Category Archives: Daughters

They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!

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What do they call it when you do the exact same thing over and over expecting a different result? Oh yeah, CRAZY!

My life right now is the very definition of crazy. Each night before the hubby and I go to bed, I’m optimistic that our daughter might sleep 8 uninterrupted glorious hours, allowing us to do the same. And each night she shatters all my hopes of ever sleeping through the night again. Yet, the next night just before I close my eyes and drift off to some sort of rest, I think, maybe tonight’s the night.

Who knows where this glass-half-full person came from. I’ve always been a Negative Nancy when it comes to…well, everything. Perhaps Motherhood has changed me from a lifelong pessimist to an optimist? I doubt it, if anything you’d think motherhood would do the opposite. Take a sweet Pollyanna and crush her spirit until she’s a snarky cynic. Sleep deprivation and permanent stretch marks will do that to a gal.

Maybe I have no choice other than to be optimistic about this for fear I’d end up in the loony bin wearing a straitjacket talking to my imaginary friends with drool running down my face. Actually, that’s probably what I look like in the morning anyway: pajamas askew, hair mussed, mumbling like Rain Man while I stagger down the hall like a zombie. If you didn’t know I was a new mom, anyone in their right mind would have me committed. Hey, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I bet those loons get all the sleep they want!

Everyone Poops (But Usually Not in the Tub)

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This post practically wrote itself.

My daughter pooped while sitting in her high chair as I spoon-fed her winter squash and plums. She alerted me to her deed by flashing her poop face: an intense focused look. Then she grunted, confirming my suspicions.

This led me to a great idea.

The hubby and I should record her the next time she decides to let one loose while eating dinner, then on her prom night we can play it before she and her date go off to the dance. With that image in his mind, he won’t try to get to third base. He’ll be too grossed out and she’ll be too embarrassed. It’s the perfect strategy.

But it seems she had the last laugh.

We finished up dinner and I ran her bath. Her newest thing is to pull herself up on the side of the tub. Before you tell me she shouldn’t be standing in the tub…I know. But she’s obsessed with doing it, so I let her. Spotting her the entire time. I should have known something was going on because she wasn’t slapping the tub like she normally does. She got quiet and before I knew it, her poop face reappeared.

Next thing I knew, there were 2 brown trout swimming in the tub with a third on its way. I laughed hysterically, calling the hubby in to bear witness. His first reaction was to take a picture, not clean it up. Naturally. So before she had time to finish her duty I picked her up, covered her butt with a wash cloth, and hurried to the changing table.

This was the first time she’d ever taken a dump in the bath. Even when she was a newborn–pooping every 2 minutes–she never had this kind of accident. So it’s totally fitting that she did it on a night when I try to devise a plan to ruin her prom night seventeen years from now.

Too-shay, baby. Too-shay.

Apples or Oranges

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Being a mom is all about trade-offs and sacrifices. You really can’t have it all…at least at the same time. Your head would surely explode. So they should stop making such a big deal out of it.

On a daily basis I find myself making choices between this or that. Do I take a shower while she’s napping or read my book nestled in the corner of the couch? Because if I choose reading then I’ll have to take her in the bathroom with me while I shower and who knows what kind of mood she’ll be in. She might scream at me the entire time because she can’t see my face, even though I continue to talk and sing her name, assuring her that I’m just behind the curtain.

But if I choose to shower while she’s peacefully slumbering, there are even more choices to make. To shave the legs, or not to shave the legs. And I mean the whole leg–both of them–above the knees. To condition the hair, or not to condition the hair. You can’t do both. There’s just not enough time to be showered and ready before she wakes up if you shave both legs! So I usually sacrifice smooth legs for manageable hair, it’s not like these pasty white stumps see the light of day anyway.

Each decision is a trade-off in itself. Sometimes it works out well and the whole day goes smoothly. Other times I want to pull my hair out…my soft, manageable hair.

I realize the choices I have to make are really easy ones for the time being. I know it will only get more complicated as the baby gets older. And here I always thought that things would get easier! Joke’s on me!

 

*&%#@$

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

My parents didn’t swear at all when we were growing up. We were even dissuaded to use the word fart, our parents allowing us to say, “Who gassed?” instead. So how I ended up with a mouth that can put a sailor to shame–I don’t know.

I admit, at times, I have a potty mouth. I also admit that I have very poor timing. One instance involved both. Two Christmases ago I unwittingly blurted out WTF in a packed restaurant as we took part in a white elephant gift exchange. It wasn’t my fault entirely…tequila was involved. Which brings me to my next point.

There are 3 things that bring out my potty mouth: 1) drinking 2) watching football 3) getting woken up in the middle of the night. What am I a caveman?

They say that people with a poor vocabulary resort to cussing. Those people are wrong, cursing can be quite colorful and creative. I like to use it as decoration or an accessory, if you will. Sometimes it’s just a way to release. However, I realize that I need to put an end to it. I want my daughter to think the F word is fart and blush when she hears it. Didn’t work for me though, so I’m aware this will be a difficult job.

There’s no excuse for the first two things I listed. But I have to say that #3 is going to be a hard one to break. There have been many nights when I’ve pulled myself from bed without a word –a loud, exhaustive sigh–yes, but no words. But then there are those nights when a string of curse words escapes my mouth, grumbled to the darkness. I guess I won’t repeat them since I’m in the process of trying to break this nasty habit, but the latest was along the lines of “Bleep me in the bleep on Easter Sunday!” Not my proudest moment.

Maybe I acquired my potty mouth when I went to school in New York (for just 4 short months). People there pepper in “bad” words nonchalantly, so that you barely even notice they’ve said ’em. Or they just don’t give a fuck, whoops, shit, oops, care. When my professors used curse words, I thought “this is how the real world speaks.” Then I returned to my small town in California, and it was not how the real world spoke, not the world I was from.

I don’t want to threaten my daughter with washing her mouth out with soap (something my brothers and I heard from our mom, who once upon a time had it done to herself). But I don’t want her running around saying shitburger or ass clown either. Guess I’ll have to cut out drinking and football. Nah, I’ll just wear a muzzle instead.

Crouching Tiger, Not-So Hidden Dragon Breath

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My mom’s dragon breath has stayed with me for years. It’s the reason why I’m not a coffee drinker today. That, and coffee tastes like ass. But I’ve been seriously thinking about jumping on the coffee bandwagon. It’s the sleepless nights combined with the afternoon sluggishness and the nagging need to work on my “real” writing that is pushing me toward it. I figured if I stayed up a little later and worked on my novel when the entire house is put to bed and quiet, then maybe I’d be one step closer to achieving my lifelong dream of getting published. There is no way I could do this without drinking a pot or two of coffee to get me through, or else I’d want to take a long walk off a short pier.

When I say coffee, I’m not talking about the fancy frou-frou drinks at Starbucks. I mean plain ol’ make-it-yourself sludge. The kind of coffee that cleans out your insides as if you’d eaten a bushel of prunes followed by a basket of bran muffins.

I hear that coffee is a wonder drink capable of supplying a caffeine jolt, keeping you regular, and suppressing your appetite. So many pros. The biggest con, maybe the only one, has to be the dragon breath.

I figured when I became a mom that naturally the next step would be to start enjoying a cup of Joe during my morning routine, not feeling quite human until I took my first jittery drink. But it hasn’t happened yet. I’m afraid to become dependent on it if I take even one gulp.I don’t want to end up a slave to my coffee-maker, a virtual zombie without my java. But I guess I’m already part-zombie, so I should just buy some Altoids and learn how I take my coffee. I’m thinking with A LOT of sugar.

Food is my Heroin

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Remember the days when you could eat anything you wanted, skip the gym, and still only have one chin?

Yeah, I don’t either.

Oprah and I have one thing in common: food is our drug of choice! Not alcohol (though I do love a glass of champagne) not crack (it is whack after all) but food–delicious, comforting food.

The hubby and I are both afflicted with the love of eating. So much so that I pray we don’t end up on The Biggest Loser Couples in 5 years. Who am I kidding? In 2 years. I would seriously cry if that overly toned Jillian Michaels was screaming at me to “Just say no to doughnuts.” It’s not like I eat them on the reg, just when I deserve a treat. Which, come to think of it, is all the time. Doesn’t she know that raising a baby is hard work?

Doughnuts are the devil!

That’s the whole problem. I think I deserve some sort of pick-me-up when the day is a particularly trying one (or the night was an extra sleepless one). A cookie here or mini-Coke there. Just a little hit of something sweet to take the edge off.

I love all the studies that say junk food is as addictive as drugs. The hubby and I joke that we’re cursed with a disease. But really the only disease we have is laziness. We know it, we just don’t want to acknowledge it. Before the baby, I was confident I would return to the gym with the same dedication I had when I was only 2 months along. The baby weight didn’t stand a chance against me and that elliptical machine, or so I thought. I have yet to step foot in a gym 8 months postpartum. There’s just no time. Or motivation.

Until now. I’m going to junk food rehab. The only way to do it is to shift my addiction to something else: shoes. For every 10 pounds I lose, I get a new pair of shoes. And not the cheapies from Tar-jay I normally buy. Good ones from an actual department store.

Oh, to be fat and happy, eh Oprah?

Karma Shmarma

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Back when we were young and untethered, the hubby and I upped and moved to San Diego. We felt more at home than the small town we hailed from, so it’s no mystery that we plan on returning one day. Last night while taking one armful of laundry out of the dryer and throwing in the next, I was reminded of the first place we lived. More specifically I was reminded of the chick who lived in the granny flat behind our house. Normally I’d say woman or young woman, but this gal was the very definition of chick. She dotted her i’s with hearts and her name rhymed with Gimme.

I didn’t have any gripes about her other than the laundry room situation. We shared a washer and dryer. No big deal. I only did 3 loads of laundry a week, tops. That seems preposterous now. I practically do 3 loads a day! Funny how the addition of such a little person creates so much more dirty laundry.

It makes sense to me now that both the washing machine and the dryer were always jam-packed with “Gimme’s” clothes, as well as her son’s and daughter’s things. At first I was polite about it. I’d take her stuff out of the dryer and neatly arrange it on top. But it felt utterly wrong touching a stranger’s underthings…even if they were clean. So as time went on, I’d just stack everything in a huge lopsided tower on top of the dryer as there was no other place to put it, feeling some sort of weird vindication when it all ended up on the dirty ground. When I couldn’t take it anymore I asked her to clean it up. Her clothes were everywhere, like a teenager’s bedroom floor.

I don’t remember if it ever got better. We moved out after our one year lease was up. We loved that house and probably would’ve stayed if there had been an actual Granny living in the granny flat.

Now when I open my dryer door and see a load of laundry from days before, I think of Gimme and how hard it must have been for her to do anything being a single mom to 2 young kids. Then I think I shouldn’t have been so annoyed with her, that she was probably doing the best she knew how. Perhaps it’s my karma to always have a dryer full of clothes now for ever passing judgement, for ever thinking that I would never be like Gimme.

Karma shmarma.

I still think there’s something wrong with a grown woman dotting her i’s with hearts.

What’s in a Name?

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The hubby and I are on our way to becoming Ma and Pa, our new nicknames for each other lacking any passion or flirtation. I picture us eighteen years from now — older, even dorkier versions of ourselves wearing fanny packs and visors to our daughter’s graduation. Then later, hearing aids and false teeth. Doesn’t get sexier than that! It’s our destiny to be that obnoxious couple who refers to each other as Mom and Dad even though we’re not,  in fact, each other’s mother or father.

It’s already happening. He calls me Mama instead of Sweetie and I call him Daddy instead of Honey. It’s like when you first get married and you just can’t wait to use your new title of Wife or Husband. It’s thrilling…until the novelty wears off. Then you’re just the ol’ ball to his chain.

Did it happen overnight? Perhaps when we left the hospital with our baby, we drove over some invisible line into the Parent-hood whereby we were initiated into the “gang” (without having to prove ourselves by doing a drive-by). We were forced to leave our former selves behind and go forth as parents, surrendering any shred of coolness we might’ve had left. We all know parents aren’t people, they’re just Fun-Nazis.

So maybe we should teach our daughter to call us by our first names? We’d be the coolest parents on the block, and we wouldn’t have to completely give up our identities. Only kidding. I waited a very long time to become a mom. I love who my daughter has made me and will wear my new name proudly whether it be Mommy, Mama, or Mummy!

To Cut or Not to Cut?

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Mom hair is almost as bad as mom jeans. If someone can guess your age and how many kids you have based on your hairstyle alone, then you’re in trouble. When I was growing up, my mom had the quintessential mom ‘do circa 1985 (see above). It’s still what I see when I picture her today, not her updated, highlighted bob. Her ultra-short hairstyle back then makes total sense now. It probably took her all of 5 minutes to do. That’s what I’m talking about!

Many new moms succumb to cutting off their lovely ladylocks because there’s just no time to devote to brushing, drying, straightening, and smoothing when there’s a baby in the next room who might be trying to eat an extension cord.

I’m one of those new moms now. I loved my long hair when I actually took the time to blow-dry and flat-iron it, making it smooth and shiny. But I hated my long hair because I never felt like putting in the effort, hence why it always ended up in a raggedy ponytail. So, like many new moms I made an appointment to have it chopped off.

It’s funny how our hair defines who we are. Now that I’m a mom I think I’m too old to have long hair in the same way that mini-skirts are a no-no (not that I’d be wearing one anyway). Long hair is mostly reserved for teens and chicks in their 20’s, not moms more concerned with grocery lists and playdates. The one exception might be Angelina. Is there anything that woman can’t do?

This isn’t to say I won’t have long hair again someday. It might be against my better judgement, and will probably signal that I’m suffering a mid-life crisis, but isn’t it better than buying a shiny red sports car?

Cut it off, grow it out, dye it dark, repeat. Hair is the one thing I do have control over!

The World Has a Fever and the Only Cure is More Babies

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Babies weave some kind of magic over people. It’s almost impossible to resist their chubby cheeks and gummy smiles. I know a few people who can, but the majority of the world can’t get enough. This is probably why I have so many blue-hairs stopping me every two feet at the grocery store, proclaiming that my daughter is the cutest baby. When it was just me I used to blend in with the fruits and vegetables, but now with my daughter it’s like there’s a neon sign over our heads saying, “Compliment this baby and you might win a brand new car.” All the attention is very sweet, and I always thank them, but when it happens so often it makes me wonder. And slightly worry. If these ladies didn’t have walkers or arthritis slowing them down, would they try to high-tail it outta there with my baby? No, I know the sight of my munchkin triggers happy memories of their own little ones, that’s all.

Before our daughter came along, my hubby was in the group that could resist the gummy smile of an infant. He didn’t think babies were cute or cuddly, and never wanted to hold one. Then our lovely bear came along and he couldn’t get enough! Suddenly he loved them all! Of course he didn’t think they were as cute as his own, but they were adorable in their own way. I admit there isn’t anything sweeter than a man getting all mushy over a tiny baby. So in conclusion, if a baby can make my hubby’s Grinch-heart grow to love them, then their voodoo must be very strong!