Category Archives: Daughters

Talkin’ Dirty

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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

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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!

Momma Bear Claws

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Nothing creeps me out more than a grown man waving and smiling at my baby. Before you call me crazy, let me remind you that I watch way too many Dateline specials to trust ANYONE in this world. So when Chester the Molester is staring and grinning at my daughter while she’s in the grocery cart at the store, it takes everything in me not to kick him in the balls and run in the opposite direction. I try to give these weirdos the benefit of the doubt, rationalizing that they’re probably grandfathers and fathers themselves. But if this is true, why do most of them look like they just escaped from a mental hospital or prison?

If it walks and talks like a child predator…

Eek!

Today there was a strange man in front of us in the checkout line. He kinda looked like that scary ghost on the subway from the movie, Ghost (at least that’s the description I would’ve given to the police). His faded jeans were pulled up to his neck and his tennis shoes were very white, as if he spent all day and night cleaning them with a toothbrush. He asked how old my baby was. And if she was a boy. Then he mumbled something about her being adorable and something else that was inaudible. I avoided eye contact while emptying my cart onto the conveyor belt, preferring to keep our interaction short. Whether it was my overly cautious nature or the fact that I could see this guy sitting across from Chris Hansen on To Catch A Predator, he definitely made my Momma bear claws come out.

I don’t like being so judgemental about these guys, but it’s almost like they’re asking for it. One piece of advice: Just go on about your business, don’t pay any attention to my baby, and this Momma bear won’t maul you to death. Thanks!

The Decline

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“The Decline” is my hubby’s worst fear. It was our running joke for awhile, but it’s kind of died off now. Uh-oh, does that mean it’s happening? I still shower everyday, put on new chonies, and a little makeup…so, no Decline yet!

His worry is that I’ll totally let myself go, not bothering to shower or even brush my teeth on a daily basis. I don’t know why he’s so concerned though. There’s only been a couple of days since I had the baby that I skipped a shower. I should be the one who’s worried. Some weekends he’s the poster child for The Decline: stinky and unkempt, lounging around in his favorite ratty T-shirt and shorts.

I understand where he’s coming from though. I don’t want to end up like one of those moms who wears crusty sweats all day and doesn’t even bother to brush her hair. The poor souls who end up on makeover shows, forced to watch secret video footage of themselves wearing ill-fitting bras and jeans that give them muffin tops.

My girlfriend said she had a reality check the other day when she realized it had been months since she’d gotten her hair done, her roots a little longer than normal. (She said she looked disgusting, but that’s impossible! She’s the most beautiful Mummy ever!) But she asked me to never let her become one of those women who end up on “What Not to Wear”. Of course she never will, but I understand her anxiety and will tell her if she ever starts to slide into The Decline. I know she’ll do the same for me.

I panic about the days ahead, the days where my daughter will drop her morning nap and I’ll have to get ready while she’s–godforbid–awake! Awake and trying to get into everything she shouldn’t be getting into. It will take me 3 hours just to get ready for the day in between chasing her around. Or I could succumb to the dreaded TV as a babysitter so Mummy can have those precious uninterrupted 15 minutes…

When these days come (as I’m sure they will) and I haven’t showered or even changed into a brand new pair of underwear, if the hubby so much as raises an eyebrow, there will be a whole lot more Declining coming his way!

Double Digits

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E ~

10 months ago you opened your eyes to the world and probably screamed, “Put me back!” But we didn’t understand your baby cries and we’ve been holding you prisoner ever since. If it’s any consolation, you seem to be a happy prisoner. You’re fed on time and your captors make you squeal with delight when they pinch your naked hiney right before bath time. When you wake up from your naps, you hold the rails on your crib like a true death-row convict, wailing to be picked up and cuddled…it’s so cute.

The past 10 months have flown by. Seriously, wasn’t I just writing you a 9 month birthday letter? It’s frightening how fast time passes since becoming your mom. Your first birthday will be here before I know it. I’ll probably cry the whole day and then eat whatever’s left of the cake after you dig through it with your mitts.

You’re speed-crawling everywhere these days. Your favorite thing right now is playing tag down the hallway. You stand in the corner and scream with happiness when I jump around and scare you. I worry that I might be giving you baby heart attacks, but the minute you cry instead of laugh, I’ll know to stop. (So far that hasn’t happened.)

You’re really cultivating your sense of humor. This morning, when Mummy got all misty-eyed listening to a story about an elephant and a dog who were best friends until the dog died, you looked directly at me and laughed. I guess we know that you didn’t inherit my schmaltziness and you’re more like your father than I care to admit (although he has been known to shed a tear every once in a blue moon).

You’ve said Ma-ma for the first time and while it’s only when you’re in the high chair demanding food, it melts my heart. Most of your words are still babbles, and you’d rather woof like a dog than “say” anything else. Speaking of dogs, they’re your favorite! You love them all!

I’ve said it a million times but you’re the cutest, most beautiful baby in the world. But you’re hardly a baby anymore. You’re getting big so fast and I wish I could start over and relive every second. Well maybe not every second. I’d skip the sleepless nights and the first couple days of recovery after squeezing you out. Those weren’t so fun. But everything in between for sure!

I love you! You are my angel, my darling, my star (to quote one of the books we read).

Happy 10 months my sweet girl.