Outwit, Outlast, Outparent

Before you have kids, it's so easy to be snarky about all of the crap that you WOULD NEVER DO. I would never give my baby formula! I would never put my kid on a leash! I would never rub raw meat on my toddler and push her into a lion cage! Well guess what? I've done all of those things just in the last six months! Except for the leash thing. That's just messed up.

When you watch other people with their kids, you think that every move they make must be part of some brilliant philosophy of parenting. There must be a rationale behind all of these rules they've set for their kids. As it turns out, there's no philosophy at all behind parenting- except kill or be killed.  If you aren't one step ahead of them, they will be jumping on your back and sinking their deceptively sharp baby teeth into your unshowered flesh. They can smell fear, and they won't hesitate to rip out your jugular in the middle of the supermarket and leave you to bleed to death in the baking aisle. (A good rule of thumb: Just stay out of the damn baking aisle. You don't have time to bake, only to make the dough and then eat it raw by the fistful while you hide in the laundry room. On second thought, maybe the baking aisle is ok.)

I had many ideas about parenting before I had kids, and even when I had just one baby. Those were the good old easy days. Once you have a toddlerbomb on your hands, you can hear that little ticking noise 24/7- letting you know that you are mere moments from the type of explosion that would have made Oppenheimer shed a radioactive tear of joy. Avoiding that explosion, especially in public, is now your only mission in life. (Don't get me started on the idea that if your kid melts down in the store you should just leave. Really? OK. We'll just go home and gnaw on styrofoam for dinner. Thanks for the suggestion.) The reality is, you have shit to do, and it needs to get done. And those Hurt Locker suits are really heavy and way too hot for Florida.

So you do whatever you have to do just to get through it. Just to SURVIVE. Just to get home to the next Mary Poppins-esque dance party/craft fair that you have planned using organic hemp-based paints that you sourced from a women's collective in Tamil Nadu. Or to make it home in time for the Doc McStuffins marathon.  Yeah, that too. Who cares if you have to put your kid on a leash (I did this too, by the way) or if you have to buy some cheap plastic wand that your kid points at elderly people in the paper towel aisle and screams "I WILL FREEZE YOUR HEART!" At least you are still alive. Which is more that can be said for that elderly lady in the paper towel aisle with the frozen heart. She's just screwed.

Also, go see Frozen. It's good.

A Day Without Sunshine is Like Night

There are tumbleweeds blowing through this blog.  I feel terrible about it, because it's basically the only thing that I do and it's not getting done.  Dreams of publishing the next best seller = crushed under a sh!t ton of poopy diapers.  The reality is that I don't find life all that funny right now.  There are funny moments still, just surrounded by endless drooling.  I'm drooling.  Not my kids.  I guess they probably are too though.

I've been to St. Petersburg twice in my life during White Nights, which is the time during the summer when it doesn't get dark there.  (Doesn't White Nights sound like a Moody Blues song or a KKK concert series?  Yeah, I thought so too.)  The first time I was there, I was 15 and I thought it was amazing.  Who needs sleep?  Let's just stay up all night!!!  There's no difference between night and day!  YAY!!!  The second time I was there I was 28, and I almost died.  Why in the hell is there no difference between day and night?  I need to sleep!!!  You see my point.  Five years on from that and I am living in permanent White Nights. (NOT the KKK concert series.)  There is no difference between night and day.  I am always awake, wiping butts and taking names.  And it's killing me.

The funny thing about sleep deprivation is nothing.  There's nothing funny or redeeming about it.  It makes me feel drunk, but without any fun keg stands or tight black pants.  It just sucks.  Maybe someday soon my baby will decide to sleep again and I will start writing.  I'm guessing maybe 14 or 15 years from now?  I think that's a solid estimate.  

You bet your ass I'll bet on my ass!

I can't even read that title, so I'm sure no one else can, either.  Whatever- deal with it.  What I am trying to say is that I recently ventured into the next frontier of weight loss- wait for it- the "social" diet.

When I moved to Florida, I thought I was a reasonable looking person.  Not super thin, but decently put together.  And then I looked around.  Women here are THIN.  I don't know if the excessive heat melts the fat off, or if having to spend 364 days a year in a bikini is enough to ruin appetites, but something about this place makes it just full of skinny women.  Is this where ex-yoga teachers come to retire since the environment so closely resembles one of those crazy hot rooms that they torture people in?  Is my town full of women who aged out of playing Jasmine in Disney on Ice?  Wherever they're coming from, they're all hot.  Damn it.

Because I am decidedly NOT hot, I decided that maybe I should do something about my outlook and my Dunlop (if you're unfamiliar with that term, it means that your stomach dunlopped over your belt) and find something inspiring online.  That's when I stumbled onto DietBet (www.dietbetter.com) - the hottest sensation sweeping, well, me.  When you join a DietBet, you essentially wager money that you can lose 4% of your body weight in a month.  For the DietBet that I joined, that worked out to 7.5 pounds, and I bet $25.  If I lose the weight, I am guaranteed to at least make the money I bet back.  If I lose and other people don't, I get their money, too.  So now not only can you fail at losing weight, but you can lose money too!  Sounds like the most depressing idea in human history- right up there with Leprosy and the cancellation of My So-Called Life.

Luckily for me, I only function under this kind of pressure.  Left to my own devices, I will procrastinate WAY beyond the point of reason and never start anything.  With money on the line, you bet your ass I will try to lose some of my ass.  And lose some of my ass I did.  Eight pounds of it, to be exact.  I'm pretty sure all eight pounds of it was not lost from my actual ass though, just to be clear.   The only ass that can handle that amount of fluctuation in a month belongs to the owner of the Northwest Passage.  (That's a veiled reference to Kim Kardashian's lady parts, for anyone wondering.)  I think that a little of my Dunlop is gone, and the second to last toe on my right foot seems just a tiny bit thinner.  All in all, I'd call that a success.

How much money did I win?  I bet that's the entire reason you're still reading this, huh?  Jerk.  Joke's on you, I don't even know yet. The DietBet gods need 24 to 36 hours to deliver one of those giant checks to my house.  I'll report back, probably from Dubai where I plan on investing my new fortune in a series of ill-conceived Nathan's Famous Hot Dog locations.  

TO BE CONTINUED when I find out how much I won!!!!!!!  Try not to stroke out from the excitement!!!!!

Eleven Ways That Parenthood is Just Like a 1990 New Kids on the Block Concert

1.  Sure, the ticket only cost $22.  But the requisite t-shirt is $49 and a button the size of a dinner plate is $16.99.  By the time you pay for all of the extra crap, you're a grand in the hole before the thing even starts.

2.  If Bobby Brown is hanging around, something has gone terribly awry.

3.  Your shoes stick to the floor. With. Every. Step. Likely a mixture of adolescent tears and Sunny D.

4.  You find a soggy cheerio in your bra.  Wait, that's just parenthood.

5.  The shrieking.  Oh god, the shrieking.

6.  There's a fiery redhead in leather chaps who seems to be hanging around an awful lot- here's hoping it's just Tiffany.

7.  The youngest one is the cutest.  It's OK to admit it.

8.  What is that on the floor of the bathroom?  Phlegm?  Wet paper towel?  GoGurt?

9.  There is just so much crying.  Is it happy crying?  Is it sad crying?  It's pointless to try to figure it out- just ignore it.

10.  "Step by step, ooh baby, gonna get to you girl."  Yep, you're getting to me all right.

11.  At the end of the night, you stumble to bed bewildered, ears ringing, reeking of Electric Youth.  Best day ever.

When you wish upon a star, wish for the inventor of Fastplay to burn in hell.

At some point while I wasn't paying attention, this blog reached 10,000 page views.  Now, I know for a fact that some of those page views are coming from spammers in Russia.  But who cares- aren't Russian robots people too?  I say they are, and welcome them to the Snark Side family.  Also, I have spent three or four entire days just clicking on my own posts to drive the stats up.  You can't win the election if you don't vote for yourself- that's what I say.  In any event, a whole mess of people have read this blog since it began, and I am very thankful for that.  This blog gives me an outlet to both spread my crazy to the world, and also to act as birth control for several of you.  I am honored- and I'm now also considered an "in-network provider" by several insurance companies.  The more horrifying tales I tell, the fewer of you pop out expensive babies who will also cause you to seek extensive psychotherapy on a fairly regular basis for 18 years straight.  I'm humbled, really I am.

Now that I have your ear, can I warn those childless readers about one of the single biggest threats to human sanity????  Once you have kids, you will quickly discover that they can be super annoying- and can keep you from even the simplest of tasks.  I once spent an entire day trying to wash ONE dish.  Just one.  Once you realize you can't accomplish anything with minions underfoot, you will lay rubber all over the road to the nearest store and snap up every un-vaulted Disney movie you can get your drool-encrusted hands on.  (DON'T get me started about the damn Disney vault.  Gee, let's make it impossible to buy our products!  Sounds like a winning business formula to me!)  You will throw that movie into the bluray so fast that you'll have to use a blowtorch to melt the security packaging off.  And press the movie in.  And wait.

What you'll see is one of world's true human rights violations.  A kind voice will tell you "This DVD is equipped with Disney's Fastplay."  Oh, awesome, you think.  A fast way to just get to the movie. I'll click on that.  Thanks, Disney.  You've clearly recognized that I am a stretched parent with little time on my hands, and you've decided to make at least one thing in my life fast.  I really appreciate that.

WRONG.  WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.  Fastplay takes longer than childbirth.  And I'm talking about my 30 and 24 hour labors- not your six hour bullshit.  9,237 previews later, as your child is screaming and waving some type of small axe-like toy, you realize you're an idiot.  "Fastplay" actually means 900 previews, four commercials, more previews (likely for movies you can't even buy) and then finally- the actual menu of the movie.  Now, you're probably saying, who cares?  Shut your trap and watch some previews.  (You're saying that to me though, not my kids.  Say that to my kids and I'll shank your ass.)  Let me tell you why it matters.

It matters because it's wrong to lie.  It's wrong to offer battle-weary parents something "fast" and then yank it away.  It's wrong to sit in your swanky little office in Orlando and leave us to deal with the "BUT THIS ISN'T MY MOVIE!!!  WHERE'S MY MOVIE???!!!???  I WANT AURORA!!!!  MAKE IT PLAY AURORA!!!!  I WANT GOLDFISH!!!!!  MY SHOES HURT!!!" and so on and so forth- headlong into total meltdown.

Thanks for ruining my day, Disney.  You really know how to drive me right to the brink of mental ruin and threaten everything I hold dear.  Don't worry though, I will soon visit you and spend $4,400 on half-day passes.  Per person.  Can't wait!  Seriously though, I can't wait.

Apples to Apples, Dust to Dust

My house is dusty as holy heck.  There was a swear there, but I took it out because I swear too much.  It's dusty, and we just moved in.  Where does the dust come from?  What does it want from me?  Sometimes I like to write messages in it and see how long they last- some have reached heiroglyph status.  I don't know how to spell heiroglyph, which is pathetic if you consider that I have a degree in archaeology. I have dusty furniture, and a degree in archaeology that I've never used.  And an unfinished MA in archaeology, if you want to get really depressing.  And I'm not athletic.  Or crafty.  I'm just a little bit flabby.  Sometimes I go months without touching my eyebrows.  There's a rather large gecko in my closet.  Etc.

What is my point?  That I like to whine?  That's true, I also whine way too much, and I have nothing to whine about.  I have no idea what to do with my life.  I have no skills and no talent.  And so on, and so forth.

These thoughts have consumed me lately- and basically paralyzed me.  I don't hate myself per se.  I think I'm reasonably intelligent, and I know that I am a "good" person- whatever the hell that means.  I know if I tripped an old man, I'd help him get up.  It's been eons since I punched a baby.  But I don't LIKE myself, and that's a huge problem.

I took my kids to a very large playgroup at a church yesterday- think 75 kids.  As we walked around, I was practically vomiting from self-consciousness.  I was standing weird, or staring at something, or thinking that maybe I just stole this chair from someone and now everyone is talking about how much they hate me.  UGH.  But what about all of the other women there?  Were they awkward too?  Of course not- they were all amazing.

One lady had just come from the gym, and looked so athletic.  One was helping the little kids with crafts and was just so friendly.  One had the prettiest red curly hair.  Another one was clearly giving very thoughtful advice to her friend.  They were all just so amazing.  Then there was me- awkward, slightly fat, spit up stained, one unshaven leg ME.  A total mess, with all of the aforementioned flaws, plus 9,000 others.  Why am I such a disaster and everyone else is so amazing?

The answer, of course, is that they are not amazing.  Or maybe they are.  Who knows.  They could be terrible human beings.  But for whatever reason, the first thing I look for in THEM is the good.  The first thing and only thing I look for in ME is the bad.  I would never look at someone and think they are fat, or messy, or loud.  I don't go over to someone's house and decide that they are a bad person because their TV is dusty.  So why do I think those things about myself?  Why do I compare myself to some mystical version of myself that has never existed?  The Mary-Ellen that carries a unicorn while running a marathon through a field of four leaf clovers?  The non federally imprisoned Martha Stewart Mary-Ellen?  Those people don't exist.

Someday, I will start giving myself the benefit of the doubt and stop comparing myself to people I know nothing about.  People who are probably just as self conscious as I am.  People who could be serial killers, but MAN, they have some nice shoes on today!  Somewhere, in a women's prison camp, there is probably someone saying "Wow, I really wish I was just like Mary-Ellen!  She has it all."  And that crazy, hooch-drinking former prostitute is right!  I do have it all.  But that jumpsuit does wonders for her complexion.  I wish I had a nice complexion like that.  DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Pin now, read later! You'll be so glad you did!!!!

Pinterest can kiss my ass.  I mean, I like it.  I swear I do.  I'm not on there every day, but it does help me keep track of things I find online and want to remember to daydream about buying.  But in all honesty, is it really HELPING me in any way?  Have I ever made a cupcake pyramid in the shape of the Magic Kingdom using only gluten free ingredients and locally sourced non-gmo bamboo toothpicks?  Hells no.  I can't even remember to BUY cupcakes on the unusual days that I actual attempt to leave the house to procure food for my family.  I'm lucky if everyone makes it into the car, into the store and back home again.  The other day, we actually left the baby in the dining room.  Strapped in her car seat.  And almost drove away.  So forgive me if the thought of making homemade tampons from organic hemp fiber seems like a bit of a stretch.

I see what other people pin on there.  Great outfits.  Beautiful kitchens.  Hilarious musings from the Dalai Lama, set against a picture of a mountain.  It all seems very worthwhile, and I know I SHOULD care.  I should care that I've been wearing the same outfit for three days, or that there is a dried chunk of spit up in my hair, or that I just got out the giant Dyson and dragged it the entire way across the house to suck up a microscopic ant.  But I don't.  I just don't.  I will never "be so happy that I pinned this" illustrated eleven step guide to how to lance a boil.  I will never rip the bumper off an old Volvo to make a head board that doubles as an herb garden.

I'll tell you what I WILL do- I will wake up tomorrow, microwave my kid a frozen pancake, play Candy Crush while I'm brushing my teeth, make the dog pee in the landscaping because the baby is already screaming and we haven't even walked out yet, make some Easy Mac, hand my kid a sharpie and 3/4 of a piece of computer paper, pretend I don't notice the empty juice box under the couch, use the pool skimmer to swat at a mosquito, buy a rotisserie chicken and pretend I cooked, spray lysol all over the diaper pail until I choke from the fumes, throw my dirty clothes onto the recliner next to the bed, and finally- wake up at 1:30 am realizing that my contacts are still in.  Is there a pin for that???

On a related note, there is a Pinterest board for this blog!  How deliciously ironic.  Wouldn't you love to see it???? http://pinterest.com/maryellenhealy/thesnarkside-blogspot-com-humor/

Get it While it's HOT

I don't have access to a computer right now, so you'll have to suffer with just mobile crap. Please  Like my new page,  The Snark Side on Facebook !!!

You Snooze, You Lose All of Your Worldly Possessions

Remember how the first kid to fall asleep at the sleepover was ruthlessly harassed?  Shaving cream on the hand, male anatomy drawn on the face with a black sharpie, roofies in the martini- you know, the usual.  When you become a parent, you realize that all of these pranks would work great on an unsuspecting toddler- especially one with a very limited long term memory. 

Not as illegal as roofies but equally sadistic is what I call the "Nap Purge" whereby I start throwing sh!t away the second my kid falls asleep.  Early on, I made the rookie mistake of throwing these cherished items in the kitchen trash, only to have them rediscovered and placed back in the playroom- now covered in trash juice and e coli.  It didn't take me long to realize I needed a more secure dump site- and because I am a genius, I found it. 

What is the one place in your house that is so vile that neither man nor beast dares approach?  The one place that no one would ever look for their prized possessions? That's right, the diaper pail.  It didn't take me long to figure out that I could dispose of absolutely anything in the diaper pail and it would be gone forever.  Murder weapons, forged tax returns, drug money- it all just disappears in the diaper pail.  I may not have a Diaper Genie per se, but this diaper pail is equally magical and requires fewer scented refills.

My kid fell asleep at 11 am today which is unusually dangerous, since I still have energy at 11 am.  I immediately started scanning the room to prepare for the Nap Purge, and this day did not disappoint.  In the pail today: two busted pairs of ratty princess shoes, one sneaker missing a match, a Happy Meal toy that once resembled a Transformer, a shredded tutu, 46 markers with mismatched caps, and one hot pink lava lamp.  

When my child awakes, she will be blissfully unaware that anything is amiss.  She'll never remember that stepped-on ping pong ball that she's been carrying around for the last two months and calling Mr. Toodles.  She'll soon forget the ripped piece of diaper box that was the princess castle bed.  But you know what?  A few more naps and I may just be able to see my living room floor again.  In the world of parenting, that's what we like to call winning.

The Biggest Little State of Child Endangerment

Well, since it looks like nothing funny is going to happen to me any time soon, let's revisit THIS award winner from the Healy Parenting Hall of Fame.

This little beauty took place in the summer of 2011 in Newport, Rhode Island.  Tim dropped me, Meredith, and a friend off at our favorite restaurant, which was PACKED- mainly with people who looked like they were walking with a Brooks Brothers blazer shoved up their behind.  The navy blue kind with the gold buttons.  If you've been to Newport, you get what I mean.  We managed to get a table right away, but Tim was still trying to find a parking spot.  Approximately 5 seconds after sitting down, my child developed a strong to quite strong demonic possession.  I panicked.  I started to sweat.  Preppies and hipsters and Donna Reed types were everywhere, breathing down my neck. 

Apparently, I had made the unfortunate mistake of thinking that I was still entitled to eat food in public after giving birth.  I thought "You know what?  This screaming child is not going to hold me hostage.  I'm going to live my life, damn it!"  Stupid, stupid Mary-Ellen.  I should have just ordered hot tea and dumped it on my forehead- that would have been much less painful than what happened next.

The waiter, who was definitely a 21 year old college guy who had just had his legs put back down after a keg stand, asked if we would like to order.  NO.  NO IS THE ANSWER.  RUN.  RUN NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN.  "Yeah, we'll go ahead and order."  Oh, how young and stupid I was then, a whole (less than) two years ago.

I don't remember much of what came next.  I know that it took Tim another 30 minutes to find a parking space, which turned out to be 12 nautical miles away, off the coast of Long Island.  I know that the screams from the demon child got louder.  I know she threw things.  I know she was foaming at the mouth, and I know that the preppies were choking on their brioche in horror.  I don't know what brioche is, but it sounds pretty preppy. Tim eventually showed up.  Our food still wasn't out after another 30 minutes.  I asked the waiter to just pack it to go and we would leave.  He kept insisting "your food will be out in a minute!" Yeah ok, if a minute is the length of the Cretaceous Period.  Whole species evolved and were made extinct by meteor impacts in the time it took for this food to come out. 

We finally figured that there was but once way to silence the beast- and you're looking at it.  Is it dangerous to put your toddler on the window sill while holding her with two hands?  Not really.  Is it safe to do it with one hand and eat with the other?  Nope.  Is it appropriate for an eatery full of women named Muffy who are sipping Grey Goose Bloody Marys?  Um, no.  Sometimes you do what you have to do, no matter how dangerous or ill conceived.  Thankfully, I remembered to take a picture- you know, just in case I ever started a blog about what a disastrous and irresponsible parent I am.  But the real person who should be thankful?  That waiter.  I hear he had a vasectomy less than 24 hours later.  You're welcome.

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

 I have a problem.

Nothing funny is happening to me. 

Nothing at all. 

This blog is dead.

Send help.



Now you're mad you clicked on this, since there was nothing funny to read.



Sucker.

Fricking Fracking GAS.

I was on some website yesterday that had a poll about environmental issues. It was something along the lines of: "What is your single biggest concern about the environment?" and the usual suspects were there- global warming, water pollution, etc. I skimmed the list and saw "f@cking" was one of the choices. My first thought was "Hey, what consenting adults do in the bedroom is really their business..." until I realized it said FRACKING. Well played, poll, well played. Now you have my attention.

 I realized when I saw that word that I only kinda sorta know what it is. Something about rock and gas? Wasn't there some movie about people who can light their tap water on fire? In fairness, we can do that here in Worcester and I'm pretty sure there's no fracking going on. I decided to look up what it really is, and this is what I found: "A slang term for hydraulic fracturing. Fracking refers to the procedure of creating fractures in rocks and rock formations by injecting fluid into cracks to force them further open. The larger fissures allow more oil and gas to flow out of the formation and into the wellbore, from where it can be extracted."

 As soon as I read that, I had an epiphany. A real epiphany. THIS is what has been keeping me up at night. Injecting fluid (in this case Sam's Club generic infant formula) to tap into a reserve of natural gas (in this case the large intestine of my offspring) that then flows out of the formation (read: a butt) from where it can be extracted from a newborn sized Pampers Swaddler??? Story of my life right now! You see, I have spent the past week awake every morning at 5 am while my infant taps into her own store of natural gas. Who knew a nine pound baby could harbor so much methane? Who knew that it could erupt in such a manner that it could jolt me out of a two-Unisom coma? And most importantly, who knew that the Sierra Club would take such a huge interest in infant flatulence?

 How can I make this stop???? Because honestly, losing two hours of sleep every single day of my life is a little bit more concerning that global warming. Glaciers, or a well rested Mary-Ellen? I think it's obvious which is more important. Besides, if there were no glaciers, the Titanic never would have sunk and Leonardo DiCaprio would still be alive. Think about THAT for a minute and tell me you're still against global warming. Yeah, I thought so.

The Last Time I Beat My Laundry on a Rock was Never.

Disclosure: This is kind of a serious post.  I know that is unexciting, but you can suck it up and deal.  This post is addressed primarily to the mothers/someday mothers who read this blog, but also applies in most cases to the fathers.  Yes, I am making assumptions about the people who come here to read this- but I would venture to guess that I am right in about 90% of cases, since I am kind of a genius. So here it is:

I have read SO MANY articles lately on the same subject.  Can we as women have it all?  Can we have successful careers and still be able to remember our kid's middle name?  Should I wear my baby in a Bjorn to the office cocktail party so I don't miss a single second of networking?  Should you I be pumping in an abandoned warehouse behind my office building?  Should I be paying $27,000 a month for daycare?  Are these lima beans organic and free from GMOs?  I am six months pregnant and still haven't made it to a prenatal Gymboree class, will my child end up homeless?

These are the insane questions that seem to plague the women of my generation.  Do I lean in?  Or stand up?  Or if I get drunk enough, could I do a cartwheel?  Conflicting advice comes at us from all sides.  We should take 12 weeks of maternity leave, or two. The internet is full of equal parts sanctimommies and complete trainwreck moms, and both are getting book deals.  So what are we supposed to think?  Can we have it all?  Or is it way more fun to be a complete mess and laugh about it?

I have thought about this question a LOT lately.  Can I have it all?  Do I already have it all?  What in the hell is "all"???  My original answer to this question was this: No, of course you can't have it all.  If you think you can, you are probably high.  But then I started thinking about it, and really dissecting what "all" is, and I changed my mind.  Here is my answer.

YES, you can have it all.  And I would guess that 95% of people reading this blog already do.  Allow me to explain.

1.  You are likely reading this blog on a computer you own, or that your employer provides and on which you spend four hours a day reading Buzzfeed.  What's more, 32% of the page views in the history of this blog have been on an iphone or ipad.  Give yourself extra privilege points if you have a Lilly Pulitzer case for your iphone 5- now you're just rubbing it in.

2.  If you're reading this blog, you can READ.  Score one for you right there.

3.  I would guess that 99% of people who read this blog have a high school diploma.  Probably at least 75% of you have a college degree.  You received this education in spite of the fact that you are a woman.  You probably had to stand up and declare "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" fewer than five times during your entire college interview process.

4.  You have a house or an apartment, or some other respectable form of shelter.  This house has HOT running water that you can drink from the tap, electricity 24/7, and heat.  Most of you have air conditioning (though some of you live in New Hampshire, so all bets are off).  I would guess that your kids all have their own beds.  Whether they actually sleep in them or not is a question for another day.

5.  If you gave birth to your own kids, you likely did so in a sanitary, accredited hospital.  You survived, as did your baby.  If you're smart, you were drugged to within an inch of your life.  If you're really smart, you worked a tummy tuck in there.

6.  You CHOSE to marry your spouse.  No one forced you to.  You may even have a ring worth roughly the Gross Domestic Product of a developing nation on your ring finger.  If you chose your spouse unwisely, you have the legal right to divorce that scumbag- and sell the ring on ebay.

I could go on, but I think you see my point.  99% of people reading this blog already DO have it all- or at least more than women in previous generations could have dreamed.  No, you can't be at work 200 hours a week and also spend eight hours a day with your kids doing Pinterest craft projects.  You can't tuck your kids into bed while you're on a business trip.  And you never will be able to.  While I agree that there is still a long way to go to make this country fair to women, we already have about a bazillion advantages that women in other parts of the world could never even dream of.

The next time I am trying to figure out if I should lean in (FYI: Every time I try to lean in, I pull a hammy) I will try to remember the insane number of advantages I already have.  The hours that I don't have to spend beating my laundry on a rock or walking three miles to a well will likely be spent taking my kids to the park or choosing between 46 different duvet covers at HomeGoods.  On the way home, I'll probably end up in the Dunkin Donuts drive through, since that's the law in three New England states.  I am driving a car that I own, with my healthy children inside, while sipping a large Vanilla Bean Coolatta.  I'm pretty sure I already have it all.

Gone Squatchin

As any new parent of an infant will tell you, there is nothing more horrifying/glorious than the first time your kid sleeps for way longer than you were expecting.  You go to bed, ready to drag yourself back to consciousness in two or three hours.  But then something odd happens.  You wake up, spend three minutes trying to read the clock before you remember that you wear glasses and can't see the broad side of a barn without them- and then you have a moment.  You realize that the clock says 4:30.  Is it 4:30 pm?  Why is it so dark?  Is this the apocalypse?  Are their zombies?  Is this some kind of worldwide blackout that will cause us to form a new world order and fight each other with bayonets?  No, no.  Okay, it's 4:30 AM.  Wait, WHAT????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????  It's 4:30 AM???????  But I went to sleep at 10:30 PM!!!!!!!!!!!!  This can't be.  This simply cannot be!  OH MY GOD, MY BABY WAS KIDNAPPED/IS DEAD/WAS ACCIDENTALLY LEFT IN THE CAR.  Ok, now wait, it looks like the baby is right there in the bassinet.  Ok, well she can't be breathing.  Well actually, she does appear to be breathing.  Maybe someone else fed her?  Proceed to wake up everyone else in your house to confirm that no one else fed her.  Ok, no one did?  SO YOU'RE TELLING ME THIS BABY JUST SLEPT FOR SIX HOURS IN A ROW???????????????!!!!!!!!!!!??????????????? (this needs to be screamed loudly enough to wake the baby, by the way.)

Yes, it's true.  An infant just slept for 6 hours in a row.  During the actual night time.  Without being held.  While you yourself were also asleep.  This, my friends, is the ninth wonder of the world.  I don't know how many actual wonders of the world there are, but let's just call this the ninth.  It's like finding a yeti in your garage.  Or finding a baby Loch Ness Monster in your kiddie pool.  It's maybe even better than hitting a chupacabra with your Miata.  This is the brass ring- your One Shining Moment.  Life will never get more magical, so drink it in.  Celebrate you will, cause life is short but sweet for certain.

Plus, tomorrow you'll find dried poop on your elbow and you'll be right back in the trenches.

Threat Level: Pink

I bought my plane tickets for our move last night, which was surreal but also exciting.  This is a huge move for us- Florida might as well be another country compared to Massachusetts.  Add a new job and buying a house we've never set foot in before, and I need a xanax and a gin and tonic- hold the tonic and pour some scotch for good measure.  Actually, what I really want is one of those giant margaritas with the beer bottle stuck in it, except instead of a beer bottle, it should be a tequila bottle.  I want a drink that looks like something Snooki would finish off right before being arrested.  But I digress.

It's just TWO HOURS.  I just keep telling myself that I only have to survive for TWO HOURS.  Just survive for two hours, and keep us off of the No Fly List.  If you see a crazy woman next to you in the security line muttering "Just don't get tasered.  Just don't get tasered." that would be me.  Here's a little run down of the procedure in 30 steps or less:

1. Take off my shoes and put in the bin.  Notice that socks are covered in dog hair.  Gag.
2.  Take off Meredith's shoes and put in the bin.  Immediately notice a foul odor emminating from them- try to pretend you don't smell it even as a woman behind you begins to retch.  Ask TSA lady if she's ok to go through with her tutu on or if it needs to come off.  Be told it needs to come off, and it needs its own bin.
3.  Take out ipad, put in a separate bin.  Tantrum.
4.  Take baby out of car seat.  Smack her head into the carry handle, as usual.
5.  (now holding the baby) Remove car seat from stroller.  Notice a strange brown liquid pooled in the seat.
6.  (still holding the baby) Fold stroller flat.
7.  Take off diaper bag and put it on the belt.
8.  Push impossibly long chain of shoes and tutus and stroller and car seat through tiny hole (wait, this is like giving birth!!!)
9.  Lose at least two things off the side and knock the baby's head on the conveyer while trying to pick them up.
10.  Watch as a 20 year old man stands behind me and does absolutely nothing to help.  THANKS, A-HOLE!!!!!!
11.  Realize the boarding passes are in the diaper bag that's already gone into the tiny hole.
12.  Have the guy standing at the metal detector roll his eyes and say "Just come on through, ma'am."
13.  Push Meredith through first- watch her run to the nearest Hudson News and abscond with a bag of M&Ms and last month's Maxim.
14. Walk through with the baby and set off the alarm.
15. Submit to a full body molestation, during which they discover absolutely nothing that would have set off the alarm.
16. Walk back to the conveyer, where your chain of shit has totally backed up the entire line and pissed everyone off- except for a 70 year old woman who will come up to you and say "Enjoy them, they grow up so fast!" Like maybe by the end of this flight?  Please?
17.  Unfold the stroller.
18.  Attach the car seat to the stroller.
19.  Ignore the pool of brown liquid in the carseat and stick the baby in there. (Tell yourself it's ok because "she'll get a bath tonight.")
20.  Go to put the ipad back into the diaper bag, realize the bag is missing.
21.  Put both sets of shoes back on.  100% chance that Meredith's are on the wrong feet.  40% chance that mine are on the wrong feet.
22.  Discover the TSA man is holding the diaper bag and saying "Ma'am, do you have liquids in here?"
23. "Just a bottle of tequila."
24.  Actually yes, you have bottles with formula in them, which now must be scanned by a little wand with paper over them to make sure that they do indeed contain formula, and not liquid nitrogen.
25.  Unscrew the tops of all bottles, dropping at least one nipple onto the athlete's foot ridden floor.
26.  Put the bottles back together, put them back into the bag and put the ipad into the bag. Toddler will now scream "I want the IPAD!!!!!!" and throw an extra fun tantrum, on account of the sugar from the  M&Ms.
27.  Put the diaper bag back on, begin choking back sobs.
28.  Walk to gate- discover flight is canceled.
29. Realize that you forgot to pick up the bin with the tutu- tell Meredith that Santa had to come and borrow the tutu because the Easter Bunny needs it to make magic eggs, but that he will bring it back during the fireworks on the Fourth of July.  That's the standard procedure in these situations.
30.  Make mental note to always pack a back up tutu in the future.

Lots of Swearing, With Some Pooping Mixed in for Good Measure

I am seriously considering renaming this blog "Just for Shits and Giggles" and I probably would, if I could stand looking at the word "shits" every time I logged in.  Shits and giggles- those two words are the story of my life right now.  I have one who giggles, and one who shits.  My favorite part is when the one who giggles is giggling because it's just SO funny when the other one shits.  Because she doesn't have to clean it up.

I had forgotten just how many tiny diapers these newborns can go through in a day- and frankly, it surprises me that the city doesn't tack on some kind of "shit tax" to haul away all of the toxicity.  Though I am 99% sure that if you mentioned it to a Massachusetts lawmaker, that tax would be on the books in less than a year.  "I really want to move to Amherst, and I found a house I really like, but MAN, their shit tax rate is really high there."  I can hear it now.

Maybe I should start cloth diapering- or maybe I should just cover my whole living room in plastic sheeting and let it ride.  I think that could work, if I get a poncho and some rubber gloves.  Plus, our new house has tile floors- so then we won't even need the plastic tarps- just a giant squeegee and a bunch of lysol spray!  And then we don't have to take the dog out anymore either!  What's the worst that could happen?  Oh, cholera?  Yeah, you're probably right.

Semester Abroad: We're Doing it Wrong

Amanda Knox- aka Foxy Knoxy- has been all over the news lately.  I find her to be a very interesting character, not so much because of the murder, but because she basically admits to being a whorish pot head, and I find that refreshing.  In reality, I think she's probably much more like the average American college kid studying abroad- minus the whole "getting charged with the gruesome orgy-murder of your roommate" angle.  Thankfully, that doesn't happen very often.

The scientific survey I just conducted in my own mind says that at least 87% of college students sign up to go abroad purely to drink underage.  It's just science, and you can't argue with science.  If you think your 19 year old son wants to go to Amsterdam because he really loves windmills and wooden shoes, let me enlighten you- he likes smoking pot while sitting under windmills eating BBQ Lays, and he's fine with wooden shoes as long as a naked hooker is wearing them.  But hey, this study abroad program is approved by BU!

Seriously though, your pot smoking, hooker loving son is actually pretty likable and cool.  Why do you want to send him to Europe?  Even Foxy Knoxy seems pretty likable, assuming she isn't actually an orgy murderer.  You know who's NOT very likable?  A psychotic three year old.  That's what I have on my hands right now.

Which leads me to my brilliant proposal: SEMESTER ABROAD FOR THREE YEAR OLDS.  Why send the cool, older kids away?  Let's send the rabid, seething, hair pulling, completely mental three year old to Europe for a few months.  This is the worst year of childhood, right?  That's what everyone keeps telling me.  So let's just skip it!  I think Meredith would be much better off with a family in Barcelona who is always half drunk on red wine and who doesn't speak any English.  I'm sure that they probably even let three year olds actually drink red wine there too, which would really help.  Plus, she might even come back with a really great paella recipe.  Isn't that motivation enough???

The person who invented the phrase "terrible twos" was basically a moron, as far as I'm concerned.  Or their kid wasn't three yet.  We are still a month out from Meredith's third birthday, and I can already tell that this upcoming year is going to be MADDENING.  She threw a tantrum in her carseat today, because she asked me why there were cars on a big truck.  I told her that they were new cars, headed for the car store to be sold.  "BUT I WANT OLD CARS!!!!!!!!!!!  ONLY OLD CARS!!!!!!!!!!!  NOT NEW CARS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and started smacking the window and foaming at the mouth.

Hmm, I wonder how much airfare is to Barcelona is these days...

Post Partum Post

This blog almost, and I mean ALMOST, died.  I almost decided to chuck it out- but then I decided that would be like throwing the baby out with the bath water.  Seeing as how I have no idea what that expression means, and it sounds terrible, I decided not to do it.

So here I am- back from the birth-giving dead.  I did it- I gave birth.  I survived.  And then I got really sick, didn't eat for three days, had to go to the ER and get prescriptions for Zofran and Ibuprofens the size of nuclear submarines.  I was told that my blood pressure was too high 9,546 times, which subsequently raised my blood pressure by at least 100 points.  But all in all, it was a pretty painless experience.

HAHAHAHA, no it was not.  Not at all.  In fact, it was the most pain I have ever experienced.  I am not going to go into gory details, since some of you are men and therefore incapable of handling it.  But let's just say that my water broke on Sunday morning, I was on Pitocin without an epidural for 12 hours, my epidural wore off after 4 hours, my epidural was "topped off" and then I fainted when I realized I couldn't feel my legs.

Who has two thumbs and faints while already lying down?  This girl.

But, a very short (and by short I mean excruciatingly long) 24 hours after my water broke, I managed to give birth to a tiny human.  She's pretty darn cute, if I do say so myself.  I may even get my act together enough to post a picture at some point.  It's been a week, so you know I've taken 65,473 pictures already.

Hopefully, I will find the motivation to start posting again, now that I have nothing to do.  I just have to take care of an infant, a three year old, buy a house in Florida that I've never seen in a city I've never visited, pack our current house, move temporarily to South Carolina, and then move to Florida- all in the next 90 days.  So not much going on here at all. *sobs silently into pillow*

Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Misery

I'm really sick of hearing about percents.  First I was sick of hearing about the 99% movement.  I guess I'm supposed to be supportive of the whole Occupy movement, but I'm just not.  I mean, I didn't go down and throw rocks at anyone.  But I also couldn't help but feel like the whole thing was one giant waste of time.  Though I haven't checked lately, I'm guessing there are still people camped out somewhere, peeing in buckets and eating six month old granola out of a thermos.  I just don't get it, sorry. 

Next, I was REALLY SUPER sick of hearing about Mitt's 47%.  I mean, honestly.  Politicians wouldn't be politicians if they didn't say all sorts of crazy shit.  Especially when they don't know they're on camera.  I'm pretty sure that a former mayor of DC was smoking crack with hookers on hidden camera- now THAT'S interesting.  I'd like to see Mitt Romney doing a keg stand while a bikini-clad Nancy Pelosi holds his legs up.  That would hold my attention.  But just declaring that you don't really give a crap about 47% of Americans?  Big whoop.  I don't care about 96% of Americans, and that's on a good day.  

But the number one percent I want to kick in the ass?  The 5%.  That's the percent of women who give birth on their actual due date.  Actually, LESS than 5% of women give birth on their due date- and that's just depressing to me- since today IS my due date.  If this baby would just come out, maybe I could be doing keg stands with Mitt.  Or peeing in a bucket in Central Park.  Or smoking crack with one of the numerous hookers I know.  But instead, I'm stuck bouncing on some damn yoga ball, waddling endless laps, and crushing up and snorting Zantac 150.  FIVE PERCENT???  Damn it, who is behind these statistics?  Whoever they are, I have 10 hours left to prove them wrong- and I intend to do so.  Does anyone have Marion Barry's number?  And do you think he has a hookup for pitocin???

Nope.

Is it normal to be completely terrified over having your SECOND baby?  See the answer in the title of this post.  And yet, I am completely terrified for so many reasons.  I just keep telling myself that no one ever died from child birth.  (Damn- that's not true, is it?)  No one ever died from having an infant and a two year old.  Though I'm sure some have been committed to an institution.  As Blanche Deveraux once said, "No one in my family has ever seen a psychiatrist, except of course when they were institutionalized."

Let us all bow our heads and pray for my sanity.  OK seriously though, I just did actually bow my head and pray, and my kid walked into my bedroom and handed me an Oreo McFlurry.  Maybe there IS something to this "faith" stuff!!!

Careful, Don't Choke on that Pyongyang!

I just saw this completely authentic and undoctored photo of Dear Leader Jr. and it got me thinking...

I wonder what other toys my kid loves that are really Weapons of Mass Destruction?  This particular toy, the Stomp Rocket, has yet to cause any permanent injury or breakage to anything in our house- and we've had it since Christmas.  No, you're not supposed to use it inside.  But do you know how cold it is out there?  I'd rather risk a scratched cornea than spend 25 minutes putting my kid into snow pants.  Unless Un has some kind of Nerf/Smallpox hybrid warhead on that thing, I don't think it's very dangerous.

But what toys HAVE injured my kid?  Maybe that's the question I should be asking.  

First of all, the plastic car.  You know, this thing.  



Turns out, if your push your tiny child really fast in it, they can fall out the bottom and the car can run them over, and you can accidentally step on their head.  No matter how fast they move their little Flinstone feet, they apparently can't keep up with a 31 year old woman running full speed and not looking.  Duly noted.

Second of all, THIS.




This is an actual photo of my child being fully burritoed by a playmat.  "What's the real danger here?" you ask?  Well, sometimes I get hungry, and I happen to love burritos.

And finally, this death contraption:



This has killed so many babies that it's been recalled once a week for each of the last 896 consecutive weeks.  Yes, when you put your baby in it on the stovetop while you're skillet-frying chicken, I can see the danger.  When you lash it to the back of your snowmobile, I can see how injuries can occur. But when used how I use it (in the middle of the table top in the dining hall) what could possibly go wrong???  No, I never left her unattended to visit the salad bar.  I made someone else's toddler keep an eye on her.  It's not like I'm irresponsible.  

In reality, I think Kim Jong Un is more likely to lose an eye to a Nerf Rocket than successfully launch any kind of weapon against the United States.  But knowing that he has a new baby? Now THAT I find terrifying.  Just when you think you put those nuclear launch codes high enough up so Dear Leader III can't reach them- that's when your toddler figures out how to stack a box on top of a chair and next thing you know... BAM.  Nuclear holocaust.  Happy Friday.  

Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let Down Your Resistance Band!

Meredith thinks that this green exercise resistance band is her long golden "Punzel" hair.  She's never seen Tangled, but we've read her the story of Rapunzel about 40 zillion times- and she's decided that she's too smart for that crap.  Why would you spend 20 years growing your hair out and then let people use it as a ladder?  Seems much more efficient to just drape a resistance band around your neck and let modern-day elastic technology take over.  This is the future of America, people.  This is the 21st century Disney princess- innovative, able to sprint in plastic heels over a variety of flooring types, and all about re-sourced materials.  Those plastic heels are probably recyclable, too.  Al Gore, eat your heart out.

Bank Error in Your Favor, Lose Two Pounds!!!

I basically want to punch everyone I see today- except my child, who is actually really sweet and cute this morning.  Almost like she can sense that I will LOSE MY SH!T if there are any shenanigans.  As I've mentioned in 9,000 posts already, I am either about to give birth any minute now, or in three weeks.  AND I'M OVER IT.  I just got back from my 38 week appointment, and I even wanted to punch the nurse, who is probably the nicest nurse I've ever had.

Well, I wanted to punch her until she weighed me.  And then I wanted to punch the scale.  When I was sitting back in the exam room, she went to enter my info into the computer.  AND THEN IT HAPPENED.

A typo.

Not much of a typo, but she accidentally shaved two pounds off of my real weight.  Two pounds doesn't sound like a big deal to you, unless you live in fear of being accidentally harpooned by a Japanese trawler, as I do.  TWO POUNDS.  I captialize that to emphasize how amazing it is.  If you tell me I should have corrected her, I will come over there and punch you.

When the midwife came in, she said "Well, looks like you've lost a few pounds since your last appointment."  I looked that woman right in the eye and said "I've been getting some exercise lately, so that's probably helped."  I have absolutely no idea where those words came from.  They just flowed out of my mouth without hesitation or forethought.  And they were a huge lie.  Exercise?  What in the hell does that word even mean?  I don't know anymore, and I certainly haven't been doing any.  In the past few days, I've eaten three pints of Ben and Jerry's, hibachi, boneless wings, pizza, a ceasar salad with fried calamari, a giant cannoli, several envelopes of Fun Dip, and an entire gallon of orange juice.  I went three whole days without leaving the house except to eat.  I did walk the length of Target and back once- just far enough to get the largest bottle of Tums that they sell.  But I hardly think that constitutes exercise.

But you know what?  That number is in my permanent medical record now.  It is FACT, even if it's an typo.  If you can't achieve something based on your own merits, the second best way is via typo- trust me on that.  They can never take that away from you once it's in that computer.  Wasn't there a pre-crack Whitney Houston song about this?  I think so- I'm going to google it as soon as I'm done with this pizza.

PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING

When your child runs up to you and says "Mommy!  Mommy!  Hold this!" and tries to shove something into your hand, ALWAYS LOOK BEFORE TAKING IT.  Do not just blindly accept this as if it is some type of gift.  It is not a gift.  It is a ball of snot.

Steps to Prepare for Your New Baby- The Final Weeks

Step 1: And this is the most important step of all:  Get REALLY excited when you reach 37 weeks pregnant, because it's "FULL TERM!!!!"

Step 2: Realize during a soul-crushing meltdown that the baby still isn't coming for another 4 weeks.  Cry for 13 hours straight.

Step 3: Pack a bag to take to the hospital.  Include: earplugs, oxycodone (or whatever the strongest illegal prescription drug you can get that you don't have a prescription for), granny panties (see previous post), and cigarettes to bribe the nurses.  At least a carton, and don't go cheap.

Step 4: Crush up your illegally obtained oxycodone and start adding it to your husband's Gatorade- start at 38 weeks so he's fully addicted by the time you give birth.

Step 5: Locate your video camera and place it behind the rear wheel of your car.  Back over it several times until it is inoperable.  NO VIDEO.

Step 6:  Go to the waxing place in your town where none of the employees speak English (so you can't understand it when they call you a Yeti.)  Slam down a picture of Michael Phelps in a Speedo and say "THIS please."  Keep your eyebrows though- otherwise you'll scare the crap out of your newborn. Don't forget your head- all of your hair is about to fall out anyway so you might as well get a jump on it.

Step 7: When you think you're in labor, rush to the hospital like you're on fire.  Hit pedestrians with your car and don't stop.  Jump out at the ER door while the car is still rolling.  Run in screaming.  Be sent home.  Repeat five times.

Step 8: Show up for your scheduled induction two days later.  By this point, your child is so big that they won't fit out anyway.  Only discover this after two more days of labor and 6 hours of pushing.  Just be happy you already have an epidural, because now you need an emergency c section.

Step 9: Meet your girdle.  Name him Myrtle.  Wear him 20 hours a day, seven days a week for at least eight months.

Step 10: Meet your baby and all of that.

Step 11:  Change ZERO diapers for the first three months.  How could you possibly accomplish this you ask?  While you are still in the hospital, your husband will begin pacing the room, muttering "I just need some Gatorade.  Just a little Gatorade."  Make a deal with him: one diaper change = one sip of special Gatorade.  He won't even know he's addicted to oxy until he fails a drug test at work, gets fired, and you lose your house in a foreclosure.  But at least you didn't have to change any diapers for three whole months.

Step 12: Your parents' basement is much easier to keep clean anyway- you should be able to rebuild your credit in time to get out for your next baby.  Don't worry.

Step 13: Crush up one birth control pill per day and add it to your own Gatorade.

Sure, you can come over. Just don't sit on the couch.

Do you ever get the feeling that your kid is mocking you?  Or trying to teach you some kind of lesson about your own shortcomings?  Welcome to my experience with potty training.  All along, for months now, I thought I was locked in a death battle over potty training.  A few steps forward, a few messes back, but progress overall.  Turns out I was just a pawn in a sick game designed to make me clean, do laundry, and spend money I don't make.

Meredith was basically potty trained at home for at least a month.  But then I think she noticed something.  I think she realized that I wasn't doing enough laundry and wasn't spending enough money on diapers.  I think she saw that, and the little cogs in her tiny baby brain started turning.  "This lady is just sitting around getting fatter, and it actually smells ok in here- how can I fix that?"  And then it occurred to her to just start peeing and pooping everywhere.  That's WAY more entertaining, right?

Plus, Mommy starts looking batshit cray cray.  It goes from "YAY, YOU PEED IN THE POTTY!!!!" screamed so loud that seven people out on the street just heard me- to "Do you need to sit on the potty? Do you need to sit on the potty?" Repeated SO often and so desperately that it starts sounding like the teacher from Peanuts.  You know those Hallmark recordable story books?  I actually considered recording "Do you need to sit on the potty?" on every page and just flipping the pages over and over again.  The title of that book? "I'm Freaking Sick of Potty Training- I Shit You Not."  There's a market for that one, Hallmark.

But all in all, I have to say that I am becoming a better person from dealing with so much uncontained human waste- I am undoubtedly building my quads with endless trips to the basement laundry.  My couches are getting shampooed once a week on average.  I can accurately recall the status of multiple pairs of undies at any given moment- "No, the undies with Ariel on the front are in the wash, but look!  The undies with Ariel all over them are clean!"  But best of all, I now own Lysol disinfecting spray AND three different scents of Febreeze.  Something tells me I'm not supposed to be spraying Febreeze directly ON my child though- can anyone confirm that?  Sounds like an old wive's tale to me.

Meredith just walked by, sans pants.

Me: Um, where are your pants?
Meredith: Um, they're actually wet.
Me: OK, well, what are you doing?
Meredith: I'm in my room.  Just look, there are so many clean pairs of pants in my drawers.

Damnit, she OWNS me.

It's a Good Day to be a Problem Drinker, No?

Man, St. Patricks Day AND Selection Sunday?  On the same day?  There are some drunk ass college students out there tonight.  I would guess that there are quite a few drunk 30 somethings out there too- and while those college kids will be fine in the morning, you are going to be HURTING tomorrow if you were born pre-1985.  Are you currently intoxicated, and did you watch the Cosby Show when it originally aired?  Then be prepared to run out of a staff meeting tomorrow morning and dry heave in your office bathroom.  I'm laughing AT you, not with you.

Meanwhile in Snoozeville, I'm spending my night with this demented little person- who may not be drunk but still acts completely irrational and has bladder control problems.  So it's basically like being at a pub!



Erin Go Bragh!  I don't know exactly what that means, but if you're drunk,  make sure  you scream it at the next person that walks by!

Fruit of My Womb

I'll take ten pairs of these please:

You know you're about to have a baby when you make a shopping list and the first thing you write down is "granny panties, two packages."  Are there no end to the indignities when giving birth?  Is it so bad that we really must resort to jumbo underwear?  The answer is YES.  During my first delivery, I believe that my room was mopped THREE times in one night.  I don't even know what they were mopping up, either.  And I don't want to know.  Some questions are best left unanswered.

Have you ever been to the dentist and they give you those special glasses so you can watch movies?  I want those for all but the last 3 minutes.  And I want my labor and delivery to last 10 minutes total once I get to the hospital, so I want to watch 7 minutes of a good movie before the kid pops out.  I don't think that's too much to ask.  I actually think it should be Braveheart- the part where his face is painted and he's riding back and forth saying "they may take our lives, but they'll never take our FREEDOM!!!"  Which is also strangely ironic, since your kids will take your lives AND your freedom.  But take heart, you will gain at least 10 pairs of granny panties- which will also function as birth control for the foreseeable future.  I wonder if Fruit of the Loom gets a kickback from the health insurance companies for that...

Yup.

Freezerburned Tub of Cool Whip left over from Thanksgiving with Chocolatey Chip Teddy Grahams mixed in?  Pregnancy Instagram at its finest.

My uterus just signed a Letter of Intent to Ohio State!

I have a new mission in life.  I am going to build a time machine.  I am going to go back in time to February 23, 1823 and bitch slap Mrs. Edward Hicks as she is giving birth, and I am going to rename her baby John Miserable Torment.  That way, when someone says "Wow, you look tired!" I can say "Oh, it's the Miserable Torment I have every night for hours at a time!" Doesn't that seem so much more accurate and to the point than stupid Braxton Hicks contractions????

Because you know what?  It is miserable torment.  Being in labor every night, but no baby ever comes out?  Sounds awesome.  People (bless their hearts) keep telling me it's my uterus "practicing" for the big event.  If that's true, this baby better fly right out in under an hour, because my uterus is a freaking VIRTUOSO.  

Yes, I am smart enough to understand that my hatred of Mr. John Braxton Hicks is misplaced- if he didn't name them, someone else would have.  But still, doesn't he look just a little bit like someone you'd like to punch?



I mean seriously, I want to roundhouse this a-hole to the face.  But I digress.

If my uterus is going to waste so much time "practicing" for the "blessed event" all I want is some kind of credit.  I think I should get a varsity letter at some kind of awards dinner.  I want my uterus named Athlete of the Week.  I want to be courted by Division I coaches in such an inappropriate manner that their team is later banned from postseason play.  I want a freaking full ride to the university of my choice- and yes, I guarantee I can get my uterus past the Clearinghouse.  I want a Nike swoosh tattooed over my giant gut.  I want my uterus to marry a disproportionately hot young wife AND have several mistresses.   I could never seem to make the field hockey team in middle school, but god damnit, I WILL be the flag bearer at the Olympics.  Now I just have to decide if Miserable Torment is a summer or a winter sport...

Miss Healy Goes to Bed- Eventually

Rand Paul's filibuster on the floor of the Senate yesterday was pretty epic, you have to admit.  Thirteen hours?  Impressive.  If you don't know what a filibuster is, google it.  I'm too lazy to explain it to you. But basically, it's all a part of the Washington bullshit machine we loathe/take so much pride in.  You know, democracy and all that.  Lately though, democracy in this country has become 100% mind-numbing and only slightly less whiny than Dora the Explorer.  "But HOW will we know which way to go?"  I don't know lady.  Grow a brain and figure it out for your own damn self.

I used to think that the only person who could talk so endlessly was my beloved husband, Tim.  For years at a time, he talked without stopping to breathe- in what I would call months-long filibusters.  He once told me that he refused to learn how to Scuba dive (my favorite activity) because there was no way he could go 40 minutes without talking.  We once drove from DC to Connecticut without turning on the radio because there was no break in the conversation.  As a rule, I would say that I listen to about 75% of what he has to say- and I think that's a good figure for a 10+ year relationship.  I would estimate that Senators probably listen to about one one-hundreth of a percent of what is said on the Senate floor- even when they themselves are talking.

In a rare piece of child to parent payback, Meredith successfully filibustered her own bedtime last night for 45 entire minutes.  She basically laid in bed and recanted every single event she could remember from birth to the present day, while Tim sat outside of her door in the dark and said, "Yep, yep, yep"over and over again, much like I do during one of his epic talkathons.  During this period, she apologized for basically everything she has ever done- like some sort of bizarre preschool confessional.  She requested that I come in her room so she could say "Good night Mommy, I'm sorry I threw a shoe at your head."  She apologized for dumping her crayons last week.  She told 500 different stories.  She suggested activities for today. "We could go to Target, and then we could go to Mommy's doctor and she can take her shoes off" was my favorite suggestion.  99% of the suggestions involved trips to Target.  Smart girl.

Unlike Rand Paul, she did this merely for her own entertainment.  As far as I know, Meredith is not overly concerned with the possible use of drone strikes on American citizens.  I'm pretty sure she doesn't give a crap about the CIA.  She's not going to suggest firebombing Jane Fonda.  (Though that is an interesting idea- you have to admit).  All she cares about is pushing her bedtime as late as possible to ensure that we have so little free time that we lose the will to live.  Wait a second, I'm pretty sure that's what Rand Paul was going for too.  Bastard.

Tuesdays with Meredith

Kids say the randomest things.

Meredith: (I am still asleep at this point, by the way)  "Mommy, can we go to Disney World on Sunday?"

Me: "Sure."

Meredith:  "When is Sunday?"

Me: "Probably sometime around 2018."

Meredith: "Is 2018 on Tuesday?"

Me: "Sure."

Meredith: "Can I get purple Ariel sparkly shoes at Disney World?"

Me: "Sure, in 2018."

Meredith: "Actually, you could order them online."

Me: *under my breath* "Damn you."

Meredith: "Mommy, I don't have an ankle.  I have a tail."

Me:  "Good, no need to order those shoes then."

Evidently, Fear is Most Definitely a Factor for Me.

Having a kid is terrifying.  No, not childbirth.  That's the easy part.  I mean the 40 years that come after childbirth.  Since I only have a two year old, I'm not familiar yet with the fear that comes from dropping my kid off at college (and YES,  you should be VERY afraid!) or the day she gets her license and peels out of the driveway to go visit her dubious boyfriend.  I AM familiar with the terror of creating a scene in a public place- which is one of my least favorite activities, and yet it seems to happen so often.  If you know me in real life, you may have heard me refer to this as Fear Factor: Baby.

You remember Fear Factor, right?  The awful show where contestants have to perform insane stunts (i.e. jumping off of a helicopter into a lagoon, swimming to a car and trying to unlock their grandmother from the trunk before the car sinks and you have to go through a ring of 50 keys to find the right one...) or eating totally disgusting things, like blenders of liquified crickets or bull's testicles.  Ugh.  If you make it to the end and win the money, the host Joe Rogan says "Evidently, fear is not a factor for you!" and you win some tiny amount of money and then deal with intestinal parasites for the next several years- on account of the bull's testicles you just ate.  It seems to me that parenting is JUST like that, but with less Joe Rogan and more intestinal parasites.

When we take Meredith out in public, there is always a moment when you can see that there is about to be a "scene"- but can you stop it in time?  When she was a baby, it was "Oh god, throw me the diaper bag!   Find a bottle!!  Dump the formula in!!  Shake!!! Stick it in her mouth!!!" and if you make it in time, you can avoid the blood curdling screams in the restaurant that you probably shouldn't have brought her to in the first place.  These days, the major fear is causing a meltdown scene.  And no, I don't mean in Walmart.  Ninety percent of people in Walmart are high on meth- so they're not going to notice.  I'm talking about in a real place, like a library or a church- or a nationally televised sporting event.

This past Saturday, we went to the 2013 American Cup gymnastics competition.  We had tickets for the third level- which was the perfect place to contain the child.  Right away, an usher came over and told us we could move down and sit by the floor, since the event was going to be on NBC and they wanted the seats full.  Awesome?  Yes.  So we ran down there and got great seats, right behind the parallel bars and the uneven bars.  Meredith was great through all of the rotations, UNTIL the parallel bars- which were literally 15 feet from our faces- with the giant NBC camera bearing down on us.  I knew you could see us on TV, since people were texting me.

And then it happened.  Danell Leyva, the recent Olympian,  was in the middle of his routine when Meredith stood up on her chair, grabbed my hair, and yelled "WA WA WA WA WA WA" over and OVER again.  I looked at Tim and panicked.  Do I put my hand over her mouth and pin her to the ground?  Do I shove her head under my shirt?  Mace?  Does anyone have mace?!?  But there was no stopping it.  Several thousand silent, waif-like gymnastics fans were staring at the hot mess that was my kid, and several million more could likely see it on TV.  AWESOME.

Of course she did eventually sit down and shut up- it was probably within five seconds, but it seemed like I could have watched Gone with the Wind plus the bonus features in that amount of time.  We might as well have been Kim Jong Un and Dennis Rodman, casually taking in a basketball game in Pyongyang.  The eyes of the world, or at least the sanctimommies, were on us.  From what I can tell now, you thankfully couldn't see us on TV.  Everyone could hear us though, including Danell Leyva, who totally stunk and came in last.  Definitely Meredith's fault.

All in all, we survived.  No one asked us to leave.  We only ruined one gymnast's chances for Rio 2016.    No one was tasered, and no one vomited.  We survived my worst public meltdown nightmare.  No, I didn't have to bungee jump off of a bridge over an alligator infested river.  I didn't have to lay in a bathtub of hissing cockroaches.  I didn't even have to sit with Dennis Rodman.  I just had to keep my kid quiet for three hours, without making a scene on national television.  I'm not 100% sure, but I think it might have been easier to eat a plate full of Rocky Mountain Oysters while in an Iron Cross.



14 old school - the rings by doubleviking

How to Be More Like LeVar Burton

I thought I would take a minute to continue my list of necessary baby crap, even though no one asked and no one really cares.  Since the first post, I've been thinking of a few other things that helped us out in the first year of parenthood- though I don't remember much of it.  I do know that I am alive today to write this post, so I must have done something right.  So you better take my advice.

Target Brand Up and Up Diapers:  These are just the best, hands down.  If you don't agree, you're doing it wrong.  I have some disturbing news for you- all that goes into diapers is pee and poop.  Sometimes you find toys or whole, uneaten vegetables in there, but that's a story for another day.  You want to do this diaper thing as cheaply as possible, but without giving your baby chemical burns.  And don't be conned by the vast left wing cloth diaper conspiracy.  Disposable diapers are 100% biodegradable, and comprise 70% of the diet of the baby Panda.  If you use cloth diapers, baby Pandas will starve, you heartless bastard.  But I digress.  Target diapers get the job done in the cheapest way possible- forget the $48 for 12 diapers you would spend for Pampers.  PLUS, the brand name diapers try to lure your kids in with adorable characters printed on them that appear or disappear when they pee- like Oh, once you pee enough in this diaper, tiny tears appear on Elmo's cheeks.  Sick I tell you, just sick.

Baby Carrier:  The easiest way to spend some time denying that you are 100% responsible for another human life is to store said human life in a baby carrier.  I personally have the Beco Butterfly 2, which enabled me to keep my child completely safe and comfortable, while at the same time taking a solid hour long time-out from her existence.  You will have two hands free, be able to walk around unimpeded, and not feel like your biceps are going to explode.  Your baby loves this- they feel secure, and as long and you remembered to snap each of the 9,000 buckles, they probably are.  Just remember- remove the baby before using the Slip and Slide or sitting on the subway (see below).



Pacifiers:  You need 5,000 pacifiers.  One of every brand on the market.  Big round ones, fruit shaped ones, ones with stuffed animals attached to them.  DO NOT ever find yourself without one, even for a second.  When you go to do laundry (I recommend attempting laundry once a month, maximum) you should find three to five pacifiers shoved into the pockets of ever pair of pants you own.  You need them in the center console of your car, those little pockets on the front of your suitcase, the medicine cabinet, and shoved between the mattress and box spring of your bed.  My kid never even really took a pacifier, and I still find them shoved everywhere- nearly three years later.  Going to shake your couch out for change?  First of all, that's pathetic- get a damn job.  Second of all, 20 to 25 pacifiers better fall out of that thing.

The Boppy:  Plenty of people told me that the Boppy wasn't really worth the price, even though I insisted on owning one.  As usual, I was right.  I mean, how many possible uses can there be for a donut pillow?  Turns out, about a million.  Here are some of my favorite uses:
1. Sit on it like a hemorrhoid pillow after delivery (if you have to ask why, just take a minute and think.)
2.  Put it around your waist and balance your dinner plate on it so you can eat on the couch
3.  If you're Andre the Giant, I bet it makes a great neck pillow for travel.
4.  When company comes over after the baby is born, put it around your massive, sloppy gut to detract attention from just how massive and sloppy that gut is.
5.  When you're trying to nap on the couch at 9 am, put it over your eyes like the blind Star Trek/Reading Rainbow guy to block out the cheerful sunlight that is mocking you in your misery.

You need at least two covers for the Boppy, in case you (or the baby) vomit on it at any point.

I think I will leave you with these four things for today.  As always, be sure to check that any products you are going to use haven't been recalled- and use your best judgement.  That rusty bear trap that your Uncle Earl made into a bassinet?  Probably not 100% safe.  That pacifier that you found on the manhole cover behind Denny's?  Make sure you run it through the dishwasher.  Maybe twice, just to be safe.

Having a Baby? Things You Should Register For/Adopt From the Pound

Lately, people have been asking me for my suggestions for new baby must-haves.  (Really, this is a lie. No one has asked me jack sh*t.  But just go with it- it makes me feel useful.)  I decided to put together a list of a few of my faves for anyone out there looking for things to put on their registry.  Here they are, in no particular order:

Car Seat:  If you don't know that you need a car seat, you have some serious problems- call CPS right now and file a preemptive report on yourself.  But here's the thing you don't know- those little infant seats are a massive ripoff.  Unless you have a mini-baby, they will last you about 7 months, tops.  What about the kind that go up to 30 pounds you ask?  Show me a 30 pound kid that can fit into one of those things and I will show you a baby with kettle bells in their onesie.  You still need one of these, because they really make life easier. But for heaven's sake, buy the cheapest one you can find and hope for the best.

Miracle Blanket: This thing is genius.  It's basically a piece of fabric with wings and a pocket- and it will hypnotize your kid.  You wrap the wings under their arms, stick their legs in the pocket, google "how to use miracle blanket", unwrap, repeat, scream" WTF!!!" and bam, you're done!  This thing immobilizes your baby while simultaneously knocking them out- basically the same thing that a fifth of tequila did to your college boyfriend.

Bottle Sterilizer: You need one of these because they make them, and for no other reason.  No one knows what the point is, and no one sterilizes bottles anymore.  We're not in ye olden times when the tap water had cholera in it.  But still, make sure you get one, or your kid will die.

Dog Poop Bags:  These have more uses than I can even name.  Poop, vomit, poop stained clothes, actual dog poop, half eaten chicken nuggets you find under the car seat cover, etc.  They come on a handy dandy little roll, and you need 15 hidden in various locations throughout your home and car.  If there is actual poop in them and you don't have access to trash cans, tie the offending bag to the roof rack for the drive home and hope it flies off on the interstate.  That's a great trick I learned from my husband.

Generic Baby Formula: Look, if you're going to be all successful at breastfeeding, congratulations.  If you're going to be a hot mess of failure like I was, prepare yourself with the cheapest possible form of infant nutrition: generic baby formula.  My pediatrician was the first to clue me into this eighth wonder of the world- but come to think of it, she DID lose her medical license shortly thereafter.  Anyway, the stuff is cheap and it's good.  My kid is entirely constructed of the stuff, and she's pretty damn awesome. I know, I know, breast is best.  But BJs brand "$20 for three years worth" is clearly second best.  It's probably just powdered Quick, but if it's good enough to cut cocaine with, it's good enough for me.

Black Lab:  I don't know why it has to be black, but that's why I have, so it's clearly the best.  You need a dog that is so obsessed with food that you will never have to clean ANYTHING up.  My beloved lab follows my kid everywhere, and eats whatever falls from her.  And I mean whatever.  That dog thinks that spit up is a delicacy- by the time you get the paper towel and the cleaning spray, there is no evidence that there ever was any spit up.  Old Cheerios that fall out of the cracks in the recliner?  Gone.  Stepped-on goldfish carcasses?  Gone.  Regurgitated broccoli?  No more.  There is nothing that dog won't eat.  Warning: the first time you find dog hair hanging out of your baby's mouth, YOU won't eat for a week. Hey, that's one way to lose the baby weight.

That's all I can come up with for now- maybe I'll add things later on as I start to realize that I am having a baby in SIX WEEKS and have done absolutely nothing- except try to convince myself that Hermione Healy is a REALLY GREAT name.  Until then... don't forget your vaccinations!  I suggest making sure your Rabies series is complete before even considering parenthood- don't take any risks with either the mangy stray dog you're about to adopt OR the mangy child that will one day lunge for your jugular when you change the channel from Nick Jr.  You can never be too prepared.

Smells Like School Spirit- and Mildew

To say that this sums up my life would be the UNDERSTATEMENT of the decade.  Seriously.  I know everyone says "Oh yeah, me too!" but seriously.  I see all of you out there, showered, driving around to run errands, houses decorated, cooking food.  I do NONE of those things.  A "real" day for me consists of getting out of sweatpants long enough to wander to my husband's office to beg him to order lunch AND dinner because it's 10 am so it's clearly too late to go to the grocery store.  His office is 100 yards away, but it takes me 45 minutes to get there.  As soon as I get home, I strip off the jeans and hooded sweatshirt (too formal) and go right for my "uniform" of school sweatpants and a school t-shirt.  Because as long as you have school spirit, you can't be underdressed.  Right?  Right????

Sometimes I look at the clock and it's noon- and Meredith is wearing pants (pajama pants were peed on) slippers, pajama top, princess dress, Mardi Gras beads and a boa.  You know- you've seen the pictures.  And that's when I think "Geez, what in the hell have I accomplished today???"  The answer is:  Looked at 40 pictures of Kate Middleton from some charity event on another continent, researched those girdle things you wear to try to make your stomach go back to normal after a baby, cry, ate Fun Dip, cried again, spent 45 minutes looking for a roll of scotch tape, googled "scotch tape" to figure out if it's from Scotland, called husband 56 times to beg for Dunks coffee, put laundry in the washer that I will remember six days later and have to rewash 40 times to get the mildew smell out, walked around checking for offensive smell of unknown origin- sprayed liberally with Lysol and hope it goes away, and finally, passed out on the couch.  Usually I wake up four or five hours later.  Sometimes Meredith is still there, other times I have to spend a hour trying to figure out where she is.  Usually she's just rooting around under the kitchen sink, looking for some Raid to huff.

But at least I clean, right?  No.  At least I cook, right?  No.  At least I do laundry, right?  No.  I don't clean unless you call and say you're coming over.  I eat in a dining hall, and I pay for a laundry service that washes, folds and irons our clothes (only $45 a month, so BEST DEAL EVER).  I do shop, but I make Tim drive me, pay, and unload the car.  Come on, I'm pregnant!  I shouldn't be walking, driving, bathing, calling in food orders or lifting anything of any size!

You know what I bet is really going to help this problem?  Having ANOTHER baby.  I'm sure that with twice as many kids, I'll be twice as productive, right?  Hahahaha-  I cannot even imagine what in the hell is about to go down. God help me.

The Tot Offensive

When you have a parenting day as bad as the one I just had, there is only one real thing you can do- hide in another room and cry.  I should have started the day hiding- maybe then things would have gone better.  But no, I had to TRY.  Mistake number one.  Mistake number 2: Thinking “Oh, look at my little girl in her little dress!  Isn’t she so cute!” NO!  NO is the answer to that question.   She might be cute at other times, but today she was a seething mess of whining, hitting, spilling, peeing and more whining.  She alternated smacking me in the face with making tiny cute presents for me and delivering them to me in the sweetest way- getting me to let my guard down before launching another offensive.  If you think you can’t be outwitted, outlasted or outplayed by a two year old, you are just plain wrong.  If you can do it, be my guest and call up Jeff Probst. If Survivor: Toddler Island was a real show, I would be the first one gone and the first one indicted. 

And so I am left to hobble around like a pregnant Marg Helgenberger with worse hair and try to understand the gory crime scene before me. From my safe perch on the recliner, I can see:

An inside-out tutu

A feather boa draped over an overturned keyboard

Four different single shoes, no pairs

A wet towel- unknown fluid

A cup shoved so hard under the couch that it’s bent into an oval (possible source of fluid on towel)

No less than 4 strands of mardi gras beads (probably will be used to try to strangle me later)

A brochure on “cooking healthy with toddlers” from the grocery store (oh, is this a guide comparing the different brands of chicken nuggets?)

A pair of binoculars shoved under the edge of the rug

Four knee hockey sticks (note to self: find an old pair of shinguards and WEAR them)

A face-down Elmo- head wrapped in a baby wipe

That’s really just the start of the post mortem on today.  I could go on.  I didn’t list the things that were thrown at my head, or discuss the part of the day where I was laying on the couch while “WAKE UP MOMMY” was screamed into a microphone an inch from my ear.  The worst part?  It’s only 6:24.  And my tot is SLEEPING.  Like NAPPING.  AT 6 mother@#^$@ 24.   Though I wish I could declare victory, she is just laying in wait and recharging- the second offensive begins the moment she wakes up and continues until roughly midnight.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.  And by "once more" I mean every day for the rest of my life.  Pass the coffee.  Actually, better make it heroin if you have some.