Motherhood Uncensored

Animal House

"Mommy! Look. I'm growing lots fur on my arms. Just like you!"

Channeling Ariel thanks to a Buildabear Wig. Oh the disappointment that the fin didn't fit her. She did, however, do a full out "Evita fists pumping" version of "Part of Your World" complete with a teddy bear-sized "thing that covers up your boobies."

We don't mess around here at Casa de Uncensored.

Now back to combing my furry arms.

[Favorite dress from here, and favorite knee socks from here].

Doin' the Butt

Leave your prudish selves here and hop over to the Mominatrix. Weeeeeee!

Book of the Century: Just received an advance copy of my friend Bec's book and it made me cry. I haven't read it yet, but I feel confident in saying that if it's anything like her blog, then you (and I) will love it. Support a mom blogger and go preorder it. (And if you're on the West Coast, check out her live-in-person book tour!)

Pick of the Week: Well, you just have to see it. That is all.

Giveaway: Last chance to snag a cool Tiny Revolutionary shirt. Click here for details.

Feed of the Week: Go Guy and his shout-out to the dad bloggahs.

Blog Blast: You can still enter through Sunday. Go. Now. Post!

There'll Be Days Like This My Mama Never Said

My son poops a lot. This is not exactly a new revelation since he is, in fact, a toddler. And what goes in for most of the day, must indeed come out.

It's not so much the stinky poop stuck to his little white ass like one of those deranged stickers that won't come off. I mean, I survive my own pregnancy induced (I swear) stink bombs on a daily basis. A little bit of poop doesn't scare this pooperologist.

I do indeed know who #2 works for. And it most certainly is not me.

But the knock-down-drag-'em-screaming changing that ensues once I actually get his diaper off leaves me ragged. Do it four to five times a day and I'm ready to run screaming for the hills or at least a place where there are no wiggling, screeching, diaper hating babies to torment me. 

When I attempt to break up the lengthy diaper changing gauntlet, say by playing the "I'm letting his butt air out" card, he shits on the floor. And the carpet. In the exact spot that I decide to step in. With my bare foot.

So, when the babysitter came to relieve me of my motherly duties for a beautiful two hours, I wasn't necessarily looking forward to wandering around Kohls trying to figure out how the hell Daisy Fuentes has a jewelry line or how Vera Wang's spring line looks scarily like a set of my grandmother's curtains looking particularly spiffy in my inside-out shirt (nice touch, eh?).

I was looking forward to getting out of at least one mid-day poop changes.

I know that sounds ridiculously desperate, considering my husband does his fair share of pooper changes (not without a little bit of complaining and a lot of begging for help). But it sure is nice to "de-mommy" for a few hours.

However, as luck would have it, I returned home only mildly de-mommied with an empty Taco Bell bag, two almost identical shades of lipstick (why, I do not know), and a large bag of butt wipes to a not-so-napped son who had not-so-pooped.

Nada. None. Nothing.

That was until the babysitter had just pulled out of our driveway. And then the gates of poopy hell burst wide open, sort of like a welcome home gift, you know, just in case I forgot who I was for those brief moments away from home.

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There are some things a girlfriend will only tell you about having kids, like "kids poop a lot and it kind of sucks" or "make sure you check to see that your shirt is on the right way before you leave the house" Check out our blog blast in conjunction with Discovery Channel's sweet new show "Deliver Me," write your own post about what you wish your girlfriends had told you about having babies (or what they did that saved your ass), and win some prizes!

Lactivist. The New Feminist.

If you had asked me several years ago if I considered myself a feminist, I would have responded with a resounding "No." The image of feminism that was emblazoned on my mind was the bra burning, sign toting activist that may have turned many women away from the label.

But then, I read a little. I took a few classes. And I saw the face of feminism in every single woman around me. The part time student, mom, and bra-wearer who decided to return to school after raising her kids. The lesbian women's studies major who led on-campus rallies. And my doctorate professor who came to our first class wearing a "This is what a feminist looks like."

I quickly realized that I had been scared away from the movement by a stereotype. I had indeed been suckered by propoganda, like many women in this country, to believe that being a feminist meant baring your tits to the world with an angry thrust.

Thankfully, we've come a long way baby, at least in that sense. Feminists can wear skirts, leave their jobs to stay home with their kids, and even run around barefoot and pregnant in their kitchen.

Their choice.

So, when I was interviewed for a story about the whole "Facebook Sucks" campaign that I organized with League of Maternal Justice, I shouldn't have been surprised when the author called me a "lactivist."

But I was, and I quickly corrected her.

"I don't necessarily think I'm a lactivist just because I want women to be able to nurse freely and without persecution and am organizing an online event where women will be nursing live online and posting pictures of themselves nursing."

She quickly corrected me because, as she stated, isn't that what a lactivist is?

And then I realized that maybe being a lactivist is like being a feminist. All along I had this boob flashing mother nursing her 4 year old outside a restaurant in my mind. When really, anyone, mom or dad, who supports a woman's choice to breastfeed anywhere she so chooses is a lactivist.

Sometimes it just takes our rights as women being questioned for us to activate the feminist within us. And similarly, it takes our rights as nursing mothers to be tested for us to ignite the lactivist as well. But that doesn't mean we have to set fires and squirt milk.

Sometimes it's just nodding along in unison with your fellow women and mothers.

It's only taken me thirty-one years as a woman, and three years as a nursing mother to figure that out.

But it's large strides and small victories that make me proud.

And sights like this (at the Park Plaza Mall, Little Rock, Arkansas) that really make my day (sure, there's a bottle next to the word, but it doesn't say "bottle-feeding," right).

Even though I can post what I want on my blog since I'm not in an ad network (did you check out my sponsor and her cool giveaway yet?), I like to keep my thoughts on products and services that people so generously send me on my review blog. I don't expect you to stick it in your feed reader. But it's there just in case you were wondering.

And the Sound of Galloping Horses

I've been holding my breath for the past 12 weeks. And it's not just because I'm trying to keep the puke down.

The anxiety associated with experienced miscarrying mother's first trimester tends to taint their entire pregnancy. This time around, the headaches and nausea have actually helped reassure my fears. And they've also helped me focus on the present, as opposed to the near future in which my children will out number me three to one (hoooollly shhhhheeeeeet).

Somehow the headaches just don't seem that bad.

But they haven't been "Oh these darn pregnancy migraines" and I haven't had "Damn that baby hormone induced nausea." And considering I've been jacked up on hormones for the last four years, the violent emotional outbursts are sadly almost common place.

As are the deep feelings of guilt and embarrassment for not being able to control them.

My "Who you calling pregnant, sucka?"attitude was surprisingly unshaken at the ultrasound visit. Even the cute arm and leg stumps, along with the clearly marked "FETUS" didn't phase me. There's always another milestone to get to -- 9 weeks isn't 12 weeks. 12 weeks isn't 17 weeks (when my friend miscarried). 17 weeks isn't 28 weeks when the baby could survive well outside my womb.

My ambivalence was then officially confirmed at my first midwife visit.

"So, when was your last period?"

"Um, late December, I think..."

"And what's your due date?"

"Er, Fall?"

"And you're taking pre-natal vitamins?"

"Does Extra Strength Tylenol have folic acid?"

And apparently the only weight I've gained is exactly the weight of the baby and a side of amniotic fluid and placenta. In fact, it was probably the weight of my pee and sneakers. And in some crazy fluke, I can actually still wear my own pants, which for me is a world record.

But then I heard the sound of the galloping horses, running strong and fast in the bottom of my belly. And for the first time in the last 12 weeks, I breathed a sigh of relief. I even hopped on the internet to grab some maternity essentials (since all mine are hold up in my closet in Atlanta). 

And I'm proud to admit what is causing my headaches and nausea.

Trying to figure out what in God's name we will be naming this baby.

--

Totally unrelated: I need about five kickass (meaning tasty and easy) freezer meals. If you have a great one (or ones), PLEASE email them to me.

Tossed Aside.

I've been thinking a lot about Eliot Spitzer's wife. And Hillary Clinton. And the millions of women that are traded in every year for a newer, fresher model. Flatter stomach. Tighter ass.

You know, less wear and tear.

That's not to say that either of these women weren't bitches and deserved to be cheated on. But I'm willing to bet that if they are bitches, they certainly didn't just come to that place all on their own.

I'm beginning to think that motherhood brings with it some level of hardness. When you've carried however many children, birthed however many children, and raised however many children, well, it's not the easiest job in the world. The hormones certainly don't help. And the lack of status. And appreciation. And recognition.

So we give all the love and joy and happiness that our poor old bodies can spare to our kids. We try to smile as much as we used to. And we try to be the best that we can be.

But I don't think motherhood softens us as women. In fact, I think in some ways, it makes us tougher. 

I'm a firm believer that an empathic spouse can be the deal breaker for many women's experiences of motherhood. I know they can't be mothers. But they can see the look in our face. The furrow in our brow.

The tears in our eyes.

I'm not saying that mothers should get free rein to be raging bitches. But I do wonder when we'll ever get cut some slack. When instead of fighting back, we'll get an outstretched hand. When society will begin raising people (men in particular) who are empathic to mothers and our experience.

I realize motherhood isn't any harder for me than it was for my mother. And maybe I'm just not as good as dealing with it as she was. Actually, I know I'm not as good at it. But like everything else in this world, we're all not as cut out for everything as we'd like to think. It's a little hard for some of us to swallow. It's even harder for some of us to admit. Some of us need a little more help than others. Some of us need a little more coddling. Hand holding.

Because when you systematically feel like you don't exactly know what you're doing at least once every single day of your life, it can grate on you. The havoc that is wreaked on your mind and psyche changes you. And when you wake up every morning feeling like you will never exactly be able to get everything done or accomplished, it just really sucks, particularly when you're not dealing with your own expectations, but somebody else's.

We must be the someone for everyone. And so, who is that someone for us?

Like anything that's put through the ringer, we need some TLC. A little shining up, a little respite, a little jump start.

That might not be good enough for some people to quit shopping around. But here's hoping that society will take some time to refurbish their mothers before tossing them aside.

We all know that we are more than worthy.

And if you don't, you should said it right now with me.

Good [God Where Do I Live Again?] Friday

There is certainly no dearth of religion here in Arkansas. I'm still trying to figure out what terrible things people have done here to incite so many televangelists, Christian radio shows, and "I Am Love" billboards. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when, on the way home from the mall yesterday, I passed by three dirty, bloody white men hanging (by ropes) from crosses.

WHATHFUDJKFDNLDKFTIONDOFNDFDFSNLD?

I saw the traffic slowing down and cars pulling over a few hundred yards up ahead, and considering all the people standing around, a few holding signs, I thought it was a pro-life rally.

But then, after seeing the three "bloody" men, Roman soldiers, and weeping women, I found myself wishing it was a pro-life rally.

I fully understand the importance of the Easter holiday to Christians. Heck, technically speaking I am one, although I was pregnant and "illegally" married through the entire Catholic conversion process. I'm not sure what that makes me (HeatheN with a capital "H," maybe?), but in any case, I get Easter.

I really do.

And I can see the annoyance that said Christians might have when we heathens forget the "reason for the season" and gorge ourselves in Cadbury eggs and try to see how many jelly beans we can fit into our mouths.

But, I'm not quite sure exactly what message these "performance art pieces" (I use that three-word combination very lightly) are trying to send. I can't really say that seeing such a display will make me want to go to church and repent. In fact, it actually makes me angry that they would attempt to burn such a scary and horrible event into peoples' minds.

Like the minds of my little children who would have been asking me to explain this to them over and over. Because that's what Jesus teaches us. To ignite fear in our children in order to bring them closer to Him.

I just don't think that's what He would want.

My Body is a Wonderland [Ranch]

I don't dream in metaphors. It's probably because I have no brain power leftover to try to interpret what some oddly attractive green monster wearing my underwear on his head doing the macarena in my bathroom means.

So, I clearly got the message when I had a dream that my then serious college boyfriend left me at the altar and priest said to me "just because you've been together for three years doesn't mean you need to marry that asshole."

Amen.

And when that same boyfriend and I were sitting naked in a tub last night and he said "Your body looks great for having three kids," I got it clear as day.

That and one hell of a... well... yeah. You know.

I've been coming to grips with the effects of childbirthing and rearing on my dear old body. I wouldn't consider myself a vain person, but watching your breasts become ever so uneven and saggy is disconcerting to anyone. The stomach is floppier. The ass is flatter. And there's just an uncanny amount of extra hair.

I'm not sure which is harder -- loving a body in transition or dressing one. Clothes (and boobs too, I guess) are either too big or too small and never just right.

Sure, maybe some of it is fixable with the right shirt and a good pair of jeans if you've got the time to search for them, but there's plenty that requires a bit more effort. Extra treadmill minutes. Extra spa hours. Extra saline in those breast implants that have my name on them. None of which are feasible (or even realistic) when you've been pregnant or breastfeeding for most of the last four years.

And it's made even harder when you're focused on about 5,679 other things, like well, your child's life and sleeping for longer than three hours in a row (to name a couple), that you just don't become as concerned that arms wave back.

That is until you're standing, naked in front of the mirror, staring at yourself. Remebering what used to be and seeing what is now, and crying a little.

Or, a lot.

Because beauty past and beauty present is just a bit hard to swallow.   

And so I've come to slowly realize that the body that used to be one hell of an amusement park ride has become a rusty old merry-go-round and rinky-dink roller coaster. And I just don't have the cash laying around to invest in upgrading it, at least anytime soon.

But at least I'm reminded, thanks to one little dream, that it's most definitely still worth taking for a ride.   

We'll Have the Soy Corned Beef & Cabbage Please

It took me only an uncanny three short weeks of having various meat products thrown at my head to figure out that my son might just not like meat.

Seriously people. It's amazing I make it through the day without a checklist. 1) Open eyes. 2) Find toilet. 3) Pee.

I've never been a huge meat lover, so I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised. Plus, he flabbergasted us all when we found him downing seaweed and tofu like it was baby crack. Of course, he is a quarter Asian to which I was chalking up his overall brilliance and propensity towards playing the violin and math equations. Silly me. Of course he'd like rice and seaweed.

heh.

So, after being hit with yet another piece of perfectly good steak, I decided that it might be time to seek out other non-animal options, especially since he has now taken to biting people (the kid needs protein and he will get it any way he can).

Flavored tofu? Sweet!

Fake chicken nuggets? Winner!

Garden burgers? Yes please!

[Consequently I was unaware that they were still making Gardenburgers available to the mass public, you know, other than that pithy salad alternative for poor vegetarians who get suckered into eating at Applebees.]

Now, while I have solved the protein issue, I'm still working hard on dairy products, which unless they come in pint form from our favorite Vermont pals Ben and Jerry, he's not so interested in either. And quite frankly, I much prefer picking up fourteen pieces of roast pork off the floor than having to scrape numerous pieces of perfectly good cheese off my leg.

He spits out American cheese like it's a large Rhodesian cockroach that's still alive. And he makes the bitter beer face when I try to give him regular yogurt as opposed to soy.

[Although apparently now soy can kill you these days, so what the hell am I supposed to do other than lock my kids in a closet and feed them boiled water and air!]

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say my son is a vegan. Aside from being beaten up by some frail wayward vegan googler who thankfully took time to make sure I knew that the bread used in my "vegan" peanut butter and jelly recipe could possibly have honey and OH GOD THE BEES THOSE POOR BEES!, my son much prefers to chew on leather shoes rather than pleather.

And then there's the carpet fuzz, paper, and hair.

I just don't know exactly what that makes him, other than a cat.

Forgiveness.

I can recount for you all the painful things that I've experienced over my short stint as a mother. Maybe it's because I'm a woman, or maybe it's because you don't so quickly forget crying every night because your husband tells you that your daughter doesn't like him so you have to go in for the 14th time to put her back down to sleep.

That's just one of a thousand wrongs.

And these wrongs, these stupid comments, and these ridiculous actions (by him and his family) have been grating on my soul for the last four years. Every single word pierces my brain and I can hear them like he just said them two minutes ago.

He's since apologized, but there's only so many "I'm sorry, now let me return to my previous behavior"s that one person can stomach. How really truly sorry are you?

And so I've become bitter and distant. I jump on his words before he says them. I growl at his comments before he can even get them out of his mouth.

The love we had got lost somewhere between our first and second children.

And then a few weeks ago, something almost totally unforgiveable happened. No, my husband is not *Eliot Spitzer, but I thought long and hard if I could stand next to him and listen to him give his "resignation" speech. Could I do a Hillary Clinton and "stand by my man?"

But with two amazing children already here, and another yet to arrive, I have decided to do what I have never ever done before.

Forgive.

I've been wronged by another man in my life, and like another, I made a conscious decision not to forgive him. He did not deserve my time, my energy or my forgiveness.

But this man, who indeed loves my children more than life itself, and who is trying extremely hard to make things right, does. It took me a long time to get to this point.

I know it's not going to be easy to stick to it. Maybe I need to write this so I can remain accountable to myself. But all the shit that has accummulated over the last four seemingly very long years needs to go. I can't carry it anymore.

I'm still mad. I'm still very very very mad. 

But we love each other. And we love our kids.

And I'm not quite ready to give up it all up just yet.

*Consequently, my husband did NOT cheat on me by any means. I'm using these as examples.

Funkalicious

Before I delve into my Friday Linkalicious Love Fest, let me just say I'm sort of in a funk (hence the uninspired posting) which I've narrowed down to first-trimester meets, "wah I miss my friends," meets "why the fuck wasn't my dad as crazy about me as Poppy Bill was about his kids."

Yeah, I'm doing that whole "I'm a good person damnit, it's his loss" broken record thing.

So, I'm trying to find the funny, celebrate the subsiding of the headaches, and enjoy the company of my two children, one of whom takes great pleasure in biting my forearm and laughing.

Meanwhile, please check out these links:

A new Mominatrix! Touch me, baby, Drive me Crazy. (Do you know this song?)

Blog Blast: Save, Share, Simplify with Zwaggle (think organized ebay-ish Freecycle without the crazy ass "wanted" emails). Here's my post on how I try (note the operative word "try") to save money, share my used shit, and simplify my life, particularly with *gup* baby #3 on the way. HELP ME! *The prizes rock and really, I can't wait to read what tips you have that don't involve me going to garage sales. PLEASE. No garage sales!*

Pick of the Week: If only I had known about this when I registered the first time around.

Blog of the Week: Hello Momocrats!

Help a Blog Friend Out: Go vote for Erin. She's pregnant with #4, super cool, and well, you should just do it because it takes one second.

Giveaway: Did you pick your favorite Tiny Revolutionary shirt yet? Go check them out and enter! (Make sure you follow the directions and don't just say "PICK ME!"

New fave book: Here's hoping my daughter's school reads this one.

And humor me. When, if ever, did you drink Zima? (Like what year) and if you drank it, did you ever put anything in it, say like jolly ranchers or other types of alcohol?

Russian Roulette of Parenting: Where the Odds are Never In Your Favor

Place your bets! Share your own! Spin the wheel of "Yeah, You're Probably Fucked!"

How long can my son run diaperless before he pees on my favorite shoe?

How long can I stay out before my son falls asleep on the way home and turns his usual 2 hour nap into a 20-minute "haha sucker" nap?

How long can I have an adult phone conversation before being interrupted by a crying little person?

Can I go into the store without an extra diaper and wipes?

Oddities.

I suppose everyone has their fair share of quirks, some a bit more life interfering than others. I can proudly claim that mine are extremely limited, most likely due to my extremely laid back mother and well, marrying into the "Quirk Family."

I can sleep quite well regardless of the direction and shape my towels are folded. And, like Sci Fi Dad and I discussed a few weeks ago, any cleaning products are the right cleaning products, made better when used on my floor with your mop and elbow grease.

But that doesn't mean I freak out a little bit when my daughter decides to peek into the "cool silver box" in the public restroom.

We've all got our deal breakers; some of us refuse to shake hands and can't leave the house without lining up the rug tassles. And others of us just don't like to get shocked every single time we grab a door knob so we tend to flick it oddly before grabbing it.

Ahem.

But take the silver box example. I say, "Don't touch the silver box because it's really a little trashcan where people tend to put personal waste that is for their fingers only" (feel free to giggle the next time you are one stall over from me). But then there's the "Don't touch the silver box of death because it's full of germs and now I must wash your hands 40 times over and desanitize you with a wet wipe so start stripping kid."

Eek.

And unless our quirks interfere with us making it out of the house, they really won't ever give us too much of a hassle. Granted, I was schooled in the "correct" way to dry yourself off before exiting the shower, and how to properly hang the toilet paper roll so the paper falls over (God not under YOU FREAKS!).

But hell, we survived, albeit with way less sex, but alive and kicking just the same!

But then kids come into the picture, and I say all bets are off. It's time to quit the quirks. You know, bury your bizarreness.

Because what pains me more than seeing people obsess over something so ridiculous is when their kids do it too.

Now I understand that many of our oddities, or preferences (if we're using gentle language), are personality based and can be related to specific developmental issues. But when kids are demanding four layers of toilet paper on the public restroom seat, I start to wonder if parents aren't letting their own quirks rub off a bit too much on their kids.

Try cover and hover, kid.

Now I know it's one thing to be safe and careful. But when our kids can't eat a perfectly good raisin off the floor in peace and quiet and play in the sand without being vacuumed with a car vac, then what is this world coming to?

Truth be told, I want my kid to be quirky all on her very own. She doesn't need my baggage and she most certainly doesn't need my weirdness. And pain me as it does to explain to her why peeing on top of another family member's (or God help me, poop) is not a big deal, I will do it.

Because damnit someone has to make up for some of the crazy shit my husband likes to think is normal. 

Explaining the Unexplainable

I received news on Sunday evening that my mom's boyfriend passed away. With my mom being a fairly private person, I only met him early last year, though they had been dating for the entire year prior.

He was a gentle man, a retired loving grandfather who enjoyed my mom's vibrant company, and doted on her incessantly.

Admittedly, I was a bit jealous of my mom's time whenever I came to visit because he was always around, but considering the only other man who truly loved her was a complete asswipe, she deserved everything that her boyfriend gave her -- his love, his time, and his undying attention.

I could never complain about him, however, since his love (and his family's, who lent us car seats and playpens on a recent visit without ever have meeting us) extended to us as well. He'd hold Drew for hours, rocking him gently to sleep for our whole visit, or take Quinlan to the beach with my mom to give me some time alone. He spoke of them like they were his own grandkids. 

And quite frankly, on most days he was more of a grandfather to my kids than their own.

And so, I decided that since Quinlan knew he was sick and still often mentioned him when we talked about my mom, it was only right for me to tell her.

Except, how exactly do you tell a child about a lost loved one, particularly when you're trying to keep heaven, Jesus, God, and any other specific religious connotations out of it?

I decided that angels are indeed good company for our special people when they leave this earth, whevever they might be. I know they are fairly religiously related, but I could at least avoid the heaven conversation, something for which I'm not ready to delve into with my 3-year-old.

"Do you know who else is with the angels, Mommy" she replied, matter of factly.

"Who?" I asked.

"GAWD" she said, in a very knowing voice.

"Well then, I suppose that's a very wonderful place to be."

It's the best that I could do. Religion or not, here's hoping that in one way or another, I'm not that far off.

You'll be missed, Poppy Bill. 

Aw. It Looks Like a Cross Between My Husband's Big Toe and a Fava Bean

 

Four-Inch Heel Crocs, Anyone? RuPaul?

Thanks for the tip-off on these beauties. (heh)

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Laminate

"Laminated? Oh I love lemonade, Daddy!"

Me & My Shadow

I have few authentic memories from my childhood. I tend to believe that most have been made memories from stories told to me by my mother.

My first memory, at the age of two, is being left in a nursery at a ski lodge very young and crying until they gave me popcorn. Then my mom returned to check on me and I started crying all over again.

I remember, on that same trip, ice skating and falling, only to be helped up by another little girl who became my skating partner for the rest of that day.

But mostly, I remember dancing.

Ballet was and always will be my first love. I could have danced every single second of the day and never tired one bit. In fact, later on as a teenager I did.

And so when my daughter came into this world, I admit being anxious to share my love of dancing with her. No pressure, no requirements for her to become something that I was not. Just the opportunity to share with her the joy, solace, and beauty that I found in dance.

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We're asking you post your experiences of engaging in something with your child that you did as a kid. It's in honor of Highlights 60th Anniversary (can you believe that?). Please consider joining us today and heck, maybe you'll win a prize!

And if you're not familiar with Highlights' new publication for 2-6 year olds, called HIGH FIVE, definitely check it out. Quinlan has been getting it for over a year now and it's one of her favorite things to read and enjoy.

--

Late addition: I'm trying to wean Drew (almost 14 months) and I need help. Since I nursed Q until 21 months, it was a bit easier. He's fine during the day at nap time (well, if my husband is home), but at night it's a nightmare. He doesn't really like regular milk (will drink some soy), and in the middle of the night when the huz goes in, he screams and won't stop for like an hour. He'll push the bottle away and just point to the door.

Currently he nurses before bed and then around two times in the middle of the night. I really want to wean him in the next few weeks.

Please EMAIL me with your suggestions. Thanks.

I'd Post a Picture of the Hathor-Fetus, But Apparently Here in Arkansas They Are Trying to Save Paper

I'm pleased to report that me, my fetus, and my extremely full bladder all emerged from the ghetto downtown Little Rock radiology clinic unscathed, except without one really cool totally unclear "what the fuck is that thing" picture.

At least there was a QuikShop right outside the door (complete with window bars) so I could purchase my celebratory bag of Ruffles "Cheese and Sour Cream" chips and a Twix. They go perfectly with a bladder full of water. Seriously.

Now let me back up just a bit to say that it never fails that every single time I go for one of these ultrasounds, the person who schedules the appointments fails to tell me to drink lots of water. I really should know that in order to see anything worth a snot, I've got to have a full bladder. And really, I'd much prefer to fill my bladder with filtered tap water from my own cup as opposed to water-fountain water out of a large styrofoam one in a questionable clinic where some dude was totally walking around in a prison uniform.

I swear.

But, I forgot, no one reminded me, and even though I swore that my bladder was full to the clearly hopped-up receptionist with scarily shaky, red splotchy hands who couldn't stop stretching her mouth out every 2 seconds like she was trying to pop her ears, it wasn't enough.

So, when I finally got back to the room, I was met with a no more than 24-year-old ultrasound tech who I swear was cracking her gum to the beat of some rap song. She was nice enough, if you think dumping a glob of blue gel on your extremely clean and valuable Old Navy jeans is nice.

Doesn't she know these cost me $5.99 on super sale and they're the only freaking jeans THAT FIT ME?

Anyway, the 9 week 4 day old fetus with a 156 heart rate looks great. In fact, according to her "Look how cayyyyyuttttttte. It's mooooooooving!" Followed by "Awwwwwwwwwww... look at it's leeeeeyeg stumps!"

Phew. The kid has leg stumps. I can rest easier tonight.

But then, when I hoped for a print-out of my little baby bean housed in my one heck of a gorgeous uterus for all the world to see, I got nothing. Apparently only "old skewell" machines print out pictures. The new ones get put on a cd that get sent to you in the mail.

Because that's so much more economical and eco-conscious.

So not only do I have a blank digital pregnancy test. But I have no u/s picture. This kid is definitely #3, huh?

if i-obsess lildb took over my blog. except her hair is way cuter. and she does nails.

so i have this complex that i discovered around 11pm last night when i was feeling totally super! like normal! which these days makes me feel like i have super powers. i bet i could pee standing up after 5pm (the hour from whence on i feel like a non-disgusting terrible horrible very bad baby vessel) and i wanted to write a post, like this, sort of like an email i sent to my bff, that had no caps, and made really no sense at all, but most certainly was not "A HUMOROUS ESSAY ON MOTHERHOOD" because now i feel like if people come here and they see a post with no caps and weird random thoughts, they'll think she's trying to be jennster "oh why do people read her all the time? i can write better than that!" which at this point in time is probably true.

but then i figured it's my blog. so fuck it.

i am currently suffering from the worst fucking migraines ever in this universe. yesterday i lasted from about 11am until 2pm, where i ended up screaming back at my daughter after she rightfully told her bawling, weepish, pathetic mother to go away. this following a comment i had just made on mir's blogher post about how terribly bad spanking is.

because screaming "YOU GO AWAY" at your three-year-old who i just told to go to her room so she can't go anywhere is um, any better.

and the best part is that then i was screaming at her to stop crying because "I'M NOT MAD AT YOU I'M JUST IN PAIN SO STOP CRYING." makes total sense. 

and then i want to vomit from guilt.

so after two tylenol, my headache is gone. but the nausea is back. and i force feed myself because "HEADACHES CAN BE CAUSED BY LOW BLOOD SUGAR AND DEHYDRATION."

try "TINY HATHOR-FETUS THAT HAS DECIDED TO TORTURE ME"

(apparently that doesn't lead me to anything good on Google though, except, well now my blog)

and then 5pm rolls around and i'm free. i'm like an anti-sundowner. i can dance. i can stand on my head. i can eat disgusting papa john's pepperoni pizza and watch michael clayton like i never just spent the entire day bowled over in pain, screaming at my children, and drinking coca cola like a 15 year old.

so if this isn't motherhood, people. then damnit. i just don't know what is.

hopefully i will be back this afternoon with a picture of hathor-fetus alive and giving me the finger. and this blog will return to its rightful owner.

---

Oh and DUH. Daddy vacuums. Daddy gets a blow job. I was saying that ages ago.

--

If not Hillary, Then WHO? (Apparently Hathor-fetus has made me politically punchy)

See I couldn't even go a whole post without caps. Sigh.

Since I Have No Use For My Aching Head, I Decided to Throw it to the Obama Wolves

Come enjoy the carnage, or better, where I go out on a limb and share my honest trepidation about Barack Obama.

Blogger is being an asshat today. So if you can't comment at PunditMom's place, feel free to hop back over here and leave your thoughts!

Right Now. At This Very Moment. I Feel Perfectly Okay.

I've cried half the day away, suffering from the worst pregnancy sinus stress "God is punishing me for not going to church at Christmas" headache I have ever had.

It's the second full day of it.

I can't tell if I'm nauseous because my head hurts, or because I'm just plain nauseous.

It laughed at the Extra Strength Tylenol.

It mildly shuddered at the large cup of black coffee and coke, recommended by this fine woman.

And then when it decided to lay dormant, still present, but not piercing, I got the chills.

I can't play with my daughter. I can't pick up my son. I can't even blog.

Now you know it's bad.

But right now, at 10:18pm Central Standard Time.

It is gone. It is all gone.

I'm eating a blueberry muffin, drinking water, sitting comfortably without 12 shirts and 4 pairs of socks, and watching E!

And I'm wishing as hard as I can that when I wake up tomorrow, it will just be a figment of my imagination. 

This Would Be Why I've Wanted to Remove My Sinuses With a Pair of Chopsticks for the Last Three Days

One lousy thing that I can't blame on the fetus. 

I Just Ate Half a Bottle of Hot Sauce. On Purpose.

In my feeble attempts to recreate a Taco Bell double decker taco, hold the double, the decker, and the taco meat, I used an entire half bottle of hot sauce. Basically, it was a flaming hot bean, cheese, and lettuce hard shell taco, mostly just acting as vehicle to get the hot sauce down my gullet.

In all my pregnancies, I've avoided any sort of hugely odd craving, you know, like paper balls or veal loaf. There was one week, when I was pregnant with Quinlan, that I could only eat potatoes. And I'm pretty sure I put Ranch Dressing on everything I ate when I was knocked up with Drew.

But consistent over all three has been my first trimester hankering for hot sauce. In fact, it's so bad that I could, if given the opportunity and absolutely no shame, suck Taco Bell hot sauce right out of the packets.

I've since deduced that it's more likely the vinegar, and less the actual hot sauce. But chugging vinegar from a bottle just doesn't have the same appeal as sucking on hot sauce packets.

You know, since they're both sooooooo appealing.

Now I'm one of those pregos that gets nauseous, never puking, but always on the verge of spending hours staring into the precious porcelain potty. I suppose I should be thankful that I never get to that point. But feeling like you have to puke isn't that great either. Because for me, the only remedy is to have food in my gullet at all times.

Hence the 70lb weight gains. I know. I'm an overachiever. What can I say?

Now the truth is that it doesn't necessarily have to be a 12-pack of tacos in my gullet. It could be, say, carrots, grapes, or even water, if I can actually get them into my mouth since the thought of most food makes me gag.

But if I can actually get the idea of a 12-pack of tacos in my head, then all bets are off.

So not only must I have the tacos, but if I happen to see a donut commercial, then I get fixated on those too.   

The worst part is that the food only tastes good when it's directly in my mouth. Prior to entering and directly after swallowing, I feel totally and utterly disgusted with myself.

And then I want to puke.

Go figure.

We're Talking About a Revolution: March Giveaway

So, my one pledge to myself was that if I was going to give that huge space in my left side bar to someone, it needed to be a cool small business that you'd actually find me at.

Well, you know, if they had an actual store front. Otherwise, I'd just be sitting in their family room and that's pretty weird.

But, with Tiny Revolutionary, it might actually be possible, since I recently discovered she lives about 30 minutes away (hello, Atlanta traffic) from me.

We've featured her creative shirts over at Cool Mom Picks (ps. why aren't you reading Cool Mom Picks?), and she's a popular of many, not just because the shirts are super cool, but the messages are ones that deserve being shouted from the rooftops.

Or, at least worn on a really awesome shirt.

So, she's kindly giving away a shirt to a lucky reader. Or to two readers. Maybe even to three. We'll keep that a mystery. But all you need to do to enter is hop over to her site, peruse her offerings, and tell me which one is your favorite.

Now look. I know you can just go over there, look at the first shirt on the page, and then be done with it. But BreeAnne would really like to know which one tickles your fancy. Sort of like a mini-focus group, if you will. And if you love them, tell your friends, or hell, buy one. She's offering 15% off with code REALMOM.

The contest is open through March 31 and you may only enter once! You need to make sure to leave which shirt is your favorite in order to be entered!

And congrats to Monica B. from Mommy Moments, our February Julian & Co winner!

(Psssssst. If you have a small business and you want to get the word out, email me!)

Sweet Fantasy

So what's your sexual fantasy and who do you tell?

Pick of the Week: These socks crack me up.

Blog of the Week: How about a bunch of blogs? It's the Blog Exchange today!

Recipe of the Week: Okay, don't fall over. But if you get the March issue of Real Simple (Hello! Cool Mom Picks is in there), there's a fantastic easy short cut recipe for Samosas. I actually made them and they are tasty.

New Advertiser: Turns out BreeAnne, owner of Tiny Revolutionary lives in my 'hood (the Atlanta one), so I'm totally pleased to introduce you to her. Or her to you. Either way, I'll have her giveaway up and running in the next few days. But meanwhile, go check out her stuff, buy stuff with the discount code, and take notice. These shirts ROCK.