Tag Archives: swamp demon

Today I will be a good mom

Today I will be a good mom.

Today, when my 9-week-old baby wakes up screaming at 4 a.m., I will not roll out of bed cursing under my breath like a sailor with Tourette’s. I will not wake up looking like a swamp demon because I was too tired the night before to take off my makeup. And I most definitely will not rant to her as she poops all over my hand about how I bet Duchess Kate doesn’t have to deal with this kind of crap with HER daughter.

No, today, I will wake up like friggin’ Cinderella, happy and chipper and oozing peaceful serenity while tiny birds help me put on my robe. I will be fresh-faced and wrinkle-free because of my elaborate nighttime skin care routine I do every night without fail. And as I change her diaper, I will sing a beautiful rendition of “Close To You” while staring deeply into her eyes.

Because today I will be a good mom.


Today, when my toddler wakes up and eats two bites of his cereal before pouring the rest of the bowl on his head while looking me dead in the eye, I will not scream “are you freaking kidding me right now?” loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. I will not then take him out to the backyard and spray him down with the garden hose because I am too lazy to give him a bath.

Oh no, today I will calmly and rationally explain to him why we don’t do that and then I’ll have him help me clean up the mess. Then we will have a bath-time that looks straight out of a Johnson & Johnson commercial before we go out to the porch hand-in-hand to blow bubbles.

Oh yes, today, I will be a good mom.

Today, when my kid asks me for the 37th time if he can watch an episode of “Little Einsteins,” I will not sigh and sarcastically say “all the Einsteins died, you can never watch them again,” triggering an epic tantrum.

Instead, I will tell him calmly for the 37th time that he cannot because he’s already watched five episodes and too much TV rots the brain. (And I should know. I’ve watched a thousand hours of “Shameless” while breastfeeding his sister in the middle of the night and I can no longer speak in full sentences).

Today, when the baby won’t stop crying even though she’s been changed, fed, burped and rocked, I will not slink off to the kitchen, holding her wailing body in one hand and stress eating an entire wheel of cheese with my other. Today, when my son is yelling at me at the top of his lungs because I won’t give him a cookie, I will not yell back at him “WHY ARE YOU YELLING!?! STOP YELLING!” at the top of my lungs.


Today, no matter what, I will be a good mom.

Today on our walk, I will not lose my patience when he stops to pick up every single leaf on the ground. In the middle of September. In New England.

No, today, I will live in the moment! I will force myself to slow down and marvel at the simple joys childhood brings! Even if those joys means it takes two friggin’ hours to walk a fourth of a mile!

Today I will be the BEST MOM IN THE WORLD!!!

And then, today, when both kids are crying hysterically and the dog is barking nonstop and dinner is burning on the stove and everyone is hungry and both diapers are filled to bursting and I still have emails to return and a deadline to meet and the house looks like it should be on an episode of “Hoarders” and I haven’t peed since 6 a.m., I will not belt out a primal scream while standing in the middle of the dining room and then run and hide in the bathroom so I can cry hysterically in private. I will not verbally assault my husband with a laundry list of every single thing that drove me insane today as soon as his keys hit the lock to the front door and he stands there bewildered, briefcase hanging limply at his side. And I will not rush through the oh-so-elaborate bedtime ritual that takes roughly 40 hours to complete because if I have to be a mom for one more second I WILL DIE.

Oh no.


Today I will be a good mom.

And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow everyone is grounded and I’m having wine at lunch.


A swamp demon is born

I’m back, folks. Sorry it’s been so long since I posted. After a gestation befitting an elephant, I can now finally say I have a human. And not just any human. My very own human. Made from scratch, thankyouverymuch.

Birth story 1

And as such, I’ve had very little time for writing, what with my days being filled with the following scenarios and all:

Birth story 2 Birth story 3 Birth story 4 Birth story 5 Birth story 6

But it wasn’t easy to get here (here, of course, being an exhausted new mom with crazy witch hair and covered in bodily fluids of varying consistencies that are not her own).

Then again, it wasn’t the dramatic and chaotic tale that Hollywood likes to tell.

Oh, you know what I mean. You’ve seen it a hundred times in the movies and on TV. There she is, some pregnant woman (who gained a grand total of seven pounds…all in her boobs) out and about when suddenly her water breaks in a giant gush worthy of a scene in “Titanic.” Immediately she starts having hardcore contractions because the baby is coming RIGHT NOW. Naturally, dad is freaking out and hilariously struggling to put his pants on (which he can’t because they are actually HER pants and of course they won’t fit because, again, she has only gained seven pounds…in her boobs). Cut to him frantically pushing her through the hospital in a wheelchair while she does that weird breathing thing (because, again, the baby is coming RIGHT NOW). And then immediately after this, she is pushing with all her might while screaming PG-13 obscenities at her husband. Cut to a zoomed-in close up of his face twisted in pain because she is squeezing his hand so hard and then BOOM. The baby is out in roughly 45 seconds, clean as the pure-driven snow and definitely not screaming like some horrific swamp demon.

Now, as you parents know, this is not the way it actually happens. Especially the part about cursing (women in labor could put any sailor to shame). But for you uninitiated out there, let me show you what a real birth story is like.

First of all, and most tragically, I never got a ride in a wheelchair. In fact, I never even saw a damn wheelchair. But that is my cross to bear, not yours. So…moving on.

My story starts a week after my due date when I went to see my doctor.

Doctor: “Wow. You’re still pregnant? That must be wicked uncomfortable.”


Doctor: “How about we induce Monday?”

Me: “How about you just hand me a knife and I’ll cut him out myself?”

Doctor: “How about Monday?”

Me: “…(feral growling noises)…”

So, since apparently it’s against some arcane medical code of ethics to let pregnant women cut out their own giant, overdue babies with a kitchen knife, I arrived to the hospital promptly at 8 a.m. the following Monday. And let me tell you, the trip there was full of tense, dramatic dialogue such as:

“You got the hospital bag?”



And, of course, this Oscar-worthy exchange:

“I have to pee again.”



But as exciting as all that was, it was only once we got there that the action really took off. For instance, there was the moment when my husband and my mom surrounded my bedside as we all watched a movie on my laptop. Then we had to make the agonizing decision of what to have for lunch. Then there was eight more hours of watching crap on the laptop as we waited for me to dilate. Then my mom left to go take care of our dog. And my husband and I watched more movies on the laptop.

Over 12 hours later, my water finally broke. Or at least that’s what the nurse said that barely perceptible trickle of water down my leg was. Soon after that, I started to have real contractions, which was immediately followed by this conversation:

Me: “Oh wow, yeah, I’m a wimp. I’d like drugs please.”

Nurse: “What kind?”

Me: “All of them.”

Alas, it is also apparently against that same arcane medical code of ethics to give a pregnant woman all the drugs, so I settled on an epidural, which I’m convinced is made up of unicorns and rainbows and the happy tears of a teacup pig.

And then we watched more movies.

Thirty-three hours later, however, some actual, non-sarcastic action did take place. The doctor informed us the baby wasn’t responding well to the efforts to induce him and his heart rate was dropping. With the doctor leaving the decision up to us, my husband and I quickly opted for a cesarean. And I will admit that was the scariest thing I’ve ever gone through (although that is a story for another blog).

But after what felt like an eternity, I finally heard the doctor exclaim “Look at that red hair!” and then the sweet, sweet sound of my own little swamp demon bellowing with all his might.

And that is what Hollywood, despite all its special effects and big budgets, can never fully capture: The drama and beauty and chaos of parents meeting their baby for the first time.

I’ll take the real thing any day.

Birth story 7