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.

Slacking

I am so slacking on my vow to blog more. Between being knocked up, watching The Voice, and keeping us in corn dogs, I am just plumb tuckered out. Plus I suspect I just don't have much funny to report, other than my left cankle, which is a thing of beauty and a joy forever, and my rapidly expanding middle, which is going to rival the last time and is already showing signs of having its own atmosphere and tides. Also, trying to shave my legs while pregnant is high comedy, but if you saw it you'd probably go blind. Also, I hope maraschino cherries are not bad for me because I am heavy into Shirley Temples right now. My friends and I are all nostalgic about dinners out as kids where we got our own "cocktail". I am sure that today if I ordered my kid a Shirley I'd get a lecture about how inappropriate it is to order a training cocktail for a kid. WhatEVS.

Best part of being pregnant? I am not fat right now. I'M PREGNIT, Y'ALL. Pass the Doritos.

Have you ever noticed that you never see regular sized people in trailer parks? They are either too skinny-denim-tank-tattooed, like all the women who look like Patti Smith is their personal style icon even though if you asked them who Patti Smith is they'd be all like "Who? She on Nascar or what?", or fat and dirty-totally-gave-up-don't-wash-their-hair-unless-it's-parole-officer-day. I am clearly not destined to be a Patti Smith. Plus, I fear needles. I fall firmly into Camp #2.

Better go wash my hair. Right now.

Kid Cuisine....corny carny goodness

So, I fed Oscar a Kids Cuisine meal tonight because I am a lazy piece of shit. Hey, pregnant, tired and whatnot. Cut me a break. I let him choose and he wanted the corn dog, so whatevs. AND I KNOW IT'S FRIDAY AND LENT AND SHUT UP PLZ THX.

It featured a corn dog, corn (sense a theme here?), fries (about three of them) and chocolate pudding. Not a vitamin to be seen! The pudding has that frozen-dinner pudding skin on it.

He loves it. He looks like he was born in a carnival, if you were to judge by the gusto with which he is consuming the corn dog. Come to think of it, I might make a good carny, so perhaps that's not too far off the mark.

It smells pretty good, honestly.

Boys will be boys

Oscar went to a birthday party yesterday. It was a pretty fun party, actually - at someone's house rather than Bouncy McFunhouse or Cheese E. Rat's. There were lots of dads watching the Phillies game, beer on tap, grown up food, and ten bazillion boys, mostly around age 5.

They spent most of the time running, screaming, trying to shoot each other with Nerf guns, jumping on a trampoline, running, screaming, more shooting, more jumping. It was little boy paradise. They were alternately supposed to be Star Wars characters, superheroes, Power Rangers Samurai or Bakugan.

I was reading one of my online friends' accounts of a child she knows who is not allowed to play these games as they are too violent. And that makes me sad. They have so mch fun being little warriors. How else will they learn to be evil corporate overlords? How else will they protect their old and weak parents when the aliens descend on us from above?

When I was pregnant with Oscar, I was NEVER going to allow a toy gun in my house. Heh. I got over that pretty quickly. Even if he didn't own twenty light sabers, various swords and sai, Nerf guns, laser guns, and armor, he would have figured out a way to make a gun out of something. And he has perfected that laser gun sound effect (tsew! tsew!). In fact, The Trash Man and he watched Star Wars for the first time when Oscar was only four days old.

I think there is nothing funnier than watching a bunch of 5 year old boys trying to be badasses. And when the aliens come, it'll be MY kid who knows Klingon. And can assemble into a Megazord with his friends.

So, personally, I think we should be training these kids harder. Start working with ninja accessories sooner. Hire a sensei at each day care. Have cage matches in the padded playrooms. Have a Jedi Master start the lightsaber training pronto. Who's gonna defend us when Zurg comes if they aren't ready?

Breakfast of Champions

Oscar and I are sitting here sipping our coffee (DON'T CALL CPS, IT'S DECAF) and I just ate a piece of cake. Hey, there are lemons in the cake, so vitamin C, right?

I have to admit, it is funny to see other people react when Oscar asks for coffee, or coffee ice cream. The looks! The clucking! "Isn't caffeine BAD for children?" they ask, with a pointed look at me. I usually shrug and say. "Well, they don't have rum raisin, his other favorite."

Oscar is mad because there are no cheese doodles in the house. I've raised him right.

What to Expect when You're Expanding

Ok, so you know all those glowing pregnant women you see in commercials and in ads, with blemishless skin and a rounded tummy that is all tanned and smooth, drinking water and eating salad and walking briskly in the park, seemingly without effort of any kind?

Yeah, right. Fuck those bitches.

They don't seem to puke, or develop weird skin tags in inconvenient places, or get stretch marks.

I am not one of these women.

When I was pregnant with Oscar, my stomach was a giant planet with its own satellites, atmosphere and tides. Seriously, it practically affected gravity around me. The surface of this planet was riddled with rivers and streams of purple which contrasted nicely against the planet's white, white soil. It was humongous, so huge that it burst the restraining walls of my abdomen, leaving an unsightly bulge behind even when the pregnancy was complete.

And skin tags blossomed like so many fleshy mushrooms.

And I developed a huge chin-pimple that stayed around for most of the twenty thousand months I was pregnant.

And I couldn't eat meat or eggs or even look at them without throwing up.

I ate mostly peanut butter sandwiches, grilled cheese, Frostys, and pizza.

This time around? The same. More and more of the same. Except now it's pizza, Pringles and chocolate covered dried cherries.

At least it's not Cheetos. Stay tuned for skin tag counts and stretch mark updates. My stomach already resembles an atlas.

St. Drunky's Day

We went to a St. Patty's day parade yesterday. It was cloudy and coolish and I sat on a filthy curb all day. A soda exploded on me, my kid and inside my purse. I saw bagpipe brigades aplenty, Irish dance schools replete with bobbing curly wiglets, ten bajillion fire engines, a dozen local politicians in convertibles, and several Catholic schools on scooters. All in all, your typical small-town parade.

However, the town is a drinky one, so lots of people were marauding about with beers in anticipation of the Blarney Bus/ Emerald Express/ Stereotypical Irish Binge Barge / whatever they call it, where the people pile in to a bus to make getting drunk as quick and efficient as possible, so they can be delivered from bar to bar with ease and drive home piss-drunk later. Consequently, there were scads of middle-aged men in green t-shirts belching their way around the festivities, getting a head start on the night's debauchery. It's not a college town, so the drunks skew a bit older.

Which isn't a big deal, except that I have a toddler. Who needs to use the potty. And the potty is a porta-potty. The only potty for blocks.

Let me remind you, I am knocked up. So all disgusting smells are exponentially increased in intensity and reaction. So even dirty dishes in the sink make me hurl.

Oscar beseeches me to find a potty for him as he has to poop. I resignedly trudge to the porta-potty. There is a line of belchy middle-aged men. "I waited too long!" the one behind me crows. It's a race against the clock for Drunky McIrish.

We finally get into the porta-potty. Oscar sits down and starts to complain about the weird potty. Meanwhile, I am gagging and gagging. Oh, my god, the stench! The chemical tang combined with the excrement of countless drunken dumbasses! In fact, I am gagging just writing this. Oh, man, it was BAD. Meanwhile, Drunky McIrish is outside yelling "Hey lady, you done in there? I'm seein' yellow out here!"

RAGE takes over which helps considerably with the nausea. I tell Oscar to take his time. He does. It takes everything I have to stay in there, but dammit, one more word out of Drunky and I'll puke on his "KISS ME, I'M IRISH" t-shirt. With glee.

When we finally leave the porta-potty, I smile sweetly at Drunky and, Oscar in tow, walk away.

I doused us both in hand sanitizer.

in other news.....

we had Cheetos for an after school snack, my child is running around my house yelling POOPY STINK BUTT and I am pretending I have a beer. Can't drink, a little trashlet is on the way.

I need to buy me a housecoat to lounge around in, to complete the picture.

Holy absence, Batman!

Yep, I am back after a lengthy sabbatical. Up to no good as usual. Nothing as fun as you would imagine, but hey, them's the breaks, and those Cheetos aren't gonna open their own bags, know'm say'n?

Here is an example of the high-class goings-on at Chez Trashy:

Me (to Oscar): Hey! Don't sit on the cat!

Oscar: I'm not sitting on him, Mom, I'm trying to fart at him.

Me: Oh, that's ok.

(beat)

Me: Um, that's not nice? Stop?


That's me, klass all the way.