Today my good friend and I took the strollers out for a walk with our little Piglets.
Well, her little Piglet just turned three...so she's not so little anymore ;(
We were just chatting about this and that, when she said something that totally made me laugh.
Do you just get sick of seeing people's super happy Facebook updates sometimes? Everything is so freaking perfect and just hunky-dorey. The grass is green, I just found $20 on the sidewalk, I lost 10 pounds with out even trying...etc.
I mean I love being happy for people, but sometimes it's just too much.
There are days I feel like Facebook should have a disclaimer:
Oddly enough, I got home and Henry went down for a nap and I buzzed on over to CNN.com (shocker, I know!) and saw this:
Apparently, most people think that everyone else's life is better than their own based on Facebook status updates. I'll try to swallow the bile that rises in my throat at the thought that researchers are actually doing studies that revolve around Facebook now, and focus on the findings.
I just found this so funny because I know we all have at least one person on our friend list that just seems to have their shit so together. Their status updates tell the tail of rainbows, sunshine and farting gold nuggets. It makes you feel like a total failure at life.
I suppose, like the article suggests, I need to stop comparing my inside to someone else's outside. (12 Step Programs have all the answers.)
I think we should start a campaign to have a whole day on Facebook where everyone just tells the truth.
The real poo that's hitting the fan.
Everyone would feel better, wouldn't they!?
We could all read each other's misfortunes and say to ourselves, "Well it's not as bad as Frank or Trudy or Susan...they really got it rough..."
But seriously, keep up your chipper updates everyone.
I promise to be happy for you 99% of the time.
I'm only human.
(This post was not about you, Katie :) I love you...and everything you manage to accomplish, before I've even gotten out of bed.)
I bet those of you who haven't had a baby yet (or are against the practice entirely...which is completely fair) are thinking, "Why would I run errands in sweat pants, even if they weren't covered in urine?"
This is a question I can not answer. Motherhood makes things that previously would have been unacceptable to you, seem completely normal and even rational.
Those of you in the bull pen, waiting for your turn up to bat, you will in a few months have:
A. Home sweatpants.
B. Fancy sweatpants (usually stain free) that you will deem appropriate for running errands and going to places like WalMart and Target. But let's be honest. Target has moved up in the world and is now probably worthy of...(gasp) jeans.
So a few of you are going to poop out your kid pretty quick here!
Congrats. You must be thrilled, anxious, excited, scared, nervous, constipated.
Always constipated. It comes with everything during pregnancy. Like ranch dressing.
The act of packing the bag for the hospital can be a stressful one. No matter how many lists you have from friends, pregnancy books, Internet sites, you will always forget something.
So just recognize that now, and come to terms with it. Realize that women used to give birth in the weeds, and place their baby on a dirt bed before going back outside to finish plowing the field.
No doulas, midwives, witch doctors, labor coaches, guided imagery, inflatable tubs or birthing balls.
So, you will be fine. Even if you forget your electric toothbrush and your lucky underwear.
Things I'm glad we brought:
1. My own pillow
Things we didn't need:
1. Fully packed diaper bag with 6 outfit changes for every possible temperature range. One outfit will do, and they are wrapped in 6 layers of blankets all the time, so you don't even see it anyway.
2. Books (Ha. Time to read and relax...what? Maybe for L & D.)
3. Blow dryer (So naive, was I.)
Things I wish we would have brought:
1. The Boppy (I thought it was too big and annoying to pack for the 2 days we would be there, but it would have been nice while trying to get the hang of breastfeeding. Instead I just used piles of hospital blankets. Annoying.)
Things I wish someone would have told me before I went:
1. Your baby will look like an alien. To everyone, but you.
2. You are not a bad parent if you don't buy 50 prints and 100 wallet sized photos of the stock hospital picture they will take of your baby alien.
3. You are not a bad mother if you look at the nurse who comes to whisk your baby off to the nursery as an Angel of Mercy. You are tired, sore, tired, bleeding and tired.
4. Nothing is free in the hospital.
5. Your baby isn't starving. Even if Nurse Ratched makes you think so. When she comes storming into your room at 3 am demanding to see your baby's urination log, you CAN tell her to piss off.
6. Have an idea of what your wishes are and make them known. Be flexible enough to realize when what you want just isn't going to work, and you need to go to Plan B.
7. Parenthood is one big Plan B.
8. It is okay to feel overwhelmed, and think, "What the hell have we done," the first night in the hospital.
9. Everything will get better. And then worse. And then better...etc. Until your alien goes to college and moves out. And probably even then the cycle will continue.
10. Somewhere someone is doing the exact same thing you are and having the same exact thoughts. You are not alone.
My baby alien.
Don't worry, your alien will look decidedly more human in a few months.
Don't forget to pat yourself on the back. You grew a human inside your body.
By the way, I know it kind of looks that way, but Henry doesn't wear a toupee.
My heart is drowning in sadness for a family that I've never met.
I've been following the story on my friend's Facebook page concerning the health of the baby of one of her friends.
Baby Kale was born in May of 2010 and in July he was diagnosed with a difficult heart condition.
That was, from what I understand, the beginning of a long journey of hospital stays and very risky surgeries for one precious baby boy.
When I got on Facebook yesterday afternoon I read her status, "Rest peacefully sweet baby."
My heart just sank, a million miles.
I don't know if it's because I have a baby of my own now, but I just can't stop thinking about this family.
I was laying in bed last night and I just couldn't fight the tears. So I let them roll down my cheeks and dampen my pillow.
Thinking about how that mom is not going to see her little baby's first birthday. She won't see him walk or talk or grow from a boy into a man.
I had to get up to blow my nose and I went into Henry's room just to check on him. I just stared at him as he slept and I cried for Kale and the parents who probably would have given anything to take his place. To take his pain away.
Henry got up to eat last night and I didn't feel frustrated as I shuffled into his room at 3:30 am. When he started babbling in his crib this morning, earlier than I wanted to get up, I didn't feel frustrated...
I'm sure many of you will be surprised to know that Betty Crocker has an often overlooked step sister.
Some could say forgotten for good reason; she sits in her house in her undies and lacy white tent...I mean bra. Eating whole cheesecakes in one bite. Candy wrappers stuck in her skin folds.
What I have been hiding all this time (which required a lot of planning and a stand-in for my videos) is...I am her.
She is me.
We are one.
I think I have made it very clear that I can not cook. When I try it is a miserable failure. Unless Michael, by some miracle happens to get home in the middle of one of these scary 'cooking' episodes and manages to salvage it into something edible.
My kitchen is not a cooker's dream, but I'm not making excuses.
I would never do that...
Let me show you what it's like when I try and make the effort. Every 2 years.
Let's just say for starters that you need to gather some supplies from the pantry...
Why no, your eyes have not deceived you. The photo was not distorted in the uploading process. It is the skinniest pantry ever constructed.
What's that? You need an ingredient from the back of the skinniest pantry every built. Which also happens to be the deepest pantry ever built. Making the whole thing the most non-functional storage place ever imagined. By anyone.
Let me just grab that for you...
Oh piss. I accidentally grabbed the bag of seasoned bread crumbs that we brought with us when we moved from Chicago to North Carolina. Three years ago. Its just so darn dark back there. I can't really see what I'm doing.
Let me just crawl in and find that for you.
Never fear, I got it! Now let me just extract my wedged torso from the pantry.
Now you need seasonings for your meal? Well, you've already gone above and beyond my capabilities, so good for you!
Wait, don't get them from the spice rack. That's really just for decoration. We registered for it, but who really uses fennel or marjoram?
What you're looking for is probably in the spice bag. Buried under plastic bags that we keep to scoop the litter box. On the floor of the skinniest pantry ever built.
You must drag out the spice bag and sift through it to find what you need.
Assessing the situation, I bet you're wondering, "How bad do I really need the garlic powder?"
Now you need a skillet!? Looks like we got a real Martha Stewart on our hands!
If you could just explain to me what this skillet thing looks like, I can see if we have one.
Sounds like The Hot Mama Minute went over well! YAY :)
It makes my heart so happy. You have no idea.
I got an email from a long time friend a couple of days ago with a question about feedings, and how much Henry had been eating at a certain age.
First of all, you have no idea how flattered I was that someone would consider me an authority on something. HA. HA. HA.
But, seriously. It really got me thinking. Like she said, it's funny how someone that has only been a mom a few months longer than you can seem like a seasoned veteran.
And forget about those mom's that have been at it for years before you even thought about pooping out a kid.
They are the keepers of the Ultimate Wisdom.
So remembering how clueless I felt when we brought Henry home, and how clueless I feel on a daily basis when Henry throws me yet another curve ball...
I decided to start a RealNewMom Facebook page.
Please, please. Stifle your groans long enough for me to explain!
I thought (and hoped and prayed) that it could be a place where us hot mamas (and papas) could congregate and ask questions, even stupid ones (those are the only ones I have...), share tips, tricks, ideas, recommendations and inspiration. Even pictures if ya want!
If you don't want to, just forget I asked and I'll slink back into the corner.
So if y'all feel like it, come on over and check it out. Invite your friends.
(I promise I'm not trying to become 'known' and obnoxious and take over the world with my legion of loyal momstas. Alright, you got me. I promise it's not my primary intention.)
You can even decide to 'Like' me. I'm not saying you have to. But I am the site administrator so...
I'll just leave you with that.
Peace out momstas.
I promise I'm done with that. For now...
P.S. I forgot to mention, the single and/or childless are also welcome. You can remind us what it was like to have a life.
I have to apologize to everyone. Especially Michael and Henry.
I have been a big ol' bag of bitch lately.
I am a bitch on wheels that can not be pleased.
I don't know what it is! I am blaming it on winter though.
You can blame anything on winter.
Like I'm pissed at Time Warner Cable because they suck a million nuts, and I want to burn down their headquarters. As they put me in prison, I'm just going to blame winter.
When I make Fatty Leg Soup because he keeps dragging the rubber trap from the sink all over the house, I will blame winter.
When Michael comes home to find me drunk and disorderly and Henry playing in the knife drawer, I'm going to blame winter.
Last but not least I'm going to blame winter when I burn my house down because I can not get it clean enough. Organized enough. Together enough.
To hell with it, I say.
Seriously folks, this is like nesting on methamphetamines.
And my nesting was pretty bad. Picture in your mind a giant, sweaty pregnant woman in the middle of August in North Carolina (are your boobs sweating yet?) schlepping back and forth to Target to raid the home organization aisle.
Of course we needed big pockets on our fridge. To hold a bunch of crap. Now the crap just hangs on our refrigerator, in stead of in a pile on the kitchen table.
Of course the drain stoppers needed their own little holder. And the scrub brush could not just be carelessly laid in the sink. It needed a home too.
Of course we could not continue hanging the kitchen towel where we had been hanging it. It needed a specific and designated location.
And you have no idea how many times Henry's clothes were washed, folded, rewashed, refolded and reorganized. Our linen closets were sparkling, closets organized. It was an organizational dream universe. Michael just went right along with it, even as I washed every piece of laundry in a 20 mile radius and shrank all of his work pants.
This is worse than that.
My need to clean, organize and declutter is so bad, it's like my organs are itching. I'm going to blame winter when I sell half of our things so that I just don't have to look at them anymore.
I just vacuumed the house. This morning I had to stomp down the urge to do it all over again. Come spring we will have no carpet left. Just some sad little strings held together by spit-up stains. Michael and Henry are afraid to sit still for too long. I may start dusting them or Lysol wiping their faces.
All strapped in like he's flying to the moon. Obviously, doesn't know what to make of it.
You can just see the thought bubble over his head. WTF?
What do I do with this stuff in my mouth?
I just like this one because it's so paparazzi. It's like I just caught Lindsay Lohan sneaking out of rehab.
This was the first go 'round of trying rice cereal with Pigglesworth. As you can see by my superior photo journalism skills, he was confused, and slightly dismayed by the situation.
That was a week ago...
Now he's like a baby bird. He sees the spoon coming and he just hangs open his little trap and I shovel it in. Obviously with food involved, we knew it wouldn't take him too long to catch on.
One of my friends gave me this book:
I was delighted to receive this book. Because:
A. I know nothing about baby food.
B. It tells me things I should know about baby food.
C. I know nothing about feeding a baby food.
D. It tells me things I should know about feeding a baby food.
E. There is one person in the world I have fooled into thinking I am the kind of person that would make their own baby food.
You know those mamas. The granola-y, perfect, organic-baby-food-making moms.
Turns out, I love Henry SO much. That I'm trying to be that mom.
Cut to me in the kitchen, using the food processor...I know, I'm just a shocked as you!
I didn't even know we owned a food processor, and here I am cramming avocados into it and pureeing like my life depends on it.
P.S. Pureeing avocados requires ear protection. Heavy duty ear protection; the likes of which you would require when standing in front of a Boeing 757 jet engine.
Michael walks into the kitchen and comments on my usage of the kitchen appliances.
"Wow, you're using two new appliances!!"
"Yes, the food processor and that kitchen knife...."
Yes, the cooking situation in our home is that dire. My husband thinks it is a big deal when I use a knife.
Apparently, he's so used to seeing me rip open bags of chips with my teeth and order Papa John's online that seeing me in the act of using a kitchen knife...to prepare food (not furiously stab at packaging materials) caught him completely off guard.
So if you need me I'll be in the kitchen doing something kitchen-y and housewife-ish. Trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with these...
Are they not for grabbing baby socks that fall behind the dryer?
Henny Penny loves going to the gym. It's also fun to see how they grow and develop from a little poopy lump to a baby that bats at the toys and watches and grabs things.
The Bouncy Seat (1 and 2)
This was the first bouncy seat we had. It worked great until Henry was about 3 months old and his chunky butt gave the framework quite a workout. So we upgraded to the big boy:
This is the Infant-to-Toddler Rocker. It's a little sturdier and will grow with Henry, hopefully. It wouldn't have worked so well when he was brand new though because it sits upright a little more and would have required more head control.
(These seats, and the attachable toys, are a life-saver when you need to get things done. I put him in it and carried him with me when I took a shower, vacuumed, folded laundry, loaded/unloaded the dishwasher, etc.)
Miscellaneous Tips and Tricks
The hospital will most likely send you home with a little log for recording feedings and poops/pees. After ours got full we still kept a little notebook. We didn't include the poops or pees (he had that under control), we just recorded when we fed him and how much. It seems crazy but you will never remember exactly what time it was when they last ate. Maybe I'm just slow...that could be it too.
Homemade Pumping Bra
I took one of my really old sports bras and cut slits over the nipples. When it was time to hook the old udders up, I just slipped the flanges through the holes and let 'er rip. Then I had my hands free to talk on the phone, blog, etc. (Now you're wondering if you ever talked to me on the phone while I was pumping. Probably.)
They sell actual pumping bras, but they are weird and look incredibly uncomfortable.
Programmable Coffee Pot
When you hear the little birdie start chirping at 6:00 am and you've been up 5 times since 11 pm, it's nice to smell the coffee already brewing.
These were just some of the things that helped or we used and continue to use quite a bit.
Like I said, maybe it will give you someplace to start. In which case, you're already a step ahead of where we were when we were in your shoes!
Best of luck with your little poopers, and feel free to email me or post a message with any questions about things we tried/liked/hated.
I know you're thinking...what is she doing here!? Twice today!
She should be at work, wiping butts or somethin'...
Well, I got the call of a lifetime at 5:07 am this morning. I was CALLED OFF. Due to low census!
Normally I would be extremely pissed and missing the extra cashola a day of work brings in, but not this morning. Everything is just settling back down in the intestinal arena, my cold is very much on the mend, but I'm still a little snuffly. And my house is a disaster and in major need of a scrub down.
So I was elated to get that particular phone call this morning.
So I've been meaning to do this post for some time now, due to the incredible number of pregnant people I know.
I remember when I was about 15 weeks along I went home to visit my parents and got to see one of my life-long best friends, who at the time happened to have a 15 month old little boy.
We talked about a lot of stuff, and she told me about one hundred zillion baby things that I needed or didn't need and so-on and so-forth. My head was spinning. I was completely overwhelmed.
Cue the first trip to Babies R Us. Which only magnifies the confusion by 50.
How many brands of bottles, burp clothes, strollers, cribs, pacifiers, yada, yada, yada are there!?
We didn't even know where to start. So I did what any sensible person does. I just looked at other people's carts that had kids and bought what they bought.
So I've been meaning to put together a little list of the things that we couldn't have lived with out when the Pickle was itty-bitty. And now. It may just give you a place to start. And if you think our choices suck (as I learned many did) you just go back and pick another brand of the 4,987 out there.
I'll also throw in a few tips that we learned along the way. That way you don't have to repeat some of the mistakes we made...you can make new ones.
These bottles worked really well for us. Especially considering that breastfeeding didn't fly so well. They are great for breast and bottle fed babies because the nipple has a wide base and supposedly simulates the mother's breast more closely.
(I know you lovely ladies are thinking, "My nipple has never, will never, could never be mistaken for that monstrous thing." Just wait, my friend.)
In the beginning I thought, "We really don't need these, any washcloth or whatever will do." BUT, they are great and clean the bottles with a minimum of swearing and scratched knuckles. They also have a little brush in the base that cleans the nipples. Get used to saying the word 'nipple' by the way.
If you have a lot of bottles, you need somewhere to put them to dry. Hence, the bottle tree. We would have been dead in the water with out this thing.
These are Gerber brand and they are from Target. Gerber makes this kind and another kind that are more of a long rectangle and kind of like terry cloth. I hate those kind. These are bigger, thicker and can really handle a fountain. They also get softer as you wash them. Over and over and over and over again.
(Just save time and buy about 5 packages. Put them everywhere. Put them in the bouncy seat, car seat, swing. Anything that you want to shield from an errant diaper blowout. They pull double duty like that. Pretty awesome.)
I have these all packed up because Henry doesn't use them anymore. But they were great for the first two or three weeks. It makes the swaddle much more sturdy and hard to break out of.
Henry switched to these when he was over the swaddler. They come in summer and winter weight and small, medium and large. With sleeves and sleeveless. We prefer the sleeveless; Henry sleeps in long-sleeved footy pajamas and the sleep sack. (Notice we use a burp cloth under his head in the crib. Keeps the crib sheet free from spit ups. Getting that thing on and off to wash is a real chore. Keep it clean at all costs.)
This is where I say, "suck it, swing-haters." We enjoy the swing. When Henry was small he enjoyed it and sometimes it was how we got some rest. So sue me. He still enjoys a nice relaxing swing once in a while. I wouldn't let your babe get too used to sleeping in it or they won't sleep anywhere else. Or so I read. (Warning: the music that comes from the swing may cause you to accidentally slit your wrists. But they seem to love it.)
I am convinced that fate, destiny, God, Allah. Whomever, Whatever...has absolutely zero sense of humor.
As I was on Wikipedia last week searching 'Brainerd' to get a picture of the water tower, I got to read a bit more about the town's history than I had bargained for:
Of interest is the outbreak of the Brainerd diarrhea that involved 122 people in 1983. Unpasteurized milk was implicated as the cause, and no fear of reemergence exists.
Of course, that is funny. Right!?
Not only that it was mentioned on Brainerd's Wikipedia page, but that they actually coined the term, 'Brainerd diarrhea'.
I laughed uproariously at this. I shared it with Henry and he laughed too...so it must be funny. My baby has a great sense of humor.
WELL. Not even one week later. It hit. What I am convinced must have been a case of The Brainerd Diarrhea.
Haha. Not so funny anymore.
All while my 12.3 pound noggin full of snot and misery pounded away. Awful doesn't even come close to describing this scene.
So of course all of this comes to a head the evening before I am scheduled to return to work. I like to think I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and get through pretty much 12 hours of anything. Except this. With visions of shitting my scrubs running through my head, I called in sick at 11:30 on Saturday night.
Great, now I have to explain to Michael, who would go to work if he had Ebola and his eyeballs were squirting blood, that I called in sick. He is currently sleeping like a rock beside me. Completely oblivious to my frequent trips to the bathroom and subsequent moaning and stomach clutching.
I think marriage vows pretty much cover the gambit. However, I'm not sure they cover diarrhea.
I think it is understood that couples can talk about bowel movements. But these conversations must take place in code.
'Oh no, drive faster. I'm about to have a PA (poop attack).'
'Oh no, my stomach just dropped. Be back in 30.'
Or you can just grab a book and saunter into the bathroom. Let the action speak for itself.
One is never to say to his or her spouse...in no uncertain terms, "I have diarrhea."
I'm sure it left him feeling grossed out that his wife just said, "I have diarrhea."
And me horrified and embarrassed enough to require an immediate annulment.
Don't ask me why! I deal with bowel movements on almost an hourly basis when I am at work.
I even have a little 'poop jig'.
When my patient tells me they just pooped. I say, "YAY and do my little poop jig." Pooping at the hospital is a BIG deal. I have no reservations talking to my patients...colleagues...doctors...strangers on the street about poop. Turns out I do have reservations talking to Michael about it.
So, my husband, my love. My partner in life. I will never again utter those words. It was worse for me to say than it was for you to hear.
And I love you times-a-million because you came back from the store and wordlessly handed me a box of Imodium.
For my condition that shall never be mentioned again.
I am not giving two weeks. I am not giving 5 minutes.
I just sold Henry to the neighbors for a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and some sticky pennies.
Somewhere overnight I morphed into one of those booger creatures from the Mucinex commercial. My head weighs 12.3 pounds. All fluorescent green snot and misery. If I didn't know better I might think I spent last night drinking moonshine and gargling broken glass.
That is how I feel today.
Before I waved goodbye to Henry he looked like a baby booger creature. An unhappy baby booger creature.
I just want to quit. I want to sit in a scalding hot tub of Vapor-Rub and make a Tylenol Cold and Sore Throat cocktail. I want to sleep. Hell, I just want to breath.
I had one of these 'I quit' moments a few months ago...
My back was KILLING me after I had Henry and I knew I was getting mastitis again. Everything hurt, I was so tired and Henry was crying. I hurt so bad it was a struggle picking him up off the changing table.
I didn't quit.
I cried. We cried together.
So. I'm going to cry. I guess I'm not going to quit. But I want to.
I believe there are some mysteries of the universe that can not be denied. Like Big Foot or interstate weigh stations...have you ever seen one open?
1. Baby radar. Babies instinctively know when you are trying to rest. They could be in the deepest, soundest, most peaceful slumber and as soon as one hair on your unwashed head brushes the pillow.
This especially applies to the day time nap. Don't you even dare try and sleep when they sleep. They know what you're trying to do. Oh trust me, they know.
If babies weren't cute they would be kind of creepy. I've thought this for some time, actually.
2. Baby socks. Baby socks are like umbrellas or sunglasses. You just can't seem to keep a hold of them. They have a life of their own and so disappear and reappear so frequently you never really know if you are missing any. This is one mystery I sort of like. They show up in the darndest of places. It's like Christmas or your birthday when you stumble across a missing mate.
Don't even try to put them in the wash in one of those mesh bags to keep them all together. That just makes them angry. True story.
Two of the latest migrants.
(How appropriate, one of them is Oscar the Grouch. Huh, I didn't even plan that.)
And last, but certainly not least. And the entire reason I wrote this entry:
3. Fortune Cookies. I believe we are all seduced by the power of the fortune cookie. They taste like shit. No one really wants to eat them...and 99 times out of 100 the fortune sucks. It's not even a real fortune.
"You bring smiles to the people you meet."
"Good luck is the result of good planning."
Excuse me. Fortune cookie hacks....those suck.
And I don't need to know how to say 'Bee hive' in Chinese. But thanks.
Give me something I can use. Like:
"Wear thick socks, the heater in your car will go out tomorrow."
"You will trip and break your ankle next Tuesday. Get a pedicure."
"Buy toilet paper. You will run out in the middle of the night and have to use one of your baby's diapers."
Those are fortunes. Something concrete. In the future. That I can make plans around.
Is that too much to ask out of a free Chinese food add-on?
I don't think so.
That's why I was pleasantly surprised one night, in April of 2008, when I cracked open my stale, crusty poop cookie and got this beauty:
Michael and I were in the midst of planning a move across the country. Together. After two months of dating.
But we had the Chinese Fortune Cookie Gods on our side.
So, I'm going to pick up some Chinese food tonight. Maybe my poop cookie will have something good in store for me again.
"Your husband will be home earlier than expected, you won't punt your cats across the room in the night and your baby will sleep for 12 hours."
Somewhere over on Sesame Street Oscar is homeless and without grouchiness.
I stole his garbage can and his attitude.
I am shaking my metaphorical fist right now. At everything. And everyone.
Get outta my way. Bitches.
This is a serious post-holiday slump. All the fun is over. The decorations are down; we're back to work and I'm pissed.
I didn't want to get up this morning. My throat hurts, I have cramps. Poor me.
Michael won't be home until 9:30 tonight (and tomorrow night). I want to jump out a window.
The only redeeming nugget of this crappy day is that I get to spend it with Piggy. And since Michael isn't home tonight, I can watch The Real Housewives of BH and see Camille get her ass dumped over the phone. She is horrible.
In case you're wondering, that's all this post was about. Just dragging you into my suck hole of pissiness.
Thanks for coming. Now get out. You're in my space.
P.S. I did find this picture to be the most anatomically accurate portrayal of me. I haven't even begun to tell you guys about my fat knees.
P.P.S. Don't ever eat a whole bag of dill pickle chips. Under any circumstances.
I have to make one correction to my previous post.
Michael informed me that Brainerd's water tower is not in the shape of the hilt of Paul Bunyan's knife, it is the hilt of Paul Bunyan's knife.
I made the mistake of stupidly questioning how that could be possible.
"He is a giant lumberjack...what is not possible?"
Thankfully that confusion is cleared up!
Today, Henderson and I were trying desperately to do anything but unpack and do laundry. So we decided it was high time to go through my old purses and organize them in some sort of fashion. Other than a teetering pile on the top shelf of my closet.
I found a credit card receipt crumpled in the bottom of one of my bags.
This is from a bar a friend and I went to on the night of my bachelorette party. You'll note the time is 12:10 am. That marks the last time I was up at 12:10 am. Doing something other than milking myself or feeding a screaming midget. I just couldn't get over how much has happened since that carefree night of beer (and wine and liqueur) drinking.
I'll give you one guess who the drunk one is.
All you Preggy Peggys out there. Keep these mementos. I've been there, so I can bear witness:
You are about to trade in your heels for house slippers. Your perfume for nipple cream. Your regular showers with layers of more deoderant. Your curling iron for pony tail holders. Your manicured hands for baby poop under your fingernails (don't ask, but it will happen. At least once.). You're about to trade nights out for nights in and the boom-chicka-wow-wow for sleep (at least once...).
I think my poor baby has a cold...or is sprouting a giant fang.
One of the two.
My mild-mannered little fella is just all kinds of not happy. And he keeps hooking his finger in his mouth. He looks like a trout caught on a line. A cute trout.
After returning from visiting family maybe he just realized that he could be held 23 out of 24 hours of the day. Now he is realizing what he has been missing the past 4 months. Yay.
Call me a bad mother, but I could sleep better on a bed of hot coals and broken glass then I can sleeping in the same room as Henry. He is so loud and squirmy. My ears are permanently tuned into Channel Henry and I can not rest. When he sleeps in his own room he can be as loud as he wants and we all sleep soundly.
Michael's mom wanted to have Henry sleep in their bedroom in the pack-and-play. And in the event he woke up in the night, she wanted to get up with him.
"If you don't mind." She actually said, "If you don't mind."
ARE YOU KIDDING ME!
I felt guilty for exactly 0.000876 seconds.
Then said, "Have at it!"
We were going to stay at Michael's grandmother's house for one night. Henry's pack and play was going to be in the office and Suzette wanted to sleep in the living room so she could hear him if he cried and get up with him.
The next morning she said that she woke up in the night and just kept counting the hours that Henry had been asleep.
She got worried that he would be too weak to cry if he got hungry...so she moved into the office to sleep next to him.
I would like to thank everyone who said that Henry would probably just sleep on the plane.
It was highly erroneous, but made me much calmer starting out on this journey.
It is nearly impossible to keep an infant occupied and pleasant in a one square foot area...for 3 hours. Apparently Henry is just like his mom and can't sleep on airplanes.
Make that half a square foot. Both of the passengers in front of us felt the need to keep their seats permanently reclined.
I had to pee so bad my eye balls were floating, it was so hot in the back of the plane if felt like we were sitting on the sun. Henry was soooo over it. Enter Emily melt-down mode.
"Michael, I can't handle this. I have to pee. Let me get in line. OHmygosh, I'm so hot. It's like I'm melting. Why can't these assholes put their seats up. Does everyone on the entire plane need to pee...really. Henry needs to sleep. I can't even believe he is not sleeping right now. I have never seen him this tired. How long do we have left. Ohmygosh, I'm melting. How can it be so fricking hot. My arm is asleep. Maybe we can lay Henry across our tray tables. That lady just looked at me, if she says something I'm going to freak. I'm so hot. Oh Lord, the bathroom line is so long. I know that guy is going in there to shit. I am NOT going in after him. I'm going to pee myself. I can't do this...Michael!!"
Etc. Etc. Etc.
As we were exiting the aircraft the flight attendant commented on what a good boy Henry had been. It was then that I realized, every noise and grunt that Henry made was amplified times 100 in my mind and no one else even noticed that he was on the plane. I'll try to keep this in mind next time, but I can make no guarantees.
In related freak-out news. All pregnant women take note:
Post baby menstrual cycles are not immediately regular. I repeat, NOT regular.
We are back. I am exhausted. My house is in shambles. I don't want to do anything.
So I'll blog.
My Minnesota Top Ten:
1. Upon arriving in the Mother Land, Henry takes on a scary resemblance to Elmer Fudd.
2. Seeing this on the side of the road:
Was not nearly as funny as the exchange that followed.
Michael: That doesn't look a walleye anymore. (Apparently it got repainted.) That's more like a perch.
Matthew (Michael's brother): No waaay, that's a bass.
Maybe it's just me.
3. Brainerd, Minnesota : Home of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.
What's that? You want to go bowling!?
Oh, just head on over to Paul Bunyan Bowl.
Foot fungus complimentary.
4. Learning of the epic battle between Brainerd and Bemidji (neighboring town that apparently thinks they are the home of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox).
I wasn't planning on officially taking a stance either way in this argument, but then Michael's mother pointed out that the Brainerd water tower is in fact in the shape of the hilt of Paul Bunyan's knife.
I think the evidence is conclusive. I rule in favor of Brainerd.
5. Seeing Michael in full winter gear. I'm sorry to say it, but a beaver was harmed in the production of this picture.
6. Refereeing 'Snow Ball'. A game of tackling and snow drifts. Rules optional.
I kept mentally rehearsing CPR as I watched these two run and dive. Matthew kept saying, "I think I'm having an asthma attack." I soon learned that garners no sympathy from a brother. It just makes you an easier target.
7. Michael's parents got me a massage for Christmas. It was epic.
It could not have gotten any better...until, the massage therapist says,
"Yaw, that feels good, eh?"
Why yes it does, my Northern Minnesotan friend. Yes, it does.
8. Seeing Michael dressed up as Santa.
Does that make me Mrs. Claus?
9. Playing Apples to Apples with Michael's family.
The word is sexy.
I lay down 'whipped cream'.
Michael's grandma lays down 'handcuffs'.
Michael's sister, Brigitte lays down 'toys'.
Michael's mom, Suzette lays down 'zuchini'.
What kind of wild family did I marry into!!?
10. Having walleye for Christmas dinner, and going to bed with big, delicious, fat snowflakes falling.
I have two more. So I guess it's a Top Twelve.
11. Great Grandma Muriel singing Henry Polish songs and making him giggle down to his toes.
12. Henry's beautiful Baptism, surrounded by our families.
We had a completely wonderful time, and can't thank everyone enough for turning things upside down to make it so special for us.
Now, its back to the grind. We need to run to the grocery store to find something to eat for dinner.
And Henry needs a bath. Bad. His butt smells like airplane and bad shrimp.