RIP Bambi

I hate getting up.  I loath getting out of bed.  I detest morning. 

My undying hatred of anything that is not sleeping thrusts me into the same internal debate every morning: 

My strong desire to lay on the couch, and go back to sleep while Henry watches Mickey Mouse Clubhouse all morning versus my guilt.

Before you call Social Services, I'm happy to report that MOST mornings my guilt wins and I stay conscious and endeavor to do things with my children... 

Like try and teach Henry how to act like a normal human. 

By doing simple things, like getting him to say a word other than "blue."  Not put his finger in his nose.  Not use the cat dish as a car wash for his trucks.  Not feed Addie goldfish.  Not use screaming as a primary form of communication.  Not laugh at me from time out.  Not lay on top of the cat. 

The last one is actually negotiable because Fatty likes it.

But I digress,

This morning being no different than any other, my guilt won out; I decided to take the kids for a walk.

Before we got out of the driveway, two out of the three of us pooped our pants...

I thought to myself, "No worries, just a small fly in the ointment.  This is going to be great. Just a quick change and we're off."

As you can tell by Henry's face, the excitement was nearly overwhelming.



The perfect morning for a stroll; overcast, 120 degrees rather than the usual 250 degrees we're used to.

The humidity was even cooperating at a mere 99%.   

Luckily, we live at the bottom of a big hill, so I get to really work up a good sweat before we even get off our street. 

We were really cruising when I saw a runner approaching some distance away;

All tan and six-pack abs, I thought to myself, "Maybe we should take strolls more often..."

But then, as Tan-Six-Pack Abs got closer I realized I recognized this man.

The grocery store...mmm...No.

The Y...mmm...No.

Work...mmm...No.

Oh yes, I've got it!

The last time I saw this man was four short weeks ago, when he was stitching up my hamburger vagina. 

My obstetrician. 

The man who delivered both my precious babies. 

The man who has faced the belly of the beast and lived to tell the tail. 

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I am pretty much incapable of modesty; I will show you my boob right now if you want.

But there is something about having a small-talk, chitty-chat, how's the weather conversation with someone who has stared up your VJ (quite literally) and sewn it up like grandma's quilt, not once, but twice, whilst he is all shirtless, tan, glisteny and good looking;

That makes even me feel awkward. 

I guess the upside is I confirmed my follow-up appointment with him next week, so I won't get one of those annoying automated voicemails.

So that's nice.

I figure, we're a mere two blocks from home, it can only get better from here...

No, your eyes have not deceived you. 

Bambi died on the side of the road, three blocks from my house. 

Toe up.

I had to convince Henry that, "Mr. Deer was sleeping, so we shouldn't pet him right now."

I knew I should have just stayed in bed. 

Boob Wizardry

There's going to be a lot of the word nipple in this post.  So don't say I didn't warn you.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that breastfeeding is the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do in my life.

Harder than college.

Harder than nursing school.

Harder than optometry school.

Harder than training for a marathon.

Emotionally harder than having to buy smaller bras after having my first child...I thought your boobs were supposed to get bigger when you have a kid...

Insert bewildered sad face here.

I think that anyone that has done it successfully is a wizard-genius.

Before we had Henry, Michael and I took a breastfeeding class and the brochure strongly encouraged both the mother and father to attend.

In hindsight I realize this is for several reasons:

A.  They show some incredibly up-close shots of giant zoo-animal like nipples.  These screen shots take you by surprise and make you want to scream and run away or poop your pants.  I now know they do this to desensitize your spouse in advance. By the time he sees your National Geographic nipples he will not immediately go to the court house and file for a legal separation. 

B.  He is made aware of the fact that nipples can indeed crack, bleed and basically be festering open wounds.  He will not vomit into the trash can or dial 911 as he watches your vampire newborn nurse with blood dripping down her chin.

C.  He will realize that your blood curdling screams are just temporary.  Just until you establish a "proper latch."

D.  He will learn that he must do anything you ask.  Like a trained monkey or seal that jumps through hoops.  He must do anything in his husbanding power to facilitate a "proper latch."  Even though there is nothing he can do, he must learn to do it anyway.  With a smile on his face.

E.  He will learn not to flinch when he rounds a corner and is face-to-face with your giant rhino nipples.  After all, you were instructed by 12 different lactation consultants to "let them breath."  I never knew nipples had to breath, but at this point they can do whatever they want.  I'll take them to the mall and buy them a new dress and matching nipple shoes. 

F.  Sometimes a woman's anatomy just isn't cut out for breastfeeding.  At this point he must be prepared to give a "nipple pep talk."  Encouraging and ensuring you that your nipples are indeed, good enough.

G.  There are several tools to facilitate the breastfeeding process; breast shields, nipple shields, supple cups, nipple gel pads.  He must learn to differentiate these tools, find them in the dark and wash them with one hand tied behind his back.  These really are drills that should be practiced and timed with a stop watch before birth.

H.  He will learn what a supple cup is and realize that while it may sound sexy in Fifty Shades of Gray, having a suction cup applied to your nipple so as to pull it out from where it went to hide in your spine...is not sexy.

I.  He will learn to laugh and rejoice with you upon the discovery of wet and poopy diapers.  He must change these diapers with glee, all the while thanking you for producing the milk that allowed that mess to happen.  Respect. 

J.  He must be prepared to restrain you should you find yourself in a conversation with a woman who flaunts how breastfeeding was "super easy and so convenient."

K.  When no one else is looking he must help you slap said woman in the boob.

L.  Lastly and most importantly, if at the end of the day, after all the tips and tricks and back bends it just doesn't work out, he must be there for you to cry uncontrollably, and say five things:

1. You are amazing.  I would have given up weeks ago.
2. Formula is just as good as breast milk.  She will still go to college; I promise.
3. I'm glad you stopped because now I can help with the night time feedings.
4. Your nipples already look more normal.
5. Look how hard you tried, you are an amazing mother.

In all seriousness, congratulations to all the nursing mothers out there; 

You are amazing.  You have an honorary degree in boob wizardry.

And to all the bottle feeding mothers out there;

You are spectacular.  Your nipples look great.

MiniVan-MegaSexy

I made a comment on Facebook earlier this morning that was a long time coming. 

I outed myself. 

I am now out and proud. 

My name is Emily.  I drive a minivan.  And I fucking love it. 

There it is.

If you thought TLC was only good for shows featuring women with doulas who swear they won't get an epidural and then rip their husband's heads off and throw them across the room at 2 cm, and fat women trying on wedding dresses...

well you were wrong.

Cut to the show "My Strange Addiction," featuring Joe Schmo. 

Just your average dude: goes to work, goes grocery shopping, pays his bills, has sex with his car. 

Wait.

What?

You're thinking this man is crazy.  I thought the same thing.

Then I met this big beautiful beast:

I could dry hump this minivan.  That is how much I love it.  I understand you Joe Schmo; I'm not judging you.

'Previously loved' (I prefer that term to 'used') by Michael's grandmother, who graciously offered to switch vehicles with us seeing as how we needed more space, and she needed a smaller car that was easier to get to Bingo.

At first mention of this potential transaction, I threw up a little in my mouth and became very hostile.  I thought this has to be a fate worse than death.

Worse than vaginal tearing.

Worse than an allergic reaction to the adhesive in the hospital pads, that causes you to end up with hives on your hoo-haw. 

**Quick side note:  This is actually possible:

It is a fate worse than death, which leaves me fully convinced that Osama Bin Laden should not have been killed, but given penis hives. 

For the rest of his life. 

I'm quite sure there is some kind of expert scientist that could have worked that out.

I hope someone important reads this, and takes note (highly unlikely):  Weaponized Ass Hives.  You heard it here first.

Back to my story, I was convinced this meant my life was over. 

But no.

This minivan changed my life. 

The doors open at the touch of a button. 

The kids wave happily to each other from their very own captain seats (well Addie can't wave, but she kind of grunts and I can tell that she loves it). 

I pack in groceries, pool toys, back packs, snacks, 100 gallon containers of laundry detergent from Costco, double strollers, single strollers, travel strollers, jogging strollers, bike trailers, herds of small domestic animals and the 500 trucks that Henry has to take where ever we go. 

Most importantly all four of us fit in it.  At one time.  With out someone's ass in someone else's face and the passenger seat pushed so far forward that shotgun is actually on the hood. 

The kids have their own vents.  Which I realize is not new...but in my world it's very new. 

I used to gauge how long we could run errands in the summer by the redness of Henry's face. 

Is he approaching heat stroke, or do I have time to run to Target?

After all my ramblings (you'll have to excuse me, I'm really out of blogging practice) the take home message is:

Minivans are better than vagina hives.

Much better.

If you have children buy one immediately, if not sooner.

RealOldMom

Introducing, for the first time ever...

Real Old Mom.

Well, technically still RealNewMom...it is a lot of damn work to change the name.

It has been over a year.  We have added another crew member to the ship.  She gives new meaning to the term 'poop deck.' 

We couldn't stick with just one, that meant that Henry would have to change both Michael and I's diapers when we get old.  Now he has someone to help.

Adeline Rose

June 18, 2012

I can no longer refer to myself as a "real new mom," although I'm sure people that see us in public think I must have rented Henry and possibly stolen Adeline and this surely must be my first day caring for children.  Alas, I assure you, they are actually mine, and I have been doing this for almost 2 years.

I promise some days I'm more on my game. 

Everyday I wake up hoping that I'll feel more prepared, more like I know what I'm doing; my career centers around caring for infants, my home life largely centers around caring for infants...and all I really know is:

Blue baby=bad
Pink baby=good

That's pretty much what it boils down to folks...everything else can be worked out, I've found.

I guess realizing that has made it much easier this time.

That and the fact that I came to terms with the fact that my life was no longer my own 2 years ago, so now that my spirit is broken...it's like no big deal.

:)

I realize there may be people new to my life that never knew this blog existed before and are reading for the first time now. 

They were under the illusion (carefully crafted by me) that I'm a nice, normal person.

So if you are one of those people, I'm really sorry to shatter your illusion, but welcome to my world: the world of motherhood, boobs, vaginas, milk production, bleeding nipples, screaming babies, screaming toddlers and the Disney channel.  Oh and minivans. 

It. Is. Awesome.

Refer to my previous posts if you want to relive my journey into motherhood.  It was wild, it was ugly, it was scary, it was beautiful.

I think Michael and I felt largely prepared this time because we did just do this like 22 months ago.

This is where the people with more than one child would point at us and laugh.

So while I'm on maternity leave, I hope to be back here with a little more frequency.

After all, parenthood is hard, and if you can't laugh you may just spend most of the day crying.  So come share your stories with me;  I will share my stories with you. 

The good, the bad and the undoubtedly ugly.

I've missed you.