“Oh, and They’re So Perky!”

Does anyone remember that scene from 16 candles? The scene where Sam’s grandma mentions she’s gotten “her boobies”, sighs “and they’re so perky” and proceeds to feel her up? Well…picture that exact same moment with me as Molly Ringwald and my mother-in-law as the old lady with the roaming hands. In front of Eric’s aunt, uncle and cousin visiting from out of town.

Okay, so she didn’t grab my boobs or anything but it was just as uncomfortable and it’s something I’d rather repress for the rest of my life. Of course, instead, I post it here so I can just keep reliving it and, hopefully, make you all cringe just a little with me.

Eric’s aunt, uncle and cousin arrived first. They called a little over an hour before they were due and, when Eric informed them that we were not ready, they advised us not to look out our window as they were parked out front.

Ifreakedthefuckout.

They came back 30 minutes later. When Eric’s parents showed up about 30 minutes past due, we’d all gotten settled and comfortable with one another. That didn’t last.

We all know how my mother in law feels about me so imagine my surprise when she walked in, made a bee-line towards me, stared me in the eyes as if we’d been having a secret affair and began rubbing up my arm. “Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much. I missed you.”
“Oh…kay.” What the hell was I supposed to say to that one? “Oh yeah? Well, I tried everything to get out of this whole encounter and it didn’t work so that whole missing thing? Totally one-sided. And get off me because you’re giving me the creeps.”

Later that afternoon, Ben was sleeping on my lap. My 73-year-old mother-in-law crawled from across the room and began stroking his arm, “Oh, he’s so soft!” She asked her sister to come over, “feel him. Isn’t he so soft?”
“Yes, he is.” Eric’s aunt, very gingerly, rubbed Ben a couple of times and then went to go back and sit down.
“And feel her! She’s soft, too!” My mother-in-law began feeling up my arm again.
“Oh…uh…okay.” His poor aunt gave me a bit of an apologetic look, touched me once and sat down.

Eric, sitting next to me, looked horrified then looked away. Very apparently trying to pretend as if it weren’t happening. Great, way to protect me from your molesting mama there, bud.

Really, though, what the hell kind of encounter is that? Who feels people up and, not only that, but encourages others to feel people up? I’ll tell you what kind of people. Orgy masters. Orgy masters do that sort of thing but not mother-in-laws in the midst of a family get together. Well, none but mine, anyway.

And, you know, as weird as this part of the day was, it’s nothing compared to the ukulele story which I will write about next. Right after I go take another shower.

Gas Conservation “Low Class”

Wow, possibly the silliest thing I’ve ever read. In certain places across this lovely United States, there are laws against having clotheslines in your yard. Considering them “ugly, low-class and unsuitable for display”, they are either relegated to the backyard or banned altogether because, apparently, the idea of their city using up natural resources as quickly as it can is a good thing. I had no idea.

Now, I’m the first to proclaim how freaking annoying having to hang your clothes on a line is. Especially when you’re dealing with 500 freaking cloth diapers. Still, if there are people who are willing to put up with that pain in the ass everytime they do the laundry (coughERICcough), then they should be allowed. They’re making a little bit of a difference for the rest of us who would rather not bother.

Nod, Nod, Wink, Wink

As I mentioned in my previous post, Ben was all about trying to nurse at the fireworks show. I dressed for the occassion (as I always do) and was very discreet (as I always am) whenever I did nurse him. Unfortunately, as is the luck with Eric & I at public get-togethers, we ended up seated next to one of the loudest and most annoying families in the entire park.

They descended upon us after we’d already chosen our perfect spot in the grass. The kids were wrestling, popping those confetti bottles with no regard for the baby (my luck at parks sucks) and one of the dads kept yelling, “I LOVE AERIAL BOMBS! WAIT TILL WE SEE THE AERIAL BOMBS! MY FRIEND BROKE HIS FOOT SO HE AIN’T BEEN HUNTING…FOR AERIAL BOMBS! I’M GONNA DRINK BEER WHEN I WATCH THE AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBS!” Then proceeded to run in a circle screaming, “BOOM BOOM BOOM” and peeing on the lesser men in the audience.*

So, at one point, I’m nursing Ben and I look up just in time to catch the aerial bomb dad trying to catch the eye of the other dad by wiggling his beer at him. He then proceeds to smile knowingly, wink and nod in my direction. He caught me glaring at him just then and averted his eyes immediately. I shot the same look at the other dad just in time to catch him turning his head to look at me. Yet another eye aversion.

What the hell is up with that? Seriously. If you’re giving me the “hey, something dirty’s going on over there” look, then why not oogle? Is it because I look like the kind of girl who’d kick your ass? Or because you know you’re a raging idiot for trying to sexualize just knowing my baby’s nursing? Because, Lord knows, you couldn’t see any skin. I had clothing surrounding every possible side. Or maybe it was because I said, very loudly, “Oh yeah, because me feeding my son is totally more annoying than your kid screaming at the top of his lungs.”

*Actions mentioned in this sentence may or may not have happened.

Violent Thoughts About An 8 Year Old = Bad?

I ask because I’m having trouble deciding if it is a bad thing to pick an 8 year old up by his shirt and threaten his very life for throwing rocks at your baby or if it can be deemed completely justifiable. On the one hand, the attacking and subsequent whopping-of-a-lifetime of a child is probably a never a good idea but he threw rocks…at my 10 month old. I’m so very torn.

We have an adorable park nearby with a beautiful pool. It only has one baby swing so we don’t get down there too often. Ben’s an all day sort of swinger. If you pull him out too early, you’d better have something bigger and better to do or you’re going to have a blood-curdling scream followed pouty face for the rest of the day. We don’t want to be “those people” always hogging the swing. Not to mention, the times (Okay, really it was only one time, but I don’t want everyone to think I’m a quitter so we’ll pretend like we went more than once) we went down there, we were, mid-swing, accosted by loud, cackling teenage girls proclaiming how “weird” they must look swinging on children’s swings. “We must look SO weird! OMG!” Of course, picture it being said in Spanish.

This afternoon I wanted to, again, drive to the park that I like best. It’s about 10 minutes away and through downtown, which many of you may find ridiculous since we have a park less than a 10 minute walk away but we were accosted by squeeling teenage girls. Since it was 5pm and since he’s lame, Eric wasn’t so hot on the idea of driving through downtown during rush hour just to go to a park we’d always had great experiences at instead of, you know, the one in which we were (say it with me) accosted. So, I offered up a second park, a 5 minute drive, that’s supposedly just as nice. “Why don’t we walk down to our park? I’m really hurting for exercise,” he says. Fine. I only bring all this up so there’s a record of me trying to avoid the situation all together. I didn’t wake up this morning and decide I was going to start planning out how to vivisect a child. I tried to avoid it. Blame it all on Eric.

We get Ben all packed into his stroller and walk down to the park. There are two kids, a girl about 10 and a boy about 8, in the I’m-so-freaking-bored belly down position on the swings. They notice us pulling up and they get their show off shoes on. You know how kids get when there are new people around. “Look what I can do!” So we pop Ben in the infant swing and he starts his usual hysterical laughing…until the little boy starts throwing rocks at his friend.

Now, let me say, had it not been my baby, the following would not have occured. I would have had a clear head. I would’ve said something along the lines of, “Please don’t throw rocks. You could hurt the baby.” Of course, “the baby” in this instance was my son, so clear head and “possibility of injury or pain” were not coexisting.

The first handful went towards Eric’s legs. I said nothing because the kid immediately corrected himself, turned sideways and threw the rocks at his friends feet away from Eric and, more importantly, Ben. However, the more his friend would swing and the louder she’d yell for him to stop, the harder he’d throw the rocks at her feet. They were pinging off the side of the swingset and popping me in my ankles. Not a big deal, they were no where near Ben, I wasn’t going to freak out.

And then the kid decided to throw a handful in the air.
Over my head, over my husband’s head but most importantly, over my 10 month old’s head.

“WOAH! Could you not do that again?!?” This is a response I’m torn on. I could’ve said, “Could you please not do that? You don’t want to hurt the baby.” Which probably would’ve been a much more grown up, kind thing to say. However, I could’ve also said, “Do that again and I’ll chop off your hand!” Which I’m pretty proud of avoiding. As I said, I’m torn.

Ben was swinging for a few moments more, the kid was throwing more rocks at his friend and decided, “Hey, let’s throw them directly toward the baby and the white guy this time.” They thwacked off the bottom of Ben’s swing, off my ankles and Eric’s knees, to give you an idea of how high and hard they were thrown.

I lost it.

“You little brat! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I broke a switch off of the nearest bush and started thwacking him. “You don’t throw rocks at a baby! What the hell is wrong with you?! Where’s your mother?! GET BACK HERE! DO NOT MAKE ME CHASE YOU!”

Okay, so, not really but I wanted to. Badly. Instead I said, “That’s it. Let’s go,” grabbed Ben and grumbled at Eric about, “Oh, driving to the good park is too faaaaaaaaar, going to a new park isn’t enough ex-er-ciiiiiiise.” Then let Ben play in the grass for a while, all the time contemplating going all “Hand That Rocks the Cradle” on his butt and shooting dirty looks back at an 8 year old child.

Seriously, I, a grown woman, was shooting evil, dirty looks at a child. Not my most shining moment but, hey, don’t nobody mess with my baby.

Why Reproduction Should Be a Right Earned

I’m sure by now most mamas have read the tale of the raging idiot in Denver, Katreice Trujillo, who gave her 3 month old baby meth. If you haven’t, the story is basically that Katriece Trujillo (who has recently popped up on craigslist and backpage with ads for “incalls” - wow, a meth addicted hooker, that’s a new one) was broke and bought $40 of meth. (She was broke so she bought meth? Great idea!) She put the meth bag down next to the formula and accidently managed to mix it in the baby’s bottle. Huh? The baby then went into seizures and she took him to Children’s Hospital. Of course, then she told the cops she was lying, so who the hell knows what the story is. Now that we’re all caught up…

WHAT THE HELL?!? This woman had an older son that was, thank the Lord, taken away after they arrested her at Children’s Hospital for trying to kill her kid. I hear stories about mothers like this and I just cannot believe that while so many amazing women are unable to have children, this one is allowed to breed on a regular basis. It hardly seems fair.

Go Jenny!

Wow.

Gay bashing and Muslim bashing all in one tirade. Wow. I certainly hope she doesn’t consider herself a Christian. I’d hate to be lumped in the same group with this woman.

Dis-gus-ting.

Those Flippin’ Bananas

Also known as, “My endless food, poop, puke rant” or “Note to self: Beware the wet burp”.

I’ve given Ben organic carrots (not homemade). I’ve made and pureed him sweet potatoes. I’ve made fresh applesauce from both red and green organic apples. I always get the same face. The squished up, “what the hell was that” face. It’s, of course, to varying degrees depending upon what it is I’ve just fed him but it’s always the same face.

Then, we tried bananas. His eyes got big, his mouth got wide and he squeeled, “He-yeaaaaaaahah!” He loved them. First day, he got a little gas but I thought it may have been from my over-indulgence in Lactaid that week. I cut back. Second day, he got horrible gas. I was still trying to blame it on the Lactaid and had made no connection to the bananas. I cut back even more. Third day, he ate an entire banana and proceeded to have a diarrhea so massive that it shot out of the back of his diaper and all over my shirt.

And, yet, I still didn’t get it. I avoided all solids for a couple of days in case maybe, just maybe, it was the bananas. I also didn’t drink any Lactaid.

When we tried it again, we were at my parents’ house. We pureed an entire banana and he ate it all. I followed it up with Gas X and he had very little gas that night. I thought, “Huh. Maybe the bananas just give him gas.”

But, wait! I get stupider!

He finished about 3/4 of a banana today with 4T of rice cereal & 2T of breastmilk and took his mid-afternoon nap immediately afterwards. He woke up, he played, and then got sleepy again. I tried to nurse him back to sleep and he refused. He never refuses. I stood him up and put him close to my face, “Sweetheart, are you sleepy?”
*burp*
“Awww, was that a…”
*Blauhhhggghhh - he projectile vomits down my shirt, my pants, on the couch, on the floor*
“ERIC! He just puked all over me! Take him so I can change, please!”
Eric proceeds to go for a wash cloth sitting on the couch. “Why don’t you use this…”

He, apparently, did not understand the urgency of the situation. He didn’t seem to get that there was vomit running down my chest and belly and it needed to be remedied immediately. Clearly, he was worried about the couch and not that I was going to have to kill him if he didn’t take Ben so I could clean off the vomit.

“TAKE HIM NOW!”
I changed and wiped down while Eric changed Ben’s outfit. I took Ben back and walked him back to the couch while Eric threw in a load of laundry. I sat down.

“Poor baby! Are you…”
*Blauhhhggghhh*
Another change of shirt for me, outfit for Ben. Another 2 things to go into the laundry. I take back the boy and, by this point, he’s quite pale with no fever and a fierce habit of rubbing his eyes over and over. I start walking him back and forth in hopes of getting him to go to sleep.

“Sleepy boy, you’re not feeling….”
*Blauhhhggghhh*
I’m beginning to think that it’s my voice that’s making my child vomit and am afraid to speak again. While this was a much less prolific vomit (never thought I’d ever type those words), it still required a change on my part. Ben, for his part, managed to miss his outfit entirely. Another shirt for the wash. I, thinking I am being intelligent, put a prefold on my chest between Ben and I to avoid another change.

“Hush little baby…”
*Blauhhhggghhh - misses the prefold, hits my arm - Blauhhhggghhh - hits the prefold, proceeds to wipe face in it*
I know very well I did NOT feed him this much. Where the hell this child is getting his reserves from, I have no idea, but it was really quite impressive. Especially that this particular iteration was more than the first 3 combined. I’m beginning to think he might win an award and am almost sad that Eric was washing all the proof of super puke proliferation down the drain.

“He PUKED AGAIN!” I screamed at Eric, who was downstairs washing away our hopes and dreams for the Best Vomiting Baby award.
“What?!?”
“HE PUKED!” I scream louder.
“WHAT?!?”
“HE PUKED!!” I scream like an angry construction worker with a 2 pack a day habit.
“WHAT??”
“Oh screw you.” I hate being whated when I’ve got puke running down my arms. Our house is not that big. I just didn’t understand why he couldn’t hear me when I’m standing immediately above his head and yelling at the top of my lungs. Of course, he heard that part.

Up he comes, saying something about creaking floors, can’t hear, and takes Ben. I change. Again. Eric changes Ben, I wash off his face. Ben plays with my “Baby 411″ book that tells me, “This is a food allergy, you raging fucktard. What did you think it was? Lactaid?”

I get Ben back on my shoulder and resign myself to being covered in puke. He’s not feeling well and I felt awful for having poisoned him. I sing, “Hush little baby” and he begins to fall asleep on my shoulder. I cringe with every burp. As his eyes flutter shut and I’m hit with the effervecent scent of banana vomit seeping out of my baby’s lips, I think of how very lucky I am to be a mom and how, the moment he wakes up, I’m going to call my own mother so she can say, “HAH! GOT YOU BACK!”

Scattered to the Winds

All of my friends have scattered to the winds. Hurtful things were apparently said and done, and no one’s taking it very well.

I can’t help but feel winter has everything to do with it. The demonic force that is lack of light, intense cold and shitty shoppers shoving you into shelves when all you need is a damn roll of TP has taken over. It sucks people’s energy and drains them of their positivity. It becomes really easy to ignore the other person’s feelings or let your own sadness envelope you when even getting out requires fighting with people you don’t even know.

On top of that, the holidays suck. They’re stressful, they’re lonely and they’re crowded. You have so much shit to get done. Just you. Your family has their own shit to do. You’re alone and yet you’re surrounded by a bunch of jerks that you’d rather explode than ever be around again (read: shoppers, drivers, in-laws). It has to be the most lonely, stiffling season of the entire year. Add to it that you’re spending more money than you’ve spent on your whole year’s mortgage, and you understand why December has the highest number of suicides for the entire year. Everyone’s sad and I’m sad for them.

I miss my friends. I miss my happy, snarky group of mommies that all loved making eachother crazy. I hope that after this winter passes, we can all re-absorb a little sun and sanity, make our amends and get on with normalcy. I mean, who else will I get to thrill with discussions of boob rot & jungle muffs?

The Yeast That Took Over the World

I hate this yeast. I hate it with every fiber of my being.

Yesterday, we went to my midwife to see about the raging boob yeast. “I’m not entirely sure that is yeast…” she said. See, she said that because I have taken it upon myself to wash the evil bumps with Dial soap. Yes, Dial soap. It’s no longer as bumpy, but it looks like someone took a cheese grater to it. I was, desperate, see? It had to go away, and Dial kills 99.9% of…well, everything. I figured, what the hell? Might kill of the yeast, too.

It didn’t. Just my skin. Now I’m not so bumpy but raw, ragged and itchy. I am an idiot.

She prescribed me a 3 month treatment of Diflucan. THREE MONTHS. Because, apparently, my yeast is evil.

Ben’s pediatrician prescribed him more Nystatin because the Miconazole was not working. If it doesn’t go away in yet another two weeks, he’s to go in and see them. However, after one treatment of Nystatin last night, he’s much less red and there are nearly no more bumps left. I think we’re finally in the home stretch with his demonic yeast.

Now, I’m going to go boil my nipples.