Someday you will wake up and realize you are disgusting. You will open your eyes and the realization will hit you like a 40 ton diaper pail- you, bitch, are fucking gross.
Why? Because you used your shirt as a burp cloth some time in the wee hours of the morning. You were laying on your back, baby on your chest, and you were trying to burp your child after nursing. You knew it was going to happen, because it always does, but you were exhausted… so you burped him lying down. As always, he inevitably threw up on you. The puke rolled like a tide– down your boobs and up to your throat. Only then did you have the energy to bolt up in bed so you didn’t drown in your baby’s sick. You used your clothes to clean up the amazing amount of puke. You felt good that you obviously produce enough milk. Cling to this information. It’s all you have to keep you going.
No caption. She says so much already…
Let me tell you about my favorite sound in the whole wide world. It goes like this, “MooooooooooOOOOOOOoooommmmmmm!” and it is hysterical.
It’s the sound my daughter makes whenever I am humiliating her beyond words. She can’t do anything to complain besides just kind of MOO my name at me. It’s freaking great.
Sometimes people are multifaceted. Sometimes they have multiple interests and can’t be pigeon holed into a single category that defines them. I like to pretend to be one of those people.
Thing is, “bitch” would pretty much sum me up. With that in mind, I’m going to step outside of “mommy mode” for a second and do something that has always brought me pleasure– judging people.
Today had such potential to be a good day. The sun is shining, it is above 50 degrees out there and I was ready to make a good day of it.
Gabe, however, had other plans…
It started out brilliantly. I woke up, had coffee and Gabe was being a real doll–not fussing, playing happily and just, in general, being a good baby. It felt like the perfect opportunity to go run some errands, and by running errands, I mean “go to Walmart,” as usual. Now, I’m not a ‘Mart fanatic. I’m a mother. I have limited time and resources. If I can make one trip, I better make it count. So, out of sanity-saving necessity, I go to the Mart. I hate the Mart, I do. But, shit, girllll, they got e’rthang!
It’s okay to be jealous.
I think he was itching his scaly forehead on my face (yeah, guess Clarisonic doesn’t cure cradle cap). Felt good. Felt right. Felt… Kinda abrasive (and oddly damp).
I also have a husband who documents the precious moments…
My life, you guys… My life…
I killed it. I loved it and I killed it.
I don’t even know what happened so I’m going to re-trace my steps in an attempt to figure out how it all went wrong for poor Basil here.
It was a beautiful sunny day. I became convinced spring was upon us so I swaddled up the baby and went out on an adventure… to Wal-mart. This is a reoccurring trope in my life. It seems that all things that happen to me begin, end or somehow involve a trip to Wal-mart. This is a scary realization.
Your sadness sustains me!
My three-month old son laughed for the first time last night. It was a magical little cackle that would melt the iciest heart. And I, his doting mother, is the one who made him burst out in adorable giggles. How? By showing him what I look like when I cry.
What a dick, right? (Him, not me. I’m SUPER nice.)
Someone in this house is trying to drive me crazy. I MIGHT be exaggerating but I’m sure that every crazy person had a moment when she doubted the validity of what was plaguing her. But then, BAM. She turned full-blown crazy. Like, in a second. She found ONE MORE FUCKING CANDY WRAPPER ON THE FLOOR and the transformation was complete. Crazy. Poof. Continue reading
My life in a nutshell:
I have been sitting on the couch for a half hour now with my left boob hanging out of my shirt. Why? Because if I put it away, the baby will wake up and scream at me. He’s a tyrant.
So my new kid has cradle cap. You know, that yellowish, crusty stuff some unfortunate babies get and that WebMD says is completely normal? Well, if you’ve never seen it, it’s gross. It embarrasses me. I feel like I should mumble apologies to people who tell me he’s cute. “Yeah, if you can look past the horrible, flaky scales on his forehead, I GUESS…” Continue reading