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!!!