Monthly Archives: January 2014

Top 10 Signs You’re Turning Into A Parent

It starts out innocently enough, usually with a conversation or two over cocktails about maybe, you know, having baby in the somewhat near-future. This goes on for awhile until one night on a whim you decide to forego birth control, even though you aren’t, like, actively trying to get pregnant or anything. But if you did, it’d be, like, cool.

And then nothing happens and so you are actively trying, having conversations over cocktails about how you have to have sex on Tuesday because that’s when the fertility stick you peed on said you should and don’t you dare masturbate before then, buddy. You know what the book said about sperm count.

And just when you think it’ll never happen, BOOM, you’re puking your guts out while simultaneously getting fatter and sweating all the time and oh my GOD, could you breathe any louder, babe? Are you trying to annoy the hell out of me? And JUST WHO THE HELL FINISHED ALL THE BROWNIES!?! I’m so sorry, you guys. I just get so emotional these days. Forgive me?

Seriously though, where are the brownies?

And the months go crawling by until finally, FINALLY, it is a week before your due date and the end is in sight.

And while this is all going down, all this craziness, without you even really noticing, your outlook on the world changes. Because you, my friend, are gradually turning into a parent:

Top 10 Signs You’re Turning Into A Parent

10. You suddenly have opinions about violence on TV. And health insurance. And online maps that show where sex offenders live.

Even though prior to now you spent approximately 15 minutes of your entire life thinking about these things.

9. Babies stop resembling pinkish blobs and suddenly have faces.

Before now, unless a baby was directly related to you or came out of an intimate part of a close friend, they all looked the same. But now babies, all babies, have distinct faces. Distinct adorable faces. That you want to kiss. Yes ‘em you do. You want to kiss dem wittle faces. And those toesies. Look at dem toesies. You’re going to eat DEM TOESIES UP!

8. Jenny McCarthy stops resembling some dumb blonde who once banged Jim Carrey.

And now resembles some dumb blonde who is hell bent on killing your future offspring via whooping cough and small pox because she’s an ignorant and irresponsible fame whore who spreads lies about vaccines.

And you want to hurt her. Badly.

7. You are inexplicably drawn to scary news stories.

You not only DON’T change the channel but actually turn the television UP when the evening news reports on the latest scientific study that says tap water causes a third eye to grow on your armpit.

6. Everything now makes you tear up.

The above-mentioned news reports. Amber Alerts. Cheesy movies. Holiday cards. Old photos. The last piece of bread in the bag that no one wants because it’s the heel. Your dog. An Adele song. Taking down Christmas decorations. That stupid Super Bowl Budweiser commercial with the puppy and horse who are best friends.

Seriously.

Everything.

5. You stop hating Miley Cyrus and kind of want to give her hug.

Bless her little pea-pickin’, hardcore twerkin’ heart. She just needs some motherly love.

4. Ninety percent of your day is now spent worrying.

From wondering if you’ll be able to breastfeed to stressing out about how you’ll ever afford college to “it doesn’t matter because thanks to Jenny McCarthy, he’ll die in infancy anyway.”

3. You make a mental checklist of all the things your kids can’t find out about you until they are 30.

Such as, oh I don’t know, you once dated a dude who went to jail. Or that you were once a cheerleader. And yes, there are pictures.

2. You make a mental checklist of all the things your kids can’t find out about their other parent until they are 50.

I’ve been advised by his lawyer to not elaborate on this particular point.

1. You unfortunately come to the conclusion that you now have to start taking care of yourself.

No more three pots of coffee a day followed by a bottle of wine per night followed by a cheeseburger for breakfast the next morning. Yes, apparently most people eat three square meals of solid food a day and don’t consider wearing yoga pants all day as exercise.

You will need to become most people.

At least until the kid turns 18 and you can safely say “Screw it!” again to your own personal health and hygiene routine.

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Give it a breast already

In case you guys haven’t heard yet, I’m pretty much the best person on the planet.

It’s true. I mean, sure, Pope Francis had some good moments this year. But when it comes down to it, no one can compare to my pure and humble unselfishness. My pure, unadulterated courage. My pure and utter lack of pride in how completely amazing I am.

In fact, I’m so amazing, I feel bad for everyone else. No matter what anyone ever does from here on out, they’ll never compare to me.

So just what have I done to deserve the title of Best Person Ever, you ask?

Well, I…(cue dramatic church organ music)…am planning on breastfeeding.

breastfeeding 1

OK, OK, perhaps breastfeeding alone doesn’t necessarily make me the Best Person Ever (pretty sure I’m still in the Top 5 though). But judging from how people react when they find out I’m planning on breastfeeding once I pop this kid out, it does automatically put me in the category of Better Person Than You.

Yes, apparently any woman who breastfeeds in this day and age deserves her own parade, carried through the streets on a litter by the lowly parents who decided to feed their children formula.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the following:

“Good for you! You’re going to be such a good mom!”

“Breastfeeding is tough. You’re so brave for making this decision.”

“You’re obviously the superior parent. Will you raise my children?”

And that’s all from just planning on breastfeeding.

But here’s the thing. I don’t deserve all these accolades. One, because even though I want to breastfeed, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be able to or that I can hack it as a breastfeeder. Many women stronger and tougher than I have tried and failed.

Two, here are the reasons I decided to breastfeed, in order of importance:

1. Cheaper than formula.

2. Will help me lose weight.

3. Good for the baby or some junk.

And three, while breast may be best, our society has gotten out of control with the Judgy McJudgerson act regarding those who decide to bottle feed.

breastfeeding 2

Seriously, I’ve heard people compare using formula to child abuse. I have friends with babies who have had to sit through lectures from strangers about how selfish it is that they aren’t breastfeeding. And God help you if you can’t breastfeed for medical reasons but then don’t spend your life savings to buy breastmilk from some hippie mom you found on the Internet.

Sadly, as I’m quickly learning, the breastfeeding debate is just the front line in the bigger conflict known as the Mommy Wars, where every parent feels they know not only what is best for their child but what is also best for your child.

And I’m about to enter the fray woefully unarmed.

But, truth be told, I’m kind of glad I’m unarmed. Because I’d rather just assume you’re doing what you think is best for your child and I’m doing what I think is best for my child. And regardless of what we are actually doing, chances are still high that neither one of them will turn out to be a serial killer.

And if we’re REALLY lucky, neither of them grow up to be that know-it-all co-worker who interrupts every conversation with “well actually” either.

From waddle to swaddle

One month. That’s it. That’s all that’s left on this prison sentence glorious maternal journey of mine.

Yes, it’s only four weeks until my due date (meaning I’m destined to have this baby six weeks from now as payback for all the times I called him a demon wizard and dragon fetus). And I must confess, I’m getting downright giddy at the prospect of finally meeting the tiny human who has been using my bladder as his own personal trampoline. And not just because it means I finally get my body back.

Although admittedly that is a pretty big perk. I mean, just look me. Look how big I’ve gotten:

Baby weight 1

I’m huge!

But walking around like I have 30-pound ham hidden underneath my shirt is a small price to pay for (and there really is no other way to describe it) this miracle. Seriously, my body is turning food into a person. It done don’t get more miraculous than that, folks. That is, unless the miracle involves wine. Booze miracles are always the best miracles. Mmmm…booze. Man, I miss drinking.

But I digress.

Now that I’m close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel (or perhaps, more accurately, now that my baby is close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel*) and all the major preparations (such as buying pacifiers that make it look like he has a mustache) are done, it leaves plenty of time to ponder the inevitable Big Questions.

No, not “will I be a good mother?” Pffft. Please. Technically we won’t even know if I am a good mom until he turns 18 and is set loose upon the world. So, the way I see it, no need to stress about that right now. That’s almost two decades I can put off that inner reflection nightmare.

No, the Big Questions I’m talking about are much more practical. Questions such as:

Have I ever changed a diaper before?

I must have. Right? You can’t get to your 30’s without changing at least ONE diaper. A friend or family member’s baby, perhaps. Or maybe during my Claudia from “The Babysitter’s Club” phase when I terrorized the neighborhood kids I watched with my fashion sense. Or at the very least my little brother, who is 17 years younger than me. I had to have changed his diaper. Right? Except I don’t ever remember changing any diapers. And I feel like wiping a butt that is not my own would stand out in my memory.

Oh my god, I have never changed a diaper in my life.

Can I swaddle a baby?

For those of you who don’t know, swaddling is the ancient art of wrapping up your baby, orgami-style, with a blanket. Considering it looks like you need a black belt level of ninja skills to achieve this supposed swaddle, my baby will look like a poorly gift-wrapped Christmas present (complete with duct tape).

Do I know how to use a breast pump?

Nope. But judging from the scary beer bong-looking device awaiting me in the nursery, it will be a highly unpleasant learning experience.

Will I be able to do seemingly simple “mom” things, like cut my baby’s tiny fingernails?

To answer this question, I’d like to present you with the following picture of my dog:

baby weight 2

Yeah.

Hmm…

Well, the good news, as I mentioned before, is that I have almost two decades before I have to admit failure as a mom. In the meantime, I’m going to head to the store to stock up on duct tape so I can attempt to swaddle my kid once he’s out.

*Vagina jokes RULE!

I think I’m pregnant with a ninja baby

Ninja baby 1

Ninja baby 2

Ninja baby 3

Ninja baby 4