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