Monthly Archives: April 2016

Snot so funny now, is it?

It’s over, people! It’s finally over! Insert high-pitched and highly inappropriate creepy laugh here!

snot laugh

Winter is officially dead. Ha! Burn (freeze? freezer burn?) in hell, you frosty bastard! Or have fun torturing New Zealand or wherever it is you go now. Whatever. I’m not a freaking meteorologist. All that matters is, mild though you were this year, you are now someone else’s problem and no longer able to slightly inconvenience my life with your annoying freezing rain and your wind gusts that hurt my teeth and ruin my already pathetic hairstyle.

In fact, I’m so happy spring is here, I don’t even care that it’s causing me to slowly drown in a tsunami of toddler snot.

Yes, as it turns out, when two people with allergies fall in love and get drunk on the second cheapest wine on the menu, they end up nine months later (or 10 months and 9 days, in SOME cases) with an adorable, tiny, little Poindexter. And for the past three weeks, this certain adorable, tiny, little Poindexter’s face has been covered in gooey fluids. It’s just…everywhere. Like a slow-moving avalanche of liquefied boogers. Like a pint-sized mucus mudslide. Like a miniature green flood that was foretold in some tiny weather Bible for beginning readers.

It’s so bad, in fact, I drew you a picture so you could get the full effect. But don’t worry. I added some fancy yet subtle artist tricks to make it safe for work.

snot censored

But, as disgusting as it all is, I’m not going to complain. Nope. Not gonna. Because I spent pretty much the whole winter complaining about how I couldn’t wait for spring. About how snow and ice were thisclose to driving me into a homicidal rage. About how I would sell my first born for just one day above 30 degrees (I wouldn’t, of course. Calm down. I didn’t even have any offers. But still, it shows you how serious I was).

So, no. No, I’m not going to complain about how whatever is in the air this long-awaited spring is turning my son into Slimer from “Ghostbusters.” Nor will I complain about how it’s damn near impossible to teach a young kid (especially one who just recently learned that a fork is used to shovel food into his mouth hole as opposed to sticking it repeatedly into Mommy’s eye) how to wipe his own nose. As it turns out, you can lead a stuffed up horse to a tissue, but you can’t make him blow.

Nor will I say anything about the time my son sneezed directly into my mouth.

IN. MY. MOUTH.

Or about how, although he is clueless as to the purpose of an actual tissue, he did deduce Sherlock-style that mom’s pants make a great place to deposit your snot. (Added bonus, the couch and the dog also work as fantastic snot depositories).

Or even about how he is so stuffed up that when he’s eating, he has to make a vital choice between chewing and breathing because he can’t do both at the same time.

So yes, I won’t complain. Absolutely not. Because it’s spring, you guys! Finally!

I mean, think of all the opportunities this opens up. I can take my baby to the playground again. Where he can exchange his disgusting snot with tons of other disgusting snotty-nosed little kids.

I can take him to the park, where he can more fully breathe in the toxic, pollen-saturated air that makes his face puff up and makes him talk like every stereotypical nerd character from an 80’s movie.

We can have a picnic, where we can hopefully attempt to eat in the few seconds in-between sneezing and blowing our noses and wiping our watering eyes and coughing up pollen.

So, as I said, I will not complain. Nope. Because after a long, dark winter, it’s finally time to stop and smell the flowers.

And then wheeze and hack and sneeze and wheeze some more because whatever is in said flower makes our sinuses go nuts.

 

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My Not Knocked Up Bucket List

You know that game you play where you come up with the title of your autobiography? Like, for example, a few years ago, mine would have been “Why Yes, I Will Have a Fifth Glass of Wine.” Or maybe “And That’s Why I’m Not Allowed Back Into Delaware.” Or even perhaps “The $8.23 In My Checking Account & Other Numbers That Make Me Sad.”

Ah, but how all that was a lifetime ago. Because currently, the working title of my memoir is:

“So, How’s the Pregnancy Going?”

This question is pretty much my life now. Because when you are pregnant, you as a human person no longer exist. You are simply a fetal cheeseburger delivery system wrapped up in a sweaty muumuu. All anyone cares about now is 1. How is the baby doing? (Answer: Fantastic minus the fact she’s kicking my bladder like it owes her money) and 2. When will the baby get here? (Answer: Hopefully before I get to a size that includes my own personal gravitational pull).

Not that I can blame people for only caring about the baby right now. Creating life is a fascinating process. A fascinating, farty, sausage-fingery process. Think about it. Humans go from an egg and a sperm to a mango-sized tadpole who drinks his own pee to a 7-pound ninja who uses your ribs as substitutes for board breaking. I mean, who cares that I have hopes and dreams and fears and regrets and deep thoughts about how a universal love of melted cheese unites all of humanity. None of that matters. Because you don’t care. Because in your eyes I’m just a loud, messy-haired incubator for an adorable infant.

So, to answer your question, the baby is doing great and I have finally entered my third trimester.

THE THIRD TRIMESTER, PEOPLE!

Which means I’m almost done!

Only 8,712 more days to go.

Give or take.

And now that I can see the tiny, tiny light at the end of the birthing canal, I can officially start daydreaming about what it will be like when I’m finally not pregnant anymore. Coming up with my Not Knocked Up Bucket List, if you will. Because when you are pregnant, you can’t have any fun. In fact, there are panels of doctors whose only job is to just sit around all day thinking up new ways to make sure pregnant women can’t have any fun.

And so, here are all the things I’m going to do when I’m not pregnant:

Sleep on my stomach. Oh, sweet, sweet patron saint of mattresses, I’m going to sleep on my stomach SO HARD.

Enter a hotdog eating contest. I don’t even really like hotdogs. I just want to eat 74 of them because I can’t right now.

Drink coffee until I’m physically vibrating so hard that I defy the laws of physics and can pass through walls. And then I will bathe in a bathtub filled with Red Bull.

Ride a goddamn rollercoaster while eating day-old gas station sushi. Because I can, bitches.

Drink all the alcohol. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna finish your beer.

Drink all the Diet Coke. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna add some Captain Morgan to your Diet Coke and drink that.

Finally dye my hair any color other than its current shade of “Awkward Warm Honey Orange-ish With Four Inches Of Dark Brown Roots Showing.”

Throw all those stupid, ineffective Tylenol pills into a ceremonial fire during a Black Mass and fill my medicine cabinet with Nyquil and Claritin and Ibuprofen and Aleve and Pepto and Unisom and Benadryl and all the pretty, pretty over-the-counter drugs available to modern man so we never have to actually feel symptoms of anything.

Eat cold cuts in a hot tub. Which sounds gross. And probably will be gross. But who cares? I’m free!