There is no place on earth as disgusting, bacteria and virus-infested, or generally filthy as McDonald PlayPlace.

Trust me on this.

I am fairly certain that a public toilet seat is cleaner. I am fairly certain that actually dunking your child in a public toilet is a better idea than allowing them to play at the PlayPlace.

That being said, I go there all the time.

Look, it’s not my fault. Nora actually wakes up asking for it. And it’s fairly convenient, since 1) it’s near my house, 2) I can feed my children in the same place with highly-processed chicken and pure lard, 3) technically my fat ass doesn’t have to leave the chair, since everything is contained in a small area, and 4) technically, once Ava is a bit older, I’ll be able to take my laptop and do something productive for 30 minutes (or just take advantage of the free Wi-Fi and surf for porn. Er, I mean the latest toy recall. Riiiiiiight).

Well, about the “Ava getting older” part. It’s kind of key, as I discovered today.

I should have learned my lesson the time Ava was bopping around the play contraption (which consists of tunnels and slides and tons of nooks and crannies) and saw a half-eaten chicken nugget lying UNDER the bottom platform. Covered in dust and dirt and feces and God knows what else. “Oooooooh! Yummy!” she cried, and before I could throw myself at her (imagine this in slow motion, with me screaming “Nooooooooooooooooooo!”) she had put it in her mouth.

I still shudder thinking about it.

But I’m a persistent fucker. I still took them there, because I was convinced that sooner or later, everything would work out, just like the gym, and it would become a pleasant experience, despite the diseases we would all catch.

Today may be the last I go there until Ava is five — at a minimum.

So normally I get Ava onto the second platform and let her just kind of wander back and forth while I watch her, since she’s too little to climb the whole thing by herself. She piddles around and squeals as the older kids rush past her, and she generally enjoys pressing her face against the mesh walls, peering down at me and calling, “Mamaaaaaaaa! Hiiiiiiiiiiii!”

But not today. No, my intrepid little one-and-a-half-year-old decided that today she was going to climb to the top, and find out where her sister goes that seems to bring her so much joy. As she crawled her way through a tunnel and to the side I could not see, my heart started to sink. I could see where this situation was headed, and it involved me climbing into the playmathingie myself. I called her name repeatedly to no avail — Ava was going where no toddler had (purposefully) gone before. And as I called, debating as to whether my child was smart enough, with the help of her sister, to find her way down one of the many slides, I heard something that sounded all too much like “POW! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The scream Ava emitted was nothing short of agony. Let me tell you, folks, you have never seen a grown woman climb into a McDonald PlayLand playscape as fast as I did. I wiggled my ass through those tunnels, following the sounds of my screeching child. (Who the fuck invented this fucking maze? Which tunnel do I go in, for God’s sake? The red one? No, the blue one… Fuck! My ass is stuck in the green tunnel!) I finally made it to the end, only to find Ava bleeding from her lower lip. Apparently, one of the older kids was hanging from whatever-the-fuck-that-is (is that a steering wheel?) and accidentally kicked Ava in the mouth.

Using my sleeve to dab at her lip, I wondered (between pants) how I was going to get myself and my bleeding child down. (Why isn’t there a slide on this end? And which tunnel is the shortest way back? MOTHER. FUCKER.) Luckily, I had Nora to help out. “Follow me, Mama!” she said heroically, leading the way down the blue tunnel.

FYI, the blue tunnel is not the shortest way back. It’s actually the longest. I think Nora thought it would be fun.

With Ava screaming bloody murder, I wrapped one arm around her (hopefully it wasn’t her neck) and started inching BACKWARDS through the tunnel. I now believe that at least ONE circle of hell is a playscape that is too small for the offender’s ass. We finally made it to a slide, and with Ava flailing about, I managed to twist around, plop her on my lap and skid my way down to terra firma. (Can you hear the angels singing?) It was only eleven in the morning and my day was DONE. Ready for bed. Seriously.

The funny thing is that the parents who were sitting (on their fat, lazy asses) in the room failed to notice that anything odd was going on. They were reading their papers, playing with their phones, completely oblivious to the fact that 1) a kid had been kicked in the face or 2) one of their own was stuck in the playscape. It is possible they thought I had everything under control, I suppose.

Ha. When have I EVER had anything in my life under control?

Remember, people, embrace the chaos. It’s the only way you won’t end up a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

Oh my God, I’m hilarious. Going to drink now.

Looking at it makes my ass twitch.

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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…

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Actually, now it's full of toys, garbage, and children who are far too clever and devious for their mother's good. No clowns, thank God. That would really be the icing on the cake, if I had to deal with evil clowns on top of everything else. I'd really need some heavy meds — and serious weapons — then.

So clowns aside, this place really does teeter on being an insane asylum on most days. From the moment they wake up, my girls make it their mission to destroy any sense of order or sanity in our home. Nora even tells Ava, "Come on, Ava! We have work to do!" I think she picked that phrase up from Wonder Pets (if you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself a lucky, lucky bitch or bastard), but it is so appropriate in context, I have to smile. The "work" my little hellions have to do is destroy, demolish, and then cackle cruelly as Mama frantically tries to undo the mess.

They take things out of drawers, cabinets, any sort of container, and seem to take particular joy in creating disorder where there was once order. It's not like they are taking specific things out to play with, they are just flinging shit over their shoulders as fast as they can possibly manage. God forbid they manage to reach a box of cereal or rice or flour in the pantry — if I don't catch them in the nick of time, it will be everywhere. Toilet paper rolls — holy shit, if I am so stupid as to leave a bathroom door open, Nora will unroll at breakneck speed and Ava will be mummified, only to eat her way out of her binding. Yes, that's right, Ava eats toilet paper. And she revels in it, making sure I see her tear off a piece and deliberately put it in her mouth. As if to say, "Watch this, Mom. I'm eating paper. Whatcha going to do about it? HUH?"

Nora, at three years old, is a bit more controllable, since she understands right from wrong, and that there will be consequences for her actions. (Am I a spanker, you ask? Hell, yes. I haven't had to do it yet, but I wouldn't hesitate if I thought it necessary). Nora has also developed a devious way of getting around punishment: She becomes immediately remorseful, saying, "Mama, I am so sorry! I am so, so SORRY!" And then she flashes those big blue peepers and stretches her arms out to me… Yeah, try and spank that, you black-hearted wench.

Ava, on the other hand, doesn't give two shits and a piss, and will wreak havoc at every opportunity. If her sister is in it with her, all the better. But if not, she can manage fairly well by herself. When I scold her, she has one response: She screams at the top of her lungs. No, not cry, SCREAM. Like an angry, defiant battle cry. And then she flashes her even BIGGER blue peepers at me and a fucking dimple, for God's sake…

I was such a GOOD kid. Where did I go wrong?

I blame TH's rotten genes. Better that than my mothering, right?

And now, a vintage ad, because it made me vomit a bit in my mouth:

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It is probably not necessary to tell you that I dream about pirates, see pirates wandering around the mall, see the word "pirate" on street signs and billboards, and hear it spoken by people ALL THE TIME. Usually, they're saying the word "prior" or "pyre" or something. Anything that begins with "p," if I'm being honest with myself.

Nora has gotten used to accompanying me to the bookstore or library and has begun to ask me, "Mama, are you looking at pirate books again?" Even the three-year-old understands that her mother is fucking nuts for pirates. My knee-high boots are now my "pirate boots," and Nora routinely grabs sticks off the ground, slashes them in the air (or at Ava) and says, "AAAAAARGH! I'm a PIRATE!" I can already see her in therapy years from now, talking about her mother's abnormal fascination with 18th century criminals, and how it impacted her desire to date bad boys. As obsessed as I am, if Nora or Ava showed up with a guy who looked even remotely like a pirate, I'd call the police immediately. And then they'd scream at me, telling me it was all my fault to begin with.

My pirates have even begun to take over my marriage. Poor, poor TH. I know he'd like to accuse me of some sort of infidelity, because I talk about my pirates the same way a tween talks about the Twilight dudes (you know, with stars in my eyes, eyelashes fluttering, heavy breathing, nipple-rubbing). Really quite sad. It's gotten to the point where I can't even compliment TH without some pirate implication hanging over my head: Today, TH was looking particularly scruffy and unshaven, and I said, "TH, you look ruggedly hot today." Immediately he said, "Why? Because I look like a fucking PIRATE?"

Sheesh. Calm down, people. I'm writing a novel about pirates, but I'm not PSYCHO. Well, not completely.

On an entertaining note, TH has begun to sneak onto my laptop to add his own creative thoughts to my manuscript. It's actually REALLY annoying, but also damned entertaining. This morning, while I was showering (cue porn music), TH hurriedly sat at my laptop, probably snickering like a naughty kid, and added a couple lines to one of my chapters, including: "Howel asked Sabrina to strap one on and lay seige to his poop deck."

Granted, I was laughing for far longer than warranted. But seriously. He needs to stop. Ok, not really. But he definitely needs to put his erotic lit in a different color font so I don't ACCIDENTALLY publish it online.

So TNP readers, you are forewarned: If you should suddenly come across some soft (or hard) core porn while reading about the various sailing rigs, know that it's *probably* TH hard at work.

If the lawyer thing doesn't work out, he's always got a future in erotic literature, I guess.

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Back when Ava was a tiny thing, I thought God had heard my prayers and given me an "easy" baby. She seemed to spend a good amount of time just sitting and observing, unlike Nora, who'd spent most of her baby-dom screaming her little head off. And then she became mobile. Around the time she started crawling, she developed a major attitude. Whatever Nora was doing, whether it be playing with dolls, watching TV, or sitting on the potty, Ava wanted in on it. As she realized that 1) Nora was bigger, faster, and stronger than she was, and 2) crying wouldn't always get her what she wanted, she started to fight back.

I distinctly remember when my brother started doing this. He wanted my attention, and resorted to sitting on me to get it. I'd be lying on the floor watching TV, and he'd toddle over and flop his diapered butt directly on my face. With any luck, it was a shitty diaper. Ava is no different, and she's developed this aggressive streak to getting Nora's goat.

Example: Nora will be playing "tea party" or something with her dolls and stuffed animals. She will carefully line her "friends" up, placing a tea cup in front of each. Ava will watch from a corner, plotting. You can see the wheels turning in that curly head as she watches Nora meticulously set everything up. Then, just as Nora begins the party, Ava starts running. She dive bombs in the middle of the tea party, flailing her arms and legs, making sure that everything is destroyed thoroughly. And Nora wails, “NOOOOOOO AVA!!!!” There is only one way to describe the expression on Ava’s face as she rolls onto her back, spread eagle amidst the destruction: Smug.

Having been in Nora’s shoes, I really should sympathize more than I do. I mean, I do sympathize, it’s just that I find it hilarious, too. I mean, I think it’s adorable that Ava would do anything for Nora’s attention. Because that’s what it boils down to – wanting your sibling’s attention.

Ava is proving to be a force to reckon with, just like her sister. They’re not only smart, but conniving, sassy, and full of feminine wiles.

TH and I are so doomed.

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I'll let you guess which one is Muno. Photo by [177] via Flickr.

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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.

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I admit that my left booby has always been slightly bigger than my right booby. So after I had Nora, it was no big surprise that my left booby produced more milk than my right. It wasn't a huge issue at the time. Ava, however, decided when she was just a tiny little peanut that she preferred my left booby over my right – probably because it produces more milk and therefore gets in her BELLEH faster. (Aren't all babies little Fat Bastards?) This was, to say the least, mildly problematic. I found myself actually trying to FORCE her to nurse from the right side. As she got older and developed something of an attitude, I would offer her the right side and she would turn her head away, stick out her tongue and BRRRRAAAAAAATTTTT! As if I were trying to feed her feces. (BINGO!)

So my body adjusted and, lo and behold, I started producing WAAAAAAAAY more milk on the left side than the right. As it stands, my boobs are two entirely different cup sizes, and I find myself having to stuff my right cup so that I don't look like a freak.

I am over it. Really, breast is best and all that shit, but I'm tired of my freakish boobs. Sure, when I stop they'll deflate like popped balloons (complete with sound effects and flapping), but at least they'll BOTH deflate. As it is, I have one Scarlett Johansson boob and one Keira Knightley boob, and the benefits of neither. Seriously.

My rack. I even drew a little arrow for you, pointing out the discrepancy. God, I rock Photoshop.

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What kind of a miserable, ass-twitching douchenozzle doesn't smile AT A BABY?

Now look, I know that it's perfectly ok for people NOT to be enamored by babies. I have absolutely no problem with that. As a matter of fact, I know plenty of people who I wish would not think babies are even remotely adorable, if only to keep them from ever procreating. Don't like kids? Awesome. Don't have 'em. Now we're both happy.

But this is not what I'm spewing angry spittle over. I'm referring to people who happen upon a smiling baby in public and deliberately don't smile back. For instance, the other day I was at the grocery store with the girls, and Ava, who is a notorious public smiler, started flashing her gums and dimples at a woman in the canned goods aisle. This woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, looked directly at Ava and then looked away, flicking her hair disdainfully. As though Ava were not an innocent, smiling baby but some bitch who stole her boyfriend, scratched her face and set her hair on fire. Pardon my language, but WHAT THE FUCK? This is not someone who merely doesn't like babies, this is someone who has a personal vendetta against them.

Another time, I took Nora to the park and she decided to smile at this older dude in jogging shorts. Mind you, she was not gaping at him or doing anything that would make a generally unstable adult uncomfortable. She just smiled and met his gaze. You would have thought someone had flashed the guy, the way he reacted. He looked away and then decided that wasn't enough, he had to make a show of standing up and walking away. As if to say, "And take THAT, you smiling toddler, you! I'll teach you to smile at me!" It broke my heart, the way Nora's face fell. I mean, she has plenty of time to figure out that PEOPLE SUCK.

I don't expect people to always respond well to babies, particularly when one is crying or violating someone's sense of space or privacy. But who are these mentally fucked up twatburgers who don't respond to a smiling baby with a flicker of warmth? Wow, did their parents not love them enough or WHAT?

It's people like that who remind me why I'm pro-choice.

Don't think I'm cute, huh? Here's what I think of that…Photo by ctacik via iStock.

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Your loving (but so beyond fucking exhausted) Mama

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