Being in the 95th percentile for height, weight, and head circumference does not mean she is going to Harvard. It means YOUR KID IS ENORMOUS. Another one I've heard is, “Hannah is in the 20th percentile for her height and weight. She's just naturally petite.” Oh, puh-leeeeeeeez. What, naturally petite like you? I thought so.
My friends and I are the exact opposite of CM's – we actively make fun of our kids. Not in front of their faces, of course – we're not bad moms. Just ones with massive senses of humor. For instance, Nora once got a really, really bad haircut, and I joked that she looked a lot like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. Bertha's daughter, “Emily,” had strabismus (crossed-eyes) for a little while, and Bertha would joke that she never knew who Emily was looking at. She and her husband would go back and forth: “She's looking at you. No, at me. No, at you…”
And as for ourselves, we compete as to which one of us is more badly mutilated by child-bearing:
ME: “I've got a roadmap of vericose veins all over my thighs.”
Bertha: “Oh, yeah? You think that's bad? Look at THIS!” (Pulling up her pantleg).
ME: “That's nothing! Check out these stretch marks!” (Yanking up my shirt).
We're like 'Nam vets comparing scars. We could do this for hours. And have I shown you the cottage cheese on my ass? No? Boy, you are in for a treat…
Tags: competitive moms, Facebook, growth charts, Jim Carrey, mommy friends, snotty bitches, strabismus, war scars
The Stay At Home Mom and Depression
Posted by admin | Filed under Depression, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Stay At Home Moms
And now, for a more serious subject matter. * snickers *
Ok, I'm mentally 12 years old. But seriously, this topic is a very important (and often dismissed) issue. These days, postpartum depression gets a good amount of attention – not the amount it deserves, but more than it used to. Back in the Victorian era, if a woman weeped for “no reason” she was probably diagnosed as “hysterical” or something and treated like a looney. Women who behaved “untraditionally” or had "a tendency to cause trouble" were also diagnosed as hysterical, so goes to show you how much attention has been paid to depression in women historically. Just reading about the lack of consideration women's emotional well-being was given not too long ago is making ME “hysterical,” for shit's sake. Quick! Someone get me a vibrator. * snickers again *
For those of you (men) who don't understand what PPD is all about, close your eyes and picture this scenario: After 10 months (yes, 10) of nausea, heartburn, weight gain, fluid retention, being unable to see your feet, itchy skin, and a host of other disgusting and unpleasant symptoms, your vagina (abdomen, if you had a c-section; anus, if you're a man reading this) is torn to shreds by a 6-10 pound baby. You are sewn up and promptly sent home with this tiny, screaming being, some painkillers, a squeeze bottle for your nether regions, a few ounces of formula, and a body you no longer recognize as your own. No instructions included. Ok, scratch that. I was given a colorful, photographic description of what bowel movements should look like for the next two weeks. (Not mine, the baby's. I was hoping not to have a bowel movement ever again.)
So anyways, back to my scenario. Your hormones are all over the place. Your belly is hanging around your knees, your boobs have minds of their own, you are in constant physical pain and discomfort, and then there's this baby that you're afraid you'll drop or somehow break. Your entire life as you knew it is transformed, and this new life has no order, no routines, no predictability. Since you don't work or have given up a job to stay home with your baby, this chaos seems to stretch endlessly before you like a yawning abyss of misery. You are surviving from minute to minute, and you, as the mother, are virtually alone in this experience, even if you have people helping you.
Throw in a healthy serving of sleep deprivation and a side of colic, and you've got the ingredients for full-blown, have-no-mercy Depression.
Guess what? She doesn't plan on stopping anytime soon.
For me, what started off as run-of-the-mill baby blues spiraled into PPD when Nora would cry NONSTOP for several hours at a time. This kid woke up from Newborn Land a couple weeks after being born, looked around and thought, “HOLY. FUCK.” Then proceeded to scream for the next six months. One of the most difficult aspects of new motherhood was the fact that other mothers all seemed to be fine. No one I met had a colicky baby, everyone was managing to smile several times a day. No one ever considered running out their front door and never coming back, oh nooooo…. As a matter of fact, little Billy (I don't know anyone who names their kid “Billy” anymore, but whatever) started sleeping through the night at six weeks! Can you believe it? Blah, blah, blah, BLAH!
Let me take this opportunity to say that if you ever feel you're reaching the end of your rope because your baby is shrieking endlessly, set the little booger down in his crib and walk away. Take a 15 minute shower where you can't hear the crying. Listen to your iPod. Whatever. Just don't shake the baby. Throw him out a window, fine, but don't shake him.
I was bothered by the fact that no one wanted to talk about how horrible having a new baby can be, how it can be like falling in the darkness, not knowing when you'll splat on the pavement. Mothers only talk about how happy they are, how it's the best thing they've ever done, how they love their new babies more than anything in this world, because saying “this sucks” would be like walking around with a sign on your forehead that says “I Heart Casey Anthony.” Give me a break. If you're one of these June Cleaver moms I keep ranting about, the ones who read The Joy of Homemaking and think toddler tantrums are cute, good for you. Seriously. But just make sure you aren't suppressing some deep, dark anger that will lead you into drug abuse and homicide later in life. Hey, I'm just sayin'.
To everyone else, let me make this clear: PPD, or having the baby blues, does NOT mean you've failed as mother. The only way it makes you fail is if you don't do something about it. Get people to help you out with the baby and go see your doctor. Get some happy pills, if you think you need it. Ain't no shame in it. When Nora was four months old, I FINALLY dragged my sorry ass to the doctor and sobbed my way into a prescription for Zoloft. Best thing I could've done – for both me and my baby. Suddenly, things seemed manageable, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
And about that light at the end of the tunnel… It's there, and it's wonderful. Really.
Tags: childbirth, colic, crying, Depression, happy pills, hell, June Cleaver, postpartum, PPD, Zoloft
SAHMs and Prejudice
Posted by admin | Filed under In the News, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized
While pregnant with Nora, a friend recommended I read The Feminine Mistake. I don't believe this was done maliciously – quite on the contrary, I believe she was trying to be helpful. Needless to say, the book did little to ease my hormone-induced, spiraling-out-of-control worries about my unborn child and my future as a wife and mother. Because I was struggling with gestational diabetes, drowning myself in chocolate was simply not an option for me. Had it been, I probably wouldn't have been motivated to start this blog.
I am certain that if someone bothered to find out why 10-20% of women suffer from antepartum depression (depression during pregnancy) and postpartum depression, he or she would find The Feminine Mistake – and people who think like Leslie Bennetts – responsible for a huge chunk of it.
I am really trying to control my potty mouth here. I don't want to undermine my argument with unnecessary cussing. Douchebags.
If women feel unfulfilled by motherhood, it's because our society has taught us there is something wrong with being a stay-at-home mother (or father, for that matter – I can't even begin to imagine the kind of shit stay-at-home dads get). That it is, by its very nature, unfulfilling. I'm talking to you, you so-called feminists out there. Under the guise of “feminism,” women who choose to stay home with their children are told they are subverting the goals of the feminist revolution. They are told that they are not really making a choice to stay home. Linda Hirshman famously said that women who stayed home with their kids performing “repetitious, socially invisible, physical tasks” were making a mistake; that they needed to make money, marry “down,” and have only one kid. More recently, Rachel Cooke and Polly Vernon of The Observer said that they are sickened by women who identify themselves “primarily, vociferously, and sometimes exclusively, as mothers,” by “that pampering cult of Bugaboo-wielding, Mumsnet-bothering dullness.”
Holy shit. Before I start spewing fire from my mouth and nostrils, let me just say that there are many things that need to change for stay-at-home mothers before the job can be called anything close to ideal. Women already make less than men, and if they take time off to raise kids, forget it. There are very few part-time jobs out there that accommodate women who want to work as well as be available for their families. Staying home to raise a family is still treated as doing “nothing” – a woman's career and status suffers. SAHMs do not get Social Security benefits; child care costs are insanely high; etc. Basically, the cards are stacked against a woman who stays home with her kids in every way.
But to put the blame on the shoulders of the SAHMs – that, in and of itself, is sexist. Women like Hirshman, Cooke and Vernon are wannabe men; rather than reject the age-old notion that child-rearing devalues women, they've embraced it.
I am exactly the kind of woman Hirshman derides in her article – I am a privileged, well-educated woman who has chosen to take care of my babies rather than work in the market economy. Yeah, that's right, bitches. I believe being a parent is the most important job in the world. Blah, blah, blah, right? I'm just trying to make myself feel better about my choice. But while women run out and work (for lower wages than her husband would make), who is raising the kids? The feminist husband? Complete strangers? And what kind of adults will these kids grow up to be?
Say what you will about equality, women will never be men. Women will always have wombs and boobies; men will always have penises. Biology has dictated, to a certain degree, how much each sex will participate in the early part of the child-rearing process. Rather than insist that women be embraced for what they are and already do, the Hirshmans of the world want them to change – into men.
There is no question that women who choose to stay at home to raise their children need to continue to take care of themselves. They need to cultivate their talents, work part-time, and certainly go back into the workforce once their children are school-aged, if that is what they so desire. But society needs to change to accommodate them and make it easier for them to enter – or re-enter – the market economy. Salary.com estimates that SAHMs earn “well over $90,000 for executing all of her daily tasks. Factor in overtime, and the appropriate salary takes a leap of around $25,000.” And that's not even taking into account the psychological and emotional impact SAHMs have on their little ones by simply being there for them, by simply putting them first. How about we get people to start recognizing that, rather than calling SAHMs a waste of space? How about we start attacking the basic ways in which motherhood is perceived, rather than motherhood itself?
Tags: Linda Hirshman, money, Pregnancy, stay at home mom, Stay At Home Moms, work
