Category Archives: Comedy

Twenty-Twelve

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It seems as if my resolution was never to blog again, but alas, here I am typing away…finally.

For the record I don’t have a New Year’s resolution. When you don’t bother to celebrate the occasion, you don’t really give a crap about its traditions. Although I could say that I’ll stop cursing, eating junk food, and complaining but that would last a whopping ten seconds. So I’ll spare us all the drama.

It doesn’t feel like the new year has started, probably because I didn’t actually do any celebrating or ringing in of 2012. The hubby and I were in bed by 10:00. We knew what would happen if we stayed up late…we’d want to jump off a cliff in the morning when our daughter didn’t get the memo to sleep in until 9. So we celebrated the east coast New Year’s and called it a night. Just one more reminder that we’re old now (not that we need any more).

We didn’t feel like unnecessarily torturing ourselves just to say that we welcomed the beginning of a new year with Ryan Seacrest and Justin Beiber. That’s not a good way to start any year.

I used to be a night owl, but the baby quickly cured me of that. When I was a youngin’, I was always one of the last to fall asleep at our slumber parties. You know what happened to the girl who fell asleep first — bra got put in the freezer. (Sorry S). I was never going to let that happen to me. It’s funny to think that we were wearing bras and still having sleepovers…

I’m completely happy to be in bed early now. In fact, the earlier the better.

When I was young, it felt like I was getting away with something by staying up late, watching movies, and gossiping till the wee hours. It’s that same feeling that’s got me putting on my pjs and climbing into bed before 9 o’clock rolls around. Never thought I’d live to see that day.

Merry Freakin’ Christmas

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Christmas came and went, and now my daughter has a cold. Talk about a Merry freakin’ Christmas. Luckily the snot didn’t start pouring till after we opened presents. I should have known she was going to get sick when things started out sorta rocky.

5 o’clock Christmas morning she started squawking in her crib, and I thought to myself, if we get up now there’s no way I’m making it through the rest of the day. But after getting her pacifier back in, she slept till 7. A Christmas miracle!

So of course she had to eat breakfast before we opened presents. Gifts can wait, but a rumbly tumbly can not. And by the time I fed her, my stomach was growling.

We were finally going to open presents when I caught a pungent whiff of poo. Off to the changing table we went (which is an ordeal in itself these days).

The magical time had finally come.

Our bellies were full, the tree was on, the video camera was in place, we’d pulled our stockings from the mantle..and sniff sniff. I still smelled poo. I gave the dogs a dirty look thinking one of them flung a dingleberry on the rug. But then I literally put my finger in it. It was on the foot of her pajamas.

Back to the changing table we went.

Finally, after a clean, poop-free set of jammies was buttoned up and I’d throughly washed my hands, did we open our gifts.

Drumroll…

the baby didn’t care one bit.

We were warned this would happen. That she’d be more interested in playing with the boxes than her actual toys. I so badly wanted her to rip into one of the presents and give a big goofy grin that said she loved it and us even more for getting it for her. But I know those days will be here before I know it. Someday soon she’ll be delighting in the idea that Santa is so rich that he can leave $3 for everyone just as I was back in the day. But with inflation, Santa will have to pony up 10 bucks! Sorry dude.

At the end of it all, we had a great first Christmas as our own little family unit. I was overjoyed to share the holiday with our little girl — who is the best gift this Mummy could ever ask for.

Is It Just Me?

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No one ever told me that being a mom is a daily rollercoaster of emotions. There are highs and lows and moments when I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs and also moments when the ride is over and I want to go again.

I guess what I’m looking for is someone to confirm that it’s totally normal to want to bang your head against the wall because the baby is incessantly whining from the confines of her high chair because she feels she’s ready to feed herself when really if she gets the correct end of the spoon in her mouth it’s only by coincidence. (She’s got to learn sometime though, right?) At the end of the meal Mummy has an even bigger mess to clean up because someone insisted she knew how to eat oatmeal, but whatever to keep her from making that god-awful noise for 45 minutes. Or when she won’t stay still long enough for me to get a clean diaper on her. She flips over before I even have the old one off. It’s like wrestling a badger.

But then there are moments when she thinks me tickling her neck is the funniest thing in the world. She belly laughs like an old fat man before squealing with delight. I feel the rush and adrenaline as the coaster zooms down the hill, my stomach rising into my throat before shooting back down to my toes. It’s the best feeling in the world. I want to stay in that moment all day, but it’s over just as quickly as it started and I have to get back in line again. Trudging my way to the front, waiting through some more whining and crying before I get to that elusive moment of sheer joy.

It’s definitely all worth it.

Talkin’ Dirty

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

To keep somewhat in the loop with the rest of the world and since I don’t read a newspaper, one of my morning rituals is to flip back and forth between all the “news” programs like GMA, Today, and…whatever the other one is. I flip until I find a story that sparks my interest. Yesterday I happened to land on a doozy!

On GMA, they were running a story about more and more moms turning to phone sex as a source of income. This made me laugh since I would be the worst phone sex operator in history. “What am I wearing? Ooooh, stained pajama pants and a raggedy old T-shirt covered in crusty spit-up. You like that, don’t you?”

My version of “talk dirty to me” would be mostly about poop, throw-up, and boogers. Not exactly what the pervos want! Or maybe it is…gross.

One PSO, (phone sex operator) as they put it, was brave enough to show her face on camera while one of the other ones wasn’t. You would never guess this lady was in her home office with her headset on talking about BJs and whatnot. She looked like a normal, middle-aged mom — someone your mom probably would have been friends with. Her PSO name was “Star” which got me thinking what would my name be? Tired? Bedraggled? Cranky?

“Star” said it was a perfect job for her because she was able to work out of her house, spend more time with her child, and still be able to pay the bills. It was anonymous and when asked by her son what she did for a living, she would tell him that she got paid to talk on the phone. Not completely a lie!

I just hope their children never walk in on them while they’re “at work.” Can you imagine? It’s bad enough so many kids accidentally walk in on their parents going at it, but to walk in on your mom while she’s making purring noises and pretending to be a naughty librarian will truly mess up a kid!

One More to Go

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How is it time for another letter to my daughter already? Here goes.

My Lovey Bear,

I can hardly believe that today was your 11 month birthday. Soon you will be 1 (waaaaah) and a big girl, no longer a baby. But remember this, you’ll always be my baby, no matter how old you are. When you’re a brooding teen, I’ll still see your adorable round face and bright, shining eyes from when you were just weeks old. This is good because if I didn’t, I’d probably want to smother you from all the eye-rolling and back-talking that is surely in my future as payback…wicked payback.

Christmas is almost here! Your first one and our first as a “real” family! Daddy and I couldn’t be more excited to share it with you. Surprisingly you’ve done very well leaving the Christmas tree alone, and the presents underneath it. You’ve only tried to touch them a couple of times. We haven’t taken you to sit on Santa’s lap at our dump of a mall, but I’m starting to think maybe I should. But I have reservations. What if he’s like Billy Bob in Bad Santa (it’s a movie that you’ll watch someday when you’re much older). I don’t want to scar you for life…there’s plenty of time for that later.

You’re not walking yet, but you’re very close. You’re perfectly happy speed-crawling all over the house. I love to watch the way your legs swish back and forth as you kick into high gear. You’re not the least bit phased by the hardwood floors, but dang, they kill my knees when I’m crawling around with you.

You have a true obsession with dogs, pointing and screeching at every one we see. It’s the cutest thing ever. Speaking of cute, when you smile now, we see your teeth. A true sign that you’re a big girl! You even have your own tiny toothbrush which you love to use.

You are the best thing in my world! I’m so lucky and honored to be your Mummy. I love you to the moon and back.

As much as it pains me to say it…Happy 11 months, my darling.

Beelzebaby

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

Our new go-to nickname for when our daughter acts like a cranky demon baby.

I wish I had been clever enough to come up with this nickname, but I have to give credit to Up All Night. There was a reference made to the couple’s daughter being a Beelzebaby or as the definition of Beezlebub states: a chief spirit of evil. Genius!

As much as I want the world to believe my daughter can do no wrong, I’m afraid to say that the hubby and I, at times, refer to her as such. It’s completely accurate, not to mention, fun to say.

We know it’s not her fault. We blame her teeth…or that she’s hungry…or tired…or all of the above. While there’s always a reason, it never makes dealing with Beelzebaby any easier. When she’s acting this way, I imagine putting her on the sidewalk with a FREE sign taped to her shirt (only kidding) and the night before last while meltdown ensued before bathtime, the hubby said he was just going to “go out for a gallon of milk” or “pack of smokes” whatever used to be the expression that meant he was never to return. (I glared at him and threatened his manhood.)

I’m afraid my daughter is entering the tantrum phase. She’ll cry and scream for minor offenses like walking away from her or taking away the remote control. Before when she cried all you had to do was hold her, which explained why I barely put her down for the first six months of her life. But now if you try to hold her, then the crying and flailing starts. What I wouldn’t give to go back to when she was content in my arms for 20 hours a day.

Being a Beelzebaby myself gives me the green light to call my own baby out on such behavior. I’ve been told that I was much worse. My daughter is really not “bad” at all, but in the moment it’s another story. Everyone who meets her says what a happy baby she is. So either she has them all buffaloed or I’m lucky she’s not as bad as I was. Maybe a little bit of both.

I Survived, But Barely

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The thought of missing two whole days of my baby’s life seemed like torture to me.

She only has so many days left before she’s 1 and no longer a baby (Eek!) so these last few weeks are very precious. So precious in fact that I contemplated canceling our first overnight trip away from her. But I’m glad I didn’t. We ended up having a lot of fun, everyone was fine, and now I’m reunited with her and all is right with the world.

The days leading up to our departure was another story. I was a jumble of nerves. My neck wouldn’t stop twitching and my stomach was in knots. I carefully wrote out precise instructions for taking care of my pride and joy (to the woman who raised me and my 2 brothers as if she had never even held a baby in her life!) But it made me feel better. Sorry mom.

We left at night after I put her to bed. I always have the feeling that I’ve forgotten something, but never something as important as my daughter! It was not a good feeling to have. It caused me to groan for the first half hour or so, saying we should turn around and go home — only 5% serious. I knew the 4 hour drive would be the hardest part. Once I was there, I’d be okay. I hated the thought that she’d wake up in the morning and wonder why her parents abandoned her. Nevermind the idea that the world could end and I wouldn’t see her smiling face again. I tried not to give in to those kinds of what-ifs.

I did fine though. The copious amount of alcohol consumed might have had something to do with that. Or the non-stop laughing with my friends. Or the swinging my hair around dancing to loud music like I was still in my 20’s. Whatever it was that helped me through my first weekend away from her was surely appreciated. It was just the boost this Mummy needed!

The Uncool Crowd

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Image was important to me from an early age. I blame Barbie with her perfect little nose and weirdly arched feet.

Peaches-n-Cream

I always tried to play it so cool. Never wanting to look like a dork in public. But those days are long gone now. Mom is synonymous with uncool.

Nothing was more humiliating when I had to wear my glasses to school in the second grade. My mom even made me talk to the principal about wearing them…which was even more mortifying. As I got older, I was subjected to my dad picking me up from school in our mini-van — level 9 on a 13-year-old’s embarrassment scale.

I’ve noticed since becoming a mom that I don’t mind looking like a nerd if it makes my baby happy. I’m finally learning not to care what anyone else thinks (it’s only taken me 30 years!). I’ll merrily go along sticking out my tongue or speaking like a chipmunk in broad daylight if it makes my daughter laugh. She has turned me into one of those desperate comedians who will beat a joke to death if it garners even one little pity laugh or smile. “Give me a high 5!” My voice getting louder and more high-pitched with every prompt.

I just can’t help myself.

Trying to be the “cool” mom seems really tricky. How would you know when to be a friend and when to be a parent? Is there a middle ground for this kind of stuff?

I don’t know what kind of mom I’m going to be later but I’m content with being uncool for now. Because my daughter doesn’t know any different yet, and the longer I can keep her in the dark, the better.

In My Face

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It happened last night.

You know that scene from the movies where the unsuspecting person lifts the adorable baby up over their head only to be blanketed in a stream of barf? 

I thought I was projectile vomit immune, that my baby was beyond the age where she might christen me with a puke shower. Sadly, I was wrong.

Enough time had passed from when she ate her dinner (or so I thought). We were playing on the floor, awaiting bath time. Funny thing was that I would be the one needing a bath more than her at the end of it all. I don’t recall shaking her up, perhaps she just had too much to eat.

The next thing I knew a river of throw-up was cascading out of her mouth onto my face. Lucky for me, I shut my mouth just as the barf landed. I quickly wiped it off with my sleeve, but the damage had been done. There was puke all over me — on my clothes and worst of all…in my hair. This wasn’t just a little spit up, this was the real deal Holyfield.

The hubby sat on the couch in shock. I started laughing uncontrollably more out of embarrassment than horror. It was kinda like get pooped on by a bird. You wipe it off and go on as if nothing happened, hoping no one else noticed.

He laughed and said if it had been him, he would have thrown up too. But puke is the least of my worries. Sure, I didn’t like having it in my hair, but there’s worse that could happen. It could’ve gone in my mouth. I shudder to think…

Another Mummy Milestone reached. Where’s my merit badge?

Now I Know Why Victoria Invented the Push-up Bra

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She must have been a mom and breastfed her babies until she was left with two deflated balloons on her chest.

I never needed a push-up bra before. But after 10+ months of nursing my daughter, I’m going to need the best push-up bra money can afford to heft these puppies up to a normal longitude (or would it be latitude?) once we’re done.

It’s not like I want to show off some cleavage — I’m not a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills. But I’d like for them to be where they’re supposed to be.

I tried on some tops last weekend and wondered how the mirror could show me someone else’s reflection, because that surely wasn’t mine. It couldn’t be! When did my girls take a vacation south? How did I not see it happening? Sure, my baby has literally been sucking the life out of them since day 1, but they never looked this…sad, before.

I pushed them up and together only to have them return to their previous resting places. It’s got to be these nursing bras, I countered. They’re just glorified sports bras, totally lacking any real support. After letting out a huge sigh, I quickly changed back into my own clothes and promptly left the dressing room.

My eye-opening shopping trip got me thinking that my body hasn’t been mine for a long time now. It clearly wasn’t mine when I was housing my little pea, especially when she grew into a watermelon, giving me a Buddha belly and huge ta-tas. And almost a year later, it’s still on loan whenever she demands it…which is fine. I love sharing that bond with her.

I guess I’ll probably never feel like my body is mine again. Because the body I knew before is gone for good — something I have to come to terms with. So, I’ll just have to fake it till I make it. Me and my super duper push-up bra!