Mourning the Lady Parts

There was really never any question, after I found out I was pregnant again, that Baby O would be our last child. I was never really sure I wanted to have kids until I had Baby L, so when a second was coming, I knew I was done. At my first OB/GYN appointment during this pregnancy, I was already asking about birth control for after Baby O was born. Because, you know, if you are keeping score, BOTH of my pregnancies were accidental and I was on the pill when I got pregnant this last time, so I was pretty sure the pill wasn’t going to prevent Captain Super Sperm from getting me knocked up again. But I wasn’t sold on the IUD method because I just didn’t want some weird object floating around in there. And I didn’t want something so invasive as a tubal ligation. (Mostly because I am a total wuss and, up until I had my kids, had had almost NO medical issues in my life. Seriously, I had an x-ray once.) But I wanted the permanence of a tubal ligation. You know, without the incision. Gross.

At my first OB/GYN appointment, there was a poster on the wall advertising Essure so I asked about it. Seriously? Permanent? Yes. In-Office procedure? Awesome. No incision? SOLD. So, I had decided at 14 weeks that I was getting this shit taken CARE of. With a QUICKNESS, you guys.

So, yesterday, I had my “counseling” appointment. Which basically means that I watched a video of women and doctors and some women doctors talk about their experiences with it and how awesome it is. And then I signed a consent form.  There is a waiting period of 30 days before I can have the procedure done. Because, you know, I might change my mind and decide I want another kid. (HA! If I ever say anything like that, internet, please remind me how long it has been since I have slept or eaten a meal while it was hot. Or while sitting.) So, now we wait.

What I didn’t expect was that I feel sort of like I am having to mourn the loss and/or use of my lady parts. I mean, first of all, I never really wanted to use them. And they are definitely USED at this point. And I don’t want to use them again. But it is sort of sad to think about. I never really thought about how much of a privilege it is to be ABLE to have children. Even if you don’t want them and don’t plan to have them, you have the POWER to create life. I mean, how amazing is that? I still don’t want to have another baby, you guys, it is just a crazy thought that I won’t be ABLE to.

I’m not going to change my mind. Because even if I did go absolutely batshit crazy and decide that more kids was a good idea, I wouldn’t do it. MB and I had our boy and our girl and we are absolutely elated to have completed our family and so QUICKLY! (This might have worked out for us. It seems doable. Hard, but we got this. In your FACE, universe!) Really, this is the only way to go. It is this or Captain Super Sperm over here will have to just stay away from me until I am all old and stuff. Because, I don’t even trust a vasectomy at this point. My husband is no joke.


Sleep or the Lack Thereof

So, Baby O is eight weeks old now. Yeah. I KNOW! I can’t believe he is 8 weeks old either! But its all true, you guys. All true.

So, he’s 8 weeks old and things are moving right along. He has stopped looking like an alien/old man like he did when he was born and now he looks like a little person. He has chubby cheeks and those little creases in his thighs to accentuate all that new chunk! He sleeps well at night. And I don’t have to be holding him which means that I can concentrate on getting Baby L sleeping in her crib and off of my head. Which hasn’t really happened ALL that much lately anyway, because I have been sleeping on the couch for the most part, to be close to Baby O without interrupting the rest of the family. But OMG, you guys, the chaos.

It is no secret that Baby L as been a hot mess in the sleep department since she was born. From birth, she has been difficult. She wants to be ON YOU.  Which was tolerable at 6 weeks. Or three months. Hell, I even could deal with it at 8 months. But it got a little bit out of control. She went, at 7 months, from sleeping all night in her crib (but having a little bit of a problem napping when she needed to), to needing to be in bed with me and MB. (I blame a trip to North Carolina to visit my Father-in-Law for this because he had us sleeping in a room that I am pretty sure had absolutely no insulation at all. In the middle of winter. With a baby. So, naturally, I had to cuddle up with her on our freezing cold air mattress for those three nights to avoid anyone freezing to death. It worked. But sleeping has never been the same.) I got pretty used to our nightly routine of MB bathing her and then putting her down in her room and then, a few hours later, having to try and put her back down after she wakes up, screaming her head off and standing in her crib. Usually, this occurred at about 1 or 2 in the morning, so in my very pregnant and exhausted state, I would usually just give up and bring her into our bedroom where she would sleep on my face for the remainder of the night. I grew used to it. And I sort of liked it. But with a newborn on the way, you guys, there was no effing way I was going to miss out on sleep because of all that newborn stuff and then have to deal with a toddler kicking me in the kidneys during the 4 minutes per night I am actually able to try and get some rest. No.

I had tried to let Baby L “Cry it Out” a few times. But I was terrible at it. Every time I tried to stomach the sound of her maniacal cries at naptime, I would break. I couldn’t stand it. And she would cry FOREVER. (Read: 10 minutes. Because that was all I could take.) But then, just weeks before my due date, I knew I would have to suck it up. And shockingly, it worked. I stood my ground and, within just a few very painful days, Baby L had accepted that she was powerless. Sleep was happening. And it was happening when and BECAUSE I said so. (Yes, I am officially the “because I said so” mom now.) And, by the time I was home from the hospital, Baby L was napping like an angel. But still waking up in the middle of the night and pleading for the return to her spot in the middle of our bed. (Which you know, if you have ever shared a bed with a toddler, means THE WHOLE BED, no matter the size of said bed. Toddlers are like cats in their innate ability to take up entire beds despite their size, for those of you who share a bed with a cat and not a toddler.)

Honestly, I was prepared to just leave well enough alone with the middle of the night stuff. If I weren’t too tired to deal with crying while I was pregnant, I was definitely too tired with a newborn. But two things happened: 1. I began having no choice but to sleep in the living room because Baby O being in our room meant that he would be waking Baby L several times throughout the night and getting HER back to sleep was much more difficult than getting HIM back to sleep and 2. She fell out of the bed one morning when I was feeding Baby O in the living room. We have a tall bed and hardwood floors. She was fine. I was not. (MB was sleeping beside her and had made a fort around her, as always, to prevent this sort of thing, but she is a walker now. So she sometimes stands up in bed and tries to walk around. I always wake up at her slightest movement. Because I am her mom. But dads can’t be trusted to do the same. No offense, dads, you just don’t have “that thing”.) So, needless to say, if I can’t be in two places at once, something was gonna have to give, you guys.

So three nights ago, I started to try to let her CIO at night. And OH. MY. GOD. I hate it. But, she has slept in her crib for three straight nights. And I have slept in bed with my husband and Baby O next to me in his sleeper. And things are starting to look up. You know, I still have to change 400 diapers per day. And the babies like to time their sleep/wake times perfectly so that the only time I actually get a second of peace is around 5 in the morning (which is when I started writing this post…) but Baby O is a good sleeper. And he doesn’t need me to hold him 24 hours per day. Which gives me time to give Baby L the attention she demands. Because that baby DEMANDS it.

And yes, I know I have been a bad blogger. But you might see why, after reading this post. Because everything I write is about sleep or the lack thereof. Because…well…that’s what happens. I promise to write something better. And soon. I think I’m gonna take up drunk blogging.



Baby O is 7 weeks old today. I seriously can’t believe how quickly time is going by! I mean, I can. Because it seems like just yesterday that Baby L was this small. But it also seems like AGES ago. A year makes a hell of a difference, that’s for sure. But daaaaamn. SEVEN WEEKS. In a couple of days, I will have my check-up and then I will be given the okay for “activities”. I imagine that this means that they will tell me it is okay to lift heavy objects. Or chase heavy objects around the house to prevent them from destroying all of my things and then swoop down and pick them up. You know, I will be given the okay to be Baby L’s mom.

I am sort of excited to be given the okay for exercise. Not that I will have time to do any of that. (Although, I am fairly certain that I do more of it now, with a 14 month old, than I ever have in my life…but they don’t call it exercise. They call that parenthood.) And, you know, I can’t think of any kind of exercise that I actually enjoy. (You know, the kind that I like is what got me these two kids in the first place. And we are trying to AVOID any more of those, people. AVOID.) I just am not sure I can learn to live with this new body.

I think I have said before that I, in no way, plan to give up big fat cheeseburgers or giant beers. Because if I did that, I just wouldn’t be me. But I would like to feel normal again.

After Baby L was born, I lost all but 5 pounds of the weight I gained in the first 2-3 weeks. And I fit back into my pre-preggo clothes almost immediately. (Please believe that I am not a thin girl to begin with. I was pleasantly plump when I got pregnant and I wasn’t terribly upset about it. I was pretty content with my curves because, for the most part, they were in pretty good places.) With Baby O, I lost the weight just as quickly. I gained less with this pregnancy than with my first one (27 pounds with Baby L and 21 with Baby O) and the poundage seemed to fall right off.

But the body, you guys. The body.

Okay, so lets be for real, ladies and gents. (Mostly ladies because I doubt that you boys can relate here. And if you can…well, damn. Awesome!) Your body goes batshit crazy for ten months when you are pregnant. And then you push a whole person out of your nether region. And then you are able to FEED them with your BOOBS. And your hips are bigger. And your hair falls out. And you cry at commercials. And your belly is like a bowl of Jell-O. A BOWL OF JELL-O.

I don’t want a Jell-O belly. I want the regular beer belly I used to have. And my clothes hate this new belly. My jeans want to push it out the top. My cute tops want to cling to it and make me feel all…lumpy. Feeling lumpy is not so much fun. And if you are feeling lumpy and are crying at commercials, well, you probably drink a lot of wine. (Which could contribute to lumpiness and crying.)

I went out for the first time in a long time on Saturday with some girlfriends. I was absolutely so nervous to even try on any of my clothes because I didn’t want to see how different/horrible all my cute clothes looked on me now. And, seriously, I considered canceling before I even tried anything on. Because, at least in yoga pants, I feel hidden. And comfortable. And reasonably frumpy. But I did it. I told all of my anxiety, “Shut the fuck up. I JUST had a BABY.” (Because that’s what my friends keep telling me when I talk about my Jell-O belly.) And I tried on EVERYTHING. And I hated EVERYTHING. And then I considered canceling again. Because the thought of hanging out with my lovely girlfriends who had their own bodies but no Jell-O bellies was just terrifying. I just knew that they would judge me. Because OBVIOUSLY my friends are assholes.

But they AREN’T assholes. And they are more forgiving than I am about the fact that I JUST had a BABY! Imagine that. A woman beating herself up about the way that she looks. And comparing herself to other women. With different kinds of bodies. And who didn’t just push a human of their vaginas. Weird.

And now I am angry with myself for being so self-conscious. Because HOLY SHIT, you guys. It has only been SEVEN WEEKS! And I was no Kate Moss before these kids, why do I expect to be now? WHY? And why would I WANT to be?

I read an article recently about how a woman’s dialogue to herself and about herself affects her daughter. And how girls pick up on the negativity that their mother’s put out there about the way they look. And I thought about Baby L and how I really want her to be confident. I don’t want her to look in the mirror and pick herself apart and never recognize how beautiful she is. And I’ve always been pretty confident, but I am definitely guilty about talking shit about the way that I look. And I don’t want that to shape my daughter into some self-conscious little shell of a person. And I don’t want her to seek approval from people for her physical appearance. I want her to be a proud, confident little lady. And I am staring in the mirror at my Jell-O belly and setting a bad example. And that stops now.

Dammit. I JUST had a BABY. And even if I hadn’t, I am a curvy broad. And curvy is hot.

I had to do it. This song makes me shake my curvy ass.


Family is weird. And when you have one of your own, and your primary focus is your kids, some of the family dynamics with “outside the home” members of the family change. This is important to note because, this week, my Father-in-Law has been visiting.  He called, a couple of weeks ago, to wish MB a happy birthday and then informed him that he would be coming to our house for a week. No dates set-in-stone. Just a generic, “after the 19th” kind of notice.

I was not thrilled.

When you first have a baby, as many of you know, things change a lot. Your sleep changes. WHERE you sleep might change. Your meal times change. Even WHAT you eat changes because, if you are in a similar situation to mine, you don’t really have so much time to think about feeding your own face when you are spending so much of your time concerned about feeding tiny faces. Things are chaotic. They are unscheduled and they are completely unpredictable. And if you are anything like me, being in a situation like this would be enough to leave you bald and hiding under your bed in the fetal position by the end of a regular day. Because the anxiety. Oh, the anxiety. Its a heinous bitch. And it can turn ME into a heinous bitch too.

It takes any mother (parents, really) a minute to adjust to a newborn. And their neediness. And the lack of normacly. Because. Well. Welcome to your new normal, new parents. Gone are the days of free time. For us, gone are the days of dinners before 8pm or watching a television show uninterrupted. Or sleeping together in the same bed. Gone. At least for now. Because we’re still figuring this “parents of two” thing out. And we are doing damn well if you ask me.

But then, when you get an uninvited houseguest who sleeps on the couch in the middle of the day and cuts watermelon (and you HATE the smell/taste/idea of watermelon)  in your kitchen and leaves it sitting there for hours while you nearly vomit because of the smell (which you can do nothing about, because you are busy wrangling a 14 month old and feeding a newborn and cooking dinner and washing dishes and sweeping up today’s lunch from under the high chair…you get the point), you might tend to spin a little (more) out of control. You know, if you have control issues/a hefty anxiety problem. And that, my internet friends, has been this week for me. I’m tired and stressed and ready for a serious break. But I’m a parent. And breaks don’t exist.

My FIL isn’t a bad person, if you ask me, although, I know some people who would disagree. He has done some things that he regrets to the people that he loves and spends most of his time with them trying to make them understand that he loves them. But also making them feel guilty that HE lives several states away from them. Yes, you read that right. Because he moved away after being a not-so-great person to them and now wants all of them to feel guilty that they aren’t where he is. Sometimes, there is even crying. And I used to feel bad. But then I started getting to know him. And hearing stories about the kinds of things that happened when he was “not-so-good” and I don’t feel bad anymore. In fact, I am annoyed. But I bite my tongue because I love my husband. I have bitten my tongue so much this week that it is currently hanging by a little muscly tongue thread.

Last night, I was talking to my sister-in-law about being a parent. And I told her that, before I had Baby O, I was genuinely worried that I wouldn’t be able to love him as much as I love Baby L. This, I have heard from other moms with more than one child, is a very real fear. And very common. I mean, you give birth to someone, right? And they are your everything. They give you the motivation to be BETTER. And they expand your capacity for love and they fill up your WHOLE heart. Because that’s what happens when you have a child. And then you are faced with having another one. One that you haven’t met yet. And you wonder, “how will my heart expand enough for this new little one to fit in there with the first one?” Because it seems impossible to love ANOTHER person the way you love your first. But then you do. You just DO.

Anyway, I was talking to my SIL about this and FIL says with a snide roll of his eyes, “Well, that’s hateful.”

And, in my head, I said: “Well, I didn’t try and smother either of my kids with a pillow, did I? So, I guess you would know better than me about hateful.”

In real life, I said, “Well, I guess YOU wouldn’t understand, seeing as you’ve never carried a person in your BODY for months and months…”

“Well, I never had a problem loving my kids”, he says to me.

And in my head, I said, “Sure, if by loving your kids, you mean locking them outside and making them pick weeds in the hundred degree heat for hours on end.”

In real life, I said, “You couldn’t possibly understand any of it anyway.” And I walked out of the room.

MB and my SIL did back me up, because they GET it. It is a process. But I could have gone to prison last night, internet. PRISON.

I can show him hateful. I really can. I am REALLY good at hateful. I did it for years as a teenager. I got this. But I’m biting my tongue. Because he is leaving today. And after he is gone, my life can go back to a degree of chaos that doesn’t make it necessary for my husband to hide all the knives.

(Just FYI, I don’t know that the above things actually happened. I mean, I can only imagine that they did, because they were told to me BY his kids. But…I wasn’t there. I just thought I should say that.)

I’m awake…I swear…

You guys, I am so tired.

That’s about all I have the energy to post. But IMMA PRESS ON, you guys. Because I love y’all.

So, having two kids is like…well it is like having that one kid and not sleeping and eating and breathing for that kid and then adding on some other, tinier, more defenseless human being into your already hectic world. You know, where no one pays you. And you cry a lot. Because, internet, I cry a LOT. And not because I am not enjoying these little “chirren” but because I have no time to enjoy coffee. Or the intertron (a term stolen from one of my amazing bloggy friends, Jells). Or my husband. Or reality TV. And this is all very sad. VERY SAD. I really like those things. And I like seeing people. You know, who are taller than three feet. Weird. I know.

Baby L is adjusting to having a baby in the house. By adjusting, I mean, she is throwing temper tantrums about…well…everything. And they are improving. A couple of days ago, the tantrums were happening about every 3.5 minutes and were at some octave that I was not even sure was humanly possible. Today, it only happened once. And no mirrors shattered in its wake. So, that was a definite bonus. And because of that, I didn’t feel like playing in traffic.

Baby O is a pretty good baby. He is currently, and has been for the last several hours, fussing like a maniac. But this is pretty much the norm for him at this time of night. Which is rad, considering that if he would SHUT HIS FACE, I could possibly sleep in my own bed and not worry about waking MB. But, I mean, seriously, what mom sleeps? Like, ever?

So…yeah. I am tired and pissed about the Trayvon Martin verdict and ranting in my head about a lot of the news. But I am too tired to tell you guys about it. Because two kids…well two kids is insane.

Now, if you will kindly excuse me, someone is crying somewhere in this house and I am sure it has something to do with poop.

An Open Letter to Baby O: One Whole Month

Dear Oliver,

So, you’re a month old and everyone is alive! I say that because, as you are aware, you and your sister are very close in age and she is sort of a monster. A monster who has just learned to walk. And then there is you. You are adorable and squishy as can be. And you need me. YOU NEED ME ALL THE TIME. I ain’t mad atcha, little guy, all newborns are this needy. In fact, possibly less so than you. You are generally a really content baby. But you need to eat really often. And you pee constantly. And you despise pee. And you haven’t yet figured out that when your sister goes to bed, it is time for Mommy and Daddy to watch True Blood or Dexter without interruption. Because this is the only adult time we get. You seem to want to wake up as soon as you can have us to yourself. And then you demand things. For several hours. And by the time you are done, your dad is in bed and Mom is ready for a bottle glass of wine. I am hoping you will get it together soon. Because I gave up drinking for a long time to make you. And I deserve some Mommy time.


Baby O at 13 days old.

Baby O at 13 days old.

Needless to say, little man, you and your sister are definitely keeping us busy. You, with your constant peeing and your sister with her running around the house, screaming with glee about the discovery of a stray grape under the kitchen table.  You and I spend a lot of time chasing your sister around so that she doesn’t eat all of the paper products in the house. (Don’t ask me why she likes to eat paper. I suspect she just likes to eat everything and there is so much paper to choose from. Tissues, toilet paper, the electricity bill…You know. Maybe you will stick to actual food. We don’t have any Legos. So…) I am insanely tired and have, just like with your sister, been sleeping on the couch so that we don’t wake everyone else up when we have your snack time at 2 AM. I don’t really mind because you actually sleep. Like, for several hours at a time. And I don’t have to hold you the whole time. You do it (Gasp!) on your OWN. For that, I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

You are still a little meatloaf and only smile when you are about to let out some heinous gas. But it is really cute and almost makes the smell worth it. (I am not sure if ALL babies are as stinky as you and your sister, but sweet baby Jesus, you kids smell!) You look just like a tiny version of your father, which is sort of awesome because everyone says your sister is a tiny version of me. You even have your father’s fingers and toes. Namely the toes. You know, freakishly long and weird-looking. And sort of look like fingers. (I call them finger-toes because your dad’s toes are literally almost as long as my actual fingers. But…I do have freakishly SMALL hands…so…)

You have gained almost three pounds in the 5 weeks since you were born. At your last appointment, which was 5 days ago, you already weighed 9 lbs and 1 oz, which blows my mind. Because I don’t remember your sister growing this fast. It makes me excited to see you grow and become less and less like a meatloaf and more and more like a little dude. But, man, it is pretty surreal to think “he will never be this small again!” (and I DO think that. Every. Single. Day.) Luckily, this realization does NOT inspire me to give you guys a little brother or sister. So…that’s a sign that your mother hasn’t COMPLETELY lost it from all the sleep deprivation.

So, that’s about how things have been going during your first month of life. Your father and I love you very much. I would love to tell you that your sister loves you very much too. But really, at this point, she just loves hummus. And she really just wants your pacifier. Don’t worry, you guys will be besties some day.

We are so, so, SO glad that you’re here and have completed our little family. You and your sister are truly blessings in our lives. Even more so than I could have imagined. I am so excited to be your mom and to watch you grow.

All of my love,


A Couple of Things (While My House is Peaceful…)

I know I have been really slacking on Baby O’s birth story. And, to be honest, I have written that post in my head about 70 times but I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and blog. I know! Imagine THAT, right?!  But it is forthcoming. I swear.

First, though, I would like to give you a little peek into how things have been going over here in Oopsieville.

1. Having two babies is interesting. Because the minute you deal with one and make them all calm and serene, the other one sprays pee across the room and completely blows your mind. And then, once you have dealt with Pee Fountain, you will then find your toddler digging through the trash.  Coffee grounds, you guys. For reals.

2. I sweep the floor no less that 36 times per day.

3. Baby L has had mercy on me since we brought Baby O home and she has been VERY cooperative when she is being put down for her naps and for bed. It is amazing. But I can’t help but think that she is plotting against me and that this is all just a ploy to catch me off guard. She’s an evil genius.

4. MB returned to work yesterday after almost two whole glorious weeks of being home and helping chase Baby L around while simultaneously feeding a newborn. I miss him terribly because I sometimes wonder if I will be able to handle so much at the same time. And because Baby L likes to tug on my pants when my hands are occupied, I am also wondering if I can manage to do all of this sans pants. Because she is now pulling them all the way down when she knows I can’t do anything about it. Good times.

5. Baby L has officially learned to walk. It happened yesterday and it was so amazing. And I cried. Like a little bitch. (You know, like I do when she does ANYTHING AT ALL…)

All in all, things are moving right along. I don’t feel quite as scared as I originally did. Partially because Baby O has been a completely different baby than Baby L right from conception and has proven that not all babies will require that you sleep on the couch for 5.5 weeks because you have to hold them 24 hours per day. I remember feeling, with Baby L, more inept than I had ever felt at anything in my entire life. And now, well, I am more experienced. And I only feel painfully inept about 50% of the time. Not too shabby, I guess.

We’re a work in progress!


Before you ask: No, I haven’t had this baby yet. And yes, I am due in 6 days. And yes, I am uncomfortable, annoyed and generally ready to do the damn thang. (But yes, I am still having nearly nightly panic attacks about having another baby to take care of. I don’t think that’s going to change until I prove to myself that I am Superwoman. And this will hopefully occur sooner, rather than later.) But this isn’t really what I want to talk about today. Because if I talk about, I could get pretty profane. And, well, no one wants that. Right?


Who am I kidding? I am most likely going to get really profane anyway. Because this shit is pissing me OFF, you guys.


Okay, so MB, Baby L and I moved out of my Mother-In-Law’s house for several reasons. One was because, when we found out we were pregnant with Baby O, I envisioned myself actually locking MB’s nephew in a closet for several months so my kids would be able to sleep peacefully. And when you see yourself doing things like this, you know you are in an unfavorable situation. (And maybe it isn’t the kid’s fault that he is disobedient, loud and generally obnoxious. But it doesn’t matter. He IS those things. And I knew that if we didn’t move, I might start to get really mean.) I was so relieved to get out of there. Not because I didn’t like the family (obviously, I love them) but because I couldn’t stand living with people who were on different schedules, doing different things, at different noise levels, all when I was trying to get my kid into a sleep pattern that didn’t require me to be up all night and then cleaning up after everyone all day. This was not ideal. And I hated the side of town that we were living on.

When we found our rental house, I didn’t love it either. And it is on the same side of town. But the price is right. And the size is right. And guess what, you guys! My in-laws don’t live there! Score! So, I sucked it up. I gave in and agreed that, since I am not currently employed outside of the home, and MB is the breadwinner and this place is not falling apart and doesn’t come with built-in annoying children, I could do it. And I would grin and bear it until I go back to work, and can contribute more financially. SO…here we are. On a side of town that I hate, but no longer bitch about because I am grateful to be here. Alone with MY little family. And with my giant back yard.

But, here comes the bitching.

Several times a week, after I have spent an hour trying to get Baby L ready for a nap and then waiting for her to fight sleep and finally give in so I can go and EAT A DAMN SANDWICH, I walk back into the living room, take a bite of said sandwich and notice, out my front window, people walking up to my front door. (It is important that you know, internet, that we don’t use our front door. It is locked at all times, and can only be opened (even from the inside) with a key. Because we use the carport door. Because that makes sense. You know, because we park there. All of our friends use the carport. Everyone uses the fucking carport.) It happens before noon. And, because I have to, then, frantically search for my keys in order to unlock the door, these people typically have time to ring the doorbell and within ONE SECOND of doing so, add in a good banging on the front door. You know, for good measure. And then Baby L is screaming. And there is a rotund black woman wearing a giant hat, and a tall gentleman wearing a suit standing there, anxiously waiting to tell me where to find Jesus.


I went to church for the entirety of my childhood. Never once was I required to knock on a stranger’s door to tell them about where to find Jesus. Because it seems to be the opinion of the people in the congregation I was a part of, that if you WANT TO FIND JESUS, you will do that. You do not need some strangers to help you. It is creepy that people will come to your house to tell you about this stuff. It is creepy because they don’t know me. I could be ANY KIND of person. I could be the kind of person who would totally shoots the kind of people who are not the same as me. I could be the kind of person who would be offended by their religious views. I could be the kind of person who has a one-year-old child who doesn’t sleep and who gets very hostile at 39 weeks pregnant when her baby is awoken by strangers who want to tell her about Jesus. I AM THAT KIND OF PERSON.

(And I am, honestly, a little offended when people try and push their views on me in the first place. That takes some NERVE to come to MY HOUSE and disrupt MY DAY like that without any consideration about how your views might sit with me. But I won’t get all on a religious or moral kick here. Because that is not the kind of blogger I am, and frankly, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Except that I believe that you should not come to my house unless you are invited. And, preferably, have brought me wine.)

After this happens, and I try my damndest not to seriously injure these people (who are likely thinking they are doing some sort of Godly work or something), I am seriously angry. I mean, ANGRY. It is the most annoying thing I can think of. Like, ever. MB had to stop me today, from putting a sign on our front door that said, “I know where Jesus is. Do not knock on this door. Thank you.” He said that it would be in bad taste. I think knocking on my door uninvited and waking my kid up is in bad taste. But maybe that’s just me?

What IS it with this side of town?!

Since I posted this, I’ve gotten some awesome illustrations:



Notes on Week 38

Okay, internet, if you have been following along, you know that I am not a giant fan of pregnancy. And you might also remember that my first one was full of fun and craziness. You know, with losing my job, fighting with Medicaid to even get prenatal care and then just feeling generally miserable for THE WHOLE EFFING THING. I have been lucky this time. Baby O hasn’t given me nearly the amount of physical agony that Baby L presented me with during my pregnancy. You know, until NOW.


Now I am not sleeping because, between trying to maneuver this giant belly and keeping Baby L from actually sleeping ON MY FACE, I have barely enough time for that sort of shenanigans. Sleep is for the weak, they say. They do say that, right? Anyway, if this is true, then I hereby declare myself, The Incredible Hulk of Insomnia. I do not turn green, though.

Except, wait. Yes, I do. Yesterday, I was taking out the trash and something smelled really awful and I turned green, and hurried and puked in the bathtub. Yep. 38 weeks and still puking. I guess there just wasn’t enough of that in the beginning of this whole thing for it to be over.

Then I took 45 minutes to effortlessly (read: with great effort and discomfort) ease on my maternity pants and haul my giant ass to my 38 week check up. Where I was told that nothing had changed. I am still pregnant and will remain that way until the time should come wherein…I am no longer pregnant. The good news is that my doctor praised me about my weight gain (only 17 pounds, which feels more like 850), which, you know, made me hungry.  And when I realize that I am hungry, I usually do so because MY CHEST IS ON FIRE.

The heartburn has returned. And with a vengeance. I am not a fan. I am not a fan at all. I can’t even drink WATER without wanting to kill myself. Water = sandpaper. Bread = fire. Hot sauce? Well, hot sauce is expectedly hot. But since I love it and it has the same effect as ANYTHING ELSE EVER, I eat it. Have I mentioned to you, internet, how before I was pregnant, I got heartburn like ONCE PER YEAR and now I have it 36 times per day? No? Oh. Well, yeah. That’s what is happening in my esophagus. You’re welcome for the enlightenment.

Baby O is officially kicking me in the ribs. This is the kind of discomfort that one can never describe to someone who has not experienced it. I never had this experience with Baby L and, up until two days ago, had not had any trouble with Baby O. But now, he loves my rib cage. LOVES. That’s all I am going to say about this. Because it is so annoying that I feel like if I talk about it too much, it will happen again and I will either cry or punch something. Or both.

I am WAY too emotional. I have cried three times today and two of the three times were about nothing. I mean, probably not nothing exactly. But definitely stupid things. Like, that I didn’t have any more bottled water in the refrigerator and all that was cold was Dr. Pepper which, (if you can IMAGINE) gives me super bad heartburn. Then I decided, since my mom had my kid for the day, and my husband was out doing man things (or getting a massage. Yes. Seriously.) I would finish watching “Sophie’s Choice” (because I have this fascination about WW2 and the Holocaust and things of that nature, because I am a total dork and that stuff is interesting) and then I watched Meryl Streep have to CHOOSE between her CHILDREN. And then I had a breakdown and felt the need to punch a German soldier. Luckily for them, there aren’t many German soldiers around my neighborhood. And MB wasn’t home. (Sidenote: I did have a flash of the diploma that hangs on the wall in the house of the old man that I take care of sometimes that states that his middle name is Adolf. But I didn’t punch him either. Come on, that would be mean.) I am tired of crying for no reason. And I am tired of wanting to punch imaginary Nazis. (I mean, I would probably want to do that anyway, but I am WAY too serious about it today.)

(Another sidenote: Is there some reason that “Beaches” is ALWAYS on? I mean, I loved this movie when I was a kid (which may also be weird, but my best friend loved it too…) and I have a really hard time NOT watching it when it is on but how many times can a pregnant lady watch “Beaches” without sticking her head in the oven? Honestly.)

Also? The PEEING. I cannot stop peeing! That is all.

My point, internet? I am SO READY to feel like a normal person again. But I am SO NOT READY to have a baby. I just need a pause button. And that pause button should not only pause the progress of this pregnancy when pushed, but sort of make the pregnancy nonexistent so I can have beer. You know, until I push play again. I swear, I would push play again, you guys, I just need a break. Then I would need a bring me beer button. Because that would come in handy forever.


An Open Letter to Baby L: ONE YEAR

Dearest Lilah,

Two days ago, you turned one year old.

Firsts are a really big deal for parents. When you got your first tooth, I cried like a baby and wondered how long it would be before you bit the hell out of me. When you ate solid food for the first time, I cried like a baby and thought about how, soon, you would be feeding yourself. When you took your first steps (which happened just a few days before your birthday on May 14th), I cried like a baby and thought about the definite end to those days when you depended on me to travel. And to explore. And while these are all really beautiful things you are doing, they make me feel a little lost. Up until now, my lovely, you have needed me for everything. And now, here you are, one year old and starting to walk.

I wanted to make sure that, since your brother will be born in just a few short weeks, that this first birthday would be for you, a true celebration of how much you mean to your father and me. I know you won’t remember it. And I know that first birthday parties are more for the parents of the children than for the children themselves. But, the important thing was, to me, that the people who love you the most got to share in your day. And they did.

You were a beautiful birthday girl, Lilah. But I don’t want to talk about your party. Because that’s not what this letter is about.

This letter is to let you know, and make sure that it is spelled out here so you don’t forget it, what an amazing addition you have been to my life for the last year. Before I had you, I had known love, but I could have never known a love like the one that you brought to me when I saw you for the first time. I am not sure that a mother can ever fully express the love that she has for her child. I am not sure that I will ever be able to make you understand how much you have enriched me and every minute of my life so far just by being with me. The thought of my life before you is a faint memory. One that I don’t care to revisit. I was unaware, before I met you, how much I was missing out on. And I am so thankful that you have shown me. I hope that someday you will have children of your own, so that you can understand the kind of joy that you have brought to me. (Just for your information, when I say “someday”, I mean, when you are 30. Not 14. Okay?)

Your smile is the reason that I wake up each morning and it is the last thing I think about before I fall asleep at night. You are truly, the love of my life. You and your mama

I hope that I can be the kind of mother to you that I have promised to myself that I will be. I hope that I can teach you all of the things that a girl’s mother should teach her. About respecting herself. And finding beauty in herself, even in her flaws. About what confidence is and why it is important that other people not be able to tear you down. I hope that I can lead you down a path to be a respectful, compassionate person. I promise you, my dearest, I will do my best. I want nothing but the best of everything for you.

Now that I have sufficiently soaked the keyboard with the tears of a year with you, I will just end here by saying that I love you.


I love you to the moon and back.