Monthly Archives: March 2016

That moment the Terrible Twos hit

terrible1terrible2terrible3terrible4

Advertisements

When life hands you spoiled milk, make bathtub gin

Ask any parent what their worst nightmare is and then immediately cancel any plans you had for the next three days. Because that’s how long they will take to answer you. Because parents are worried about everything.

For instance, among my top ten worst nightmare scenarios as a pregnant mom of a toddler are:

  • A serial killer named Meatclaw kidnaps my son
  • I go into labor on the day the hospital runs out of epidural
  • My son turns out to be awesome at soccer and all my weekends have to be spent sober and pretending to like soccer
  • My grandchildren will have to participate in The Hunger Games in the dystopian future, which they will lose because no one in my family knows how to shoot an arrow OR how to do a fancy side braid
  • I get cancer and die. My husband, overwhelmed with grief, gets tricked into marrying my vapid, bimbo nurse Trixie after my funeral and she then raises my kids to be the kind of humans who genuinely enjoy keeping up with the Kardashians
  • Prohibition comes back and I am arrested for Googling “how to make bathtub gin”

And none of those things address the daily onslaught of new things we as parents are told to be afraid of, like haunted mobile apps that possess children and studies that prove babies who didn’t learn Mandarin in utero will never get into college and helicopter parenting causing rebellious kindergartners to start stripping.

Of course, it’s not all death and destruction and illicit moonshine runs. The mundane can be almost as terrifying when you have kids. For example, at some point on that mental list that every parent has, probably down around No. 37, is the infamous nightmare of the missing sippy cup.

Oh god, the dreaded missing sippy cup. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s been on the back of your mind for awhile, the fact that you can’t remember the last time you saw it. And even though you’ve been known to struggle with anything above second grade math, you instantly do some fancy algebra in your head and deduce that there are three in the dishwasher, two in the cupboard, one he’s currently drinking out of and one being used as a load-bearing wall in his Fortress of Generic Blocks That Are Not Legos Because He’s Only Two and Mommy Is Cheap.

Which leaves one completely unaccounted for. And after some more fancy mental calculations, you realize it’s been unaccounted for since Tuesday. And nope. Not that Tuesday. Last LAST Tuesday.

And that’s not even the scariest part. The scariest part is that, unlike all of his missing socks (which is about 1/3 of his total sock population) and all those missing pens from the junk drawer, which I imagine are living blissfully together on some tropical island with all 12,000 of my missing bobby pins, missing sippy cups never stay lost. Oh no. They will mysteriously show up again. Right when their contents have ripened to their peak of nightmarish horror.

And despite the fact that when you asked your child to help you find this same very cup two weeks ago he just did a series of figure-eights around your legs while repeatedly asking “where go? where go?”, it always, inevitably, reappears in their hands when it makes its grand re-entrance.

And so when that moment comes, that moment your precious angel that you spent 36 hours creatively cursing and pushing into this world runs up to you with a brightly painted cup of toxic sludge, a million horrific questions run through your mind:

  • How much spoiled milk can a 27-pound body take before death occurs?
  • What strange alchemy must take place to turn apple juice that shade of green?
  • Or…wait…I think this used to be orange juice.
  • Does grape juice ferment into alcohol after baking for three weeks in the hot sun? And if it does, how much prison kiddie wine did my kid just drink before he alerted me that he found the missing cup?
  • It would be wrong of me to finish the rest of the kiddie wine/fermented grape juice, right? Even if I’ve had a REALLY hard day?
  • How worried do I need to be about mold, because there are no less than 11 blog posts littering my Facebook feed at any given moment about the dangers of mold growing in sippy cups.

The good news is that there is hope. More than hope, actually. There is a foolproof method to never losing another sippy cup again. And that method is to only let your child drink water from here on out.

A sippy cup full of water has never, ever been lost in the whole, long, sordid history of parenthood.

 

When pregnant women attack!

The other day, my husband woke up, rolled over in bed and just stared at me, his bleary eyes full of fear.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I had a dream. A long dream. That you were mad at me. Just one, long, giant dream of you being really angry at me,” he replied mechanically while shivering involuntarily.

And there it was. Out of the mouths of babes. Or shell-shocked husbands, in this case. I have managed in my pregnant state to thoroughly traumatize an adult man. So much so, in fact, that he can’t even catch a break in his dreams.

In my defense, this is at least 50 percent his fault. He made his bed and now he has to lie in it while a huge, puffy, irrational wife yells at him because Tina Fey is no longer on “SNL” and why the hell did they take Cecily Strong off Weekend Update? Huh? HUH!?!

Still, I feel deep down that I should apologize. But I can’t. I just can’t. I’m lucky if at this point I can choke out a “good morning” without literally growling afterward.

feeding rage 1

Honestly, trying to pretend to be a normal human being when really you’re drowning in lady hormones that make you want to light everyone on fire is one of the hardest, yet overlooked, accomplishments of womankind.

Have you been set on fire by a pregnant woman? No? That proves right there how much inner strength we females have. Cause somewhere down the line, I guarantee a pregnant woman really, REALLY wanted to do you significant harm. You might not even know her. She could have been standing in line behind you at the grocery store when you were taking too long to find your debit card, unlike a normal person who would have already had their card out and at the ready while the FREAKING CASHIER WAS SCANNING YOUR DUMBASS ITEMS, YOU STUPID, BLOODY MORON, I HOPE YOU DIE.

prego rage 1

It’s worse this time too, believe it or not. Because now I have a toddler and every ounce of non-crazy in my pregnant body (which ain’t much) is used up calmly trying to explain to him for the 33rd time why we don’t headbutt Mommy’s face, no matter how hilarious he thinks it is. And any leftover non-crazy is used up trying not to hurl the sofa at my dog every time he barks (which is any time anything within a three mile radius of our house slightly moves).

Which means my husband gets the full brunt of crazy thrown at him on pretty much a daily basis.

For example, here are some reasons I got mad at him today:

  1. He let me eat too much cheese
  2. Someone drank a martini on TV and I got really jealous
  3. He knew Sookie wasn’t asked to be in the “Gilmore Girls” revival and didn’t tell me because he was worried I’d get irrationally mad about it
  4. He let me eat too much fried chicken.
  5. I fell asleep and missed the end of “Supernatural.”
  6. I’ll never be able to read all the books in the world before I die.

Exacerbating all this hormonal craziness is the fact that all the fun has been taken out of modern day pregnancy. Because science hates fun. So, drinking, smoking, fancy foreign cheese? Fuggetaboutit. Opium dens? Nope. You aren’t even allowed cheap thrills like a heady dose of NyQuil (just non-coma-inducing Tylenol for you, missy) or chugging a Red Bull until you are so caffeinated that the number 11 smells like purple.

You can’t even get properly fat anymore. It used to be you were supposed to take it easy and eat for two. Now my doctor is telling me hurtful things like “eat salad” and “exercise every day” and “your weight gain is unprecedented.” Plus, all those annoying people screaming at me to love my new soft, squishy, pregnant body; the same people, mind you, who for the past 30 years were screaming at me that the ultimate definition of feminine beauty was to be shaped like a scarecrow.

Is it any wonder we go crazy?

So, no, I won’t apologize to my husband. At this point, I’m just trying to survive until my due date.

But I do want to thank him. A huge thank you, in fact. As hard as pregnancy is, at least I know my partner won’t burst into tears and throw the remote against the wall if I ask him to turn down the TV. He has dealt with everything like a gentleman and a scholar. Even when I want to eat dinner at 4:30 p.m. because food is literally the only thing I look forward to anymore or I decide we have to go through all the closets RIGHT NOW and get rid of EVERYTHING because I am nesting and NESTING HARD.

Still, through all this, even when I’m getting ready to sling the last crazy arrow of the day at him, he kisses me, gathers all the pillows in the house and makes me a pillow fort on the floor because I can no longer get comfortable lying down on our lumpy couch.

And each night I fall asleep and sleep the peaceful, dreamless, beautiful sleep of the woman who knows she is truly loved.

prego rage 2