Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness

It's Not You, It's Me.

2013-05-23T07:46:00.000-07:00

Here are some things I've had to break up with in my parenting days. Most of them I don't actually even care about, so this isn't to be taken as complaining. Some of them, in fact, I even celebrate the loss of.

GREETING CARDS

Since my kids now know how to write and draw, we're breaking up, Hallmark. Gone are the days of dropping $3-4 for a piece of lightweight cardboard imprinted with meaningless platitudes for the receiver to toss in the garbage mere hours after receipt. Instead, our friends, family, and random people from school are treated to dramatic crayon scenes and unintentionally phallic drawings on cheap colored paper. And I love it. No more wasting 15 minutes trying to find the least stupid card in the store, or just plain blowing it off and saying, "Sorry, I didn't get you a card, here's your present, though" and hoping they don't care.

TV BEFORE KIDDIE BEDTIME

Watching adult television- no not that kind of adult television- before the kids go to bed is impossible if I want to actually hear it or pay any kind of attention to it. I rarely watch TV anyway, but I remember when all three boys were really little (4 and under) I once tried to watch a movie in the middle of the day while baby Brandon napped and the other two played with their Play-Doh. I nearly cried from the frustration of not being able to. Not because the movie was that great or important to me, but because it was frustrating to not even be able to do something as stupid as that. I've since come to terms with the fact that daytime TV watching isn't for me anymore and traded her in for her way more flexible younger sister, the DVR.

DRINKING WINE OUT OF A WINEGLASS

Wine glasses break and/or topple over way too easily. Not a fan of your fragility, wine glasses, see ya. Coffee mugs and tumblers it is from now on. I cringe when a guest in my house wants to actually be classy and drink out of a wine glass. Then I watch the glass and its proximity to my boys and their flying objects like a hawk. CHAMPAGNE TASTES THE SAME OUT OF A RED SOLO CUP, PEOPLE.

VELVET SUNGLASSES

No, not sunglasses made of velvet; sunglasses made by Velvet, the company. My face is very narrow in my temple area, making sunglasses tough to buy- they're all too wide. Velvet is the only company I've found who makes sunglasses that fit my narrow face without having to resort to buying kid's sunglasses (oh the horror), but they cost about 100 bucks. The first time my son broke a pair, I was stupid enough to replace them. When the replacement pair was (unobserved by me) grabbed by one of the boys and tossed over the side of the stroller somewhere in the mall and lost forever, I started buying cheapos from Target and enduring the too-wide frames. Velvet, I love and miss you. Sometimes, I lovingly stroke the only memento I have from our relationship- the fluffy pink drawstring bag a pair of shades came in- and remember all the good times we had. We'll get back together again when my boys are older, if I can afford you. Actually, I probably won't be able to. Goodbye, my love. (Picture Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber when he was driving the limo away from the airport and rear-ends someone while saying "Goodbye my love" to Lauren Holly. I DIE.)

WARM, UNINTERRUPTED DINNERS

Who likes hot food, anyway? Especially eaten uninterrupted? Fuck that noise. It's no longer a meal unless I get up to wipe a butt, break up a fight, stop the boys from throwing toys into their window blinds, dry a kid off, kiss a boo-boo, and feed half of my food to my kids. Goodbye, warm meals. You were too high-maintenance for me. Eat you right out of the oven/BBQ/stove/microwave and within 10 minutes? NO. *SLAP*

HIGH HEELS

This, my friends, is a truly painful breakup. I used to constantly wear high heels. I'm 5'6" but people (even close friends and family) always thought I was way taller because nobody ever notices that your footwear has boosted you several inches. I LOVE HIGH HEELS. But I love not breaking my ankles more. With the boys around, I may have to suddenly dart after one of them to keep them from getting hit by a car or jumping off a railing into a ravine. It is such a treat when I can slip on some heels. I feel at home again; like MYSELF again.

What have you had to break up with? I changed my comment platform- everyone can comment now!

The Possessed Bee

2013-05-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

Ethan had his last t-ball game on Saturday, and I hauled the other two boys into the bleachers to watch. We settled in, and I felt Connor twitch against me. Then he twitched again and again, and I spotted a bee hovering near him.

Connor hates flying things, even harmless things like flies, but he's especially scared of bees even though he's never been stung by one- must be instinct. Anyway, I swatted the bee away but it came right back and then, IT WAS ON.

Connor flipped out. He twisted away, simultaneously starting to shriek while kicking out his legs and nailing some old lady in the back. She swung around as I was saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he's flipping out about this bee," and I tried to wrestle his legs down so we could stand up and get away. That was no easy feat as the kid was in full panic mode and flailing around while screaming his face off. I finally got him to stand up as the bee flew toward Brandon, so Brandon started screaming, too.

I quickly grabbed Brandon and herded him and Connor away from the bee, down the row of bleachers, but the bee followed us. Both of the boys were screaming now, so we were attracting the attention of every single person in the vicinity of the baseball field. I turned the other way, but the bee kept following us. It was like a demon bee, possessed, and would not stop until it got its clutches into Connor. It kept flying into his face and I'd pull him one way only to have the bee follow, then the other way, and the bee would still follow.

There were 24 other people in the bleachers (yes, I counted later) but this bee only wanted Connor. Back and forth we went down the row of the bleachers, ducking and swatting, both the boys screaming and flailing and tripping over the people who were surrounding us. The bee would not leave us alone.

I couldn't smash it with my bag like I wanted to because then I would have essentially been beating Connor in the face or head, probably causing him to get stung, not to mention having Child Protective Services pay us a visit later. I finally got smart and started leading them off of the bleachers, thinking that if we got to the field by the dugout, we could somehow escape the winged motherfucker. Or at the very least, stop spazzing out in the bleachers and give everyone's ears a break from the screaming.

We got to the end of the row and one of the dads somehow managed to swat the bee away. It flew off to go torture some other kid, and I hoped for the bee to die a painful death via blowtorch or perhaps, fittingly, torture by some sadistic sociopath of a kid.

What a fucking spectacle. We sat back down and it took several minutes to calm my sweating, shaking boys. They sagged against me like they just fought World War Bee (I'm sorry). Whenever a fly or some other insect came near them (within 25 feet), they tensed up and I could almost taste their post traumatic stress disorder.

Perhaps it was the shirt that attracted the bee.

MOM?

After the game, Ethan, who had been 90 feet away in the outfield during WWB, asked Connor why we had been screaming and running around the bleachers. Connor simply said, "A bee was twying to get me."

Clearly, that kid did not get my flair for the dramatic, nor my need to tell a story whenever I can. He's a (mini) man of few words, just like his Daddy.

Truth in advertising? I'm thinking NO.

2013-05-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

Have you seen that SC Johnson commercial with Fisk Johnson (WE MISSED THE BOAT ON THAT NAME, NATE) where he talks about how their products are all natural blah blah blah and then they show a woman cleaning the window? Specifically, this woman cleaning this window?

Then a little girl runs up right after and puts her booger hands right on the newly cleaned window.

And then, the mom laughs and hugs the little girl and life is perfect.

I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU...

But if I was that mom and my kid ran up and put their hand prints all over the window I had just finished cleaning, I sure as shit wouldn't be laughing and hugging him right after like he just created the next Jackson Pollock masterpiece with his fucking hands all over my newly-cleaned window.

More likely, I would flip out and be all, "Get your hands off the damn window! I just cleaned it for the first time this year! GAAAAHHHDAMMIT!"

And then I would mumble to myself about why do I even bother and I just wasted five minutes of my life and this is why I stopped cleaning once the boys were born.

So, SC Johnson and Fisk, I don't think many mothers relate to your commercial- at least, none that I know- hard as you tried to get us to do that. Yet, I will still use your window cleaner once or twice a year. I'm on the same bottle from 2005.

A Letter To My Sons On Mother's Day

2013-05-12T11:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Boys,

In spite of frequently being driven to want to desperately jump into the next car that drives down the street and take off into the sunset with whichever random stranger was unlucky enough to be passing me at that moment, I am so happy to be your Mama. I know how lucky I am to have you, you sweet, stinky, funny, too-loud, crazy boys.

I mean, how else would I know the sheer embarrassment of you as a teeny tiny baby ripping gigantic man farts in public, leaving me no choice but to let people believe it was me because what kind of dickhead would I be if I blamed a fart on my innocent little baby?

How else would I know that I can get puked on, and with puke hanging off my lip be more concerned about getting the puke off your brother's head? That's some serious internal fortitude right there, and I never would have known I have it without you guys.

Without you, I never would have experienced being driven to the brink of insanity by your screaming, your "whys," your sleepless nights, and been pulled back from the edge by your goofy, crooked smiles, your hand tenderly resting on my cheek, your "I ruv yous," and watching you sleep.

Because of you, I know the pain of having my throat stepped on, the utter release and euphoria of hearing your first cries, the nose-burning, eye-watering stench of your worst craps, and the fear and joy of wearing my heart outside of my body.

It is an honor to be loved "more than Night Wing loves it is wings," "more than Batman loves his cape," and "more than a bee loves its pollen."

I am so proud that you know the different between "then" and "than", Ethan, and used the correct one. I am also thankful (and somewhat surprised) that when you made me a Mother's Day coupon book, on the coupon for you to bring me coffee and tea, you didn't write "beer" and "wine."

You boys are the frosting to my cake, the cra to my crazy, the sweet and the sour to my chicken. Thank you for teaching me about the beauty and the beast of motherhood.

I love you all the way to the earf and the fishies,

Mama

Random Mom Thoughts- While Changing a Diaper

2013-05-09T08:32:00.000-07:00

It's another installment of Random Mom Thoughts! This one has to do with my thoughts while changing a diaper- or seventeen thousand. And of boys, for the most part.

I'm sorry it's so crude, but... consider the subject matter.

AS A NEWBORN

- Wow, pee shooting into my eye stings like a mother!

- No thanks on the golden shower. NO THANKS.

- Aww, pee streaming down the wall really adds to the decor. So you're telling me you like stripes, baby?

- Please don't spray shit everywhere please don't spray shit everywhere please don't spray shit everywhere.

- Ooohp, there goes shit spraying everywhere. It's like it literally hit a fan! Are baby colons what power washers are made of?

- The baby is in front of me, yet I have pee on my BACK. Amazing.

- I have reflexes like a cat now. Spraying poo and piss? NO PROBLEM. *BOOM, diaper block, martial arts duck, karate hand guard. Good to go.*

- This is the fifth, seventh, tenth, eleventh, twelfth shit of the day. Holy shit.

- Why don't they sell like, 500-count boxes of these diapers? And for the same price as the 236 count, thanks.

- WHEN CAN I START POTTY TRAINING THIS KID?

AS A BABY, AFTER SOLIDS

- OH DEAR GOD HOW CAN IT SUDDENLY SMELL SO BAD?

- Last I checked, I have a human child, not a rabbit child who craps rabbit pellets?

- Things I never thought I'd think: I am a pro at wiping shit out of ball crevices.

- If you're going to poop in the diaper five minutes after I change you, can you at least pee in it, too? Come on, son!

- HOW did you soak your shirt and the side of your pants during your nap, but your diaper is entirely dry?? Oooohhh, that's right: BABY BONERS.

- WHEN CAN I START POTTY TRAINING THIS KID?

BLOWOUTS

- OH DEAR GOD HOW CAN HE HAVE THAT MUCH POOP IN HIM? It's in his SOCKS and UP TO HIS NECK!

- A full-body space suit or tarp would not have contained this mess.

- This had to happen in public? Of course it did.

- WHEN CAN I START POTTY TRAINING THIS KID?

AS A TODDLER

- I actually just pulled a long, stringy piece of something (lettuce? spinach? fruit roll up? leaves?) out of his butthole. OUT OF HIS BUTTHOLE, like a magician pulling a never-ending rope of scarves out of a hat. Damn, that was awesome. (It wasn't awesome.)

- Hey when you squatted under the dining room table to crap, you could have squatted over your truck toilet instead. Just sayin'.

- I could have just paid for 1/3 of t-ball or paid half of the water/garbage bill or bought two cases of Two-Buck Chuck or a week's worth of dinners for you guys with the money I spent buying diapers and wipes for the month. SUCK.

- He needs to learn how to chew his food better...

- It's a Nuclear Nugget: A radioactive nugget of a turd that's concentrated with the stench of a thousand turds.

- How is it possible that your crap smells worse than an outhouse that 10,000 bums with moonshine and Taco Bell-diarrhea hangovers shit in? HOW?

- WHEN WILL YOU START POTTY TRAINING, GODDAMMIT?

WHEN CHANGING SOME OTHER KID'S DIAPER

- Oh sweet Jesus, can I get a witness? I WANT NO QUESTIONS ABOUT WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED HERE.

- Uuhhhh. I just wiped poop out of a vagina.

(SORRY that was crude but I don't have girls! IT'S WEIRD FOR ME, OKAY?)

- The poo of kids that didn't get sliced out of my uterus smells 6,000 times worse than my own kids' poo. What "they" say is right: It really is different when they're your own kids. *gag gag* Can I get some gloves?

What Happens When Two Moms Who Met Over The Internet Go To Mexico Together, Part 1

2013-05-03T04:24:00.001-07:00

As I'm sure most of you are not aware of, I went to Mexico last week with Julie from I Like Beer and Babies- Cancun, to be specific. Haha, of course you knew. Here's the story of the trip through an interpretive dance of photos.

Julie picked me up at the airport, meeting me at the curb (what's up with not meeting me at the gate with flowers and chocolate, bitch?) and I knew it was her minivan, Rambone, because of a sign she had secretly made and taped to the window, and she knew it was me because of a sign I had secretly made and was holding out, in some sign-making cosmic connection. Because we never would have recognized each other from all the photos on our respective blogs.

Getting into the van was one of the most surreal experiences because I was meeting her for the first time but it felt like I had known her for years. It wasn't awkward, it wasn't weird, it was completely natural.

I'm on the left, she's the carrot top with all the necklaces. Coz she a gansta.

We meet! We drink! Here's a portion of the drink menu at some bar in her city. It was the best menu I've ever seen (perhaps I don't get out much):

But enough about America. We flew to Cancun and upon checking into the all-inclusive hotel, they placed booze and food bracelets on our wrists so they knew that we weren't some bums off the street. Because we totally look like homeless Mexican nationals. Anyway, my very first thought was, OH MY GOD, THE BRACELET IS GOING TO LEAVE A DAMN TAN LINE!

I KNOW. Serious problems, people.

But, I quickly forgot my problems when I saw these IN our ROOM:

That's right, chicas, a booze dispenser in our room. We made drinks and headed down to the beach. Now, I live within a mile of the beach in California, and even still, I was in awe of the sand in Cancun. It's like baby powder. You could snort it off a hooker. It's so soft and fine and not at all gritty- it's some seriously fucking luxurious sand.

We stayed on the beach and in the bath-temperature ocean until sunset and until all the resort-goers stumbled into the hotel to die from their sunburns (we saw some gnarly, seriously fucked up sunburns there) and this allowed us to capture some people-free photos of one of the pools and these amazing built-into-the-pool recliner chairs.

And see this guy walking along the beach with the wares he was pedaling balanced on his head:

And then it was off to eat, and every buffet had WINE FROM A TAP. It was shit wine, but it was WINE FROM A TAP:

We also had some specialty drinks. The bartenders really liked making these drinks that are apparently supposed to represent the Mexican flag, but they tasted like shitballs of sugar and looked more like the flags of Bolivia or Ghana (fuck yeah I had to Google that). The chocolate martinis flanking the flag drinks, however, were NOT shit. They were spiked chocolate milk glory in our mouths.

And one more picture because why not:

Cancun was windy. We got blow jobs when we sat at a bar next to an open door:

And we enjoyed some scenery:

View from our deck.

Fountain in one of the resort restaurants.

We wore sombreros that smelled like body odor and probably crawled with a trillion lice, just to look like total dicks and because we were drinking.

Sunday, we went on a speedboat/snorkeling excursion.

I was being a dork with my snorkeling crap on, and got photo bombed by Monkey, the COOLEST GUIDE EVER.

We, and by "we" I mean Julie, drove a speedboat to a "private" area for us to snorkel in with 50 other people. After Julie got the hang of the boat and we felt confident that we weren't going to face-skate across the water and die, I put my swollen, sausage-like feet and cankles (more on that in another post) up and enjoyed the ride and the view.

When we returned, we took the opportunity to overpay for cheap crap in a gift shop/pharmacy/7-11 type mercado. I got some souvenirs for the boys that even though I knew they were going to break immediately, it still pissed me off when they actually did break them immediately, and this magnet for Nate, because he loves boobs.

I also learned just how the West was won. You think you know history? You don't know shit. The West was won with a tequila gun (look at the top of the box).

Then we got ready for our last night in Mexico. I didn't pack correctly and ran out of clothes to wear that didn't encase me in the humidity that we were already drowning in, so Julie graciously let me borrow not only an extra dress of hers but a necklace, too. It was like wearing a pelt of her skin and would have been totally creepy but I was too sweaty and hot to care.

DORK ON A DECK. With some sexy, frizzy, humidity-styled hair.

The next day we flew back to the States. After saying goodbye to Julie, I endured two more flights to get to my neck of the woods, with a layover in Denver, the mile "high" city. I went to the bathroom and was surprised to find this in the stall:

I'm always looking for inspiration in public bathrooms. As I was reeking of old booze and airport McDonalds and sweat and fear (from two airplanes rides with another pending), my hair frizzy, face greasy, makeup pooling in my under eye bags and melting down my cheeks, smelling my own urine and the shit of the neighboring stall, exhausted and my already long-ass day only two thirds over, I'd never felt more beautiful.

It was like a message from God.

Then I boarded my last flight and it was the second-worst flight I've ever had. The plane seemed to struggle while taking off and I came close to having the one and only panic attack of my life (so far). I kept creepily whispering, "What the fuck, what the fuck, this is NOT a normal takeoff, what the fuck!" while death-gripping my coat and sweating profusely as my breathing became more and more shallow. I wanted to crawl out of my own skin and use it to parachute out of the plane. It probably would have been best if the dude next to me had punched me in the face and knocked me out. It was torturous.

After 2.5 hours of refusing to think about anything in my past lest my life began to flash before my eyes, we landed and I silently said my "We live!" mantra. Seventy-eight times.

Nate picked me up at the airport when I landed in the middle of the night, and I crashed so hard in my own bed when we got home that I didn't stop snoring even after he kicked me 114 times. I felt like I had been hit by a truck the next morning. But the squeals of the boys when they saw me was like the biggest rush in the world. I totally understand what rock stars feel when they take the stage now, totally.

Happy boy. And YES, I know I look exhausted and strung out and like I just woke up. BECAUSE I WAS, and I HAD just woken up.

I can't believe I posted a first-thing-in-the-morning photo of me on the internet. Holy shit.

Funny story:

One night, we hung out in one of the bars with some guy from England (right Julie?) because he totally respected the fact that we were married with kids (we wore that shit like SKUNK SPRAY). He was completely wasted but was having fun and totally harmless. We laughed as we watched him making out with some random chick at the bar, he spilled a drink on me, you know, the usual good times.

We saw him the next day. He told us that he had woken up in his hotel room with blood all over his shirt and a broken nose, and no recollection of how he got it. We asked him if he remembered making out with the chick at the bar and he had no idea what we were talking about.

Oh my God. To be young and stupid again.

Just kidding. Like I want to wake up with a fucking broken nose and venereal disease, and no recollection of how I got either.

CAN'T WAIT FOR OUR NEXT TRIP!

To read more about the trip from Julie's perspective, click here.

A final shout out to Amy at Destinations by Amy for booking our trip! THANK YOU!

How To Play Catch, According To Toddlers

2013-05-01T13:41:00.000-07:00

Toddler rules for playing catch:

1. Find the hardest ball in the house.

2. Stand AS CLOSE AS POSSIBLE to opponent.

3. Throw the ball mostly at their face. (This is the best when you have an opponent who hates stuff flying at their face. Spastic flinches are the best to watch.)

4. PRETEND you're going to throw the ball at their face, watch them flinch and flail their arms, then merely hand them the ball.

5. After only handing them the ball several times in a row, suddenly throw it in their face when they have their hands down and aren't expecting it.

6. If they have a scrotum or breasts, be sure to throw the ball there a few times. HARD.

7. Throw a tantrum when they stop playing after three minutes.

Ready to catch, mom!

ADIOS, Amigos!

2013-04-25T04:06:00.001-07:00

-- As most of you know, I'm heading off to Mexico with I Like Beer and Babies. Since my flight to her part of the country leaves well before the asscrack of dawn, I'm currently in a very posh hotel by the airport, in a prime real-estate room that fronts the pool and boasts a constantly running toilet. I actually checked the mattress for bedbugs. I'm stressing out about using the wireless connection, fearful that all my passwords are going to be stolen and next thing I know, someone will be posting animal porn on here and I'll lose all my readers.

Actually? I know that if a hacker did post about animal porn on here, you guys would totally think I did it and probably not even bat an eye.

Anyway, I won't be blogging while there (unless something truly epic happens), because I'll not be terribly sober, and I typically stay off the internet and don't communicate with people when I'm three sheets to the wind. FOR THEIR SAKE.

However, I'll make an exception to the rule- as I have a few times in the past- and post to Facebook and Twitter here and there (when we hit a free wifi spot). So if you're not following me there, go do that so you can see pictures of the gorgeous beach and booze dispensers in our room and become so enraged that you unfollow. Just kidding. It'll be fun. So hurry, go follow if you haven't already.

Link to Facebook

Link to Twitter

I most definitely will blog about the trip upon returning home. I have NO doubt that there will be stories to tell.

You want to know what sucks? For the first time in like 10 years, I have a cold sore. WHAT A BAG OF DICKS. (The cold sore is not from that, though...) I'm about to leave on vacation, and I get a cold sore. It hurts, too, especially when I laugh or smile and that blows because GUESS WHAT? That's ALL I'm going to be doing the next few days. Whatever. Things could be worse.

Regardless, it goes without saying that I'm beyond excited. I'm so excited that my head has caved in on itself. I started packing two weeks before the trip. It's going to be so nice to wake up on my own (or when Julie's colon explodes) and not have my first thought be NOOOO! FUUCK! NANNY! NANNY! Oh wait, we don't have one. DAMN IT.

We both need to have a couple of days where our biggest concern is what beach to go to and if our drinks are cold enough.

It's going to be awesome, and then make the week upon returning home brutal. I know, you won't feel sorry for me. I don't expect you to.

And the biggest thank you in the world goes out to my family who made this possible by caring for the boys in my absence. I'm pretty sure that Nate flipped me off after the door shut behind me when I left. I understand. I'd flip me off, too.

-- When I was cleaning up some categories on the blog, I realized that I never posted on here any news regarding my submission to the Listen To Your Mother Show. I submitted a story on the deadline and they responded that they had too many submissions and couldn't take mine.

I'm sure they just didn't want me and that's totally fine. I'm happy that the spot went to someone who probably wasn't doubting their desire to be on the show. I also watched some clips of previous shows and it's obvious that I wouldn't be a good fit. They made a very wise choice to not allow me on. To all the people who did make it on throughout the country, I hope you have a GREAT show! Break a leg!

Until next time...

The Kind Of Friend Who Just Thinking About Makes You Smile

2013-04-23T13:50:00.000-07:00

My very best friend had her first child a few days ago. I am surprisingly emotional about this whole thing. When she told me that she was pregnant so many months ago, I was so choked up that I couldn't speak. I couldn't even tell Nate until the next day.

We met in middle school through a mutual friend, and hated each other at first. We were probably jealous of each other, she being our mutual friend's long-time friend, the "best friend," and me being the "new friend" the one who, in middle-school girl drama, was going to "take her away."

It was all so stupid and somehow, we realized that the other wasn't so bad and was maybe even better than our mutual friend. Our friendship grew, involving me peeing in her front yard one night for whatever reason (just to be an idiot), and staying at her house for an afternoon when a bomb dropped in my parent's marriage, laying on her couch in a fog, watching "Far and Away" but not really watching it.

We used to make these videos, these completely RIDICULOUS skits of whatever struck our fancy. We made maxi-pad commercials, did skits about our friends and family, made an exercise video where I drew hair on my chest and in my armpits and we danced around like freaks. We made a music video to "Blame it on the Rain" where she wore nylons on her head and opened an umbrella when "rain" was sang.

She's the only person, besides my husband, that I can spend any length of time with and not want to murder. As teenagers, every summer she vacationed with me, spending a week or more riding in the back of my parents' truck under the camper, talking and eating pounds upon pounds of candy while we traveled all over the western half of the United States. One summer, we packed fourteen pounds of candy for our week-long vacation, ate it all plus more garbage like Push-Ups that we bought at gas stations, and somehow lost weight. I guess that's what happens when you're malnourished.

She is my polar opposite. She is quiet, I am loud. She's stylish and classy, I am a classless fashion don't. She's private, I over share, she's hesitant and occasionally lacks confidence, I plow forward with the confidence of ten narcissists and tell her to stop fucking around. She's sweet and I'm an ass. She's full of grace and is lanky and beautiful. I'm completely crass and wonder how she can stand me. She is a better friend to me than I've been to her, and I am lucky to have her. She is so patient with me.

It's like I'm C.C. and she's Hillary in the movie Beaches. But without all the drama. And nobody's dying any time soon. And I'm not famous. Nor is her husband going to cheat on her.

...You get it.

I honestly don't know what bonds us. I love her. The night before I moved from Oregon to California (over 12 years ago), she stayed the night with me and saw me off in the morning. She cried as we hugged goodbye, but I was so excited about the next stage in my life and all that awaited me that I couldn't cry. I couldn't wait to leave, and didn't think about those that I was leaving behind.

We watched each other get married, we've visited each other, but it is never enough. I miss her.

And now she's a mom. I never got to see her baby belly, never got to feel her daughter kicking around in there. I never got to just sit with her and talk to her about the shit and the beauty of pregnancy, I didn't get to see her belly grow. Even though she's only a few days old, I haven't held that baby, haven't gotten to kiss her and smell her, I haven't comforted her or cooed at her while stroking her face, or told her how much I love her. And I don't know when I'm going to get to. I stare at her picture that her mama texted me and am blown away.

She is so beautiful.

I've never felt the distance as much as I am feeling it now. We are raising our families in different states and it sucks so much. When I left, I never could have imagined this; I had no way of knowing how hard this was going to be.

She is going to be a great mother. I'm so excited to watch her grow into her new role and will have to find a way to swallow my sadness at not being with her.

Welcome to the world, E.H.M. I can't wait to meet you.

The Only Assholes That Are Still Cute

2013-04-22T10:59:00.001-07:00

Brandon hates the world right now. He hates me. He hates you. He's two. With him being the third two-year-old that I've raised, I'm now POSITIVE that when animals eat their young, they did it when their offspring were the equivalent of human age two.

These are just a few of the things that are making me feel complete empathy for those animals right now. The moms, to be clear.

-- He cries 237 times a day. That might be an underestimation. He's worse than a newborn. How is it possible to cry that much without your throat exploding? Or your face? And it's not just crying, the cries are filled with shrieks and screams that make me want to rip my ears off with my bare hands. (I could totally do that, too.) I DREAD him asking for something, only to have to tell him no and face the ensuing ear and emotional slaughter.

-- Speaking of asking for stuff, his demands for things has increased 1000%. And of course, he asks for absolutely ridiculous things that I'm undoubtedly going to say no to, setting off a nuclear meltdown, 90 times a day. It actually makes me dread being around him.

-- When he makes his demands, if they are not met magic-wand immediately (which they essentially never are), he repeats his request over and over and over, many times while he's watching me fulfill his request. It's so hard to teach him patience when I myself am at the end of my patience rope. BE PATIENT, BRANDON! I'm screaming in my head as my own patience is flipping me off as it flies out the window, off to the bar to get shitfaced.

-- "My do it." Everything is "my do it." Which means that it's going to take 200 times longer for him to do it himself, or I have to tell him that it's "Mommy's turn," or "That's not something you can do yet," prompting screaming, crying, and rage-filled angst. Seventy times a day. Ten of which are on my end.

-- He'll say he's hungry, I'll offer him crackers, he'll say no. I offer him something else and he flips out because I'm not giving him the crackers he said no to. It takes all my restraint not to scream WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK "NO" MEANS, ASSHOLE?

I'm going mad. Nate's going mad. I have a very low tolerance threshold for kids who are flipping out or demanding things, and especially screaming. Homey don't play that.

I mean, I get it. The world is frustrating and confusing for him right now. Things don't make sense, things aren't fair, he's not getting what he wants. I want to tell him that it will get better but then I'd be lying.

I'm constantly reminding myself that it's just a phase, it'll pass in a million years, and I need to focus on all the cute things he does. Those cute things that are keeping him alive right now. Like how he says "I ruve you" 600 times a day, and how adorable he is riding his trike. And how cute he is when he's sleeping. Things like that.

In the meantime, any other parent out there with a two- or three-year-old, I'm feeling ya, sister or brother. Fist bump, and tip of the glass to you, fellow sufferer.

Flight Fright

2013-04-17T07:57:00.002-07:00

As many of you know, I'm about to take a trip to Mexico with I Like Beer And Babies. While I'm excited as shit (wtf does that even mean?), the trip involves several airplane rides and this freaks me the fuck out.

I don't know about you, but whenever I'm about to fly on an airplane, I become consumed by thoughts of my own mortality. I fly like once every couple of years, and each and every time, for the week or two preceding the first flight I constantly wonder if these are my last days alive.

Then I start thinking about all of the things I never did that I've wanted to do, and I think about my sons and how I don't want to leave them behind. I'm not ready. They're way too little to lose their mom. They need me. I wonder if they'll even remember me, were I to die.

It makes me want to do crazy-ass shit like record myself singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," not because I'm Mariah Careying it up when I sing (I actually sound like utter shit), but because that is the song that I sing to comfort them and if I'm forever gone, I want them to still be comforted by the sound of their mama's nails-on-a-chalkboard voice singing the song they've heard me sing all of their lives.

And thousands of other things. I kind of obsess about it all. I'm not ready to leave them behind. I have so much to teach them, so much to watch them do, so much to cheer them on for.

I have to watch these boys grow up; make sure they turn into righteous men.

I know that there are a trillion things that could take my life each and every day, but for some reason, airplane rides slam home death to me more than anything else. Yes, I know that statistics show I'm more likely to die from a car crash than a plane crash, but like my dad has always pointed out, you have a chance at surviving a car crash. Nobody survives a plane crash.

Thanks, dad!

Yet, I can't let fear cripple me from living life. Even though the last thing I want to do is plummet to my death amid the smell of shit and fear and two hundred people screaming their faces off, I'm going to hop on those planes and know that I'm going to come home again to the complete fucking madness that is my life and my boys.

Every time we land and are taxiing to the airport, I think of the scene in that awesome 80s movie "Summer School" where Dave and Chainsaw are riding in the car with Denise who's learning how to drive, and when they arrive, Dave and Chainsaw throw up their hands and yell, "We live!"

And I feel better having written this. Like I'm putting it out there: HEY, NO GRACIAS ON THE GNARLY AIRPLANE CRASH DEATH! Fuck dying young. I'm calling it: I'm not letting go until I'm some wrinkled old hag who's seen my grandchildren into adulthood. And they're going to have to pry a wine or vodka bottle out of my cold, dead, tree-branch-like hands.

Also I'm kind of wondering if I'm the only person who spazzes out like this before flying?

The Secret Behind The Sex Drive Death

2013-04-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

Mom, don't read this. In-laws, don't read this, Uncle G., you especially, don't read this. Actually, any family, don't read this.

Now that we have that out of the way...

People. People. I have figured out the answer to the age-old question of why some moms (and some dads) no longer want to have sex.

I know, I know, duuuuh. It's because parents are so tired after taking care of the kids all day that the last thing they want to do is "take care" of someone else, if you know what I mean.

I'm no biologist or sex therapist or whatever, but while the above reason may be a component to lack of sex drive after parenthood, I don't think that's the entire answer.

So what is the answer?

SELF-PRESERVATION.

Let me explain. In my totally unscientific way.

Scientists say that the human sex drive stems from a deep-rooted, primal instinct to spray our (or receive the) seed every chance we can, reproducing and therefore ensuring the survival of our species. I totally, 100% get that... up until we succeed in fulfilling our biological urges and actually have kids.

Then, I believe that that instinct shuts down, out of self-preservation. It's not that we don't want to have sex, or that we're too tired (well, some days, YES, that's DEFINITELY the case), I think that the part of the brain that controls our sex drive shuts down so that we don't risk doing anything that has even the remotest chance to result in another child. Even those of us with pretty rock-solid birth control in place. We ALL know that every form of birth control has a chance of failing, except abstinence.

I mean, think about the horrid days of tantrums, puking, screaming, poop smearing, 1,097 whys.
*Not, of course, to be confused with the predominant, and extremely numerous tantrum- and scream-free lovely days of unicorns, "yes Mamas", magically clean floors, a laundry and dish fairy visit, alcohol-fueled leisurely lunch dates, 4-hour naps and 12-hour nights.

So, you have a horrid day or hundred, THEN your spouse hits you up for some poking and you find yourself taking his fucking head off.

You think it's because you're tired. Which you are. But I think that it goes deeper than that. Without even realizing it, you're saying NO to the reproduction aspect of it all.

I mean, this isn't the Stone Age anymore. We are no longer in danger of being overtaken by cave lions or rabid giraffes or whatever and our species becoming extinct. There are enough of us now. More than enough. So, we've evolved, and while we still have the basic biological need to reproduce a little bit, the stress and occasional overwhelming angst of raising a child or 3 or 4 or 10 eventually shuts down our desire to produce more.

BOOM. I mean, some days, performing a back-alley hysterectomy on myself, while pass-out drunk, with a dull, rusty knife and no current tetanus shot sounds preferable to the idea of doing anything that might result in yet another kid- EVEN with my tubal ligation in place. THOSE CAN FAIL.

So, where do we go from here, armed with this new and amazing information?

I have absolutely no idea. Sorry. I'll try to drink too much one night real soon and come up with an answer.

Don't get me wrong, People I've Angered, I'M GRATEFUL FOR MY KIDS. I'm just "at capacity." I've received my share of beautiful babies. It's time for some other people, especially those who are actually trying to have kids, to get their fair share. Amirite? I pass on my torch of fertility to anyone who wants it.

Raising The 1st vs. 2nd vs. 3rd Kid

2013-04-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

I've read many posts that insightfully document the differences between parenting the first and second child, like this one by Jason Good. I love posts like that, but for this mom of three, as I'm reading them, something's missing. Hmmm...

If the second kid ever thinks they got the shaft, the reality is they were treated like a king compared to their younger sibling. Third (and beyond) kids are basically fending for themselves "Little House on The Prairie" style, chopping wood, changing their own diapers, eating dirt, and honing their survival skills by the ripe old age of two.

And before all the humorless people start screaming about neglect and blah blah blah Child Protective Services blah blah blah, listen. It's a fact that for ~~most~~ some people, as each kid arrives, a few more parenting standards fly out the window, until eventually they're so low that as long as the kids are fed and still alive at the end of every day, WE'RE GOOD.

I'm one of those people, and I'm fine with that. Especially because *SAP ALERT* the one thing my kids are never shafted on is love. Or a raving lunatic for a mother.

BIRTH

1st: In the weeks before birth, everyone eagerly anticipates baby's arrival, including the checkout lady at the grocery store. They call daily, and when you don't answer (because you're in the bathroom for THE NINETIETH TIME that day), they assume you're at the hospital. After the birth, everyone floods the hospital, and you try not to feel awkward when even the dry cleaner guy shows up with flowers.

2nd: The week before birth, immediate family and maybe your best friend call "just make sure you're still pregnant!" After the birth, said immediate family and a few friends show up at the hospital.

3rd: The day before your due date, your mom calls to ask if you've heard from your brother about the dates for the family vacation in a few months. At the hospital, you call people to tell them that the baby was born and they awkwardly say they thought you had him two months ago and have been meaning to come by.

BABYHOOD

1st: You remember most details about them as a baby, have fond memories of all these magical moments of bonding, gazing into each others' eyes, and tickling toes.

2nd: Vaguely recall some big moments. Like the time they puked in your face.

3rd: Have to look at baby pictures (the few you took) to even remember what they looked like or things you did with them.

FEEDING THEM SOLIDS

1st: Spoon feed them until they're two.

2nd: At age one, hand 'em the spoon, even if it means a bit more mess. I mean, what's another mess?

3rd: At 7 months - YOU'RE NOT FEEDING YOURSELF YET, KID? What the fuck, step it up! *Scatters puffs and wagon wheels on the highchair* Figure it out son- I have laundry to do!

MILESTONES

1st: Remember that he walked at 10 months and 17 days on XXX date, at 7:12 p.m. You even have it on video!

2nd: Vaguely recall that they walked sometime around 11 months. Feel guilty that you don't have it on video.

3rd: Uhhhh...???

SAFETY

1st: Is not allowed to sit on backless bar stool at the kitchen counter until age four.

2nd: Started sitting on it at three.

3rd: Fell off it 397 times before he turned two. (Wow, kids are shockingly sturdy!)

DIAPERS

1st: Totally on top of changing diaper every two hours or immediately after pooping.

2nd: Four hours is not too long to go in between (pee) diaper changes. The two-hour thing is just a ruse to sell more diapers! Oh you pooped? I'll change you after I finish eating.

3rd: When was the last time this kid's diaper was changed? Holy shit- your crap has dried to your butt cheeks! (How did I not smell that? Oh, that's right, the entire house now constantly smells like shit. And feet. And farts. The smell is ingrained in my nose. IT DOESN'T WASH OUT!)

CLOTHES

1st: Mainly new things, mixed in with hand-me-downs from friends and family.

2nd: Eighty-five percent hand-me-downs, only gets new clothes on birthdays and Christmas.

3rd: Looks like a refugee from a concentration camp.

FALLING DOWN

1st: Run over to kid while reminding yourself not to react so he doesn't feed off your reaction and flip out.

2nd: Without stopping what you're doing, ask, "Are you bleeding? No? You're okay."

3rd: Vaguely register hearing a thump; one of the other kids will come tell you if it's serious.

MEALTIMES

1st: Oh, you don't like that? Here, let's try something else! (Over and over.)

2nd: Oh, you don't like that? Um, you get one other option, and that's it.

3rd: Eat it or starve.

OR:

1st: No, no, you've only had three servings of vegetables today! One more and then you can have your seventh serving of fruit, silly boy!
2nd: A bag of fruits snacks and some chips for lunch? OKAY! I'll feed you really good at dinner! (Lie.)
3rd: A lollipop for lunch? Sure. Whatever. JUST DON'T SCREAM AGAIN!
Oh dear God I'm so tired. So. Emotionally. Drained.

WHEN PEOPLE ASK FOR GIFT IDEAS FOR YOUR KIDS

1st: Oh, he likes, X, Y, and Z, and would LOVE some more of P and Q! Thanks for asking!

2nd: Um, he's pretty much good, maybe some more X or Y, or even a gift card. (That you use to buy diapers with.)

3rd: HE DOESN'T NEED ANYTHING! WE HAVE ENOUGH GODDAMN TOYS! Oh, you have to get him something? *Sarcastic jazz hands* Get him socks and a new toothbrush! He doesn't care! He's two!
*I'm not ungrateful for gifts... well... most of them.

PUBLIC SAFETY

1st: Everyone at the park is a pedophile, everyone! (I'm looking at you, grandma who's knitting on the bench!) Good thing I can keep a laser beam eye on my one and only kid.

2nd: Everyone is still a pedophile, so stay together, kids! I can't watch both of you if you're in separate areas of the park, now can I? *Quickly responds to text message. Guiltily (not really) checks Facebook.*

3rd: Okay, the grandma's probably not a pedophile, nor that 8-months-pregnant woman whom my crawler is lapping, where's kid #1? Oh that's him yelling somewhere over my left shoulder about being a pirate. Do I hear #2? Yep, that's him yelling about his penis. "HEY, #3, get that dog crap out of your mouth!" What's happening on Twitter right now? Oh yay, a new Dadspin post!

SOCIALIZING

1st: Kid goes everywhere with you. People invite you over to their house and out to do stuff- just throw the kid in a carrier or stroller, good to go! Parenthood isn't gonna cramp my style!

2nd: Still get invited places, can only go about half the time- after nap time and must return home early to get them down for bedtime.

3rd: No one bothers inviting you over or out anymore because they know you can't go, and they don't want you at their house anyway because it's like inviting the insane clown circus over and that last time, your kid pulled his penis out of the top of his diaper and peed on their carpet (true story). Feel like you need to bring Xanax or giant bottle of booze for your hosts, to help them get through the function.

PLAYING WITH OTHER KIDS

1st. They hit or bite a kid or rip a toy out of a baby's hand for the first time, and the world implodes. Feel like the shittiest parent on earth, apologize profusely, cry, are crushed that you're now a complete social pariah and your kid is going to be a total loser that nobody invites over to play.

2nd: Feel awful the first time they hit or bite another kid or steal a toy, apologize profusely, know that you're a social pariah, but so's everyone else, really.

3rd: Hits or bites another kid or steals a toy, you look at the other mom with a wild-eyed look and exclaim, "What can I say? THEY'RE LIKE GODDAMN ANIMALS!"

COLLECTING THE MAIL

1st: Dart out while they're sleeping to get the mail, terrified that the house will catch on fire in the twelve seconds it takes to get to the mailbox or that you'll accidentally lock yourself out of the house.

2nd: Dart out and grab it while they're sleeping, feel good about "getting out of the house" for the day. Feel stupid after realizing that the house was never going to spontaneously combust, nor can you actually lock yourself out, anyway.

3rd: WHEN WILL THE FUCKING MAIL GET HERE SO I CAN WALK OUT OF THIS HOUSE AND GET A FEW SECONDS OF PEACE? "Hey kids, don't set the house on fire while I go get the mail!" Click your heels together as you jump off the porch steps. Wish that you could lock yourself out.

DRINKING
1st: Wow, I really feel like I need a glass of wine to relax after the day I had!
2nd: Can't wait to get to my half a bottle of wine tonight.
3rd: Will a bottle of wine be enough for me tonight? *Catches toddler vomit in cupped hands* I'm thinking no.

GOING TO THE GROCERY STORE
1st: Stroll through the aisles, naming every item to the baby who doesn't understand a word you're saying.
2nd: "Sit down!" "Don't touch that!" "NO, we are not buying a bag of lollipops, a bag of marshmallows, more fruit snacks, etcetera!" "HEY! Get back here!" "I said, don't touch that!"
3rd: The boys want to poke a handicapped woman in the check out area and run away? OH WELL, THEY'RE BEING ENTERTAINED. (True story, and it's not as bad as it sounds. You HAVE to read this old, old, old as dirt post of mine <---- click the link. It's from before you knew of my existence, is one of my favorites and is *now* way funny.)

SEE? Look at the holes in his pants, REFUGEE STYLE.

The Power of The Ocean

2013-04-04T12:04:00.000-07:00

I almost died on April 25th, 2004.

I'm not being dramatic. Nate and I had been married for less than a year. We went to the beach. Just another day in paradise.

We walk down the steps to the beach. It's busy, and Nate says, "Let's walk around this jetty, there's another beach on the other side. There'll probably be less people."

We walk around the jetty, stepping into the surf to get to the other side. It's totally deserted, and we set up our beach chairs and watch the surf. It's huge. So big that we joke that we're in Hawaii.

After a while, the waves calm down and Nate suggests that we go into the water. Because of the size of the waves earlier, I'm uneasy and don't go in any deeper than my knees. Nate swims out further and calls for me to join him.

I tell him no, and he teases me. "Don't be such a wuss! Come on!"

I laugh and wade out to him, letting the water get up to my shoulders.

We're standing in the ocean, and each wave coming in slightly lifts me off my feet and gently sets me back down. Suddenly, a wave sets me down but there's nothing under my feet. I kick my feet so I don't go completely under, and feel a jolt of panic. I look at the shore. Our beach chairs are a crazy distance away; we are really far out. Shit. I yell to Nate, "I can't touch bottom anymore! Look how far out we are!"

He puts his feet down and says that he can still touch.

I start swimming towards him, but each stroke does nothing to bring me closer to him. The current is going against me, pulling me away! I try to swim harder. I used to be on the swim team, I'm an Advanced Certified Scuba Diver, I'm a strong swimmer, but none of that is mattering against the strong current.

"I can't swim back! I'm caught in a current!" Panic blossoms in my chest. I'm being carried out to sea; one of my worst fears is coming true.

Nate laughs and says, "Oh come on, it can't be that bad, just swim back!" Then he sees the panic on my face and realizes that I truly can't swim back.

At this point, he's safe and I'm not. He can touch bottom, the current hasn't caught him. Then he does the best and worst thing: he lifts his feet and begins swimming towards me. Half of me is devastated at this because now, he's in jeopardy, too, and the other half is relieved that I'm not alone.

But now, we're both in trouble. The current is dragging us parallel to the shore, not out to sea, fortunately, but it's not taking us toward the populated beach to our right, it's taking us to the isolated part to the left. The waves are crashing over the back of our heads, and as soon as the water clears our faces and we catch our breath, another set of waves crashes into us from the side.

I'm terrified that we're going to get carried out into the ocean and drown. My panic grows to exponential proportions, and it's getting hard to breathe in between the waves crashing over my face, which only compounds the situation. Nate sees my panic and tells me that it's okay, we're going to be fine, but we both know that he has no way of knowing if we're actually going to be fine.

The ocean is cold, so cold. The cold is starting to creep into my muscles, starting to affect my ability to keep myself above water. I can feel my movements slowing down and know that this is the beginning of hypothermia. I keep scanning the shoreline, hoping to see someone on the deserted beach who we could somehow signal to get help. There is no one.

All of a sudden, in one fell swoop, the current carries us back to land, but relief is short-lived. "Land" is a cliff-like outcropping of rock that's covered in barnacles. It has a flat surface about two feet above our heads that if we could just pull ourselves up onto, we'll be out of the water. We still can't touch bottom; the water is deep.

But not only are the sharp barnacles affecting our ability to get purchase on the rocks, the rocks themselves are razor sharp, and the waves are crashing into us and slamming us into the rocks, then pulling us back out a bit when they recede. We can't stay in one place long enough to even try to grab onto something to pull ourselves up.

Nate says, "When a wave comes in, I'll use that to help me boost you up to the top of the cliff." We try it a couple of times but the top is just too high. Each time I'm lifted out of the waves, I scan the shoreline for people. It's still completely deserted.

Our bodies are becoming severely affected by the cold. Hypothermia is starting to set in, and I'm exhausted. The waves are slamming into us from the side and the back. I can barely catch my breath in between. I'm struggling. The attempts to boost me onto the top of the cliff have failed, and I'm totally defeated. We are out of options. Desolately, I look up the sharp cliff face and I know.

We aren't going to get out. I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die, within minutes. This is the end of the line for me. I'm not going to go home tonight and eat dinner. Nate and I aren't going to celebrate even a year of being married. I'm never going to see my mom or dad again, I'm never going to laugh again, my life is over. Actually OVER. This is IT. There is no tomorrow. Grief blooms in me. I don't want to die. I'm only 25 years old!

I've never before felt something so final.

As I was relentlessly being slammed into the rocks, I suddenly thought of a guy I knew, Leif, who had drowned in the ocean two years and two months previously. We had briefly dated many years before, and after that ended, he developed a father-son type relationship with my dad, and eventually married a beautiful, amazing woman and had a daughter. He died when his daughter was still a baby, and my devastated dad has never been the same.

This is what Leif felt just before he died. He knew. He panicked like I'm panicking, he was cold like I am, his body failed him like mine is failing me now. He struggled like I am. I feel his hopelessness, I feel his fear. Oh my GOD, this fucking fear. I'm so scared! I can't believe I'm going to drown like he did.

I'm so sorry you went this way, Leif... this is horrible. Don't let the ocean take me like it took you; it will be the end of my dad. He will not survive losing both of us, don't let me drown out here! PLEASE!

Nate breaks my reverie. "I can try to boost you up again, look, the top is only about a foot above us now and slopes back!" The current has carried us to a lower part of the rock outcropping.

One big push by Nate, helped by the force of a wave coming in boosts me up enough that I'm out of the water and on the slope, but as I try to climb all the way out on my hands and knees, near hypothermia causes my body to fail me and I can barely move my muscles. Then a wave slams into me from the side and yanks me back into the ocean.

I feel the force of the wave flip me onto my back and pull me at 30 miles an hour or however fast waves travel, headfirst and underwater along the front of the rocky cliff. The rocks are ripping into my back as I'm being dragged along them, but I can't really feel any pain because my body is so numb. I realize that if there is a large rock jutting out from the side or if the cliff curves toward the ocean at any point, my head is going to slam into it and I'll be instantly killed. I try to pull my arms up to protect my head, but the force of the water is pinning them to my sides.

All I can do is ride out the wave and wait for the slam to my head that will end me. Suddenly, it releases me and I'm not dead.

As my body bobs upright in the water, I once again scan the shore, still hoping that someone has appeared who could help us. It's still deserted. Nate says, "Come on, let's try again."

I mumble, "My muscles aren't working."

He boosts me again, and I feel my entire body come up out of the water and land on the slope, but now I know that if I don't climb up quickly enough, another wave is going to knock me back into the water.

I try to crawl forward but it's almost impossible. My body is so weak that I can hardly move. I know that if I don't force myself to move and I get knocked back into the water, it's going to be for the last time. My body is quitting, this is my last chance, yet I cannot will my muscles to move. Move! Move! I tell myself. Hurry! Yet my arms barely budge; it's like they're frozen.

Suddenly, I hear Nate screaming, "CLIMB UP!" The sheer terror in his voice tells me that another wave is coming and I have seconds to move, seconds to live. For the first one of those seconds, I resign myself to what I knew was coming anyway, death. I simply cannot do it. Not because I don't want to, but because my body is not allowing me to. I actually cannot make myself move. I don't have the strength.

But then his voice triggers something primal in my brain, some deep-rooted survival instinct, and suddenly I feel one last spurt of adrenaline and I'm able to pull myself out of danger's way, just as the wave crashes over my legs and feet. Somehow, I stand up, vaguely registering that the top of my bikini has shifted and my boobs are hanging out of it.

I turn around and make eye contact with Nate. He's still in the water. As we look at each other, we both understand that he is not going to be able to get himself out of the water and I'm not capable of helping pull him out of the water. I do not have the strength and am going into shock. The look on his face is one of regret, one where he has realized how fucked he really is, and it reaches something deep inside of me. Suddenly I hear, "Hey, do you need some help?"

Standing right in front of me are three guys.

Where did they come from?! I had scanned the shore not even a minute ago! Nobody was on the beach! I point to Nate and dully say, "Help him." They form a chain-gang and pull him out.

We thank them, and they saunter off as if it's perfectly normal to encounter a woman in relative shock standing on a rocky platform on a beach, her boobs hanging out of her disheveled bikini top, her back torn up and bleeding as if she has been attacked by a tiger, and then form a chain-gang to pull a guy out of the water. What the hell?

Nate and I are standing there, saying, "Oh my God, on my God" over and over. He tells me that my back is bleeding badly.

We somehow gather up our things, the sun warming my body enough to let me move again. Even though I'm in the mental fog of minor shock, I drive us home. Nate has basically broken his toe when bracing himself against the rocks to push me out, so he can't drive.

At home, he calls his mom, who's a nurse, and she comes over, cleans us up, and fixes our injuries. I can't sleep on my back for a week while my scrapes and gouges heal. Nate lost his wedding ring in the ocean, and we're both so grateful that that was the only thing that was lost in the ocean that day.

~~~~~~~~~~

It took a lot longer for the emotional injuries to heal. For years, I couldn't watch the ocean rushing into shore or over rocks without feeling some post-traumatic stress. I knew the power of those waves, had felt it, and watching them took me back to the ocean, fighting for my life. I'd feel that fear, and a buzzing sound would start in my head and I'd hear Nate screaming at me to climb up.

At some point, without me even realizing it, that trauma faded, but the memories haven't. They never will. I'll never forget that Nate saved my life. I'll never forget the soul-searing understanding of what Leif went through before he died. Except, when he knew he was going to die, I can only imagine that it must have been a million times worse, knowing he was leaving his baby girl behind. There was no love lost between us, and I actually couldn't really stand him for years after we stopped seeing each other, but in those moments in the ocean I felt for him the deepest level of empathy that I've ever felt for another human being.

What happened that day hasn't taken me hostage; I won't let it. I still feel the petty annoyances of life, and occasionally I'll think, Dude, you could be dead. This isn't a big deal. Sometimes, that will flip the perspective switch in me and settle me down but most times, it doesn't. I want to live, I want to feel everything, good and bad. I don't want that day hanging over my head, ruling every moment I have.

I will teach my boys to respect the power of the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leif, your baby girl is beautiful. She's a ball player, like you. I've seen pictures of her in your old Red Sox jacket and it's bittersweet. "Skipper" misses you, painfully. A few years after your death, he was visiting me and told me that the sound of the ocean now haunts him, when it used to soothe him. I suggested that instead of letting it haunt him, maybe he should try to think of it as the sound of you now, and let it comfort him.

He shook his head. The ocean was never going to sound the same to him.

The next day, he was walking on the wharf by my house and came across a memorial bench (that I'd never seen) overlooking the sea and inscribed with, "Let the ocean speak to you of me."

It took a few more years, but I think he's finally letting the ocean speak to him of you.

How To Kill a Kid's Fun

2013-04-01T11:09:00.000-07:00

I realized the other day that I am an assassin -- of FUN.

I took Connor and Brandon for a walk around our neighborhood. First, I stole their fun by not letting them dart into the street and get hit by a car. Then we reached this park area that's not really a park but is more like a big nature-y area that fronts some woods. We walked past the park so they could explore a small section of the woods.

While we were walking past the park, Brandon kept waving at this WAY friendly maintenance man who was kind of pacing us. I started to get paranoid that the man was being super friendly and pacing us because he was planning on following us into the woods and murdering me and then stealing my kids.

So I told Brandon to stop "bothering" him and told myself to not be such a paranoid freak. But I never took my third eye off the guy until he went back to the apartment complex that he maintains that's next to the park.

In the woods, Connor picked up a huge, flexible chunk of wood that had sheared off a tree and was waving it around until I stole his fun by telling him to put it down before he got slivers.

Then they started playing around this gigantic tree in which part of it had been chopped off but some of the trunk remained and had tons of pointy parts sticking up from the ground. So I stabbed their fun in the heart by telling them not to play there so they wouldn't fall and get impaled on the trunk parts.

They moved to another part of the tree base and I noticed a patch of sticker plants (I don't know what they're called... those plants with 7 trillion prickly sticker things coming out of their leaves) so I told them to get away from the tree before they fell into the sticker plants.

So they decided to throw rocks into the creek that runs between the park and the woods. But, it had been raining and the edge of the creek is littered with a billion leaves, and I told them to stay back from the edge, FAR back, so they didn't slip on the leaves and slide down the slope into the dirty creek.

But then they were so far back that they couldn't see their rocks land in the creek. Fun: murdered.

So they moved on to the bridge that goes over the creek to throw their rocks from.

The thing about that is, the siding of the bridge that is supposed to keep people from falling off of it has these giant gaps that Brandon could EASILY fall through. So I had to kill his fun by telling him not to lean through and hang over the slats.

I suggested that we go back over to the park area so they could stand on this cement platform and throw rocks into a different part of the creek. As we were walking there, I had to tell Brandon to stop picking up rocks because he was inadvertently picking up garbage and probably dog shit.

Also on the way there, I noticed a strange patch of wildflowers and dandelions. It stood out because out of a large field of grass, this little patch was concentrated with the flowers and dandelions. So I wondered why that was and figured that something underneath must have fertilized the area.

Then I realized that it was a grave-sized patch and wondered if there was a body buried under there and my mind wandered, trying to remember if anyone in our town has been reported missing lately.

We reached the platform and I saw chunks of either dirt or dog shit smeared all over it, so I had to cancel the platform fun and told them that we needed to walk back home for lunch.

At this point, I was totally fed up with myself. I was at war with myself. Half of me was like, dude, let this shit go. Let them explore and learn and live a little. I mean, my parents were very hands-off when it came to many things with me. From a pretty young age, I was left to play by myself or unsupervised with my friends or my half-siblings if they were around. I remember roaming pretty free in some woods surrounding a lake we spent weekends at every summer, or areas around my or my friends' houses. We all lived. We didn't sustain any major injuries. It was okay to wave at friendly people.

I could hear my dad's voice telling me to relax and let them be kids.

And the other half of me was like, no, fuck all that, I'm not going to deal with slivers and the hell that comes with trying to extract them, or dog shit, or major injuries, or my kids falling into a dirty, drug-paraphernalia-riddled creek, or what-the-hell-ever. My job as a mother is to protect them. These were all totally reasonable fears and cautionary actions on my part.

And then I swung back to the other half and was thinking, but the only way I figured out how to pinpoint danger and learned about this stuff was by experiencing it myself. I mean, you only step on those sticker plants ONCE, and then you forever remember what they look like and to stay the hell away from them. You only experience the fear and pain of slipping and sliding down a slope ONCE before you learn to stay back and feel out the ground before firmly placing your weight on your forward foot.

And a million other things that you can only learn by experiencing. Or, by watching someone right next to you experience.

So as we walked back, war raging inside of me, I vowed that I will try to step back a bit, here and there, and let them learn what I've learned by letting them learn it how I learned it - through experience. But they're still pretty young and still need Mama's eye on them, so maybe I'll be better about it in a few years.

To make up for all the fun I killed, once we reached our extremely low-traffic part of the street, I showed them how to float leaves with bark on them (boats with guys, people!) in rain puddles.

No, I didn't color coordinate their outfits.

Crazy Mom Advice For My Boys: Relationships and Marriage Edition

2013-03-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

This conversation happened between Ethan and I the other day:

E: Mom, when I get married, will the person I marry come live with me like you live with Daddy?

Me: Yep, sure will.

E: Well, when I marry someone I know and really like, I'm going to live with her and make her my new mom!

What a great prelude to my next post! Up next in my Crazy Mom Advice series is advice I have for my boys regarding relationships and marriage.

Boys,

First of all, if you treat your girlfriend or wife as if she is your mom, you've got a wake-up kick to the teeth coming. She is your best bud, your partner, not your maid.

Secondly, I'm writing this with the general assumption that you're going to be straight. If you're not, just replace the "she" with "he."

1. Spend some time alone, getting to know who you are and what you're all about. Don't go from relationship to relationship without any breathing room in between. Before I married your dad, I spent a lot of time alone, figuring out myself and life, and I've never regretted it. It's actually not scary to be alone. It's boring sometimes, but not anything to fear. You get to fart with impunity, watch stupid shit on t.v., put your bros before hos without question.

2. Until you're old enough to have been legally drinking for a few years AND are with someone you can see spending the rest of your life with, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, wear a condom. Oh, what's that? You don't want sex advice from your mom? Too bad. You're going to get it, along with boxes of condoms randomly showing up in your underwear drawer in your teenage years. Enjoy your youth, be relatively care- and responsibility-free, don't contract a disease or tie yourself down with a child when you're still a child yourself. Kids, and some diseases, are permanent.

3. Marry someone that you love and want to be with so much that if you had to, you'd live in a van down by the river with them. Someone who you're planning on staying married to for so long that eventually you're changing each other's diapers and reminding them of who you are every 42 seconds.
I once heard this analogy and have mentioned it in a previous post, but it bears repeating: Imagine your marriage as being like two pieces of paper that are glued together. Then imagine trying to rip the two pieces of paper apart. The papers wouldn't separate cleanly; there would be so much tearing and shredding and destroying, and in the end, you wouldn't have two whole pieces of paper. They would not be the same as they were before being glued together.
I'm not suggesting sticking out a horrid marriage, but just be sure about the other person before you jump in, and if something is broken, try to fix it before jumping ship. Unless you're the only one trying to fix it and there's no hope.

4. For the love of God, DO NOT become involved with a bat-shit crazy chick. Please. Especially, don't marry her. I'm not talking about the "harmless crazy," you know, like your mom, I'm talking about the "scary crazy," the kind who you never know if you're going to wake up with a knife to your throat because "You didn't do the fucking dishes again!" You don't need that kind of hell.

5. If you think marriage doesn't take work, you're sorely mistaken. Don't become lazy and stop putting effort into it.

6. Have the wedding of your dreams, enjoy it, love it, and then look back in five or ten years and realize how much better that money could have been spent, but never regret doing what you wanted to do for that day.

7. Your Uncle Josh, when he married your dad and I (I KNOW, how cool, daddy's brother married us! Gotta love a pastor in the family!) said that if you always think that YOU are the lucky one in your marriage, then you'll go a long way. Point: Don't focus on how lucky your spouse is to have you, focus on how lucky you are to have her. And if she does the same, your gratitude for each other will be never-ending.

8. Don't cheat. Be better than that. If you're feeling like stepping out on your marriage, then something is critically broken. Figure out what it is and try to fix it before you do something that you can never take back and will alter the foundation of your marriage forever.
On that note, don't do anything that you'll regret later. A real simple way to figure that out is to ask yourself, "Will I regret doing this?" and if you have to ask yourself, then chances are it IS something you'll regret doing. Also, don't do anything you wouldn't want her doing.

9. Give your wife little presents and cards out of the blue. And by "presents" I don't mean leaving turds in the toilet for her to find or your dishes for her to do.

10. Make her laugh. Oh that reminds me, marry someone with a sense of humor, or she will not survive in this family. I'd prefer it if she swears and has a sick sense of humor so I know that we'll get along.

11. You're going to have bad days, weeks, months. You might even have a bad year, or even several. When times are tough, remember why you married her in the first place. Remember that girl who made your heart skip, your palms sweaty, your ears hot. Remember that girl you couldn't stop thinking about, that girl you didn't want other guys looking at, remember all the things about her that made you know that she was the one.

12. It's good to be comfortable around her, but go into the bathroom and fart. She doesn't want to smell your butthole. Unless she farts on you first. Then it's fair game. Give her some dignity in the bathroom, too.

13. She is not your slave. Get your own damn drink and one for her while you're at it, make dinner for your family, help out around the house, and for fuck's sake, clean up after yourself. I know you'll know how to do this stuff because guess what? You're going to be doing it around MY house before you're released into the world. Your days of being waited on hand and foot ended when you were about 3. And you know what else? I'm going to make sure she knows that you know how to do this stuff. That's right. I'll always have your back, but I'm going to have hers, too. Unless she's a bitch. Then she can fend for herself.

14. She's right, you're wrong. Unless I'm saying she's wrong, because then she is. As much as it breaks my heart to admit this, I'm older, and therefore wiser. Nah, who am I kidding, listen to her. Unless she's crazy.

15. Don't put anyone before your wife. Not even me. If you put anyone before your wife, and your wife then shreds your balls, you had it coming, plus so much more. Know your fucking priorities. The only exception to this is your kids.

16. She's not going to be a perfect person, so don't expect her to be. Your breath stinks, too. The only time you were perfect was the day you were born, and then you quickly spiraled down into imperfection from there, starting with the first time you peed on me.

17. When you do things to help her out, make sure they are things that actually help her out, not what you think is helping her out. One really easy way to find out what those things are is to ask, and then not argue with what she tells you.

18. You two are a team. Never forget that ultimately, you're on the same side.

19. Communication is critical, yet is one of the hardest things to be good at and do correctly. Figure out a method that works for you two so that you can work through the big hairy issues that may come up between you, and the small ones, too.

20. Respect her, and treat her with respect.

21. Don't forget about your old crazy mom. I'll miss you and still want you to bring me a bottle of wine here and there and sit and drink it with me.

PSA #4: Helmets

2013-03-23T22:34:00.002-07:00

Oh yay, time for another Public Service Announcement! This one includes a VIDEO to make my main point.

I KNOW. I've never shown you a video before. Yes, I KNOW, you don't want to click on the video to make it play. I DON'T EITHER. I hate clicking on videos. I don't know why. I guess I figure that a thousand viruses are going to infect my computer and then my blog will be hacked and you'll suddenly start receiving Asian porn videos from me and my "good girl" (AAAAAHahahahaha) reputation will be destroyed.

Or, more accurately, I don't want to turn the volume up on my laptop, don't wan't to suffer through ads, don't want the boys running over to see what I'm watching, too lazy to take the extra step of clicking the play button, don't want to be bored, I just don't want to do it. Also, I'm scared it'll be like 10 minutes long. This one is only six seconds. Don't blink; you might miss it.

But if YOU like watching videos, watch this one. It demonstrates why one should ALWAYS wear a helmet. Even two-year-old dorks on a friggin' trike. Because you just never know.

I'm also sharing it to enshrine it in the annals of the internet so that Brandon will have some kind of proof to take to his prison psychologist after he murders 27 women who look just like me, in his efforts to symbolically murder ME over and over for being unable to contain my laughter after he crashes and burns on his trike.

Yes, I'm one of those assholes who laughs when my kids wipe out.

I feel like I might be losing a few of you. Let me defend myself a bit.

1. I laugh at just about EVERYTHING. It's a defense mechanism (I'm probably a candidate for a mental institution).

2. AT LEAST I immediately cut the video so I could go help my child, instead of continuing to film for sick entertainment value.

3. It's not that bad. He didn't even cry. Because he wasn't hurt. BECAUSE HE WAS WEARING A HELMET.

So, without even more unnecessary blathering (I'm sorry) here's the reason you should always helmet up.

PLEASE let me know if you have trouble playing the video. I've never done this before and most likely screwed it up. I do know that it's not showing up on Apple devices and don't know how to fix that; if you're THAT into watching it, bring up this post on a regular computer or laptop.

Kids Are (Unwittingly) Brutal And Trying To Kill Us

2013-03-22T07:56:00.001-07:00

Since becoming a mother, I, along with every single other parent in the existence of earth, have undergone an extreme amount of physical abuse - at the hands, feet and basically every other body part of our children. If you really think about it, it's shocking that most parents are still alive and in one piece.

If the damage isn't inflicted through direct violence, they are so adept at these sneaky, passive-aggressive tricks that are just as, if not more, dangerous. The following are just some of the ways that we've narrowly escaped with our lives or without being maimed.

- Elbow/knee jabs to the balls, face, back, legs, boobs (especially fun while breastfeeding), and stomach (especially fun while pregnant).

- Head butts to the crotch, nose, chin, head, shins, and back.

- The "Let's see how many times we can kick sand into mom's eyes" game.

- Karate Kid kicks to basically everywhere on your body.

- Kid unexpectedly jumping on us while we're laying on our backs, delivering gut- and nut-bombs.

- Or, the kid unexpectedly jumps on our back when we're squatting down or in some other awkward position, causing face plants, back and knee injuries, and for the peeps with long hair, definitely some hair yanking and loss.

- The metal "Thomas The Train to the face" classic.

- Let's quietly roll a ball behind mom in the kitchen for her to slip on and break her neck/back/head/arm/leg while hot food spills all over her entire body. Double injury: SCORE! *FIST PUMP*

- My personal fave: Throwing a ball at my face when I'm not looking, and screaming "CATCH" just as the ball shatters my eyeball and then nearly knocks my ~~wine~~ cup of coffee onto my laptop.

- Stepping on the loose skin area on the back of your upper arm when you're lying down. Do you know how fucking bad that hurts? It's shockingly bad.

- The sudden, unexpected noodle legs while we're holding their hand, ripping our arm out of the socket and/or wrenching our back.

- Leaving toys scattered all over the floor for us to stub toes on, step on, slip on. I'm damn near a professional-level ballet dancer by now, what with all the pirouettes and other moves I've had to employ to avoid injury, or from sometimes luckily seeing the toy at the very last second and doing a quick tombe' or whatever to avoid it.

- Let's miss the toilet with our stream (AIM UP! IT'S SO MUCH FUN!) so mom can slip in the piss on the floor around the toilet and bash her head on the edge of the bathtub.

- I can't even count the amount of times my hyoid bone has nearly been crushed.

I wonder if the police would believe Nate: SERIOUSLY, detectives, our son stepped on her throat! I didn't strangle her! I've often wanted to, but I DIDN'T!

- Poop. E-coli-ridden, salmonella-ridden, God-knows-what-ridden poop, EVERYWHERE, just waiting to infect us.

- Vomiting in our faces.

- The baseball bat to the hand trick. (OH, mom, I'm supposed to wait for you to THROW the ball to me, not Barry Bonds crush it while you're still holding it? Sowwy!)

- Their, and their toys', noise level, causing partial deafness or blown eardrums. Or just straight-up insanity. Chose your poison.

- Globs of clear liquid soap left on the floor of the shower by the six-year-old, causing one-footed ice-skating, resulting in the super sexy awkward naked splits while your arms flail spastically in the air.

- I once caught Connor scrubbing the sink with my toothbrush. At least it wasn't the toilet, but that's still practically attempted murder right there. Sinks are disgusting germ-laden bowls.

- I don't even want to know what they drop into our food and drinks when we're not looking. After years of finding random floaters, I've learned to look into my glass before each and every sip. I now guard my glass from my kids dropping in dead flies, chunks of food, boogers, and who knows what else, like I guarded it from roofies being dropped into it in college.

What else? I only have just over six years of parenting since our first Precious (you know, like how Smeagol says, "Preciouuuuuussss" in Lord of The Rings) was born, so I really feel like I'm missing stuff. Also, I apparently need to stop lying down; I've noticed that many of the injuries (and ALL of my kids) have resulted from doing that.

Losing My Mind Over Lost Sleep

2013-03-20T07:41:00.003-07:00

Let's talk about sleep. Or, more specifically, lack thereof. I think that it's generally understood that sleep deprivation is par for the course for parents, but one thing I suspect many people underestimate is the danger that severe sleep deprivation creates.

That's right, I said DANGER. [Insert "Home Alone" scream] I know, whaaat? For once, I am not being dramatic. Let me tell you a couple of stories.

For the first year of Ethan's (our firstborn) life he didn't sleep longer than two, maybe three hours. Ever. Not at night, not in the day, ever. He was high-strung, had a bit of GERD or acid reflux, loved to nurse and/or suck (and had given up the pacifier on his own, so I didn't have a substitute after 5-6 months), and did not want to sleep for very long. His naps were a whopping 30 to 45 minutes.

HELL. IT WAS HELL. Talk about the red-carpet welcome to motherhood.

Nate was going through some long-term, grueling training for his job for 9 of those 12 months, so I didn't ever ask him to take over at night for me so I could get a bit more sleep. I mistakenly thought that his sleep was more important than mine because he was working full-time and I was only working part-time, and his job was significantly more stressful and dangerous than mine, so he needed to be in tip-top shape.

Mmm hmm. Talk about first-time mom syndrome.

About two weeks before Ethan's first birthday, the sleep deprivation caught up to me, BIG time. I started experiencing these flashes of actual rage, rage, in the truest definition of the word, over the dumbest things. I'm actually, in spite of how it may appear on this blog, a pretty easy-going person and this was completely out of character.

For example, Nate would say something in jest, and it would spark a fit of pure rage. I would feel a burning sensation blossom in my chest, spread up into my throat and face and down my arms. I would clamp my lips together to physically stop myself from screaming FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING MOTHER FUCKER! I FUCKING HATE YOU! and I'd clench my hands into fists to keep from smashing a wine bottle over his head.

I laugh about it now, but back then, it was no joke. The feelings of rage and anger would only last for a minute or two, but in those moments, I was barely in control of myself. I felt violent and could hardly restrain myself from physically lashing out. It was very serious.

And it was distressing because:

1. I don't actually hate him (most days, anyway, ha).

2. He didn't even say anything that would justify that kind of reaction (not that much DOES justify that kind of reaction).

3. This wasn't who I am.

4. I was feeling it towards Ethan.

That last one was the most distressing one of all. It is unacceptable to feel that kind of rage and violence towards a child, and that's when I knew that I had to figure out what the hell was causing me to have these episodes of rage, before I lost control and actually hurt somebody. It didn't take long for me to realize that I was so severely sleep-deprived that my body chemistry was critically off, my mind was slipping, my self-control was slipping, and it needed to stop. NOW.

Three days before Ethan's first birthday, I told Nate that I was done, Ethan was just going to have to cry it out (CIO). For the previous six months, I had tried everything, read tons of books on sleep and getting babies to sleep, employed all the methods, and Ethan was like, fuck you, mom. We're not sleeping. I had been resistant to the CIO method because it felt heartless and against my instincts to leave him screaming in his bed, but when I weighed leaving him screaming in his bed versus throwing him against a wall in a fit of rage, screaming in his bed won out.

I also looked at factors like:
1. He was no longer pooping at night, so I wasn't going to be leaving him lying in his own shit.
2. He wasn't actually hungry; he was just comfort nursing and my milk was drying up, anyway.
3. He was a year old, not an infant.
4. He no longer had reflux and was off of his reflux medicine.
5. Sleep is critical for his brain development, and he was missing out on hours of sleep every night.
And probably some other things that I'm not remembering right now.

NOTE: I'm not advocating for this method; I'm just sharing what I eventually had to do and the processes that went into it, and it happened to be what worked for us. So leave the non-supportive, mom-shaming, high-horse comments off here.

So that first night, we put him to bed and listened to him scream off and on for hours throughout the night. I almost got up and slept in the car. The second night, the same.

The third night, the night before his birthday, he slept all night. Not a peep out of him. Yes, when I woke up in the morning after that third night and realized that he (and I) had slept all night, I actually felt a little panicked that he died in his sleep and that's why he didn't cry all night. Of course, he didn't - he simply figured out pretty quickly that mom wasn't coming in to save him and decided to get over it. And every night thereafter, he slept all night.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BOTH OF US!

I know we were lucky that it only took two nights, but jesus, we needed that. Within a week of getting a full-ish night's sleep every night, those fits of rage went away completely.

People. I cannot impress upon you enough how critical sleep really is. We all want to be the best moms, but if it means that we're greatly sacrificing ourselves and risking our health, we're not necessarily doing the right thing, at least not in that area. We need to be healthy, too. Not only do we need to get decent sleep, but our kids do, too, and they also need to form healthy sleeping habits.

Like I mentioned earlier, my biggest mistake was not standing up for myself and telling Nate, "Hey, I really need to get some sleep tonight. Can you just get up with him?" And that especially sucks because Nate is an involved, hands-on dad and I totally could have asked him to do that for me. Nor did I ask anybody else to help out.

When Ethan was about 15 months old, we were in the waiting room at the pediatrician's office. A woman who looked like death warmed over walked in with her approximately 18-month-old son. She went to the receptionist's desk, and told the approximately 20-year-old receptionist that she needed to talk to a doctor right now about why her son wasn't sleeping.

The receptionist, naturally, asked if she had an appointment, and when the mom said no, the receptionist said that she would have to make one because they were booked solid, and she probably wouldn't be able to see anyone for a few days.

The mom broke down. I mean seriously broke down. She started sobbing and said that she couldn't wait a few more days; her son hasn't really slept his whole life and she was on the verge of losing her mind and she just needed him to sleep. The receptionist was like a deer in headlights, and kept saying that they didn't have any appointments and she was just going to have to wait.

The mom kept saying that she couldn't wait, she's tried everything and he just won't sleep, she's going crazy, she just needs to talk to someone about a solution. She was crying so hard that she could barely talk, but the receptionist couldn't or wouldn't budge.

I was absolutely shocked. Furious. I mean, what the fuck does it take for someone to realize that the person standing in front of them is clearly in need of help, like right now?

I was just about to walk over to the desk and tell the receptionist that the mom could have Ethan's appointment because a sleep-deprived mom is a very, very dangerous thing and clearly, this mom was losing her mind and could quite possibly be a danger to herself and/or her child, when something finally penetrated with the receptionist and she got a nurse to come talk to her.

I was happy that they were finally doing something for the mom but still pissed that she had to press her case that much. Sure, she could have done things like recognized that she was in need of help way before reaching the breaking point and talked to her pediatrician well before then, but you know what? It isn't often that people realize just how deeply in trouble they are until they snap.

It's hard to be in touch with yourself when your brain isn't functioning properly because of severe sleep deprivation. Combine that with the pressure that some moms place on themselves to be "perfect" moms, or the pressure that society and even friends and family can put on each other to be a "perfect" mom, or for us to think or be under the impression that we're shit parents if we don't love every fucking single second of parenthood, and you have a recipe for disaster.

I completely understand why that mom didn't ask for help until she snapped. I understand that it was probably hard for her to admit, not only to herself but to her family and doctors, that she was struggling.

And I understand how it then could have been hard for her to ask for help, to admit that she couldn't do it all, or maybe she didn't have anybody that she could ask to help her.

And that really sucks. Moms, Dads, don't underestimate the power of sleep, and don't underestimate the dangerous effects of sleep deprivation. Do what you have to do to get some sleep.
Ask for help.
Work something out with a fellow parent friend if you can.
Get a gym membership, put the kid in the daycare, then go out to your car and sleep for a couple of hours if you have to.
Let the (older) baby cry.
Talk to your doctor, just do something.
Don't let it get to a dangerous point.

Also, be kind to yourself. You don't have to do it all, you don't have to be perfect, which you'll never be anyway because nobody is perfect. Give yourself a break. Give your kids a break by taking care of you.

And if you have a friend or family member who you can see is struggling, offer them a hand. Don't watch them suffer, watch them trying to hold it together, and do nothing to help. We need to help each other out, support each other. I've been known to tell friends, and even people that I barely know, that if they need a nap, I'll come hold their newborn. Sure, it's partly out of selfishness because damn, I love babies, but it's also to help out because I understand how critical sleep deprivation is. I've been there. Don't let yourself get there.

One of my favorite pictures of Ethan - probably because he was SLEEPING.

A Very Special Birthday Baby

2013-03-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

Long time readers, do you remember the story behind this bottle of champagne and the three-month-old-sized newborn?

If not, or if you're new to this blog over the last year, you might want to read that post about that bottle of champagne and Triple B's birth so this post makes sense.

Triple B is not my kid but he's still a pretty special kid. When he was born, I took a giant bottle of cheap "California Champagne" to the hospital for his parents, as they had done the same for Nate and I when Brandon was born, and through an unfortunate sequence of events, was a touch humiliated at that event, which you can read about in that other post. But it was worth it.

Anyway, his mom told me that she was saving the champagne to open on Triple B's first birthday party, and true to her word, she did. Because we're classy and drink at kid's birthday parties. I mean, how else are you supposed to get through them?

His party was last Saturday, after the hell-like day of little league opening day, and his mom busted out the bottle. It was just what I needed after the morning we had, especially since it was like 200 degrees IN MARCH and I was dressed for significantly colder weather and was quite hot and sweaty.

So a year later, Triple B is still a baby unlike most others - he's extremely special. I know, I know, every mom says that about their friend's kids but I'm truly not exaggerating here. Triple B just turned one and he outweighs Brandon, my 2.5-year-old.

Not by a pound or two. By FIVE pounds. And Brandon is like in the 70th percentile, so he's no sucked-up, underweight midget. Triple B weighs thirty-five pounds, at 12 months old. You read that right.

I FUCKING LOVE THAT SUMO WRESTLER. No, his mom doesn't feed him McDonald's and Taco Bell and candy and soda. That baby is a BOOB LOVER and his over-producing mom could be a wet nurse to triplets, 12 months into breastfeeding. In fact, Triple B is nursing in the above photo. No, his pediatrician isn't concerned about his weight. He's walking around and active and both of his parents were not lightweights as babies, either.

Triple B loves it when I sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to him, probably because he's fascinated at how horrible my voice is, and he loves playing Peek-a-Boo and being told that he's a good boy. He is, however, unsure about loving me pretending to eat his GIANT THIGH.

I'm actually grimacing under the strain of holding him but we can just say that I'm pretending to eat his leg.

Happy birthday, Triple B. I love you and the boys love you. Brandon has been talking about you every day since your party. I'm excited to watch you grow up and hear you cuss like you're some bad ass and laugh at you, and watch you try to flirt with the ladies and laugh to myself, remembering the time you were two months old and sitting on my lap, flirting up a storm with me while farting on my leg.

You'll always be Baby Triple B to me.

Another Exciting Public Outing

2013-03-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

Saturday was opening day for t-ball or rookie ball or whatever the hell it's called for Ethan. Naturally, Nate was working and so it was me against the three, which is always the best combo, especially considering that thousands of people were going to be there, AND we are Little League virgins and had no idea what to expect.

My first critical lesson of kid sports was learned when we dressed Ethan in his uniform that morning. Through some serious disorganization on our little league's part and due to full schedules I had to buy Ethan's stuff the night before, alone, without him being present. I thought I did really good, and felt completely solid about my totally I'm-his-mom-I-know-what's-up guesses. I patted myself on my back as I walked out of the sports store.

Well, I bought a left-handed glove instead of a right-handed glove. He was swimming in his pants.

Just because I'm his mom, that does not mean I can correctly eyeball his size, apparently. I seriously recommend taking your kid(s) with you when you buy their uniforms. Oh, that's common sense, you say? It doesn't help that there is no sizing info on the uniform tags, either, like "Small fits xx weight and height, etc."

We made the pants work because we had no choice, scrapped the glove because he wasn't actually playing that day anyway. Connor chose to represent by wearing a shirt the same color as his brother's jersey and Brandon wanted to wear a cap like Ethan was, too. So Ethan had his own little fan club in his little brothers and that had to make him feel like a rock star. A rock star who looked like he had a full load in the back of his pants.

As we were walking out of the door, I realized that I hadn't eaten. (Who the hell forgets to eat?) We arrived at the ball park and parked a mile away, then sat in the wrong bleacher section because I'm profoundly smart and didn't know how to distinguish A from AA from Rookie. Eventually, we figured out my error and after a half an hour of keeping the younger boys from tumbling down the bleachers or being stepped on by a thousand people, it was time for the teams to be announced and parade out onto the field.

The weather forecast had said it was going to be mid-to-high 50s, but was wrong (I KNOW HOW SHOCKING) and it was freakishly hot while sitting in the sun-drenched bleachers. Like, sweat rolling down my back at 9:30 in the morning hot. I thought terrible thoughts about the weather people and before Ethan's team came out, watched 700 teams parade out onto the field. All of the players were excited. They ran, trotted, waved their hats, high-fived the other players. It was cute and I couldn't wait for Ethan's team to come out so I could see him do the same. I wanted to see his excitement.

His team came out. They walked like they were in a funeral procession. I'm not kidding. It was horrible. People in the stands weren't even sure if they should clap because it was like, what the fuck is happening? I'm actually on film saying, "What a bunch of mopes!" and then laughing kind of uncomfortably.

Then we gathered for pictures and as I filled out the picture order form I realized that kids sports cost so much more than the sign-up fee. More than double the sign-up fee, actually. Here's a list of the extra costs that we weren't smart enough to know about, so you rookies know what to expect:

1. The league only provides a portion of the uniform. Expect additional uniform costs.

2. Picture packages will take you for another $25 to $100, depending how much extra crap you order (only to be shoved in a drawer along with all the extra school photos nobody wanted).

3. "Expected" goodwill purchases to support the league further, like the concession stand (that I thought was a "voluntary" or "convenience" thing) tickets that we were basically told we had to buy for each game.

4. A thank you gift for the coach.

5. An end-of-season team party.

And there are probably more things that I haven't found out about yet. Feel free to mention them if you know what they are.

As Ethan was getting his picture taken, Connor and Brandon knocked down the giant rope barricade that crossed a large portion of the field, nearly decapitating a tiny little kid they were playing with. Then a mom that was standing about 30 feet away from me graciously informed me that my zipper was down. I was mortified and could have kissed her for telling me but instead thanked her and silently wished for her to have a thousand nights where her young kids slept all night and then slept in, too. She took her grace even further by sharing that a while back she had been grocery shopping and looked like an unwashed hag, yet a bunch of guys kept checking her out and she couldn't figure out why. Then she got in the car and realized that her zipper was down.

She goes in my "awesome mom hall of fame" and I probably should have asked her for her phone number to call her up and hang out, but didn't.

Then it was time for Ethan to do his "clinicals." I thought they were in t-ball, not in nursing school but that's okay, I know there are several meanings for the same word. The gist of clinicals is, they're boring for everyone NOT doing them. Connor and Brandon played in the dirt and the mud puddles and the dog shit and the dugout, ate snacks and drank juice and asked to leave a hundred times. Then Connor OF COURSE had to take a dump.

Let me paint the scene for you. Across from the fields, there is a giant forest-y park that a thousand homeless people camp in every night. The restrooms, because they are part of parks and rec, are open during the day, so the homeless people use the sinks for their bird baths and the toilets to take their meth dumps and vomit in and all that jazz. Also, a thousand kids use them because you know, it's a giant parks and rec facility.

In other words, they are the among the most disgusting restrooms you'll ever encounter. They're worse than gas stations, McDonalds, anything. And I had to take my two-year-old, who licks everything, and my four-year old, who touches everything, into them so the four-year-old could contribute to the grossness. On the way in, I told them over and over to keep their hands to themselves, don't touch anything, blah blah blah is what they heard. In the stall, I told Brandon to stand against the door and put his hands in his pockets and leave them there. He complied until it was time to wipe Connor's ass. I had my back turned and was doing the classic "bend over my kid while he sticks his head between my legs ass-wiping position" when my mom instinct told me to check Brandon.

I half-turned, and saw that he had spread himself prone on the bathroom floor, hands and face splat on the piss-, shit-, and drug-covered ground. As I was holding shit-smeared toilet paper in one hand and spreading Connor's butt cheeks apart with the other, I started yelling "GET OFF THE FLOOR! GET OFF THE FLOOR NOW!" Actually, I was probably screaming, or maybe it just sounded like it because it was loudly echoing off the cement walls. Everyone in the restroom fell silent and you could hear a ~~heroin needle~~ pin drop.

We finished and of course the city doesn't provide soap dispensers for the homeless sink showers, so I instructed the boys not to touch their faces until we could get back to our bag on the field and I could wash them down with wipes and sanitizer. So, Connor picked his nose and Brandon rubbed his eyes and licked his palms.

Back at the field, Ethan, who hasn't yet learned baseball etiquette, ran across a baseball diamond mid-game for another team, causing the coach to halt the game until he finished crossing, while I stupidly yelled and gestured at him from 60 feet away to move outside of the diamond, which further confused him and caused more delay.

Finally, the day was done and we got out of there. I was exhausted and it was only noon, and we still had another function to attend, but it was Triple B's first birthday party and was truly great. If you don't know who Triple B is, you'll find out in the next post. He's AWESOME.

In the meantime, Nate and I are taking off for two, YES TWO, nights at our favorite inn later today. Sayonara, suckahs! I'll have extra fun and extra drinks for you. (And thank you, Mom!)

Complaining Is A Gift

2013-03-06T07:33:00.002-08:00

I've had trouble figuring out what to post this week because I'm trying to stand up under a heavy cloak of grief over a tragedy that happened in my town last week. The tragedy did not happen directly to me but strikes very, very close to home, TOO close to home, for personal reasons and has rocked me and our community to the core. People I know and care about are hurting, deeply. I'm having trouble processing it; I'm grieving and struggling with a spectrum of feelings and I'm especially struggling with fear. So many feelings and fears that I've kept buried in the face of bravery and hope have come to the surface and my emotions are extremely raw right now.

I look at all of the blog post drafts that I have ready to publish but can't bring myself to hit the publish button. They don't "feel" right this week. Not much feels right this week. My emotions are all over the map. Some moments are funny, sometimes I can't keep tears from my eyes. I'm angry, I'm sad, I'm thankful that "it wasn't him," sometimes I can't concentrate, I'm forgetful, I'm pouring drinks a little heavier. Things are either not funny at all or are excessively funny. Sometimes I'm so cold that I feel like I cannot warm up.

But in the midst of the gripping emotions that I'm feeling, there have been moments of funny, of levity, and of awesomeness, and I want to focus on those. I'm grasping at normalcy right now. It feels right to share these moments of regular life, it feels right to remind myself that life does go on, that people can be awesome, and it especially feels right to mention a little epiphany I had this week:

If I can complain about and be annoyed by stupid little things in life, it means that life isn't falling apart around me. It means that I am not watching my children starving or dying, not burying my husband, not suffering. This may sound warped, but I don't care because this works for me. I've realized that being able to complain or be annoyed is a gift.

It is a gift to not be so inundated with tragedy that everything else seems so petty in comparison. So I'm going to take comfort in the petty annoyances of life, take comfort in how they symbolize that I am not buried in an emotional coffin of grief and despair and life is actually pretty good.

Here are a few things that have made me feel normal in the face of horror, and something that was extra special.

On the annoying side:

- Noisemakers suck ass, and yet they are a staple in pretty much every gift bag at every birthday party. We went to my friend's daughter's party last weekend and when my sons pulled noisemakers out of the gift bags she made for them, I could have cut her. Especially when she was cackling in the background while I made sarcastic comments about them. But it's okay. Two can play that game. Yes, M., that's a direct threat. *wink*

- I took Connor and Brandon to the store, and Connor accidentally knocked 47 items off of a shelf, and while we were picking them up, Brandon was flipping out about not being let out of the stroller and was screaming and flailing, nearly kicking the people who were walking by him. As my blood pressure reached dangerous heights, I caught sight of these because they must have been screaming my name. I nearly downed a bottle of them right there in the aisle:

On the good side:

- The boys folded and put away an entire load of their laundry. There will be more of this happening:

- And the very best thing of all was when I collected my mail and found a surprise from Julie at I Like Beer and Babies. She had asked for my address a few weeks back, and I figured it was so she could stalk me before we go to Mexico together or something, but it actually was so she could send me this gift:

It's a necklace and it cracked me up and I'm really touched. It was a very bright spot in the midst of a devastating week, and I can't wait to wear it in Mexico while we're draining them of their alcohol supply. Booze dispensers IN OUR ROOM? OH YES. By the way, if you never hear from either of us again after April 26th, it's because we died in some alcohol-related incident or got thrown into a Mexican prison and are performing sex acts with a donkey in some sordid attempt to be granted bail.

Also on the plus side, my mom arrives in town today so we have a live-in nanny for almost two weeks, AND Nate and I are going to get away for a night next week. Fuck and yes. We both really need a helping hand right now.

Ta-ta for now, thanks for being here.

Very Scary Tooth Fairy

2013-03-01T07:45:00.003-08:00

I debuted as the Tooth Fairy last Friday night, and here's a little nugget for you amateurs (like me) about this Tooth Fairy gig that seems to get left off of conversations, forgotten among the sparkly glitter and debates about how much to give:

It was actually terrifying.

Let me back up. Ethan came home from his Nana's house missing the loose tooth that he had been furiously and incessantly complaining about for the past two weeks about how much it was bugging him, much to the annoyance of his dad and I (it got sooo old, seriously). I was a little emotional about him losing his first tooth; my chest felt kinda tight. I was probably having an asthma attack but whatever.

Anyway, Ethan started telling us that he hoped the Tooth Fairy brought him a penny, and I felt like the luckiest mother in the world! WHAT A CHEAP DATE! Then he upgraded to a quarter and I still felt like I won the mom lottery.

When it was his bedtime, since he doesn't sleep with a pillow, we put a small throw pillow next to his head and put the tooth under that. I forgot and remembered and forgot again about 39 times that I HAD TO REMEMBER TO DO THE EXCHANGE before I went to bed. I finally got smart and put the dollar and Blow Pop on MY pillow, so there was no way I could forget.

At my bedtime, I grabbed the goods and cracked open his bedroom door. I was totally dismayed to see that he was facing the pillow. I had hoped he would be facing away. I felt like a creepy stalker peering through the crack to see if he moved his head at the sound of the door opening. I watched him for a solid 30 seconds, maybe it was even 45. At no sign of movement, I snuck into his room, stood at the head of his bed, and then froze.

FROZE. All I could think about was, What if he wakes up? THE WHOLE GIG WILL BE UP! We will be revealed as the GIANT LIARS that we are NOW instead of in a few years! Everything will be called into question! Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, EVERYTHING! HE WILL BE DESTROYED, his youth ripped from him far too young, as if he were a child actor!

Frozen, trying to dampen down my panic, I started coming up with excuses for if I got caught: Oh, I was just checking to make sure the tooth hadn't got knocked down or if I was caught red-handed with the goods in my hand, then... I just wasn't sure what would fly. The Tooth Fairy called, she's sick and I'm subbing for her?

As I stood there, watching his eyelashes for movement, frozen and freaking out, I realized that if he woke up and saw me staring at him like I was, he would probably have worse nightmares from that than anything else. So I hesitantly crept forward, reached out and ripped the bag containing his tooth from under the pillow, cringing at the noise. I stared at his eyelashes for another 20 seconds, then, cringing the whole time, snuck the dollar and Blow Pop under the pillow, then got the fuck outta there.

I stood in the hallway after, shocked at how traumatic the whole thing was. NOBODY TELLS YOU ABOUT THE FEAR OF GETTING CAUGHT! That's the deep, dark secret of the Tooth Fairy. NOT that she actually doesn't exist, but that it would be terrifying to get caught!

I'm not sure how we're going to get through the next 59 teeth or however many remaining teeth there are between 3 kids, but I got a couple of tips from some Facebook peeps after I posted this the next morning:

"Holy crap, has anyone ever blown the Tooth Fairy gig? Last night was my first shot at it, and I was nearly frozen with fear that he'd wake up mid-exchange and I'd be caught! Nate should be totally comforted that I'll never cheat on him, I couldn't even stand being caught in the Tooth Fairy act."

I love the little community on the Facebook page for this blog, and here are a few things that people responded with:

READER TIPS:

Get a Tooth Fairy pillow that has a tooth pocket and hangs on the bed post or OUTSIDE door knob.

The Tooth Fairy exchanges tooth for goods in the bathroom. [Me here - that makes sense, it's where they brush their teeth!]

A helpful reader hint: Kids sleep the heaviest in the first two hours.

Several people admitted to forgetting and then making up some reason that the Tooth Fairy didn't arrive. So, don't feel like the only one if you forget. The Tooth Fairy has a rep for being flaky.

And seeing the look of total joy on his face when he showed me his Tooth Fairy loot the next morning was pretty sweet.

How Crazy Is Crazy, REALLY?

2013-02-27T00:28:00.000-08:00

I have an announcement! No, I am NOT PREGNANT. NOT PREGNANT.

In two months, I am going on a 3-night drunkfest/vacation in Mexico with Julie from I Like Beer and Babies!

OH SHIT YES! My flight to her neck of the woods is booked, the trip is booked, and I could not be more excited!

HOLA PUTAS! BIENVENIDOS A MEXICO!

Here's the deal: We've never met. AND, we're sharing a room.

Yep. We're taking a ride on the wild side.

I know. Now you know how insane I really am. But that's okay! Shortly after I started blogging, I found her blog, and let's just say, this bitch was speaking my language. We've bonded over our mutual love of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, drinking, swearing, being totally crass and inappropriate, needing breaks from our kids, and a thousand other things. But those are the big ones.

And since we're Facebook friends, with our real life profiles, I feel like I know everything about her. Because, you know, it's Facebook. And, we even text each other. But just in case, we've developed a questionnaire for each other to answer (well, she came up with most of the questions), and we thought it'd be a whole lotta fun to post the answers on our blogs so you could see just what a bunch of freaks we really are and place bets on shit like who gets arrested first, who pukes first, who is the really craaaazy one (her), you know, stuff like that.

Both of our answers are after each question. She's ILBAB and I'm MADIM. (No, not of the Heidi Fleiss variety, it's an acronym I don't usually use - for obvious reasons.)

I have no idea why some of my responses are in bold - and I can't fix it because my draft doesn't show it, only the final post... Ugh, sorry.

Eat:
Q: Do you dig on swine?

ILBAB: My favorite poem: Roses are red. Bacon is also red. Poems are hard. Bacon.

MADIM: Bacon is the best thing in the world. However, if you have a personal problem with it, I will abstain out of respect for you. Fuck that, no I won't. I'll be in the closet, shoveling it down with both hands like a raging baconholic.

Q: Eat dairy?

ILBAB: Milk with ice in it is my favorite hangover cure. Sorry if that makes you dry heave.

MADIM: I eat and drink dairy. I eat and drink most things, except smelly cheese, deer and lamb and other weird creatures. As a side note, I do not drink my piss (seriously, people do that). I know, WTF? Why did I even bring that up? Answer: I don't know, really. My mind is very random.

Q: Consume more calories than a lumberjack?

ILBAB: Oh, yes. I eat a lot. I mean a whole lot. Especially when drunk or hungover. The amount of food I can take down could also lead to you dry heaving. Sorry.

MADIM: I have a very healthy appetite. I eat as much as or more than my husband. When we go out to eat, he knows to let me scavenger hunt on his plate before letting the server take it or I'll kick him in the balls.

Q: Actually eat?

ILBAB: See above.

MADIM: See above. I am a fucking pig.

Q: Favorite cuisine?

ILBAB: Mexican and Italian. And anything fried with cheese. Mmmm…cheese sticks.

MADIM: I could not even begin to answer that question. I like it ALL. Except for pig balls and monkey brains, weird shit like that.

Q: Are you allergic to anything other than David Hasselhoff's chest hair?

ILBAB: Bees, but I will try not to eat them. Though I did almost swallow one that was in my beer once. While on a boat. In the middle of a lake. With no epi pen. My friend Danimal said he would have totally trached me with a Bic pen if needed though, so I was cool. [MADIM here: I can no longer read or hear "epi pen" without thinking of that Damn You, Autocorrect one where the dad told the kid he was injecting mom with an Epic Penis!]

MADIM: *GAG* Do asshole people count? Otherwise, no.

Sleep:
Q: Do you have any weird sleeping habits?

ILBAB: I use ear plugs and sleep in a weird position that I once read in a magazine is called the "flamingo." Also, the last time I was in New Orleans, I had a dream that I was trapped in a sealed closet with no light and a person came by to tell me in a super creepy voice that I would never escape. Needless to say, I woke up drenched in sweat and COMPLETELY freaking out. But that totally won't happen this time… The only other nightmares I have are that spiders are falling on me from the ceiling, so if you see me clawing at the air and saying "get away!" it is just me battling the imaginary spiders. Just roll over and leave me to defeat their legion of webbed minions.

MADIM: No. I sleep. I may wake up to pee. Then I go back to sleep. I like to sleep on my side with a body pillow or something in between my knees. I like to nap when I can because I pretty much shut down if I get too tired. But I'll be so excited to be out of the country and away from my kids that I'll probably be okay not napping.

Q: Night owl, morning person or both?

ILBAB: Both. With the right amount of alcohol and douchebaggery, I can easily be swayed to stay up well past my usual 9 p.m. bedtime, but I still usually wake up at the buttcrack. Sorry. I promise to head to the gym or local cheese stick joint if I wake up at 6 a.m.

MADIM: What is a "morning person?" They sound like a goddamn freak. I am a night owl. I prefer to go to bed late and sleep late. But since having kids, I have been forced out of that schedule and am somewhat flexible. However, if you wake me up at 6 a.m., I'll kick you in the balls.

Poop:
Q: Any medical conditions I need to know about (IBS is a serious medical condition, BTW)?

ILBAB: Nope. I doubt my hippothyroidism will cause any problems worse than my fat ass splitting my pants on the dance floor, so we are all set.

MADIM: I have no medical conditions that will impact you or this trip. But I will make sure the hotel has plenty of toilet paper for your IBS.

Q: Do you have excessive flatulence?

ILBAB: Not regularly, but let's be honest, stinky farts and hangovers go hand in hand. So, all we really need to do is get on the same page with poo spray. Are you for it or against it? I am against it unless it is one of those ozone ones that doesn't actually have a smell. The sweet smelling ones just make it smell like you took a poop in the middle of the floor then decided to cover it up with rose petals. Great, now I am dry heaving.

MADIM: No, but if I have to fart, I will go into the bathroom like a fucking lady.

Who are we kidding with all this? Between the water, food, and excessive drinking, we're going to be like the scene in Bridesmaids where one is on the pot and the other is on the sink. I call the sink, only so I can scream at you to "LOOK AWAY!" And, so I can have the esteemed honor of having shit in a sink.

We should probably pack some room spray.

Booze:
Q: What is your alcohol tolerance level?

ILBAB: First off, I am German. Second off, I went to Southern Illinois University. Let's just say, in a drinking contest, I would make Russell Crowe look like a gigantic pussy. [MADIM here: Russell Crowe IS a gigantic pussy.]

MADIM: I probably shouldn't specify, but trust me when I say that it's extremely high. I will not crap out on you after a few bottles of champagne - for me. I'm German. I take milk thistle for my liver. I wash it down with vodka or wine.

Q: What is your booze of choice?

ILBAB: Beer or wine. Not much of a mixed drinker but I do like margaritas.

MADIM: Vodka or champagne. Rum works, too.

Q: Are you a puker?

ILBAB: I have a cast iron stomach. I won't go into how much alcohol I can consume without ralphing, but it would probably make an Irishman cry.

MADIM: Not since college. No, I wasn't bulimic. Just growing my alcohol tolerance level. And yes, I will hold your hair back for you and keep your face out of the piss and garbage when you are puking in the gutter on our way back to the hotel. But if you shit your pants, you're on your own. Just kidding. I'd even help you then.
Occasionally, very occasionally, when I drink too much, I get these vasovagal responses, where I get dizzy and feel super, SUPER sick and sweat like I'm dying. Probably because I'm actually close to dying. I just go lie on the cool bathroom floor for a while, then I'm all better.

Q: What are your hangovers like?

ILBAB: Not bad, though I am not as in practice as I used to be. The best cure is just to start the shampoo effect by having a hair of the dog. Plus, I am bringing my zofran from morning sickness and a gigantic bottle of Tylenol, so we will be all set. [MADIM here: You BETTER have enough zofran for me. Sharing is caring.]

MADIM: I just want to sleep, and then eat carby, disgusting food to make my nausea go away and drink a couple of gallons of water.

Q: Can you rally when needed?

ILBAB: Fuck yes! See above.

MADIM: What exactly do you mean by "rally?" If some dude tries to rape you, I'll fucking kill him with my bare hands and a stick or whatever else is laying around. But I won't get in a bar fight with you. However, if you're talking about you waking me up at 3 in the morning to go drink some more, fuck yeah, I'll rally.

Q: Do you like dancing/karaoke/shots?

ILBAB: Yes. Yes. and Yes. though doing all three in combination could lead to me being arrested. Or an internet superstar. Hello, Youtube!

MADIM: I like dancing, hate karaoke, shots, meh. Maybe here or there. I'll watch you karaoke, though. And laugh my ass off.

Q: Are you a belligerent or violent drunk?

ILBAB: No and no. I am an obnoxious drunk, but that is just a matter of taste.

MADIM: Nope. Just totally obnoxious (more than usual) and swear more than usual, too. I hate belligerent, violent drunks. Dealt with them when I worked in a jail. Over it.

Misc.:
Q: Do you shower regularly and use deodorant?

ILBAB: Yes, except for Sundays. In my family that is a holy day called, "No shower Sundays." This does not apply on vacations though and deodorant is always allowed.

MADIM: Yes and yes, and I hope you do, too, because I have a SERIOUS ISSUE with bad smells.

Q: Beatles or Stones?

ILBAB: Depends on my mood, really. Let's give this the college test, shall we? If I was smokin' in my dorm room, Beetles; if I was wasted at a frat party, Stones.

MADIM: Mmm. I don't know. Not really into either. ...I KNOW. *Cowering in shame.* No, I'm not. I don't give a shit.

Q: Roth or Hagar?

ILBAB: Roth for original music, Hagar for a live performance. Cabo Wabo, baby.

MADIM: Not a huge Van Halen fan, either.

Q: You're getting called up to the plate, what is your at-bat song?

ILBAB: Black Betty by Ram Jam. Hands down.

MADIM: That is so hard to pick. "Cum on Feel The Noize" by Quiet Riot, or "Live Wire," "Kickstart My Heart" or "Wild Side" by Motley Crue, or "Hero" by Ministry. TOTAL METALHEAD HERE.

Q: Are you going to try to kill/molest me in my sleep?

ILBAB: No and no, though I already warned you that I like to feel boobs when I get drunk, as documented here: http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/2011/10/i-like-boobies.html. [MADIM here: I've already told you that you can motorboat them, since you're going to like them because they're huge. BUT, it stops there.]

MADIM: First off, no I'm not going to kill you in your sleep. Everyone knows we'll be together so that would just be dumb. However, I AM going to follow you home and live in your attic and slowly eat mad amounts of Chinese food while watching your every move. Especially in the bathroom.

Nor am I going to molest you. I heart cock, according to what my husband lovingly writes on my face in pictures; I'm not into the pootang. And I beg of you not to kill or molest me, either.

Here's what you need to know about me. My big secret: I'm insanely vain. Not because I'm beautiful or anything, but just because I am weird. And to top it off, the camera hates me. SO. I only have one condition. PLEASE let me approve any photos before you post them on the internet. Out of 700 pictures we may take, I'll probably only approve of like, 5, but please throw me this bone. We cool? Blood oath? Knuckles? Fist bump? Super secret handshake?

If you want to get in on ALL of the action, follow I Like Beer and Babies on Twitter: @beerandbabies
And Facebook: I like beer and babies.

Also, Julie, while we're down there, should we schedule some cosmetic procedures? Lipo, face lifts? I bet we could get a super cheap two-fer...

UPDATE (That most of you don't care about.)

2013-02-24T10:45:00.001-08:00

I owe an update to all the people who graciously provided their input to my neurotic post debating whether or not I should submit to the San Francisco Listen To Your Mother Show. I appreciate every blog comment, Facebook response, tweet, and personal email you guys sent me. Thank you.

I decided to do it, against my better judgment. I literally just emailed my submission. I honestly have no idea what is driving me to do this. I have no desire to have my face and hyper, spastic physical presence known to the world, for the reasons I explained in that other post, but something (insanity) is pulling me to do it. I've learned to trust my instincts over the years, so here I am.

I HOPE THEY DENY ME.

No, I don't. Yes, I do. No, I don't. I'm sure they will, actually.

We shall see. If they deny me, then I get to announce my being rejected to you guys! How awesome.

Anyway, without further nonsense, this is the post I submitted. <---- That's the link to it, goobs.

It's my most read and shared post ever, and WHAT DO YOU KNOW, it's almost exactly the word count they're looking for. That must mean it's meant to be!

I tried to write a new post to submit, and got all sweaty and mindfucked thinking about actually reading it out loud and couldn't really write, so decided to go with an old one.

Wish me luck, I guess!