Category Archives: Daughters

Procrastination Is My Middle Name

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I’m the type of person who unpacks from a weekend away the moment I step back into the house. There’s something very satisfying about putting my things away in their rightful spots and tossing dirty clothes in the hamper. Within minutes of returning home, it’s like I never left in the first place. Maybe it’s so rewarding because I’m a homebody, or maybe it’s because I’m slightly OCD (onecrazydummy). It’s kinda scary when you identify with Annie Wilkes from Misery — noticing that the penguin figurine she has is pointing in the wrong direction! Yep, in my organized world, everything has a place and a direction too. Yet, it seems I’m lacking my direction now.

Procrastination has taken over my life! Nothing made me realize this more than the used paint brush that sat wrapped in cellophane inside my fridge for well over a week. It’s a trick I learned somewhere so you don’t have to wash your brush right away if you’re going to do any touch-ups. There were only a few minor spots to go over, but it took me forever before I actually finished the job. What motivated me wasn’t that there was an unfinished chore to be done, but that I was worried somehow the paint toxins were leeching into all of our cheese slices and nectarines, thus giving us some rare form of cancer…which it probably already has. Sorry to be a Debbie Downer. Optimism has never been my strong suit.

Before my daughter came along, I liked to do things in a timely manner…now that’s a thing of the past. And this is not just another ranting about how I don’t have time to do anything anymore…even though it sounds very similar. Because even when I have the time, I choose to put it off another day. So really there’s no excuse.

It’s one thing to realize that my time is better spent cuddling and playing with my baby than worrying about how clean my house is, but maybe it’s time to stop dragging my feet when there are dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds blowing across my living room floor and a foot of freshly fallen dust on my nightstand.

3 Things I Took For Granted

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1. Sleep: Well duh, that’s a no-brainer. Gone are the lazy Sunday afternoons, falling asleep on the couch to HGTV in the background. And gone are the uninterrupted nights of peaceful slumber. I wish someone would figure out how we could recharge ourselves each night without having to sleep for 8 hours. Like a cellphone or an electric car, we could plug in and feel as if we had slept all night. That would do wonders for my life as a new mom and aspiring writer. Think of all the extra time I’d have to procrastinate even more!

2. Vacations: The hubby and I are fortunate to have had awesome vacations in the past. Kauai, Mexico, Santa Barbara to name the most recent ones. But I guess I was a vacation snob — enjoying my time, but my life was already one long vacation. Only working a part-time job while pursuing my passion for writing, and taking care of a household that consisted of the hubby, me, and our animals…piece of cake! So while I looked forward to “going on vacation,” it wasn’t something that I needed because my life was too stressful or chaotic. Now, I’d just about sell my soul to be lounging on a white-sand beach under a blazing sun, sipping a drink with an umbrella in it. I wouldn’t even care that this body isn’t swimsuit ready — I’d go get the best spray-tan money could afford (since we all know tan fat looks better than pale fat) and I’d relax the hell out of that vacation!

3. Business Time: It’s no surprise that your love life (and by love life I mean sex life — sorry Mom) takes a drastic hit after the addition of your precious bundle. I take that back, maybe it was a surprise to the hubby. Gone are the spontaneous rolls in the hay…at least for a little while. “Business Time” before a baby is anything but business, and after a baby is exactly that…scheduled maitenance. Sorry dads, no new mummy is looking to jump back in the saddle, so to speak,  soon after having their baby. And once you do feel ready, her mere presence in the next room while you’re gearing up for the hippity-dippity is enough to thwart it before it even starts.

In closing, to all my friends who plan on having kids but haven’t started a family yet. Go on vacation, sleep like there’s no tomorrow, and have lots of sex in between. Then you’ll be ready.

Damn You Germs!

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I’d rather walk barefoot across burning coals than be sick. Yes, I’m that melodramatic…especially when I have a cold. It’s one thing to be under the weather when all you have to do is lay around eating chicken noodle soup and watching the Kardashian sisters squabble about their oh-so-hard lives. But it’s a whole ‘nother thing if you’re sick and you have to take care of a helpless infant. Not my definition of fun at all!

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a big baby when it comes to dealing with a cold. I moan and complain about how much I hate being sick which doesn’t help matters or make the cold go away any faster. But I never knew what it was to be sick and have to put your sickness second. All I want to do is remain immobile and have someone wait on me hand and foot. I can barely read my daughter a story and forget trying to hum her a song as she drifts off to sleep. I sound like Marge Simpson hacking up a hairball.

If there’s a silver-lining, it’s that my baby thinks it’s funny when I cough or clear my throat. As long as she’s laughing and happy, then it makes dealing with this cold not the absolute worst thing in the world. It’s the 2 am and 5am wake-ups that are killing me.

It dawned on me that I must have messed up karmically since this is my second cold in just a manner of 2 months. What did it? That spider I killed the other day? Or that I didn’t pick up my dogs’ poop on our last walk? I guess I deserved it then.

This cold has shown me that my days of being cared for are over. Now I’m lowest on the totem pole. I have to be okay with that, because as a mummy I don’t get to call in sick…ever. So I say, damn you germs (fist shaking in the air) and pop another cough drop in my mouth.

Matricide Is No Joke!

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“Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.”

It’s irrational that I worry about my daughter growing up and killing me one day. Crazy as it sounds, it happens. Look at the infamous Menedez brothers or Lizzie Borden. Or the most recent story I heard about on the news this morning. They called the kids a pair of star-crossed lovers a la Romeo & Juliet. They were forbidden to be together by the 14-year-old girl’s mother, so what do they decide? To off her. Scary shit! That poor mom was probably just looking out for her young daughter and that was the thanks she got.

I watch too many of these 48 Hours Mystery shows and Dateline specials. It’s no wonder I have nightmares about getting rid of bodies. I’ve always had a fascination with mystery novels and Hitchcock movies, an interest in the macabre. I guess I’m addicted to these shows because I’m always shocked at what people are capable of. I couldn’t fathom killing anyone let alone a family member who I love (even when I thought I “hated” them, I still loved them). I’m hoping by showering our dear child with lots of love and attention, she’ll never want to put me or her father in the ground!

The most frightening part was that the daughter looked like a normal kid in the before pictures. She didn’t look like the monster that she became. I don’t know all the details, maybe the home life was abusive or whatnot, but I don’t see any excuse for murder.

Looking at my baby’s sweet, smiling face, I know she will never be capable of something this heinous. It worries me that she’ll fall into the wrong crowd or be brain-washed by a boy she thinks she loves, but I have to believe that her father and I will set her up to make the best choices in this crazy, effed up world.

Girls Rule…

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Sugar & spice and everything nice or frogs & snails and puppy-dogs’ tails? I tend to like sugar over frogs. But that’s just me. And snails…eww!

Depends on who you ask, but most parents have an opinion on the easier gender to parent (if that even exists). When I was pregnant, we were Team Green, not pink or blue. That sounds like Team Hermaphrodite, but that’s what you call a couple who doesn’t know the sex of their baby. Much to the dismay of most of our family and all of our friends, I wanted to be surprised to find out our baby’s gender. Secretly I was hoping for a girl even after everyone told me that boys are easier (not that like would’ve changed anything anyway). I would’ve loved a son just the same, but in my heart I wanted a daughter.

A lot of parents say that boys are easier than girls. What about boys equals easy? The fact that they like to play in the mud, shoot things with pretend guns, and are accident-prone? I always thought boys were troublemakers, but that’s probably because I grew up with two older brothers. To me, a baby girl meant frilly dresses, tea parties, and dolls…things I know more about than Tonka trucks and lizards. I’m guessing that girls are more difficult than boys when they get older and the sassiness kicks in. Duh! I’m still keeping my fingers crossed that she’s a late late bloomer and somehow knows how much I wished for her.

It’s funny that anyone could claim a girl or boy is easier. At the end of the day, they’re still kids and we only have ourselves to blame for how they turn out…damn!

Addicted to Sleep Sheep

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Insomniac sounds like maniac for a reason.

When I’m sleep-deprived (which is often these days) I turn into a delirious lunatic, putting the milk in the pantry and spewing mean insults at my hubby in the middle of the night, with no recollection of what I called him in the morning. What’s even more upsetting is that when I finally get to rest my weary bones, I’m wide awake as if I had just taken 5 shots of caffeine. You’d think I’d collapse right into sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, but no. I toss and turn like a madwoman. Then I start thinking of the baby waking up and how I’m wasting precious sleep time, which only delays slumber even longer. It’s beyond frustrating!

It’s probably my own fault because I haven’t really tried to fix the problem. No warm milk, counting sheep, or reading a book. I just lay there, willing the Sandman to visit.

I’ve never been a sound sleeper. I thought if there was any time in my life when I wouldn’t have trouble falling asleep, it’d be as a new mom. What’s worse is that my hubby closes his eyes and is asleep in 2 seconds, leaving me listening to the whistle of his breathing that sometimes sounds like our daughter crying, which in turn causes my stomach to seize as if on a rollercoaster. Oi vey!

I’d give anything to fall asleep whenever, wherever. However, pitch black and complete silence are required. I hope my daughter doesn’t have the same problem. They say not to be quiet when she’s asleep, yet it’s instinctual to whisper whenever she’s napping. And if the dogs bark — forgetaboutit —  in their crate they go. I doubt she’ll end up like me because she doesn’t even need the white noise machine I stole from her to use as my own. So pathetic, I know. And now I’m addicted.

Some sweet souls try to tell me that sleep is overrated. But when it’s 3 am and you’re the one dragging your butt from a comfy bed to soothe a screaming mimi only to lay back down and be wide awake, then you can tell me that I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Because functioning on less than six hours of sleep sure makes you feel like you’re already there!

I Drank the Kool-Aid

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It seems by our recent purchase of an SUV, I’m officially in the Mommy Club. Wasn’t expelling a human from my insides enough? I thought to be inducted into the club, you had to be pooped, peed, and barfed on all in one day. Apparently, the ante has been upped! To be a “real” mom, you have to look the part, and a mini-van or an SUV is at the top of that list. But there was no way in hell the hubby and I were going to buy a mini-van. I grew up with vans my whole life and that was where I drew the line. Cars are not meant to have sliding doors capable of hacking off a limb or curtains in the windows. Forget the vans with no windows…we all know what those are called: Chester the Molester vans! (As a side note: Why are they always poop brown or pumpkin orange?)

Driving my suburban mom vehicle does, in fact, make me feel more like a mom. I’ve only had a handful of “you know you’re a mom” moments so far. One was when I used spit to wipe my daughter’s face and another was when I picked a booger out of her nose without any hesitation.

Now that I’m a member of the Soccer Mom Cult, I couldn’t be happier. I love how high the car is, how it feels like I’m maneuvering a tank down the street, taking up the whole road. I know they’re gas guzzlers and not the best for the environment, but it feels safer than our old smaller car. Plus, we have room for all her things when we take a road trip now. There’s nothing like packing for a 2 day trip with a baby. You can’t bring enough stuff!

All my mom ride is missing is a “My Kid is an Honor Roll Student…” bumper sticker. Those stickers are so cheesy and cliché, but you know if my little Einstein brings one home I’ll slap it on there faster than you can say E=mc squared. What a proud Soccer mummy I will be!

Intimidated By My Own Authority

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When my mom counted to 3 —  she meant business.

I want to be the type of mummy who has no qualms yelling at kids who are doing something wrong. But I haven’t found my “mom” voice yet. Nor have I perfected my “mom” look. You know the one. The one where you nearly crap your pants if  you’ve done something to warrant it.

Last week I was at the library with my niece. She was putting on a very humorous puppet show about a dancing chameleon and a sick frog when a young boy, probably four years old, walked up and stripped the puppet from her hand. My niece was so upset, but she just looked at him like the bully that he was and sulked to herself. I wanted to steal the puppet back from this little tyrant (maybe even whack him on the nose with it like a poorly behaved dog*) but I did nothing. His own mother was sitting nearby, oblivious to his antics. Then I wanted to speak up for my niece, but I couldn’t find any words. Who am I to reprimand someone else’s child? I’d be asking for a beat down in the kid’s section of the public library. It’s not like this mom was Hulk Hogan or anything, but some parents are crazy these days. I wished this boy’s mother would’ve been paying attention and fixed the situation, but she didn’t. So we moved on to the puzzles. But it irked me.

I have this huge block when it comes to telling other people’s kids what to do. (How I substitute taught for 6 months is beyond me!) For some reason I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes or piss off anyone so I usually just freeze like a deer in headlights. It seems I’m intimidated by my own authority. That sounds ridiculous. You would think that from the moment I became a mom I’d be wielding my authority all over the place. Yelling at teenagers driving too fast down our street. Shushing noisy kids in the movie theater. Bitch-slapping anyone smoking near my baby. But no, I can’t even stand up to an ill-mannered 4-year-old. I’m sure I’ll get there…eventually and when I do, watch out all you little heathens!

*onefunnymummy does not condone violence against animals of any kind! : )

What’s Next, Baby Tattoos?

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Wait, let me get this straight…you want me to take our sweet baby girl to a mall so a gum-snapping, hair-flipping 17-year-old named Kimberley can shoot spikes into her delicate ear lobes? No sir! Ain’t gonna happen! Baby’s don’t get tattoos, why should they get piercings?

My hubby wants to get our baby’s ears pierced, but I’m not convinced. I think it’s funny that he even has an opinion on the subject, yet it’s endearing at the same time. How could I put permanent holes in my daughter’s precious ears? My job is to protect her, not to inflict unnecessary pain for the sake of decoration. She’s not a Christmas tree, for Pete’s sake! What does she need embellishments for? She’s gorgeous, as is!

I feel terrible when she bonks her head on the side of her crib or face plants when attempting to crawl, so how would I feel when she’s screaming in agony from a piercing gun harpooning her miniature lobes? I’m guessing like the worst mom in the world!

My mom took me to get my ears pierced when I was 6 months old, a fact I often bragged about. She did it because I was bald and people would mistake me for a boy. To this day, I’m happy to have my ears pierced and no recollection of going through the painful process. So I wonder if I should go ahead and make the decision for my daughter, or just wait until the day she can ask me herself. What’s a mummy to do?

If her doctor’s office did the procedure, I’d be more inclined to get them done sooner than later, but they don’t. I asked. I just can’t bring myself to take her to a mall to have it done. How could I live with myself if something went wrong or they got infected. I look at her beautiful face and smooth skin and think nothing could be more perfect in this world…how could I mar her by putting metal studs in her ears? It seems insane!

The more I think about it, the more I want to wait until she comes to me and asks to have it done. Even then I’m making her daddy take her. Let him be the bad guy for once!

My #1 Wish

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To stop time or at least be able to pause it like on the awesome 80’s sitcom,      Out of This World. All Evie had to do was touch her index fingers together, and voila, time simply froze. It was only when she clapped her hands like cymbals that time would pick up where it left off. If I had this ability, I could keep my daughter a baby for a little longer because her days as an infant are speeding by. Plus, think of all the laundry and dishes I could get done. Who am I kidding? I’d be sleeping all day and watching reality TV marathons.

In only 10 days, she’ll be 8 months old and I seriously don’t know how that happened. I don’t like using the term literally, but it literally feels like we just celebrated her 7 month milestone. Now I know why people have more babies…to show time who’s boss!

When I was little, our family used to go on an annual trip to a church camp in the mountains. I wasn’t so thrilled about the church part, but man did I love the snow and ice-skating part. 100 days before our departure, I counted down on the dry-erase board in my room. It took f-o-r-e-v-e-r.

It’s weird that you wait and wait an epic 280 day (sometimes longer) countdown when you’re pregnant just to meet your little munchkin. You keep telling yourself that it will be here before you know it, even though it feels light-years away. But then as soon as you pop that sucker out — wham! Time decides to fly by at “ludicrous speed” to quote Spaceballs.

Now that I’m a mom, my life has become a constant deja-vu moment or Groundhog’s Day. It feels like a hazy dream where I know what will happen next. Except that it’s not a dream, she really does need to eat and be changed again. I wish I could go back to when it felt like I had all the time in the world instead of laying in bed at night wondering how another day managed to sneak by.

Whoever said that time flies when you’re having fun is right. My days are so filled up with love and happiness (not to mention monotony and repetition) that time just sort of stopped existing for me. So, in a way, I guess I got my wish. Maybe I should’ve wished for a billion dollars instead!