Wire monkey mother

Ok, I am no storybook mother. I propped a bottle for the little guy so I could eat and all I could think was WIRE MONKEY MOTHER. Poor kid was giving me the most pathetic look, too. "why won't you hold me? Don't you love me enough to feed me? Selfish!"

aRZgH. stop it, hormonal voices in my head!

In other news, yesterday Oscar was lying close to the baby, crooning a song. I sneaked up to watch and listen and feast on the cute.
"What are you singing, honey?"
"A song I made up for the baby, Mommy."

The song lyrics went something like this:

He's an evil baby
He's gonna take over the woooooorld
With his giant brain
he is gonna build two robots
And take over the wooooooooorld

I was like, um, what?

Upon further questioning, turns out he was referring, sort of, to Mystery Science Theatre 3000.

My little geeklet.

The Milky Way

I know it's pretty UMC of me to breastfeed, or at least sort of breastfeed while also giving formula. But it is trashy of me to note that my breast is bigger than my baby's head. It cracks me up to see this tiny boy clutching my boob, calmly regarding me with a touch of scorn. "WTF is up wit the tits, Mom? Don't allow them to crush me, please."

Also, breastfeeding is the least sexy thing ever. Moooooo.

All Hail The King

Super Pooper! The King of Ca-Ca. The Prince of Poopy. The Duke of Dookie. The Earl of Upchuck.

The trashlet has arrived. He is, of course, the cutest baby ever, with the possible exception of Oscar, who was damn cute too but very different from Little Lord Trashleroy. I adore him, of course, and am adjusting to life with two little trashlets instead of just one.

However.

I had forgotten about a few things.

1. Stealth peeing. This child is a sharpshooter. As soon as I get the diaper off I have to cover for my own protection, as I've already had a few impressions of Old Faithful as he lay there guilelessly cooing at me. He particularly likes to do it when I am changing him on a not-easily-cleaned surface (couch, comforter, my bed).

2. Baby poop. Like Grey Poupon, only stinky. Grainy, yellow, and everywhere. He is gifted at getting his foot in the poop and then spreading the poop via foot to his clothes.

3. Lochia. The period that makes up for all the periods you missed while pregnant. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, to have to make it all up. Eff you, Mother Nature. Way to do a solid for your girls...NOT.

4. Cankles AFTERWARD. Dude, my feet were so huge afterward that they wouldn't bend. They don't tell you about this shit on those happy new mother websites. And clearly Effing Mother Nature wiped my brain clean because I totally don't remember this from last time.

5. Giant cartoon character breasts. Mine were big anyway. Now, when it's feeding time, they inflate into Dolly Parton-like proportions. It's almost obscene.

6. Sleep deprivation makes people insane. Insane. Insane.


Also, my older child is living a Talking Heads song. Cannot keep his hands off Little Brother and wants to wake him up ALL THE TIME. I keep telling him BABY IS FRAGILE DO NOT BREAK THE BABY.

Argh. Stay tuned.

Super testy and ready to pop... an old post that never posted

I wrote this two weeks ago and effing eff, it never posted. So here it is again.

So, eight days from now I am birthing my next little trashlet (must come up with a nom d'internet for him...maybe Sanford.)

Needless to say, I am cranky as hell.

A few assorted rants (we'll call them "observations" to mitigate the Cranky Pregnant vibe, shall we?):

Observation #1

I love my grocery store so much (and I am definitely one of the po'folks in this area, but I still dig my highfalutin' grocery store.) One perk is that they have "customer with child" parking, right after the handicapped spots, which is damn convenient when you have littles with you, or are so pregnant you can barely waddle into the store.

However.

I live as a non-entitled peon in the Land of the Entitled, where all the people driving Saabs, Mercedes, Beemers, Audis and Rovers don't feel that they should have to a)stop at stop signs, b) yield to pedestrians in crosswalks, or c) park in a parking spot that is CLEARLY too far for their expensive shoes to bear. So, quite often, I see some tool park in one of the Customer With Child spaces, hop out of his child-seat-free convertible without any accompanying child, and head into the market for his sixpack of Stella, while I, or some other mom in a minivan, parks a mile away and trudges through the lot with a small child/ren while other people in giant SUVs or 60k sedans yak on their cell phones (in hand, of course) as they weave through the lot and almost run us down. I always think, you spent all that money on a car and you can't afford bluetooth? Why don't you have the maid do the shopping if it's so haaaaaard?

I really want to make up some slips that say "You're an asshole for parking here" and leave them on windshields but I am sure they have some anti-Democrat alarms on their cars that go off whenever the unwashed masses near.

Observation #2

Babies like to use bladders for a pillow. Just ask me about what happens when I sit down, stand up, or laugh. MOVE YOUR HEAD PLEASE K THX.


Observation #3

When the bartender and the karaoke DJ are laying bets on you giving birth a week or more early, you know your stomach has passed "big" and moved onto "efuckingnormous". The fact that you are even in a bar at this point starts to become ridiculous, but hey, at least I'm not drinking.


Observation #4

100 degrees is too fucking hot for anyone, but when you are gigantically pregnant and due in 2 weeks, don't go to Hershey Park.

Ok, so I should be nesting or cleaning or whatever right now so I'd better get to it. My mother is already horrified that PEOPLE might see my terrible living quarters after the baby comes. I am hoping he will detract from the need of a paint job and drywall repair needed in the kitchen.

Besides, Oscar is screaming at me for something so I'd better go.

Greetings from the Land of the Swollen

Trashy Knocked-up Mama here. Yeah, I know I look like Jabba the Hutt right now.

Holy shit, I am sweaty and swollen. I am the antithesis of the glowy expectant mother. I just want to eat cupcakes and read Facebook, as my brain has stubbornly moved into first gear. I want to clean things and organize things but I am tired. And I have heartburn.

And my left cankle is HUGE. Huge and GROSS.

Did I mention I'm sweaty?

My son helpfully tells me I look more like Ziro the Hutt than Jabba. Gee, thanks? Ziro is the queeny flamboyant one, so maybe he thinks it's a chick. Oh well.

More beach antics this weekend. I may rent a crane to get me in and out of my chair.

Beached whale

Ok, can I say, I am big as a house right now. And I went to the shore for Memorial Day weekend, and it was freaking HOT, and I sat in a very very low beach chair on the beach. Extricating myself from said chair was an exercise in grace topped only by the hippos dancing in Fantasia.



It went something like this:

Step #1, Sitting: Open chair under SPF umbrella; be sure snacks are nearby. Warily regard chair as an evil adversary. With difficulty, drop to one knee. Rotate gigantic stomach and ass till they are positioned over seat. Lower self using armrests till last possible second. Plop into seat. Sit back. Sigh heavily. Commence snacking.

Step #2, Getting Up: Sigh heavily. Scootch forward till giant stomach and ass are mostly off of the seat. Tilt heavily to one side and kneel in sand. Rotate on one knee till facing evil chair. Using armrests, heave self up, groaning. Try to retain balance so other beach items are not crushed under aforementioned giant ass and stomach. Cry, "That's right, bitch!" to chair in triumph. Walk up the beach to the bathroom and pee. Return to chair, repeat step #1.

Repeat entire process every hour or so.

In honor of the holiday, I had my toenails painted blue by a very fit Chinese man, who only seemed to know two words in English - "Ed Hardy" - based on his clothing. He seemed equally fascinated and repelled by my cankle and dirty heels.

And yes, Oscar ate crap food and stayed up till 11. Wanna make something of it? Don't fuck with the overheated pregnant lady.

I love you, Mommie dearest.

Wishing all trashy mamas no wire hangers today. Here's to all the bloody steak, shoulder pads, axes, Bon Ami cleanser, and all the ankle-strapped fuck-me pumps you desire.