Single and ready to….

pass the fu&k out.

The husband was out of town this week. He likes to tell me how much he works and how long his days are and how hard the wind blows and how bad it hurts to get sand in his eyes. He’s in the desert, yes. He is also hanging out with a bunch of dudes, blowing shit up. Now, I could be wrong, but that mostly sounds like any guys dream week. Not only do they get a break from their lovely wives, but they also get to be warriors and bomb the hell out of things with no repercussions.

Doesn’t he look cool and important and yummy and warrior-istic? 

Oh, me? What did I do while he was away besides long for his return? (I wouldn’t even read all the crap that I’m about to type out if I were you.) 

Wake up, feed the baby, change the baby, walk the dogs, scold Fritz for trying to fight two dogs, scold Fritz for biting his brother because he couldn’t get to said dogs, soothe screaming mad baby because she wants to take a nap but doesn’t actually want to take a nap, brush my teeth, workout, stop halfway through, feed baby, change baby, pet the dog, talk sweet to the dog because of my guilt for ignoring dog, watch dog scoot his butt across the floor for the 1700th time, make a note to call the vet, spray anti-itch oil on dog’s butt, then blow on it so it will dry before he licks it off, eat a protein bar, warm coffee from 3 hours earlier, forget it in the microwave, wonder what the microwave really does to our food, coo at baby, love on the baby, try to sing a song but I don’t know one, feed the baby, rock the baby, she backhands me, I rock more and harder, she screams, she’s mad, she pokes me in the eye, I rock and rock, baby falls asleep, I creep to the crib to lay her down, she wakes up bright-eyed and laughs at me, I take a shower, feed baby, change baby, walk the dogs, the same dog that Fritz tried to bite this morning is in front of our house again, wish ill-will on the old lady who walks her perfectly well-behaved dog next to my house, bring dogs back home, continue walking baby, walk faster to get nervous energy out, come home, take trash out while baby sleeps in stroller, baby wakes up, hold baby while I pee because now we apparently have terrible separation anxiety…feed baby, play with baby……………………microwave a potato and drink wine from a bottle after baby goes to bed.

Right back at ya, husband. 

Things that make you go shi%balls–baby blow outs and new mom woes.

As you know from my last post…I’m a new mom. I was a little on the crazy, irrational side before baby, and now…well, lets just say its hard to imagine that a pterodactyl isn’t going to fly over us on a walk and steal her. Or maybe a tiny ninja Mexican drug lord might come in at night and take her. We DO live near Mexico you know. And human trafficking is on the rise. I don’t have statistics to back that up so don’t ask but I wouldn’t lie to you, seriously. Its true. Point is, I am a worrier. A large, big ole, monumental worrier. This has always bothered my cool, calm, and collected big, bad, fighter pilot husband. I mean, clearly nothing bad would ever happen to that lean, mean fighting machine. Or maybe he just isn’t a worrier. Its one of the two. But I AM. Last night, I woke up and stared at Baby T in her bassinet like I do every. single. night. every. hour. on. the. hour. I always see her little chest rise and fall and I know she is okay. Even then, I put my hand on her belly to make sure my sleep deprived eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. Well, last night I thought I didn’t feel her belly rising and falling. Panic isn’t even in the realm of what I did. I woke her right on up at 3 AM by ripping her swaddle off of her and jiggling her legs. She looked at me like I was the Mexican ninja lord coming to get her. Anyway…you get the point.

The following happened when she was about a week old. And just as a warning, I’m not planning to censor this (Do I ever?), so if boobs and poop bother you, you should go back to hash tagging things about your selfie you just took…hopefully not in a dirty mirror with the toilet photobombing in the background. Seriously people, those are the worst. So. Gross. #nasty #lookatmytoilet #lookat mytoothpastesplatteronmymirrorohwaitmaybethatsnottoothpaste?

Back to the story: Baby T is a week old. (Not today, duh. But back when the story happened.) There were a few things that were bothering me. 1) Her umbilical cord did not look right. I mean, nuh uh. Surely that thing isn’t supposed to look like the stuff that spews out of an alien when the hero finally slices its head off in those really swell alien-takes-over-earth movies?!? A gooey mess on this sweet precious baby? Nooo….that cant be right. And then she kept getting this blue tinge around her mouth-not to be confused with blue lips. Calm down folks.

I was worried. Husband was not. But he had already seen my postpartum hormones turn me into a puddle of patheticness, (yes I know that isn’t a word), so he did me a solid and called the pediatrician which turned out to be the biggest clusterfu$% of our weeklong bout of parenthood. He called this lady which directed him to that lady and then she told him to call another number which sent him right back to the first lady. It was so ridiculous. All the while, the first lady is freaking out asking us when we were leaving to go to the ER. Why, you ask? Because my “potAtoes, potatoes” husband missed the fact that telling the nurse that there was a blue tinge around our newborn’s mouth and telling her that her lips were blue meant two very different things. I am trying to mouth silently to him…”No, not her lips…you can’t say her LIPS are blue. They will think she isn’t breathing…this is different.” After that confusion was cleared up, the nurse asked to call us back after she spoke with the Dr. *Minutes pass* I sit on the floor with two very odd cones attached to my boobs, ripping milk out of them in a way that should not be humanly possible, wondering if they will ever come back from this dark side that is breastfeeding and staring at the baby, wondering what the hell is wrong with her. Husband reads the news. I occasionally glance over at him wondering how he could read the news at a time like this and imagine ripping his phone from his hand and putting it in the garbage disposal, but then I decide that would take it too far and perhaps should be reserved for another time. I also wonder whether HE will in fact be able to bounce back after seeing my nipples stretched almost to the other side of the room with this torture pump device. I’m resentful that he doesn’t have to have his boobs suctioned and so I ask him if he will let Baby T suck his nipples. Of course he said no. Typical. effing. man.

The nurse calls back and asks us to take the baby’s temperature. Sure, no problem. We go for our easy peasy ear thermometer and just as we stick it in her ear, the nurse reminds us that she will need us to take a rectal temperature. Pause. We look at each other and both swallow hard. I mean, whoa. The days of taking shots until 4AM at a bar flashed before my eyes and I did a quick comparison of now and then. How’d I get here, I wondered? But! Good news. My cool, calm, and collected husband has this. There is no need for me to worry. Nothing is insurmountable to this think-on-your-toes, save-the-world kind of guy.

I feel like I should stop at this point in the story to say to my husband, “I love you, you roaring jungle beast.”

Back to the story again: We’ve got a thermometer. Is it rectal? We don’t know. But we go with it. Well you can’t just stick it up her little bum without some lubrication. Who knew? (Soon-to-be parents…pick up some petroleum jelly now so you don’t have to go the route we did) I’m wondering what we are gonna do, then in walks husband with KY jelly. See, he thinks on his toes. I got a good one, y’all. Alright, so we are ready. Baby is laying on the changing table, oblivious to whats happening. Husband has the lubed thermometer aimed at the target. The nurse is now on speaker phone.

In his most professional and polite voice, “I’m about to perform the temperature check now.”

The nurse waits.

In goes the thermometer. I cringe, hoping he is doing is correctly. Im watching the baby to see if she is going to say, “Ouch”, or “Umm, thats not very cool, daddy. Please stop.” Nope nothing. But what I did see is the thermometer fly out of her bum at lightning speed–along with about a pound of poop splatter. Its everywhere. All over the changing table. All down the side of the changing table. All on husband’s hands. Its running down the side of the changing table and she may or may not have doused a teddy bear’s face with it. Everywhere. Seriously. My eyes were the size of watermelons as I registered what was going on. Think of a bomb exploding in a war movie–everyone is running for cover…the ground is shaking…fear consumes everyone’s eyes–Thats what SHOULD have happened but we were stunned. We didn’t take cover, but we should have. Husband stood very still for a couple of seconds at least, looking at all the damage from the bomb. I see his face and laughter begins to rumble in my belly– something can in fact throw him off his cool train, and that something happened to weigh the same as a bag of sugar–but I try to keep quiet for the nurse’s sake who is still clueless as to whats just happened. Also, for our reputation in the baby’ pediatrician’s office. After his damage assessment, he began trying to locate the thermometer and I stare at my phone wondering what would come up if I were to google “hazmat team…San Diego”.

“What’s her temperature?” The nurse asks.

*Shuffling sounds* on our end.

She asks again.

“Umm…one, one second. She just pooped.” My husbands voice has risen a few octaves. “She just pooped the thermometer out all over the place…I wasn’t prepared for this. Oh man. This is bad.”

I begin to laugh uncontrollably. And I try to find something to clean the disaster that just attacked the entire nursery. Baby T is just staring around, kicking her little legs proudly.

“Did you get her temperature yet, sir?”

“Ummm….I…I got a lot going on here.”

“Should I use a towel to clean this?” I manage to get out of my mouth through laughs. I’ve not seen my husband so taken aback by anything. Ive not seen him lose his cool or his ability to multi task. I cant stop laughing, then I feel something wet on my feet. Fearful, I look down.

Do you remember what I was doing before the nurse called back? Yea…pumping the udders.

So now I’m running around like a raging milk cow trying to catch milk with my hands while I look for a towel for him to at least wipe his hands with. Seriously, you do not want to come to our house anytime soon–not until I get that hazmat team over here.

It was a low point for us. We weren’t prepared. We weren’t prepared at all. Who knew a 5 pound baby could spew something out of her ass like a bullet bouncing around a ribcage, while not skipping a beat with her leg kicks? We do now I suppose. Yea, and experienced parents, why don’t you warn new parents about this type of thing? I mean, we don’t know what we are doing! We used KY Jelly on our newborn because none of you sons o’bitches thought you should mention that picking up some vaseline may be useful. A little help could have gone a long way and possibly saved a teddy bear’s life. I guess its funny to you assholes to hear about little mishaps like this one. Jackassholes.

So, if you’re a new parent or a soon to be parent and you need to take your baby’s temperature rectally, let me help you newbies out–get some lube that’s appropriate for babies and that you won’t feel like shitballs for using on an infant, get some goggles, put on your worst clothes, and have a lawn size trash bag waiting at the end of the changing table for the explosion thats to come. Maybe you can catch at least some of it in the bag. You’re welcome and may the force be with you.

A year has passed–Potatoes, eggs, and a NEW BABY!

Well hello there. You may remember me. I used to blog here and on occasion offended people…made fun of people, etc, etc, etc. All of this pretty much came to a screeching halt last year when I got pregnant. That’s right, there is an offspring and its a she. She’s already given me the finger several times, thrown up all over me, pooped ALL over me, and yanks my hair out hourly with her tiny demon fingers, so it is clear to me that she has inherited my genes and I will be repaid ten fold for how I have lived my life. Ehh, not to mention her father is a real ass too, so we are in trouble. Anyway, I digress. I stopped blogging because well to be honest, I was in the trenches. I was in the dirty, evil trenches of the 7th layer of hell also known as pregnancy. I was too busy trying to keep my head above water, err, out of the toilet to blog. I mean, it was a real, real hell of a time. And what really pissed me off was that nobody told me how awful pregnancy could be. Nobody warns you which, in my opinion is a complete and total betrayal among the female race. Aren’t we supposed to stick together you bitches?! Ha! (No is the answer to this question obviously.) I finally decided it was because the women in the world want all the other women to go through what they went through. Its like this secret among mothers and they are all in this little mommy club just mothereffing the hell out of the cute little naive, newly pregnant girl that has no idea what she is walking into.

Are you puzzled? Are you thinking, “I never felt better than when I was pregnant.” Well go straight to hell I say! Do not even bother doing the dishes. Just get up , go find the nearest bus and stand in front of it because you are hated by many women…even if they don’t say that to your face. Or whatever, don’t go to hell. Just know that one day you may say that to the wrong woman and she may lose it and I can’t say I’d blame her. Especially if she’s pregnant…and having a hard time. Especially if she spends her whole day swallowing just so she doesn’t throw up all over everything around her. Especially if she has popped every pill the OB prescribed to her to help her be able to eat something other than a baked potato and all she got in return was 9 days of constipation from the pills. And especiallyyyyy, if her husband just happened to walk through the door from an emergency grocery store run because she ran out of potatoes and when she looked in the bag, she wanted to shove them down his throat because the only explanation for the size of these damn potatoes is that he got them from Saturn or Neptune or some-freaking-where in outer space and she knew they would NEVER microwave properly.

**Here is where I will stop pretending that this story happened to someone else. It isn’t about someone else. Its actually about me, sadly.**

So, I go into the kitchen, wash the giant brick of a potato, all the while knowingggg its fate. I slammed it into the microwave and after 5 minutes, I retrieved the still hard as a rock potato. After 3 more minutes, then 4 more minutes, the damn thing no longer looked like food. The ends were wrinkled and the pure life had been nuked out of it, yet the middle was still hard as a rock. This was not edible. Translation to a pregnant, miserable, sick, irrational girl=breakdown. Full on total, uncontrollable emotional breakdown. I started stabbing it. Hard. With a really sharp knife. Which alerted my husband who was sitting in a nearby room, probably oblivious to how much his potato purchase had knocked me off my rocker. Stab. Stab. Stabstabstabstab. Long sigh. “Stupid, stupid, potato.” STAB. Stabstabstab. Stab STAB. “Grrrrrrrrr.” Another sigh. Tears. Tears. Can no longer see through the tears, yet still stabbing the potato and calling it stupid. And then I couldn’t get my breath, but don’t worry, Im still stabbing it with the extra sharp knife. I think this is the point where my husband finally was able to catch my hand that was doing the stabbing and take it out of my hand. And then I fell into his chest, sobbing and crying, and drooling all over his shirt as I tried to tell him what was wrong, but only spit bubbles gurgled out of my mouth.

What?? Don’t act like you’ve never cried like that. Maybe it wasn’t over a potato but you know you’ve cried like that.

I finally was able to say, “I hate that potato!!!!!” He was able to look and see what the problem was, although there were bits and chunks and pieces of potato all over the counter at that point. Long story short (ha), he made me another one while I sat on the couch and caught my breath and wiped my nose.

And this was my life. This was my life for 10 months. Oh, you thought pregnancy was 9 months?? Nerp, its 10. Surpriseeee bitches! There was also a little thing called gestational diabetes that occurred very shortly after I was able to actually eat and enjoy food again. And really, I could not think of anything except the fact that I was pregnant and was forced to eat a very limited diet, lacking anything and everything I actually enjoyed eating including pasta, pizza, cupcakes, chocolate, pie, cookies, and soda. It really was just bullshit. Near the end, I had to leave a restaurant because I was crying due to the fact that I had to eat eggs for breakfast for the 3rd month in a row. Yes, eggs every morning for three months because this kept my blood sugar under control. Holy holy holy balls. It was like a torture prison. I didn’t want to blog! I didn’t want to live!!!

So anyway. Here we all are now. Baby T is 2 months old, so I survived. My husband survived, luckily. Zeus and Fritz made it. Louie the first, our fish, sadly didn’t make it, but I guess all wars have casualties.

So, now I’m one of those annoying people that only post pictures of their baby. I used to hateee people like that. I know people hate me and my baby posts. Oh well. Its my life now. Sometimes I brush my hair, but mostly I just take pictures of baby T doing the same thing she did yesterday and the day before that. I mean, she’s two months old. She can’t like really doooo a whole lot. I’m thinking of starting a separate blog about motherhood, so this one can continue to be about how much I hate people. No blurred lines here. Ugh, hate that song. Do I sound like my brain is smaller than the last time I blogged? Because I am pretty sure it is. The baby took a lot from me. But in all seriousness, I’ve heard pregnant women’s brains literally get smaller. But I thought it grew back?? Its going to go back to normal size soon right? Oh yea, none of you bitches will tell any of us other bitches the truth about anything anyway so why am I asking?!

Welp, I need to sign off. My husband just said I was being vile to him. How is that even possible when all I’m doing is sitting on the floor writing this blog? Silently writing a blog, and still manage to be vile. That, folks, takes true talent.

Hope you’ve all had a really swell last year and were able to eat things other than potatoes and eggs. (Not really.)

Disclaimer:

It took me a long, long time to get pregnant. Roughly 3 years. A lot of shots, and procedures, and uncomfortable doctors appointments later, I managed to get pregnant. Something so many people take for granted. (hate you all too, by the way) Do not think for one second that I am not overwhelmingly, monumentally, insanely grateful for this precious little miracle baby girl. My heart is overflowing. I still, however, hate eggs and martian-grown potatoes.  

**No, I did not stab Louie the first with a knife. I assume he died from natural causes.**