Tag Archives: Sick sense of Humor

Perfectly Normal at Night!

I woke this morning and felt like a B movie actress in an old-school Skinemax flick. My bed has been more Slip and Slide than Soft Core in the last three months. Now would be a good time for my male readers (in particular those to whom I am related) to just move along.

My post partum bleeding was average. But my hyper focus on doing and being everything to everyone meant it came back for round two. “You’re doing too much,” said the midwife. But I have a six year old and an infant and a husband and I am trying to justify in my own mind why I do not have much of an income anymore!! So that means I need to spread mulch and clean my ceiling fans, right?

And then I decided that jogging at 6 weeks post partum was important to my sanity. And the post partum bleeding came back again.

If that weren’t enough fun… my period returned at 9 weeks in spite of my frequent night nursing and the voracious day time appetite of my nursling. Lucky girl, right? Exclusive breastfeeding is supposed to postpone the return of your fertility.

I have a three month old baby this week and will be celebrating my one year wedding anniversary on April 30th. Do the math. I am plenty fertile. We may actually have gotten pregnant at the altar. So back to the midwive’s office I went for a new IUD.

In spite of my issues with my last one there is no better non-hormonal way to prevent pregnancy. Unless you count infant-induced abstinence. The new IUD brought with it the week long “spotting.” Have all the sex you want, just ignore the bleeding, right?

So that about sums up the leaking in the southern regions. Upstairs? My side of the bed has smelled like sweetened condensed milk for the last three months. If you’ve not ever been or loved a lactating woman perhaps you are unaware of this fun fact – milk does not let down only from the boob to which the baby is attached. Boobs are on or off. There is no fade. No balance, like the car stereo. Nursing pads have been my constant companion. And one must hold them in place with something. So add to the equation a sports bra, a nursing tank, something. All. the. time.

Add it all up. The exercise, the hair cut, the positive outlook, the husband and the newlywed status (for three more days!) and I still didn’t really feel like a Woman. Contrary to any kind of logic, all of this very female leaking does not magnify my Womanliness in my own mind.

But this morning I woke up feeling like a capital letter W Woman. I still had a wiggly baby to my right. And a bed rail. And a towel I had stuffed down my shirt next to the opposite boob and dark circles under my eyes because a certain someone woke up four times last night to eat (thank you very much three month growth spurt.) So why did I wake feeling more Miss Universe and less Mother of the Year?

I went to bed last night in black underwear and no nursing bra and a black tank top with easy access (for the kiddo! don’t get excited.) And I woke up dry.
Unencumbered by leak-catchers of any sort.

And damn if I didn’t feel smokin’. Who knew the absence of my own bodily fluids is all it would take? Sitting right now with my laptop perched on the arm of the rocking chair,drool running down my arm, in the clothes I was wearing yesterday I threw on so I could peel myself out of bed to pack lunch for school… I still feel unstoppable.

I snapped a picture this morning to remind me who I am under all of this Mom-ness. My stomach may only be flat when I lie down. And my stretch marks are still visible, even in the early morning light. But there is a hip bone under there. And a bare shoulder. And they need some attention.


* Shout out to Keller Williams for the title. All morning I have been singing Freeker by the Speaker to myself. Subbing out “Leaker” for Freeker and tweaker. Try it. It’s catchy. “Leaker! Right by the speaker, never seem to get enough. Priceless expression when space is possession. Like yeah, that’s the stuff…”

I just might bust out a windmill or a backspin at the grocery store today.

The Shittiest Five Seconds

At first glance you’d think it was obvious. What is the shittiest five seconds of my day? Because the exact same thing happens every single day.

I was a lifeguard for many, many years. After that I still sat at the pool more hours than a girl working two jobs should be able to squeeze out of a summer. You’d think I’d wise up eventually, get out of the sun. But instead I moved to the beach. Needless to say my skin has suffered. I was careful about putting sunscreen on my face, around my eyes, on my chest. All the places I didn’t want to see freckles become age spots.

Somehow I managed to overlook my arms completely.

If you ever want to see your skin look old and battered, hold it up against a newborn baby.

And now, some twenty years after my first job as a lifeguard the sunspots on my arms give me pause. Daily. They don’t remind me to put on sunscreen. Not at all.

They make me stop and think. Oh man. I have shit on my arm.

And every single day I try to wipe them off. This might seem absurd if it were not that I do get shit on my hand, on my leg (as I sit on the floor, Lucy between my legs wiggling through a diaper change) every day.

I’d planned on writing today about the perspective that is gained by having children. I knew that I’d view all kinds of things differently through the lens of motherhood. But I had not imagined that I’d see the signs of aging on my arms and think “well at least it isn’t poop!” and smile. And yet that’s exactly  how it plays out.

But today that was not the shittiest  five seconds of my day.  Today there were five entire seconds that were worse than thinking I was aging too quickly OR that I had shit on my arm.

Lucy slept through our trip to the grocery store.  She blinked for a moment as I pushed the cart in to the cart wrangling area in the parking lot.  I managed to carry all the grocery bags back to my trunk in one trip.  It was bitter cold when I got home.  And I startled  myself by setting off the house alarm when I got back.  I had forgotten that I had set it.  I ran back out to the car to get the groceries and Lucy, it was so very cold out.  And windy.

I grabbed a few grocery bags in one arm and looked in to the back seat.  Her car seat wasn’t there.  I ran back inside.  In to the kitchen.  Not there.  In to the living room, not there.  What had been small tears when I was at my car had become big, Lifetime movie tears in a matter of seconds, “Luuuucyyyy!!!!” I cried out.  Fisher barked.  And I ran back towards the door to close it, the last thing I needed was for Fish to take off running.

All I could see in my mind  was her sweet face, blinking in wide eyed amazement at the wind in the parking lot, in her car seat, in the grocery store parking lot.

Whenever MQD or Emily are missing I always check the bathrooms. Same goes for Lucy, I guess.

As I closed the door to the driveway I laughed…. there she was, sound asleep.  In her seat.  Next to the litter box.  Right where I put her when the alarm started beeping.  Which was probably an awful lot worse than had I actually left her in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

As much as  I wanted to pull her out of her seat and wrap her little arms around my neck, squeeze her and tell her that I love her with everything I am…. I put away the groceries, cleaned all three bathrooms and folded two loads of laundry before she woke up.   Oh, and emptied the litter box.  Since my sweet girl was gonna nap in the guest bath room.

And today…. THAT was the shittiest five seconds of my day.  I am fairly certain it aged me more than the sun ever did.

A Dirty Business

Before you say ‘”Awww… look at the sweet baby” let me remind you – Parenting is a dirty, nasty job.

I combat the filthy nature of the job with my disgusting sense of humor pretty regularly. The reality of parenting an infant is that they are not particularly entertaining.  Falling in love is magical.  But magic won’t make your sides hurt with laughter.  So, I really can’t look to Lucy to keep me amused.  I have to take responsibility for that.  Luckily I find myself pretty entertaining on a regular basis. Add in the delicious hilarity of being wildly overtired and I am like my own personal stand up show all day long.

I talk to my kids.  A lot.  Even when they are not listening. Especially when they are not listening.  I can remember a day that I was jabbering away at Emily.  We were taking a walk, she was in her jogging stroller and I was yammering on  about someone we had just seen at the beach and it dawned on me… someday she will understand what I am saying.  And lawd almighty she might even repeat it.  I was going to lose my most frequent audience member.  It was only a matter of time.

Enter Lucy. The newest and biggest fan to my twenty-four hour a day comedy show.   The biggest difference to my parenting this go round? She is not my ONLY audience member.  I have to mind my tongue as I jabber mindlessly when Em is in the room.  And MQD?  Will he appreciate my antics?

So far, so good.  This morning was a good morning.  Em left to catch the bus and MQD and I hopped back in bed with Lucy Q for a spell.  She is her cheeriest in the morning so I have been encouraging him to spend a few minutes in the morning and take in that face.  Because the evening, when the witching hours reign supreme, that makes up the lion’s share of his time with her. And that’s just no fair.

As she wiggled and squirmed and her face turned bright red I started to blather.  Keep talking and you can often distract the little one from crying I have found.  “Let it go, kiddo.  That’s a poop face, isn’t it? Liberate the poop prisoners!!!” In the middle of chuckling over my fine moment of alliteration I looked up to see MQD’s face.  The moments when you know you married the right guy, they can come in so many different forms.  “From your ANAL PRISON!” and he smiled.

The man gets me.  And evidently he embraces my perverse parenting style.

Give me an inch and I will take a mile.  He encouraged me.  Big mistake.  “Hurry up and poop, little miss, and I have a BIIIG breakfast for you.  No piece of fruit.  No continental breakfast. Fuckin’ french TOAST on some thick ass bread, this shit is FIR REEAALL.  They’ve got CHEESE BLINTZES!”

“And creeps.  And Organic Coffee!” chimed in MQD.

And then breakfast was served.  Evidently someone had sidled up to the all night buffet a few times during the night.  But only one side.  I woke up more than a little lop sided.  I wasn’t kidding about that big breakfast.

Lefty is for breakfast. Evidently Righty was open all night.

And lest you think this entire elaborate tale was just a complicated plan to post a picture of my grossly uneven boobs?  You should know that the Poop Prisoners were liberated.  All over my shirt. Turns out this shit IS for real.

Lucy's idea of a Party. With a capital P. For Poop.