Tag Archives: Parenting

Forever Hold Your Peace, Lady!

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Today as I stood in the checkout line at the grocery store allowing my 18 month old to hold my bag of candy so she’d be quiet, this woman standing next to us said, “Oh you’re going to have another one pretty soon.”

“Yep, 3 or 4 more weeks.”

She responded with an exasperated look. “And how old is this one?”

“18 months.”

“Was it planned?” She asked.

Instead of saying it was none of her business like I wish I had, I said no, but it wasn’t unplanned. I politely laughed and said I was getting it all over with in one shot and never looking back to diapers or sleepless nights. (Hah, yeah right.)

She then proceeded to tell me that she started potty-training her son when he was…wait for it…four months old. Four months old?! Riigghhht. Like I really believe that. She was such a “veteran” that I doubt she remembered where she parked her car, let alone forty-some odd years before. Then she went on to share how she could only deal with one kid at a time, that’s why she spaced hers out 8 and 10 years apart. I’m sorry but that just sounds like torture to me. Why would you want to go backwards and do the whole baby thing over again once you have a ten year old? But did I say that to her face followed by a look of extreme disapproval? No, because I have manners and a filter, unlike her.

A checker rescued me and I was happy to leave Negative Nelly behind, but she kept right on talking as I made my way into the next lane. I couldn’t see her face anymore, but I could hear her jabbering away at me, spewing out more unwanted advice on how to potty-train my infant. At first I pretended to care as I hurriedly threw my items on the conveyor belt, then I said screw it and let her talk at the wall of magazines and bags of chips separating us.

To the next bitter lady that makes me feel this way about my life choices I shall say, “I’m happy my kids will be so close in age (ask me again in 2 months) and I could give a rat’s ass that my 1 1/2 year old is not potty-trained yet. Thank you, ma’am.”

God, I hope I never become that lady. And if I do, as my Mummy likes to say, “Just put a pillow over my face and say goodnight.”

Pinteresting, Very Pinteresting

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I could blame my lack of blogging on chasing around my 17 month old toddler or I could blame it on my lack of creativity because baby brain has officially taken over, but I’m going to blame it on Pinterest. I’m a little behind in joining the craze, but now that I have, I see what all the fuss is about. It’s like window shopping without any kind of budget or guilt, loading up my online shopping cart with everything my little heart desires only never pressing proceed to checkout. I can “pin” and “repin” all sorts of pictures of outfits, dream homes, recipes, and accessories all the livelong day and not spend one cent (the hubby loves this part of it).

It should be called Greediest though as I want almost everything I see. Good thing I’m not a shopaholic or else this would be like crack cocaine.

So for those who don’t know what Pinterest is, it’s basically an online bulletin board of anything and everything you could ever want. It keeps all the things you like in one place so you can daydream and wish upon a star that you had enough money and time to actually attain any of it. It’s really sort of depressing in a way. Sure it’s great for recipes because that’s stuff you might actually use in real life, but the photos of faraway places and million dollar kitchens is just a fantasy and always will be. Makes me a little sad and adds to this fog of denial that I’ve been living in for…oh, probably my whole life.

Somehow seeing everything I’ve pinned in one place is enough though. It’s my 50 Shades of Grey, so to speak (no, I haven’t read the book…yet). It completely takes over my brain and enslaves me. I can’t help but look at my boards throughout the day and pin things I just have to have. Like that dress I could never pull off or those shoes that would collect dust in my closest.

Really, it’s nothing like 50 Shades of Grey. It’s probably the antithesis of it because it’s like shopping abstinence and we all know there was no abstaining of any sort in that book.

Guess I’ll keep enjoying my new-found addiction until this baby comes along and I have zero time for anything again!

Time To Bust Out The Chundies

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Chundies, as I’ve been referring to them recently, are chubby undies. Or granny panties. Or circus tents. Or whatever creative way you want to say big ol’ chonies. If I’m going to be honest, I busted out the chundies long ago in this pregnancy but I’m only just now getting around to writing about it…as if you’d been waiting your whole life to read this.

This Mummy has never been a thong, thong, thong, thong girl. When did I ever have to worry about panty lines? Never! And even if I did, I don’t think I would sacrifice my comfort by wearing butt floss just so that others wouldn’t be troubled by my visible underwear lines.

I don’t really understand the whole thong phenomenon. I get it if you’re wearing some fancy, curve-hugging number or you’re Giselle sashaying down the runway but just in everyday wear? To work and to the grocery store? Doesn’t make sense to me! Why would I want a skinny little piece of string up my crack all day? Sounds like torture.

As much as I’m a comfortable undies kind of gal, there is something terribly embarrassing about chundies. They’re just plain big and unsexy. It’s like trying to fold a parachute — you can’t really tell the front from the back. You don’t want anyone else in the world to see them either on you or in your drawers. You pray that your shirt doesn’t ride up in the back exposing your chundies bunched up around the top of your jeans…yes, there’s so much fabric that they bunch.

Almost everything about pregnancy is weird and embarrassing. When your body is taken over by ravaging hormones and an alien literally sucking the life out of you, you want to be comfy at all costs. So your pride is the first to go and then it’s your pretty, lacy underthings. I feel sorry for the women who are too ashamed to join the land of chundies, putting their comfort (and asses) at risk for the sake of femininity.

For now and the next four months I’m going to enjoy the comfort of my chundies and then throw them all away in a ceremony marking the end of my baby-making days. But don’t be fooled, this Mummy will never completely leave her chundies behind (though I definitely should). As any normal woman knows, there is always a spare chundie stuffed in the back of your underwear drawer.

OneCrazyMummy

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I might as well change this blog’s name to OneCrazyMummy because with baby #2 on the way I won’t be sane for a long time.

Yes, it’s official — the hubby and I are expecting a brother or sister for our darling daughter sometime in September. We’ve had awhile to get used to the idea of two little rugrats running around but sometimes the fear hits us out of nowhere. We’ll be out on a walk and suddenly realize there will be two drooly faces to wipe…(not to mention two dirty butts).

We realize that once this baby gets here, making us a party of four, we won’t be making any kind of reservations or leaving the house period. The hubby already scoffs at how much stuff is required just to make a simple outing to the park. Weighted down with multiple bags on his arms and the stroller in tow, he asks if the amount of stuff will double with the new addition. Duh! Like with everything else, it will become our new normal I guess.

This wasn’t exactly planned nor was it unplanned but we’re very excited for our growing family. Sure we have our moments of “what the hell are we thinking?!?!” but the thought of our daughter having a sibling so close in age eases those fears. At least until she’s a teenager and wants nothing to do with her brother or sister (or her parents, for that matter). Did I mention I was going to have myself committed by the time she hits thirteen anyway? A nice padded room with no sharp objects, just a bed and a pillow. That sounds like heaven!

Can’t Have Nothing Nice

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Growing up my brothers and I trashed the house like most normal kids — spilling drinks, tracking mud, and breaking things. Our poor mother was left cleaning like a lunatic while my father shook his head exclaiming, “We can’t have nothing nice!” Well folks, karma has finally come back to bite me in the ass in the form of my daughter.

My chip off the ol’ block is a tornado of destruction, a whirlwind of chaos, a hurricane of devasatation…in other words she’s a full-blown toddler. Every day the house looks like an angry drunken bear has barreled through pillaging for honey and whatever else bears eat. There are potholders and whisks in the middle of the living room, clean clothes strewn down the hallway, and even tampons (unused of course) stashed under the couch all thanks to my daughter’s greedy little mitts. If it’s one of those days when I can’t keep up behind her, I’m afraid the hubby will come home and think we’ve been burgled.

I have grand (delusional) visions of living in an immaculate house close to the beach. My dream home, if you will. Every room ripped from the pages of a designer magazine. So clean and sparkling that when you walk through it seems as if no-one actually lives there. Yeah, I know it will never happen. Or if it does we’ll be too old and rickety to enjoy it.

What is that saying? Be careful what you wish for? Someday I’ll have those beautiful fancy rooms and someday I’ll be sad that they’re so clean and empty. No tiny socks next to the TV or BBQ tongs on the bed. What will I do with myself?

For now I’m keeping my inner-Martha locked up and enjoying a new definition of clean.

Late Bloomer

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I hope my daughter is a big ol’ nerd, er, late bloomer (at least until the summer right before she goes off to college). Then she can blossom just like Tony Danza’s daughter in “She’s Out of Control.” She’ll lose the braces, get contact lenses, and finally brush her hair. Hopefully she’ll skip the jogging in slow motion on the beach to the Twix music. You know the song, the one that goes “Mmmm bount bount /ahhh /chicka chickaaaaa.”

Her new look will be acceptable since she’ll already have given her speech as valedictorian at her graduation and missed all those lame high school parties where her peers will either get knocked up or arrested or both. Then she can go off to college and do whatever she likes away from Mummy’s watchful eye. Well maybe not whatever.

I want my daughter to remain a kid as long as possible opting to take her pet bird to prom rather than a handsy teenage boy. I don’t want her to rush through life, like (I think) I did. But is it inevitable that she’ll always be looking to the next stage?

I tease that I raised myself as I was very independent at an early age. By independent I mean that I potty-trained myself and was born knowing how to read but I still relied on my parents for the essentials.

My hubby jokes that I was never a child much like Manny on Modern Family. His character is wise beyond his years enjoying poetry and Canasta. Some might say an old soul, some might say a stick in the mud.

As a Mummy with an old soul it’s been somewhat challenging to channel my inner-Elmo on a daily basis. But it’s a good thing. Maybe if I leave my old soul in the dust and act like a silly goose then I have a better chance of keeping my little girl little for as long as possible.

Breaking Lady Wind

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I started taking my daughter to a music class for kids. We sing songs and dance around like fools. It’s fun especially when my daughter takes a break from trying to eat the instruments and busts out in a swaying dance. Makes the wiggling around like a twit completely worth it.

The class gets a CD with an array of children’s songs. There are a few I can’t handle listening to for more than three seconds but most of the other ones are fine. There’s one song in particular that makes me howl with laughter. It’s called My Lady Wind. You can run with it as far as you’d like. But it brings one thing to my mind — farting: an Olympic event in our household. Naturally my hubby holds the gold medal, my daughter the silver, and myself the bronze for ones that manage to sneak out in my sleep.

As I’ve mentioned before when I was growing up, my father thought it was impolite to say fart so he made us say, “Did you pass gas?” which sounds ridiculous, but in his presence we must have followed this rule. With my daughter I always use the word toot. But now that I know of Lady Wind I’m starting anew.

Although this name also brings to mind another word that my father would have forbidden in our house: starts with Q and rhymes with leaf. But I’m not going to refer to Lady Wind as that, it’s going to mean fart. I’ll simply ask my daughter, “Honey, did you break lady wind? Say excuse me.” Or “We only break lady wind in private, not on Daddy’s head.” But really I shouldn’t say anything — I should just let it be. I don’t want her growing up thinking she can’t be comfortable. Besides her Daddy says it’s a natural function so it’s not like he’s going to reprimand her for blowing her butt trumpet…he’ll probably high-five her.

Look Away!

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The newest game with our daughter is we lift her shirt, press her belly button, and say “Boop!” Of course she thinks it’s hilarious and loves to return the favor lifting up Mama or Daddy’s shirt and jabbing our navels with her tiny little finger. I’m awaiting the day when we’re out in public and she raises my shirt to expose my less-than-flattering midsection to the world. I know it’s coming.

Even when we’re in the comfort of our own home, with no prying eyes I still have the same reaction to this intrusion of privacy. It’s not really an intrusion though. She’s my flesh and blood. She can punch me in the crotch, grab my boob, and put her head on my bum and I wouldn’t flinch. Well maybe I’d flinch, but it wouldn’t be weird. Just like it’s not weird that I have to slather her bum with paste five times a day and clean poo from her crotch biscuits.

I can’t help my reaction though. When she lifts up my shirt, I squeal and try to stop her. Mostly it’s because her hands are cold on my stomach, but the real reason is because I’ve never been good at exposing myself — unlike her father who proudly shows off any chance he gets (just like a man).

I’ve never taken to nudity. If given the chance I’d move to Alaska just so I could be bundled up year round. But I don’t want this for my daughter. I want her to be comfortable in her skin, at every age. I’ve told myself that I need to get over this hang-up so she doesn’t end up with it as well. But it’s not like I can turn back the prudish hands of time…especially when this body has been ravaged by pregnancy, too many slices of pizza, and not enough gym-time.

Being able to get dressed in front of my daughter should be no big deal. I shouldn’t hide my body from her. She should know that this is what a real woman looks like, and that those scrawny broads in magazines are 100% airbrushed. I hope I can do this for her later on. Right now it’s not that big of a deal because she’s not yet aware. But down the road when she’s capable of asking questions I hope I don’t hide in the bathroom or turn away from her. I will gladly share her pale, saggy, stubbly future with her.

Poor poor child.

Scarred For Life

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The Soup is one of my favorite shows especially now that I’m a mom and have zero time for TV. It takes all the best clips from the worst TV shows and bundles them all together for your viewing pleasure. That way you don’t have to waste all of your time figuring out which Teen Mom most recently went to jail or what the Kardashian sisters are squabbling about. They bring it all to you in one concise hilarious half-hour. And that Joel McHale’s not too shabby either…what can I say I’m a sucker for a funny guy.

Can anyone say inappropriate?

We’ve all heard of Toddlers & Tiaras, but if you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. It’s a horrifying show that makes me want to bleach my eyeballs after I’ve seen it. It’s a train wreck that leaves you feeling ashamed and outraged. But it’s the parents of these young girls who should be ashamed. Any mom who dresses her daughter like a prostitute, fictional or not, (see photo) must be high!

These stage moms are on a different level. I know we’re all proud of our little mini-me’s and want to show them off, but c’mon when your daughter is wearing booty shorts and shaking her non-existent ass on stage in front of a table of judges, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Don’t you even worry about the molester groupies who are probably attending every one of these pageants? Sitting in the back of the room with their greasy comb overs and their hands in their pockets?

The clip on The Soup showed a girl no older than four dressed in a bathing suit showcasing her best stripper moves all for what? A plastic crown and $100? It’s appalling. I wouldn’t want my daughter dressing and dancing like that if she were twenty let alone four. Yet her Momma was probably happy as a clam, clapping and dancing in step with her daughter as if she was the one to win that itchy plastic sash.

I used to like watching the Miss America pageants when I was young. Something about those glittery dresses and big hair. Nowadays I’ll be happy if my daughter doesn’t even know what a pageant is. The only contests she’s going to enter will be spelling bees and science fairs. No spray-tanning, fake teeth, or gyrating required.

Now What?

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Here we are. One year later. I’m no longer a new mom with a new baby. (I need to change my description over there on the side.) Now I’m just a mom with a 1 year old.

We survived her first birthday. It was a great celebration and I’m proud to say that I didn’t need that tranquilizer gun after all. I made it through the party without shedding a single tear. Maybe it’s because our whole family was cooped up inside our house due to inclement weather and it was too packed and loud to even think straight or become emotional.

It was a great party nonetheless. She smeared a beard of hot pink frosting all over her face and even managed to use some as eyeshadow before I called it quits and hosed her off. Of course she was beyond exhausted from not having a normal nap that morning. Naturally. She must have known she’d be called on to perform and didn’t want me to forget who exactly was in charge.

So now I’m left wondering where to go from here. It’s not like I have it all figured out — far from that — but I’m entering a new parenting phase and I hadn’t given it much thought yet. I guess that’s my problem though. If I think about all of this, I psych myself out and question everything I do or get overwhelmed thinking about her getting her license and talking to boys. I need to just go with the flow and look back in seventeen years and wonder how I survived it all.

It feels like I’m graduating out of the title of new mummy and settling in to being just Mom or Mum. (Even though I refer to myself as neither to her.) I wonder if I’ll feel like this with each passing year, getting a little more used to being a parent with each birthday. Or maybe I’ll always be surprised that I’m the boss calling the shots…at least until we reach those Terrible Twos. Aaagh.