Fat Albert

Usually I only get on the scale on "skinny mornings."

Mornings when I wake up and feel like just maybe the number that pops up won't make me want to jump out a window.

Possibly the result of trying to 'cut back' the previous night, and only eat 2,500 calories after 7:00 pm.

This morning was not one of those mornings.

This morning I felt like Fat Albert.  A bloated version of Fat Albert.

And what did I do, you ask?

Well, I decided I would show that scale.

Bitch.

I got on that thing like I owned the world...and then I fainted.

Not really, but I did get a little woozy.

With Henry and Adeline cheering me on, I decided that catastrophic blow was not enough.

I would forge ahead and recklessly try on all my "real pants."

It is a sad and frightening day when you admit to yourself that maternity pants are for...pregnant people.

:(

My brain realized this was a terrible idea.  It really did.  Every brain cell in my skull was screaming:

"STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP."

"Why are you doing this; nothing good can come of this."

"This will plunge you into a hole of self-loathing so deep, you will need to be rescued like Baby Jessica."

And then my brain gave up;

"Fine, crazy bitch.  You asked for it."

And boy did I ask for it.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who has done this?

There is not a snowball's chance in Hell those clothes were going to fit.  But a small part of me hoped.

Somehow. 

Someway. 

A miracle had occurred.

This person fell out of my butt ten weeks ago;

I believe in miracles.

And then a miracle happened. 

Henry chose this morning to talk.

"Hi Fatty, Hi Fatty, Hi Fatty. Hi FATTY!"

On this particular morning, I really wish we would have named our cat something else.

Cheap Labor

Kids are expensive.

Really expensive.

For most of us, these are frugal times we're living in.  So you have to make do with what you've got.  If these are not frugal times for you, then go away.

We're not friends.

I've compiled a little list of ways we save money around heres.  So maybe you can make some of these ideas work for you. 

Here goes nothin'.

1.  Henry loves dirt.

Parks are full of free dirt.

A word of caution:  Choose your park wisely.

If you pick the wrong park you could end up dodging used needles and Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease. 

OR

500 SAHMs who all seem to miraculously know each other, and have matching Kate Spade diaper bags. 

For this mom, who 97 percent of the time wears what Michael calls my "Lesbian shorts" and Old Navy flip-flops, the latter situation tends to be kind of awkward. 

Between a rock and hard place, I'd pick the used needles any day. 

2.  Instead of spending good money on play equipment that may just be a passing phase, try being creative.

Henry loves the sandbox...

At home we have the "Mulch Box."

I realize it looks suspiciously like landscaping. 

What's your point?

3.  Start a garden.

And then have your child attempt to sell the produce to your neighbors.

There he goes, I told him not to take less than $3.00 for that green pepper.



It's organic.

**This is actually not representative of our garden at all. 

It was really just 500 zucchinis.

4.  Take your child to the Children's Museum.

$7.00 admission may seem a little steep, but I believe the future job training is priceless.

A career in the food service industry isn't my ultimate dream for Henry, but at this point at least he'll have something to fall back on.

5.  Reuse baby clothes.

If you are going to leave the house with Baby Girl in a hand-me-down ensemble, be sure to employ the extra large bedazzled head flower. 

It eliminates any awkward exchanges with grocery store checkers/store clerks/gas station attendants.

She's a girl.  See the flower.

P.S.  I never know if I should correct someone in that situation or just let it go to avoid the weirdness.  I usually just let it go, but I'm starting to worry that Addie may be getting confused. 

Oh well, maybe she'll play in the WNBA.  

And I can give her my shorts. 

6.  Don't buy anything nice.

That is a great way to save money.

I guarantee it will get broken, stained, spit up, vomited, peed or colored on.

Just like the only piece of furniture in our entire house that isn't a used hand me down.

The ONLY one we actually picked out.  And spent money on.

Enter Henry's first bout with the stomach flu. 

7.   Don't hire someone to clean your house. 

Make your children do it.

At two, Henry is great at following simple directions:

"Pick up your trucks."

"Bring me a diaper."

"Rub mommy's back."

Before you start reciting child labor laws, I'll have you know it's a learning game.

Me:  "Henry, what color is the broom?"

Henry: "BLUE!"

Me:  "Close, but not quite Love Bug, that's yellow."

Me:  "Henry, what color are the wipes?"

Henry:  "BLUE!"

Me:  "Sweet Pea, that's orange, but good try."

Me:  "Henry, what color is in the potty?"

Henry:  "GREEN!"

Seriously.

I thought he had that one in the bag.

P.P.S.  I don't know what the lighting did, but my toilet isn't that gross in real life.  I promise.

Henry cleans it twice a day.

Chill Pill

I hate stories that start with my friend's friend's brother's girlfriend said...

So for the purposes of this next little diddy, I'm just going to refer to "my friend," who in actuality isn't my friend.  It's my friend's friend's...see there we go again.

"My friend" went to her obstetrician for one of her regular prenatal checkups, you know:  blood pressure, pee check, reassure nurse you haven't taken up elephant riding or case races in your spare time, quick gaze up the baby shoot. 

And you're outta there.

Easy peasy.

"My friend" suffers from anxiety, like myself, and wanted to talk to her doctor about medication options.

Pros and cons.  Yada Yada.

Her obstetrician told her to:

"Punch a pillow and get more exercise."

I can't even begin to address everything that is wrong with that statement.

If by "punch a pillow," she means, "punch me in the face" I might understand where that would be helpful.

I don't know about you, but as a pregnant person I always loved being told that I need to get more exercise...

Hey, there's someone that wants to meet you. 

My middle finger. 

Oh look.  My foot wants to introduce itself too. 

To your neck.

I'm sure once "my friend" stuffs herself into her yoga pants that fit - 25 pounds ago - and realizes she can't do child's pose like all the other skinny bitches because she has a human, covered only by a thin veil of stretch marks, hanging off her trunk, she will feel so much better.

Completely revitalized.

And not the least bit suicidal.

I understand the ideal situation is to have a completely pure pregnancy, just your prenatal vitamins and the occasional bottle of vodka to get you through the day.

Joke.

You could probably get away with two bottles of vodka... as long as it's just every once in a while.

I took my regular low dose of anxiety medication when I was pregnant with Henry, and he is fine. 

Completely fine.

*So he thinks everything is blue and kind of veers to the left when he walks, but he's fine.

:)

Early on in my stint with Adeline I realized that between my regular anxiety issues and the pregnancy hormones, I was turning a particularly unflattering shade of crazy. 

I took my trusty prescription, grateful that I would finally get some relief from the crippling anxiety spiral that I had been sucked into, and I was promptly shamed out of picking it up by two Walgreen's Pharmacists.

It all happened so fast. 

I gave them my prescription, and the really old mean one said, "Who gave this to you?"

Looking back, probably not the best moment for sarcasm, but I replied, "I bought it off a 14 year old in the parking lot."

Then, I realized she was serious.

Whooops.

"My obstetrician gave it to me."

Pharmadevil:  "Do they know you are currently pregnant?"

Me: "Ummm...yes.  Somewhere between the transvaginal ultrasound and the blood tests, I think we covered that."

Pharmadevil:  "I'm going to need you to sit over there," (sternly points to the two waiting area chairs, that no one ever sits in because they're covered in Ebola, snot, and the urine of elderly people) " And read this.  I'm going to need your signature."

At which point she hands me a print out from somewhere on the Internet detailing why it is dangerous for me to take this medication while pregnant...

At this point I'm so confused.

(I'm sure, to you, this seems like the permanent state of my life.  It pretty much is.) 

I feel like I'm back in Kindergarten and Mrs. Jesperson is about to spank me for peeing my pants again. 

So I sit.  And I pretend to read.

It is scientifically proven that one out of every 4 million babies will be born crying if I take this medication.

At that point I realize that in order for me to get my hands on those pills I'm going to have to face those two really mean looking women and, to them, basically admit that I'm a selfish beast who doesn't care if her unborn child has an extra arm and a penis dangling off her elbow.

I couldn't do it. 

The nurse in me knew that it was completely fine to take this medication.  The friend in me had reassured countless other friends that it was completely fine for them to be on medication during their pregnancies.  I took this medication during my last pregnancy...

But I couldn't do it.

I slank/slunk (?) back up to the counter and mumbled something about managing my anxiety with meditation...

(WTF?)

And I turned to go.

As I was running away from the pharma-wenches I hear a small little voice, the little mouse of a pharmacy technician; kneeling on the floor, restocking Preparation H. 

The angel:  she says,"I was on three different antidepressants when I was pregnant. You know if you need it, don't be afraid to get it."

What a doll.

Disclaimer:  I am not a doctor, I don't pretend to know what I'm talking about.  This is solely my opinion.  Which, is widely agreed to be unworthy of the pixels it takes up on the computer screen, so take it or leave it.

(As an aside, I work with sick babies everyday.  I do not take their health or risks to their health, lightly.)

I know several people that are pregnant right now.  Some with their first baby, some with their third or fourth.

I don't want any one of those people to feel ashamed of taking care of themselves. Ever.

I tell the mothers of my 'work babies' every day:

You can't take care of them, if you don't take care of you first. 

It is easy to sacrifice everything for your children.  You do it with out thinking. 

Do not be afraid to get what you need to be your best self.

If that is 10 mg of Celexa, so be it.

If that is one hour alone at Target, so be it.

Don't lose yourself.

Apologies for the serious turn of this post.  Even I didn't see that coming.

I know it's hard for you to believe I could ever really act that crazy...

hahaha

But as I was going through this particularly difficult time, I had a brief phone conversation with a friend of mine who was about to take care of our cats when we went out of town.

When your cat sitter leaves you stress relief aromatherapy oil on your kitchen counter, it means one thing:

Get a fucking grip.

F-Bomb Mom gets a Haircut

I went to get my hair cut yesterday.

The first time in 9 months. 

I could see my feet.  I didn't have a toddler using my body as a slide.  I had on a clean shirt.  I didn't even have any diapers in my purse. 

I was feeling good.

I sank back in the chair in front of a lady I have come to trust. 

I brought along my trusty picture.  One I'm sure this lady has seen 1000 times in the past two weeks alone:

Every other damn person puts it on Pinterest.

This was a no fail situation.  Basically a trim with a little tweaking to make it interesting.

I'm confident a beauty school flunky could have knocked this one out of the park. 

I'm confident I could have taken Henry's sissors to my head and done a fairly decent job.

(This coming from a person who wore puffy headbands until 8th grade because she lacked the skill to pull her hair into a pony tail, is saying something.)

Maybe it was my fault, maybe I just missed all the signs:

Stylist:  "Gee, you're my last appointment.  I'm so glad I can finally relax.  I've been slammed all day long."

Well, Mrs. Hair Lady I'm glad you can relax too. 

I'm all for relaxation, however:

I didn't want you to FUCKING FALL ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL.

**I know I'm kind of an F-Bomb mom.  I know this offends some of you. 

I promise I don't do it in front of my children.

I know swearing is just the tool of a lazy mind, blah, blah, blah.

My mind is very lazy; so I will continue to use it to convey the depth of the situation.

(I promise I try to substitute "freaking," "fudging," "darn."  If it works, I do it.  It didn't work this time...)

I know all of you have been in this place at one time or another: 

You look up in the mirror from your issue of Vogue and think to yourself,

"Ohhh, Hmmm....this is not where I saw this going at alllllll."

If you have known your stylist for some time, you can also see the thoughts rolling around in her head:

"Welp, guess I really took a wrong turn on this one, ohh well, can't win em all..."

Now, what happens?

I politely inquire,

(I promise in my most non-confrontational voice; I actually am a nice person in real life.)

"Does this look like it's...laying right...to you?"

(The politest way possible to say, "What in the Hell are you doing to my head?")

Stylist:  "Well, as I suspected, it's not going to hit your shoulders quite right. The angle of the blightly, bleuigh, layers, angled, gligity...shears....angle of the moon, gravitational pull....

We're just going to have to take off a few more inches to make it lay right."

Me:  Whhhaaaaaaaa, waaait, huh, what happened.  Did I fall asleep?  What's happening here? Who are you?  Do you have a license? Can't we just glue some back on?

Bitch, I just grew my hair out for the past 9 months to get it out of the awkward length you just cut it back into.

She totally missed the gravity of the situation unfolding in my head.

Which probably to the average person, wouldn't have been a situation.

To me, the newly menstrual, frighteningly hormonal, mother of two children under two: 

It's a BIG FUCKING DEAL.

(Sorry, "fudging" didn't work that time either...)

So there lies another two inches of my hair on the floor, and I'm left thinking,

"What just happened here? I know I'm confused a lot, but seriously...what just happened here?"

Stylist:  "Well you know it works on Gwyneth Paltrow because she has that long giraffe neck."

Me:  "I didn't show you a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow."

Stylist: [Blank stare.]

Am I high?

Mental Diarrhea of a SAHM

I hope I'm not alone in thinking that SAHMs (Stay at home moms) can go a little crazy sometimes.

I think it may be a blend of the children...the laundry...the isolation.

The children.

But I find myself wondering about a lot of random things during the day.

I used to text Michael with my random musings, but then I realized he has a real job in which people's eye balls are at stake.

So I quit bothering him.

So now I'm going to bother you...

:)

1.  Why doesn't Michael's have regular sized carts?  Am I alone in finding this highly annoying?  I really don't need it to carry purchases...I need it to corral my children.

It is impossible to fit a car seat and a toddler in that little freakish mini cart...

And don't look at me like you expect me to wear Addie.  I'm not a baby sherpa.

I'm convinced the people that thought up the freakish mini cart have obviously never tried to take a two year old into Michael's with out some form of containment.

Mayhem.

Fucking mayhem.

I have never been a firm believer in leashing children, but Henry needs a leash in Michael's...and pretty much anywhere now, but that's a story for a different day.

Joann Fabrics is also a mini cart offender.  The only people who shop there are tiny old ladies with giant purses, who frankly would probably appreciate a bigger cart, and stay and home moms with 13 kids running all over the damn place.

Can't they cut us break!

My Pinterest projects are the only thing that keep me from opening a bottle of wine at noon.

BIGGER CARTS, I say!

2.  Please tell me that someone else has seen the Liquid Plumber Double Impact commercial.

Is it wildly inappropriate to anyone but me?  Are they implying what I think they're implying?

Someone please help me understand this.

Have I been reading too much erotic fiction (Is that even possible?)...

Even I was a little off-put by that commercial, and that is saying something.

When I think of a giant, nasty, gummy, hair, fungus ball in my drain I don't really want to think about sex, let alone sex with double anything...

Anyone?

3.  Lately, Michael has voiced concern that I do laundry "too much."

Is this possible?

I don't think it's abnormal that I make him take off what he's wearing so I can wash it. 

Is it?

Is it?

Is it?

Please tell me it's not because it is pretty much the only thing I have control over around here and if you take my laundry away from me I may just go on a shooting rampage so someone please just tell me that I'm completely normal and I'm not crazy.

Thank you.

I appreciate your concern honey, but I'm fine. 

Now, could you please take off those shorts.  I'm throwing in a load of darks.

4.  Could the good people at Enfamil have made Gentlease formula smell any better?  All formula smells horrific, but this is just awful.

I already feel bad enough that Addie isn't getting my breast milk and she farts like a truck driver.

Now I feel like I'm feeding her liquid cat food.

Thanks a million Enfamil.

5.  When you post family pictures on Facebook you really have an important decision to make:

Do you post the picture where you look good and no one can see your double chin and fat thighs? 

Or do you post the picture where your kids look good and are for one extremely brief moment clean, looking at the camera and smiling?

Both of these scenarios can not happen in the same picture. 

Trust me.

It's cosmic, you can't question it.

I really prefer to post the one where I look good.  Because I really care about what the people I graduated high school with 11 years ago, and haven't seen since, think about me.

I don't want them to know I have fat ankles.  Never...

I guess the other scenario is, you choose the one where your spouse looks really good. 

Because then no matter how ugly you or your children look, everyone knows you married up.

Win.

Now can you see why I had to quit bothering Michael at work...

I'm dangerous.

6.  I can't hold my booze nearly as well as I used to.

A few weeks ago I had one margarita, put Command Hooks on every available surface of my home and passed out. 

I'm a drunk organizer now...

I can't decide if this is awesome or not...

I guess we hang the pacifiers up now (?)

I know, I don't really understand it either.

Thanks for letting me get that stuff off my chest.

If you see a bedraggled looking woman shuffling along, muttering to herself (and for a change it's not me) just assume she's a SAHM.

She probably has a lot of things going on in her head, and no one to share them with. 

I've tried talking to Henry about it. 

He just says, "Blue."

Ohh, I have to go.  The dryer just buzzed.

Finding Me

Let me just preface this by saying, I am not making this up.

Through the "Blogger" interface I am able to see the search keywords that brought people to my blog, and the referring sites from which they came. 

Kind of awesome, just be warned, you can't try and be sneaky and read my blog on the sly...

I seeee you :)

Haven't really taken a lot of time to check out this feature because well, I don't really have much time to write a post, BUT THANK GOD this morning I had a few minutes!

In the past week these are the search keywords that brought people to my humble blog:

Search Keywords:

Entry:                                              Pageviews:

Tucks Pads                                          11

Undie Sundae                                      3

"diaper sausage"                                  2

epifoam                                                2

infant to toddler rocker                       2

maternity mesh underwear                2

mesh knickers for after baby               2

eatin good habit                                    1

epifoam image                                      1

homemade nipple toys                         1

"crusty" booger                                     1

Cross-my-heart, if I knew how to save a screen shot and put it on here, I would.  I could not even make that shit up.

This is just awesome on so many levels.

I feel terrible; somewhere there are eleven very uncomfortable people trying to find hemorrhoidal relief that got much more than they bargained for.

Two people googled the phrase "diaper sausage"  Don't ignore the quotes; they weren't looking for diapers, and sausage...they were looking for diaper sausage. 

The mind reels; are they making sausages out of diapers?  Are they looking for sausages in diapers?

I don't know either?

I do know however, that I probably managed to scare away two foreigners...unless the term "knickers" is sweeping the U.S.?

In which case, I'm very sad no one told me.  I would totally say "knickers." 

That's it.  I'm starting.  Knickers.  I love it.

Obviously someone is looking to start making healthier choices.  I applaud you, however, be warned:  There are not many "eatin good habits" to be found here. 

Unless they make guacamole a food group.

Oh well, judging from the grammar usage, I think it would probably be a long trip out of the mountains just for avocados.

Hmmm...my favorite.  Homemade nipple toys.

You guys are freaks!  I had no idea.  And you have no idea how thrilled I am that freaks like you can find me so readily!  It's fantastic beyond comprehension.

I have two supple cups.  Gently used.

(Who said breastfeeding had to be a total fail?)

$5/or best offer.

A little extra cashola on the side never hurt; it's clear I don't cook, but I wouldn't have to resort to making Henry eat "diaper sausage."

And last, but certainly not least...

My dear friends.  You can always come here if you are looking for not only boogers...but crusty ones. 

I'm sure I will never disappoint you. 

Ms. Deathrage

So apparently I am the meanest person alive in the middle of the night. 

Like a horrible, horrible person.

I suppose this isn't really news, but now I/we have just come to fully accept and maybe even embrace it.

Let me preface this by saying that Adeline is a fantastic baby.  She has been from day one; she sleeps as much as one could expect from a 6 week old baby, maybe waking up twice in the night...

Let's just say, she does her part.

I however, come un-fucking-glued.

What is my deal!!?

You can see where this is going; I obviously don't take my irrational rage out on Addie...

Poor, poor, poor, poor, poor...poor Michael.

I look over at his slumbering form while I feed her and I just want to hit him with a shovel.

Seriously.

Just picture Addie starting to grunt and stir in her crib, cut to me, realizing that I am going to have to get up (not new news, but somehow still can't come to terms with it) and I just snap.

I passive-aggressively snap.  I whip the covers off, just enough so that Michael wakes up to acknowledge that I am getting out of bed. 

I am up.  And he is still sleeping.

You know, just so he knows.

And then I sigh and huff dramatically.

You know, just so he knows I'm not happy about it.

And God help the man if he doesn't offer to feed her.  I'm not going to let him, but he sure as shit better offer.

Keep in mind, I'm like a black-out drunk during this time.  I am only partially aware of what I am doing, and really have no control over myself.

I can feel the crazy coming and I am powerless to stop it.  I just have to board the crazy train and ride it out. 

Michael has learned that his best defense is silence.  He just curls up in the fetal position and stays silent. 

He is scared shitless of me. 

I am scared shitless of me.

Last night:

Me: (fuming, huffing, sighing) I guess I'll go get the bottle now... Ugggghhhhhhh..errrggg...ahhh...shesuwhh...&^$%&(&^^%*#.

Michael: (In a completely innocent, non-confrontational, supportive whisper) Why don't you let me feed her so you can keep sleeping?

Me:  (Eyes widening, face bulging with rage) Sorry, I guess I don't do it right.  I only feed babies for a living, but since you're never wrong why don't you do it...

Michael: (Completely terrified, whimpering) You know being up at night doesn't affect me as much as it does you, why don't you just let me do it?

Me:  Because then I won't be able to be as mad at you....Gahhhhhh...$^#&$*^%.  Just go back to sleep!  YOU have to work in the morning.  I don't have to work in the morning.  Staying here and taking care of two kids all day by myself is not a real job.  I don't need as much sleep as you. 

##)^&$^*#$(#_%.  Dick.

Michael:  (chuckling)  Did you just call me a dick?  (Laughing, he rolls over and ignores me...far and away, the best tactic.)

Me:  *^%)&^ !

And Scene.

Are you seeing all that crazy, cause that is a lot of crazy!!

Yes, I am completely serious.

The man can NOT win. 

At least he has a sense of humor about it.  He knows I'll wake up in the morning and be completely lovely again.

*Actually, I don't think I've ever woken up and been completely lovely in my whole life.  Let's just say I wake up and I'm not homicidal.

I'm like a crazy-bitch werewolf.

The upside is, the next morning, after the blood on my fangs dries and the clumps of fur fall out, we both laugh about it...

It doesn't hurt that my overnight alter ego (whom we have aptly named Gunner Deathrage...which, incidentally, is also a contestant on the newest season of Project Runway) is extremely remorseful and likes to buy back the love from people she accidentally verbally bludgeons to death.

(Michael's favorite running shoes...in a completely bitchin' new color.)

Michael loves it when Ms. Deathrage verbally cuts his nuts off and then uses his own money to buy him a "I'm sorry I'm a heinous bitch" gift the next day...

So don't you worry about him.

I know what you're thinking...

But those running shoes have a wireless bomb in the heel;

He can't use them to run away...

:)