Category Archives: Family

My baby is better than your baby

Posted on April 27, 2014 | 3 comments

I always said I would never be one of those parents that beamed with pride every time my kid did something, like fart. You know the parents I’m talking about. They show you their newborn and then regale you with endless tales about how the precious little lump can gurgle and spit up at a five-month-old level. And have you ever seen a more perfect poop? The kid can poop perfectly every single time. Look out, Harvard.

But not me.

Never me.

And that lasted all the way until I took my own precious little lump out on the town.

Yes, just the other day I took my two-month-old to my husband’s office for a quick lunchtime visit, our first big excursion out into the world together besides our daily walks in the park. Which means it was the first time I had showed him off to a large group of people. And being a new mother, I had no idea what I was in for.

As soon as we got in the door, people started “oohing” and “ahhing” over him. And soon thereafter, the silent “Someone Brought Food, A Puppy Or A Baby” alarm that all offices have went off, bringing people from all over the building to ogle my baby. We couldn’t walk two feet without running headfirst into another compliment.

I fought it for as long as I could. I really did. But soon all the “he’s so adorable!” and “look how alert he is!” comments started to get to me. My head started to swell and I started to agree with everything they said.

“Such a well-behaved baby!”

Pride 2

“Look at that red hair! That’s so rare!”

Pride 3

“What an angel!”

Pride 4

“He can hold his head up already? That’s amazing!”

Pride 5

I even started silently agreeing with people when they told me I had done such a good job, like I had personally sculpted his perfect cherub face with my uterine muscles while I was pregnant, rather than what I really did for nine months, which was eat cheeseburgers in bed and fart a lot.

Pretty soon I heard myself saying things like “he already sleeps through the night” and “the doctor said he’s tall for his age.”

I wasn’t just beaming with pride about my kid. I was downright bragging about him. I have leftover pizza in my fridge that is older than he is, and yet I was acting like my baby had cured cancer in between his rigorous napping schedule.

I had turned into the kind of parent I hated. But it’s so hard to resist the siren call of public approval. Sure, you think your baby is the most adorable, not to mention smartest, child to ever exist. But when you also have a group of people confirming all these things to you in a high-pitch squeal, it’s almost impossible not to create a monster.

Luckily, once we got back home, he had an epic meltdown, which as it turns out is the perfect antidote for Giant Ego About My Baby syndrome. It quickly brought me down to earth and we returned to our mundane daily routine of feeding, changing and yelling at the dog to “Stop licking his face, dammit!” And once again he was just a normal baby and I his (mostly) normal mom.

Although, I’m pretty sure I heard him say “Momma” while he was crying.

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A baby by any other name

Posted on April 12, 2014 | 8 comments

I’ll never forget the first time I got the “Look.” In fact, I was still in the hospital, recovering from having a human being cut out of my abdomen, when it happened. The nursing shift was changing and the new night nurse came in to give me some more of those magical pain pills (that I’m pretty sure are made from unicorn manes and the sneezes of a baby panda).

Nurse: “Aw, he’s adorable. What’s his name?”

Me: “Riker.”

Nurse: “…Wow, that’s…unique.”

baby name 1

Yeah. That “Look.”

If you currently have a child whose name would never be found in a 90’s movie about white cheerleaders and football players, you know which look I’m talking about. It’s a look that says “I am 100 percent judging you right now.” It’s a look that says “You are not fit to be a parent.” It’s a look that says “I also write letters to the corporate headquarters of Olive Garden when my meal takes more than eleven minutes to prepare.”

Yes, as the number of unique or unusual baby names has risen, so have attacks of Judgy McJudgerson face.

breastfeeding 2

Not sure you’ve gotten the “Look?” I made this handy chart to help you out:

baby name 2

In my case, the “Look” is usually followed by one of the following two questions:

  1. You named him after a “Star Trek” character?
  2. So, I take it you’re a big fan of prisons then?

To which I usually respond with:

  1. Named after? Pffft. No. Inspired by? Maybe. I like beards. And the way he sits down is really cool.* I don’t know. Shut up.
  2. I’m about to find out (whips out hatchet).

*Seriously, he does sitting down better than anyone else. Someone even made a montage of it:

In my opinion, it’s none of your business what I name my kid. And vice versa. (Unless, of course, you’re the jag-off trying to name your kid Hitler…don’t be the jag-off who names your kid Hitler). But the Judgmental Name Game is actually a good thing, believe it or not. And that’s because it prepares you for what the next 18 years are going to be like. And by that, I mean every decision you make from here on out will be judged relentlessly by everyone.

If aliens landed and the very first thing they did was walk directly into a Starbucks and log onto the Internet, they would immediately come to the following two conclusions about our culture:

  1. We worship cats…but only in, like, a totally ironic way.
  2. Mothers are the worst thing on the planet.

The Internet is practically drowning in “news” articles and blogs about how much we, as a society, loath mothers. You can’t throw a mouse or swipe a finger these days without encountering a headline like:

Top 10 Moms We Hate

Top 10 Most Annoying Mothers

Top 10 Worst Moms At Your Playdate

Top 10 Reasons We Should Make Every Mom Feel Like Crap, Regardless Of What She Does

Top 10 Reasons We Should Burn All Moms At The Stake

There are so many “moms” that we aren’t supposed to be and we have narrowed the confines of what constitutes appropriate mom behavior so drastically that there is exactly only one mom in the universe that fits the bills anymore.

And we all write articles about how much we hate her.

And I’m over it.

Because some days I am the mom in the yoga pants (who has no intention of doing yoga) sitting at Starbucks. And you know why? Because I’m tired and have been up since 4 a.m. and don’t want to wear real pants because none of my real pants fit yet and my kid has been screaming for an hour and I thought a change of location might calm him down and then I might, just MIGHT get 15 minutes to sit down and try to get my newspaper column done so for once I actually get it in on deadline.

And some days I’m that mom who does have her makeup perfectly done and a nice outfit on because my baby actually gave me an extra seven minutes where he was happy in his crib and I just wanted to feel like a woman for once, instead of a puke-covered, crazy witch hair, milking cow.

And you might catch me being that mom who is looking at her phone instead of her kid for a few minutes. Or the mom annoying you by talking baby talk with my infant. And occasionally I’m that mom who cusses. And sometimes I’m the mom rolling her eyes because you are cussing in front of my kid. And sometimes I’m the mom posting way too many photos of my baby on social media. And sometimes I’m the mom who writes about drinking too much on social media.

Stop telling me I’m losing the baby weight too fast. Or asking me what my excuse is for not having six-pack abs yet.

And stop telling me I absolutely have to breastfeed, but just, God forbid, not in public. Or that I’m not properly sleep training my two-month-old. Or that I should be enjoying every. single. moment. of this time because it goes so fast.

And for the love of all that is holy, stop telling me the 44 things I should teach my son.

Just.

Stop.

Being a mom is hard. Really, really hard.

So just get off our backs for a bit.

And go bug some dads or something.

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The baby who cried “WAH!”

Posted on April 5, 2014 | 2 comments

I don’t want to appear ageist or anything, but there’s probably a good reason why there are no baby CEO’s or babies currently seated in the Senate. And that reason is that babies are horrible communicators.

I know, I know. That’s not a very politically correct thing to think in this day and age. But hey, someone had to say it. And, trust me, I would know. My very own baby just happens to be a baby. And most of the time, I have no bloody idea what he is trying to say.

Wah 1

For instance, just the other morning he was repeatedly trying to lodge a very loud and formal complaint about something. But all I heard was “WAH! WAH!” over and over again. Here is the exact transcript:

“Wah!”

“What’s wrong, little man?”

“Wah! Wah!”

“Are you hungry?”

“Wah! Wah!”

“Does your diaper need changed?”

“WAH! WAH!”

“Are you mad at the ever-increasing wage gap in America that will most likely ensure we’ll never be able to afford college for you?”

“WAAAAAAAAAH!”

“Are you saying you think Mommy should have vodka?”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

“I’m just going to assume you’re saying Mommy should drink some vodka.”

This exchange went on for a good 30 minutes before I ended it like how I end most of our arguments, which is by shoving a boob in his mouth regardless of whether he wants it or not.

Now I know there are so-called “experts” out there (and by “experts” I mean people who have been parents for exactly 30 seconds longer than I have) who claim that after awhile you should be able to decipher the different cries of your baby, easily discerning which one means hunger and which one means “the monkey on my mobile, which was just making me giggle four milliseconds ago, is now terrifying me.” But I call shenanigans! Because much like how my dog’s bark has the same terror alert level for everything from “I can see a squirrel outside!” to “Hey, you are getting murdered by a serial killer!”, my child has the same soul-shattering cry for every possible situation.

Which means that should the day come, God forbid, that he really is hurt or in distress, I won’t realize it because I’m assuming his cries for “my leg has been chopped off” will sound just like the cries he uses when I suck a booger out of his nose using the baby booger sucker thingy.

Of course, maybe it’s me. Maybe there is a whole subtle but complex language hidden within each individual “WAH!” and I’m just too oblivious or too sleep deprived or too busy trying to find that one lousy damn sock that always falls off to notice. Maybe this whole time he’s been desperately trying to tell me his wants and needs, his hopes and fears, and here I am, all making fun of him and constantly shoving boobs in his face to shut him up. Maybe I’m the problem here.

But hell, since he can’t currently speak for himself (and even if he could it would just sound like “WAH!”) I’m going to put the blame squarely on his tiny shoulders.

So if you guys read a news story about a mom in Boston who didn’t immediately take her infant son to the hospital after his limb was severed, just remember that it wasn’t out of cruelty or neglect.

It was simply because I was probably too busy sucking boogers out his nose and figuring out just how big a glass of vodka he wants me to drink to notice right away.

Wah 2

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Stay-At-Home Moms vs Working Moms

Posted on March 22, 2014 | 2 comments

For those of you in the betting pool who picked that I would fail as a mother within a month, bad news: Riker is still alive. Not even maimed yet. Or as far as I can tell, permanently psychologically damaged (granted, that might change once he finally learns to reads and goes through all my old pregnancy blog posts…”Really, mom? My nickname in utero was Demon Wizard? Really?”).

However, now that we have made it to the one month mark fairly unscathed, the real test of parenthood is beginning. All the visitors have left. My husband has gone back to work. And I am now solely responsible for the lil’ Nipple Slayer (“Really, mom? Really?”) for most hours of the day.

Now, I was never one of those people who thought that stay-at-home moms had it easy. Nor did I think working moms were walking on down Easy Street in their pantsuits. And this is because (…brief pause while I dust off this here old soapbox…) I believe myself a true feminist who recognizes that women should not be judged for their life choices just because it isn’t the same as your life choice (…steps down and gently places soapbox back in its hiding place in the closet, right beside seven year’s worth of BUST magazine…).

But now that I am a few days into this new visitor-free, husband-less child care routine, while simultaneously still working from home writing my (WARNING! WARNING! Shameless self-promotion ahead!) award-winning newspaper column, I feel I can fully empathize with both sides.

In fact, just for fun, let me take you through a typical day of mine.

It usually begins at 4 a.m. That is, if my son decides it starts at 4 a.m. He could also decide to start it at 2 a.m. Or 3:17 a.m. Or, if he’s in a really festive mood, we simply blend the previous day into the next day with no discernible break in between.

Still half (occasionally all) asleep, I attempt to change his diaper, which he has turned into a fun game I like to call “Let’s Poop And Pee As Much As We Can In The Tiny Window Of Time Between Removing One Diaper And Thrusting The Other One Underneath My Tushy.”

He usually wins.

He also almost always wins what I call the Bonus Round, which is when he manages to pee on me no matter where I’m standing at the changing table.

We then eat breakfast, and by we I mean him and by breakfast I mean he gnaws on my breast for 35 minutes like a starving, feral piranha. Repeat three times until mid-morning when I finally get 47 free seconds and use it to eat my own breakfast of a moldy blueberry muffin, daintily crammed into my mouth whole.

After that, I usually kjfjfjfjfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff…

Oops, fell asleep on the keyboard. Sorry about that. What was I saying?

Well, anyway, at some point he finally falls asleep again, which is when I put him down in the crib for a nap, which is apparently the international baby sign for WAKE UP IMMEDIATELY AND START CRYING HYSTERICALLY! So I pick him back up and try to calm him while at the same time trying to clean my house at least a little bit considering I haven’t seen the dog in about three days and I suspect he’s stuck underneath the world’s largest pile of burp cloths.

Day in the life 2

At some point, I will actually get to go to the bathroom, which is when I notice I have run out of maxipads. And with necessity being the mother of invention and all, I make the executive decision to use one of Riker’s diapers until such time as I can get to the store (which I’m guessing will be in June).

By now, I’m lkkdkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk…

Oopsie. Fell asleep again. Um…where was I?

Well, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just say at this point I realize I have a looming deadline and need to finish (re: start) my column. So I put the baby in the magical vibrating bouncy chair I got at my baby shower and proceed to write exactly one sentence before I start to feel guilty because the baby is just sitting there, staring at me, doing nothing. And all the stupid baby books say you have to stimulate your baby CONSTANTLY or else he’ll end up as a drooling vegetable by the time he’s an adult. Or worse yet, an employee for the Department of Motor Vehicles.

So I then pick him up and try to write with him in my arms but this, as you can imagine, is less than sldddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd…

AH! Where am I!? Oh. Sorry. Happened again.

Well, at this point we’ve reached what is usually called “the witching hour,” which is when your baby decides to cry for three hours straight for no discernible reason. Although if I had to discern the reasons why he was crying, it would look something like this:

Day in the life 1

And now it’s the end of the day (the term “day” being subjective to my son’s whims, of course), I still haven’t showered, I have a tiny diaper shoved in my underwear and my column has exactly one sentence written and this helpful note below it:

“Something funny about soapboxes here.”

So, to all you mothers out there, I feel your pain. But let me share with you the one piece of advice I received that has truly saved my life and works whether you’re a stay-at-home mom or working hard at the office or doing both like me. And that advice is dffffgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg…

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Why women should run the world

Posted on March 14, 2014 | 1 comment

There are a lot of reasons why women should run the world. For instance, most of us usually carry tissues with us at all times (in addition to the 52 other random items in our purse), which could come in handy when dealing with, say, a maniacal dictator who has a runny nose.

Dictator: “I WILL BOMB YOUR COUNTRY! DEATH TO…(sniffle)…AMERICA!”

Woman: “Would you like a tissue?”

Dictator: “Why, yes, I would. (Blows nose). OK, fine, no death to America. In fact, I’d be willing to step down if only you could also give me stolen sugar packets from various restaurants and lotion that smells like a pumpkin spice latte.”

Woman: “Well, as a matter of fact… (reaches into purse).”

But let me give you the most obvious reason we should run the world:

Breastfeeding.

Breastfeeding, you say?

Yes, breastfeeding.

Let me explain.

I want you to imagine the following scenario:

You are in a hospital, where after 33 hours of labor and no sleep followed by major abdominal surgery  (in which the doctor says “you will feel some pressure” but really means “you will feel like the bottom of your stomach is peeled back all the way up to your neck while a bunch of rabid squirrels root around in your intestines,”) they will hand you an adorable honey badger that they then want you to put on one of your most sensitive body parts, which the honey badger will gnaw on until it bleeds and cracks.

And then you are asked to repeat that last part every two to three hours while you recover from this major surgery and continue it, at least according to the breastfeeding Nazis out there, until the honey badger goes to college.

Also, and this is the most important part, despite the fact he is ripping that extremely sensitive body part to shreds on a daily basis, you are not allowed to punch him in the face. Even though you would instinctively resort to such violence should anyone else on this planet cause you that much physical pain, you must never. punch. the. baby. in. the. face.

(This is a mantra you will repeat often to yourself).

Are you imagining all this? If you are, it means you are a man. See, because women don’t have to imagine it. We are expected to do it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like sobbing heaving sobs at 4 a.m. while your nipples are sadistically tortured is totally normal. Like contemplating chopping off your own hooters with a dull ax because it simply HAS to feel better than continuing to breastfeed is par for the course when you’re a mother.

This is why women should run the world. Not only because we are made out of the strongest stuff found on Earth (evidenced by the lack of news stories of women routinely being arrested for punching their baby in the face while breastfeeding), but also because you buttheads owe us. If you exist, it’s because some poor women gave up her body and her sanity to create you and then destroyed both a little bit more to keep you alive.

So, if you’re a world leader, or have a senate seat, or run an evil empire from a giant cave hidden in a boulder that looks like a skull, it’s time to step down and give that position to your mother.

She’s earned it, goddamn it.

 

 

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Nesting is for the birds (see what I did there?)

Posted on December 13, 2013 | 3 comments

I’ll be honest. I didn’t think it was true. I thought it was just another one of those pregnancy myths, like you only gain weight in your stomach (you don’t). Or that your husband will actually run out at 3 a.m. to get you a taco (he won’t). Or that pregnancy is in any way enjoyable (it’s not…although it might be if “someone” would get me tacos in the middle of the night…HINT, HINT, Ryan).

But then a few weeks ago I innocently went to pick out a new book to read and, well, this happened:

Nesting 1 Nesting 2 Nesting 3 Nesting 4

Five manic hours later, every single book I own, which is not an insignificant number, had been taken down, cleaned, mentally recategorized and put back on the shelves using a system that made absolutely no more sense than the original system. Some books were organized via genre, some by how much I thought the authors would get along (Mark Twain and Dave Barry would totally have started a bromance) and some by how smart I thought they made me look.

Needless to say, it was a system that would have made any librarian’s head spin around, Exorcist-style, and then explode.

But despite the fact that it didn’t make any sense and that it didn’t actually need to be done, I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to do it. It was a compulsion. A compulsion no less powerful than what I imagine compels my dog to roll around in dead things on days when I am running late for something.

Yes, I had apparently unwittingly begun the phase of pregnancy known as “nesting.” Generally, nesting is when a pregnant mother feels the overwhelming desire to deep clean her home and prepare said home for the imminent arrival of her baby. As I discovered, pretty much all expectant mommas go through this, from animals tearing up newspapers and birds building actual nests, to human women who scrub their entire house with a toothbrush and then organize their spice rack alphabetically.

But in my case, my maternal instincts told me I couldn’t have a baby in a house where the books were shelved all willy-nilly. Never mind that there is food in my fridge that expired in 1997 and the bathroom tub hasn’t been scrubbed since I could wear pants with buttons. Oh no. No, it was far more important that my home be a home where Dorothy Parker took her rightful place beside Robert Benchley.

Luckily not all is lost for this kid. Because while his mother is currently about as useful as a fish with a bicycle, he has a father whose instincts are actually geared toward keeping his tiny butt alive.

For example, that following weekend my husband spent hour upon hour putting together the crib, the changing table and rocking chair, organizing all the tiny, tiny clothes by size and cleaning out our attic of all the useless crap that not only did we not need, but no one would ever need in their lifetime, to make rooom for all the new baby crap we would actually need. I watched him, mesmerized, as he did thing after thing that would, you know, actually be helpful once this little bladder-kicker was out in the world.

He was doing the male version of nesting. Or, as I like to call it, “mesting.”

Not that I was completely useless during this time, mind you. I helpfully did things like hold up random tools while saying “this one? this one? this one?” when he asked for a Phillips head screwdriver. And I put together a mobile for the crib all by myself. Granted, it doesn’t work now, but that could be for any number of reasons.

It just goes to show you, everyone approaches parenthood differently. But believe you me, someday that kid will be OVER THE MOON about the fact that all the Stephen King books are not only together on the shelf, but stacked chronologically.

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Violating turkeys and other Thanksgiving fun

Posted on November 25, 2013 | 2 comments

I’ll never forget the first time I cooked my very own Thanksgiving dinner. (Nor will my dog and husband, who are both reminded every time they catch a glimpse of where their eyebrows used to be in the mirror).

If you’ve never done it before, boy, are YOU in for a treat. Sure, it can be a bit overwhelming, but rest assure, I am here to talk you through it.

The very first thing you should know is that there is a dirty little secret regarding the Thanksgiving turkey that no one ever really talks about. But since basic human decency has never stopped me before, let me just throw it out there:

You have to stick your hand up the turkey’s ass.

Oh, you read me right. Your hand has to go up the turkey’s behind and then pull everything you find up there out.

Why, you ask? I have no bloody idea. Something like 0.0007 percent of the population ever actually use whatever the hell is up there in their recipes. But apparently that small minority has some major lobbying power in Congress because legislation mandating that someone else deal with the “innards” before it ever gets to your local grocery store has yet to be passed.

Thus, until we finally get enough votes to defeat the powerful Gizzard Lobby, we will be elbow deep in turkey butt once a year.

Therefore, the very first thing you should do before cooking your Thanksgiving dinner is take your turkey out for drinks and a movie. A bit old-fashioned, sure, but I refuse to violate anything I haven’t first bought a cocktail and appetizer for first.

I’m a romantic, what can I say?

This should be quickly followed by a mature conversation with your significant other about who should be the one to actually stick their hand up the turkey’s ass. If you guys are anything like me and my husband, that conversation will go something like this:

Me: It should be you.

Him: Hell no.

If it is your hand that has to get intimately involved with the dead bird’s rectum, let me just say this about the experience, without going into the gross and gratuitous details:

I drew you a picture.

violating turkey

Then put the turkey in the oven.

An hour later, take the turkey out of the oven while another family member takes the batteries out of the incessantly beeping smoke detector. As it turns out, when the recipe book says you should completely cover the turkey while it’s cooking, they don’t mean with a plastic lid.

Other important Thanksgiving cooking lessons you should probably know:

A microwave is no place for aluminum foil.

If you are trying to mash potatoes with only a fork, expect to be mashing them until roughly Christmas.

If half of your turkey is burned, it doesn’t necessarily mean the other half is cooked.

Gravy should not be cooked until it can technically be classified as a “solid.”

Wine is good.

(As is vodka or, in a pinch, Nyquil).

Good luck, everybody! And Happy Thanksgiving!

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Hoarders on a Road Trip

Posted on November 15, 2013 | Leave a comment

Indulge me for a second, if you will. I want you to close your eyes and picture the following:

You’re driving down the Interstate, minding your own business. Perhaps you’re heading home after a long day of work or maybe you’re picking your kid up from soccer practice. Or it could even be that you’re on your way to dinner reservations with your in-laws, which you’re dreading because Phil always has too much to drink and then plays his favorite game of “Insult His Daughter’s Husband Until It’s Time for Dessert,” after which you will go home and get in a huge fight with your wife because she never stands up for you, oh no, she could never stand up to her ultra-macho, conservative father. No one stands up to Phil. Phil fought in the war, for crying out loud. And what have you done with your life, Shirley? He calls you Shirley. Just another way for him to emasculate you. Ugh. Phil. You hate Phil. So much.

Or whatever. I don’t know. I don’t know your life.

But the point is, you’re driving down the Interstate.

When all of a sudden you pass a tin can painted red that is disguised as a car (a Hyundai Accent, to be exact). Upon closer inspection of this “car,” you see the following:

Road trip 1

And for a second, all your troubles are forgotten since you can’t help but ask yourself “What the hell is going on in there?”

Well, let me tell you what the hell is going on in there. This past weekend, a man, a 7-months-pregnant woman and a neurotic dog with abandonment issues all thought it would be a great idea to take a 14-hour road trip to Ohio.

And it technically was a great idea.

In theory.

Where things went horribly, horribly wrong was on the way back.

See, the reason for the trip was so that the couple could have a baby shower with the majority of their family and friends. And granted, I’ve written in the past about how much I hate baby showers but let me tell you, it’s a whole new world when it’s being thrown in your honor. Turns out it’s just like having a birthday party, the only difference being that getting drunk, making out with someone and then crying on the bathroom floor about how old you are is generally frowned upon at the baby shower.

Now, they say it takes a village to raise a children. I don’t know if that’s true but I do know that it takes a village to afford one. And our village was EXTREMELY generous (big shout-out due here to all the future grandparents, great aunts and my 52 female cousins). This kid will truly never want for anything for at least the first year of his life (wanting a mom that doesn’t sing “Close To You” off-key before he goes to bed every night notwithstanding).

And we couldn’t be more grateful to everyone who came. However, it left us with the following dilemma:

Road trip 4

Luckily, all those years of my husband blowing off doing anything productive and eschewing socialization with actual humans to play Tetris instead paid off. He managed to get it ALL in there. Well, almost all. At one point, there was a fear of damaging the structural integrity of the car so he had to stop.

However, this meant we had to drive over 800 miles with a dog sharing the passenger seat, limited visibility out of all windows and boxes hitting the back of our heads even though the seats were pushed up as far as they could go (which was SUPER fun for the 6’2″ daddy to be).

And even that wouldn’t have been that bad if it weren’t for the fact that I am not the world’s greatest driver (for documented proof, click here or here or here) and that it had snowed the night before (Weather: If you don’t like it, you are probably in Ohio). For example, here is a fairly accurate representation of the construction we encountered (Construction: If you are dealing with it, you are probably in Ohio) within 30 minutes of leaving:

Road trip 2

No big deal, right? All I had to do was follow the signs for “Thru Traffic” since we were going, duh, “thru” the area and weren’t getting off of an exit for the next 200 miles.

But at 5 a.m. in the dark on snowy and icy roads with no caffeine in my system, this is what I saw:

Road trip 3

So I panicked and we spent the next 30 minutes trying to find the Interstate again from back country roads that had their very own banjo soundtrack.

Somehow we did it though. We made it back to Boston in one piece. Even the baby, who was squished for no less than 400 miles by a highly excitable dog. And on the plus side, I now have a new sympathy for hoarders.

I’m just dreading finding all those dead cats once I finally build up the stamina to put together the nursery.

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Top 8 Parenting Myths Debunked

Posted on October 22, 2013 | 4 comments

I know what you’re thinking.

What the hell does a first-time mom who is only six months pregnant know about parenting?

And the answer is, of course, nothing. Well, almost nothing. I do know that the first poop the baby takes once it’s outside the uterus is apparently a mix of dark matter and pure evil, but I only know that because I read too far in my pregnancy book last week.

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But after extensive and thorough research where I asked friends who were new parents scientific stuff like “so, does parenthood blow or what?” and “when do babies stop sucking?” and “how much Red Bull and vodka can I chug while simultaneously breastfeeding?” I have gathered enough evidence to debunk the most common myths surrounding this major life change.

Myth No.1: As soon as your baby is born, it’s love at first sight.

Chances are you will not immediately fall in love with your baby. Chances are you’ll look at it and wonder “who the hell is this wrinkled old man who came out of my vagina and what the hell is he covered with?” OK, maybe that’s exaggerating slightly. You could also be thinking “wrinkled old woman.” But the point is, it’s perfectly natural not to feel bonded to your child right away. So don’t worry. You will bond eventually. Possibly even before they go off to college.

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Myth No. 2: Breastfeeding is the most natural thing in the world.

Breastfeeding is NOT the most natural thing in the world. Far from it. In fact, Joan Rivers’ face is more natural than breastfeeding. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean feeding a child from your boob is unnatural (despite what those squeamish arseholes in restaurants that just HAVE to complain whenever a woman dares to use her boob in public for anything other than sexual arousal would have you believe). I mean that in no way does this natural act come to you or to your kid naturally. It’s a daily battle the first few weeks, sometimes months, to get you, the baby and your ginormous boobs all on the same page at the same time.

Myth No. 3: Having a baby will bring you and your partner closer than you’ve ever been.

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Or the ass-numbingly dull tedium of changing diapers every two hours. Or perhaps it’s the immense crushing responsibility of having to keep a small human alive. But you and your significant other will hate each other for awhile and argue about stupid crap such as why lil’ Kayleighanna isn’t wearing socks outside when it’s OBVIOUSLY FREEZING OUT THERE AND WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, KILL OUR DAUGHTER!?! But never fear. This is why God invented grandparents, so that just when your marriage is about to implode, they can take the demon seed for a night and let you two drink until you can’t feel feelings anymore.

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Myth No. 4: Babies are sweet little angels.

Babies, by nature, are not sweet and nice and innocent. They are terrorists. Tiny, tiny terrorists who refuse to let you sleep or eat a warm meal or sit down or shower or pee or talk on the phone or have a beer or leave the house or wear a clean shirt not covered in vomit. But at least they’re your tiny, tiny terrorist.

Myth No. 5: Babies are expensive.

Babies aren’t expensive. Babies are ridiculously, mind-blowingly expensive.  Whatever crap you bought for your baby, it’s not enough. Because apparently babies die if they are not surrounded at all times by educational toys, soggy baby books, slightly less educational toys that play music, no less than five chairs that all move or vibrate or swing in different directions and 76 blankets.

Myth No. 6: Putting your baby into yoga/music/sign language class will give them a jumpstart in life.

Babies think key rings are the height of civilization’s achievements. It’s OK to wait until they aren’t floppy headed drooling machines to sign them up for Infant Interpretive Dancing. Stop stressing out about their future at Harvard when they’re only three-months-old.

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Myth No. 7: Babies cry for a reason.

As it turns out, sometimes there is no reason. Sometimes they’re just crying because they’re a butthead. For reasons why they do this, see Myth No. 4.

Myth No. 8: Religiously reading parenting magazines and websites and blogs will help keep you informed and up-to-date.

Religiously reading parenting magazines and websites and blogs* will help turn you into a competitive and paranoid control freak who lectures other parents about how they really shouldn’t let lil’ Pyke play with their iPhone because the latest studies show that children who are exposed to screens within the first two years of life end up being serial killers who work at Wal-Mart.

And everyone will hate you.

*That is, except for this blog. You should always read this blog.

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Posted in Family, Humor, Pregnancy

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Through sickness and health…I guess

Posted on October 11, 2013 | 7 comments

Well, I can officially check off that whole “through sickness” marriage vow.

(That’s how it works, right? You do it once and then you’re off the hook?).

Although technically, it was more of an injury than a sickness but the point is, when my husband busted his head open last Friday after slipping in the kitchen, I didn’t run away. I didn’t roll over and go back to sleep, ignoring his yells (even though I was like, SUPER tired). I didn’t even pass out at the sight of gallons and gallons of blood casually leaving his head.

Instead, I calmly and maturely assessed the situation and swiftly took the appropriate action.

Ha! Just kidding. Considering I’m married to a member of the male gender, it went down more like this:

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So, what exactly happened, you ask? The official story is that he turned around to close a kitchen drawer and slipped on our dog’s toy, falling backward and hitting his head on the world’s hardest ceramic dog bowl. But the unofficial story, the much more sexy conspiracy theory story, is that my dog is trying to murder my husband.

I mean, the dog toy, a stuffed squirrel we had nicknamed Jedediah, just happened to appear right under his feet? Out of nowhere? At the perfect distance to make him hit his head on the dog’s water bowl? Not to mention, we’re expected to believe Buffy isn’t holding a grudge against us because we removed his manhood when he was still a puppy? And also named him Buffy? And maybe once dropped him on his head as a puppy? (Oh, calm down, I said once…twice tops).

Yeah. Coincidence, my ass.

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Luckily, my husband is one of the most calm and laid back dudes in a crisis that you could ask for. So while I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to find socks and my car keys and yelling for him to “Just hang on, baby! Don’t die on me! You have so much to live for! Stay away from the light!” as I ran from room to room in the house, he was being practical, looking up the closest hospital on his phone while simultaneously trying to staunch the blood flow from his gaping head wound. He even called the hospital to double check they had an emergency room:

“Hi, yeah, I was just wondering if you guys had an emergency room? You do? Alright, well, I’ll be seeing you real soon then.”

Meanwhile I was in the bedroom, helpfully yelling things like “If you see Grandma, stay away from her! Do not let Grandma lead you to the afterlife! Tell that old biddy to shut up!” while putting on two different shoes (both left shoes, by the way).

And then, if you will indulge me, I’d like you to picture the following (I tried to draw it but my art skills have some pretty severe limitations…SHOCKING, I know):

My husband is in the passenger seat, gently giving me directions from his GPS while blood and brains are spurting from his head (OK, maybe I’m exaggerating just a little). I’m a wide-eyed lunatic with crazy bed head in the driver’s seat yelling obscenities at red lights and making lewd gestures to the only other three cars on the road (sadly, I am not exaggerating). When all of a sudden we encounter one of Greater Boston’s infamous “roundabouts,” a fun marvel of modern road design that I nicknamed “Traffic Circle of Death.”

Ryan: “OK, you’ll want to take the second exit.”

Aprill: “Second!?! What the hell does that mean!?!”

Ryan: “Just get in the right lane and then take the second road that veers off the circle.”

Aprill: “Which way is right!?! I can’t tell my left from my right!?! Oh god, we’re going to die!”

Ryan: “It’s OK. Breathe. Just turn right here.”

Aprill: “AHHH! There’s another car! What do I do!?!”

Ryan: “He’s like 100 feet away from us, babe. You’re fine. You’re doing great.”

Aprill: “I can’t do this! We’re going to die! Did I mention we’re going to die!?! Oh my god!…Oh…OK, we’re off the circle. So just go straight for another mile, then?”

By some miracle (and no thanks to me) we made it to the ER in one piece and three long hours later, Ryan’s head was stapled with the world’s most intimidating stapler and we were sent home with the instructions that I was to wake him up every two hours to make sure that he wasn’t, you know, dead.

Terrifying as this whole experience was, however, it did teach me a good lesson about marriage. And that lesson is that when it comes to “through sickness,” my husband is actually better off on his own.

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Posted in Family, Health, Humor

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