People are dicks

Remember my previous post about vet visit tips? You didn't read it, did you?

Or, at least, a few of you didn't. 

To those who did, I hope you never know what it's like to put your best effort into something, following it from start to finish, crossing the t's and dotting the i's. I hope you never get emotionally involved. I hope you never truly care. I hope you don't do any of these things, because someone is going to shit all over you at the end. 

It's never enough.

Nevermind the shit you cleaned up- more than once.  Nevermind the vomit that was laid in. Nevermind the asses you wiped. Nevermind the services you provided, then zeroed out to no charge. Nevermind that you laid with a scared puppy recovering from anesthesia, holding him until he quieted down. None of that matters. 

It doesn't matter that you did a good fucking job, because people are dicks. 

Mutual Pants

My husband gets a lot of flack for being "whipped" from his friends and coworkers. He calls me before he makes any purchase over $100, because I take care of the finances. He cleans. He does laundry. He cares for G. He makes dinner if he gets home first. He grocery shops.

Wow, what an asshole.

What I would like to impress upon these "friends" (who are either 60 years old, divorced, or never married) is that this is 2015, and B and I are PARTNERS. 65 years ago, the man worked and the woman stayed home with the children and had dinner on the table when he got home, with a sparkling house and a smile plastered on her perfect face. (If this is you, no judgement. It just wouldn't work for us because I curse too much.) We both graduated college and have full-time jobs, therefore we both do domestic chores. We discuss large purchases. We both clean. We both do laundry. We both care for G. We both make dinner. We both split and stack wood. The only reason I take care of the finances is because I am a titch obsessive, and seeing that man's system for bill pay made me itch.

Mutual pants-wearing, people.

I am incredibly lucky to have a husband who is also my partner in life, one who lets me be myself. Neither of us has the "edge" over the other. Perhaps these men just don't understand how a less-traditional partnership works, but their ignorance burns my ass all the same. I guess I don't like to be portrayed as this huge controlling bitch for simply being my husband's equal.

And you know what? Maybe he's lucky, too.

[Insert middle finger and expletive here, motherfucker.]

Eat Local

You know what's harder than you think? Breastfeeding.

Set aside the nursing in public debates, and formula vs. breast milk. If you choose to formula feed your child, then I respect your decision as a parent.

Now that I've listed my disclaimers, on to the real post.

My breastfeeding journey was set up for success, for a few reasons. Due to the influence of Edith, who was a breastfeeding super star, I decided to breastfeed G, with a year-long goal. Her advice and guidance on all things boobs and parenting were (and still are) invaluable, and I'm not sure that I can ever adequately thank her. Also, thanks to a combination of luck and genetics, G had an excellent latch and surprisingly, I am part Holstein. We worked hard, we had excellent support, and we met our goal and then some. I'm disgustingly proud of us.

But, it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. You're physically and emotionally exhausted from lack of sleep, and your body is trying to meet its own caloric needs AND provide nutrition for this brand new parasitic bundle of joy. And if you think you can just point said parasite towards the desired nipple and all will be well, you'd be wrong. There's positioning, latching, rogue milk spray, supply dips, engorgement, pumping, timing feeds, washing bottles and pumping supplies, and your sanity to worry about. (And, if you're lucky, mastitis...more than once. It starts with a sore spot, moves to a sore boob, ends in chills, body aches, and fatigue. The best part is that part of the treatment is NURSING FROM THAT SIDE. Motherhood is a cruel bitch.) I specifically remember feeding G in the middle of the night (more than once) without opening my eyes. I am still convinced that this technique helped me fall back to sleep faster.

(I'd like to pause here and inform everyone that one of my best friends is nursing her twins. TWINS. I don't think she's human.)

So, my new mommas, you are not alone. It's hard, and it's painful, and you just want to give your nipples a break. Your life and body are ruled by the hunger of the world's tiniest terrorist. I'm not going to say "cherish these moments", because it's hard to cherish lack of sleep and debilitating physical exhaustion, but I will remind you that one day it will have all been worth it. I know that you don't believe me, and that's ok. You're probably only half awake right now, anyway. Just keep on keepin on (thanks, Joe Dirt), take it one day, one hour, one minute at a time, if that's what it takes to keep you sane. Find strength, encouragement, and advice from those close to you. Ask for help.

YOU can do this.

Bowel Control

"Until they can control their bowels, there's no reasoning with them." - Bella S.

My son was running around like a sweaty lunatic at a birthday party, in a bowling alley, with a balloon tied around his waist. He was being a total hillbilly, rolling around on the floor and growling at the dinosaur decorations. He wasn't the least bit concerned about what a fool he was acting, or what other people thought, or what the other kids were doing. Well, except his newest cousin, baby E. That person was not allowed in his mamaw's arms.

And for once, instead of going into a blind, rigid panic and scrambling to keep him silent and stationary, I relaxed and just let him go. He was just being a little boy at his cousin's birthday party,  having a great time with the other kids and surrounded by people who love him and encourage the ornery nature of little people.

I get frustrated with him when he is grouchy, or doesn't listen to me, or won't take a nap. But then- thanks to Bella- I remember that he still shits himself, so it's to be expected.

He is a simple thing, and I love him for it.

Mind Tripping

Have you ever had to pee so bad that it hurt? Like, it becomes physically and psychologically painful to even exist?

That was me last weekend.

It was my work Christmas party, and the boss took all of us (spouses included) downtown for dinner and a show called "Mind Tripping". He had amped us up about it for the last few weeks, since he had been to it before. It was a husband and wife "mentalist" type team, who put on an interactive show with a small audience. (Think an America's Got Talent act). The whole idea of being in a room with mentalists had us split into two different groups: those who wanted to hide in the back row, hoping they wouldn't read our minds and humiliate us in front of our coworkers, and those who wanted to figure out how the fuck they did it.

I was a hider, naturally. Save me a seat in the back corner, bros, I'll be thinking nothing but positive thoughts.

Except, booze. We had booze; most of us. We got giggly, and loud, and obnoxious, and it was fantastic. We walked into that room as a huge herd of deliriously giggly assholes, and somehow B and I ended up in the second row, front and fucking center. I only cared a little bit, because booze.

They were funny, and freaky good. I don't even care how they did it, it was amazing. They called out members of the audience, a few in our party, which made us laugh even more.

Halfway through the thing (approximately, I was too afraid to check my phone) it hits me like a goddamn freight train: I HAVE TO PEE, NOW. And yes, I went several times before the show started, hoping to prevent this exact scenario. Four beers will do that to a person. But, at the risk of being called out and publicly humiliated, I waited.  I've had to pee before, no big deal. I'm an adult, I can wait until it is socially acceptable to go to the bathroom.

Each minute became the longest minute of my life, unbearable. I kept trying to sneak a peak at "Archie's" watch, but that fucker kept his arms crossed. HOW MUCH LONGER?! No amount of leg jiggly, position-changing, or deep-breathing was going to get me out of this one. I looked at B, no sympathy there. Edith and Archie gave me knowing looks, "you're-going-to-get-fucking-called-out-but-you-gotta-do-what-you-gotta-do" and said "Just go." But, I can't! THEY'RE GOING TO MAKE FUN OF ME! I was staring at this Hungarian goddess, THROWING the thought "Ihavetopeeihavetopee" at her mind as hard as I could, willing her to call an intermission. No luck. My boss finally tapped me on the shoulder, having noticed my obvious predicament, and whispered "Sam, just go."

That was it, I couldn't wait anymore. Fuck the pending public humiliation, I was going to pee my pants. I stood up and BOLTED out the door in three strides, high-tailing it to the elevator. Floor 9 had a bathroom, they said. The elevator came, I danced on, and away I went. OH SWEET JESUS, CAN THIS THING GO ANY FASTER?!

Floor 9. I dashed off the elevator, only to find a line 7 deep of skinny bitches in formal dresses. A fucking FORMAL BALL was happening, and I was forced to wait with women dolled up in their finest, while I danced in my sweater dress like a 12 year old. I waited in line for the most agonizing 15 minutes of my life.

Sweet, sweet relief. I should have timed it.

Unfortunately, I missed the end of the show, and T's finale/ moment of fame. I felt terrible for leaving during the show, but relieved that I didn't get called upon during my hasty retreat. And, as a friend pointed out: "It would have been a lot more embarrassing to pee your pants."

True dat. Like the time I....nevermind,

Competitive Parenting

I once met a 5 month old who could run the 100 yard dash in 10 seconds. I'm not even exaggerating.

A coworker and friend showed me an article about early childhood learning...I didn't read it, but she summarized it for me: from Day 1, all we do is test, test, test these kids, and then compare them to their peers. Medical tests. Tests to determine what they know, at only a few months old. G had a "test" when he switched rooms at daycare, to see if he could hang with the older kids. I'm sure some of these are necessary, but I KNOW I could get a few teachers to back me up on this: when is it enough?!

What kind of example are we showing? How does this impact these minds we are molding and cultivating? I don't know, but it can't be all good.

I do know that it breeds a creature that I have come to know and hate: The Competitive Parent. I'm part of a local, online mommy group, a safe place for moms to ask questions or vent about ANYTHING. Great concept, right? Most of the time it works, but other times it's a figurative (and sometimes, literal) dick-measuring contest. EVERYONE has the smartest, biggest, most advanced child, and oh WILL you know about it.

Oh, and there are rules you have to follow, at the risk of being Publicly Mom Shamed. Carseat safety. Safe sleep. Feeding guidelines. Breastmilk storage rules. Are these important? Absolutely. But,  if you innocently ask a question about one of these topics and reveal how ultimately clueless you are as a parent, some harpy swoops down and makes you feel like a complete moron for Not Knowing Something So Important In The First Place....OMG YOU CANNOT GIVE YOUR KID A FUCKING HOTDOG OR HE WILL DIE

There are organic clothes, did you know that? What the fuck? Do you even know the actual definition of organic, and how producers actually use it? Another post, another day.

Stop this. Shame on you. Who cares? Your kid is their own person, and will develop at their own rate. If you have a question, ask a fellow parent whom you trust, or your pediatrician. They will guide you. God forbid your kid is average, or only slightly above average. There's all this pressure to feed your kid the right shit, send them to the right schools, dress them the right way, and it makes me crazy. You have to make the choices that are best for you and your child. Remember, you were clueless once, and 99% of all parents are truly doing the best they can with what they have. It may not be the decision that you would make, but it's one that they have made for their family, more than likely with a ton of thought and consideration. Respect that.

My kid fucking loves hot dogs. Sue me.

Ladybugs

Let me ask you a serious question: how am I supposed to compete with the Ladybug teachers?

G moved up a room a few days ago, and he's now a Ladybug. Whatever. TODAY THEY MADE SNOW, PEOPLE. SNOW! It was just whipped cream and water, but it sounds magical as shit. They even took pictures, and let me tell you, it looked like a baby foam party in there. Thinking about the mess they had to have cleaned up made me cringe, but his teachers were still laughing and describing the day animatedly to me at pickup. They're learning new songs, making Christmas projects, reading new books, and counting to 3...but hoping to be counting to 5 soon! The EXCITEMENT of these women who had been surrounded by snot-and-cheerio-encrusted children for the last 10 hours made me feel a little nauseous.  Slow your roll, ladies, you're making the rest of us look bad.

I consider it a remarkable Thursday if G and I don't kill each other before B gets home. Projects? HA! SHOWERING is a project. NOT GETTING POOP ON THE FLOOR is a project. These women must be childcare masterminds, with their singing and their projects and their magic fucking snow. How do they do it?

Although, there was a little girl busily removing her final article of clothing at 5:30 in the Ladybug room today. When Miss A saw me register the fact that there was a naked toddler in the room, she shrugged and said: "Her mom said I could just let her go. She bites."