Miss Jackson If You're Nasty

Nasty. Nasty boys.....don't mean a thing.

So, a typical day begins like this:

I stir from a night of random intervals of sleep that last between 10 minutes to 2.5 hours at a time. I hear 3 small-people voices. I hear spoons clanking against cereal bowls. I hear a husband in the shower. I look at the clock.

Shit.

It's 7:04. That means I was supposed to be in the shower 4 minutes ago. That means I don't get my pre-shower coffee. That means things will, inevitably get ugly.

I am then informed that today is, in fact, Spirit Day!

Yay! Go Team!

WTF is Spirit Day?

Well, come to find out, Spirit Day is this:

Spirit Day - (noun) a 24 hour period which begins 40 minutes prior to the start of the first grade school day. It is celebrated by the wearing of the only two colors of clothing/and/or/accessories that you do not possess. ex: "Fuck, it's Spirit Day"

So I do what any other normal person would do - I find a blue and white striped sundress that is 2 sizes too small, slap it on over brown corduroy skinny pants, pair it with a yellow cardigan, and complete the ensemble with of a pair of adolescent obnoxiousness known as "Twinkle Toes".

and then.....
And Then.....

AND THEN!!!........

The male of the family has the presence of mind to inquire:

Does that look weird?

(of course within earshot of the 7 year old)

Now people are pouting.
Now people are complaining.
Now people don't want to wear the lovingly assembled spirit day ensemble.

All this makes for a non-spirited mommy.

Suddenly, I am loathe to continue on with my regularly scheduled programming of sunshine and cheerfulness. I am all of a sudden feeling slightly less enthusiastic about life in general.

And then, as if it is a revelation of sorts - some kind of newly discovered piece of the puzzle of life:

"I guess you are just going to be nasty as usual."

Oh.

Hmmm. Now this is interesting.

Does he not recognize my ability to function on inappropriate quantities of caffeine?

Is it my uncanny way of assembling last minute spirited ensembles that he is not appreciating?

I can only assume that he is not impressed with my people skills, to which I would have to reply:

Nasty boys - don't mean a thing. Oh you nasty boys don't mean a thing to me.

Janet and I will now carry on with our day having learned a few things.


Listen to: Janet Jackson~Nasty

you've made my shitlist

While feeding and dressing kids this morning (because they're always either hungry or naked or both, so annoying) the guy I married and me had a conversation that went a little something like this:

HIM: "I really have to go to the bathroom."

ME: "Yeah, well forget it. I have to go too and I probably won't be able to go until at least 10 o'clock."

This is what our lives have been reduced to. Jealousy and resentment regarding the other's ability to have a bm has become the norm around here.

Each of my kids have their own little turd tale.

The princess once ate a dime. We kept vigil for three long days until we finally, wielding a shish kabob skewer, became ten-cents-none-the-richer.

The punk, being the rabid fan of candy that she is, can often be let out of her restraints, if only for a short time, if she is occupied by chocolate. That one fateful day, I was knee deep in something pressing - laundry, cooking, facebook...I can't recall. I turned a blind eye when she got into the Easter basket because it would buy me a few more minutes to play family feud, I mean fold laundry. I planned to stick her right into the tub after to wash away all the melted chocolate. As I approached her however, much to my chagrin, reality quickly set in. The melted chocolate was not melted chocolate, but in fact a puddle of explosive diarrhea. Live and learn.

Holy Shit

To complete this fecal fable, today at work a three year old the size of Chris Farley pooped his pants. After taking a few moments to ponder my career path, and its certain unfortunate particulars, I mentally prepared myself for the task at hand. While changing him, I inadvertently dropped the huge steaming man-sized turd. These things happen. They usually happen to me. It splatted onto a foot stool in all its glory. This is a stool I often sit on to tie shoelaces or help button pants. I will no longer be doing that.

Shit happens.

listen to: L7 ~ shit list

even if things end up a bit too heavy

And so, one year after beginning this process of attempting to put my brain into words, even though it may never see the light of day, I feel like I have found myself exactly where I thought I would be. I feel as if a complete lifetime has been compressed into those three hundred and sixty five days. We have lost so much, but gained more than we could ever have expected. I have felt utterly defeated and at times possessed an unconquerable will. There have been unimaginable highs and insurmountable lows.

We packed, we unpacked, and we moved on not once, not twice, not three, but four times. We learned what to expect when you're unexpectedly expecting. We survived another high-risk pregnancy. We laughed and cried and learned through birthdays and Christmases, and we lived to tell about it all, and maybe someday we even will. We did it all together, because that's the only way we know how. We march forth, we float on. We do it holding hands. 3/4/11

listen to: modest mouse~float on

ALL ABOARD!!!

Crazy.......but that's how it goes.

If there is one thing I have learned through this journey of motherhood, it is that all my preconceived notions were totally false. Every idea, every plan, every picture perfect dream has evolved into almost the exact opposite. My first desperately longed for pregnancy was marred by antenatal depression, and followed by PPPTSD after the hospitalization and near death of our first daughter. Our second daughter brought with her a year of raging colic and a black hole of postpartum depression to crawl out of. My third pregnancy ended in the house of horrors roller coaster ride of postpartum anxiety and OCD.

So, I have recently found myself on the tracks of the Crazy Train with a one way ticket to Psycho Town in my pocket. I can not board this loco-motive. There are people who need me here. I desperately want to have someone in my life who knows what this feels like and can understand me. I don't have that, so I lean on these three little people and clutch onto them for dear life. They pull me off the tracks every day without even knowing.

I desperately wish that I could go back in time and hand myself a survival guide of sorts, having lived through this, having laughed and cried and made up my own rules as I went along. If I could, this would be it:

*Have A Posse:

Find a support system - you need these people, they are vital. If you have none, you need to find some and pay them if you have to. This is loosely based on the idea that "It takes a village". Similar - but I've come to realize that it more likely takes a city. It takes a dirty grungy back-alley big city full of thugs. These people need to be ready to give a beat down. They will need to have your back like the Crypts (or the Latin Kings at the very least). This crew needs to be ready and willing to kick ass and take names.

*Clean House:

And I don't mean dusting and laundry (dear god that crap is LAST on your list). Get rid of the toxic people in your life. You make the rules. You decide who makes the cut. It might be a friend or even family. It will most likely be that person who asks why you didn't send Christmas cards this year. It might also be that other mom who wonders why you don't use your lunch break to organically grow cotton to make into cloth diapers, or how you could feed your baby that poisonous maggot shit known as formula. Anyone who questions your best-intention, unconditional loving parenting has to go. Basically, if they don't think the sun shines out of your ass...give 'em the boot.

*Put On Your Own Oxygen Mask First:

Save yourself! You need to get on the "Can't Beat 'Em? Join'Em!" team. Think like your baby, act like your baby.

Survival Mode: Eat, Poop, Sleep.

This revelation came to me one night after eating a meatball for dinner in the laundry room at 10:00 at night so no one would wake up and hear me. Earlier that day I had contemplated the moral ramifications of using the bathroom while wearing the baby in the sling. And earlier that morning at work, so unused to the practice of using the bathroom alone, and in complete silence, I fell asleep sitting on the toilet and nearly gave myself a concussion when someone next to me flushed, startle me awake, and my head slammed against the wall of the stall. I don't even like meatballs - something's got to give.

So, basically you forget about manicures. You forget about going to the gym. You forget about watching movies with F words and shaving both legs on the same day. You just eat, you sleep, and you poop. These three things will come to feel like life's biggest luxuries.

*Laugh:

If all else fails, remember to laugh at yourself. Laugh with your kids. Laugh at your husband, he's bound to do something funny sooner or later. Laughter really is the best medicine for me (that and an arsenal of anti-depressants). It's what has gotten me this far, and continues to keep me going. I hold onto the hope that when all this comes to pass, and I know it will, I will be able to look back at it all like an old home movie - shaky and blurry and sometimes upside down, but with roaring laughter in the background. I hope to remember it all that way - with most of the bad parts missing, and with birthday cakes and Christmas trees, and the way we make our voices sound in those films, as if we know we will need to go back to them someday and draw our strength from there imprinted memories. As long as I can always hear those voices, I can stay off the tracks.

Listen to: Ozzy~Crazy Train

a near miss or a close call...i keep a room at the hospital...

"...I scratch my accidents into the wall".

They say "the best laid plans"........

October 30th, 2010. Our parents were on standby waiting for "the phone call". We had been over things with our doula several times, and she made us feel confident that when the time came, all would go perfectly. The birthing pool was ready and waiting. If things took an unsuspected turn, and for some unforeseen reason we would need to have this baby outside the loving confines of our home, we were armed with our strict birth plan of no drugs, no formula, and absolutely no placental detachment....until it falls off on it's own, of course, and we eat it with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Haha, just kidding.

We showed up at at the O.R. at 8 a.m. sharp, and my first thoughts were this:

1. can't wait to get this kid out of me
2. bring on the morphine
3. in one short hour, booze and cigarettes, while still possibly inappropriate for the time being, are in no way any longer out of the question.
4. FIVE DAY VACAY FROM LAUNDRY AND DISHES!!

Yes, some women are totally not in favor of the whole hospital birth-experience, but barring the amount of people who are going to see me naked, I can't think of one good solid reason why I am not supposed to like this.

Case in point:

1.Someone is bringing me three meals a day, and it could very well be because I am comparing this food to my own cooking, but this food is nothing to turn your nose up at. They cook it, they serve it to you in bed, and then they clean it up. It's win, win, win - they could be feeding me dog shit.

2. Good drugs, and they are free and legal.

3. You get to hang out with your baby and smell it all day, and then they take it away and let you sleep. All. Night. Long. These 4 nights of sleep come in handy since you will not have another full night of sleep for approximately 1,825 more nights. (unless it's leap year, in which case 1,826 nights)

4.Someone comes in and cleans up for you.

5.Did I mention the drugs? That you don't even have to get up from bed to get for yourself?

6.Your t.v. options are suddenly broader than that of a girl of unspecified Hispanic origin and her talking monkey.

7. Free stuff - see below.


SO - on my last day of my stay at the Holiday Inn, I mean Hospital Inn, I mean HOSPITAL, the nurse said "Don't forget to empty the baby's bassinet of all the things inside". JACKPOT! formula, diapers, socks, blankets! (not that we will be needing them, because of our milk-making boobies, cloth diapers, and socks and blankets made from organic cotton that we grew in our back yard) but they will come in real handy in a pinch!!

The following items are also free, extremely useful, and quite versatile:

* gigantic, ultra absorbent maxi pads:

Now, if your baby did not come out of your vagina, you may be thinking "hmmm why would I need these?" But the first time you stand up from your bed to walk to the bathroom, you will instantly transform your spotless hospital room into a sight resembling a grizzly murder scene reminiscent or Saw 6, or at the very least, Saw 4.

So, besides the obvious use, some things I have used this mega pads for:

-baby's diaper when (i mean if) you run out

-nursing pads if you are Christmas shopping without your baby and are stuck in a one hour long ToysRUs line because your three year old needs a $40 doll that takes a crap so then you won't have to squeeze your boobs into a taco bell mountain dew cup because you picked a stall with no toilet paper and you already took your bra off


-stick them on your swiffer wet jet


* the little bottle you're supposed to squirt your vagina with when you pee

-i use mine to rinse my baby's hair after shampooing. (Don't worry, I opted not to squirt my vagina when peeing, being that no one came out of it)

*little rubber booger sucker

-great for blowing cupcake crumbs out from between computer keyboard keys

- not recommended in a pinch as a turkey baster

* those lovely mesh undies that are designed to fit either Calista Flockhart or Kirsty Alley

-when stretched out, make a perfect place to keep stuffed animals when thumb-tacked up on the ceiling

And that concludes this chapter of What To Expect When You're Unexpectedly Expecting

listen to: jawbreaker~accident prone

sweet dreams are made of this. who am I to disagree?

Whoever coined the phrase "sleeping like a baby" was surely high off their ass. A more appropriate term would have been "sleeping like a tweaker on a meth bender" - that is if you are likening sound sleep to MY children.
I've had three, and they all sleep like shit. If you told me that you slept like a baby last night, I would say I'm sorry - that sucks big balls. Maybe my kids are the exception to the rule - or - maybe we should be more specific. Case in point:

Jane: "Good morning Dick. How are you?"

Dick: "I'm doing great Jane! I took an ambien last night, and slept like a baby! And how are you?"

Jane: "Not great Dick, not great. I have three kids. I slept like a Parisio baby."


See Dick sleep. Sleep Dick, sleep.
See Jane cry. Cry Jane, cry.

Don't be a Dick.

If you got a good night's sleep - or god forbid a nap - please...keep it to yourself.
If you are tired and you don't have children, please...don't tell me. And, if by chance you don't work and you feel sleepy...please don't share that with me. Just go sleep like it's your fucking job.
Of all the crap that comes along with parenting - the grey hair, the stretch marks, the nicotine patches and the mini-vans - to me the worst agony by far is the sleep deprivation. If I had to choose between a hot bod,a fast car, a late night of carousing and booze and smokes or a return to regular glorious sleep....sleep would win, hands down.

Please.

Don't be a Dick.

listen to: The Eurythmics~Sweet Dreams

ah, push it....push it good

...or don't.
The truth is, I don't know nothin 'bout birthin no babies.

My babies did not come out of my vagina. And I'm not sad. There - it has been said. The cat is out of the bag. Commence stone throwing. On the morning of October 30th, 2010, after little fan fair and much morphine, Pearla Maris came into this world, and brought with her a tidal wave of hormones stronger than any that ever came crashing out of the ocean for which she was named.

We brought her home to her sisters, and have now proudly completed our Three Ring Circus Side Show Of Freaks. And so ends my 8 year career as a baby maker. This mom-and-pop operation has officially closed up shop. Not "Gone Fishin", not "Closed On Account Of Death In The Family", no "Grand Re-Opening" anytime in the foreseeable future. We are closed as in "Out Of Business". The end of an era. I'm hangin up my maternity jeans. That's all she wrote. The End.....or is it just the beginning?

hot for teacher

"fall is here, hear the yell
back to school, ring the bell
brand new shoes, walking blues
climb the fence, book and pens
i can tell that we are gonna be friends"

a pretty strong case for homeschooling........or why i want to poke my kid's teacher in the eye:

actually, I mean my friend's kid's teacher....not mine - I love my kid's teacher. ok that being said - let's begin with the fact that the idea of my kid out of my sight with strangers gives me hives. If you are with my kid when I'm not...I not only don't like you, I actually wish I could hurt you. So if you're the lady who spends the day with my kid AND you're condescending and cantankerous, well then I hope you get gonorrhea. It basically comes down to envelopes, and too much talking.

lick it up...

Kid: "My teacher doesn't like the lunch money in these big envelopes, and she doesn't want them folded either."

Me: "Well you can tell your teacher we're not buying smaller envelopes because we are poor."

Husband: eye-rolling and death stare aimed my way

Now why on earth would this matter, and why on earth would you tell a 1st grader this ever-so-passive-aggressive-assholeishly in hopes that they will tell the parent? It is in my very nature to find the most gigantic envelopes I can and use them for the rest of the year. I wasted precious moments better spent on facebook that night googling "huge envelopes".

you talk to much, you never shut up...

One day I open my daughter's backpack (not the pink and black polka-dot one I bought her, the obnoxious Jessie the Cowgirl one that my mother bought her which made her look at the polka-dotted one like it was a steaming pile of dog crap).
I go to sign the calendar, which we are instructed to do each day. There, scrawled in red across January 5th's square: too much talking

Now... I am confused. I am befuddled. I am perplexed. This is annoyingly nonspecific.
What can this possibly mean? Did you share too much about your yeast infection in the teacher's lounge? Is this a reference to Wikileaks? I am at a loss as to how to respond to this. So many 3 word phrases come to mind, and I begin to actually think that maybe the world would be a better place if we all communicated this way....need more sleep...kill me please...where's the vodka...

I want to respond "me tarzan. you stupid." ...but then I realized that was four words. So I kept trying. "too many dittos. boring busy work. sitting at desk. all day long. not enough creativity. expectations too high. they are seven. talking is fun."

Finally, I just gave up and wrote "love large envelopes"

tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

Road trips are one of the best parts of summer. However anyone who has ever gone farther than around the block with the princess and the punk knows that you may need to stretch the truth a bit (or a lot) to get through a trip alive.

We made our way out of New Jersey to Pennsylvania to brave the 104 degree scorching temperatures to hit the amusement park and the water park. And, of course, as Murphy and his law would have it, we did the rides on the hot and humid be-careful-you-might-die-if-you-go-outside-today-duh-it's 104 degrees day, and the water park on the 60 glorious degree breezy partly cloudy day. So... the water park was going well.

The kids were having a blast and so were we. At some point, we decided to divide and conquer. The princess went off with her dad to brave some roaring rapids type ride not fit for preggos nor 2 year-olds, and I hung out with the punk at the kiddie water park.

All was going well barring a few minor annoyances, such as some random kid drinking out of our $249 souvenir bottle of iced tea (no biggie - because for the WHOLE rest of the day, you can refill it for a mere $67 each time...or you can go the super economic route of buying a wristband for $29, and then each refill will only cost you $43!!!!....but I digress...)

Also, some people think that the process of maintaining a few certain areas of hair growth such as armpits, legs, or other areas that may or may not be revealed while wearing a bathing suit is, apparently over rated. Things suddenly went to shit when some kid thought it would be a fabulous idea to take a big dump on top of the water slide. They shut it down around the same time that my other two returned to report that they waited on the 267 degree hour and a half line only to get to the front and be told, "Sorry, she's 1/8 of an inch too short to ride this ride. Thank you for spending $267 to splash around in poop-germ-puddles..have a super day".

So, we decided to call it a day, and head out for some lunch in a nice air-conditioned restaurant.

Now I'm sure you haven't lived until you have, in your second trimester of pregnancy, changed out of your bathing suit in a moving car. Mind you, this is no small feat considering the nature of the swimwear. The bathing suit - because I am vehemently opposed to maternity anything, fits similarly to a diving suit. When it becomes wet, piping in crisco would seem to be the only logical option for facilitating it's removal. But alas, my crisco was in my other purse. So first, down came the top of the swim suit, leaving the girls resting comfortable in my lap. Next task, to wrangle them back into a place more appropriate for the Olive Garden...all while still wearing the sundress over everything, so as not to cause some innocent passersby to go veering off the road in a state of horror and shock, or to report a whale abduction from the nearby aquarium. Once the shirt was on - the rest was simple - peel it all down to the ankles while covered with the towel, and hoist the shorts up over the bump...only one snag in the plan - forgot to pack undies.

All this amidst worried queries from the back seat:

Why is mommy breathing like that?

Is mommy crying?

Why is mommy's boobie in the cup holder?

Upon completion of this task, we pulled in to a lot with a string of chain restaurants, and the falsities began:

"Is that a Chuck E. Cheese?"
"No"
"But it has a big mouse on the sign-what is it then?"
"It is a store where they sell mice that people feed to pet snakes"
"Ewww gross"

"Can I bring this Strawberry Shortcake doll, barbie doll, and bag of 100 marbles in the restaurant?"
"No"
"Why not? You let us bring a coloring book once."
"Because in the state of Pennsylvania, it is a law. No toys are allowed in restaurants. If you are found with a toy in a restaurant, it is confiscated."
"What does congrestated mean?"
"It means they break them and throw them in the garbage."

"Can we go to that playground after we eat?"
"No"
"Why not?"
"Because parks are closed on the Fourth of July because that's where they test the fireworks out during the day."
"But I don't hear anything"
"They are silent and invisible"

"Can I get chocolate milk?"
"Yes!"
"This is the best vacation EVER"

girls, girls.........girls.

After some cheerful banter regarding my apparent grotesque obesity(thanks, I've only gained 4 pounds), Dr. Wallace clicked on the ultrasound machine and got all the little formalities out of the way--ten fingers...check, ten toes....check, one head......check, no tail, yadda yadda yadda. And then, the moment of truth: "Do you want to know the gender?" Um, well, it's getting a pirate bed either way, but yeah, sure, knock yourself out. And then it happened. Smoke began to billow into the room. The lights went down and the good doctor began to rise up from the floor - all spandex and hairspray. And then, the thunderous drum roll...the screeching vocals (I think those spandex pants were a little too tight) he belted it out in his best high pitched crue shreik:......GIIIRRRRRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS!!!!!!!! - Yes, how apropos...our little Motley Crue...another little lady.

YO VIP.......... LET'S KICK IT

kicking a bad habit, kicking me when I'm down, and kicking it old school:




Are you there, Carla? It's me, Yuengling.

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been drunk in the last 6 years. Of course it goes without saying that there's a special place in my heart for all those mornings waking up with only one shoe, or those super-fun late nights with that one great friend who would pour Ice House in your lap when you peed your pants so it would look like you spilled your drink instead. Make no mistake, those were good, good times, but I gladly gave them up for crazy nights of UNO and lazy Sunday mornings of coffee and bagels with the husband. That, and I really liked having both of my shoes.

After getting married, baby-making became a priority, and once the baby arrived, I was certain if I had one beer I would surely forget to turn off the stove sending the house into a towering inferno, or pass out allowing the baby to crawl out into the night and be taken by wolves, or both of those. So, aside from the errant 6-whiskey-sour-wedding here and there where we had reserved a room, no driving would take place, and there were at least 10 non-drinking relatives with full background checks who signed a noterized legal document pledging to stare continuously at the baby without blinking, I never touched a drink.

Then #2 came along.

She's.....well.....she's the kind of kid that makes you want to have a night cap. I guess there was one girl's night in Ella's 2 years of life when the husband took the kids out for the night and I enjoyed the wonderful bliss of near alcohol poisoning combined with the incessant laughter and ridiculous fun of best girlfriends.

But, honestly, apart from that, only a beer here(and there) once in a while, and always paired with an insanely good meal...pizza and mussels...the pioneer woman's drip beef...chineese food....fish taco night...oh the dreaded fish taco night of valentine birthday weekend 2010...the fish taco and yuengling night that put and end to all fish taco and yuengling nights (at least the yuengling part) (at least for the next 40 weeks).

Fast forward a few months and I am cranky about kicking the habit. I never craved a beer during my other pregnancies. Just one. Just one ice cold beer would be great right now with these marshmallows and calamari.

you're butt is wide, well mine is too. just watch your mouth, or i'll sit on you

"Well, I've never used a phone booth
And I've never seen my toes
When I'm goin' to the movies
I take up seven rows

Because I'm fat, I'm fat, come on
(Fat, fat, really really fat)"

This will be fun. Let's try this. Get a balloon. Start filling it up. Every day add a little more. Put in olives and fried calamari and a baby and some marshmallows and a placenta. Continue adding things for nearly 40 weeks. If people tell you to only add things for 9 months, punch them in the face, because the last time I checked, 9 times 4 equals 36. Somewhere along the way things got a little F'ed up. Either 9 times 4 used to equal 40, or it always equaled 36, and at some point, god changed a pregnancy to 40 weeks just for shits and giggles.

But I digress.

So, continue adding things until it is clearly time for all of these things to come out of the gigantic balloon. Don't worry - you'll know when it's time. So what you do next is simple. Take a very sharp knife, and make a VERY SMALL incision in the balloon. This part is very important! Something about 20 inches long and maybe 10 inches wide needs to come out of this opening, so the opening should be exactly 4 INCHES LONG. Next, take out about 8 pounds of the 40ish pounds that are in there. The rest you just leave in there don't worry about it. Then, you get some crazy glue. Carefully seal the balloon. Get some duct tape and McGuyver that shit.Use equal parts scotch, masking and electrical tape. Apply layer upon layer of glue, paste, and plaster of paris. Oh wait - just kidding - just throw a few stitches in there and call it a day. Don't worry that the balloon has to walk around for the next few weeks with the pressure of all the marshmallows and calamari just dying to rip out those little stitches. They are jealous that the baby and the placenta got to come out. They want out too. They do not want to be stuck in there with the crazy-lady homicidal hormones and the percoset (ok maybe yes the percoset). They want out where the boppies and the boobies and the bumbos are. And they are going to remind you of that every time you get up from a chair. Suddenly that balloon will wish it would have laid off the taco bell for the last 10 months.

If it is any consolation whatsoever, you'll probably never even see the scar, it's like your feet now - only in mirrors....only in mirrors.

open up the sky, this mess is getting high...

...it's windy, and her family needs a ride. so. I spoke too soon. I really don't know who Murphy is, but I really hate his law. Looking back at my last post is quite the little bitch-slap of irony to the face. I smugly mused about having all the time in the world to acclimate the little one to such nuances as sleeping in her own bed, wiping her own butt, and letting me do the same to mine while being the actual only person in the room. Unbeknownst to me, as I typed away smugly, #3 had entered the oven. Houston, we have a fetus. Now, don't get me wrong...there are only a very few things in this world that I would rather do than have another baby. They are, in no particular order: stab my eye with a fork, set fire to myself, - okay, so maybe there are only two things I would rather do.

But I digress.

Let me preface this by saying that I truly would love nothing more than to have another baby.

It's the journey, however, I could probably do without. Add to that the fact that I am newly diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, generally insane, and about to move out of a 2300 square foot home and into the 8X9 childhood bedroom of my wonderful husband - Slayer posters included. So after much pants-shitting and deliberation, I am pleased to report that I am happier than a pig in said shit to be once again in the family way.


I drove to my first ultrasound appointment thinking in my head "Fine - I love you, yes - I just don't like you very much yet". Then it happened - no heartbeat. It's one of those moments in time where that switch clicks on way in the back of your brain and and a voice says: "ALERT! LIFE-CHANGING EVENT IS ABOUT TO TAKE PLACE" and then it says "Your partner for this life changing event will be this woman with a mustache wielding a va-jay-jay cam who we're not sure, but may, in all actuality, be not of this Earth, and in fact president of the Alien Probe Society For Women. And to enhance this experience to the fullest, we have piped in Celine Dion for your listening pleasure". So, at that moment, that basic mama instinct kicks in (you know the one that lets us lift up cars or punch Stone Cold Steve Austin in the balls if he looked at out kid sideways).

At that very moment in time, I decided that this was one of the three most wanted and loved babies in the history of the world, and no one and nothing was going to take it away. This baby would be fine, and I just refused to accept anything different. The week that followed was one of the most difficult I have had to endure. The thought of your child inside you possibly having passed is simply unbearable.

Fast forward one week to 176 beats per minute, and I could not be happier. Thanks to a few amazing friends and my unbelievable husband who I in no way deserve, I am currently 15 weeks, ecstatic, really fat, and scared shitless of being a mom of three. This kid has some pretty bad timing. But I know we'll be just fine, when we learn to love the ride.

welcome to my nightmare

"HELP...I'M SCAAARED" ...... the three famous last word that single-handedly resurrected my career as a co-sleeper. The old gig was fun while it lasted, but the kid was pushing four - and there was another one on the way in a few weeks. So we did what any other self-respecting parents would do. We bought her a big girl bed - a two thousand dollar replica of Cinderella's Coach. What? The kid likes Cinderella.

Now I'm sitting here surrounded by 19 pillows, toddler drool on my neck, wondering what we're going to do to top that. At least I have the next two years to figure it out, right?
Well, Kid A would nestle into her spot in her frilly nightgown and two little blue sparrows would gently pull her blankets up to her chin. Kid B, on the other hand, splayed out sideways in nothing but a diaper, snores like she just polished off a fifth of bourbon and a pack of Lucky Strikes. She thrashes around like she's dreaming of her night in the mosh pit, and when she wakes around 5 or 6, she likes to bid you good morn with two thumbs in your eye lids and the greeting "HAHA - I'M UP MA!" I am enthusiastically looking forward to a solid night's sleep alone in my bed. I'm shooting for 2013.

rebel girl you are the queen of my world

If you've ever reached a point when you suddenly realize the only Bratmobile around here is your mini-van - the only thing sucking your left one is a breast pump, and raising daughters in a post-riot-grrrl place in time makes you want to embrace your inner-Lilith fair...then you're with me on this one.

When Sophia was born, the idea of bringing up a girl made me want to trade in torn fishnets and combat boots for pearls and a ruffled apron. Not once had I ever considered that the ideals I had strived to embrace would be the very things I would almost want to shield my daughters from. I hadn't an inkling as to how to go about striking a balance. I just know that I wanted to forget everything that was difficult and awful about being a female, and just fill her world with kittens and rainbows. The idea of a beer swilling, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed chick made me shudder, and it made me want to embrace tutus and ponies and put her in a sparkly bubble of glitter until she was 37. My plan was falling into place nicely. We bought her a Cinderella coach bed. We took her to Disney World to meet real live actual princesses, we gave her hundreds of dolls, and all of them had heads. We filled her world with all of these things until it looked like Barbie vomited all over the house. We thought we had it in the bag...until the other one came along.

This kid came out smoking a Chesterfield King and sporting a tat. She is mean, she is strong-willed, she is in your face, and I like her. I love her. I can relate to her. She acts the way I wish I could 24/7. Of course I love my daughters equally and for very different reasons. I have a feeling they will be polar opposites throughout their lives. In a way, I guess that means they really are an accurate extension of myself. I will always see the world as a big pink fluffy cupcake that just begs for a skull and crossbones on top.

To this day I'm still not sure how to find the middle ground between shielding my girls from everything that is wrong in this world, and giving them the tools they need to run head on screaming right into the middle of it. I'm hoping we can learn together. And so, for now, in the doorway of my demise I stand...encased in a nursing bra, a macaroni necklace, and a happy heart.

welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and games

Sometimes you hear "I'm gonna kick you in the va-CHINA!" coming from the other room, and you just have to wonder - where did I go wrong?

When the highlight of the day is #1 stabbing #2 in the back with a pencil, call it as a sign from above to pack it in early. Some other notable events involved an entire container of powder, and something getting stuck in some one's hair that necessitated removal by haircut. All in all, considering there was one "dog attack" (a seven month old puppy jumped up and ever-so-lightly grazed Sophia resulting in a 45 minute crying jag worthy of an Emmy or an Oscar at the very least), the day was surprisingly almost entirely bloodless. That being said, there was one more little thing that just made my weekend a little super-fantastically more complete. The weekly washing of the BIG BLUE BLANKIE. There are just certain things in this life that are synonymous with an ever-looming feeling of, well, dread. Tax time, cleaning out the fridge, the always pleasant January first marathon 24 hour extravaganza of dieting, not punching people in the face, and saying friggin instead of fucking. I have to honestly say that I am fairly certain that I dread this event more than all of these things combined.

Let my preface this by saying that BIG BLUE BLANKIE is neither big, nor blue, although it is, in fact, a blanket. It is pink and green, and I must have been hiding in the bathroom or crying in the closet when it was dubbed BIG BLUE, because I can't remember the naming ceremony. At any rate, by Friday this thing is so encrusted in chocolate and boogers that we use salad tongs to pick it up. We don't launder it on Friday after school because that is usually when we sit on the couch and cry for a few hours while we reminisce about our week. Being the procrastinators that we are, we throw the thing in the wash at around...well...right now. Then we go over to our tape recorder and press play and listen to a voice that says "Why the hell did we wait till now to wash it? It's 7:44 on a Sunday night! This kid needs to get to bed!" then we press stop, and then on the next Sunday we press play again anywhere between 7:00p.m. and midnight. And to add insult to injury, if I had a quarter for every time the kid said "I want my BIG BLUE BLANKIE" I would have $13.75...probably enough to buy an extra one to have on hand. Fun times....good, good times.

Fat Bottom Girls You Make The Rockin World Go Round

So here I sit...Laid back....with my mind on my muffin and my muffin on my mind. Sometimes it takes the physical act of actually eating a muffin while simultaneously pulling your jeans up over your muffin top to bring a revelation.

Could this be a problem? Does this need my attention? And, better yet, who can I blame for this?

Of course...that's right!...I just had a baby!... Not one but two babies in fact. Carried them around in my swollen aching abdomen for 80 weeks - nourished them, sheltered them in the comfort of my womb with every fiber of my being.
Ok, so it was over two years ago, and then four years before that, and ok fine, one of those gigs was only 25 weeks long.

So kill me.

I grew up in a better time - where the pork roll and cannolis flowed freely, the baked ziti was plentiful, and there were starving children in China. But what's a few extra pounds anyway? Are the things we've given up worth the things we got back in return? Would I ever trade this body for my former non-mom self? Never. Never in a billion years(or pounds). If you've ever watched your kids giggle till they're short of breath, you know. If you've ever noticed the look in their eyes on Christmas morning, you know. If you've ever brushed your teeth with desitin, or left the house with play-dough stuck to your ass, you know. You take those giggles and those twinklings of their eyes and you try to put them somewhere safe - somewhere separate from all the worries, and the calendars, and the bills because you know you will need them for another day. You will draw from their strength in your not-so-brightest-hours. And never, ever forget...when the chips are down, when you feel like you've hit rock bottom, when all else fails...there's always spanx.
Now where's my doughnut?

(H) ell's Bells

Her name is Ella, and she is Hell on wheels. After Sophia was born, and after all that we went through, and how extremely fortunate we were, and how totally fat I am, we decided that we were done having children. Around Christmas of 2006, I was flipping through a catalog and saw an amazing pirate ship bed with treasure map sheets, pirate blankets and a big anchor pillow. I decided immediately that I must have this, and knowing full well that my husband would never give up our king sized bed to live out the rest of our days slumbering in a twin sized boat bed, I just decided we should have a son and make him a pirate room.

Of course, there was more to this decision than just that.

We wanted a sibling for Sophia, and I desperately longed for the experience of a healthy full term pregnancy. (Also I really wanted that bed.) So after mozzarella sticks for three on a Valentine's date at T.G.I.Fridays, the deed was done.

We found out at THIRTEEN WEEKS, thanks to some dandy new test, that the little scallywag was indeed another little lady in there(no matter-she's gonna love the bed or walk the plank.)I sat on the couch for four straight months, and got a shot in the tush every week so as to ensure that this little bugger would be fully cooked. I found out that I was the proud owner of one bicornuate uterus (which gave new meaning to the song heart shaped box) And, I found out promptly in week 26 that I hate week 26, and all the weeks that come after it.

Ella was born to-be-bad-on October 25th, 2007, five years and 63 pounds later to the day of our wedding. Joe wanted to choose Halloween for the date of our c-section, but I promptly reminded him that I would commit the act of murder on him if I did not get the first available surgery date. The past two and a half years with Ella have been interesting, if not mentally debilitating. She is the other of three loves of my life, and I wouldn't trade her for the world.

I enjoy being a girl....

September 19, 2003: 25 weeks into my first desperately wanted, diligently tried-for pregnancy, my water broke at my husband's 30th birthday party. Just like that, without much fanfare it just happened. Trying to figure out what to do next was one thing - trying to figure out how to keep the dog from drinking the puddle was another. What ensued was a blur of hope and hopelessness, of tragedies and miracles, of disappointments and triumphs. And so the princess came to be. We spent day after day and night after night by her side wondering if she would make it through the day, through the week, through another month. During that time, nothing else mattered, and nothing else will ever come close to impacting our lives the way Sophia has. She taught me all I'll ever need to know about strength and hope. She endured more in her first year of life than I ever will in a lifetime.
We brought her home after a 120 day NICU stay between two different hospitals in two different states. We put all 5 pounds of her in a little bubble and we had no plans of taking her out. For years, this kid beat every odd and never ceased to amaze us. She was sweeter than the day is long, and when she smiled, rainbows and kittens shot out of her eye balls.We liked it in our happy little bubble. She taught us about tea parties and ponies and although we have no idea where she learned of these things, we suspect the grandmothers are to blame. The sun rose and set on Sophia, people are drawn to her good-natured spirit. We were content to live out the rest of our days with our perfect little miracle. That is, until we got "the big idea" as it has come to be known. To Be Continued....