Friday, October 28, 2005

No Need to Get All Snotty

So let's see, I've been a mother for eight weeks now. And so far, it's been kind of a thankless job.

I've gotten poop on my hands and under my fingernails when baby boy decided that halfway through a diaper change would be a good time to take another dump.

I've been peed on more than a fire hydrant.

I've had my boobs used as a punching bag when he would nurse and get pissed that I wasn't producing enough milk.

And I've been spit up on in all sorts of places: my shoulder, down my back, down my cleavage (I know, sexy!) and in my eye.

The weird thing is, none of those things have freaked me out. Me, with the weak stomach, who if I was reading this on someone else's blog would have to run to the bathroom and hurl at the mere idea of any of these things.

It's strange that once it's your baby, the whole eek factor disappears. Although, I'm sure that if Baby Boy comes home drunk at 18 and hurls all over me then, I probably will mind a lot more.

But now, Baby Boy's gone and gotten himself congested. Way to go! Since he's only 8 weeks old, he doesn't comprehend the whole blowing your nose in a kleenex. And so it's my job to somehow extract the boogers the way miners crawl through dark tight tunnels, hoping to find gold. The thing with miners, is the mine doesn't belong to some screaming creature who doesn't want the gold removed, even if it is preventing important tasks like, say, breathing.

There's a thing called a nasal aspirator. It's this big bulb thing, invented in the Middle Ages as a torture device for babies who committed crimes like sleeping with the King's wife or stealing. Basically, you're supposed to stick this thing up a nostril the size of the eye of a needle and then suck out the snot. And then when it doesn't come out the first time, you're supposed to convince your screaming (and now purple) baby to let you near him again.

Oh the fun! After sucking out my baby's brains one piece of grey matter at a time, but still failing to get the offensive booger out, I resorted to another method.

I got a Q-Tip, delicately placed it up the nostril and fished the snot out. May I say that was so much easier and even though the child was still screaming in anger from the needless torture I put him through earlier, I'm sure he was much happier with my new method.

I'm sure those nasal aspirators would make a great chew toy for the dogs.



Tuesday, October 25, 2005


There are a few things you people need to know about me before you continue reading this blog... These are my darkest, deepest secrets. If you choose to hate me after I reveal these things, then I'll understand, but I feel it's time to tell you, my loyal readers, all one or two of you.

1. I once quit a job by putting my resignation in the suggestion box In my defense, I've always been terrible at confrontations. The couple who ran the coffee shop had been nothing but sweet to me, and I felt like absolute shit having to quit. And rather than face them and see the sadness in their eyes, I chose to wimp out and let them find out that my suggestion for making the place better was for me to stop working there.

2. I once walked into a tree because I was too busy noticing that my boobs were jiggling I don't really have a reasoning to make this seem less horrible than what it is. It is what it is. And no, I wasn't drunk when this happened.

3. I once broke up with a guy solely because his penis was very small I didn't tell him this was the reason. I also didn't tell him that I met Sweetie Pie the weekend I was away on business. In my defense, I didn't know at the time that Sweetie Pie was better hung. But I would have bet on it, considering I'd never met anyone that small before.

4. I once showed up 45 minutes late to meet a boyfriend who I was breaking up with that day At least it wasn't the same guy as in confession number three. That would have been really low of me. In my defense, I'd gotten my first ever acrylic nails put down, and had no idea it would take as long as it did. I found the poor lad asleep in his car, he'd waited for me so long. I woke him up and then told him I no longer wanted to go out with him. Yeah, I'm a bitch.

5. I used to make my boobs look bigger than they were by tightening my bra straps so much that the back of my bra would lie right below the back of my neck. This obviously worked well, since I was able to attract the guys in confession three and four as well as a number of other suckers.

6. I was once stalked by a firefighter This was quite awkward since my mom came to visit during this time and wondered why my call display would show "Fire Station 21" every other time the phone would ring. The first time she thought my building was on fire.

7. I once spent close to $800 in one shopping spree I was 21 at the time. My purchases included many tops and skirts, of course, but also a rabbit with all of the gear. I never even wanted a rabbit.

8. I gave up the rabbit to the Humane Society I told everyone I knew that a friend of a friend had a farm and took in my rabbit and was breeding him since he was so beautiful. But the truth is that after having the rabbit shit and piss on my couch one too many times and in only two months having my apartment turn into one big fire hazard (and from confession number six, you know I couldn't call the firefighters...) from the damn beast chewing up every single one of my cords, I drove it to the Humane Society and gave it away.

9. My Mastercard was revoked when I was 22 after I missed another payment because my Alzheimer-affected cat peed on all my bills I had no way to pay the damn thing since I no longer had the bill and Mastercard lost its patience with me. Those insensitive bastards.

10. I didn't break up with the boyfriend I was seeing at the time I had to put down my Alzheimer-affected cat Despite the fact that as I was sobbing on his shoulder after holding my cat as it died, he said to me "hey, we need to get going so I can make soccer practice." And no, he wasn't on a professional team, he was playing in some accountant league. If there ever was a reason to break up with someone, that would be it. Five months later, he broke up with me telling me that I wasn't "marriage material." Tell that to Sweetie Pie bitch!

That's all I can think of today, but there are plenty more skeletons in my closet.



Monday, October 24, 2005

Things Mothers Don't Get to Do...

For those of you who don't have children, here are the things that you are able to do, that I barely remember having the ability to do...

1. Brush your teeth every night: Well, you may forget on those nights where you're so sloshed or stoned that you're not sure how you got home or why your underwear is on inside out. But at least on those nights you remember to brush your teeth, you have the ability to. Me, not so much. Especially on nights where Sweetie Pie isn't home. Because Baby Boy doesn't like to be put down until he's in a coma in the evenings and if I try to, then screaming that threatens to make the moon veer off orbit ensues.

2. Hear the plot twists and previews of your favorite shows: Baby Boy has an amazing talent for screaming at the exact moment that the killer's name is revealed or the denouement of the plot occurs. This is sure to come in handy to piss off theater goers when he's older.

3. Eat with both hands: I dare you to try to eat a steak or a chicken breast with one hand, without anyone ever cutting it up in small bites for you. Now try to make it look like you have manners. Emily Post is rolling in her grave, but a serious adjustment to my table manners has been made. Martha Stewart would probably appreciate our creative use of Baby Boy in his bouncy seat as our dining table's centerpiece. Yes, an arrangement of roses may add a romantic atmosphere. But a baby sucking on a pacifier while his butt is vibrating allows you to inhale some of your meal using both hands.

4. Type your work/blog entry/emails/IMs without using your boobs/chin/right elbow to hold up a bottle: Hey if I want to get anything done around here, I have to find new uses for old body parts. Whoever said you can't teach an old broad new tricks?

5. Leave your house without packing for a three-month trip to Africa: It used to be that all I'd need to remember when I walked out of the house was my keys, credit card and to put on some kind of clothing (and that had to be learned the hard way.) Now, I have to anticipate one million different scenarios, that include but aren't limited to: hunger, explosive diarrhea, boredom, locust, world war. My Jeep Liberty no longer leaves the house without its back bumper dragging on the ground under the weight of the massive amount of baby crap it takes just to go see my in-laws for 10 minutes (who by the way, live only 15 minutes away if you assumed it was quite the journey away).

6. Pay attention to your pets: Once upon a time, our pets were the center of our universe. I took an excessive amount of pictures of them, they were fat and well-fed and shoved us out of the way in bed so that they could comfortably rest at night. A good day for them is now one where they stay out of the way enough to not be threatened with being put down.

7. Run to answer the phone/door/anything that requires running for, without your loose stomach skin slapping you in the face: I know, I know, too much information, but trust me, unless you're a freaking celebrity whose plastic surgeon's number is on speed dial, your pregnancy belly shrinks down and leaves a kangaroo like pouch that flaps in the wind. My crop top days were over when I exited my teenage years, but they are now unlikely to come back until I pop out all of the kids I'm going to have and convince Sweetie Pie that a tummy tuck is the bestest birthday present ever.

But hey, I'm rewarded for not getting to do these things with the joy of holding a ten-pound mountain of adorableness who smiles big toothless grins at me and head butts me to show his love. And it makes it all seem worthwhile in my sleep-deprived world.



Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Baby by Day, Car Mechanic by Night

I am mystified by something. Now I know it doesn't take much to mistify me, but this has me really perplexed.

My Baby Boy's fingernails grow very quickly. I mean very quickly. I have to trim them twice a week. And considering that they're about 1/4 of an inch big each, it takes me almost two hours to cut all ten of them, because it takes so much concentration to avoid cutting off a tiny little finger. On the other hand, his toe nails don't grow at all, like his body can only focus on the growth of one kind of nails at once.

But as strange as that is, there's something even stranger. Baby Boy's nails, as they grow, get really nasty and grimy, like a car mechanic's do. You know what I'm talking about, they work with grease all day, so it gets stuck under their nails, and no matter how much they try to scrub up, it won't come out.

Well, Baby Boy has the same thing. Which I don't understand, he's never put down on the floor, none of his clothes are black, I don't feed him tar in his bottles, so what the hell is making his nails dirty?

Maybe my baby is in the CIA or something and simply impersonates being a normal baby during the day...



Monday, October 17, 2005

Hello, My Name is Sweetie Pie and I'm a Moron

Hi there,

My name is Sweetie Pie. I'm married to Catwoman. Have been for what feels like forever, because she never shuts up.

Anyway, I asked Catwoman if I could write a post for her blog, because I'm a moron and I thought the whole world should know.

You see, we have a baby. I'm sure you've heard about that by now, since that's all Catwoman can talk about these days. Which is definitely a step up from her talking about her cats and who celebrities are dating, neither of which I give a rat's ass about.

But back to the baby. For those of you who don't have babies, let me tell you this. The last few months of pregnancy, your wife is huge, and cranky and has the libido of a run over skunk.

Then the baby comes and your wife isn't allowed to have sex for six weeks. So that adds up to a really long dry spell.

On Friday, Catwoman went to the doctor's and was not only given the green light for sex, but was also given a prescription for birth control to ensure we never procreate again.

But because the baby boy is so young, he sleeps in our room and most of the time, actually sleeps in our bed, making sex impossible.

Until Saturday night. When my parents decided to watch the baby for us. Catwoman was very excited about this. But without asking her, I made plans for us to go to a soccer game, the excitement level of which equals watching paint dry.

And ensuring that rather than buying my wife a nice romantic dinner, I got her a burger at a drive through and a beer at the game. I think she wanted ten beers to drown her sorrows away, but I'm also a cheap moron and only bought her one.

When I told Catwoman that we were going to this game since our friends had extra tickets, which they'd gotten for free and didn't care if they used them or not, she got a very sour look on her face. I asked her what she wanted to do and she replied that she'd like to go out to dinner and then just relax.

Because my wife isn't a cheap whore, she didn't explicitly state that she wanted to have wild crazy sex. And because I'm a moron, I told her that we were going to the game, since our friends were kind of expecting us.

Enough to say that not only did Catwoman not have a good time (luckily my best friend's wife hates soccer just as much, so they just talked the whole time, ensuring that at least she enjoyed herself that way, or else my head would be in a Fed Ex box on its way to Nepal right now), but when we got home, she was so mad at me, that she went straight to bed.

Since my parents had a rough night with the baby, they probably won't want to watch him overnight ever again and since Baby Boy will probably be sleeping in our bed until he's 18, I've just ensured that I will never get laid again.

So next time Catwoman tells you I'm a moron. Don't doubt her. Everything she says is real.

Sweetie Pie.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Where'd My Right Arm Go?

At the risk of sounding like a crappy mother, I'm going to say this anyway. My baby boy is a pain in the ass. It's not that I don't love him. I do. Because I made him and therefore nature makes me love him no matter how purple he might turn when he screams.

But I can love someone and think they're a pain in the ass. I love Sweetie Pie, but there are times where I think moving to Canada isn't far enough to get away from his annoying inconsiderate ass. That doesn't mean I'm actually going to do it. Because, once again, I love him.

But this is about the baby boy. Who I love. In case I didn't make that clear the first 10 times I've said in this post. I'm repeating this over and over again so you people don't call Child Protective Services on me.

You see, despite Baby Boy being the cutest baby in the whole world (and I say this being completely unbiased, because I have seen every baby in the world, and let me tell you, they ain't this cute), he's got a number of annoying traits.

First, he never shuts up. And this comes from someone who I'm sure a lot of people have met and when they left they thought "she's got great cans and I'd totally nail her, but she never shuts up." So if I think someone talks too much, you know it's bad.

Maybe it would be fine for him to do all this talking. After all, I'm home alone most of the day. But his vocabulary is quite limited, so it's like having a conversation with Jodie Foster in Nell. "AAAAAh! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Sometimes he says things that seem to be really amusing because he'll smile. But of course, I don't speak the "aaaah! ahhhh!" language, so I tell him "I don't get it." Which seems to really piss him off and then that makes me feel stupid.

Second annoying thing baby boy does: the screaming. The screaming only happens at times where I can't deal with it, a.k.a. late evening or middle of the night. The screaming can happen for a million different reasons. It can be because he's hungry, or because I pissed him off by sticking my tongue out at him when he's just done it to me. The screaming is extremely loud and can be heard five counties away. Our dog hates the screaming and will leave the room every single time, only to be seen again when the zone has been scream-free for five minutes.

Thirdly, Baby Boy eats all the fucking time. I don't mean this in an exaggerated manner by any means. He literally eats constantly. At times, he'll go two hours between meals. But more than likely, especially in the evenings, it'll be every hour, so that by the time he finishes a bottle, he takes a 10 minute nap and then the screaming (see above: second annoying trait) begins again.

Lastly, there's the not sleeping. Now when I was 18, I went to Spain for three months and partied my ass off (my real reason for being there is to learn Spanish. But come on, I was 18 and there were lots of hot men). Here was my schedule for three months: Go to class (most of the time anyway), go to the beach with my girlfriends, all afternoon, doze an hour while tanning. Go home, shower, eat with host family, meet friends at bar, hit clubs all night, take 6 a.m. subway (first one of the day) home, shower, and start all over again.

That summer, on average, I slept an average of 30 minutes a day. So I am the Queen of non-sleeping. Med students look like whimps next to me. But I have to admit, I'm no longer 18. Hell, I'm now, as of last month, no longer in my 20s either. But that's a whole other point. The point is, Baby Boy takes not sleeping to a whole new level. If you Google newborn sleeping, I'm sure you'll get 10,000 hits all telling you the same bullshit: newborns sleep 16 hours a day.

Well, apparently Google failed to send the memo to Baby Boy, who's sleeping habits have now deteriorated to 4 hours (but not in a row) at night and about 30 minutes during the morning and the afternoon.

My child sleeps about five hours a day! Do you comprehend the horror of this people???? Sweetie Pie and I officially hate each other and have been reduced to spitting venom at each other when we happen to pass in the hallway or kitchen. We're so sleep deprived that the concept of being nice to each other no longer exists. And yet I got birth control pills at my doctor's appointment this morning. I don't even know why.

But crazier than Baby Boy's annoyingness is this. He's at my mother-in-law's right now. I'm supposed to swing by and pick her and him up in half an hour. So I've been alone at the house for almost two hours.

And when I walked in, it was like stepping into a haunted house. It was quiet, eerie and I didn't like it one bit. His baby swing and bouncy seat are in the corner unoccupied and they look like remnants of happier times. As much as I sometimes feel like bashing my head in the wall when he wants to eat for the hundredth time for the morning when I'm trying to IM my friends, I can't imagine life without him now. My whole existence has changed because of him and even the bad parts make me feel more complete.

I know it's silly because I'm only away from him two hours, but I really miss my little man right now. I've left him with my m-i-l before to go to meetings, but I was in a different environment, so it didn't hit me like it does now.

But as much as I miss him, my m-i-l has offered to watch him overnight and I used to get offended by it, but I'm going to take her up on it next week. I figure Sweetie Pie and I can use a full night's sleep. And maybe we'll be human enough to each other that those birth control pills can come in handy.



Monday, October 10, 2005

Disturbing... Very Disturbing Indeed...

I don't know if I've spoken about this before, but I'm about to tell you something very private about myself.

I'm a farter.

I know everyone farts, but I think I fart more than the average person. Sweetie Pie is horrified by my farting and my blaming it on the dog stopped working a long time ago.

My farting comes and goes and yesterday, it was a coming.

Sweetie Pie and I needed to go to Home Depot to buy flowers to replace the dead ones in front of our house, and so he carried out Baby Boy to the truck with the diaper bag and half of our household goods, because you can't go anywhere for five minutes without filling a U-Haul once you have a baby.

I grabbed my shoes and as I proceeded to sit down on our garage step to put them on, I farted. A loud one. But particularly, a stinky one. Problem is, that my body was already in the process of sitting down, and so by the time the fart was out of my ass, my face was in the vicinity of the fart smell.

It was literally like I had bent down, stuck my face next to my ass and farted.

All Sweetie Pie heard was "Oh God... EEEEEEW."

The smell wafted to his part of the garage a few seconds later, so there was no hiding what I had done or what I was speaking of.

I have to say, my shit don't smell of roses. That much I'm willing to admit.



Friday, October 07, 2005

Febreeze Smells Like a Big Dog Dump to Me

There, I've said it.

Febreeze stinks. I don't understand the fasination with it. I've bought every different kind of scent and every time I spray it around my house, I wonder "why am I spraying fake cat urine around my house when I already have a litter box in my laundry room?"

And now, what I really don't get, is that Proctor & Gamble is adding Febreeze to everything. In other words, they're stinking up all of my products. Now Bounce and Tide come with Febreeze. In case I thought my clothes didn't stink enough after I worked out or walked outside in 100 degree weather, now I can make them stink from the second they come out of the washer and dryer.

I swear, if they start messing with my shampoos and stuff, they're really going to hear from me.

On another note, thought I'd share this funny statement my Sweetie Pie said to me yesterday. The price of electricity and natural gas is sky rocketing. So I told Sweetie Pie that this winter, the three of us would be wearing bulky sweaters inside the house, because we just don't have the money to pay the equivalent of what we'll make in a lifetime to the utility companies just to keep the house toasty.

Sweetie Pie's reply was (and this is an exact quote) "well, at least your coochie will be warm since you constantly wear your coochie sweater now."

I didn't understand what he was talking about until I realized he meant I hadn't shaved that area in a few months.

To which I say, bite me. I just had a baby. I'm not even allowed to have sex, so there.



Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Three Funny Things Baby Boy Does

1. Raises his leg to fart

2. Punches the side of the bassinette to show serious disenchantment with the sleeping arrangement.

3. Pushes boob away to let me know it's empty



Monday, October 03, 2005

I Don't Know How I Keep Forgetting to Tell This Story...

So here is the most awkward moment in the history of mankind...

A few days after Baby Boy was born, my mom came down from Canada to see him, and I guess me by default.

The day after she arrived into town, I had an appointment with the doctor who sliced me open like a fish so she could check that I was healing properly, that my blood pressure had gone back to normal and that I was re-entering the world of the living after narrowly escaping death.

My mom came with me of course, to keep an eye on Baby Boy while I was being prodded.

Since I'd never been to that doctor's office really, and met her for the first time right before I was rushed to surgery, I had to fill out the gazillion pages long survey that doctors' offices make you fill out for whatever reason.

Since there was nothing else to do in the waiting room, I started reading the survey allowed to entertain my mom. Which was all fine and dandy until on page 87, one of the questions was "have you had more than five sexual partners?" and my mom at this point was reading along with me.

My life flashed before my eyes. I had two options. Answer the truth and have my mother wonder exactly how many more than five my number was. Or lie.

It only took me about one tenth of a second and I checked "no."

I figured my answer would not affect the healing of my c-section scar. However, it would affect my ability to look my mother in the eyes for the rest of my life.



Sunday, October 02, 2005

One Month: My Letter to Baby Boy

A month ago today, we met for the first time. I may have been groggy, I may have had an IV in each hand and one arm, but I couldn't have been more excited to meet anyone in my entire life.

For nine months, I'd worried about that first meeting. Would you be ok? Would I know what to do?

And you weren't ok. You were better than ok. You were perfect and gorgeous and tiny and the most lovable edible baby boy in the whole entire world. I couldn't believe you were mine. It was like the world had made some terrible mistake and as I held you I expected the nurses to say "oh wait, you're not a responsible adult. We're taking him back."

And then they didn't. And we got to take you home with us.

And that's when we knew we were in trouble. You were so tiny, you wouldn't fit in your car seat. And we didn't have the directions with us and so we couldn't figure out how to tighten the straps anymore. And so we drove home slowly with me in the back seat, my hand on your chest. Bad parenting incident number one.

Know that we love you more than life itself. But if you would just allow us to sleep even just a little, I'm sure we'd love you even more. At first, everything was so exciting, getting up to feed you four, five times a night. Listening to you cry when you didn't want to go back to sleep. But by the third night, the novelty had worn off, your daddy and I fought all the time and I think I had my only rub with postpartum depression and cried my eyes out for almost one hour, sitting on the toilet of your bathroom, surrounded by all those frogs and duckies.

But if I had to change anything, I wouldn't. Because every day, I get to look into those blue eyes of yours and smell your head and touch your feet.

Oh those feet. I think I would drive to the end of the universe if I had to, just to see those feet again. The tiny pinky toes, the soft soles, the way that you stretch your big toe.

I once spent an afternoon watching you sleep. You have the most expressive face of any baby in the world, that I know for sure. And you are probably the most vocal baby in the world. You grunt, you moan.

And then there's the screaming. It doesn't matter how many times I tell you that asking for food politely will get it to you just as fast, you still insist on wailing at the top of your lungs.

But you can make me laugh so hard that tears stream down my face. Like the time you entertained us for 15 minutes doing your best impression of a bobble head. Side to side, side to side, your little head was going nuts. And we watched you and laughed and you looked at us back, puzzled by our laughter.

The nurses at the hospital called you Squeaker, because you'd make this pitiful little sound like a little bird when you were hungry and not fed the second you wanted to be. I wish I'd recorded that sound, sometimes I worry I won't remember exactly how it sounded.

This month has flown by so fast and already you look less like a baby, and more like a little boy. It breaks my heart and yet it makes me swell with pride. The fact that you've been trying to hold your bottle and can now hold your head for 10 seconds. That you love being swung around on top of my head like Superman and you put out your arms like he does, a pretend cape flying behind your little mullet.

You don't believe in laying in people's laps, because that's for babies, instead only being mildly content if you're sitting up, despite the fact that your neck can't yet support your head.

Sometimes I worry that you're too serious already. And how you'll probably be embarrassed by me by the age of three.

You're my little man, and I could tell you all day long that I love you. At least you allow me to tell you how I feel, unlike my kisses, which already make you crinkle your nose in disgust and make you give me that stink eye you mastered at the age of two days. But I love kissing that perfect little mouth of yours and could do it for hours if you'd let me.

I hate that you're already a month old, because it makes me feel like it's gone too fast, and that I'm already one month closer to you moving out, going on with your own life and leaving me in the dust like the preemie clothes you're finallly outgrowing.

I can't wait to see what next month will bring and the month after that. I hope you always enjoy my singing as much as you do now. And I hope that you stay this sweet when you're a teenager.

I love you little man,