Motherhood Uncensored

Of Lollipops, Mystery Illnesses, & Sad Goodbyes

Due to the placement of Drew's staples, the regular old diaper changes aren't the most comfortable thing in the world. Thus we have had to implement the complicated circus-act standing up diaper changes, made fairly simple with two people, but nearly impossible with just one.

That is unless I unleash the power of the lollipop. Apparently the whole world, including a tiny wiggling ass, stands still upon the crinkle of a lollipop wrapper.

Granted he'll probably have rotted teeth, but at least I won't be cleaning his shit up off the floor.

*****

As it turns out, my illness was completely and totally induced by stress and exhaustion. After two full days of tylenol, tons of sleep, and just plain relaxation, I'm fine. My "tired mom flu" has disappeared, and with it comes a realization that I need to take it easy.

There are no expectations but my own to live up to. My husband has transformed himself into an understanding husband who comes home for a few days and works his ass off -- on the house and with the kids.

Sure, he still has asshole moments. We all have asshole moments. But his pleas for me to walk on a specific part of the carpet have turned from annoying to funny. His desire to mop the kitchen floor before even saying "hello" when he gets home is almost endearing.

And his look to me that says "I know this is hard and you're doing the best you can" is the best gift I could have ever gotten.

*****

On Saturday night while we were out for my birthday dinner, Quinlan told the babysitter that she didn't want her daddy to leave again -- that she missed him when he was gone.

As my husband comes and goes for his brief weekend stays, and as the kids get older and wiser, they cling to him more tightly on his return, and verbalize their sadness more clearly upon his departure.

And lately, so do I -- and it's not just because I need the extra hand to change a diaper.

Like Quinlan says when he returns, "We're a whole family again." There's just something beautifully reassuring about the wholeness that I miss ever so desperately.   

And All I Got For Mother's Day Was a Trip to the ER

My super duper birthday/mother's day weekend extravaganza started off with a bang (dinner out, iPhone!, vomiting up the dinner out), and ended with one to Drew's head.

While I was out getting medicine for what I think is the flu (ah the achy legs, vomiting, and diarrhea), Drew pushed himself backwards in his booster seat and hit his head.

Four head staples, two donuts, and the shortest ever trip to the ER (literally 30 minutes tops), we're back and on the mend. I'm popping tylenol, he's popping Baby Motrin, and we're all thankful that we're alive and together today.

And down one really crappy kitchen table and chairs set.

Hope your Mother's Day was decidedly less eventful, at least when it comes to bodily injuries.

What to Wear at BlogHer 2008: A Sleeping Baby

If you don't have one, you might want to snag a wee baby before the BlogHer Conference this summer because they are the "it" accessory for mom bloggers these days. Granted, I would want a baby I could give back after the weekend since I value sleep almost more than my life, but the great thing about a going out with a baby is that you can wear anything and nobody cares.

And there's no need for a nametag because they know your baby.

The truth is, I would have never ventured out to a bar (note to readers: I was actually outside the actual bar) with Quinlan. In fact, I barely ventured outside of my house with her. It was work and then home again. I dreaded the post office, and the grocery store was a nightmare.

And the huz and I almost never had a night out because I was not privvy to this myth called "the trustworthy and responsible babysitter." That's really what they should give you when you check out of the hospital. A list of babysitters.

And The Rookie Moms Handbook.

I've known Whitney and Heather, self-proclaimed geeky girls, since I started blogging. We featured their site on Cool Mom Picks back in the olden days when it was an offshoot of this blog (did you even know that?) and I met both of them at my first BlogHer in 2006.

At the time, I was past my rookie year (basically the first 12 months of a baby's life) and so I didn't take as much notice about the cool stuff they were doing on their site. But if you happen to have a new baby (be it your first or your 16th -- you Duggar, you) or one on the way (oh wait, that's me!) their blog is a must-have resource.

And now so is their book.

It's nothing fancy (although I think it's a swanky looking little gift book) and the activities aren't brain science. They're mostly just common sense activities that you would never ever ever think of doing because you're too sleep deprived to even wipe your own ass or wash your armpits. (They actually give you a quick "how to shower with baby" rundown in the book).

Some of the activities might not appeal to you, but others are must-do-this-instant sort of things -- like emailing your baby. Snag an email with their name and forgo the baby book; just send them email updates of what they are doing, saying, pooping, you name it.

It sure would have saved me scrawling shit out in a stupid flimsy notebook, that's for sure.

This is definitely a book to keep in your "awesome shower gifts" stash. Kudos to them for taking their blog and making it into a kick-ass book. I'd try it with Motherhood Uncensored but I don't see my pubic hair post going over well at a baby shower.

Motherhood Uncensored for New Moms: Shave it Before You Have it. Well, it sort of has a nice ring.

And take my advice, maybe a bar isn't your type of outing with a baby, but the power of a fantastic mei-tai is worth its weight in gold. If my kid can sleep through the gabbing of super fabulous mom bloggers in a loud bar, getting out of the house to anywhere other than the mailbox might be something to think about.

Psst. Share your best, bizarrest, coolest, whatever rookie mom year outing and win some prizes (all weekend long). Go here to learn how to participate. WOO! And if you want to hear what the ladies sound like (and me too), check out my podcast with them!

And thank you thank you for your wonderful birthday wishes and sweet comments about The Today Show. If you live in NYC, I'd be happy to recommend a fantastic hair stylist, make-up artist, and eyebrow genius!

[photo via Rebecca Woolf]

Boob Man

We've been waiting impatiently for the 15 month language explosion to hit. Instead, it's just a bunch of ass and nose explosions, neither of which help me to understand exactly what my son is saying (except don't feed me all that yogurt and perhaps wash my hands a few more times).

I've become one of those moms who annoyingly states and repeats basic words to the point of the on-looker just wanting to say the word for the kid.

"BALL. It's a FUCKING BALL, lady. Now leave the poor baby alone."

It's not that he can't say anything. He consistently offers a resounding "MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM" anytime food is brought to the table. That's always nice for this domestic zero's ego. And he makes "kissing" noises when you ask him what a duck says because my husband taught him to do that to get them to come over to him. We've since added "bwhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrr" for a truck and heavy panting for a dog or hot or both.   

And over the course of the last few weeks, he's said "mama," "ba" (ball), and "nana" (banana) with some intention. But then the lunar eclipse and the perfectly aligned stars pass over us and it is gone.

He's quite a talented "pointer n' grunter" so much so that we're bound to give him absolutely anything he wants off the kitchen table just to get him to stop. And he's taken to using a few ASL signs, with some fascinating interpretations -- my favorite being the hand to the mouth with loud sucking noise for drink.

Unfortunately, he's also decided to incorporate baby gangster language, like biting - or as he seems to be saying "Give me that toy, bitch," hitting - which is code for "Get the hell off my couch," and tossing things at people's heads (with uncanny aim); that's generally interpreted as "Don't mess with me with or I will cut you." (or as my daughter would tell you, "bruise my freaking forehead.")

So last night, during our nightly story hour, we were reading one of his favorite books*. And being the obsessive good mom that I am, I was saying every single word that he was pointing to. Without thinking, he pointed to the mom's large pregnant breast and I said "Boob."

"Boob!" he said, in his cute baby voice.

Oh Jesus. Are you kidding me? You're going to say that?

"What's that," I asked him, hoping it was just a fluke.

"BOOB!"

Now if I had known he was going to add "boob" to his vocabulary, I would have called it "breast" - being that I'm all for using the "correct" terminology, but I figured best to pad the word count for the 18 month doctor visit.

And "boob" is just way easier to say. You know, other than "jugs."

*Like many books we (and you) probably own, it is not one of my favorite books. But there are lots of renderings of babies, and he loves it.

Not Exactly the Conversation I Wanted to Have With My Mom at 5am On the Way to the Airport With Both Kids Awake in the Car

"And can I suggest that you get Drew circumcised because I never realized how many bladder infections a woman could have until I married your father and you know, you should really pee before and after intercourse and I had to take sulfate tablets all the time because I got so many bladder infections so you should really do your son's wife a favor and get him circumcised because that foreskin on his penis is a little red right now."

Or, I could teach him how to keep it clean when he gets older. PS: This pregnant mother of two thanks you for the tips on intercourse, Mom, as well as the horrible indelible images of you and dad having sex a lot. Like I needed something else to make me barf.

Turn on the 'ight

Drew has been babbling almost non-stop for the last few months with extremely good intentions, but he has yet to say an actual word (including an intentional "mama" or "dada"). We thought he had said "dog" a couple of months ago, but turns out that was just "da" which, as we've learned, could mean anything from television to penis.

So to compensate he's been using what I call the "22-year-old ho at a bar" technique. He bats his eyes, does a little wiggle (and sometimes a belly flash), and smiles -- all of which sucker us into giving him exactly what he wants.

And then, if we give him the wrong thing, he just stands there pointing while saying "uh" for as long as it takes for us to figure out what "uh" means. It's like one of those demented Chinese game shows that I have never actually watched or enjoyed (ahem) where some poor yet totally willing contestant traipses through some impossible gauntlet with weirdly dressed people hold a battering ram ready to beat him into a pool of mud. Except I almost feel like that might be better than standing there like a complete idiot picking every single thing up off your kitchen table hoping it will make your toddler stop saying "uh." Not to be matched, of course, by reading a book or walking through the house and having to name every single thing he points to while saying "uh" or "da" or "at."

My husband tries to make it more interesting by using the actual name for things; so for any type of bird, I just say "bird" while he'll make it sound like he's some sort of ornithologist, spouting off words like "egret," "ostrich," and "emu." Probably why the poor kid has yet to say "bird" or well, anything for that matter.

Regardless, we've tried not to worry about his lack of language, particularly since the kid has been running since 10 months old and can clearly communicate (in his own caveman-like way) what he wants and needs. Plus, he can also sign "more" after we plead with him a few 100 times and withhold bananas and bread (his two favorite foods). So he's definitely trying to communicate, just not in English.

However, when you've got a daughter who uses the words "challenging" and "particularly" in regular conversation, and has been talking quite clearly since she was just around Drew's age, it's hard not to worry, if only just a little tiny bit.

But last night as I got him ready for bed, he pointed to the light on his dresser and I said "light." And then he said "IGHT!" And after a [10,000] few times of me asking him what it was to every light in our house he said it.

Either that or he thinks our choice in lamps is alright, or "A'ight" as the kids like to say.

Only 14 months and talking in slang.

I'm doomed.

--

If you want to see some pics of my trip, check them out here.

Playing the Name Game

We came up with Drew's name the day before I had him. Up until then we had absolutely nothing, which is great when people keep asking you what you're going to name the baby or like my in-laws did when they heard we had picked "Quinlan," offer us a list of "acceptable names."

No joke.

Even after Drew was born we still couldn't exactly figure out what to name him. There we sat, with our baby screaming from the warmer with no answer to all the excited nurses asking us what his name was. I'd always laughed about those people who took their kid home without a name, but that was almost us. And so, I laugh no more.

Since we almost had a no name baby here (or Chalk, as Quinlan named him), it's no surprise that this time around we have been struggling. But struggling is inordinately better than not having anything at all.

So we're trying to eliminate a few right now before we move onto the "You want to name our kid what? No fucking way!" round which, by the way, is always great for marital relations. I'd honestly love to hear your thoughts. Be specific. It's my kid's name for god sakes.

BOYS

Mozart (huge fan)

Emeril (huge fans, too)

Orville (like the popcorn, and you know, the plane thing)

Arkie (cute and where he was conceived!)

GIRLS

Electra (Loved the movie!)

Lavendar (Sort of like Violet but not)

October (It's her birth month, afterall -- plus, Halloween!)

Gerta (German Heritage -- cute family name)

Okay, so what say you? Love 'em, hate 'em...?? Now onto middle names. God help me.

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.

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.

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

 

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?

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. 

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.

Ambivalence. How's That for a Baby Name?

I admit that for the last week or so I've been stuck in a place between desperation and a nervous breakdown. Combine that with wicked gas, spontaneous crying, two sick children, and the fear of a miscarriage, and it's like a weekend in Mississippi!

Okay. I'm kidding.

Sort of.

For the record, I am freaking the fuck out. You know, just in case you were wondering. The "freaking the fuck out" part has less to do with the idea of a cute little addition to our family, and more about my ability to handle three children (eek, can barely say that) in a way that doesn't make me want to shave my head and party late nights without my underpants.

I'm trying my darndest to live day by day, and not look ahead to October, where I see my poor unshowered stinky gigunda self trying to manage three kids and work, mostly alone, with no family within a 1500 mile radius.

And up goes the "freak" meter.

I admit that your comments, congratulations, and thoughtful emails did wonders. Your excitement will be my excitement. At some point soon, I hope. And apparently a positive pregnancy test is a good way to delurk people (so nice to meet you all, officially now).

Plus, there are babysitters, nannies, and booze to be had. And cool bloggy friends who I will force my baby upon. 

But today, I'm okay. Other than wanting to toss my cookies unless I'm actively shoving food into my gullet (which is now baby related -- I did actually have the stomach flu) and waiting desperately for my second set of HcG levels (4590 were the first set. Is that high? I'm still looking at ONE baby right? RIGHT?), I'm doing okay.

And right now. This instant. That's all that matters.

Well, If You Were Reaaaaaaaaaaally Wondering, It's the International Symbol For...

You've Got to Keep Him Separated

My son has decided that the only place that doesn't cause him great emotional tribulation and grief is in my arms.

Not laying next to me. Or even on top of me. Or even attached to my boob.

You'd think that being attached to one's nipple would be completely and utterly satisfying, but he just blows zerberts on them when he's not hungry. (um. hello. weaning cue?)

Nope. He wants to be held, by me, all the time.

Unless he's playing in the dog's water bowl, putting the entire contents of my coverup in his mouth and on his face (How he opened the bottle is beyond me. He's brilliant! A future professional make-up bottle opener!), or using the open dishwasher door as a trampoline.

Funny. He was completely and utterly satisfied when he tossed the DVD remote into the toilet yesterday on my husband's watch. 

But then I come home, or wake up, or come out of hiding and he's nestled into my extremely tired arms.

So do I let him destroy the house?

Or hold a 26 pound one-year-old. That can walk.

(Thanks so much for that brilliant advice. Would you like to come over and hold him all. day. long?)

Siblings That Play Together, Stay Together

Afternoon silence can mean only one thing in my house.

Did you think it was both my children napping? Please pass that crack pipe you're smoking.

It means trouble.

Now my daughter is definitely past the fingerpaint the in-laws' walls with pen ink phase. But Drew, on the other hand, is a little holy terror.

Thankfully, he usually waits until I'm about to grab him before actually engaging in anything too destructive. Like the fine art of toilet splashing -- made better with the presence of gobs of now soaking wet toilet paper, and on special days, urine.

So, last Thursday afternoon when the children where nowhere to be found and an odd silence took over my gigantic base house I was worried.

But wouldn't you know that for the first time ever, the two little siblings were playing.

Together.

Now granted my daughter was using him as a live and extremely mobile dress-up doll. And Drew had taken every single article of clothing out of her drawers and placed it in a Jackson Pollack-esque pile on her floor.

But they were together, in the room without screaming, biting, or pulling of any extremely valuable hair (we're baldies, after all) for a good solid 20 minutes. And they were almost totally entertained by each other's presence. Well that and the 4000 blocks that had seemingly made their way completely under the bed. 

And it gave me a glimpse of one of the reasons why I did this whole "we're having another one" thing in the first place.

You know. So my daughter would have someone else to force into dress-up clothes and leave me in peace.   

And That's All the Thanks I Need

I've come to learn that birthdays have little to do with celebrating the actual birth of your child. I mean who really wants to celebrate those moments. Besides, I relive many similar ones (with hardly as good a result) on the toilet almost daily.

But what they do allow us to celebrate is making it through another year of parenting. That candle on the cake and the icing on the face means that we survived. They survived.

And that, my friends, is definitely worth celebrating.

With Quinlan, I wasn't sure if I would make it to her first birthday. Then I didn't think there would be anymore first birthdays.

For totally different reasons, I wasn't sure if I'd make it to Drew's first birthday.

I know I've said parenting is a thankless job, with no honors or special certificates. But seeing my son's bright face as it's smothered in icing and bananas is the best thanks that I could ever get.

Happy Birthday, Drew-boo. So pleased that you graced us with your presence. Our worlds will never be the same. And for that, I am so very thankful.

And That's His First Official Word. Dog.

That hella stinky, overgrown, baby-snapping, hog-breathed, poop wiffin', wanger licking, ball sniffing dog.

Eh. Mom. Dog. I can see how he got confused.

Just Curious

Exactly how many times does it take an 11 month old boy to figure out that he's not supposed to climb on the fireplace considering we're at 15 times here and counting, and everytime I take him away and yell "no" he just laughs harder.

Um, help?

I'm the Mom to One of Those Kids

It has become quite apparent to me that I'm not only that mom, but I'm that mom to one of those kids. You know. The mom who says "no" exactly 17 times to a child that obviously does not yet understand the meaning of the word "no" but still believes he'll get it at least before she gets to 20.

I'd like to think it's because he speaks fluent Chinese and French, and therefore has had little time to master simple English.

But no, he's just one of those kids.

I'm certainly not one to label or single out children based on their behavior, but if I saw my little paper-eating terror disguised as a cute smiley baby I'd run.

Trying to put a diaper on him is like trying to put a diaper on a slippery hog, except no one would ever be dumb enough to attempt to put a diaper on a slippery hog. And trying to dress him in anything that involves more than one snap is just pure unadulterated hell, however I bet in hell, there are none of those high pitched glass-shattering "You're killing me softly with those 5,000 snaps" screeches.

He's figured out how to open the toilet bowl so that he can swish his hand in pee, toilet water, and wet toilet paper, and then slam the top down on his fingers about four times. He enjoys pulling hair, preferably both mine and my daughter's at the same time while laughing increasingly louder the more we scream. And don't dare take any dangerous items that might not necessarily be considered dangerous but when he throws, eats, spikes, or hammers them they become lethal weapons from his tight grasp or he will scream for very long and tiring minutes.

In the middle of a very crowded place for all people to see and judge you harshly.

I suppose if I had birthed one of those kids my first go round, I wouldn't be so surprised. But my daughter knew that paper was not for snacking but rather for drawing total and complete faces at 18 months old. And she'd much prefer learning the function of electrical sockets as well as how to spell them rather than sticking her finger in one.

But now I'm that mom running around after that kid. You've seen them, right?

Oh wait. Strike that. You've seen the fuzzy resemblance of a mom running after her children at playdates. Their ass never hits so much of a seat before they're running to rescue all small children, animals, and hell, toys from the tight fists of their child, all the while spouting apologies and excuses that are barely audible because they're mixed with "stop that, don't do that, put that down." They enter the room and immediately scan it for any possible device, toy, weapon, or non-edible (but extremely tasty) item before letting their child loose. After introducing themselves they do the pre-emptive "he's just very active and loves to be around people" speech which really means "hold onto anything of value sister because my kid is going to knock it to hell and back before you can say 'spinach dip anyone?'"

And even then the kid still ends up with carpet fuzz, a piece of a Pottery Barn Kids catalog, and some kid's hair in his mouth. All of which the mother has to scoop out while her child screams like an angry baboon much to the displeasure of the other moms who are happily discussing their new chocolate chip recipe.

And being that mom to one of those kids now entails protecting your older child and all of her belongings. And your house now looks like you've just been robbed because you can't even keep a ball of foam on your shelves because well, he'd eat that too. In fact, it wouldn't be so bad if you were robbed because then that would leave about fourteen less things for your kid to try to climb, eat, and run into.

On the plus side, your ass never looked better. Too bad you don't get to stand still for anyone to actually see it.

In the Middle of the Night

Sometimes I scream back at him. It's all I can do with the every three hour wakings thanks to more teeth and who knows what else where I only end up getting bitten and feeling frustrated.

I worry about waking up his sister. But most of the times, I don't.

And I just scream. It feels good to just let it out.

I tell him to lay down. I tell him to go to sleep.

"It's SLEEPY TIME!" I say, laying him down in his bed. Like that will induce sleep.

I only wish.

He just screams louder. And harder.

I pick him up and hold him tightly. "STOP SCREAMING" I scream. I try to put him in my bed but he wants to play. I try to put him in the playpen in my room and he wants to scream.

And by then we're both wide awake, standing in the dark, feeling terrible.

10 Months

At least he has good taste in purses. [Outfit courtesy of big sister].

This is Mothering at its Finest Right Here People

Pssst. I'm going pink for Whymommy, Mod*mom, and all our other breast cancer warriors. Care to join me?

Oh Shit.

I'm live blogging the Emmy's over here. If you're watching, come join me.

There's No Doubt He's a Man

After screaming and crying for the entire bath, my son found his penis for the first time.

And all was well with the world.

Baby Boot Camp

7 months

Hooray for great friends who live in Atlanta and take amazing pictures.

6 months

Oh how the months go by.

The Anatomy of a Hug

   

Never Say Never

I held her daily in my arms. Sometimes tighter than others. Too many nights it was just us, alone in the dark, rocking to the sound of my tired frazzled voice. I learned to sleep in my rocking chair, occupying myself by nail biting and writing stories in my head.

We awoke in what was a pungent mix of tears and breastmilk -- the smell of a determined mother.

I cried alone and with her, walking the circles of her round rug, peeking in enviously at my husband and staring longingly at the crib.

And I begged her to sleep. Every single night.

The ritual became a fixture in my existence -- the constant struggle was my routine and my sacrifice of time, energy, and sore arms was my penance.

But now we sleep alone, in our beds. I tuck her hair behind her ear, read her stories, and sing her our lullaby, when she lets me. She calls for her daddy in the middle of the night -- I've become her second choice. And even though she still fits into my lap, there's not as much room left in my arms with her little brother taking up residence. 

And damned if I miss every smell, every tear, and every one of those moments.

I never thought I'd say that.

But like everything else in motherhood, you can never say never.

Let it Be Me

4 months.

It's got to start somewhere, right?

Motherhood Uncensored Designs by Fadiddle

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Blog

3 months.

Big Belly by Mommy's Boobs, Thoughtfulness by Tracey, Crafty Goodness by Tiny Sprouts

Don't Judge Lest You Be the One Changing a Poopy Diaper in the Middle of Old Country Buffet

I swear that I'm no Sanctimommy, but I admit to raising my eyebrows at some questionable parenting behaviors. I can't let the "I'm 3 but you dress me like a 22 year old hooker" go by without at least a little eye roll. And I have been known grumble internally when I see the "I'm a really bad little brat and I hit other children but my mommy doesn't care and just lets me run wild."

And I have done a double take at a mom changing her kid's poopy diaper in the middle of a restaurant.

Sorry. It's just gross. And I know there was probably no changing table in the bathroom, but still. I'm trying to eat my really cold dinner with one hand thank you very much. It's already tasting like crap so it doesn't really help the digestion process to actually see some.

But then today we decided to eat lunch at Old Country Buffet.

You eat at OCB yeah you know me... and about 27 blue hairs.

Please don't ask me why I was eating there. After enduring a trip to Babies R Us with my two children and husband who decided we needed a hiking backpack baby carrier, you know, for all the times we go hiking around, er, the house (but then you don't want to discourage him from buying something actually related to him carrying the child), the thought of very well done meat (or at least that's what I think it was) and macaroni and cheese with a side ranch and croutons in never ending supply sounded appetizing. Or maybe it was the $17.04 worth of soft serve ice cream, balloons, and sad old people rinsing out their silverware in a plastic cup at their table (side note: ?????). I don't know. But there we were. Eating our "unspecified" meat until my son decided to poop.

And I thought about it for approximately 7.2 seconds and decided to change him right on the bench seat.

I rationalized it the whole time -- it was quiet, the patrons could barely see their own plate let alone the large yellow curdy poop, and the wofting smell of beef not-so-tenderloin surely covered the odorless breastfeeding poopy stench. Plus, chances are the bathroom only had safety rails -- not baby changing stations.

And so I did it. Right then and there. I became the mother who changes her kid's shitty diaper right in the middle of a restaurant.

I saw a few people look over and the little old lady in the booth behind us who had just sat down decided to move. But I didn't care. Not one bit. Plus, the poop looked and smelled very similar to the macaroni and cheese my daughter had just consumed. So really, how bad could it be?

And then I realized I might want to watch my eye rolling and bitchy inner voice. Because I imagine at one level or another, what goes around comes around. Don't judge lest you be judged.

But those Bratz dolls. Oh hells no. Never. Ever.

--

FYI: I updated my About page. Hope and Miss, kind new visitors, wanted to start "from the beginning" and funny, I've never thought about that. Where would you start if you wanted to read my whole entire story? So, check my about page and then have at the categories in my right sidebar. Personally, I suggest Mom Rants, Why Mississippi Sucks, and the Sin-Laws.

Every Once in Awhile, Someone Gets it Right

It seems as though a day doesn't got by that I don't get at least one email like this in my inbox.

--

Hi!

I love your blog Motherhood Uncensored, or I think that's what it's called and I think that your readers would really like to know about a fantastic contest for this Ridiculously Stupid and Totally Uninteresting Movie or Product cool thing. I don't have anything to offer you -- you know free stuff, money, or actually any incentive whatsoever to post this on your blog, that I have never, in fact, actually read. I'm just spamming bloggers today and you happened to be on my list. If you have any questions, feel free to email me. I have included a ridiculously longass press release below for your perusal.

Sincerely,

Joe PR Person From Hell

--

Now look. Don't be all "Oh I wish I got emails like that." Because, guess what. No you don't. I promise. It's not flattering. It's actually bothersome because not only are they wasting their own time, but they think we're so silly that we would just post an announcement about something on our blog about something totally unrelated to anything we EVER write about.

And not even one free thing offer.

So really, what's the incentive? Do my readers really want to know about "Meet the Robinson's?" And if I tell them to go (even though I've never seen it because you didn't even offer me free tickets to go), do you really think my readers are going to run to the theater crying, "Motherhood uncensored told us to come. So it must be good."

Right.

I'm not a free shit whore, but let's get real. Most of the time with these emails, there's not one bit of free shit to be had. I mean at leaset make it tempting. Throw in some KY Jelly or something.

But then there are the smart ones. Those are the ones that read your blog and email you about stuff that you've actually written about. And then they get rewarded.

Learn from your peers, my PR people.

And so, recently I complained about the utter uselessness of the bulb aspirator. And wouldn't you know, a few days later, I had a lovely email from the folks at Nose Frida. A few commenters had actually recommended it so I was anxious to try it. And so the nice man sent me some. A lot of them, to be exact.

And so, the snot sucking addict that I am, I tried it without hesitation. And let me just say, I am Nose Frida's new bitch. It rocks. Seriously, if it was a man, I'd marry him. Yes you still need saline drops but all you do is stick it up to your kid's nose and suck out the boogers through a tube (Don't worry. They don't get anywhere near your mouth people). The harder you suck, the more snot you get. As you might remember, I'm an experienced sucker (heh), so I did well.

No squeezing the bulb, trying to line it up with your kid's tiny nostril, and no 4-hour cleaning sessions.

And so I'm happy to tell everyone about Nose Frida. In fact, I'm on the prowl for kids with runny noses. I have a bona fide Nose Frida addiction. I'd even wear a shirt if they'd send me one. And I'd happily spend $1000 of their money if they sent it to me too (hey, can't hurt right?).

So, kudos to you, smart PR man. You read my blog, you felt my pain, and you filled the void. May others with much money, power, and shoes (preferably size 10 open toe sandals) do the same.

The winners have been chosen!

***

My thanks to Self Made Mom and Rookie Mom for honoring me with the Thinking Blogger Award. I wasn't being an ass by not recognizing it. I am honestly just not thinking well these days (no pun, really). Here were my picks. And the always thoughtful (I swear, no pun) Mrs. Chicken, nominated me for the Blogger's Choice Award. I fear Meryl Streep (aka Mir) is kicking all of our asses, but it's well deserved.

***

Please visit my sponsors: Baby Dagny and Mama Needs It -- two great mom-owned bizzes that deserve your love!

Size Does Matter

My mother-in-law informed me the other day while she was watching me give Drew a bath that he's got a big penis.

"Wow. He's well endowed."

Great. Thanks. And p.s. why are you looking at my infant son's penis?

But then she continued on.

"Some girl will be real happy some day."

Huh? Seriously. Did you really just say that?

Now, aside from the automatic assumption that my son will be straight, it seems sort of interesting that big penis = happy girl. Well, and the fact that she was making this assumption about a baby.

A tiny 2 month old baby.

What ever happened to "oh what a cute chubby baby" for bathtime banter?

I know I'm not the only one to think the whole "motion of the ocean" thing is a bunch of bullshit. No matter how you wave a penis the size of the straw it's not going to do much but really annoy me.

Put that thing in a drink.

I know. I'm a terrible awful mean woman who is discriminating against men with small penises. Don't worry. I'll be going braless in about 4 years thanks to breastfeeding so I guess we'll be even.

But If I am a good mom and we are good parents, we'll help our son realize there's much more than his huge penis that will make a girl happy. You know, being kind, supportive, and polite. Treating her with respect, as an equal, as someone who deserves the best of everything. Believing in her, loving her, and allowing her to be her own self.

And giving her lots of foreplay and oral sex before his huge gigantic penis gets anywhere near her.

Baby Gone Goth

Thanks Deb!

Leg coverings by Baby Legs, Shoes by Cute Baby Shoes, Incredibly adorable 2 month old by Motherhood Uncensored.

*If you're looking for the Real Mom Truths, they are here. Do one. Link to the site. Then email me.

Who Cares About Balls When You've Got a Wild Fire Hose on Your Hands

So honestly, the balls are nothing compared to the little fire hose that seems to enjoy pissing everywhere but actually in a diaper. I really should have known better. I mean when have balls ever given me a hard time? So they're hairy. That's nothing compared to good old Mr. Wang.

Wah. I'm tired. Wah. I'm lazy. Wah. I want attention and love.

Damn needy thing.

Here's the score so far:

I've been pissed on.

My husband really got pissed on.

And my son is currently wearing his FOURTH outfit today thanks to... you guessed it... him pissing on himself.

Apparently no one tells you that you need to carefully aim the mini-schlong down IN the diaper. Sorry. Was I supposed to know that? And so, every time I changed a diaper today, I've also changed an outfit. Which isn't so bad except I've also got a daughter who has taken to peeing on and in everything except the potty.

"I peed on my robe, Mommy" she says to me.

I mean, if she can place her robe on the floor, pull her pants down, and then pee on it, why does she need 14 pieces of candy and the same number of hourly reminders to do the same thing, except in an actual toilet?

And after all that, I had to clean up cat pee thanks to a spraying cat who enjoys taking aim at my daughter's play-doh table.

So needless to say... I'm pissed.

One Month

It's hard to believe that he

came out of here

just 4 weeks ago.

Mommy, I think the cute shirt from Wonderbaby and my faux-hawk distract from my bad case of baby acne. Don't you?

Either I'm Really Brave or Just Plain Stupid

Thanks to my desire to get the hell out of the house for one glorious night trumping my inner germaphobe, I packed up my children (haha. That still sounds utterly ridiculous to me) and drove due south for about an hour and a half to the lovely Homestead Suites of Newark, Delaware to join my husband for part of his first Air National Guard weekend.

It's amazing what desperation + hormones + being cooped up with the crazy-ass inlaws can do to your usually clear and rational thought process.

7 degrees and possibly the coldest day of the year? No problem.

All four of us in one bed? Easy!

Nursing in public in a very bright and crowded college town Italian Bistro? Piece of cake.

But in actuality, I imagine it looked more like a circus show -- two screaming kids in the back of our car because we got just a wee bit lost (again), battling with a sling over my shoulder and the knowledge that ten fairly cute college boys were sitting behind me and might actually see my nipple (and not on purpose, I swear), and the realization that since we were all in the same bed, we all actually had to go to bed at the same time.

Sorry Ron. I'll have to take a raincheck.

Needless to say, it wasn't the most relaxing meal I've ever eaten, and I'm unsure how I will ever be able to leave the house without my husband or a nanny. But aside from my flashing the right back half of the restaurant with what I consider to be a fairly decent looking boob, it was well worth it. We laughed, we smiled, and we enjoyed each others' company.

Our beautiful family of four.

This is What the Baby Blues Looks Like at My House

Too Shy Shy, Hush Hush Eye You Dee

*PSA Below

I got the birth control talk from my midwife today. I'm not even two weeks post partum, and granted, every single dream I have at night (within those blessed three hour stretches of REM) is like a bad soft porn video, it's really not the first thing on my mind.

Mmmmm.... a bouncy mid-section, large milky boobs, and an ass I still can't believe is my own.

Not. so. hot.

However, I totally understand the need for birth control while breastfeeding. I got pregnant twice and miscarried twice. And while I can't direct link both of those to breastfeeding, I'd prefer to err on the side of caution and not endure that again.

And of course, when it's clearly medically unadvisable to have sex until my you know what stops you know whatting, my husband's libido decides to make a comeback.

Yes. Because the first thing a tired, achy, recovering preggo wants to see is her husband's penis swinging around at her in the dark.

Sounds so tempting, doesn't it?

But really, we've never really done well with condoms, I've never really done well on birth control pills (hello, flaming lunatic) and I'm not so much for shoving something way up onto my cervix ala sponge or diaphragm. Seriously, an OB tampon practically gives me the willies. And so, I'm looking into the IUD.

"It's all the rage" the nurse at the hospital told me.

"Like Coach bags?" I replied, laughing heartily at my own joke.

"No really. They're the best thing out there" she told me, with an oddly serious tone.

But sticking something, up there, sort of permanently, just doesn't sound that appealing. Don't you feel it? Don't you wonder -- is it clean? Is it safe? Is it not contaminating my body from the inside out? And how, in God's name, do they get it up there? Or do I have to do it?

Cripey.

I'm thinking we're just going to have to go ala 10th grade and do the pull out method. Now where's the damn KY Warming Mist PR people when you need them?

--

After you're done telling me how many kids you've had with the pull-out method (teehee), stop here for a special Motherhood Uncensored Shout Out, and then come dish about Top Chef. The finale is tonight people!

Take Me Out to the Balls Game

I have nothing against balls, really. Snow. Soccer. Bouncy. Goof.

Go Eagles! Oh wait. They lost weeks ago.

But those balls? Oy.

I know that dealing with a vah-jay-jay, or as a good blogpal of mine put it "the meat flaps" isn't a walk in the park. Okay. Maybe it's because I have one. You know, a gorgeous lotus flower (sorry, no meat flaps here). Hell. You wipe front to back, avoid heavy soaps, and all is clear.

But the balls? Gonads? Bojangles? I feel helpless, almost lightheaded when having to deal with them. I've already left a fair amount of crap build up due to my failure to lift and wipe in a timely and efficient manner. And I still feel sort of awkward giving them the good "rubola" during bath time.

Gently. Softly. Oh.so.carefully. (Or at least, that's what I'm told).

I've lived my near ball-less life quite contently. I don't mess with the balls and they don't mess with me. We're on a need to know basis -- I know they are there and that's all that matters.

But now. Little balls little balls. I see them almost hourly. And I'm still confused. Does it matter how I wipe them? Do I scrub them? Lift them? Flip them upside down?

One ball two ball. Red ball. Blue...

Okay. I really need to get out of this house.

Greetings From the Land of Breast Pads and Hershey Squirts

Before you all run off with Gail, I figure I'd better make a comeback. And a damn good one at that!

*ahem lazy bloglines readers... that's the cue for you to click through*

Yes. As you heard through many warm and kind channels, Baby Chalk (aka Drew) arrived faster than my last orgasm.

Heh.

Basically, I woke up on Thursday morning convinced that my water bag was leaking. "Does pee usually run down my leg?" I asked myself. Apparently, it (or the other 140 fluids that leak from a very pregnant woman) does.

And so, I had resigned myself to another few days of rolling around like a large walrus on dry land. But short contractions started around 6pm, I fell asleep through all of them until 1am, and then my water broke at 2am.

Thanks to Google Maps, we got fairly lost, and no thanks to the hospital staff "We've got mapquest up right now, sir. Where did you say you were?", a weird cabbie "Just drive about 15 blocks that way and turn left" (eh, not so much), and finally, a girl talking to someone in a car on the street at 2:30am who actually knew where the hell to tell us to go (no she was not a hooker... I think), we made it.

I was 5cm at 3:00am, fully dilated at 5:01am, Drew made his entrance at 5:11am, and I was sipping mimosas (no lie) by 10am. I'm living proof that all labors (even your own) can be totally different.

The only difficult part, in all of this, is that I had to come home to the in-laws, where no one holds babies or changes their diapers, and no matter how little sleep or running after a toddler you and your husband are doing, you still need to "clean up after yourselfs" (as the post-it note clearly stated on our door).  The situation here (read: my crazy drunk father-in-law who has about 40 years of being pissed at his wife and is projecting that onto all of us and is not speaking to us) combined with my lack of sleep, raging hormones, and a baby who wanted to cry for almost 3 hour straight last night, is almost getting the better of me. To top it off, I'm feeling an incredible sense of loss in terms of time and moments with my daughter.

Basically, I'm just a bit of a wreck - granted, a thinner one, but an unshowered, engorged boobed one who remembered to pack her breast pump but NONE of the accessories...

So, aside from trying to find an apartment and our ticket out of this hell hole, we're thoroughly enjoying baby bliss. Or whatever it is that we're in right now.

Thanks so much for all your warm wishes and thoughtful words. There's something to be said about "the village" at times like this.