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
Brutal Truth
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Motherhood, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
One of the things I love about preschoolers is their inability to lie — well. They tell you what they think, and these thoughts are completely uncensored. It can be highly disconcerting (”Mommy, why is THAT LADY SO BIG?”) as well as highly entertaining (”This tastes like dirt.”)
Like the time Nora said to me, “Mommy, I love you, because, you know, you’re not so old.”
Kay. Thanks?
Or the time I was getting dressed and Nora was eying my naked chest with interest. (FYI, naked bodies invite a host of hilarious, offensive, and often entertaining comments from preschoolers. Just be prepared to have your ego beaten into a pulp. And remember that they are usually eye-level with your crotch, so keep that shit covered.) After watching me remove my bra, Nora asked, “Mommy, are those your little boobies?”
LITTLE? Well, fuck. At least they’re bigger than hers.
My friend “Claire” tells a similar story that had me rolling on the ground with laughter. Her daughter “Anna” was watching Claire get dressed one day and said with a smile, “Mommy, I hope I have a big belly like you someday.”
Apparently, preschoolers’ sense of beauty is inspired by the fertility goddesses of ancient times.
She is HOT. Except for the hairdo. And the fact that she has no face. Photo by mharrsch via Flickr.
If only ours was too, goddammit.
Today was classic. I was driving back from my parents house which is three and a half hours away (ROAD TRIP!) and we had to stop to tinkle. For those of you who don’t have kids, “tinkle” = “pee-pee.” So anyways, we stopped at a gas station and as I carried Ava into the bathroom stall, Nora said, “It smells like Nana in here!”
“Nana” is what the girls call my mother. I found this so utterly hilarious that I called my mom while standing in the stall.
ME: “Hey, mom? We’re here in Podunk, Texas, in a gas station bathroom, and Nora thinks it smells like you in here.”
My Mom: “Oh my God. Are you serious?”
ME: (snorting) “Yeah.”
My Mom: “What does it smell like in there?”
ME: “What does it smell like? It smells like ass, mom. Ass.”
Nora: “ASS! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Ava: (sticking her hand in the tampon mailbox) “E-I-E-I-O!” (Ava is currently into “Old MacDonald.” It’s all she ever says these days — along with “mine” and “no.”)
Then there are the times Nora gets in trouble for doing something she knew she shouldn’t have been doing — oh, say, wrapping Ava in an entire roll of toilet paper — and when confronted with my wrath, can think of nothing better than to tell the truth.
ME: “Nora, WHY did you do that???”
Nora: “Because it was fun.”
Well, there you go. And I ignore stop signs because it’s fun.
Like mother like daughter.
Tags: belly, boobies, fertility goddess, gas station toilet, honesty, Nana, Preschoolers, tampon mailbox
I Suck
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
Generally speaking.
Now, before you start feeling sorry for me, realize that I say this in a perfectly even, non-emotional, matter-of-fact way. Not in a "woe is me, I plan on killing myself" sort of way, but in a "Oh well, life's a bitch" sort of way. Because I plan on doing absolutely nothing about my self-professed suckage. Other than write about it.
Why do I suck, you ask? Oh, let me count the ways. Where do I begin?
I know — I'll begin with "snack day." Nora's mommy was supposed to bring snacks to Nora's preschool class on Monday, and Nora's mommy sucks so badly she FORGOT. Yep. Fifteen 3-year-olds went snackless because I SUCK. Luckily, the teachers had an emergency snack at hand. I guarantee the next time Nora's mommy is signed up for "snack day," the teachers will be sure to have another emergency snack available. Which is good, since I'll probably forget then too. "Forget." *Snicker*
Do you think bite-size Milky Way bars count as a "snack" to these people?
On Friday, I am supposed to bring Valentines to Ava's class. I've even written it down on the back of an envelope of some junk mail I plan on tossing soon. How much do you want to bet I forget about that, too? I feel a little less worse about forgetting Valentines for a class of 18-month-olds, though, since they can't read, don't care, and will probably try to eat them anyway. And who wants their baby eating paper? Hell, I'm doing everyone a service by forgetting the fucking Valentines. Right?
I don't doubt that the staff at my girls' school thinks I am a moron who should not, under any circumstances, have been allowed to procreate. Whatever. Anyone who thinks that can go blow a goat. (Particularly if they're taking my money). I'm cool with my suckage. I've embraced it wholeheartedly. I'm at peace with it.
Bitch.
I am easily the mom who shows up to playdates without having brought a sippy cup, snacks, extra diapers, etc. for her kids. I am easily the mom who mooches off of everyone else, should I need any of the items listed above. (I consider this fair warning to anyone interested in having a so-called "playdate" with me.) On the upside, if I just so happen to have these things with me because I took my meds that morning, and it just so happens that YOU forgot, I will cheerfully give you mine. I may suck, but I am a generous soul nonetheless. I understand mommy suckiness, and embrace my fellow sucky mothers. We are one. Sucky mothers unite.
I am the "hostess" who throws goldfish in a bowl and "serves" it to her pint-sized guests, whose house is already a disaster so there are no unnecessary worries about little Suzy making more of a mess. My house is the one where you can hear muffled, creepy Christmas music playing even though it's February.
Trust me – kids have a BLAST at my house. Moms do too, so long as they don't have sticks up their asses. Ass sticks are not welcome at my house — please leave those in the car.
So yes, I suck…. Unless, of course, you think I rock. It's all relative.
Photo by TW Collins via Flickr.
Tags: hostess, playdate, snacks, snow globe, suck, suckage, Valentines
Used to be a Funhouse Part II
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, No One But Your Mom, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, parenting, toddlers
Ava has decided that Mama has not lost enough marbles.
And don't doubt for a second that she doesn't take every marble I lose and put it her mouth. My marbles, as I lose them, become choking hazards, therefore causing me to lose more marbles. Are you seeing the problem here?
Ava is at a delightfully horrific age: 18 months. Only 18 short months of life, and already she's learned, all too well, how to get what she wants. The fact that she is a second child, and a second girl to boot, well… That just adds fuel to the fire. She's got to be sassier, louder, and more obnoxious than her sister to ensure she gets noticed.
She is succeeding. I have never, ever witnessed a child throw as many public tantrums, scream as loudly, or shove as brutally. Ava does not fuck around — get out of her way, dudes, or your ass is hers. The infuriating part is how goddamned CUTE she is. Yes, I know I'm her mother and I am biased, but seriously, she's adorable (looking). She smiles a lot, and has these dimples that will suck you in like black holes. She's got these enormous blue eyes with long eyelashes, a cute little button nose, and a head of light brown curls. Trust me, meet Ava and you will not emerge unscathed — she will whip you.
So. The other day was a particularly crazy one: Playdate, three-year-olds fighting over princess dresses, toys and food everywhere, and darling Ava, who just wanted someone to notice that she was there. When she realized that smacking the older kids with their princess wands wasn't working, she took an entirely different approach. She took this snow globe that plays music (with a single push of a button) and dropped it in the toilet. While it was playing. I found her peering into the john, going "UH. OH!"
Uh-oh is right, especially considering Nora had gone in the potty and chosen not to flush the toilet. The snow globe was, miraculously, still playing, and the music was muffled and… downright fucking creepy. So I fished the urine-soaked snow globe from the toilet and threw it in the sink, where it continued to play a now very sad, very off-key, very disturbing version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." And it wouldn't stop playing. Pushing the button did nothing. And when, after a particularly macabre version of "Jingle Bells," I tried to take the batteries out of the piece of shit, I found that they were screwed in, and I'd have to whip out the toolbox to get the fucking thing to shut up. Considering I was in the middle of "hosting" (ha!) a playdate, I just decided to let it run itself down.
Seriously, no one will ever want to come over again. This may actually be a good thing, since I have no furniture and generally suck at playing hostess.
Do you know, the snow globe played for SEVERAL MORE HOURS. If my home wasn't a madhouse before, it certainly became one with the sound of screaming children and super-eerie Christmas music in the background. Background? I mean foreground. Shit.
Why isn't anything else I own built like a fucking Home Depot snow globe? I accidentally drop my car keys in a puddle of water and the remote stops working instantly. What the hell?
Ava, back before she was mobile, had an attitude, and lady-with-twenty-cats crazy hair. I never thought I would miss those days…
Tags: Ava, funhouse, madhouse, marbles, playdate, snow globe
I Win Again
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
I mean the Mother of the Year Award.
Oh yes, I won again — this month. My mothering practices are so offensive that I am actually awarded the Mother of the Year Award every month.
You thought you won, didn't you? Ha! No way. Eat my dust, bitches.
So I've actually worn Nora and Ava down, and they now enjoy going to the gym with me. Remember this story, in which I couldn't leave my girls at the gym childcare center for five minutes before the folks who worked there paged me? Well, I have managed to break my children. Nora now asks to go there, and Ava is simply accepting. I think she may actually like the people who work there better than she likes me, but I try not to dwell on it. I am finally able to work out, take a yoga class, or simply sit in the cafe and stare at a wall if I want. And yes, I can get a bikini wax in peace. Thank Jesus. The maximum amount of time a child is allowed to remain in the childcare center is two hours, which means I leave the girls there for approximately two hours and five minutes. Ok, fine, I wait until they page me.
Ha! I'm just kidding. Ahem.
So today I took the girls to the gym and watched, with considerable glee, as they waved good-bye to me and rushed off to play with the other little kids. I worked out at my leisure and thoroughly kicked my own ass. It was great.
And THEN, once I was done, I got my stuff out of my locker and started walking out the door.
As I approached the front door, it occurred to me that I had forgotten something. Hmmm. Keys? Check. Membership card? Check. Sweatshirt? Check. Well, what the hell….?
I started laughing aloud when I realized what I had nearly done: I'd nearly left my kids at the gym.
That's right, people. Mother of the Fucking Year, right here. You got nothing on me. I will win EVERY TIME.
"Me? AGAIN? Oh, I'm blushing! I'd like to thank my difficult children, my self-indulgence, my lack of medication, and my fine, well-toned ass — which is currently hanging out of my mini-skirt!" Photo by Malven via iStockphoto.
Tags: biki, bikini wax, childcare, gym, Mother of the Year Award
My Kids Crack My Ass Up
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Motherhood, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, parenting
Sometimes. Mostly, they drive me batshit crazy, but sometimes, just sometimes, I laugh at something they say or do. And their little faces light up, they give me these big, goofy grins, and Nora asks, "Mama, are you happy?"
That, my friends, is a big question for a three-year-old. But since I know she means right this second, I answer, "Yes, baby, I am happy. You make me happy." And the goofy grins persist for a good several seconds… Until they do something to piss me off.
One of the cute things: No matter what they are eating — it could be pretzels, bread, a fucking rock, for God's sake — they manage to smear it around their mouths. I don't know about you, but I am amazed at this ability. I mean, how the fuck do you smear a PRETZEL around your mouth? There's nothing to smear. It's a pretzel. And yet, I promise you, there will be a brownish tinge around their mouths afterward. I really should watch more carefully to see how this evolves: How many times can you salivate on and rub a pretzel around your mouth before you actually get it IN your mouth? I should try this some day. Anyone want to join me in this experiment?
There are certain things, however, that are very Toddler Bizarre, and they make me want to impale myself on one of the gazillion princess wands we have lying around the living room. For instance, Nora will eat a cookie until there is only a tiny piece left, and then hand the crumb to me and say, "Mama, I'm finished." Um, no you're not. There's still this crumb left. For some Godforsaken reason, Nora will NOT eat that last crumb. Can anyone explain this to me? She does this with everything: sandwiches, bananas, cookies… WHY WON'T SHE EAT THE LAST TINY BIT?
Ava has entered the Terrible Two's (contrary to popular belief, this phase in Small Person development actually starts at around a year and lasts until the age of fifteen, thereabouts.) She throws tantrums — full body, fist-pounding, hair-pulling tantrums — but only if she is certain I can see her. If I leave the room, she stops trantruming, follows me, and then starts over. This would be cute if it wasn't, well, fucking irritating as shit. I swear, Ava has screamed more in the past couple months than she did the first year of her life put together.
I'm sure I'll come up with more stuff later. I'll keep you posted (HA! GET IT? POSTED? Yes? No? Maybe? Shut up?)
I need a No-Doz.
Photo by Brungrrl via Flickr.
Tags: eating habits, food, No-Doz, princess wand, tantrums, Terrible Two's
The Crazies
Posted by admin | Filed under Depression, Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting, schizo
I am a desperate housewife.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate those words? Individually, they suck. Together, they suck worse. I mean, they are totally offensive together. I cringe admitting that I am, in fact, desperate. And because I hate the word "housewife" so much, I will go with "home economist." I am a desperate home economist. Ahem.
Fuck.
So here's the story, in brief: I went off my happies, a bunch of shit happened at once (including various illnesses that included my girls and me puking together in unison) that would have driven a normal, sane human being to the brink, and I went on birth control pills. Now, I will address each of those shit-storms separately:
1. I went off my happies. Aka, my happy pills. What? I thought I'd be fine without them. And I was, until….
2. A bunch of shit happened. Where do I start? The holidays. I'm not sure when the holidays were considered fun, but they have become a fucking nightmare at this point. Suicide rates are apparently high during the holidays, and while I hear it's because lonely people feel even lonelier during the season of cheer, I think it's parents of small children deciding they simply cannot take it anymore. My parents were meddling in my parenting and heaping guilt on me and TH, my kids were throwing tantrums because I wouldn't let them have yet ANOTHER candy cane for dinner, no one was sleeping in his/her own bed… Additionally, we all caught a nasty, snot-ridden cold (I'm still snotting from said cold) AS WELL AS a violent stomach bug. Snot for Christmas, puke for New Years. Oh, it was fun. I was sleeping in the same room as Nora, trying to puke quietly into a bucket so as not to wake her. God, I wish I was making that shit up.
3. I went on birth control pills. Look, my periods are wacky, and I will absolutely go INSANE if I get pregnant. So all these women are on the Pill, telling me it's fine, and oh, it's the lightest, bestest one around, so I said, OK! Let's do this thing. Bring on the hormones.
Huh.
In hindsight, I should not have gone off my happies during the holidays AND started BCPs. You're right, you're right. I set myself up.
But Jesus Christ on a cracker, if I could have videotaped myself yesterday. I was a raving lunatic, a deranged person. I was snapping at my girls for little things, ripping into TH like there was no tomorrow, throwing a fit because I got in the shower only to find that I’d run out of soap and had to get out, dripping wet, and rummage through the cabinets… My girls heard me say the word “motherfucker” at least twice, and if they grow up to need therapy, it will be because of yesterday, I swear.
Can you say INTERVENTION?
I think TH tried, by coolly asking if I was going to go Andrea Yates on his ass, and as you can imagine, that didn’t help things.
Men.
Anyways, I am doing much better today, thank you. I am getting some writing done, actually put some makeup on this morning, and I am wearing clean clothes.
It’s the little things.
That being said, I’m attacking my doctor soon.
Tags: birth control, crazies, crazy, Desperate Housewives, doctor, happy pills, insane
Hands-On Mom
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, parenting
Oh no, you're thinking. Is this another post in which Mimi / Admin / Whoever the Fuck I Am rips certain types of moms a new one? BINGO!
Just kidding. I think being a mom is hard, and no matter what you do, someone is going to rip you a new one. Really. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: So long as a child is loved, the rest is just details. They may not grow up to be completely balanced adults, but truth be told, I have yet to meet a completely balanced adult. Do they exist? I think it's an urban myth, this well-balanced adult bullshit. The more "well-balanced" an individual tries to look, the more fucked up they actually are, if you ask me.
Back to ripping moms a new one. Right. So I don't mean to talk shit about certain parenting styles, because in the end, we're all trying to do the best job we can and keep our kids out of therapy. I think we can all agree on that. BUT. There is this certain type of parent that is driving me batty, and I just want to grab her (or him), tie them down, and yell, "STOP! JUST STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!"
The "hands-on" parent, or, the parent that won't let their kid do ANYTHING on their own.
You've seen them at Gymboree, at the park, on the playground, in the classroom: They hover over their kids, directing every move. "Don't touch that, don't do it that way, do it THIS way, you're doing it wrong, this is how you do it, be careful, watch what you're doing, no, nononononono! YES!"
When Nora was around two-ish, I took her to an art class. And there was this mom I was dying to taser. The kids were supposed to be making hand puppets out of paper bags, but considering they were TWO YEARS OLD and couldn't follow instructions to save their short lives, they were smearing glue everywhere, coloring out of lines, making a mess of the yarn and paint… This mom was apoplectic. She could not deal with the fact that her two-year-old didn't understand that she was making a puppet, and dear God, the yarn goes on the head, and no, don't put the glue THERE!
I have a bit more sympathy when it comes to safety, because I tend to go overboard with the "be careful's". But as TH points out, sometimes I need a fucking chill pill. He'll tell me, "It's OKAY if Ava falls trying to climb that little step, because she'll just fall a short distance and she won't hurt herself – badly." Of course, TH takes the concept to a whole new level, as he doesn't seem all that concerned if Ava crashes down two flights of stairs and gets a bloody nose.
But back to my point. I see these parents everywhere, doing these bizarre, over-bearing things that make me cringe. There's this mom whose twins are in Nora's class, and I swear to God: I get there in the morning, she's there instructing the teacher on what her kids can and can't do, eat, etc. I get there in the afternoon to pick her up, and she's there asking the teacher about her children's every move. I'm beginning to think she never really leaves, she just hovers at the window, watching.
There's this other mom, who drops her kids off at the gym childcare center often at the same time as me. She comes in with this long list of things her boys (who are both over the age of five) can and can't do. "Keep them away from this, make sure they don't do that, if they get thirsty please let them drink ONLY from the cups I brought, NOT from the water fountain…"
For real, lady? Is all of that necessary? I mean, you are going to work out for HOW LONG? And you're afraid that they'll climb the jungle gym and MAYBE enjoy themselves, or drink Houston tap water (a legit concern, I must admit), or… WHAT?
To these two women, I'd like to say: If you're really THAT worried about your kids, then don't send them to school or childcare at all. Just sit your over-protective asses at home and keep your eyes glued to your kids, to make sure they don't do anything you don't like. And then, when they turn thirteen and can't take your ass anymore, they'll rebel with a fury and leave you stunned, confused, and feeling betrayed by the children you so "lovingly" raised.
What do you gals think? Am I being a crazy bitch? Don't answer that – it's totally off topic…
She looks FUCKING TERRIFIED. I don’t blame her.
Tags: art class, Gymboree, hands-on parenting, moms, over-protective
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
I Am NOT A Princess
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Preschoolers, Uncategorized, parenting
And I don't mean that I personally am not a princess, because HELLO, it's what's on the inside that counts *snort.*
I mean that Nora always wants to be a "princess," whatever the fuck that means, and throws a fit if, for some reason, she deems herself not worthy of the title.
For the record, I blame Disney. Seriously, folks, stop pushing the princess bullshit on little girls. Cinderella, Snow White, Ariel, Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty… And it's not like your daughter will ever go unscathed, regardless of how much you try and protect them from this crap. Even the modern, educational Nick Jr. has the princess undercurrent to its shows. Princesses are beautiful, wear fluffy gowns, are adored by everyone. And let's not forget: She gets Prince Charming. You know what I'd like to do to Prince Charming? Kick him in the balls. Oh wait, I can't do that, because HE DOESN'T EXIST. Not in the sense Disney would have you believe, anyways. (Yes, TH, you are my Prince Charming, calm the fuck down. You know what I'm trying to say here.)
I've always wanted to see what happened after the "happy ending." You know, once the honeymoon is over. Cinderella nags the shit out of PC, PC then has an affair with one the more slutty step-sisters. Cindy finds out, smashes the windshield of his carriage with a… er… golf club…
Back to what I was saying. Nora is convinced that if she isn't wearing a dress (preferably a pink one), then she is not a princess. Tantrum ensues. If her dress has long sleeves (because it's fucking freezing outside), she pushes them up over her elbows, because if they are not pushed up, she is not a princess. Tantrum ensues. If her hair is in a ponytail, she is not a princess. If I don't let her spritz my perfume on (continually until she's suffocating me), she's not a princess.
Tantrum. Fucking. Ensues.
So over Thanksgiving my mom (aka Nana) got Nora a cute little festive outfit of red turtleneck and striped pants. She was fine wearing the turtleneck (so long as the sleeves were pushed up) but refused to wear the pants. When I insisted she put them on, because the entire family was there and a three-year-old running around in panties is, in my opinion, inappropriate, she began bawling, "But I'm NOT A PRINCESS!"
To which I shouted, "You can be a princess EVEN IF YOU KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!"
Which reminded me of the time she wouldn't even keep her panties on, because they were blue, not pink, and I had to tell her, "Good girls keep their panties on."
*Snicker.*
Please. JUST STOP. Photo by Armadillo444 via Flickr.
Tags: Cinderella, Disney, dresses, panties, princesses
