Merry Christmess

In honor of the holidays (and me FINALLY cleaning out my purse... ick!) I give you the deviant's first vlog. Cheers!

Rock and Role

Someone recently commented to me about all the different roles women take upon themselves & those cast upon them by society... the word "mother" alone stirs up poignant & respectable titles such as nurse, teacher, & giver, to name a few.  But let's get real here, this deviant's blog is neither poignant nor respectable, so I have comprised a short list of roles I throw down on a daily basis...

1. Professional Wrestler. This is a more recent development, as now my child insists on trying out for the Chinese Olympic Gymnastics Team every time I change his diaper.  He flips, kicks, and somersaults his way out of my grasp, so I am left pinning him down by his ankles as he successfully hurdles a poop-filled diaper onto the floor. Thanks kid, go for the gold.

2. Napkin. I have completely given up on wipes & rags.  Time is of the essence if I don't want broccoli & blueberries smeared all over my walls, so I have been known to use my sleeve or the hem of my dress to wipe my son's face. 

3. Chauffeur. If I'm not at home, I am most likely driving Holden to the doctor. Or a playdate.  Or the library. Okay, I'm probably at Target, but still, it's not like he can use his walker to get where he needs to go (check back with me in a few months on this... it's a work in progress).  Needless to say I've become used to having conversations with someone in the backseat... who doesn't even respond. By the time he's old enough to sit in the front seat, he probably won't want to anyways. And I have a feeling he will still be ignoring me...

4. Lunch lady. Remember when you were a kid waiting in line in the school cafeteria? And you got really excited about tater tots or pizza? Remember when all that excitement came crashing down the second the lunch lady threw something on your tray that more closely resembled someone's liver than a burger? That, right there.... that look on your face. Expect to see that same look staring back at you on a daily basis for the next year of your life every time you make your kid lunch. The lunch lady role inevitably leads to the next item on our list....

5. Salesman. You will find yourself saying things like, "Okay, I have a really sweet deal for you. Now, I don't do this for just anybody, but if you eat your peas, I will throw in some fresh cut apples, free of charge! How does that sound? Amazing! Am I right?" Prepare yourself for a lot of rejection and hard bargaining.

6. Private Investigator. I can't count how many times I have had to search for a missing puzzle piece or blue mega block. This gets old fast, but the good news is that it forces you to look under your couch, where you may find some spare change if you're lucky.  If you're not so lucky you may find a dead bug & some fur balls which cause you to launch a full-scale cleaning operation. Let's hope for the spare change.

7. Musician. Did I mention the lullabies yet? Free concerts... my house... nightly at bedtime. Be there.

8. Coat rack. Gone are the days of just using a purse to go anywhere. It is now necessary to load up my arms with not only my purse, but a diaper bag, my sweater, my son's hoodie, his lunch box, any shopping bags I may have accumulated, and my car keys. All while balancing a kid on my hip. This does not include juggling a cell phone or a cup of coffee.  I don't know about you, but I put a lot of stuff on my coat rack.

9. Magician. This is an all-inclusive title... whether it's sawing your budget in half (instead of sawing a lady, that is... although sometimes I swear my head is splitting),  making your kid's food disappear (did he really eat it or just feed it to the dogs again?), or pulling a stuffed rabbit out of a hat... or out from between your kid's legs (okay, maybe my kid is the only one that feels the urge to shove every toy on the face of the planet in his crotch, but you get the idea).  And I swear it has to be magic, because otherwise I just don't know how it all gets done.

Breaking Spawn, Part 1

Hell must have froze over today, because I actually... wait for it... waaaaait foooorrr iiit... WENT OUT WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING WHO WASN'T MY SON!!!! Shocking, I know.  A girl's night out was long overdue.  To sum it up, I had an absolute blast.  And considering the last blast I had was a blastocyst, I would say this was long overdue.
I must say though, going out with your girlfriend as a mother is a bit like going to a foreign country.  The people look different (as in, presentable and/or bathed), speak differently (as in, intellectually), & act differently (as in, normally).  So I have compiled a short list of how mommy-glasses may affect your girl's night out....

1. Too many options at the bar:  And no, I don't mean the beers on tap.  We hadn't even been seated yet and were already perplexed by the fact that we could sit ANYWHERE WE WANTED.  This may seem obvious to you non-parents, but when you have kids you have to find the biggest table. With room for highchairs. In a faraway corner.  That way when your kid starts hurling cheerios or racecars 15 feet into the air you are spared getting slapped with any frivolous lawsuits. The thought of sitting at any table of our liking was overwhelming.

2. Interaction with the male species:  Our server was a young man, so I took the opportunity to see if I "still had it".  And what rolled off my tongue I ask you? "So, how old do we look?" Ugh, Seriously Katie? I'm pretty sure the last time I asked someone that I was 15 and trying to get him to buy me a pack of smokes. He replied, "Well, I already saw your IDs." Me: "Uh huh... so how old do you have to look to get ID'd?" Him: "Under 30." Me: "I see...." Him: "But I asked for your ID so that's good, right?" Me: (scowls) "Well, guess I'm coming back next year to find out!"  It will probably be that long anyways until I'm allowed in public again. Sigh.

3. Mommy Guilt/War Stories:  It's so odd going anywhere without your child that you feel like you've forgotten something.  This leads to the Mommy Guilt, so all you do is talk about your child.  At least during this part of the conversation the alcohol is starting to take effect, and truths are revealed.  My girlfriend admitted to me that the other day she forgot to bring a snack for her son when they went to the park.  She desperately searched her bag to see if there was anything for her hungry three year old to eat.  All she could find were stale cheerios at the bottom of her purse, so she did what any good mother would do... tried to pass it off as real food.  Unfortunately her son scoffed at the notion of "dirty" cheerios so he went without. Some may call this child abuse, I call it resourceful.

4. Lightweight division:  Two girls who never go out plus happy hour.  Need I say more?

5. Tainted Love:  When you've been married for over five years and you see Edward & Bella on their honeymoon, you can't help but feel slighted & skeptical.  "Romance AND sex? Who does that anyway?" "Please, I give them six months!" 

6. Bladder Control:  It's about this point during the night when those beers start to hit me with a fury.  I used to laugh at those commercials with the funny jingles & little water balloons simulating bladders, but suddenly I have a deep empathy for those women running out of board meetings to the bathroom... they're obviously mothers.  YOU try pushing something the size of a football out of your vagina and see what happens.  Go on, laugh, I dare you.  You'll probably just wet yourself anyways.

7.  Bella's Belly:  Motherhood has this peculiar way of seeping back into every primal instinct you have to procreate.  There I am, watching Bella Swan writhing in pain looking like she's dying of cancer because of this monster in her uterus...  her cheekbones sunken in, her lips pasty white, and her belly covered in bruises... I lean over to my girlfriend and say, "Aw, I miss being pregnant!" 

8. Movie Babies:  I don't care if it's half vampire! Why is that newborn baby bigger than my ten month old???

9.  The long good-bye:  The movie has ended, the night is coming to a close.  This would be the moment where young lovers hold one another in a warm embrace, tenderly stroking an arm or brushing hair out of the other's eyes... Snap out of it!! Mommy good-byes go more like this: "Um, I don't want to go home."  "Me either...." (long pause) "Are you going to that play date Friday after Thanksgiving?"  "Yeah, but no one else is really going... it's black Friday." "Yeah, I don't do black Friday... people like, die and shit." "I know... they totally get stomppled." "Um, I think you just made that word up." "Oh..."

10. The drive home: I can't express the odd feeling of getting in a car and just... going. No strapping screaming baby in carseat. No strapping carseat in car.  No popping sippy cup in baby's mouth.  No fishing around for lullaby cd.  No double checking that carseat is tight enough.  No finding sippy cup that was thrown on floor and rolled under seat. No singing along to lullaby cd the entire way home.  No pulling carseat out of car.  No finding that damn sippy cup, again. No unstrapping sleeping baby from carseat.  No screaming at the dogs for waking up sleeping baby 12 seconds later.  None of that nonsense.  Just a phone call from your husband asking you to stop at the gas station for a tallboy because one night in with the baby was "a lot of work".  If he only knew.....

I got friends in no places...

Today marked my husband's and my 8 year dating anniversary, so we celebrated by venturing to a hipster vegan kitchen and treated ourselves to some curried tofu. This is remarkable for two reasons: one, I have been putting up with his incessant blanket hogging for the better part of a decade, and two, going out in public forced me to socially interact with other human beings.
In my "past life", public appearances were an afterthought, but recently I discovered that I have the social etiquette of a cat in heat. Read: I have no friends and I am painfully desperate to talk to anyone old enough to vote (liberally, of course). Exhibit A...
The other night I needed some serious alone time, so I went to my happy place... Target. Of course, my time spent away from the baby drove me straight to the aisles of rubber duckies and other childhood fanfare.  Even in solitude I spend my moments thinking about my son... motherhood is totally inescapable. Anyways, it's here that I run into another mom, also shopping for her son. I feel like a jungle cat stalking her prey, soaking in all the details (I know, I can be very dramatic).. Ponytail. Tattoo on foot. Wearing PJ's. I could TOTALLY be friends with this woman! We start talking, and before I know it I'm trying to figure out how to form some sort of relationship with this complete stranger.  Maybe I should pass her a note asking "will you be my friend?", with two boxes for checking yes or no.  Then reality smacks me in my oily face... GROWN UPS DON'T DO THAT!!! Sigh. I proceed to check out with a bottle of shampoo and a bruised ego.
Exhibit B...

The following day, I mysteriously found myself BACK at Target.  After spending an hour looking through discounted Halloween items and wondering why on earth aisle 16 is lined with Christmas trees, I exited to the parking lot... and that's when I saw it.  The glorious champagne-colored Neon decorated hood to trunk in "Meat is Murder" stickers. OH. MY. GOD. Up to this point, vegans in central Florida were only found in fairy tales, and surely this was a sign. So I did the unthinkable... I left a note on the battered Neon... asking this person, this total stranger, to (gulp) be my friend. WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH ME?! Clearly, the isolation of motherhood has driven me over the edge of insanity straight into Desperation Town. Who does that?  In retrospect, definitely not one of my shining moments.
I had another one of those moments today at the restaurant (Vegans wearing Ohio State stuff, can you blame me?), but I will spare you the ugly details.  After the curried tofu, our little family unit went for a walk around the park across the street.  I saw a playground area, so naturally I was drawn to it (either that or strollers come equipped with magnets attracted to swings).  But my lofty vision of going down the slide with my son was quickly extinguished by the sight of the three teenage boys hanging out on the picnic tables.  Shouldn't they be in school?  Where are their mothers? Wait...what's that in their hands? Is that a... a... a JOINT? Oh my GOD these kids are going to... well I don't know exactly but I sure as hell don't want my BABY around such rebel-rousers! Ummm, did I just say, Rebel-Rousers? When did I turn into Mr. Wilson??? It may come as a shock to some of you (or not) but I used to "dabble" in college.  So why was I suddenly flipping out over a couple of harmless kids takin' a toke in the park? I honestly don't have an answer.  But it's the same reason why I about had a conniption fit that some jackass was smoking near my car as I was putting Holden in his car seat (did I mention I used to smoke a pack a day??).
Anyways, I'm not too sure what my point is here, but again I felt compelled to be brutally honest and express how motherhood has impacted my life in ways unexpected.  But maybe that's just the vodka talking ;)

Mama Drama (edited)

My writings here mainly consist of my experiences as a mother, or lessons learned in parenting.  For example, tonight's lesson: what really happens to lasagna if you bake it without covering with foil?* (I know, my life is painfully boring sometimes).  I try to offer my experiences as tuition-free knowledge to new mommies, but, I'M a new mommy myself, and I have a lot to learn.
One thing I really grapple with is where to draw the proverbial line with other mothers and their children.  Seriously, the last time I saw any lines drawn were on that EPT I took last year.  Seeing as how I am a playgroup dropout, I don't know when it's appropriate to interject in some situations.  Sure, there's the obvious: "Oh Tommy, hunny, don't touch the dog poop, that's ucky." But there is an awful lot of gray area too.
Last week I took my son for an evaluation for a continuance of his physical therapy.  Like any good waiting room for children, there was one of those giant blocks with the loop-de-loops & little wooden pieces which my son just happens to love.  So there we were, playing with the cubes & spheres very quietly... when suddenly cerberus itself had escaped the gates of hell and was running through the waiting room, pulling the blocks away from my son & shoving a sippy cup in his face whilst shrieking "BABY! BABY!".  Where was these children's mother and why wasn't she plucking them up off the blanket (and you KNOW it was the one I knitted while I was pregnant!) and sitting their little butts down in the corner on leashes where they belonged?! I was like a deer in headlights... I didn't know if this was an appropriate time to ask the children to play nice and not put their grubby little paws on my precious angel or if I should be scowling at the mother, sending her telepathic messages riddled with four letter words.  And so I did what I always do. Nothing.  I forcefully smiled at the children, swiftly put Holden in his stroller, and wheeled him over to the waiting room chairs, hopefully out of their sight.  Well, as it turns out, we were out of sight... out of the mother's, that is.  The woman I sat next to was legally blind, and was there with her two children (i.e., cerberus) & seeing-eye dog.   That may be the first time in my life I was grateful I didn't say something, and I felt that I had been given a reminder... don't be quick to judge & have a little patience.  Seems simple enough, right? After all, it worked for Jesus & the Buddha (except for that whole, died-on-the-cross & self-starvation-in-the-woods thing.  I know, I'm going to hell in a hand basket).
So, here is where the line-drawing & the non-judging intersect...

(this portion has been removed by the author to prevent any further mama drama!!!)

I don't intend to use my blog as a vehicle to "mommy bash", but these are just a couple examples of my not knowing how to respond since I don't know all the rules yet.  But, to hell with it. I was never really one for rules anyway.

*As for the lasagna, i regret to inform that nothing extraordinary happened without the foil wrapping. Sigh.

If I only had a Brain

In the words of Bill Cosby Himself, "My wife & I used to be intellectuals"...

I graduated from Business School with a BSBA in Marketing and a 3.4 GPA.  I would often find myself meandering in art galleries or participating in heated discussions about religion & politics.  I always kept my journal at an arm's length and a book in my messenger bag.  Nowadays, the only degrees that matter in this house are on the thermostat. The last piece of artwork I saw was a pumpkin hand-painted by a child (painted orange, nonetheless). My heated discussions consist of breast or bottle.  The only thing I have time to write is a grocery list, and my messenger bag has been traded in for a diaper bag, complete with the literary work titled "Hello Giraffe". 
Is it any wonder then that tonight I found myself putting vaginal cream on my toothbrush?  This remarkable phenomenon of deteriorating intellect is known as Mommy Brain (MB).  Since the day I found out I was pregnant, my brain cells began popping like bubble wrap.  This was evidenced by the fact that I checked my calculator for missed calls at the office, and when I sent a fax through the copying machine.  Six hundred copies of an invoice later, I had noticed a pattern.
I understood that in order to grow a human from scratch, sacrifices had to be made.  But I was wholly unprepared for the brain damage I would incur as a result.  I figured the lapses in judgement would subside postpartum... until the morning that I found myself haphazardly putting coffee in my son's bottle.  Or the afternoon that I violated my refrigerator trying to make the George Foreman Grill fit on the bottom shelf.  Or the time that I replaced the cap on the Pedialyte with a bottle nipple and placed it back in the fridge. 
I know I am not alone in my diagnoses of MB... I have several girlfriends who are also stymied by this condition.  The other day I received a text from one of my mommy friends, apologizing for dropping out of our conversation because she placed her cell phone in the cereal cabinet.  Another put oatmeal in her rice cooker instead of, well, rice.  Even my husband has been found guilty of stashing the remote in the freezer.
Symptoms of MB include the inability to form complete sentences, severe bouts of butter fingers, and heavy consumption of caffeinated beverages.  While there is no cure for MB, there are steps you can take to alleviate the pain.  Talk to your local grocer about which wine is best for you.  Side effects can cause deep relaxation or unintentional sex with your husband. Do not use wine while operating heavy machinery, if you are attending a 12 step program, or are completely unprepared for baby number two. Or three. Or four.

Take a Walk on the Child Side

I had a conversation tonight with someone who made me think about what happens when you become a parent... where does your old life go?  Does it die and go to heaven? Get lost in the ether? Perhaps it's just taking a break in the Bahamas.  Well, I can't really answer that question because all the things that make me ME are still there... I'm still an indie-rock-loving vegan who often forgets to brush her hair that has an incredible soft spot for hand-knit scarves and cheap red wine. But it is also true that I haven't been on a date with my husband in over eight months, haven't been to a happy hour in over a year, and can no longer fit my boobs in to any of my old bras.  You would at least think that last one would be a perk, no pun intended, but my boobs aren't so much bigger as they are just shaped differently. Sigh.
But those things pale in comparison to the joy my son brings.  Now, I'm not the mom who sugar coats my reality in the defense of motherhood perfection... yes, I would love an excuse to actually put on makeup & there are times where I am ready to throw up the white flag, but motherhood is complicated. It's frustrating & dirty & tiring. But it's also humbling & hilarious & sincere.
Not only does your life change, but the world itself changes.  Once you put on those mommy glasses, everything grows fangs and claws... the world becomes seemingly dangerous.  Before my son's birth, I had not one maternal bone in my body.  I would have rather swallowed diaper pins than spend an afternoon with someone who couldn't use toilet paper, let alone "use their words".  But once I saw my son for the first time, I immediately felt an intense, primal instinct to protect him.  I still do, and I find myself getting offended when people talk about children as if they were cockroaches.  I had someone who always said to me, "You don't have kids, so you don't understand." That would irritate me to the moon and back... of COURSE I didn't understand! How could I have? So I try to extend a courtesy to people that they really DON'T get it and not fault them for something they haven't experienced.  But when I see snarky things online about kids at the pool or babies chewing on merchandise at stores my inner mama bear starts to stir.  I've been on both sides of the equation, and personally, I like being on this one.  The moments of pure & innocent joy from a child more than make up for the moments of dirty diapers and lost sleep.

Nothing will teach you to live in the moment like having a baby, because that's all a baby has-- the present.  One minute you are living on sunshine & unicorns... and then you pull your head out of the rainbow because your sweet little angel has morphed into an inconsolable gremlin who wants nothing to do with you and all you want is a cocktail but you can't have one because it's only 3 o'clock in the afternoon and good mommies read to their children instead of making gin and tonics so you rock your gremlin side to side and get a bottle thrown in your face while singing Yellow Submarine because let's face it you're no John or Paul or George or Ringo and your gremlin KNOWS it because otherwise if you were he wouldn't be screaming because all John was saying was give peace a god damn chance and now all you can do is cry with your gremlin because you're exhausted and that's when you realize... you're gremlin is no longer crying... he is fast asleep in your arms. So you put him in his crib, look down at that sleeping baby and say to yourself, "what an angel".  And that's only something a mother could understand.

On your stretch mark, get set, go!

Each week during my pregnancy my husband photographed my ever-expanding belly.  I loved comparing the weekly silhouettes and mentally documenting their differences.  Until some time in the third trimester.  That's when I noticed the tattoo on my hip (or at least where my hip used to be) was looking less like an ohm and more like a blown out tire.  I thought I had narrowly escaped the wrath of rapidly stretching skin, but it turns out they were there all along, hidden beneath my range of vision. As any mama knows, with a growing belly comes the disappearance of any body part below the belly button.  This can lead to some hairy situations (pun DEFINITELY intended).
For a while I suffered from SSMD--Serious Stretch Mark Denial, and by this point, my favorite sentence was "Hun, can I have another brownie?"  And so it went, and 37 pounds later I was teetering dangerously close to the 200 mark on the scale.  But I didn't care, because I was making a human!  And we all know that takes a LOT of chocolate.  Besides, slap a little cocoa butter on that belly and those stretch marks will disappear faster than your post pardum sex life.
Seven  months later and I am still the proud owner of those little (big) red lines, happy reminders that my body is actually pretty extraordinary. Besides, scars are poetic, so why should stretch marks be any different?  If you got 'em, rock 'em.

Oh, go suck a nipple!

So today I woke up a bit early to do my morning routine sans baby... pour a cup of coffee, kiss the husband goodbye, and log onto cafemom and check out "the stir" (it's like huffpost for mamas). Lately though, the site has been irritating the crap out of me because it has become extremely conservative, and, well, I'm not.  My problem here isn't the columnists' opinions necessarily, but their inability to see things from another perspective.  For instance, this morning I came across THIS little gem of an article...

http://thestir.cafemom.com/baby/123763/pumping_moms_face_risks_we

This made my blood boil.  I think it's deplorable that the topic has been raised, especially with such negative connotation.  If breast pumping was being studied to give other pumping women support, fantastic, because holy shit is pumping difficult. But this is just another way to make women feel guilty for not breastfeeding... and it's still breast milk!! Yes, we all know that breast is best, but what about the moms who can't do it, or choose not to?  There is a multitude of reasons, and each mama is different, and each baby is different.  So if a woman is committed to pumping, she should be praised for all her efforts, not made to feel scared about "hidden dangers" or guilty about improper use of oxytocin output.

Some mothers don't have a choice, especially if they go back to work.  And maybe they do have to pump in bathrooms... that doesn't mean each mother is an idiot who is gonna stick the bottle in the toilet before expressing milk! And have you ever tried to cuddle a baby while pumping to obtain maximum bonding experience? If you consider cuddling doing a balancing act like something out of cirque du soleil, sure then. In all seriousness, I am tired of hearing other mothers try to one-up each other on the breast feeding front.  Why must we try to validate ourselves in this manner?  It doesn't make us better mamas, and it certainly doesn't make us better girlfriends. 

Clearly I had trouble breast feeding.  It started about 15 minutes after my son's birth... when he stopped breathing.  This was the most horrifying moment of my life, as any mother can imagine, but after bagging him and giving him some air he was breathing again.  But because of this episode, he was whisked off to the nursery for a battery of tests, leaving me with no baby.  Needless to say, I didn't have the opportunity to try to breastfeed after birth.  Once I could walk and visit him in the nursery, I tried my first go at breast feeding... not successful.  Apparently, the pregnancy had caused my left nipple to invert, so I was instructed to get nipple shells to try to pop that sucker out again.  This made me look like I was walking around with golf balls in my bra, but the maternity ward is no place for vanity, so I just kept on truckin'.  I repeatedly tried breastfeeding at the hospital, but Holden was NOT having it, and the nurses were not helpful.  On my last day at the hospital, I finally got the lactation consultant I had been needing.  When she saw Holden push me away and scream when I tried to feed him, she introduced me to the SNS (supplemental nursing system).  This was a little device used to finger feed babies who have latching issues.  Once we got home, I desperately tried to continue breastfeeding. No luck.  The next morning however, I woke up to Nature's boob job, and I ran around the house topless for about an hour because for the first time in my life I had boobs!  But this was short lived, because I was severely engorged and my breasts felt like they were in vice grips. I was advised to put cabbage leaves on them to help the swelling go down, so now I ran around the house looking more like a salad. In the meantime, I was pumping every two hours.  This became MORE than a full time job, especially since all I had was a single pump.  So, I would pump one boob for 20 mins, then pump the other for 20 mins.  Then I would assemble the SNS & feed my son. This was a painfully slow process, as the SNS was difficult for Holden to master. After feeding the baby, I had to wash the SNS, put the nipple shells back on, and clean the pump.  After the entire process was finished, it was basically time to do it again. My life was set on repeat, and I was exhausted. 

Shortly after the baby was born, my in-laws flew to California to come see their Grandson.  Lucky for me, my mother-in-law was an OB nurse for 40 years, and volunteered to help me feed the baby.  I figured she would have me well versed in the art of breast feeding in no time.  After multiple attempts, we weren't getting anywhere... Holden was just one of those babies that absolutely refused to latch on, so I just kept pumping.  And pumping.  And pumping.  Somewhere in week two of my son's life,  I started popping capillaries in my left breast, causing me to pump blood.  This was my breaking point.  All I wanted to do was give my baby what nature had intended and my body was not cooperating.  Thank goodness my husband was so incredibly supportive, because I was seriously about to jump off of the Manhattan Beach Pier and plummet into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.  Shortly thereafter, I noticed my supply was not where it should be, and I was no longer able to produce enough milk to keep up with my son's needs.  I started taking fennugreek & blessed thistle from the health food store & drank a special tea.  I also had to buy a natural nipple cream because all the pumping had left my nips sore, cracked, scabbed, and bleeding.  Despite all this, I continued to pump.  I pumped around the clock every day for four months straight, until I dried up. 

The inability to breastfeed my child in no way compromised our bonding experience.  We started out cuddling skin-to-skin, and continue to bond in other ways such as story time and physical therapy.  Holden has torticollis, which may actually explain why he couldn't latch on... it may have just been too painful for him to turn his little head.  But now everyday we work on it and I encourage him & celebrate his progress, no matter how slight.  Also, bottle feeding our son has meant that Dad gets to join in too, so he gets to bond with his baby in that manner & I can take a quick shower or finish the dishes!

Thankfully I had an amazing team of cheerleaders in my corner... my husband, my mother-in-law, and my girlfriend Jordan (aforementioned milf in previous post). Without them I don't think I could have carried on for as long as I did.  Which brings me back to my original point... we should be encouraging & praising women for pumping--it's a lot of work!! Even if a mother chooses to formula feed her baby from birth, we should be supportive of her, not critical.  Giving birth and raising a child is hard enough, so let's do ourselves and mommies everywhere a favor... don't be such a boob.

Hunny, does this haircut make me look fat?

So, I'm a mom (as you may have noticed), but does that mean I have to look like a mom?  Don't get me wrong here, I wear my spit-up-and-mashed-banana badges (and of course, the stretch marks) proudly, but there are some things that are just not up for debate.  I have already sacrificed my waist and thighs, what else is there??

I admit it... I am guilty of wearing my gauchos more than I should and my hair looks like it's trying to eat itself, but hey, I'm trying.  It's not easy making time for yourself when you're a mom, especially when your clothes dryer is a string between two wooden poles and your dishwasher needs a manicure. I have no clue how the moms-of-yore did it. I complain about the A/C not being high enough, and they were having babies in fields and then plowing those fields ten minutes later.  All the while I am sure they didn't give a damn about what their hair looked like.  Well, I do, and in one of those "I have to get out of the freaking house NOW or I'm gonna go POSTAL!" moments, I handed off my screeching bundle of joy to the husband and decided to treat myself to a haircut. Apparently, it's been so long since I have had a conversation with someone who doesn't raspberry me in response that I have simply forgotten how to communicate.  I may as well have sent a feral cat to explain how I wanted my hair to look, because next thing I knew, my previously boob length hair is up to my shoulders. WTF?! I said I DIDN’T want mom hair! My hair is now so sad that it needs Zoloft. I guess that’s what I get for leaving the kitchen. Sigh.

Well, I may be rocking the mom-do (until it grows out or I dye it purple), but you sure as hell won’t see me driving a minivan… that’s where I draw the line.  Yeah they’re practical for carpooling and hauling kids to soccer practice, but they are just so un-cool.  Although I do have a girlfriend who drives one, but she doesn’t count because she’s a total MILF who would look hot in a potato sack (I know… if I didn’t love her, I’d kill her).  So I guess I will just have to go to play dates & listen to Nirvana lullabies in my Subaru. 

At least that’s one thing I can handle, because this “mom” thing is no joke.  I started this blog three days ago, and after every few words I type somebody needs something.  The dogs need to go out, the baby needs a diaper change, or my husband needs to poop, therefore rendering him useless to baby-tending.  My life revolves around everyone’s bathroom schedule.  At least it no longer revolves around the laundry/weather schedule.  When I started this blog, I was still line drying my laundry.  At first I was doing it for environmental reasons, as I consider us a pretty eco-friendly home, and then one day it rained.  And it rained the next day.  And the next. And the next.  I checked weather.com and the 10 day forecast was scattered t-storms every. damn. day. Considering we use cloth diapers, my job as Mommy just got even harder.  Our bathroom & kitchen had been converted into a full scale drying operation, with bibs & undies hanging from every knob, hook, and bar.  My home was starting to look like a frat house.  After a month of drying my laundry in this manner, my husband noticed that half of my mom-hair was now gray, and finally got me a new (used) dryer from craigslist.  And let me tell you, you know you are getting old when getting a household appliance is better than smoking a cigarette after sex. 

Anyways, the next morning my husband hooked up the new (used) dryer, and there was so much excitement in the air that HE did the first load of laundry!  And again, let me tell you, you know you’re old and married when your husband doing laundry is the sexiest thing you’ve seen in a while.  Moving on.  With this new found freedom from line drying, I managed to save all sorts of time. I tried to incorporate this idea by multi-tasking as many things as possible, so when my husband announced that he was taking a shower, I made him take the kid in there with him.  Of course, right after I put shampoo on my son’s head (because obviously the husband needed help), the water shuts off.  What the…??   Turns out a wasp family decided to build its nest in MY water pump, blowing the motor. Clearly, no eco-deed goes unpunished, and now I can’t even wash the damn laundry. Or flush the toilet. Or rinse the shampoo off my kid’s head. But I did learn a valuable lesson… when life hands you soapy babies, call the repair guy.

Let's do the time warp again.

Things have been a little bit crazy lately (in-laws, weddings, indigestion), so I haven't had the time to post any new tales from the Deviant.  Let's be honest, I don't even have time to shower.  Ew.  With that being said, I'd like to share a pregnancy flashback.  It's kinda like an acid flashback... except the only drug you're on is prenatals. Enjoy.

October 25, 2010
The day otherwise known as "The day I find out I gained 19 pounds & have a cavity." Ugh.
Today is my Glucose test.  Just another one of those things you don't find out about until you are actually pregnant.  Per Doc's orders, I down the sugary syrup in under five minutes, pretending once again that I am a college freshman & this crap I have to drink is an ice cold brew.  Now I get to be poked with more needles.  Hooray.
After waiting at the OB's office for about 37 years, we finally get called to a room.  This, of course, after having peed all over my hand during a routine urine sampling, and also after being weighed (Wait, what? I'm sorry, your scale is broken, I don't recognize those numbers).

While sitting in the tiny room, I look at Ben-- I think about things like how truly lucky I am to have him in my life... He's going to be such an awesome dad... how it must look good to everyone in the doctor's office that he comes to each & every appointment with me.  We are a loving, mature couple totally ready to start a family.  It's right about now that he gets up from his chair & starts playing with the Nuva Ring samples & taking pictures of the STD poster on the wall... "EW! Scabies!" Sigh.
After a few minutes of Ben educating me on the wonders of pubic lice, I become very cranky due to my sugar crash.  I am beginning to think a cyanide test would have been more appropriate.  Rapidly approaching a ten on the crank-o-meter, Ben tries to divert my attention by grabbing the light on the table. You know, the one they use to actually look into your vagina.  Turns out this light can be used for more than just vaginal spelunking: it is perfect for casting shadow puppets on the wall across from the STD poster. 
It was that day that I discovered my husband's hidden talent for shadow animals.  It was also that same day that my OB, too, discovered Ben's hidden talent, since she opened the door mid-flying bat.

The Anti-Rhyme

So you've just had a baby... congrats!  You've weathered the morning sickness and the episiotomy ("You want to cut me WHERE?!") and now it's time to bring that little pooping and burping bundle of joy home.  You swaddle her tight, sink into your rocker (Ouch! Damn stitches!), and... now what?  The panic sets in.  You have no flipping clue how to entertain this thing.  You quickly comb through what's left of your brain cells and it hits you--Sing! Good mommies SING to their babies!  Only one problem... is mama supposed to buy you a mockingbird, or a Dyson? Crap.  Through all the panting and pushing, the little file where you kept nursery rhymes fell out when your water broke.  But fear not, this is where your inner Deviant enters the scene with the Anti-Rhyme. 

Just rewrite any of your favorite tunes using words like "poop" and you're golden... like that diaper you just changed. Or, if new mommyhood has claimed the last of your brain cells, feel free to borrow some of my own masterpieces. Keep in mind, this tactic is good across all genres of music, so the possibilities are endless.

Genre 1: Bad 80's hair bands

sung to the tune of "Cherry Pie" by Warrant: "Heeeee's myyyy punkin pie/little bitty guy with a stork bite eye!"  

Hey man, it doesn't have to be genius... as long as the kid smiles or is momentarily distracted from ripping out the dog's fur again, your job is done.

Genre 2: 90's sock-over-the-peener alterna-rock bands

sung to the tune of "Love Roller Coaster" by RHCP: "Your mama's got/a dirty dipey in her hand!/oh yes she does!" (change dipey) "your mama's got/a clean dipey in her hand!/oh yes she does!"

Genre 3: Oldies but Goodies

sung to the tune of "Hanky Panky" by Tommy James & the Shondells: "My baby's got a dirty dipey!/oh yeah, my baby's got a dirty dipey!" (repeat like, a billion times) "I saw him walkin' on down the line, yeah/his dipey's dirty for the very first time, yeah/he said hey ma what's in my pants?/oh hey mama I just don't understand/cause my baby's got a dirty dipey (insert whammy bar guitar sounds)"

Genre 4: Classic/Psychedelic/This-light-show-is-gonna-blow-your-mind Rock

sung to the tune of "Another Brick in the Wall" by Pink Floyd: "We don't need no dirty dipeys/we don't need no poop patrol/no dirty dipeys on your booty/Hey! (insert child's name here)! Leave them dipes alone!"

Before you know it, the whole fam will be joining you on your quest to find the perfect Anti-Rhyme... I've caught my husband singing "Ticket to Ride" by The Beatles using the words "My baby's got hair".  See?  You can do it.  But as for those brain cells coming back, you're own your own there.

Oh the joys of having a boy...

I've known for months now that my boy was, well, a boy.  He on the other hand, hasn't... until recently.  Every time the diaper comes off, it's a race to the nether-regions.  I honestly didn't expect to deal with this for another decade or so, and what started out as a harmless game of hide-and-seek has turned into full scale weenie-warfare.

Exhibit A, changing a pee-dipe: "OMG! Doesn't that HURT him?! He's damaging my future grandchildren!!"

but this is small potatoes (no pun intended) compared to exhibit B...

Exhibit B, changing a poo-dipe: "Oh man, what did you eat kid? No Holden! Don't touch that!!"

Now begins the following sequence... Poop in dipe.  Poop on peener.  Boy grabs peener.  Poop on hand.   Grab hand, grab wipe.  Boy kicks diaper.  Poop on foot.  Grab feet.  Hand now in mouth.  Grab hand again.  Wipe hand, wipe mouth.  Grab another wipe.  Boy grabs feet.  Poop on hand, again.  Wipe feet.  Poop on legs... really??  Grab another wipe.  Boy grabs overly expensive, embroidered teddy bear from Nannie & Papa.  Poop on bear.  Wipe hands, wipe bear.  Somewhere in there wipe peener & bottom.  Say screw it and put boy in bath.  Boy grabs peener. *Sigh*

Well, when a Mommy & Daddy love each other very much...

It all started a year ago when the two little pink lines showed up in my bathroom sink. No, not the pink-in-the-sink from flossing (although pregnancy gingivitis is a real BITCH), but the ones from the EPT.  That's "Error Proof Test" to you.  One would conclude that after all the pregnancy tests I took in college that I'd be a pro by now, but no amount of Natty Light can prepare you for the shock of a positive one.
Fast forward 37 pounds and a year later... I haven't showered in two days, am covered in spit up, and half my once expansive vocabulary now ends in the letter Y ("Hunny, can you grab me a burpy? They're in the nursery next to the dipeys").  Needless to say, life as I knew it has changed--I have stretch marks the size of the Grand Canyon, the last book I read was Hop on Pop, and I actually Youtubed "the itsy bitsy spider".  But, underneath it all, I'm still the girl with the nose ring & affinity for all things vegan, hence, the birth of The Stroller Stories (and Other Tales from a Deviant Motherhood).
I say Deviant not because I intend to cause chaos on the playground, but because I am looking forward to breaking the social norms on Motherhood.  So, you can either whisper about me from behind your Peg Perego, or you can join the revolution. Who's with me?