Being a working mother is a serious balancing act. Sometimes there's just not enough time in the day (or enough wine in the northern hemisphere) to get it all done before having to start over again. But fear not, working mommies of the cyber world, as I will now share some time-saving tips that are sure to lighten your load... of laundry.
1. If you don't do it already, start peeing in the shower. We all know that your bladder is wrecked after pushing 8 pounds of child from your hoo-ha, so eliminating one bathroom trip a day will surely add 90 seconds back to your daily life.
2. Speaking of showers, I was going to recommend purchasing a two-in-one shampoo & conditioner combo to save you another 90 seconds, but seriously, those work about as well as your bladder does now. So I say skip it all together. When people start to wonder why your hair is greasier than those Jersey Shore brats, you can tell them you are boycotting shampoo in order to free Tibet. You will look smart AND compassionate. Or maybe just greasy...
3. Start pumping gas BEFORE you go into the station to buy that bottle of cab you are going to drink tonight. Alone. In its entirety.
4. While you're at it, you might as well just drink straight from the bottle. One less glass to clean.
5. Do dishes WHILE you cook. Or just make your husband do them.
6. Wear the same thing to work. Every day. This will save you countless minutes from standing naked in your closet wondering two things: "What on earth am I going to wear today and WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO MY ASS???"
*bonus: this will significantly cut back the amount of laundry you have to do, and your coworkers will eventually stop talking to you & asking you to do menial tasks on the job once the smell kicks in.
Now that you have all this extra time on your hands, you might as well pick up an extra bottle of cab at the gas station, because you might be spending that extra time trying to forget the fact that you could fry bacon in your hair or that you smell like you just got back from Woodstock. Just don't forget to pump the gas first! Cheers!
Monday, September 17, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Judgement Day
I was thinking recently about all the things I do for my son to make him happy and keep him healthy-- I buy a particular brand of snack, use cloth diapers, or let him watch an educational television show. And that's when it dawns on me... a mother doesn't do these things for her children-- she does these things in order from preventing herself from sticking her head in the oven while baking those organic, vegan, gluten-free cookies. Cookie jar? Try the Bell Jar. This is exactly the reason why I wake up one morning on the floor of a hallway being frowned upon by the Virgin Mary...
Virtually anything we mothers do or say for the sake of our children's well-being actually contains a hidden undertone. For example...
While at the bank: "No, I'm sorry, my son can't have a lollipop because I try to limit his sugar intake". What I meant to say was "Are you freaking kidding me?! Who's going to wipe up the sticky mess all over the backseat of my car and then wrestle the remains of a slobbery stick out of my son's hair? Unless you're planning on sending a cleaning crew through that little tube with my deposit slip, stop offering my child candy like the creeper parked outside in the van."
While in the car: "Oh yeah, the portable dvd player has really made long car trips more enjoyable for my son, he's so much happier". This translates to "Oh yeah, the portable dvd player has really made long car trips more enjoyable for me, there's far less screaming".
While doing arts & crafts: "Of course I let him color on the floor & the wall... I don't want to hamper his artistic expression" means "I am too tired to give a fuck".
During snack time: "Those little organic snack pouches are great, I can give him a healthy snack anywhere and don't have to worry about him choking". What I meant to say was "You mean he can eat unsupervised AND I don't have to do dishes afterwards? Can I buy these in bulk? I'll take 400".
While playing at the park: "Exercise is very important, so we try to let him play outside every day in order to establish good habits" REALLY means "Mommy's sleep is very important, and if we don't wear him the crap out at the park every day mommy might go postal and end up on America's Most Wanted".
While watching his favorite show: "Of course I let him watch Sesame Street, it's highly educational. After all, I watched Sesame Street as a child and started reading when I was 3". This translates to "WHERE THE (expletive) IS THE REMOTE?! HOLDEN GET OFF THE TABLE! MOMMY'S PUTTING ELMO ON! HOLDEN GET DOOOWWWNN!!!!"
While visiting grandparents: "It will be good for him to see his grandparents this weekend, he loves them so much and really needs to spend some quality time with them". What I meant to say was "Ben! We have free babysitters this weekend! We are getting HAMMERED!"
While coming back to grandparent's house after getting hammered: "Let's not disturb the baby, he's tired and really needs his sleep. We can sleep elsewhere" actually means "If we open that door he's going to wake up and I am in no state to care for a screaming child right now because my head is POUNDING. Screw it, let's just sleep here".
And that my friends is how I found myself curled up on the floor the next morning... beside my husband... in the hallway. Had we actually sacrificed our own night's sleep for the sake of our child? Absolutely not. Waking our sleeping son was a fate far worse than passing out drunk in a hallway. Although upon waking in the morning, my first sight was that of Mary, hanging in a frame on my mother-in-law's wall. I felt her judgement, as she had clearly seen the aftermath of my and my husband's debauchery. You'd think as a mother she'd get it... we all say or do one thing and mean another. But hey, at least I'm not the one claiming to be a virgin.
Virtually anything we mothers do or say for the sake of our children's well-being actually contains a hidden undertone. For example...
While at the bank: "No, I'm sorry, my son can't have a lollipop because I try to limit his sugar intake". What I meant to say was "Are you freaking kidding me?! Who's going to wipe up the sticky mess all over the backseat of my car and then wrestle the remains of a slobbery stick out of my son's hair? Unless you're planning on sending a cleaning crew through that little tube with my deposit slip, stop offering my child candy like the creeper parked outside in the van."
While in the car: "Oh yeah, the portable dvd player has really made long car trips more enjoyable for my son, he's so much happier". This translates to "Oh yeah, the portable dvd player has really made long car trips more enjoyable for me, there's far less screaming".
While doing arts & crafts: "Of course I let him color on the floor & the wall... I don't want to hamper his artistic expression" means "I am too tired to give a fuck".
During snack time: "Those little organic snack pouches are great, I can give him a healthy snack anywhere and don't have to worry about him choking". What I meant to say was "You mean he can eat unsupervised AND I don't have to do dishes afterwards? Can I buy these in bulk? I'll take 400".
While playing at the park: "Exercise is very important, so we try to let him play outside every day in order to establish good habits" REALLY means "Mommy's sleep is very important, and if we don't wear him the crap out at the park every day mommy might go postal and end up on America's Most Wanted".
While watching his favorite show: "Of course I let him watch Sesame Street, it's highly educational. After all, I watched Sesame Street as a child and started reading when I was 3". This translates to "WHERE THE (expletive) IS THE REMOTE?! HOLDEN GET OFF THE TABLE! MOMMY'S PUTTING ELMO ON! HOLDEN GET DOOOWWWNN!!!!"
While visiting grandparents: "It will be good for him to see his grandparents this weekend, he loves them so much and really needs to spend some quality time with them". What I meant to say was "Ben! We have free babysitters this weekend! We are getting HAMMERED!"
While coming back to grandparent's house after getting hammered: "Let's not disturb the baby, he's tired and really needs his sleep. We can sleep elsewhere" actually means "If we open that door he's going to wake up and I am in no state to care for a screaming child right now because my head is POUNDING. Screw it, let's just sleep here".
And that my friends is how I found myself curled up on the floor the next morning... beside my husband... in the hallway. Had we actually sacrificed our own night's sleep for the sake of our child? Absolutely not. Waking our sleeping son was a fate far worse than passing out drunk in a hallway. Although upon waking in the morning, my first sight was that of Mary, hanging in a frame on my mother-in-law's wall. I felt her judgement, as she had clearly seen the aftermath of my and my husband's debauchery. You'd think as a mother she'd get it... we all say or do one thing and mean another. But hey, at least I'm not the one claiming to be a virgin.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Working Girl
Apparently I've been so busy over the past couple of months that I have completely neglected my blog. I'm sorry blog, you must feel so unloved.
Suffice to say, much has changed. I had a procedure done by a plastic surgeon (unfortunately nothing cosmetic, because my boobs could certainly use a lift), moved once again to a new city (hello, Cincinnati!), and started a new job (yikes).
I must say, the thought of working after taking almost a year & a half off was pretty intimidating. Due to spending every second of that time child-rearing, my brain has been rendered useless, barely able to put complete thoughts together... and now I had to go convince someone they should hire me to work in their establishment. And pay me for it. This would require actually having to speak to another adult... in complete sentences. Something lost upon me as a stay at home mom. Despite the fact that I bombed my interview, I was offered a position at a full service hotel at a university (read: all the mini-toiletries you can shake a stick at). As exciting as it was to feel needed for something besides extracting cheerios from every crevice of the apartment, I would now be required to change out of my sweat pants and brush my hair. Even more frightening was the fact that I would be leaving my child at home for extended periods of time with either my husband or our new babysitter.
In order to prep my husband for my new role as a working mom, we had a brief conversation about dividing household responsibilities... now he would have to be responsible for Operation Cheerio Removal as well.
When the time came to say good-bye to my son for the first time, I tried my hardest to hold back the tears but they came anyways. And they don't give a shit if you just spent 20 minutes applying makeup, either. So, I hopped in my Subaru and headed for work looking like I'd been chopping onions since the Reagan Administration. Upon arrival, I was eager to meet my new staff and couldn't help but notice that one of the employee's pants were unusually long. So long in fact that they were actually under her shoes. Her explanation? "Oh, I got drunk last night and lost my pants." Oh. My. God. It dawns on me that I am working with children. I left my child at home to come to work to babysit. At the ripe age of 29, I am significantly older than my employees. This point is really driven home when pants-girl tells me I look like some actress or another... in turn I say, "I used to get a lot of Neve Campbell when I was younger." She cocked her head to the side and said, "Who??" OUCH. Right through the heart. Right through my aging, probably-on-the-verge-of-stopping heart. Another clue that I was probably the only person there old enough to be married with a child was my staff's response to breast milk. There was a guest at the hotel who was pumping for her infant and needed a freezer to store it. When taking the bagged milk (and bagged within bags mind you), the front desk associate held it in such a manner that she looked like she might contract herpes if she actually touched it. Ha, novice.
After spending the day amongst people born in the 1990's, I was happy to get home to my husband. That was, until I walked in the door. I couldn't tell you what had surpassed in my absence, but the apartment was so torn upside down that it looked like a bomb (or four) had gone off, and Ben looked like he had just come home from war. Apparently it was the longest day of his life, as he had never spent more than an hour or two by himself with our son. And clearly he had no idea exactly what I did for the last 15 months. I'm still not quite sure what he thinks I did all that time, but obviously the laundry & dishes didn't do themselves. After this night, I later came to learn that my husband called his mother in a panic, wondering what he was supposed to do with a kid for 10 hours while I was gone.
Since my first day of work, my husband has figured out how to spend his time with a toddler & pants-girl has put in her two weeks notice. I'm still trying to teach Ben how to pick up his dirty socks & use a toilet brush, but you win some, you lose some, right?
Suffice to say, much has changed. I had a procedure done by a plastic surgeon (unfortunately nothing cosmetic, because my boobs could certainly use a lift), moved once again to a new city (hello, Cincinnati!), and started a new job (yikes).
I must say, the thought of working after taking almost a year & a half off was pretty intimidating. Due to spending every second of that time child-rearing, my brain has been rendered useless, barely able to put complete thoughts together... and now I had to go convince someone they should hire me to work in their establishment. And pay me for it. This would require actually having to speak to another adult... in complete sentences. Something lost upon me as a stay at home mom. Despite the fact that I bombed my interview, I was offered a position at a full service hotel at a university (read: all the mini-toiletries you can shake a stick at). As exciting as it was to feel needed for something besides extracting cheerios from every crevice of the apartment, I would now be required to change out of my sweat pants and brush my hair. Even more frightening was the fact that I would be leaving my child at home for extended periods of time with either my husband or our new babysitter.
In order to prep my husband for my new role as a working mom, we had a brief conversation about dividing household responsibilities... now he would have to be responsible for Operation Cheerio Removal as well.
When the time came to say good-bye to my son for the first time, I tried my hardest to hold back the tears but they came anyways. And they don't give a shit if you just spent 20 minutes applying makeup, either. So, I hopped in my Subaru and headed for work looking like I'd been chopping onions since the Reagan Administration. Upon arrival, I was eager to meet my new staff and couldn't help but notice that one of the employee's pants were unusually long. So long in fact that they were actually under her shoes. Her explanation? "Oh, I got drunk last night and lost my pants." Oh. My. God. It dawns on me that I am working with children. I left my child at home to come to work to babysit. At the ripe age of 29, I am significantly older than my employees. This point is really driven home when pants-girl tells me I look like some actress or another... in turn I say, "I used to get a lot of Neve Campbell when I was younger." She cocked her head to the side and said, "Who??" OUCH. Right through the heart. Right through my aging, probably-on-the-verge-of-stopping heart. Another clue that I was probably the only person there old enough to be married with a child was my staff's response to breast milk. There was a guest at the hotel who was pumping for her infant and needed a freezer to store it. When taking the bagged milk (and bagged within bags mind you), the front desk associate held it in such a manner that she looked like she might contract herpes if she actually touched it. Ha, novice.
After spending the day amongst people born in the 1990's, I was happy to get home to my husband. That was, until I walked in the door. I couldn't tell you what had surpassed in my absence, but the apartment was so torn upside down that it looked like a bomb (or four) had gone off, and Ben looked like he had just come home from war. Apparently it was the longest day of his life, as he had never spent more than an hour or two by himself with our son. And clearly he had no idea exactly what I did for the last 15 months. I'm still not quite sure what he thinks I did all that time, but obviously the laundry & dishes didn't do themselves. After this night, I later came to learn that my husband called his mother in a panic, wondering what he was supposed to do with a kid for 10 hours while I was gone.
Since my first day of work, my husband has figured out how to spend his time with a toddler & pants-girl has put in her two weeks notice. I'm still trying to teach Ben how to pick up his dirty socks & use a toilet brush, but you win some, you lose some, right?
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
All the Single Mommies!
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| exhibit A: Facebook upload from 3/28, 11:16 pm. |
I have always admired & respected the abilities of single mothers, and I have recently discovered just how difficult it truly is to raise a child without a partner...
First of all, I like to use the phrase "all the dirty diapers" loosely. As in, "Ben, I ALWAYS change ALL the dirty diapers, it's YOUR turn". This statement is perfectly true behind the lenses of my mommy-glasses, but in reality, notsomuch. With my husband gone, I really DO have to change all the dirty diapers. It's just as well anyways (see exhibit B).
The diapers aren't the worst of it though. Gone are the days of my shoving-the-mister-out-of-bed-so-I-can-sleep-for-ten-more-minutes mornings. At approximately 7:48 this morning, I woke to the pleasant sound of my son screaming like he just found out that Jake and the Neverland Pirates had been cancelled. I trudged to his bedroom, scooped him up, trudged back to my bedroom, and tossed both of our behinds under the covers. The screaming continued... I needed a diversion. I felt around the nightstand until I was able to wrap my fingers around the first object within reach. "Here baby, play with a thermometer". He wasn't buying it. Doesn't he understand I had a very late night watching and contemplating the deeper meaning behind The Goonies? Of course not. So up it was to greet the day, screaming child in tow. This would have never happened if I wasn't a single mother...
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| exhibit B: what happens when ben has diaper duty. |
I am also now responsible for any and all meals to be consumed by myself or my child. "Hunny, I've had a really hard day and just didn't have time to make dinner because I couldn't get off the couch. I'm sorry... there was an LA Ink marathon on TV". This excuse just doesn't cut the mustard anymore. I have no one to bail me out when things get tough. Like yesterday... I had to walk away from America's Next Top Model to prepare food for my child. But hey, when you're a single mother you have to make sacrifices.
Being a single parent is all about multitasking with poise & balance. For instance, opening and pouring a glass of wine while simultaneously propping your screaming child on the counter top. Or blogging while removing sharp, pointy objects from your child's mouth. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Blahg
Four score and seven years ago, I updated my blog. Needless to say, I’ve been busy. Over the last couple of months my little word has been rocked so hard that I actually landed on another planet: Celina, Ohio. Yup, I traded in palm trees for corn fields.
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| yes, that's a tractor. |
The Mister got a job transfer back to the Buckeye state, so we loaded up the ‘Ru and hit the road. As much as I was hoping our little road trip would be something like an episode of The Partridge Family, all happily singing in our tour bus, I was better prepared for scenes from National Lampoon’s, what with a 13 month old, 2 dogs, & a husband who drives like your grandfather. To my amazement the trip went rather smoothly, thanks to my investment of a portable dvd player & a $2 Disney Sing-a-Long dvd. The only downside to this purchase, however, is that I have had a song about a cat named Cleo stuck in my head for the better part of two weeks now. Occupational hazard I suppose.
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| and yes, he rides motorcycles now. it's the midwest. |
Because the move was so sudden & my husband needed to start work immediately, we didn’t have time to find housing. Cue the in-laws. They were gracious enough to offer us a place to stay during this in-between phase, so we moved to Celina. Right about now you’re thinking, “Where???” It’s located in the northwestern part of Ohio (for those of you who can successfully point to Ohio on a map) and has a population count lower than my cholesterol. Everyone drives a pickup truck and seems to think I will respond to the words “Heeeeey Cutie!” as they hang out of their windows while shirtless.
I am trying to keep myself busy, but that can be quite a challenge in such a small town where the scent of cow pies permeates the air. Over the last several days I have made numerous trips to Wal-Mart & have even started training for my first 5k, and you know if it involves exercise I must be pretty desperate. I even found myself “downtown” yesterday, meandering around a tattoo shop, toying with the idea of getting some new work in honor of my son. Speaking of my son, he is adjusting quite well to his new environment. He has taken up such hobbies as food-throwing & rock-eating. Such a precious child.
Anyways, just wanted to let the cyber world know of my whereabouts... I'm sure you were all rather concerned. On that note, it's time to go cow tipping.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Pediatrishit
An expectant mother faces many new & important decisions: breast or bottle? co-sleep or crib? disposable or resuable diapers? sex after the recommended 6 weeks or fake it for 5 months? With all of the debates & bits of information making your mammaries spin, the last thing you want to worry about is finding the right pediatrician. We had the good fortune of adoring the very first pediatrician we interviewed... the office was clean & organized, he was naturally-minded, and he performed magic tricks with his iPhone. sold! Oh, did I mention his name was Dr. Nguyen Nguyen (pronounced win win)? How could I NOT have a doctor named Win Win? Unfortunately, we moved four weeks after my son was born so we saw Dr. Win Win approximately three times...Lose Lose. sigh.
Since Holden was only four weeks old, it was imperative that we find a new ped immediately. After making some phone calls, I settled on a doc close to home. Upon arrival to Dr. Perry's office, my first clue should have been the fact that the floor & walls were covered in more dirt than Nicole Richie's feet. strike one. My second clue should have been the fact that they didn't measure my son's head until a later visit when I brought up my concern about its shape. I was assured by the doctor that he was totally normal, but I was still unconvinced. Of all people, my son's Urologist raised some concern about his head, so we were sent to a geneticist & Holden was diagnosed with Torticollis & Plagiocephaly. Strike two, Dr. Perry, you're fired.
I interviewed another pediatrician in the area, and decided to go with her. At our last appointment in November, I told her that I plan on raising my son vegan. She looked at me like I had wheat grass growing out of my ears. After much discussion & my being adament about not giving my son milk, she said that as long as he is getting enough calcium, vitamin D, and fat that he should be ok. I wasn't thrilled with her lack of knowledge in this area, but she probably doesn't get too many vegan moms here in the south.
Anyways, Holden's 12 month appointment was today. Considering his physical therapist cancelled on us 20 mins after his scheduled appointment this morning & we waited over an hour to see our ped, I was not a very happy camper. And to make matters worse I really had to poop. I figured I'd just have to hold it or blame it on the baby if there was an accident. Once our ped decided to grace us with her presence, we did the regular weights & measures & ear checks & mouth check. Holden is still in the 25th percentile, but according to the ped starting to "thin out". She then said it was totally normal at this age for that to happen because of how active they become. Sure, makes sense. That and he's grown nearly 4 inches in the last 2 months, but who's keeping track? Next up on this interrogation list, nutrition. Again with the sideways glance when she discovers my child is drinking almond milk. When I remind her that at our last appointment she said X,Y, & Z, she told me that she "must not have understood" me. Weird, because I'm pretty sure that you had to go to school for quite some time in order to be a doctor, therefore as an educated woman you should be able to comprehend that I think milk is nasty and will not be giving it to my kid. Oh, that and my son is not a baby cow so he probably does not need milk from another species at this point. She must have gone to the University of Michigan, because she told me just to put him on formula then. Um, HELLO! It comes from cows, and until my son grows an udder he will not be needing it. She then procedes to tell me that his "thinning out" must be due to the fact that he's on almond milk, even though it is, according to her, typical at this age. When I inform her that we just started the almond milk three days ago, she said, "Oh..." Thus ensues the argument. The argument where I tell her he gets flax oil & the vitamins that SHE prescribed in his calcium-fortified almond milk. The argument where she was unable to validate any of reasons why my son actually needs milk. The argument where she finally threw her arms up in the air and said "I don't know anything about it, that's just what I'm supposed to tell you!" Um, WOW. I'm pretty sure that's what happened when all those religious nut bags drank the kool aid. Just doin' what they were told. Well, unfortunately, that's not good enough for me, and it's certainly not good enough for my son. I don't find it appropriate to just blindly accept information that someone else teaches you to be true. Or rather, that a company whose personal interests teach you to be true. Who do you think funds the "got milk?" campaign? Certainly not the American Heart Association.
Anyways, I'm less than thrilled that my son's pediatrician blamed me for my son being thin, when he is in fact perfectly normal as she previously stated herself. Just because my kid doesn't eat McDonald's or processed sugar doesn't mean that he's malnourished. How many children do you see eat tofu or spinach? Drink carrot juice or V8? I don't even see many adults eat as healthy as my son does.
Our ped did not ask one question about what he DOES eat, just gave me shit about what he DOESN'T eat, because somewhere along the way she was told there is only one way to raise a child. Well, there's more than one way to raise a child, and there's also more than one way to fire your pediatrician-- the polite way, or the deviant way. Peace out, Dr. Field.
Since Holden was only four weeks old, it was imperative that we find a new ped immediately. After making some phone calls, I settled on a doc close to home. Upon arrival to Dr. Perry's office, my first clue should have been the fact that the floor & walls were covered in more dirt than Nicole Richie's feet. strike one. My second clue should have been the fact that they didn't measure my son's head until a later visit when I brought up my concern about its shape. I was assured by the doctor that he was totally normal, but I was still unconvinced. Of all people, my son's Urologist raised some concern about his head, so we were sent to a geneticist & Holden was diagnosed with Torticollis & Plagiocephaly. Strike two, Dr. Perry, you're fired.
I interviewed another pediatrician in the area, and decided to go with her. At our last appointment in November, I told her that I plan on raising my son vegan. She looked at me like I had wheat grass growing out of my ears. After much discussion & my being adament about not giving my son milk, she said that as long as he is getting enough calcium, vitamin D, and fat that he should be ok. I wasn't thrilled with her lack of knowledge in this area, but she probably doesn't get too many vegan moms here in the south.
Anyways, Holden's 12 month appointment was today. Considering his physical therapist cancelled on us 20 mins after his scheduled appointment this morning & we waited over an hour to see our ped, I was not a very happy camper. And to make matters worse I really had to poop. I figured I'd just have to hold it or blame it on the baby if there was an accident. Once our ped decided to grace us with her presence, we did the regular weights & measures & ear checks & mouth check. Holden is still in the 25th percentile, but according to the ped starting to "thin out". She then said it was totally normal at this age for that to happen because of how active they become. Sure, makes sense. That and he's grown nearly 4 inches in the last 2 months, but who's keeping track? Next up on this interrogation list, nutrition. Again with the sideways glance when she discovers my child is drinking almond milk. When I remind her that at our last appointment she said X,Y, & Z, she told me that she "must not have understood" me. Weird, because I'm pretty sure that you had to go to school for quite some time in order to be a doctor, therefore as an educated woman you should be able to comprehend that I think milk is nasty and will not be giving it to my kid. Oh, that and my son is not a baby cow so he probably does not need milk from another species at this point. She must have gone to the University of Michigan, because she told me just to put him on formula then. Um, HELLO! It comes from cows, and until my son grows an udder he will not be needing it. She then procedes to tell me that his "thinning out" must be due to the fact that he's on almond milk, even though it is, according to her, typical at this age. When I inform her that we just started the almond milk three days ago, she said, "Oh..." Thus ensues the argument. The argument where I tell her he gets flax oil & the vitamins that SHE prescribed in his calcium-fortified almond milk. The argument where she was unable to validate any of reasons why my son actually needs milk. The argument where she finally threw her arms up in the air and said "I don't know anything about it, that's just what I'm supposed to tell you!" Um, WOW. I'm pretty sure that's what happened when all those religious nut bags drank the kool aid. Just doin' what they were told. Well, unfortunately, that's not good enough for me, and it's certainly not good enough for my son. I don't find it appropriate to just blindly accept information that someone else teaches you to be true. Or rather, that a company whose personal interests teach you to be true. Who do you think funds the "got milk?" campaign? Certainly not the American Heart Association.
Anyways, I'm less than thrilled that my son's pediatrician blamed me for my son being thin, when he is in fact perfectly normal as she previously stated herself. Just because my kid doesn't eat McDonald's or processed sugar doesn't mean that he's malnourished. How many children do you see eat tofu or spinach? Drink carrot juice or V8? I don't even see many adults eat as healthy as my son does.
Our ped did not ask one question about what he DOES eat, just gave me shit about what he DOESN'T eat, because somewhere along the way she was told there is only one way to raise a child. Well, there's more than one way to raise a child, and there's also more than one way to fire your pediatrician-- the polite way, or the deviant way. Peace out, Dr. Field.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Say What???
double entendre (plural double entendres)
bm. Who DOESN'T love a good bm in the morning? Certainly not babies! Many moms tend to abbreviate while talking (typing) about breast milk, hence, bm. But this mom still loves to talk about bowel movements. Especially her own.
bf'ing. It's not just for gays and porn stars anymore! Thousands of mothers nationwide bf everyday even though it used to be considered unsanitary. That's right folks, good ol' fashioned breast feeding (and before I get any emails from the Human Rights Campaign or Jenna Jameson, please note that I fully support both your causes, although both are rather expensive to be involved in). Now get your minds out of the gutter.
put down. There was once a time where these words would strike fear into the heart of any labrador retriever, but fear not Sparky, we just want to put the baby to sleep... er... to bed. The words "put down" can also be used interchangeably with our next term...
go down. Ahh, every teenage boy's dream before Katy Perry wrote that stupid song. My husband and I talk about going down every day, like when he says "What time did the baby go down?" and I respond "Around quarter to three." Obviously our lives are very exciting.
This is just a small sampling of mommy-speak... there are many more brow-raising terms out there, but alas it's past my bedtime. I do, however, leave you with tonight's moral: don't judge a mom whose facebook status reads "I'm so tired, I was up bf'ing all night". Jenna Jameson's status, on the other hand....
- (idiomatic) A phrase that has two meanings, especially where one is innocent and literal, the other risqué, bawdy, or ironic; an innuendo.
bm. Who DOESN'T love a good bm in the morning? Certainly not babies! Many moms tend to abbreviate while talking (typing) about breast milk, hence, bm. But this mom still loves to talk about bowel movements. Especially her own.
bf'ing. It's not just for gays and porn stars anymore! Thousands of mothers nationwide bf everyday even though it used to be considered unsanitary. That's right folks, good ol' fashioned breast feeding (and before I get any emails from the Human Rights Campaign or Jenna Jameson, please note that I fully support both your causes, although both are rather expensive to be involved in). Now get your minds out of the gutter.
put down. There was once a time where these words would strike fear into the heart of any labrador retriever, but fear not Sparky, we just want to put the baby to sleep... er... to bed. The words "put down" can also be used interchangeably with our next term...
go down. Ahh, every teenage boy's dream before Katy Perry wrote that stupid song. My husband and I talk about going down every day, like when he says "What time did the baby go down?" and I respond "Around quarter to three." Obviously our lives are very exciting.
This is just a small sampling of mommy-speak... there are many more brow-raising terms out there, but alas it's past my bedtime. I do, however, leave you with tonight's moral: don't judge a mom whose facebook status reads "I'm so tired, I was up bf'ing all night". Jenna Jameson's status, on the other hand....
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Rules were made to be broken.
So, like a lot of us mamas, I am part of an online mommy group (the previously mentioned DCHS2001MAP) which has become a full-fledged addiction (because I clearly don't have enough to do). We all post about our experiences as mothers, especially how we are raising our children. Lately I've noticed that we differ greatly with our parenting techniques, as we are all unique individuals in different stages of our kids' lives. This got me thinking about how I was as a brand new mother... while not set in stone, I had certain ideas about how I would raise my son. After all, I was going to be the perfect mother. Shows you how much I knew about parenting.
I've come to the conclusion that being a stay-at-home mom is hands down the absolute hardest job I have ever had. This coming from a girl who has cleaned public restrooms, watched (and smelled) people vomit on amusement park rides, and has had her life threatened over a rental car on more than one occasion just to make a few bucks.
In order to run my household efficiently & ecologically and raise my son to be an upstanding member of society who will one day run for president or find a cure for cancer (okay, you're right... I would rather he be the bassist for Aerosmith), I created a set of rules which I vowed never to break. Well, one year of stay-at-home mothering taught me differently. With that said, things I swore I would never do:
1. Let my child watch tv. Lucky for me, he doesn't like it anyways. Unlucky for me, he doesn't like it at all. I now find myself desperately searching through Netflix to find something, ANYTHING that might make him sit still for five seconds so I can put the laundry in the wash. Sesame Street? No. Baby Einstein? Huh uh. Yo Gabba Gabba? I don't have the right kind of mushrooms in my fridge in order to have that playing in my house. But yesterday I discovered Early Bloomers, and with high hopes I pressed that A button on the Wii remote... SUCCESS! While Holden is busy listening to xylophones & watching the blue clouds on the screen, I canpour myself a gin & tonic finish the laundry. In conclusion I have found that these shows are actually for the parents, not the children.
2. Curse around my child. Well, that went right out the fucking window.
3. Use the word "No". Because obviously using that word would rob my son of the memories of being raised in a positive environment, thus rendering him homeless or perhaps even in jail one day due to severe bouts of depression & alcoholism. I suppose I could say, "Holden, sweetie cakes, please play with mommy's keys over here like a good boy", but I have found "No!" to be more of a time saver when those keys are heading straight for the electrical outlet or the dog's eyeball. The only downside to this method, however, is now my son calls everything in my house a "no". Well, except for the entertainment center... that one's "no no no", complete with a nearly one-year-old wagging finger.
4. Leave my child with a babysitter that I don't personally know or who doesn't come with a complete resume from the Babysitting Institute of America. It has now been so long that I have gone on a date with my husband that I am thisclose to letting the guy on the corner with the "Cash for Gold" sign watch my son.
5. Use disposables. Trying to fill those earth-mother-goddess shoes of mine, I have decided to let Holden fill reusable diapers. They have been cost-effective & eco-friendly, but, some days there just isn't enough time to get all the laundry done. So it's either use a disposable diaper or tape a sponge to my kid's ass. I will keep the sponge for my dishes, thanks.
6. CIO. Known in the parenting community as "Cry It Out", CIO is an extremely hot-button issue. Mothers who let their kids cry are often demonized, and since I was going to be the perfect parent, my son would never so much as even sniffle. Well, after not sleeping for almost a year now, I have learned that ultimately one of us will end up crying. And since I am the gate-keeper here, I can not jump out of bed every time Holden whimpers in the middle of the night. Don't misinterpret what I am saying here... I under no circumstances let my child scream his face off in his crib if he truly needs something. I have just learned to tell the difference between fussing-cry & needing-cry. Fussing-cry lasts approximately 30 seconds, and needing-cry would go on until the Rapture if not addressed. Since I don't want Jesus getting the wrong idea, I give the kid a bottle at 4am, although I am probably shouting obscenities in his name anyways.
7. Have kids in the first place. This one is actually my husband's. Keep in mind my husband wasn't always the kind, adoring father he is today... he used to go to art school & talk about his disappointment in Vito Acconci & read Bukowski & drink imported beer. But that's why I liked him. Who knew one day we'd have such a cute kid? I will say though, it's no surprise Holden came out with a mohawk.
 |
| sleepy time |
In order to run my household efficiently & ecologically and raise my son to be an upstanding member of society who will one day run for president or find a cure for cancer (okay, you're right... I would rather he be the bassist for Aerosmith), I created a set of rules which I vowed never to break. Well, one year of stay-at-home mothering taught me differently. With that said, things I swore I would never do:
1. Let my child watch tv. Lucky for me, he doesn't like it anyways. Unlucky for me, he doesn't like it at all. I now find myself desperately searching through Netflix to find something, ANYTHING that might make him sit still for five seconds so I can put the laundry in the wash. Sesame Street? No. Baby Einstein? Huh uh. Yo Gabba Gabba? I don't have the right kind of mushrooms in my fridge in order to have that playing in my house. But yesterday I discovered Early Bloomers, and with high hopes I pressed that A button on the Wii remote... SUCCESS! While Holden is busy listening to xylophones & watching the blue clouds on the screen, I can
2. Curse around my child. Well, that went right out the fucking window.
 |
| getting into EVERYTHING. |
4. Leave my child with a babysitter that I don't personally know or who doesn't come with a complete resume from the Babysitting Institute of America. It has now been so long that I have gone on a date with my husband that I am thisclose to letting the guy on the corner with the "Cash for Gold" sign watch my son.
5. Use disposables. Trying to fill those earth-mother-goddess shoes of mine, I have decided to let Holden fill reusable diapers. They have been cost-effective & eco-friendly, but, some days there just isn't enough time to get all the laundry done. So it's either use a disposable diaper or tape a sponge to my kid's ass. I will keep the sponge for my dishes, thanks.
6. CIO. Known in the parenting community as "Cry It Out", CIO is an extremely hot-button issue. Mothers who let their kids cry are often demonized, and since I was going to be the perfect parent, my son would never so much as even sniffle. Well, after not sleeping for almost a year now, I have learned that ultimately one of us will end up crying. And since I am the gate-keeper here, I can not jump out of bed every time Holden whimpers in the middle of the night. Don't misinterpret what I am saying here... I under no circumstances let my child scream his face off in his crib if he truly needs something. I have just learned to tell the difference between fussing-cry & needing-cry. Fussing-cry lasts approximately 30 seconds, and needing-cry would go on until the Rapture if not addressed. Since I don't want Jesus getting the wrong idea, I give the kid a bottle at 4am, although I am probably shouting obscenities in his name anyways.
 | |
| Ben, circa 2004 |
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Bullseye
Dear Target:
I am a very busy woman. I have a small child and a home to run. Aside from taking care of my son, today was spent cleaning dishes (by hand), sweeping floors, & doing the laundry, followed by a grocery run to your fine establishment in Orange City, Florida (my third trip to Target this week, actually). None of these tasks would have been completed without the sponge, dish soap, broom, dust pan, & laundry detergent purchased on your premises.
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| Exhibit A |
In addition to being a very busy woman, I am also a very broke woman, so I try to find the best bargains possible when shopping for my family. Let’s be honest here, Wal-Mart is cheaper than Target, we all know this. Wal-Mart is also less than a ten minute walk from my home, yet I get in my car & use my gas (which is hovering around 3.50 a gallon here, did you know that?). Not only am I polluting the environment to shop at your store, I am also not burning the calories I would walking to Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart: 3, Target: 0. But really, I am not here to tell you why I should probably shop at Wally World.
As if my time weren’t precious enough, I am also the co-founder of a prestigious online mothering forum called DCHS2001MAP. You may have heard of us. On this forum, it is a running joke that I spend all my “free” time at Target… I even went into labor with my son at your Redondo Beach store in California! Anyways, earlier today our group bought a gift for one of our pregnant members. Can you guess where this gift was purchased? You got it, none other than Target.com! As a founding member & leader of DCHS2001MAP, I bear a strong influence on our mother members, and we frequently discuss the best deals on products or where to get which hot item for our children. As your marketing department surely knows, WOM advertising is an effective tool when trying to broaden your customer base, but people are ten times more likely to use it when they have encountered a negative experience with a store or product. And as we all know, we mommies talk.
In addition to the aforementioned truths, I invited Target to share in my two most joyous occasions: the union of my husband & myself, and the birth of my son. I registered for both my bridal & baby showers with Target, thus encouraging my friends and family to spend their hard-earned dollars at your stores across the country. As you can see, Target and its affiliates have affected many facets of my life, be it family, personal, or social. Oh, let’s not forget medical either, as just three days ago I filled my son’s prescription at the Target pharmacy. He’s been fighting a nasty ear infection, poor thing...
With all of these trips to Target, it only made sense that I sign up for the Target Red Card (that and I got tired of being badgered by your employees for the better part of a year about it). This way my purchases come straight out of my checking account and I can save 5%... how nifty is that? So, I gave your cashier my driver license & a blank check to get the proverbial ball rolling. After completing the account interrogation, I realized that my address on both documents was my former one in California. Oops… Mommy brain strikes again. I immediately called the number on my temporary card and canceled the delivery of my shiny new Red Card to the current tenants at my previous address. My old neighbors had informed me that the people who moved in after I left own various large weaponry and are most likely drug dealers. You can perhaps understand why I might not want full access to my bank account sent there.
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| Exhibit B |
After being assured that the card would not be mailed out, I was asked to hand write a letter to your corporate office requesting a change of address. I’m pretty sure that recent technological advances have been made so that I may instantly change my address by telephone or maybe even the internet, but just for you Target, I obliged. You can see why a few weeks later I may be concerned that I have yet to receive anything in the mail from your offices, so I called back. I was told that my new address was on file and no card had been mailed out, but you would resend the paperwork. Imagine my astonishment when I finally got something in the mail from you… forwarded from California. Who knew the post office still forwards mail after a year? So, once again I called your office, my tone slightly less polite. The gentleman on the other end said the card had indeed been sent to the California address, that he would cancel the card, and send a new one to my Florida address. At this rate, it’s more likely that I will get a Publisher’s Clearing House check delivered to me than my Target Red Card.
You may be familiar with the term “Shit rolls down hill”. So, naturally, the lack of competence on your end has forced me to ask your cashiers for a 5% discount each of the eight times I have been to your store in the last 30 days. That’s about twice a week in the last month, one of those weeks being spent in Celina, Ohio where there is no Target. You do the math. Anyways, I have to ask your employees every time I check out for the discount they have been raving to me about for months. And each time they say they can’t help me. I can not express how incredibly frustrating it is to walk into your store, dressed quite literally head-to-toe in Target apparel, pay for my goods with a debit card pulled from my wallet which was also purchased at Target, and be told that they can’t help me save THREE LOUSY FREAKING BUCKS.
Seriously, Target? I didn’t use any four letter words when I had to call guest services because you sold me a bag of Market Pantry brand, weevil infested rice. Nor did I complain to you when the diapers I bought (up&up brand) were slathered with another human being’s chewed up gum. So, not only have I been shopping at your store & buying shoddy merchandise, I have been padding your pockets by purchasing your own brands (kindly refer to Exhibits A, B, & C, detailed below, if you are uncertain of my loyalties).
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| Exhibit C |
All my love,
Mama Kate
Exhibit A Items purchased at Target found in my purse (which I purchased from Target):
infant hoodie, teething ring, diapers, chapstick, cream eyeliner, blush, hand sanitizer, Kashi bar, & wallet.
Exhibit B Actual purchase from Target 1/18/12:
It's in a reusable Target bag, for Christ's sake!
Exhibit C How we were dressed while purchasing Exhibit B:
Items purchased from Target that you can see: sweater, dress, purse, sunglasses (both pairs), onesie. Oh, and all the window decor.
Items purchased from Target that you cannot see: flip flops, undies, diaper, toe nail polish, monitor in window sill. Oh, and a friendly farewell hand gesture.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
You give me fever
This past weekend marks my son's first serious illness. I will kindly refer to the past several days as "The time I almost divorced my husband because he wouldn't stop arguing with me over every minute detail of every situation regardless of me giving him the stink eye or that vein popping out of my forehead".
It started with the fever.
Husband: He's probably just teething.
Me: Umm, 103 fever is NOT from teething.
Husband: Well my mom said that her cousin's kids-
It was right about here that I stopped listening. Why I started listening again I haven't the foggiest.
Next day, same scenario...
Me: I think he has an ear infection, he's been touching his ear all morning.
Husband: He just likes to play with his ears, hun. It's probably just a stomach virus.
Oh, right. I forgot that Holden's one previous stomach virus made my husband an expert in this arena. I suppose on some level this is the same reason why Dr. Seuss didn't actually need to go to med school.
Because it was a Sunday, my choices were to either go to Urgent Care or wait until the following morning to see our pediatrician. As the morning dragged on, I watched my son's temperature fluctuate more than my scale does after a night of three salted margaritas too many. So, I called the husband.
Me: I think I need to take him to urgent care.
Husband: We can probably wait til tomorrow, that way we can just take him to our regular pediatrician.
Me: Ben, his fever was 104.7, he's been vomiting, and he's still tugging at his ears.
Husband: I just think we can wait til tomorrow... He-
Me: WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!
What my husband was failing to understand is that by this time tomorrow, my son would likely be 400 degrees, cooking omelettes on his forehead. So I did what any rational human being would do... I hung up on him and ignored his phonecalls. This entire scenario bore a striking resemblance to the one when I went into labor...
Me: Hun, umm... I'm pretty sure I'm in labor. My contractions are really close, so I think we should go to the hopsital.
Husband: Are you sure? Maybe it's false labor again? Maybe we should wait a bit...
Uh, until what? Until there is a baby floating in a puddle of placenta on our carpet? Oh the landlord would just looove that. Fast forward to the car ride to the hospital...
Husband: Sorry, but I feel like they are going to send us home again and this-
Me: This what? Was a waste of time? You know, if this is our "ride to the hospital" I hope you know you totally ruined it for me. It's supposed to be fun. Asshole.
Sixteen hours later I had a baby. Who knew? Oh wait, I did. Anyways, an hour later we were all at the Pediatric Urgent Care, and you can only imagine the look I gave my husband when the doctor confirmed it was indeed a bilateral ear infection. You know, that "told you so" look. Followed by much scowling & stinkeye (the combination of which translates to "Yep... you're not getting laid for a month, buddy. Maybe two"). The following 24 hours were filled with antibiotics, cold compresses, Motrin, Tylenol, bulb syringes, Vicks vaporub, thermometers, Pedialyte, ear drops, and unfortunately, suppositories. I swear I have never had to put so many things on or in so many parts of my son's body. He was beginning to feel like a pin cushion. A screaming, red, vomiting pin cushion. And I'm not sure who cried harder, me or him.
During one of his 3am fever spikes, he began vomiting again. The vomit was another point of contention between my husband and myself...
Me: Oh no, he just threw up everything we gave him...
Husband: Really? I wouldn't call that throwing up.
Seriously?! Then what would you call it? Him practicing for a very special rendition of The Excorcist? Obviously, that conversation wasn't going anywhere, so once again I fixed things the old-fashioned way and ignored him.
For three days everything felt like it was on repeat... fever, vomit, medicine, argue. Fever, vomit, medicine, argue. Add no sleep to the mix and you can see why the situation was so volatile. Although, I do have to give my husband some credit... he got up with me at 3am to help take Holden's temperature. He measured out dosages. He rocked Holden to sleep. He even did the dishes & folded some laundry, and not once did he complain. Argue like those bitches on The View, yes. But complain, no.
 |
| looking more like mommy's little mental patient... |
Husband: He's probably just teething.
Me: Umm, 103 fever is NOT from teething.
Husband: Well my mom said that her cousin's kids-
It was right about here that I stopped listening. Why I started listening again I haven't the foggiest.
Next day, same scenario...
Me: I think he has an ear infection, he's been touching his ear all morning.
Husband: He just likes to play with his ears, hun. It's probably just a stomach virus.
Oh, right. I forgot that Holden's one previous stomach virus made my husband an expert in this arena. I suppose on some level this is the same reason why Dr. Seuss didn't actually need to go to med school.
Because it was a Sunday, my choices were to either go to Urgent Care or wait until the following morning to see our pediatrician. As the morning dragged on, I watched my son's temperature fluctuate more than my scale does after a night of three salted margaritas too many. So, I called the husband.
Me: I think I need to take him to urgent care.
Husband: We can probably wait til tomorrow, that way we can just take him to our regular pediatrician.
Me: Ben, his fever was 104.7, he's been vomiting, and he's still tugging at his ears.
Husband: I just think we can wait til tomorrow... He-
Me: WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!
What my husband was failing to understand is that by this time tomorrow, my son would likely be 400 degrees, cooking omelettes on his forehead. So I did what any rational human being would do... I hung up on him and ignored his phonecalls. This entire scenario bore a striking resemblance to the one when I went into labor...
Me: Hun, umm... I'm pretty sure I'm in labor. My contractions are really close, so I think we should go to the hopsital.
Husband: Are you sure? Maybe it's false labor again? Maybe we should wait a bit...
Uh, until what? Until there is a baby floating in a puddle of placenta on our carpet? Oh the landlord would just looove that. Fast forward to the car ride to the hospital...
Husband: Sorry, but I feel like they are going to send us home again and this-
Me: This what? Was a waste of time? You know, if this is our "ride to the hospital" I hope you know you totally ruined it for me. It's supposed to be fun. Asshole.
 |
| feeling a little better. |
During one of his 3am fever spikes, he began vomiting again. The vomit was another point of contention between my husband and myself...
Me: Oh no, he just threw up everything we gave him...
Husband: Really? I wouldn't call that throwing up.
Seriously?! Then what would you call it? Him practicing for a very special rendition of The Excorcist? Obviously, that conversation wasn't going anywhere, so once again I fixed things the old-fashioned way and ignored him.
For three days everything felt like it was on repeat... fever, vomit, medicine, argue. Fever, vomit, medicine, argue. Add no sleep to the mix and you can see why the situation was so volatile. Although, I do have to give my husband some credit... he got up with me at 3am to help take Holden's temperature. He measured out dosages. He rocked Holden to sleep. He even did the dishes & folded some laundry, and not once did he complain. Argue like those bitches on The View, yes. But complain, no.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Year One
At the end of the month, we will be celebrating my son's first birthday. How the CRAP did that happen?! No seriously, where did the time go? It's hard to believe that a year ago I was pushing 200lbs and freaking out that I would be bored of my son after 15 minutes alone with him. In retrospect, it's hilarious that I thought there would be time for boredom. In honor of making it through the first year of parenthood unscathed (well, almost), I offer twelve things I have learned over the past twelve months... and if you are expecting sweet tidbits like "nothing compares to the joy of a child's smile", you've got the wrong blog.
1. Carrots look eerily similar coming out as they do going in.
2. The real reason why men age better than women: they don't spend an entire year making ridiculous faces at their babies. Frown lines, clown lines... what's the difference?
3. Going to the bathroom alone is a thing of the past.
4. Much like alcoholism, teething is a family disease.
5. Silence & glassy eyes mean a poop-filled diaper is in the near future. (These signs may make a reappearance during the teenage years, although for dramatically different reasons)
6. Cabernet is a girl's best friend.
7. Don't waste money on fancy, light-up, singing toys when electrical wires and/or cell phones will do the trick.
8. Clipping a child's finger nails is harder than taking the SATs.
9. Sleep? What sleep?
10. If you are a stay-at-home mom, it's almost a guarantee that the first thing your child will say is "dada".
11. No, that stain won't come out.
12. Okay, okay... fine. Nothing compares to the joy of a child's smile.
One year down, 17 more to go. Cheers, Holden!
1. Carrots look eerily similar coming out as they do going in.
2. The real reason why men age better than women: they don't spend an entire year making ridiculous faces at their babies. Frown lines, clown lines... what's the difference?
3. Going to the bathroom alone is a thing of the past.
4. Much like alcoholism, teething is a family disease.
5. Silence & glassy eyes mean a poop-filled diaper is in the near future. (These signs may make a reappearance during the teenage years, although for dramatically different reasons)
6. Cabernet is a girl's best friend.
7. Don't waste money on fancy, light-up, singing toys when electrical wires and/or cell phones will do the trick.
8. Clipping a child's finger nails is harder than taking the SATs.
9. Sleep? What sleep?
10. If you are a stay-at-home mom, it's almost a guarantee that the first thing your child will say is "dada".
11. No, that stain won't come out.
12. Okay, okay... fine. Nothing compares to the joy of a child's smile.
One year down, 17 more to go. Cheers, Holden!
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