Bitches

This weekend the Bub and I got snubbed at the playground. I was chasing a ball while playing “soccer-basketball-slide down the slide” and I ran past some other mommies. I said “Hi” but I just got the snotty nod.
Now these mommies were young, and skinny, and dressed in maxi sundresses with beaded wedge sandals. They had on makeup. I, however, had on paint stained jeans and a spongebob squarepants t-shirt. And I am neither young nor skinny nor made-up.
When I was pregnant, I really, truly thought I would be one of those mommies. And that I would have a little girl in pink sandals with painted toe nails. When I found out I was having a boy, well, that was OK. He would be cool, in Ramones onesies and teeny Chucks. And we would be clean–no Kool Aid mustaches on my kid!
But the reality is, is that I am a mom of a boy. A boy who could care less about the Ramones (other than the obvious pleasure of dancing to Sheena is a Punk Rocker) and would much rather wear his stained and worn Thomas the Tank shirt. And forget the teeny Chucks. They are expensive, and fall apart, and have LACES not velcro so hell no.
And I am a mommy who is ass-deep in the sand box. I’m just as stained as my kid. We probably both have juice mustaches, because I obviously am eating the juice and cookies at snacktime!
I’m still jealous of the thin, pretty mommies, but I know I’m having more fun! Plus, I saw their husbands, and let me tell you, mine is much, much cuter than their Gone to Seed McHigh School Hero and Baldy McAccountant! But they could have at least said “hi” back.

May you never see your kid bleed from the eyes

The Bub had eye surgery to open up his tear ducts. They had to put little tubes in, because his ducts were so blocked. This is outpatient surgery–and we were told several times that he would be groggy, and then fine the next day. Lies!
The anesthetic, instead of making him groggy, made him hyper and cranky. He didn’t sleep at all that night. Not for a minute.
Then, they said that he might have “pink tears” if he cried. Wrong again, he had blood, regular blood, from his eyes and nose. And pink “panda bear” rings around each eye. And a fever.
This lasted a few days. Really bad days. Really long days.
And, after three weeks of sleeping through the night. Three weeks where we cautiously were optimistic that perhaps, the night waking was over. That he just needed a pillow. That once he started sleeping through he would get used to it and it would become the norm, he’s not sleeping well.
I can’t describe the panic this is causing me. I mean, I still wasn’t sleeping that great–after two years of waking up every few hours, but I was doing a lot better. I was looking great. Losing a few pounds. Doing my hair. Dressing up. But now I’m back to going to bed every night with a sleeping snake, just waiting for it to wake up, my heart racing the second I lie down, wondering when he’s going to start crying and if he’s going to need someone to go and rock him, or if he’s going to go back to sleep. We’re back to the endless middle of the night conferences about how the crying sounds, if he’s standing up, how long to wait before going in, if we should even go in, is he cold, is he hot, and what “technique” from what book are we going to use this time.
It’s taking years off my life.

The Secret Life of Mommies

There has been alot of press lately–NPR, Oprah etc. about the secrets mommies keep. About how moms pretend their lives are perfect even though they do dumb things and make *gasp* mistakes.
The only thing secret to me about this is that people still act this way. WTF? Only one douchey mom from breastfeeding class EVER has acted this way. The rest of us? Even if we do brag about our kids and lives a bit–we always own up to the mistakes.

I call bullshit on this whole “true mommy confessions thing. Haven’t these people ever actually talked to a real parent? Or read a mommy/daddy blog? We’re all about telling stories about how we fuck up. Hey, my kid never sleeps and he’s pooped in the bathtub twice! He fell down the stairs! I admitted him to the hospital when he was sick so I could get one night of sleep at home alone! My once beautifully decorated living room now looks like Toys R Us! I have nothing to hide because there’s no reason to hide anything. And every parent I talk to–from close friends to strangers at Target, are the same way. In fact, we all try to *top* eachother’s parenting fails. He who gets the most laughs and shocked gasps, wins.
We’re all trying to be great parents. But the operative word is “trying”. We love our kids passionately. In fact, the depth of my love for my son may be my *only* secret. Hint–it’s more than even I can comprehend. But kids are strange, and unpredictable, and they poop everywhere. There’s no secret about that.
So, I say to the tools who are on NPR “confessing” to fronting a perfect life–give up. Your way went out in the fifties.

800 sleepless nights, countless books and articles on sleep, and this, THIS is what works??!!!???

A pillow. A fucking pillow for his melon.
Now, I’m in no way saying this will work for other kids. And I am not, never, ever saying to use a pillow before they are a year old, at least. And, if you are at all nervous or worried about using one–that your kid will smother, or get stuck between the pillow and the bed rail or whatever, do not try–you won’t sleep.
But, if you haven’t slept in over 2 years, and are wondering what the hell else to try, and you notice your kid snuggling a couch cushion, or playing with the pillows on your bed, try it. It could just save your life.

Conversations with my husband

Me: Did I tell you that the new Wiggles DVD features Kylie Minogue and John Waters?

Him: Kyle McLaughlan and John Mayer??

Me: No, KY LIE MIN OGUE and JOHN WAT ERS!!

Both: That’s weird either way.
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Him: I can see your leg hair from across the room!

Me: I can see you haven’t worked out since February from across the room!
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Me: Why did you read all these porn star twitter feeds?

Him: What? I don’t even have twitter?

Me: See? These? In your search history!

Him: Oh, they were following Obama during the election. I was looking at Obama and just clicked a few random followers to see what they were saying.

Me: Zami69?????
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This was all just yesterday evening.

Mina! Head!

My son was dragged across the playroom at daycare. By his hair! He recovered after some crying, and Miranda, the hair puller, was put in time out, and all was well. All the little girls at daycare treat him like he’s a doll. He’s little, and so good natured that he lets them dress him up, and feed him the fake baby bottles, and try to put him in the doll stroller. At least, he used to. Now he wants to be a big boy! I’m sure he just wouldn’t cooperate so she drug him around like a dolly. Anyway, I asked him what happened and he looked at me, cluctched both hands around his melon and cried, “Mina! Head!”

Let them be little

Hello, it’s me, the Bub himself!  I’m here to set the record straight on a few things that other mommies are harshing on me about!

First of all, I still sleep in a crib.  I’m a crazy sleeper–when I sleep, and I need to be caged.  I like my crib so much, I don’t even try to climb out.  I like it so much, I ask for it by name when I’m tired.  I like being up high, so that when I stand up I can see mommy eye to eye.  There’s a rumor that there’s a toddler bed up in the attic, but I’m just not ready yet.

I also sit in a high chair.  I’m short, OK?  I can’t reach the table even with a booster seat.  I could sit in a booster seat with a tray–but that *is* a high chair.  I could sit at a little table by myself, but how fun is that?  Not very.  I want to sit up next to Papa and make faces at him and show him my seafood and have burping contests–from my high chair.  And utensils?  I tried that.  I used them for months.  They just slow me down.  I’m back to using my hands and loving it.

And, I am not potty trained.  I’m just starting to talk, and I can’t say all my letters yet.  I also find it tres amusant to answer every question with “no”.  Even “Do you want a cookie”.  Yes, I do want a cookie, but if I hear your voice go up in query I will say “no”.  Potty training now would just be frustrating for mommy and for me.  “Do you have to go potty?”  “No.”  Change wet pants.  Repeat.  Why not make it easier and wait until we all can communicate better?  My doctor said, “you can potty train at 2 and be trained by 3 or you can potty train at 3 and be trained by 3.”  Who needs a year of wet pants?

And the talking thing, I’m getting there.  I talk all the time.  I never stop.  But I can’t say all my consonants so no one understands me.  I also am sort of fuzzy on what words go with what things.  I need to be reminded all the time.  All cars are blue cars until I am reminded that the red ones are red.  Sometimes papa is mama.  Or, I forget and just call everyone mapa.  And I enjoy putting “my” in front of everything.  Even things that aren’t mine.  I’m sure I’ll get it all straightened out later this year.

I mean, I’ve only been alive for two years.  During that time I’ve grown hair, learned to walk and run and jump and climb, learned tons of words, been to the hospital twice, started to sleep more than 2 hours in a row, I eat real food–I mean, I do tons of things!  I’m a big boy!  As for all this other stuff, I’ll get there.  I promise.

If you want the real story on your doctor

ask your nurse.
We were in the hospital the other day, as Bub had a wicked infection that wasn’t responding to anti-biotics. While we were there, one of the nurses told us our doctor was basically House. We picked him just on gut instinct, and have taken a lot of flak for having a pediatrician who is so super-young (I think he’s still in his twenties!). He’s also not the greatest with bedside manner–he’s very sweet but sort of intense and “medical”. It turns out that he has found a bunch of illnesses that other docs have missed. Just recently he diagnosed a brain tumor in a little kid, that had been missed. He’s the guy they send mystery cases to. Awesome, right?

A Thing I Though I’d Never Say

My friend has a section on his Daddy blog http://beshmoments.com/ about “TITINS”–things I thought I’d never say. You know, the stuff that comes out of your mouth when you are talking to a toddler. The totally WTF stuff. I think I have a winner. This was said during a particularly messy diaper chage. A 4 wipe diaper.
“When you grow up and use the potty you won’t get poop on your wiener.”

What they don’t tell you

When you have your first baby at 40, your body doesn’t recover quite like it would if you were 20.  This, I expected.  But there is a lot of stuff going on I didn’t expect!

First of all, your hormones don’t ever recover.  Everything in my life is more vivid and crazy.  If you were a drama queen before, well now?  Look out.  You will cry at everything–everything you are not yelling at or completely joyful over.  And PMS?  Much, much worse.

And, your boobs just don’t stop.  I haven’t nursed in over a year, but the sound of old baby Brad Pitt crying in Benjamin Button made me leak through my shirt.  Hey, boobs, we want to DO Brad Pitt, not nurture him, OK?

You will pee your pants.  Sorry.  I mean, you won’t need astronaut diapers, but if you cough, you might leak.  And kegels?  What. Ever.  My kegels could tow a bus and it doesn’t make any difference.

When you are pregnant, your hair stops falling out.  You lose all the “extra” after the baby is born.  They tell you this.  What they don’t tell you, is that when you are old it all grows back grey.  All at once.  If you at all are feeling a bit down at being emotional, peeing your pants, not sleeping, not losing the baby weight and having to go back to work (or not) then losing fistfuls of hair and having the bald spots grow back white could quite possibly send you over the edge.  Be prepared and prepare your stylist so they can cover up all the damage before you notice it.

But, it just might possibly be worth it.