Category Archives: Parenting

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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Posted in Family, Humor, Parenting

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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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