The Best Laid Plans

Damn you Babycenter.com, damn you to Hell.

There are a few things in this world that I wish I never found out about:

1.  Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips.

I don't know how many layers of tongue I have lost to those irresistible bastards.  Too many to count.

2.  Rainbow Chip Frosting. 

I don't know how many pounds of fat I owe to this devil in a can.  Too many to count.

3.  Babycenter.com

I don't know how many hours of sleep I've lost and hissy fits I've thrown at the hands of Babycenter.com.  Too many to count.

It all sounds so well and good:

Subscribe to website; get useful information and updates on your pregnancy, baby, toddler...

During my pregnancy this was a Planners Nirvana.  My ultimate destination for all things baby.

For a person with a moderate to sometimes severe anxiety issue these updates are only useful if everything is going as planned. 

But things don't go as planned.

Parenthood 101:

Make a Plan B.  Plan C.  And Plan D. 

Because Plan A ain't never gonna happen.

It wasn't my plan that Henry would decide he didn't want to walk until he was 19 months old... 

But I'll be damned if I didn't get that update email every month:

"Your Baby at 15 Months"

"Your Baby at 16 Months"

"Your Baby at 17 Months"

Please enlighten me Babycenter.com! 

What is my XYZ Month old supposed to be capable of this month?

Walking, you say!?

50 words, you say!?

Sentences, you say!?

Algebra, some light calculus!?

Well, I have something to say to you Babycenter.com:

Fuck you.

(Cut to me, slamming the computer into the wall.)

Kids don't all develop at the same rate.

Every child does not walk, talk, run, jump or fart at the same time.

So I'd like to thank you for the monthly anxiety attack I have come to expect from you. 

You never fail me.

What's that?

Just don't read the emails....

Well, then I wouldn't be a good mom, now would I?

So as we speak I am in the midst of a Babycenter-induced-panic-attack. 

They tell me that we should be establishing good sleep habits for Adeline. 

They are warning me that bad sleep habits can get out of hand quickly.

Currently she loves to sleep in her crib at night, but refuses to nap in it during the day. 

She likes to nap in her swing.  No motion.

Just sitting in her swing. 

Happy as a clam.

But, that's not a good sleep habit!!

She should be napping in her crib...

This is getting out of hand!



AHH.

How are we going to explain to her college roommate that she needs to sleep in a custom made basket?

She's going to be that weird girl on the 5th floor who sleeps in a basket.

Thanks for the update Babycenter.com.

Tiny Schizophrenics

I'm going to say something that may shock you.

You may think I'm a terrible person. 

But I've managed to do a little unofficial investigation on the subject.  (By unofficial investigation, I mean listening to a lot of moms bitch about the same thing.)

So, I'm quite confident that instead of throwing shoes at my face and shunning me, you will most likely agree wholeheartedly.

Toddlers are mean.

Toddlers are selfish.

Toddlers can be assholes.

I mean assholes in the best sense of the word.

Actually, no I don't.  I mean assholes in the terriblepersonItryandavoid, sense of the word.

I am writing this so that new moms do not feel as if they are doing something wrong when their child turns into a demon at approximately 18 months of age.  

Give or take 2 days.

Facebook would have you believe that toddlers are wonderful, smiley, clean, cute, nice people.

That's true, for about 20% of the day.  

Give or take 20% (In my experience it's always, always take.)

I admit, I'm a repeat offender.  I love to post pictures of Henry and Adeline doing cute things and acting like they don't want to shank each other behind my back.

It warms my heart.

I know it warms my mom's heart when I text her pictures like that.  And then she responds,

"Ohh, look, Henry is such a great big brother!  That's adorable!"  

Ten minutes after this photo he drop-kicked her in the head.

I'm sure other parents can corroborate this story:  

In the 15 minute window before or after every adorable photo, the "so cute" toddler/s had an ear-splitting, jaw-dropping, pants-peeing, vodka-bottle-opening:

Tantrum.

That made you question every choice you've ever made in your life.

**I'm sure that you never imagined yourself coming home from a trip to the pediatrician saying to yourself,

"Shit, there's nothing wrong with my kid."

Because your child was acting so incredibly heinous.  So inexplicably horrible, that your only possible explanation was that there must be some severe physical ailment in progress.

There has to be some form of bodily illness or injury to blame for this behavior.

Nope.  They are fine. 

Healthy as a horse.

That's just their winning personality... 

F-Bomb...Dropped.

**I'm sure you never imagined these words coming out of your mouth:

"I mean, I love my kids, but I just don't like them."

(An admission from a girl sitting next to me in computer training class.  After we had known each other 20 minutes.)

**I'm sure you never imagined yourself googling, "Toddler Multiple Personality Disorder or Pediatric Schizophrenia."

(As did one of the wonderful girls I work with.)

Because you think to yourself,

"My child has a psychiatric disorder.  They must.  That is the only explanation...I gave birth to a tiny schizophrenic."

Our sweetest, most adorable, cuddly parenting fantasies do not include any of the above.

I'm quite positive my parenting fantasies didn't include having flashes in my head of throwing myself off a building screaming, "IT'S ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN," 

as Henry hurls himself across the room in an ear splitting, meltdown.

Because I wouldn't give him a Kraft Single.

But we think that somehow admitting that our child is an asshole too (if only temporarily), reflects poorly on our parenting.

But sometimes it doesn't matter how you parent. 

It doesn't matter if you are Dr. Sears-Weissbluth-Murkoff-Poppins.  

It doesn't matter if you anticipate every hunger pang.  Every sleepy moment.  Every irrational toddler fear.

Sometimes they will just flip the fuck out.

But I promise there is a silver lining.

Like every relationship you had in college;

Sometimes the people that love you the very most, treat you the very worst. 

Because they know you will never leave them.

I imagine parenting is a little like self-mutilation.

It's horrible and messy and dysfunctional.  

But somehow it just feels really good.

Paging Christian Grey, MD

At first I thought, "Hmm...maybe I shouldn't write about this, maybe it's just too embarrassing."

Then, I thought.  Well, what the Hell is this thing for anyway.

So here you go.

This past week has been SO thrilling, I can't even begin to tell you!

18 HOURS of computer training for work.  It's called Epic. And let me tell you the name does not disappoint.

18 HOURS of sitting.

(Which at first, I was actually kind of excited about.  I don't get to sit down that much.)

Let me tell you.  It was thrilling.

So thrilling, in fact, that the veins popped out of my butt.

Seriously.

Hemorrhoids y'all.

See at first, when I thought this was too embarrassing to write about, I did what any smart medical professional with 500 text books in their house does. 

I googled it.

According to Web MD, 50% of the population suffers from hemorrhoids at least once before the age of fifty. 

So I did the math, carried the one, and figured that some of you probably know what I'm talking about here.

Especially since so many of you have pooped babies as well;

Which, as luck would have it, makes us even more susceptible to the 'Big H.'

I figured, we should not have to suffer this indignity in silence...alone.

So I thought I'd tell a bunch of strangers, so we could all laugh about it together.

:)

I thought, there must be a quick fix for this.  What is happening?  I'm only 29.  This is not nice.  This is not fair.

My dad has 'Hs.'  I am not supposed to have 'Hs'.

That's what I'm calling it from now on.  Hs.  If I keep typing the word I feel like the hemorrhoids have won. 

Oh Web MD, how many times I have turned to you;

The year I was convinced I had Lupus.

The other year I was convinced I had bone cancer. (Neither of which are funny, I assure you.)

("Nursing is the perfect profession for me!  Said no hypochondriac ever.")

Every time you have comforted and assured me, Web MD. 

This time, however, you told me to stick my finger up my ass.

Not funny. Web MD.  Not funny.

Now, I have had my finger up a few butts in my day.  More than I'd like to remember actually. 

Strictly business, you guys.

(And, as an aside, when you give an adult a rectal suppository, you're technically supposed to hold it up there a few minutes so it doesn't just come slidin' right back out.  Tell me those aren't the most awkward 120 seconds of your life.)

(As another aside, the first rectal suppository I inserted was for a ninety year old man that looked like Santa Clause and sang me a Bluegrass tune while I had my finger up his ass.  Once I also helped an old lady put her vagina back in.  Different story.)

Nursing.  So many stories.  So little time.

Back to me.

Um.  I'm not sticking my finger up my butt Web MD.

And I'm looking around and I don't see Christian Grey anywhere.  So I think I'm going to have to find a Plan B.

Thanks for trying though.

So now what?

So now, I'm squatting over the air conditioner vent in our bathroom with no pants on. 

Just like that time I expelled a human and got vagina hives. 

Ahh.  Good memories.

I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Michael, when he walked in on this scene approximately 3 months ago.

"I can't help it, the cold air just feels good..."

Lay off a bitch.

I tell you, child bearing is just the gift that keeps on giving.

Annoyed Much?

So, unsurprisingly enough, I've been kind of annoyed by a few things lately.

I tried telling Michael about it, but he didn't see how any of it was annoying.

Which annoyed me even more.

(Sometimes when I try and share things like this with him he just looks at me like I'm a crazy stranger.  The person you are afraid to make eye contact with on the street.  It's kind of a look of disbelief with a little regret mixed in.  It sort of confirms my suspicions that when he proposed to me three and a half years ago it was really just a psychotic episode on the top of Pilot Mountain, brought on by exertion and dehydration.  But then he didn't know how to take it back.  So here we are...)

Anywho, I needed someone to validate my constant state of annoyance as of late.

So I, lovingly, turn to you.

1.  The Direct TV commercial.

This lady is sitting on a stool with music playing. 

Telling me about how,

 "See we get a lot of tornadoes 'round here."

She sucks me in with her warm old-ladyness, and I'm prepared to be touched and inspired. 

Moved by the Direct TV commercial.

She tells me about how her best friend lost everything.

I'm feeling so bad at this point.  I'm really sorry lady; I didn't want that to happen to your friend!

But then I see it turning around.

"When it came time to rebuild..."

(At this point I think she's going to say something about how she helped her friend dig the foundation of her new house.  Or plant a commemorative bush.  Or dig through the rubble to find her old photo albums.)

But no.

"When it came time to rebuild, I told her about Direct TV."

"And now I save ten dollars on my bill every month."

Huh?

You're not her friend.  You're a selfish hose beast.

Remind me never to call that lady when I'm sick and need a friend. 

She'll harvest my organs and sell them on the black market.

Direct TV Fail.

2.  Jessica Simpson.

Why does she have to be the new Weight Watchers Spokesperson?

I like her better post-baby fat.

I think everyone likes her better chunky.  Especially pregnant women.

Pregnant women everywhere could look at a picture of pregnant Jessica Simpson and think to themselves,

"Well, at least I didn't get that big."

She is relatable this way.  I appreciate her double chins.

Now they are going to tan and tone her until we can no longer relate with the fact that she just had a baby and looks like a real woman. 

That annoys me.

And God help me, if Adele turns out to the be the next spokesperson for NutriSystem or Jenny Craig I'm going to put a gun in my mouth.

3.  Preschool "Volunteer Lists."

Henry goes to preschool twice a week from 9-noon.  He LOVES it.

I LOVE it.

This is time I have to clean the house and run errands that don't really work with him in tow.

I can browse.

There is no browsing with Henry. 

The scene is Preschool Open House, last week:

Teacher:  "Here's our Parent Volunteer List."  (thrusts list in my face.) " I know I always want to be involved in my child's classroom."  (Narrows eyes at me). 

Shit.

We are now locked in an epic battle of Good Mom Chicken.

And I lose.

So I sign up for "Play Dough Sculpture Day" and "Prep-Parent."

(I don't even know what a 'Prep Parent' is, but apparently I am one now.)

I'm sorry, I love Henry more than life itself, but I'm paying you to put that Early Childhood Education degree to good use and stimulate his two-year old brain for 6 hours each week.

I'm responsible for the other 162.

Can a mom just not have a fucking break once in a while?

I mean, damn.

(And yes I really did do the math.)

Anyhow, I will be present for Play Dough Sculpture Day.

And, make no mistake, I will probably bronze that play dough "sculpture."

But it doesn't mean that I wouldn't have rather had three hours alone in Target.

(And by alone, I mean with a 12 week old infant that has to be fed every two hours, precisely, or her head spins around.)

3.  My neighbor.

Fall is approaching.

My very favorite time of year.

Instead of being excited, I am dreading my damned neighbor and his damned leaf blower.

He blows leaves until there are no more leaves in a 50 mile radius.

Four hour leaf blowing marathons.

So instead of planning my cute fall boot wardrobe, my time is once again occupied by plotting his tragic, untimely and not-at-all-suspicious death.

4.  People that do anything outside between the hours of 1:00 pm and 3:30 pm.

See #3.

Anyone that does anything within earshot of my house that has the remote possibility of waking up my children from a nap, is immediately my nemesis.

I don't care if you are giving CPR to a quadriplegic veterinarian fireman in my driveway.

If you wake up Henry, I'll kill you.

5.  No-Nap Days.

In the words of my good friend;

"If they don't sleep, I can't do this."

Amen.

The Harbor of Retirement

Lately, I have been getting a lot of the same question:

"So, when are you going to have another baby!?"

Um...lest we forget folks.  That just happened.

Let's just put it this way;

My maternity clothes have been stowed in a box under our bed with a steel padlock and a warning sign duct taped to the top:

"Should you need anything in this box, a catastrophic failure has occurred; someone owes you a refund."

I also had Henry swallow the key, and there is no way I'm fishing around in his diaper to get it back.

That ship has sailed.

By 'that ship' I mean my uterus.  It has sailed into the Harbor of Retirement.

It is sipping a cocktail and loving life.

God has blessed Michael and I with two healthy beauties and there is nothing in the world for which I am more thankful.

Getting knocked up again would only be for selfish reasons:

1.  I love attention.  Pregos get lots and lots of attention.  Especially when you get really huge and disfigured. 

(Me...love attention.  I know you're shocked.)

2.  I will never again be able to refer to myself as a "Sacred Vessel."

As in:

Me:   "Michael, will you go upstairs and get me the box of Cheese Its, pleeeeeeeeeease."
Michael:  "You have legs, why can't you get it?"
Me:  "Can't you see.  I am a Sacred Vessel.  I need to rest."

3.  You get to wear stretchy pants every damn day.

There is no way to feel fat in maternity jeans.  They are a gift from God, and probably the only reason women get pregnant in the first place.

Don't be fooled; it's not for the baby at the end. 

It's nine months of stretchy pants.

For real.

4.  You get tons of gifts.

So, I know they aren't technically for me, but that's not the point.

Opening presents is awesome. 

Even someone else's presents.

5.  People dote on you. 

"Oh let me get that for you."
"Don't bend down and pick that up!"
"Sit, let me stand."
"Don't push that radiant warmer, let me get it."

Now, you have to put up a token amount of resistance, just so you don't look like an asshole, but it is awesome to have people want to help you all the time.

You feel super special.

Like Kate Middleton.

You get to feel like a fat faced, ugly version of Kate Middleton.

Which is still awesome.

6.  You get to blame your fat on someone else.

All you have to say is, "Geez.  The baby is hungry today!!!"

"I can't believe the baby wants four cupcakes and an entire bag of Hot Buffalo Wing Pretzel Pieces!"

"Aww. Must be a growth spurt.  How cute."

The only thing having a growth spurt is your ass, but through clever mental trickery you can ignore that fact entirely. 

For 10 whole months. 

7.   If you're not in the mood to have sex you always have a great excuse.

"I think if we do it tonight you might kill the baby."

End of story.

8.  Being in labor is awesome.

See reasons #1 and #5.

**Addendum to #8:

 Labor is awesome until it's not awesome anymore. 

And then it's really not awesome.

9.  And then a baby pops out. 

And it's awesome again.

Surprise.

10.  You get to feel a baby grow inside of you for 10 months.

A real person.

And then you get to meet that person and watch them grow.

You get to see their personality emerge.

And they are the greatest person you have ever met.


Well... shit. 

I really don't want to dig through Henry's diaper.