Consider this your eviction notice, kid

Posted on February 10, 2014 | 1 comment

Well, it’s official. I’m overdue.

Yes, my due date was yesterday and so naturally I spent the entire day not giving birth to a baby. Because apparently he has other plans. Other very important, pressing plans. Other very important, pressing plans that involve staying in my uterus and kickboxing my bladder.

That is, when he’s not busy with his very jam-packed “Head-Butting My Pelvis” schedule, of course.

Luckily for me, there are many people in this world who feel my pain. Many people who feel my pain and want to help ease it. By offering advice. Lots and lots of advice.

Oh sure, you could “technically” call these advice-giving people “random strangers on the street.”

But me? Nah. I prefer to call them my brand new friends.

Brand new friends like Random Grocery Store Cashier, who gave me the following tip:

Overdue 1

And my new buddy, Random Male Barista:

Overdue 2

Then, of course, there is Random Old Dude, who overheard Random Male Barista and so chimed in with his own helpful tidbit:

Overdue 3

And who could forget Random Creepy Guy with Hitler Mustache, who had this gem:

Overdue 4

And perhaps my favorite, Random Teen Baby Daddy on the Subway:

Overdue 5

Yeah. So consider this your eviction notice, kid. You have one week to vacate the premises.

Or else Mommy has to do some very specific and slightly disturbing marital acts with Daddy that I will later document (complete with graphic stick figure drawings) and then force you to look at when you’re 15 as punishment.

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Give it a breast already

Posted on January 24, 2014 | 9 comments

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.

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From waddle to swaddle

Posted on January 13, 2014 | 6 comments

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!

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I think I’m pregnant with a ninja baby

Posted on January 6, 2014 | Leave a comment

Ninja baby 1

Ninja baby 2

Ninja baby 3

Ninja baby 4

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Pregnancy brain for dummies

Posted on December 28, 2013 | 5 comments

Want to know the seven most terrifying words in the English language?

“It doesn’t matter, you won’t remember this anyway.”

Wait…six…seven…eight…dammit…

Want to know the eight most terrifying…OK, well, whatever…you get the point.

Yes, dear reader, yours truly is currently living through her own version of the movie “Memento.”

Memento

(If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s basically about a guy who, due to a brain injury, cannot create new memories, meaning he forgets all his short-term memories within a few minutes. So he’s always leaving notes and photos everywhere to remind him of important information. Or, as every male college student I met in 2001 referred to it, “The greatest movie of all time! Not even kidding, dude! Wanna get stoned and discuss it for the next five hours!?!”)

Ever since I got knocked up, my brain has become strictly for show. Now, granted, I was warned about this phenomenon, which has been dubbed the cutesy name of “pregnancy brain” (probably by someone who thinks pink is an acceptable color), but none of those warnings prepared me for this.

It started out slow. Little things like washing my hair with conditioner first, followed by shampoo. Watching a TV episode with no clue that I had already watched it the night before until someone pointed it out. Forgetting the names of common every day objects and frequently saying things like “You know, the thing with the thing. It was beside the other thing.”

Minor inconveniences, yes. But nothing I couldn’t handle.

However, it wasn’t until the following conversation with my husband a few nights ago that I realized the extent of the issue:

Ryan: “Blah, blah, blah…” (one of the blahs triggering some nagging inkling that I had forgotten something important).

Me: “Wait. Aren’t I mad at you about something?”

Ryan: “No.”

Me: “Yeah…I’m pretty sure I am. Why am I mad at you?”

Ryan: “If you don’t remember, there is no way in hell I’m telling you.”

Me: “Dammit! Why am I mad at you? You said something. About…DAMMIT! I can’t seem to remember!”

Ryan: “Hahahahahahaha…”

Me: “…”

Ryan: “Babe?”

Me: “…”

Ryan: “Sweetie…?”

Me: “I’m not talking to you. I’m mad at you for not telling me why I’m mad at you. And I’m gonna stay mad at you until you tell me why I was mad at you.”

Ryan: “I’m not even sure how to respond to that.”

Me: “…”

Ryan: “Fine. You really want to know why you were mad?”

Me: “…”

Ryan: “(Sigh)…You were mad because I pointed out that none of the elves seemed upset when Santa died in “The Santa Clause.” They didn’t even mourn or have a funeral or ask how he died, they just immediately accepted Tim Allen as their new boss. And you said I forever ruined the movie for you.”

Me: “Oh yeah. Thanks a lot, jerk. Way to ruin a modern classic…seriously though, that’s messed up that not even one of them cried.”

Ryan: “Right?”

Me: “Well, I guess I’m not mad anymore.”

Ryan: “It doesn’t matter. You won’t remember any of this anyway.”

Me: “DAMMIT!”

But you know what? It’s all gonna be OK. In fact, I’m going to have the last laugh. Because, as I recently discovered, those filmmakers were on to something. Which is why our house is now littered with scraps of paper like the following:

Mad note 1

Mad note 2

So be forewarned, babe. I’ll never again forget why I’m mad at you. Well, that is, as long as I can find a pen quickly enough to write it down before I forget. Speaking of which, where did that pen go? Dammit! It was right here. I swear!

DAMMIT IT ALL TO HELL!

What was I writing about again?

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Classholes

Posted on December 20, 2013 | Leave a comment

They say knowledge is power. And for the most part, I agree with that statement. That is, unless the knowledge has to do with squeezing something the size of a watermelon through something the size of a lemon.

In that case, knowledge is a horrific, crippling slap in the face.

Yes, it’s been almost two weeks since my husband and I took that 8-hour birthing class. A seemingly innocent educational experience that was designed to inform but instead violently assaulted both our eyes and ears.

We saw things, man. Things no human should see. Things that, although we were informed they were perfectly “natural,” were most definitely not natural.

birthing class 1 birthing class 2 birthing class 3 birthing class 4 birthing class 5 birthing class 6

We’re still recovering.

My only hope for a normal life at this point is that the sleep deprivation from labor, delivery and taking care of a newborn is severe enough to kill off all the brain cells that retain these particular memories.

Fingers crossed.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go resume rocking in the fetal position in my darkened bedroom while sobbing uncontrollably.

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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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Bah humbug, Charlie Brown

Posted on December 6, 2013 | Leave a comment

Something very strange has been going on these past few weeks. The month of December is finally here. Which means it’s almost Christmas.

And I don’t care.

I haven’t started decorating, I haven’t annoyed my husband by belting out my dirty version of “Carol of the Bells” and I haven’t even had a sip of eggnog yet.*

*Mainly because I can only have non-alcoholic eggnog this year and non-alcoholic eggnog is just dirty and wrong.

It’s my favorite holiday and I haven’t even acknowledged it.

But I think I know why. See, depending on your age, the holiday season can be perceived in many different ways.

As a kid, it’s all shiny, shiny lights and cookies and presents and big, fat men with beards whom you’ve never met but nonetheless are guaranteeing to do everything within their vast magical powers to make sure YOU personally have a very merry Christmas.

As a teenager, it means three weeks off school, the anticipation of your mom finally buying you those “ridiculously over-priced” (her words) pants with the vaguely suggestive word on the rear that you’ll just DIE without and hanging out with your cool, older cousin with the tattoo at grandma’s house.

In your early 20’s, it means one month of never-ending rounds of eggnog and wine and seasonal beer and reddish-looking cocktails with cutesy names like North Poletini and Santa’s Sleigh Bomb at hip holiday parties and festively decorated bars. And then going to your parent’s house where they feed you and give you lots of presents and do your laundry if you ask nicely enough and then give you all the leftovers to boot because  you “look too skinny.”

But then one day you’re married and in your 30’s and BOOM! You realize it’s December but you wouldn’t know it from YOUR house, which still has up an odd mixture of Fourth of July, Halloween and Thanksgiving decor. And it’s all because YOU are suddenly in charge of MAKING Christmas happen. And that’s when you cross the threshold from “this is the most wonderful time of year” to “laying in the fetal position while drinking wine straight from the bottle and eating an entire package of Santa-shaped sugar cookies.”

Because now when that massive ball of Christmas lights roughly the size of a horse needs untangled, that angry, throbbing vein is appearing on YOUR forehead and not humorously on your father’s head. And now when you hear “Silver Bells” for the fourth time before you’ve even had breakfast, it is no longer “festive” but some sort of sadistic audio torture.

Suddenly, you’re Googling how much the going rate for a semi-decent kidney is on the black market in order to afford gifts for your husband, parents, siblings, nieces, nephews and even your stupid dog because your husband thinks it’s mean if little Buffy doesn’t get at least one chew toy. Not to mention, now it’s a faux pas to not buy gifts for your mailman, hairdresser, neighbor, boss, co-workers, cousin’s baby, brother-in-law’s dog and the barista who serves you your Peppermint Mocha every morning.

And while before you always insisted that artificial Christmas trees were just so “bourgeois” and that when you had your OWN home, you wouldn’t be caught dead without a real pine tree, this year your corner is inhabited by a $19.99 three-foot tall fake tree that looks like it died of some horrible fake tree disease in 1974.

And even though you swore you were going to make gingerbread cookies from scratch this year, two minutes inside the store made you grab the closest pre-packaged desert-like item and SPRINT back to your car out of a not-entirely-unreasonable fear of being stabbed by a soccer mom with a candy cane.

And let’s not even get into attempting to make plans to travel to spend the holidays with your family, or maybe your in-laws, and having to decide which one and if you can even afford it and if you and your husband and your stupid dog can even survive an 18-hour roadtrip in heavy traffic without killing each other.

Of course, come Christmas Eve, when everything is finally done, you’ll finally, FINALLY find yourself falling under the magic spell of the season. And so you snuggle down on the couch to watch “Miracle on 34th Street” with some hot chocolate and sigh a sigh of contentment. Because after all, it is Christmas. And it really is the most wonderful time of the year.

Until you realize you don’t even have kids yet.

And everything is only going to get worse when you do.

Sigh.

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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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Who says cankles aren’t sexy?

Posted on November 22, 2013 | 1 comment

Here’s a fun trivia game. Wanna guess how many times I’ve gotten up to pee while typing this sentence?

Nine.

OK, OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. But only a little. Luckily I’m a pretty fast typist or it could have been true. Seriously, as if my constant snarting wasn’t bad enough, I now have to worry about wetting myself any time I do something more taxing than breathing (and sometimes even then it’s touch and go for a bit).

Snarting

Yes, this week I officially crossed into “Nothing About You Is Sexy Anymore” territory. Also known as…(cue dramatic music)…The Third Trimester. And that’s not me being self-deprecating. That’s just being honest. I imagine from an evolutionary standpoint, the grossness of pregnant women at this stage is to keep potential predators away since said woman wouldn’t have been able to waddle up a tree to safety very quickly.

Snarting2

For example, my formerly cute little basketball belly is now an unwieldy giant sphere-like object that is constantly covered in food or dust or whatever else I happened to unknowingly rub it up against (stunned strangers in restaurants included). I now breathe like an old man who has smoked three packs a day for 67 years just from the effort of getting up off the couch (old man grunt included). As the temperatures get colder with each passing day, I get hotter, making for a nice permanent state of being in which I am always covered in sweat (Whoa! Calm down, fellas. I’m already taken).

And, of course, there is the drooling, the cankles, the giant Hobbit feet, the sausage fingers, the snoring and the eating like a linebacker. Lucky guy, that husband of mine.

Lucky, lucky guy.

(My boobs, however, still look phenomenal, in case you were wondering. They’re just…just still so awesome, you guys. Like those big water balloons I used to fill with pudding and stuff in my bra when I was a kid, only REAL).

All these changes got me to thinking though. Perhaps all of the above is why I have yet to experience one of the most common annoyances of pregnancy. As embarrassed as I am to admit it this late in the game, I have to confess that I have yet to have a random person come up and touch my pregnant belly.

No big deal, right? Except I kind of feel like it is. Because from the second I peed on that stick, all any woman wanted to talk about was how infuriating it was when people came up to touch their belly. I mean, these ladies made it sound like their swollen stomach was the Justin Bieber of baby bumps, with giant crowds of people swarming around her, unable to resist touching that sacred bubble of baby (and pent up farts). So naturally, as soon as I started showing, I envisioned this every time I walked out the door:

Snarting3

Only no one has touched it yet. On the subway, they’ll offer me their seat, but keep their hands politely to themselves. In crowded stores, they’ll say “no problem” when I apologize for bumping into them with my bump, but then throw their hands up to let me pass unmolested. While walking down the street, they’ll treat me just like everyone else walking the street.

So, I’m starting to take it personal.

I mean, what? My belly isn’t good enough for you to touch? My baby isn’t cute enough in utero to warrant even a few seconds of unsolicited awkward touching? Is it because I’m so sweaty? Because let me tell you, A LOT of pregnant women are sweaty. And they still get accosted on the street.

Snarting4

Come on, people. I’m a humorist. I make my living by finding humor in the small things of life and writing about them. So if you don’ t touch my belly inappropriately, I have nothing to write about.

And me and my baby will starve.

So be a buddy, huh? Rub my belly without asking and while preferably saying something creepy, like “he’s got such a strong life force!”

I promise I probably won’t even punch you (unless I thought it would make for a funnier post).

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