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thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: May, 2013

1000 Months Pregnant And Counting

I know, I know, it’s Hot on The Titties Friday.  But the truth is I used up all my hot yesterday on Fuck You Thursday.  The other truth is that I am just really really really tired.  And getting all hot like that takes energy.  Energy that is being sucked out of me like gas being siphoned out of a fuel tank.

Do you want to know what it’s like to sleep when you are 1000 months pregnant?

So do I.

Cause the fact is, I’m not really sleeping anymore.  Now please, please, with a cherry on top and all of that shit, resist the urge to tell me how it’s a good way for my body to get used to all the sleepless nights approaching with Little Buddy.  Because I have a toddler, remember?  So been there, done that, haven’t slept all the way through the night since 2009.

There are a couple of patterns that happen these days.  The first scenario is that I go to bed, and while I lay there contemplating whether or not to read a book, I fall asleep.  This is probably the lesser of the evils.  But guran-fucking-teed, I will awaken a couple of hours later to be irritated by one of the three dogs.  Someone will need to go out.  Someone will piss on the carpet downstairs.  Someone will be pacing around, click clacking their fucking nails on the hardwood floor.  Someone will get threatened with amputation and/or the sausage factory.

I will try to go back to sleep, and discover that my feet are unbearably itchy.  Or I have this super cool thing called a hot flash.  (Yeah, preparation for menopause, thanks dickwad).

I finally doze off to hear the screaming of the Destroyer.  We are in nightmare phase right now, so I have been sharing the bed with a bed hogging toddler some nights.  I have broken my own rule of no co-sleeping.  I suck.

By 6am I just give up.  Fuck it.  I am doomed to be tired for ever. And ever.

The other delightful scenario is when I can’t fucking sleep at all.  When I am so uncomfortable that I lie in bed all night tossing and turning, needing the cool air from a fan, but kept awake by the noise of it.  When every little sound sends me into a hormonal tantrum.  When I wish someone could just sedate me until Little Buddy arrives, and I can drink a little lullaby called rum when I can’t sleep.

Rum. The difference between a dream and a nightmare is that a dream has rum in it.  At least according to Jack Sparrow.  So I guess I am living a nightmare.

So yeah.  I’m not hot on my tits today kids.  I’m resting my tired, sleepless, beached whale, pregnant head on them.

Trying to figure out what sleep feels like when you are 1000 months pregnant.

If anyone has some advice that actually works, I’d love to hear it.

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Yet Another Breastfeeding Controversy

There is this wonderful Facebook page called Birth Without Fear.  It contains a lot of really inspiring stories about childbirth and childrearing.  It supports the different choices all parents make and encourages us to seek, find and execute the solutions that best fit our lives.  Their blog www.birthwithoutfearblog.com, has a lot of useful information for whatever birth method you are planning.

One of the things I look forward to when visiting their page and blog is the beautiful images that they display.  They show those intimate first moments between mother and child.  They display uncensored imagery of the pain and love and incomparable expressions in the face of a labouring woman.  Photographs of women breastfeeding their child in those first moments.

The page also has pictures of children and their reactions to what they see.  And kids copy what they see.  So a couple of days ago, there was a beautiful photo of a toddler, shirtless, pretending to breastfeed a doll.

And Facebook fucking removed the picture.  When they re-posted it, one of the admins got a 3 day ban.  Ummm, is that like getting grounded for looking at your father’s porn collection?

So yesterday, I wrote a post about art and music, and how any reaction elicited is success, because that is what art is supposed to do.  Make people feel something strong enough to react.

And I first I thought that maybe I was wrong.  That a reaction like censorship isn’t a worthy reaction.  But in the end, it kind of is.

First of all, I cannot believe that this content was deemed offensive and removed.  You can curse and swear and call women bitches with memes.  You can post graphic images from war or news articles.  Girls post half naked, drunk pictures of themselves  and that’s ok. You can blatantly support any sort of questionably immoral actions and that’s ok.  That’s freedom of speech.  But a beautiful, professional photo of a toddler nursing a dolly?

I.Just.Don’t.Get.It.

But here is the good news.  In my opinion, Facebook’s reaction to this situation (and in general to pictures of women breastfeeding their child) is in itself grossly inappropriate.  And as they continue down this road, women will continue to get angry, and once enough people are angry, more people become aware. Through awareness we get change.  And change is what is needed here.

This isn’t about breastfeeding for me.  I’ve posted about public breastfeeding before, and while you all know that it may not be the choice I make, it needs to be a choice that is available. This is about freedom of speech.  This is about the right to share what information I feel comfortable on my social media page.  A page that is accessible by people I choose, and who choose to “follow” me.  Guess what?  Someone who doesn’t want to read about childbirth and breastfeeding and see these photos doesn’t have to visit Birth Without Fear’s page.

But I sure have to sit through another beer commercial with a chick in daisy dukes with fake tits shooting pool with some douchebag.  ( Not that I am particularly offended by this either, but you get my point).

So welcome to Fuck You Thursday, Facebook.  Your choices here need revision, your heads need shaking, and your attitude needs changing.

And here’s some more pictures to add to your FuckYou Pie:

www.flickr.com Does this offend you too?

http://www.flickr.com
Does this offend you too?

commons.wikimedia.org  How about this?

commons.wikimedia.org
How about this?

So.  I think we should all find naked titty pictures and post them ALL OVER our Facebook pages tomorrow in protest.  Instead of Hot on the Titties Friday, it will be Titties ALL OVER FACEBOOK Friday.

Right?

The Time That Bitch Took Candy From A Baby

People just love to stir things up.  And I love it when they do.  Seriously,  Life would be uninteresting and blah if we didn’t have shit disturbers among us.

That’s what art and music is for.  As a teacher, I always try to explain this to my students.  It’s not just about getting the right notes, and the right articulations.  It’s not just about perfect diction and beautiful legato and correct vowel placement.  These things are important and necessary, but they are merely the tools we use to make the piece musical.  Art and music were invented to illicit a response from the audience.  To make someone feel something.

So, from a musician’s perspective, any sort of emotional response from your audience  is success.  It means you have used good technique to tell a story through notes or lyrics or musical phrasing that made someone feel emotional or angry or nostalgic.  That is art, that is music.  That is purposeful.

Otherwise, why would anyone pay attention?  Why would there be different genres of music or art?  Different styles or images or sounds affect us all in unique ways, and that is the beauty of it.

There is no such thing as a poor response when someone reacts to something you create.

So.   Can you all take a look at this website, and these photographs by Jill Greenberg?

The concept for the exhibit/photoshoot that she did was to give a child a lollipop, and then promptly take it away, causing the child to cry.  She then captures the reaction.

And of course, the results have been mixed.

Oh this horrible bitch and these shitty parents allowing their child to suffer……

She took a lollipop away, she didn’t fucking throw them down a flight of stairs.  Please calm down. I take things away from Destroyer all the time.  And the other day, when she was super excited about the fact that all three dogs had tails, I asked her where her tail was.  When she looked a little confused upon checking for it, I prodded her a little bit, just to see what would happen.  “Didn’t you get a tail too, honey?  Where’s your tail?”  And the expression on her face was so heartbreakingly cute.  I teased her a little bit, yes, but not maliciously.  I was just curious to see how she would deal with the reality of being different from her companions.

Anyway, I’m getting slightly off topic.  The pictures captured by this photographer’s “experiment”, are, in my opinion, absolutely gorgeous.  They are raw.  They are real.  They capture completely sincere emotion and innocence.  And I loved every single one of them.  It made me want to hug my daughter tight, and not because some horrible injustice had been done to these kids.  But because it reminds me how honest and real kids are about everything.  How they are able to lay it out on the line for you without any guarded bullshit.  They own their emotions, and some of us adults could learn from this innocence.

So, whether or not you agree with this Jill Greenberg’s tactics, I applaud her as an artist.  She has poked the bear….and the parental bear is a brave one indeed, and made some noteworthy and beautiful art.

And as a parent, if you only get stuck in the debate about scarring the child for life, blah blah blah, relax.  I’m sure that not one of these kids is going to need psychotherapy over this photoshoot.  Let it go, and appreciate the beauty she has captured in these children.

No Such Thing As A Crack Baby

ramblingcurlyrose.blogspot.com

ramblingcurlyrose.blogspot.com

This.

I am so glad and relieved to know that crack babies aren’t really a thing.  We just panicked a little in the 80’s, that’s all.  So go ahead and light up your pipe when you’re pregnant, because it won’t have any lasting effects on your baby.

What.The.Fuck.?

So here’s the good news:

Babies born to women who are crack cocaine addicts probably have a much better chance at adoption and a good life in cases where the mother decides to place the child for adoption.  If it is proven ( and this study seems to do so) that a crack baby is more a product of it’s environment than the exposure to drugs in utero, then I think more adoptive parents would jump at the chance to care for these babies.  But I’m just speculating here, and assuming that women addicted to crack may not be ready to be a parent in many situations.

Here’s the bad news:

I think it’s misleading to say that crack babies aren’t really a thing.  The article states that the kids do end up with lower developmental scores, anxiety etc, but that seems to be a result of their family environment.  And the physical problems seen at birth tend to be more of a factor of their prematurity, rather than the drug use.

Why is this misleading information to call the crack baby scare overblown?  Because the ramifications of the drug use are real, whether it is a direct cause or associated cause.

1.  I assume the drug use likely caused the prematurity.  This in itself puts the babies at risk, depending how early they are.  The drug use itself may not be causing the developmental problems at this point, but if there had been no drug use, would the baby have been safely born at term?  Without facing all these medical issues?

And then there is the whole developmental process that may be delayed due to prematurity.  You can link over to Amber’s blog if you have time to read about the challenges of parenting a premie child.

2. The drug use is likely a huge factor in the socio-economic status of the mother.  If your priority is feeding a drug habit, feeding your baby and parenting your child will likely be further down on the to do list everyday.  Again, not a direct result of the crack while in utero, but the effect of growing up in poverty and violence is obviously just as detrimental to a child’s development, isn’t it?

So terrific.  I’m so glad they did this study and called the crack baby scare “overblown”.

It’s not overblown, and it’s not a fucking scare.  The bottom line is that these children were born into shitty circumstances which they didn’t ask for.  The crack baby issue is real, whether the drugs themselves fucked the kids up or the non-parenting did.  Either way the child suffers.

But, since drug use in pregnancy is no big deal, let’s not offer any resources or help to the women in the situation so that they can do right by their child.  Let’s just say “oh, there’s no problem after all” and maybe it will go away.

There is a problem.  It’s just more complicated now is all.

Thanks for that CBC.  I was already dying of heartburn and now I’m irritated as well.  Fucking Tuesday.

Things My Doctor Tells Me That I Ignore

I have been pregnant since the dawn of time.

At least that’s how it feels. Although I technically have 5 weeks to go (how this is even possible I don’t even know) I think I’ll start bouncing on the ball and eating spicy food and all that baby eviction stuff in a couple of weeks.  And I as get closer to the big day, my doctor has been giving me all sorts of instructions.

Instructions that I will likely ignore.

You’re probably wondering what the hell? Why would you deliberately go against medical advice?  Well, it’s not like I have cancer or heart disease or something.  I’m having a fucking baby.  And second of all, some of the instructions are more mortifying than than the thought of what could happen if I don’t heed her advice.

1.  Don’t eat sweets.  At all. Never, ever.

How about you just stop talking right there?  We have this really nice, honest doctor patient relationship and then you go ahead and say something like this.  To a pregnant lady.  Who, in your very own words has “managed to not gain very much weight” during this pregnancy.

What the fuck is wrong with her?  As if I won’t try everything on the Dairy Queen menu at least once before I pop this Little Buddy out.  And all of you granola munching, vegan bean eating women out there in the peanut gallery can keep your nutrition advice to yourself too.  Because I don’t care.  I’m eating all the things and taking my vitamins and trying to waddle walk around as much as I can.  And if that calls for a little indulgence, then it does.  Christ.

2. Perineum massage

Excuse me?  What in God’s name is a perineum?  Do you think I’ll be able to reach it if I don’t know what it is?  Do I need to study an anatomy textbook?  Wait….do you mean the “t’aint”?  As is,  t’aint the asshole but t’aint the vag?

Let me put this into perspective.  I have not seen my crotch since about 24 weeks.  That’s almost 3 months ago.  I’m not even positive that it still exists.  So I can’t see my vag, I certainly can’t reach my vag, and the t’aint is apparently even further back than that.  How much massaging does she expect to get done in this situation?

Furthermore, it sounds like some dirty pregnancy only sex trick.  And I’m not feeling it.  Literally.

Lastly, I forgot to even ask why she wants me to do this. My perineum shall remain a lonely mystery to me, unmassaged and unloved.  I’m not doing it, the end.

3. Nipple shields

Do these come with nipple swords, too?  Or do we just expect pregnant and breastfeeding nipples to be so large and in charge that they become a weapon in themselves?  Just like the fembots in Austin Powers.

No, these things are supposed to help my nipples stand out for my baby to latch on to.  I’m supposed to walk around with them under my shirt all day.   Maybe I would, if I was into the porn star look.

But listen, I work with children. I can’t walk around with giant nipples boners all day long.  Seriously.  I understand the purpose here, but come on.  The whole pregnancy and delivery thing strips a woman enough of her dignity and privacy and modesty and just about everything else as it is.  Can’t we just leave my tits alone?  At least until after the baby is born?

Please.

4. Go to the hospital as soon as you have regular contractions

NO fucking way.  I will wait until the last minute, in time for them to catch.  The only reason I am having my baby in a hospital is because I am too chicken shit of the “what ifs” to do it at home.  But I don’t want to labour there.  I don’t want a bazillion nurses checking my “progress” down there every hour.  Why?  Because I don’t need to hear that I’m only at 5cm, and that a pitocin drip would help it move along faster.  Or have someone try to talk me into countless other interventions.  I just want all hands out of my vagina until the baby is coming down the mountain.  And I’m pretty sure we’ll all know when that is, because my vocabulary will start to deteriorate significantly.

The truth is, it probably won’t mattter anyway.  Destroyer came out lickety split, and I suspect Buddy will too.  But really, I trust my body to do what it needs to do.  It certainly did last time.

So, I will wait things out at home as long as possible, and try to keep my bits to myself.

So kids, on this blissful Monday morning, there you have it.

Stubborn me and my hidden perineum need another cup of coffee.

Pregnant? Just Don’t Fuck It Up, Or We’ll Throw You In Jail.

summerdoula.com

summerdoula.com

Happy Hot on The Titties Friday. Today’s topic is brought to you by my none other than my bestie, who keeps my well from running dry.  She actually is the source of many of these discussions, because we have complete polar opposite opinions about almost everything.  And yet somehow, conservative, hardcore me, and communist, hippie her are pretty much in love.

But today, I think we have found some common ground when she went and posted this piece of utter bullshit on my Facebook wall.  Before I explain and comment on the article, I want to know if having shit for brains is a requirement to hold office in the Mississippi government?  Or do they just hate women?

So.  There are some people in Fucktard Land Mississippi who think that women should be held criminally responsible in some instances of stillbirth and miscarriage.  Yes.  you read that right.  I did not make that up.

In this case, a woman was a drug addict and went into premature labour.  The baby did not survive.  Now she is facing jail time.

So here’s my opinion:

1. This woman is an addict.  Addiction is recognized as a disease in North America.  It is something that we seek treatment for and is treated both medically and cognitively.  So now her child has died as a result of her not seeking treatment.  What’s next?  Someone who does not seek treatment for cancer while pregnant will also be prosecuted should their baby die or miscarry?

2. This woman took drugs that are known to harmful to the fetus.  She should have known better, and against any sound medical advice chose to put this into her body.  Well.  What about the woman who eats a corned beef sandwich and forgets to microwave it first?  She then gets listeriosis, and the baby dies.  Is she eligible for prosecution as well?  For her negligent behaviour?

3.  I am walking up the stairs, on the phone and not watching where I’m going and trip over my toddler’s lego.  I fall down the stairs and miscarry.  Am I now criminally negligent as well?

Do you see the slippery slope this is?

Further to this, I can tell you that being pregnant is completely overwhelming.  Every where you turn for information, there is some sort of debate or conflicting argument. You have to weigh all the arguments and make the best decision possible according to what you have access to.  And with every choice you make, you pray it is the right one.  Because the only thing that matters to you is giving your child the best chance possible.

I mean, not that I’m advocating drug use in pregnancy, but there’s a lot of babies born to addicts that come our perfectly healthy, and a lot of babies born to mothers who do everything right and still lose their child.

And lastly, as stated in this article, it is very difficult for doctors to determine exact causes of miscarriage and stillbirth.  So how could you ever be certain of what caused the death to begin with?  It could be completely unrelated to anything the mother did or didn’t do.

I have friends who have suffered countless miscarriages.  Heartbreak after heartbreak.  Devastating loss when all they want is to become a parent.  Their doctors have no answers for them except to try again.  And now some asshole in Mississippi wants to add to a woman’s torment by threatening prosecution?  Fuck that.

If a man ever had to be pregnant, he would get full paid leave from work for the entire pregnancy, a home health care aid and a couple of manservants to play with while he gestated.  But us woman?  Keep up with all normal parts of your routine, and if you fuck it up, we’ll throw you in jail.

So much for progress.

Thoughts?

Knowing The Meaning Of Loyalty And Love

nymag.com This dog was guarding the body of his human after the Oklahoma tornadoes.

nymag.com
This dog was guarding the body of his human after the Oklahoma tornadoes.Kno

Over the past little while I’ve been seeing the odd story about the loyalty that some dogs have for their owners.  There was one about a dog in South America ( I think) who ran away and lived near his Daddy’s grave for years after he passed.  Same with a pooch in England.

Reunions between military dogs and their handlers on American soil after each had finished their tours.  The picture of a dog standing guard over the body of his fallen companion in the Oklahoma tornadoes.

And I think to myself, how can anyone be so blind to miss out on this kind of unconditional love in their lives?

I know some people just aren’t animal people.  I get that.  But if you knew just what you meant to your furry companion, how could you possibly say no?

Sometimes I feel really bad about how hard it is to find the time to spend with my dogs since having a baby.  I just don’t seem to have  enough arms.  Not enough arms to walk all of them and push a stroller at the same time.  Not enough arms to make sure all their bellies get rubbed daily.  And having to shoo them away in fear that they might accidentally step on the kid.

When I went into labour with Destroyer, the pug and the lab did not leave my side the entire time I was home.  All day they sat in bed with me.  After the hospital foolishly sent me home the first time, they were right back with me.  When I was lying on the bed, grunting (unknowingly) through transition I had one of them pressed up against either side.  One putting pressure on my lower back, the putting pressure on the front.  It offered the smallest bit of relief, but they heard my pain and understood what was happening.  They were both momma dogs at one time….one almost certainly from a puppy mill.

The hound, however, sat in the hallway looking absolutely terrified.  She didn’t know what to do.  Which is weird, because she is the plucky one normally.  Maybe it was the screaming.  Or the blood.  She just had no idea what to do but cry, because she thought I was dying.

And according to their babysitter, she cried through the entire night. Running from the bedroom to the window  From the window to the door.  All. Night. Long.

And when I got home from the hospital a few days later, I have never, ever,ever, seen such relief and happiness on a dog’s face.  In that moment she greeted me, I realized true doggie love.

I wonder if I had died, if she would have guarded my urn?

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you all to stop and give your doggies an extra hard hug today, and let them kiss you with a bit of tongue once in a while no matter how bad their breath is.  Their love for you is unshakable, undeniable and incredible.   They truly are the only ones who look past our faults, forgive us freely and believe we are better people than our actions prove us to be.

They can be taken from us suddenly through disaster or sudden illness.  Can we show them the same love they show us?

Being Pregnant Is Just Like Having Balls

ajgentile.typepad.com

ajgentile.typepad.com

Blogging has become that thing I do rather than sit around and have conversations in my head with myself.  I mean, the conversations still sort of happen, but at least now I write them down and get some responses.  Especially when the topic is something that I’m curious about but nobody talks about because it really doesn’t matter.  Sometimes it’s the result of a chain reaction.  I think about one thing that sets off another, and next thing you know I’m inside my brain, thinking about asinine, irrelevant topics.

Today is one of those days.  Or rather yesterday was.

The weather has finally turned nice here, and I am enormously pregnant.  Compared to my first baby, my belly looks like it is in a different hemisphere.  With Destroyer I carried really high and round all over.  With Little Buddy, my belly is ridiculously round and sitting so low that I have lost half my lap.  That’s right kids.  I have a gunt.  You know… a gut that hangs over where your cunt should be. (Apologies for the C word so early in the morning.  I usually reserve this for women I really hate.)

So because I am feeling so fat, my main uniform these days consists of leggings and a dress that is now a shirt, or an actual dress.  And when I sit down, my gunt sits on my lap where my child used to sit, and sticks to my legs.

It is seriously the most annoying thing ever.  Ever.  Do you know what it’s like to either sit there and try to casually adjust your stomach off your legs with no one noticing, while skin sticks to skin?  I am making an appointment with my plastic surgeon immediately.  Once Little Body Wrecker  Little Buddy comes out, I am getting a tummy tuck and that’s final.

So anyway, as I’m sitting there trying to peel my stomach off my legs, I start thinking about balls.  Not the sporty kind, the testicular kind.  Sweet meats.  Family jewels.  Whatever.  Balls.

And I think, O.M.G.  I just experienced what it’s like to be a man.  THIS is what it must feel like when it’s a bazillion degrees outside and our boxer wearing counterparts have to deal with their balls sticking to the side of their leg.

We all know what happens to balls when it’s hot out.  It’s the simple laws of thermochemistry.  When it’s hot, molecules separate from one another, causing things to expand.  When it’s cold, the molecules huddle together to keep warm, causing things to shrink.  Come on. We all know what happens when you go swimming in a cold lake.  I’ve seen some balls almost retract from cold.  Like they hide back inside the body somehow.

Anyway.  Once I realize how uncomfortable it must be to have your balls sticking to the side of your leg, I start thinking about the real question.  Why would any man choose to wear boxers?   What the fuck is the point in that?  It would be like wearing a loose tank top in the middle of summer and calling it a bra.  No support, no point.  Just a piece of loose fabric between your tits and your sundress.

Wouldn’t you rather have your boys supported and carefully protected from the horror of the skin to skin sticky?

What about when you’re playing sports?  And they’re all hot and loose and swinging back and forth?  Wouldn’t it make sense to wear something a little snugger?  If anything just to prevent the sticky thing from happening.

So yeah.  This is what a typical moment inside my brain looks like.  This is how my thought process happens.

And you wonder why I drink.

The Romance Department

Do you remember how when you’re in your twenties, and in a fairly new relationship how much fun it is to get a hotel room for the night?  A little staycation is the ultimate in the romance department.  Dinner, drinks, and a total sexathon.

I totally fantasized about this very thing, and Husband and I decided we should have one before Little Buddy arrives.  A night for just us, with Destroyer happily in Grandma’s care.  A night to go out as to adults and not have to worry about getting home at a reasonable time to drive the babysitter home.  A night to not have to listen for bad dreams and bitchy babies.  Not tonight.  That’s someone else’s department.  Tonight, we’re in the romance department.

So we rented a room in a fancy downtown hotel, and set out for our big overnight date.  Everything was great.  The room was great, the bed was the biggest thing I have ever seen.   The service was incredible.  So after spending a little bit of time in our fancy new digs, we walked downstairs to look for a cab and went for dinner.

After dinner, we came back to the hotel lounge for a bevvie.  I can’t tell you how sexy it felt to sit there and drink my glass of milk in a cocktail glass.  Just call me Officer Tackleberry.  Too bad I don’t have a gun.

And then it was bedtime.  Oh boy.  I was so fucking excited to sleep in that wonderful, enormous bed with all the pillows in the universe.  All the pillows that weren’t my pillow.

Does anybody else get what I mean about having your pillow?  I thought so.

Let me set the stage a little bit here.  At 34 weeks pregnant, Husband and I have retreated to separate bedrooms at night.  One part is the fact that he works shift work, but the biggest factor is that I am totally fucking annoying to sleep with right now.  How do I know this?

It’s not even that Husband won’t sleep with me, it’s that my dog won’t.  My big dog is disturbingly obsessed with me.  Can’t stand to be away from me.  Prefers physical contact with me whenever possible.  And even she is sleeping on a dog bed on the floor because I cannot fucking stay still at night.  It takes forever to get comfortable even when I have my pillow.  And then I have to accept the fact that sleeping on my stomach is not a possibility until Little Fucker  Little Buddy comes out.  And then he moves and pierces my bladder with the sharpest part of his little anatomy, so I get up to pee and the process starts all over again.

Welcome to the third trimester, bitches.

After about an hour of this, Husband sits up and asks if it’s possible for me to lie still for more than 12 fucking seconds at a time.

Nope.  Wanna trade?

So he gets a blanket from the closet and proceeds to lie on the floor.  So much for romance.

I return to the bed and read for a little while on my phone, and finally settle into a comfortable position.  I finally doze off.  To be awoken 5 minutes later by the loudest snoring in the history of humans.  I thought for a second I had accidentally packed the pug.

Nope.  Just husband.  For fuck’s sake.  I can only listen to it for so long before I say something.  So we’re both awake again.  And he asks me if I want to go home.

The problem is that at that very moment I certainly do.   I want my baby and my pillow and my stupid brown dog.  I never want to leave home again.

But we stay, and somehow manage to fall asleep without filing for divorce.

The morning is fine actually. They delivered coffee and cookies right to our door.  And despite our shitty sleep, we are both in good spirits and looking forward to the grand brunch the hotel puts on.  Which was completely amazing by the way.  I was full until dinner time.

So what we learned is this:

A romantic getaway is only romantic when you don’t bring the kids.  And that includes any on the inside.  Because sobriety sucks.  And being a beached whale is not the sexy look I was going for.

Once you are a parent, it is impossible to detach yourself from your child.  We spent half our time looking at pictures and videos of Destroyer and texting Grandma.  Again, we’re gonna need some tequila next time.

As hard as some days are, as tired as I am, I am grateful to have the family I have.  I could never go back to the childless lifestyle.  That part of me died when I had Destroyer.

But, we realized that we do need to get away together.  Not only to have time for us, but to miss our kids.  Because on those days they act like assholes, we love them a little easier, because we’ve tasted being apart.

And being apart is way worse.

Hot on The Titties: All About Penises

Good Morning, Kids.

Ready to get Hot on the Titties?   I was contemplating what to write about this morning, and started thinking how we spend a lot of time talking about girl things.  You know, childbirth, vaginas, pregnancy, blah blah blah.

Today, boys, I wanna switch it up and talk about your junk.  That’s right.  We’re going to think about penises all day long.

So what I really want to give people a chance to weigh in on is the question of cut or uncut.  Seeing as I will be shooting a boy out of my cookie in a few short weeks, we have had to make the decision on whether or not to circumcise our man-child.  And we’ve decided that we absolutely will.  Does that make us horrible people?  Or are we traditionalists, who want what we feel is best for our child?

Years ago, it was such a no-brainer.  In fact, they used to snip away right after birth, right in the hospital and be done with it.  I think you could even get a rabbi to come in and do it for you if you were Jewish enough.

Now, however, it’s just another topic in an endless stream of parenting decisions.  Googling circumcision this morning provided me horrible images of procedures gone wrong.  Blood stained infants.  Protest and parades of people wearing penis suits marching down city streets.  It’s become a real thing.

So, why or why not?

There seems to be some evidence that removing the foreskin can help prevent sexually transmitted diseases (particularly HIV), is cleaner, and perhaps even prevents penile cancer.  (though this cancer is so rare the jury is still out on this).

Then the great Dr. Sears claims that the prevention of infections, etc is only relevant if the man or boy isn’t following proper hygiene.

There is a chance that keeping the foreskin makes sex better.  But this is my son we’re talking about, and he will remain a virgin until his wedding day so really, is this relevant?  His sexy time is not my business.

Plus there is the whole aesthetic.  I don’t know what the rest of you girls prefer, but I like the penis to be nice and streamlined.  I like the purple head that comes out.  I like a clean, naked look.  It’s kind like someone walking around wearing a hood all of the time.  Don’t people usually do this when they have something to hide?  Or if they are ugly?  Or ashamed of something?

I want to know what I’m getting.  NO shameful, ugly, hidden penises for me.  I like it cut.  I’ve never even seen a real live, uncut Johnson.  Only in the movies, and they looked kinda scary.  Like something out of my invertebrate zoology textbook.

And let’s get real about the whole hygiene thing.  It usually takes about until the child is 3 or so for the foreskin to be completely retractable.   Which means every time they bathe or you bathe them, you will have to manually pull it back and get in there to clean it out.  Is there something wrong with me if I say that this horrifies me?    I don’t want to peel back his penis skin.  And as if any little boy will remember to do this on his own.

NO. We don’t want any smelly, hooded penises in this house.  They’re not for us.

But medically, and if I try to be reasonable, there isn’t concrete medical reasons to have my child circumcised.  And I’m not Jewish.

But Jesus was.  And we are supposed to live like Jesus, right?  So circumcision it is.

How about you?  Cut or Uncut?  Did you?  Will you?

And girls…..have you?

Happy Friday, bitches.

 

AfterOtis

Written by Natalie Oldham

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