Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

This is getting so old, it's new again.

My Nicer Funnier Sister In Law once said, "I really think I'd love my dog a lot less if he could talk."

Unfortunately, I think she's right.

Sure there are exceptions to this. There are times where my kids say the cutest things. Things that are wise, or witty or so horribly inappropriate, it's funny.

But for the last 3 days my son has waken me up by screaming at the top of his lungs from his room at least an hour before his usual (and very nice) wake up time.

I can't think of a much ruder way to wake up than to SCREAMING DEMANDS at 7am. I can think of quite a few other unpleasant ways to wake up that I'd rather endure than to walk into my son's room morning after morning to the sound of a child screaming "MOMMMMMEEEEEE I WANT TO GET UP NOW!!!!" or "MOMMMMEEEEEEEE! I SAID I WANT TO GET UP NOW!!!!"

Rinse. Repeat.

I would rather be awakened by the sound of some rude person's car radio blaring outside while they warm the car in the morning.
I would rather be awakened by a seal like barking cough each an every night between 2 and 4am, wait I already whined about that.

The screaming alarm clock simply must go.

The problem with the screaming alarm clock is that it doesn't have a snooze button and you can't really turn it off at all. Because you get him up, as he's commanded and then...the rest of the day is a mine field of potential scream inducing events.

So far today he's had a screaming fit because:

"Maddie said 'uh-uh' to me!!!!"

"Not macaroni and cheese, Fairly Odd Parents macaroni and cheese!!!!!"

"But I really want to hit Maddie in the head with this t ball stand!!!!!!"

Now it's come full circle because it's naptime, and guess what he's yelling from his bedroom?

"MOMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEE I WANT TO GET UP NOW!!!!!!!"

I'm not at all ready for the wake up yet. I've already spent the first 6 hours of my day dodging the screaming, 45 minutes is not nearly enough time to regroup.

Due to the Budgetary Restrictions laid out for the 2004 fiscal year, I have not a drop of alcohol in this house. This fact combined with the reality that Parenting Partner #2 will not be home for at least another 4.5 hours, really I can only predict this day will involve at least 7 more tantrums, 2 or more from me.

I so wish I didn't have to whine.

But I do.

It's still not back.

It has the infamous Logic Board issue and the part is backordered because all the iBooks everywhere have died at the same time. I'm picturing all the iBooks jumping off a cliff like lemmings or else all drinking red kool-aid led by Jim Jones.

I am steaming mad.

Now a technical question: Will I lose any data with the replacement of the logic board?

There are two reasons I am concerned about this. I had no time to back up my files after the screen went black. I have 3 large items that, while not devastating to most people with a more 'stable' or 'roll with the punches' kind of attitude, to me would be entirely devastating to lose.

The other reason I didn't back up my files is that, in a mammoth act of Jackassery™, I didn't have a cd burner installed in my iBook. Somehow in my insanity I thought that spending $100 less on a totally frivilous piece of electronic equipment would make it less offensive to my hardworking and saintly spouse.

As in: "Oh my! I have the most frugal wife! Sure, she just spent $800 of our hard earned money without really consulting me and sure she bought something she really doesn't need but only desperately wants. But look at how frugal she is, not putting the cd burner in the machine."

The lacking cd burner makes the machine almost entirely unusable by my hardworking, money making, ambitious and talented husband.

Not only did I purchase an entirely unnecessary piece of equipment that is practically useless to my husband, I've also kept my him awake for the last 8 nights (and counting) with my irritating cough. I also embarass him in public by talking like an old woman with emphysema, gasping for air and speaking through a ridiculous amount of coughing. I need a housecoat and a cigarette and I've found my new incredibly sexy identity.

And you know what the best thing about my saintly husband is? He would never use the internet as a forum for his whining.

I am not above riding his coat tails directly into heaven.

Finally, Max has been really great at reminding me lately why I had just two kids. It's as though he's totally regressed back to the feisty two year old tantrums of last year. Unrelenting and unending outbursts of fiery emotion.

I guess I don't get what's so hard about being a three year old. I guess I don't understand all this crying and yelling and being rude all the time.

I mean it's not like his logic board died on him or something really bad like that.

My...this is unsettling.

Latest Google hit.

Now, now....those who must never be named, but who feel compelled to read my site and monitor my writings, please keep your comments to yourselves.

The Place Time Forgot.

As a child of the 80's I loved roller skating, like, so much! There were two skating rinks nearby, one was in Clawson and only the really trashy people went there. But it was pretty close to my house and my parents preferred driving us 10 minutes rather than 20, so if it was a choice between skating or not, we'd go to the trashy skating place.

But sometimes, if my parents were feeling really generous, they'd drive us to Skate World! Which was, like, the best place to skate if you weren't a trashy Clawson girl. (What a disturbing sense of false pride I had.)

I honestly thought places like Skate World died out a long time ago. I thought there was some sort of War On Relics From The 80's that caused the collapse of all skating rinks.

I realized I was wrong last night when I saw a horrible commercial for Skate World. I swear to God, people live there. I think they haven't left, I think they've been there since 1985 waiting for their favorite song to come on during 'Couples Skate' and they never learned that stirrup pants and feathered hair isn't cool and they've been eating roller rink food for the last 20 years and they still think it's, like, totally cool to skate!

Also, they celebrate their birthdays there at Skate World, so they think they're getting older and they think it's perfectly normal to invite these scary animals to the party.

If anyone ever thinks of inviting Madison to a party with Roller Roo, we're going to have a huge problem on our hands.

I. Must. Buy. This.

I simply can not live another day without a font which includes images of toilet paper. And if you can't imagine why I would 'need' a font like that, then you can not be taught to be as frivilous as me.

I can't tell you how many times I've looked through Pants' vast collection of fonts and said, 'Honey, don't you have a bong icon anywhere?'

Hey, if you're offended by things of a sexual nature, please don't click on the 'bong icon' link above and then write me an email explaining how it made your stomach turn, okay? I am a horrible person who really doesn't care if line drawings of sex toys offend your delicate sensibilities.

He's A Winter.

Tonight my husband said, as we did the dinner dishes, 'You know, I really think Madison is a 'Winter', which isn't really surprising because I'm a 'Winter' too."

This is intensely funny, not just because my husband has stopped fighting his metrosexuality and has embraced it, that's really old news.

It's hilarious because he was truly shocked when I began laughing in that annoying way I do when something is so incredibly hilarious I can't even take a breath because it's so fucking funny it's the only thing I can think about and breathing would take away from the laughing.

Eventually I stopped laughing and he said, 'What?'

Which started the whole thing all over again.

Continuing with the reporting of my miserable week:

My iBook still isn't back, devastated is the only word to fit in here.

If you would like to hear the most annoying cough ever, please call my house between the hours of 2am and 5am. These hours are the prime of my seal like barking, which keeps everyone in the house awake wondering where the hell the seal is. In the daylight I sound more like an old lady with the early stages of emphysema, and I do not smoke.

Also, I have officially crossed over with Bad Hair Day #34. Today was maybe one of the worst hair days ever, and I know bad hair. (Looking at that picture, do you think I'm a 'Spring' or more a 'Summer'?)

Five things I could easily convince myself I need.

This dress.

This perfume.

These soaps.

This classic pincushion.

This camera.

You know, 'need' is such a relative term, in fact, I think it's kind of an ugly and shameful word. I'm banning it.

By the way who was the asshole with the 'Debt No More' idea? Oh, right, me.

If you're looking for 'upbeat' keep looking.

Madison is nearly five and a half years old and suffers from a pretty extreme case of separation anxiety. Meaning, she follows me out the door when I try to drop her off at school each afternoon. We've been going to school since September, this is getting very frustrating for me.

The thing that is most upsetting about this phenomenon is that the five plus years of caretaking I have been doing for my first born child, my daughter, the daughter I dreamed about and prayed for and was so thrilled to bring into this world, has failed because in my daughter's eyes it's actually a very real possibility I will not pick her up at the end of the day.

This is something called 'Mommy Guilt' and it's a large part of my daily experience being the mother of two children. I try to avoid it but when my daughter is chasing me down the halls of her elementary school, crying out for me....I feel pretty fucking guilty that my child appears to believe I am truly running from her and heading to Mexico for the rest of forever.

Not as troubling...although, as long as I'm being honest....it is nearly as troubling. My iBook still isn't back. I realize I only dropped it off on Sunday, but it's only 7.5 months old how hard can it be to fix?

Finally, as troubling if not more so, is the continued terminal state of my hair. I've tried to make the best of it, really I have. Every morning I wake up and I shower and I put product in my hair and I try to do a little positive self talk.

'Your hair is not inexplicable! It's nice hair! Today is going to be a good hair day!'

But really it went from being Short and Inexplicable to being Shaggy, Lifeless And Still Inexplicable. I thought there would be a point where it looked 'okay'.

How many bad hair days can one woman be expected to endure? I swear to God today is Bad Hair Day #28 and I'm not seeing any end in sight.

It's a sad day.

My iBook screen died yesterday.

The monitor on Logan's machine, that previously worked just fine is now dying. In fact, this is my second attempt at posting, the monitor keeps going black requiring a restart.

It didn't do this before I started using it.

This is the 4th monitor I've been using to die in less than a year.

This points to some magnetic issue in relation to me, does it not?

The boy at the 'Genius Bar' assured me, as he pried my beloved computer from my hands, it would only be about 5-7 days. Until then I'm limiting my exposure to Logan's machine.

I don't want to break another monitor.

As an aside, I think the 'Genius Bar' is really a sarcastic jab at the people who come to the 'Genius Bar'. Because I saw no evidence of Genius from either side of the bar.

My favorite was when 'Genius Boy' told some poor man that he was sorry but 'the iPod really isn't meant for running' and his iPod was freezing up because of the running.

It took all of my strength not to Out-Genius the Genius by saying, 'That's odd, my husband just ran 15 miles, in a row, last weekend with his iPod and it didn't freeze up on him. In fact, it used to freeze up on him and he sent it back to Apple and they replaced it with a new one.'

I didn't say that because I just want to make sure iBook is well treated while we're apart.

"Genius" indeed.

First Day Of Spring

My first child was not at all planned. We'd been married for just 8 months when we found out we were expecting. We'd always wanted children but we had a plan, and the plan suddenly came to a screeching halt after 3 positive pregnancy tests and a frantic call to the 1-800 number on the box where I calmly explained, repeatedly, how this test could not possibly be positive, I'd taken it three times.

My second child was planned, in a manic kind of way. In a way that made me convinced I simply must be infertile since I wasn't pregnant after one month of trying to get pregnant. But before I had a complete mental breakdown I found out I was pregnant. Against all the imagined infertility I had put before myself, I was pregnant!

After having my daughter in November just as winter started, I knew I would never be trapped in a house with a newborn through a long cold winter again. I also knew that I could never gain 40 to 50 pounds of hot, sweaty insulation and endure another summer as a fat pregnant woman.

I found out I was pregnant in July and had a due date of April 9th. Spring, just like I'd ordered.

Three weeks before my due date, as I tried to get my breech child to turn around, my water broke. After being a week overdue and induced with my daughter, I wasn't expecting this.

Three hours and a lot of morphine later on the very first day of spring, I had my baby boy.

Unlike his sister, he wasn't traumatized by his birth and so was the most perfectly formed newborn I had ever seen, and believe me, if he was mangled in delivery and looked like a grumpy old man upon arrival, I would tell you. His tiny little head, perfect little nose and miniature fingers and also more hair than I've seen on a 1 hour old infant ever, made me fall in love with him immediately.

We named him Maxwell. We loved this Max and this Max and we also thought the name held great promise.

We brought him home and as I've mentioned some members of our family didn't have the same feelings for our Max, but he didn't care. He loved his new family. At 6 weeks old he had a wide range of adorable expressions that made us love him even more.

Today he appears to have just one expression. But I couldn't love him more, even if he is a really shitty best friend, even if he vomits on my shoulder and makes a public spectacle of me.

I'm so happy he's three. This year is going to be full of big changes for my little boy. He's got to get rid of his binky, move out of his crib, hopefully conquer the potty, start building his financial portfolio, apply to colleges and really he's going to have to get some more extracurriculars if he wants to get into a big ten school.

Mostly I'm thrilled to see him growing up. Mostly I'm dazzled by the little person he's become. Mostly I'm happy to get further and further from the days where my son viciously vomits all over my shoulder. Mostly I'm looking forward to being just 40 something when I'm an empty nester.

But when I look at this picture I cry.

Because I remember how little he was and how much I wanted to kiss that head every chance I got. I see that swirl of his just grown in hair and I think how someday he'll be taller than me and I won't get to kiss the top of his head anymore.

I also cry because that may very well be the best hair day he will ever have, and he was just six months old.

happy birthday max

Sometimes...

Sometimes I'm coasting along remembering what it was like before and then I think how much easier things are now.

I rarely cry during the day, I also rarely watch Oprah. Mere coincidence? I don't feel overwhelmed most of the time. I sleep a lot. I see my kids getting more independent and I think it makes me a better mother. Having a five year old and a 3 year old fits me better.

But then I'm out at a store with Max and he has a tantrum, a horrible tantrum and he cries so hard he vomits all over my shoulder and he screams bloody murder in the car the whole way home and I feel like I'm back in my living room a week postpartum watching Oprah and sobbing and the smell of that vomit all over my shoulder is making me gag while I cry and I start to think that maybe none of this is ever going to fit and it's never going to be easier and why did I do this.....

And a million other things.

But mostly I'm thinking I didn't know this job would involve so many bodily fluids covering me and if I had realized this I might have joined the UAW before signing on the dotted line. Because I think there should be some kind of bonus for remaining stoic and calm while your child totally freaks out and spews vomit on your shoulder.

Traffic

Traffic was odd today.

Officially: My 5 year old took, by far, the best picture from my vacation. This troubles and impresses me.

What baby?

Today Madison used her artistic talent to express some long held, barely repressed feelings about her little brother.

I found this picture hanging on her bedroom door. My interpretation? The angry (note the expressive monobrow) person on the left, is Madison and the crossed out person on the right is Max.

Her troubled relationship with her brother began nearly three years ago with their first awkward meeting in the hospital after he was born. At said meeting, Madison, when asked what she thought of the new baby, replied, 'What baby?'

We brought him home and things didn't really change much. Occasionally she paid attention to him, like when we gave him his first bath and she noticed his penis for the first time, loudly exclaiming, 'What is that!?'

When we explained, 'That's Max's penis.'

She just stared at it, processing it in a two and a half year old way. Then she said, 'Gross.'

I've never known if it was the word 'penis' that offended her or the actual penis which caused her two year old sensibilities some discomfort. But after that we were forced, with tears and angry screams, to call it a 'Peanut'.

But generally she'd deny his existence, aside from the 'Penis' event.

Sometimes, I'd try to get pictures of them together, thinking I was watching the bond of siblings being formed. This did nothing but accentuate the obvious emotions between Madison and her new rival Max.

See?

I wish I had a cute story about how they've overcome all that, and now they're the best of friends, but I'd be lying.

It's not entirely bleak, she can't really ignore him anymore...thus the sign on her door. She also looks out for him, making sure he doesn't attempt to put something other than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his mouth. Would you believe he used to be willing to try a new food, without crying? I see signs of tenderness when she reads a book and tries to teach him how to read. I can tell she likes his intense love of her, even though she tries not to let on.

This potentially sets the stage for her future relationships with boys, where she'll accept their undying devotion with outward indifference and also, she'll insist on calling their penises, 'Peanuts'.

Who says siblings aren't important?

Effective Immediately.

If: You cut my hair and make me look like this horrible woman

Then: I can not be held accountable for my actions against you.

If: You would like to have a playdate involving four to seven three-year-olds running wild in my presence,

Then: said playdate must include either a Bloody Mary (before noon) or some other concoction for playdates between noon and 8pm. Something like this or this, we can be creative.

Obviously, if you are pregnant, nursing or choose not to drink....it would be wise not to call me for a playdate.

If: you beg me to take you outside to play in the snow, and we spend no less than 20 minutes getting geared up for the event, and we get outside but you immediately decide you don't really want to play in the snow you'd rather stand right behind me while I shovel the approximately 3.7 square miles of concrete surrounding our happy little suburban wonderland, asking me how much longer you have to say outside every 6 seconds.

Then: I will not be very pleasant to live with and I will force you into child labor to make enough money to buy this with your earnings.

Define 'Safe'

"Safe For Work Porn" But, kind of not.

(link via metafilter)

Best Friends Forever

I've been lacking a best friend for quite some time. I'm looking for one, but the process has been a little slow. My nicer, funnier sister in law is also looking for a new best friend. She has her imaginary gay friend, Stephen, who my brother encourages her to spend time with, antiquing and seeing certain movies. But she's ready to take her imaginary friend to the next level and is looking for a real gay friend this year.

The other day Max informed me I was his "best friend" and although that warmed my heart for a moment and I felt relieved my search would be over, I wouldn't be me if I didn't take that sweet sentiment and beat it to death with my pessimistic cynicism.

Really, I'd like to make sure that once my children go to therapy they get every single penny's worth.

It's nice that my nearly three year old thinks I'm his best friend, my friend's children have said this to them before and they've taken it to heart, feeling very happy to have formed this relationship with their preschoolers. However, I realized if my son was actually my best friend what shitty best friends we'd be.

First of all...our relationship is deeply rooted in the condition and frequency of his poop. I'm constantly trying to stay on top of the poop, adjusting his diet and medicine to ensure there's poop. There's a lot of talking about poop. As in:

'Yay! You pooped!'
'Do you think you want to poop?'

I would never have chosen a best friend who needed this much encouragement and personal intervention in relation to his bowels. And really, I would never, ever give my best friend an enema. Ever.

Also, as a best friend he's not much of a conversationalist. Sure, he makes me laugh pretty often. But really, he is constantly repeating himself. If I have to sit through another riveting description of this ostrich and our encounter with it in Texas, that's it. We simply can not be friends anymore, especially not best friends.

Sometimes when I'm listening to another exciting round of the 'New Cats'...you know, the smelly disgusting animals we've been housing for the last SIX MONTHS? Sometimes when he describes the exciting new cats in a very verbose and excruciatingly detailed manner, I find myself leaving my body. I don't think that's what a best friend does.

I mean I realize he's not actually an adult and he's only three but I do know that if he wants to be my best friend he's going to have to work on his conversational skills. This just isn't working out.

I like funny people, and if I was picking my best friend I'd pick someone who made me laugh. And, you know, Max does make me laugh, a lot. However, I like off color humor, I like a little more sarcasm with my humor. My new best friend really doesn't grasp things like irony. He does tell a lot of 'jokes', but they're of the entirely nonsensical 'Knock Knock' variety. They go like this:

Him: Knock Knock
Me: Who's there?
Him: Cat!
Me: Cat who?
Him: Cat Stinkyhead!!!! (Hysterical laughter.....just from him and I don't think he even cares that I'm not laughing!)

Other punchlines? 'Window Stinky!', 'Car Poo Poo!', 'Daddy Stinkyhead'*

*I can't argue with this one, but it's not a joke...it's a statement of fact.

I have high hopes that his sense of humor will improve over the years, but until then....I just don't see how we can be best friends.

If I was picking my best friend, I'd probably pick someone who liked to go shopping on occasion. My new best friend really doesn't like shopping. A lot of the time he runs away from me in the middle of the store. He's always whining that he's thirsty or hungry. I have to carry a snack for him and a drink and toys and sometimes, he's too tired to walk so I have to push him around in a stroller. I'd like a more self sufficient best friend to be entirely honest.

Also, I like to eat out a lot. And Max is actually very good at eating out. It's just that there are a lot of props involved in going out to eat and I have to do a lot of entertaining while we're out to eat and I don't feel like the entertaining is really give and take.

That's fine, since he's 3 but really as a best friend I expect a few less toys at the table, and a little more relaxed conversation. Oh, and he always orders the same thing and then he eats two bites..and then he's like, "Oh shoot, I forgot my wallet" Like always. So guess who pays? Big surprise! Me.

I'm cool with having a three year old son, I know it's a lot of work and for a three year old he's actually pretty funny and also exceedingly adorable. But really, as a best friend he totally sucks.

Well put.

"They just stare at you, as confused as breast-fed babies in a topless bar."

Check yourself.

Proof there really should be a prescreening process for using the 'Self Check-Out' lane at the market.

I'd like to volunteer for the position.

(I'm so glad Sour Bob came back.)

The best time I didn't know I was having.

I think I may have mentioned how bad I am at having babies. How I lack any grace in dealing with the transition between having a child growing in my uterus and having a child in my arms.

I might have mentioned long showers, where I bathed in salty hormone filled tears and felt like I had made the biggest mistake of my entire life.

I may not have mentioned how I cried everyday at 4pm for the first 2 weeks of my daughter's life. Coincidentally, or not, this was also when Oprah aired. I'd call Pants at work, sobbing into the phone. He'd patiently say, 'Is Oprah on? Why don't you stop watching Oprah.'

But really it wasn't Oprah making me cry. Something about 4pm made me consider the looming nighttime hours, the hours of the unknown. She wasn't a bad baby, she was actually very good at being a baby. In fact, we thought quietly to ourselves (so other people wouldn't have to feel bad) that she was the best baby ever, even in spite of her frighteningly non-photogenic nature.

It wasn't her, it was me. I was just very bad at being a new mom.

I love sleep, and she didn't have the same fervor for it I did. I guess she was 'hungry' at night and sometimes she wanted to have a little 'together time' in the night and I don't really like 'together time' in the night. She'd look at me in the dimly lit bedroom and say, "You know, I feel like all I really do is sleep and I think we should start getting to know each other. Right. Now."

I wanted to get to know her, don't get me wrong, but I thought maybe we could get to know each other while we watched Oprah and I cried every afternoon.

There were other things that made it hard to be a new mom, not sleeping was just one thing.

There was also the dramatic plunge in my hormones. Given that I've never been the most well balanced person, this was very pronounced for me. The first time I felt the plunge was in the hospital the day my doctor came into my happy place, the cocoon of my private hospital room where there was no work and no cooking or cleaning and really no life outside of me, Logan, our perfect little creation and a well placed nurse to chip in when I needed it...like, all the time.

The doctor came barging in and ruined my happy place by saying, "I think you're ready to go home."

I'm not sure what made the doctor think I was "ready" to go home. Was it the inflatable doughnut I sat on? Was it the fact that I couldn't shower without back-up in case I passed out?

Probably he confused my contentedness for readiness to go home. He didn't realize I was actually just content to be laying in a bed with no expectation I would ever rise again.

There is no doubt he was totally wrong to even think I was ready to go home.

Immediately I started to feel the anxiety bubbling up, adrenaline traveling through my body out into my arms making me feel weak and scared and then traveling up into my eyes giving me tunnel vision.

I began to get dressed and ready to leave and it was entirely apparent I was not at all ready to go home.

My clothes, the fat overalls I bought at 3 months along, didn't even fit me. I cried.

Logan helpfully said, "You're just two days post partum, of course your clothes don't fit!"

I wasn't crying because my clothes didn't fit. I was crying because the whole thing didn't fit, and I had fooled everyone into thinking it was a good idea to send a helpless newborn home with me.

I've never dealt with change very well.

I regained control of myself once the anxiety passed and we dressed our baby in her 'going home outfit', which turned out to be sized perfectly for taking a fully grown two year old home from the hospital.

Maybe that's what I'd hoped for when I'd bought the outfit, that they'd help me raise my baby for the first two to three years in the hospital where a nurse was just a buzz away.

"Excuse me, when is dinner?"

"Hi, I'm about to hop in the shower, can you take the baby for me?"

"It appears my baby has a wet diaper, can you come take care of that?"

"I think my baby is ready for potty training, let me know when you've wrapped that up."

I guess my insurance wouldn't cover a two to three year hospital stay, plus Logan wasn't enjoying sleeping on a cot, so I had to go home.

As new parents, we were fond of videotaping pretty much everything involving our newborn child. In those early days she didn't do a lot of things most people would feel worthy of capturing on video, mostly she slept. But we taped things like the way she'd move her head back and forth in her sleep. We held up her tiny hands in front of the camcorder and bent her little thumb back, to show how she was born with the same hyper extending thumb her father has.

Even though I wish I thought that was a stupid thing to capture on video, it really wasn't. It was all really kind of amazing at the time, her simply being a living thing and not just an idea tucked away in my uterus was pretty amazing at the time.

I videotaped her arrival at our house, we even fell so deeply into goofy new parenthood that Logan gave her a 'tour' of her new home...on video. We walked through the house like a couple of brainless idiots and said things like, "This is the kitchen and I'll be cooking here." and "This is your room and you need to know up front, we take sleeping very seriously in this house."

The most poignant part of the tape is at the very end, once we showed her the entire house, Logan looked into the camera and said earnestly:

"Okay, now what?"

The tape goes dramatically black at that point.

If I'd kept the tape rolling to answer his question I would have had to say:

"Well, I thought I'd sit down and try to settle back into our life, where nothing's really changed, it's the same as my old life except that every single cell of my entire being has been changed by this life altering event we just went through and I'm not sure how I can even process that.

And then I was thinking I'd start crying a few times this afternoon as I felt totally out of place in my life and at around 4 o'clock once our guests have all left and it's just you, me and the promise of a night offering my raw nipple to a hungry baby every 2 hours, then I thought I'd really try to illustrate what it means to suffer through 'The Baby Blues'.

If the baby starts crying, at all, I will start saying over and over again in a very disturbing way: 'She has colic, I know it. She's going to have colic. I can't do this if she has colic. I can't be mom if she has colic. We're never going to sleep again. Ever. Oh God what have we done, how could we do this? No I'm not overreacting, I don't think you understand what is happening here. Our baby has been crying for 30 seconds and this means one thing, she has colic and we are doomed. Do not tell me to calm down, I can't calm down.'

Or, you know, something like that. Because that's pretty much what I did that first day home with my new baby.

I'm telling you all this because you need to know I am seriously deficient when it comes to transitioning from 'pregnant mom' to 'new mom'. This information will be important as we move on and it's imperative that you understand what I mean when I say, 'I really suck at parenting newborns.'

I'm not kidding, I really couldn't be worse at it if I tried.

Another Facet of This Life I Lead: Kid's Music.

I'm enjoying this read:

TMN Roundtable: Children's Music

One of my favorite lines?

"Glad to see Mary J. Blige has left no child behind: ‘Don’t need no hateration, holleration in this dancery.’ In my opinionation, singerating with the childrification is all crunk until you viewify their standardized test scores."

Using Photos To Remember The Meaningless Moments Of Your Vacation.

I recently spent 10 days in Texas with my children, we had a lovely time, even if the trip was seriously lacking in the sleep department and I obviously needed to be far drunker to enjoy it. But you know, it was a good trip.

I took 4 rolls of film to the photo shop the other day. I spent $45 (forty-five dollars) on processing and prints. I could hardly wait to relive my trip in pictures...I was disappointed to realize I am the worst person to document a trip in photographs. It was also disturbing to realize I had just wasted a whole lot of my weekly budget on a bunch of pictures I really don't like.

Obviously, the answer is a digital camera.

Let's take a tour of my:

'Poorly Executed and Entirely Meaningless Vacation Photos'

This is some of my best work. I call it 'Tiny Children In Front Of Large And Entirely Meaningless Statue.' Here is a cute photo, however, it belongs on the tour for a few reasons not the least of which is Madison riding that elephant's trunk, thus discovering her sexuality. The last stop on our tour is this amazing show of my talent for 'Poorly Executed Vacation Photography' I'd like to give you a composition lesson, so that you too may take horrible vacation photos and spend half your food budget for the week getting them developed for years of enjoyment.

Note the large and meaningless dinosaur bones in the background with the washed out face of a child in the bottom of the frame as an after thought. It doesn't get much better than this. Everytime I look at this photograph I remember that moment when we saw some reproduction dinosaur bones and my daughter stood in front of them. It was a magical moment and I'm so pleased that I not only caught that moment on film but I'm also so pleased I spent $45 processing those images for the enjoyment of my family for many years to come.

Of course, there were some truly memorable photos from our vacation. Like this one from a petting zoo. I thought this one would look great on my front door.

I can think of a few people in my life, who should really offer this warning to those around them before they speak. It only seems fair.

This is among my favorite vacation photos. I call it:

'Large Feline Mauling Unfortunately Curious Squirrel' Hard to tell what this is? Click the image. Probably the best photo from my vacation is also the most disturbing. (click the image to be dazzled)

Calming My Uterus

It seems everytime I read about a new mom blogger and how fucking tired she is, how utterly exhausted she is, my uterus magically releases me from my desire to pretend I actually deal well with sleep deprivation and post partum hormones and I really could have just one more!

That is probably the worst idea I've allowed myself to entertain this year. Even worse than when I considered selling my son for a pair of pants.

It's amazing what watching a baby honeymoon will do to a person.

But the sleep....I think I love sleep more than I could ever love a third child. I'm sure this makes me an evil person who will get all classes of hate mail because, 'How could you love sleep more than your own child, you reatarded [sic] bitch?'

I love my children, probably more than sleep, but I've never been forced to choose between the two. I'm pretty sure I'd choose the kids, but the sleep would be pretty painful to say goodbye to. An unborn and unconceived child though, I'm positive at this point, that I love sleep more than the idea of another child.

I mean, it helps that the unconceived child will never be. But if I had it to do over, I'd still make the same choices, not just because I love sleep.

But because I really suck at mothering a newborn.

I think new moms are really surprised at how tiring it is. I think they are taken totally off guard by the conflicting feelings of being the happiest they've ever been in their entire life, madly and insanely in love with this new little person, but still totally exhausted, anxious, emotionally drained, sad, scared and insecure about just about every aspect of their new life.

It's hard to explain how it's possible to have such conflicting feelings about motherhood, especially first time motherhood. It's hard to convey how you truly are happy, how you truly are madly in love but how you still feel there is a very real risk of throwing yourself or the baby out the window in the middle of the night.

It's even harder for new moms because there's really no way to tell a pregnant mother what it will be like. There's no way to warn them. You can try telling them, but the words are hard to come up with. Like explaining the pain of childbirth. You can say, 'It hurt like a bitch.' but it really has no meaning to someone who hasn't experienced it themselves.

Telling a mother-to-be: 'Those first 6 weeks were really hard.'

Really Hard has no real meaning. They hear that and think, 'I survived adolescence, and that was really hard too.'

You can try going into detail: "There was one morning when I put the baby in her crib, went into the shower and held onto the wall because I thought I might fall right down the drain in a defeated puddle of hormones and tears."

And then, you may prepare for the horrified stare of a woman who doesn't know if you are actually insane and have just been doing a great job of hiding it all this time or you can face the look of horror on the face of a woman who is already facing huge fears of things like episiotomies.

I'm not sure what the solution is. It seems unfair not to give a warning, but it seems the warnings would not be heard. People told me it was hard, people told me to get lots of sleep, people told me it would hurt, people told me it would change my life. But they couldn't really tell me, because it's far too complex to explain in a meaningful way that does anything to prepare you for your own experience.

Someone once said, 'The thing about parenting is, you don't know you can't do it until you already are.'

So I guess you just do the best you can all things considered and wait until the day you can sleep again.

From week four, after many nights of no sleep, I wasn't really sure it was worth it. I loved her, but I was not yet convinced it was worth what I was giving up. From here, after a night with 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep, it was worth it.

I think there is one thing we may conclude from this entry:

Babies should come out sleeping all night, every night. This is a basic flaw in human development and should be resolved immediately.

Also, it might be nice if they came out smiling because that upped my belief it was all worth it almost as quickly as regular and uninterrupted sleep did.

Bring It

If those rats come any further south, there are going to be some serious issues.

I am so repulsed by this pack of rats, why couldn't we be over run with these?

At least it's not one of these.

Because a pack of these roaming my 'hood would have me moving away, effective immediately.

Speaking of disgusting animals, would you like to know what my cats most often hear from Pants? Of course you would.

"Come On" This is a barked set of two words which comes out as a single angry word. It's probably the thing the poor animals hear the most. In fact, I'm guessing they think it's actually their name.

"Would you sit the fuck down?" This is part of our nightly 'Let's All Get Cozy On The Sofa To Watch A Little Tee Vee Together' ritual. It's obviously one of Pants' favorite times of the day.

"Would you get your ass out of my face." I think the cats are taunting Pants with this one. They somehow always include a 'butt showing' in the nightly 'Let's Get Cozy' ritual.

"God damn it, you really stink." I've mentioned before, several times, how badly my cats smell. How unclean they are. This one is entirely not surprising.

Normally these things Pants barks at the animals are at least somewhat tempered by the heaping mounds of love Maddie pours all over them. After 10 lonely and loveless days of angry barked "ComeON's" and "Sit The Fuck Down's" and nothing else the cats have never been so happy for the suffocating attention of the only people in this house who feel anything resembling love for them.

Sure this love involves a lot of 'strangling' in the form of hugs, but you know, sometimes love hurts.

Burning Bridges.

I got my mother's group monthly newsletter this afternoon.

Among the usual entries, the calendar of events, a welcome to new members, a craft or two, was a 'Poem'.

A lovely poem about 'Group Participation'. A poem intended to rally people into action! To inspire! To encourage!

(Any Project Managers out there, please feel free to use this in your own organizations, I think you'll find it to be a great motivational tool.)

Are you an active member,
The kind that would be missed?
Or are you just contented
That your name is on the list?
Do you attend the meetings
And mingle with the crowd?
Or do you come to listen
Then crab both long and loud?
Do you take an active part
To help the club along?
Or are you satisfied to be
The kind to just 'belong'?
Do you ever give suggestions
When the club looks kinda sick?
Or leave that up to just a few
Then talk about the "clique"?
And then the program's schedule
That means success, if done
Do you put your shoulder to the wheel,
And work with everyone?
So attend the meetings regularly,
And help with hand and heart
Don't be just a member
But take an active part.
Think this over, member,
Are we right or wrong
Are you an active member-
Or do you just belong?

After the poem there's this lovely 'Motivational' discussion:

Someone has said that membership of an organization is made up of four bones. There are the wishbones who spend all their time wishing someone else would do the work. There are the jawbones who do all the talking and very little of anything else. Next come the knucklebones who knock everything everybody else tries to do. Finally, there are the backbones who get the load and do the work. BE THE BACKBONE...PARTICIPATE!

I'm just loving the use of name calling and negative comments about the current state of our group as a 'tool' to create a more positive and interactive group.

I'm finding this approach very odd, counterintuitive if you will. Using negativity to inspire people to participate? Reprimand, name call and then...magically, people will just jump at the chance to participate in the group.

I find the descriptions of the 'bones' of an organization to be particularly amusing. The language and descriptions of these parts of an organization, imply that if you are not participating in the group, you are one of the unflattering negative parts of the group.

There is nothing like being called a 'Knucklebone' who "knocks everything everybody else tries to do" or a 'Jawbone' who does "all the talking and very little of anything else", to make me just JUMP RIGHT IN.

This poem also leaves out some other key elements of a group run by women, many of the 'types' were covered by Jen at Mommy Needs Coffee. She coined the phrase 'PTAnal Militant Mom.

Now we're not talking about the PTA here, but the people are kind of the same.

I've mentioned my issues with my 'participation' in the past. That kind of thing kind of soured me on the whole thing really, and though I tried to resist letting a bad apple spoil the rest of the group for me. The bad apple got to smelling pretty badly and I found I really needed to avoid the bad apple. Instead, I carefully chose the things I would participate in to avoid smelling the 'Apple'.

I suppose that decision, makes me a 'Jawbone'. Or does it make me a 'Knucklebone'? Or simply a 'Wishbone'?

I just can't wait to get more involved, now that I've been insulted I have a renewed vigor for helping the group succeed!

I think this book might be helpful for someone. I'm really wondering which kind of 'bone' she is, all those 'helpful' emails helping me do my job. The constant pointing out of my errors and ways my job should be done. Hmmm....let's see, I think that qualifies Ms. Z as a 'Knucklebone' doesn't it? Oh, I hope she's taken her poem to heart!

I really wanted to spend time writing up my own little poem, but I don't have the time to be as obnoxious as some people.

-------------Update!--------------

Okay, a friend was so kind to be creative for me and she wrote me a poem. It's really pretty good and it fits pretty well. Maybe I'll submit it for April's newsletter. I mean, really I don't see it as negative as much as just a helpful reminder.

You may read it here. Thanks, Katie.

I will say this: Buh Bye To You, Ms Z.

Hey, remind me to stay the hell away from the PTA, okay?

Welcome Home

Today we flew home from Texas. We flew back to this place where the sky is always grey and salt eats away at your car and you have to wear a down jacket, sweater, hat, gloves and scarf simply to jump into your pre heated car.

We left Texas with a few things. Big things, like a reconnected sense of extended family. Little things like fond memories of tamales and margaritas.

We also left with a very strong desire for more than 100 days of sunshine in an entire year.

Usually, I think cats and dogs are somewhat easier than children. They don't talk at least. However, today that changed after a 3 hour flight with a very loud, very unhappy cat who meowed continuously for the entire fucking flight.

Sure, my kids can whine but I've yet to see them do it for 3 hours straight. And yes, my son's diaper filled so full it leaked....everywhere....but at least he didn't scream 'Meow' for 3 hours without stopping.

If you're booking a Northwest Airlines flight anytime soon, I would highly recommend you avoid seat 15-C. I realize my son's diaper didn't leak on every plane in the entire Northwest fleet, but since I have no idea which plane it was, I'd try to avoid all seats marked 15-C just to be safe.

I'm just saying.

I'm kind of depressed about this.

This person really hates 'blogs'.