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.