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thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: July, 2014

Hot On The Titties: The Israel-Palestine Conflict Happened On My Deck

images

So, Bitches, I’m probably going to offend a whole lot of people today.  Not really intentionally, but this is kind of a sensitive topic.

This week we went up to the cottage.  The weather was perfect.  It was the first time we have been up with both babies and much of the time was dusting off the cobwebs, so to speak.

So on Monday we decided it was a perfect day to BBQ.  In the afternoon I went to remove the cover from it, and was promptly stung by some little yellow and black assholes greeted by some wasps.  We realized that this wasp family had built themselves a nest on OUR BBQ.

Husband, I say.  Go stick the nozzle of our malathion fogger up the hole of that nest and get rid of those little bastards.

And so he did.  Then we waited a little bit and he took a large stick, knocked it down, and beat the living shit out of the nest like a real man should.  He saved us, Bitches.

So after getting a lecture from Bestie later that day about my use of bug killing substances, she says to me:  “OMG.  You are Isreal, and the wasps are Palestine!”

Umm. What?

So there began my lesson in current events.

You see, even though the BBQ belonged to us, we had vacated said BBQ for quite a period of time for reasons beyond our control ( SEE: Canadian Winter).  The wasps needed somewhere to live, so they innocently set down roots in what was (IS) our space.

Upon our return, we wanted our space back, but the wasps were reluctant to be thrown out to nowhere.  They tried to defend themselves but as annoying as it is to be stung by a wasp, they were no match for our weapons of mass destruction.

Now, had they greeted us with open arms and kept their stingers to themselves, we might have shared our space.  Everybody needs a home, right?

But they came out stinging.  So we had a right to defend ourselves.  And now they are dead, and their home is nothing but a bludgeoned piece of pulp.

So I guess Bestie was right.  It’s a bit of an oversimplification of the conflict going on in Gaza/West Bank etc. But our conflict with the wasps is similar.

So, now that I’ve put that in perspective, who do you side with?

I mean, that was Israel’s home once, was it not?  Is it their fault that Hilter decided to kill 6 million Jews and displace them from their homes?

No, of course not.  But on the flip side, Is it Palestine’s fault that they need somewhere to live too?  They are humans with babies and pets and they go to school and play soccer and love each other just the same way the Jews do.

How do you solve this? Can’t they just share?  Can’t they co-exist?

From my BBQ story clearly not.  This is one thing I don’t have the answers for, Bitches.

Opinions?

 

My Everything

Just hours after birth.  Look at those cheeks!

Just hours after birth. Look at those cheeks!

Today marks three years since my everything was delivered to me in the form of a 7 pound, 14 ounce little spitfire.

I say my everything because that’s what she is.  All the other things that used to feel so important suddenly became trivial.   Everything else took a backseat.  I took a back seat.  Life stood still in that moment as I gazed at my beautiful first born child, and I changed.

I was a mother.

Today we celebrate my Twee Destroyer’s third birthday.  She has given us so much, just by being a normal tiny person.

She makes life fun.

She makes life better.

She has a way of endearing herself to everyone she meets with innocent honesty and little girl affection.  And those giant, round, Cindy Lou Who eyes.

And in this year where many former colleagues and acquaintances have suffered life shattering losses, I am grateful.

Grateful that I have got to hold her for every day in these past three years.  Grateful that I get to complain about temper tantrums and peed pants and no sleep.

I am grateful that three years ago today, I was sent the most perfect little cherub.

So today, we will shower her with presents and balloons and parties and whatever she wants to do.  Because I can never repay her for all the things she’s done to me and for me.  I could try, but it will never be enough.

Bitches, I love the fuck out of that little girl. (Pardon the True Blood reference).  but I really have no better way to say it.  I love her so, so, much it almost hurts sometimes.

Three years with my everything.  Happy Birthday.

An Ugly Little Bird And His Lesson

A picnic lunch between friends.

A picnic lunch between friends.

So, I know I usually have a story about something ridiculous my Destroyer did or said to make her look like a total asshole.  But you know what the truth is, Bitches?

Underneath all the funny, and stupid kid shit she does is an extremely empathetic and sensitive heart.  A heart that observes and is attentive to the needs of others, and very clear about what is important in life.

Yesterday we found a baby blue jay in our front yard.  Now, just FYI, my Destroyer loves birds.  Can’t get enough of them.  If we could find a way to make her life a sequel to “Rio”, she would be complete.

Anyway, she spent the whole goddamn day with that bird.  Oh sure, she took little breaks for lunch and the park.  But everything was about going to check on that bird.  We put seeds out for it.  We got the neighbour to bring his ladder and put the baby bird back in the tree where all his siblings were fluttering around.  We made a new nest for the bird when it fell out of the tree for a second time.

This morning, the fucking bird is gone.  I’m fairly certain that either the local merlin got him, or maybe a cat.  The parents and siblings seem long gone, but I held out hope for that ugly little thing.  He was the only one who couldn’t fly yet, and survival of the fittest, blah blah blah.

But you know what?  I’m going to tell my little girl that his family came and got him.  You know why?

Because the whole day she kept commenting about his family up in the tree.  She had so much faith that his family loved him and wanted him back and needed our help.  She had so much faith in the bond and love between family members that it provided some much needed insight into how she sees us.

Some days, when she is prancing on every nerve I have, I yell.  She cries.  I get frustrated.  But through all of the hard moments, this day with the goddamn bird showed me that she still has unwavering faith in my love for her always.  She knows that I will always protect her, and help her and love her.  Because of course. That’s what mommies do.

So yeah.  Birds are a little different from us, but I don’t want her to know that. I want her to believe in the power of mommy.  Because it’s her belief in me that gives me my magic.  It’s her belief in me that makes me be able to solve her problems and love her shit away.

It took an ugly little half feathered baby bird to remind me of this today.  Open your eyes, Bitches.  There really are lessons everywhere.

No Such Thing As Sexy Underpants

commons.wikimedia.org

commons.wikimedia.org

I just want to take a moment today and talk about mommy tummy.

To all of you moms out there of one baby, it probably hasn’t affected you all that much yet.  After Destroyer, I was able to get into my pre-pregnancy clothes easily and resume the wearing of my usual style of underpants.  And by easily, I mean by following a strict starvation diet where I replaced one meal a day with wine.

Don’t judge.  I was happy.

So one baby?  Still got it.  Still got it enough to wear sexy underpants and get your self knocked up with another baby.

Because that’s what happened to me.  And let me tell you, Bitches.  After the second baby, there are no such thing as sexy underpants over here.  There’s a reason that third babies are often “oopsies”.  Because after the second baby there is no such thing as sexy underpants.  I’ve tried them all, and I actually might just go commando for the rest of my life.

Boy short.  Hipster.  Brief. Thong.  There is not one style that looks or makes me feel sexy.  Fuck underpants.  Fuck them all.

TMI?  Stop reading here.

After the second human being stretches your body to its limits, no amount of starvation can get rid of the extra skin left by the second spawn.  It’s just there.  And the thing about sexy underpants is that they tend to be either really tiny or really low cut, or any combination thereof.  And when you have I’ve had two babies mommy tummy they just fall off.  It’s so annoying.

And there is no point to wearing something that falls off, right Bitches?

I have to tell you that I have never been so happy to see high waisted pants coming back into fashion.  People like to make fun of mom jeans, but you know what?

Those bitches earned them jeans.  I’ve decided that mom jeans and high wasted underpants are rights of passage of all mommies who can’t drink enough wine or starve enough days to completely get rid of the evidence of having had babies.  It’s just another battle scar like stretch marks and wider hips and saggy titties.

So own your mom jeans and non sexy underpants.  Sexy is a state of mind, right?  And no one can feel sexy with their underpants rolling down their belly, no matter how much lace is on them.

So Yeah. I almost Shit My Pants Yesterday.

hindilovestory.com

hindilovestory.com

You know why it sometimes takes me three days to return a phone call or an email, Bitches?  Because babies that’s why.

I know all you fellow moms out there will be able to relate, especially if you are also working outside the home.  Before I had babies, I simply could not understand why it was so difficult to pickup the goddamn phone and make a dinner reservation, or tell me if you were coming for dinner Friday night, and make an effort to chat for a few minutes about something that is not your children.

So yeah.  I could sit here and explain about how the very second I pick up the phone or sit down at the computer to do some work, the little people descend on me like piranhas.  The whining starts.  The crying starts.  The one year old attached to the leg of my pants holds on tighter. I can’t hear you anyway, so why would I bother to speak to you on the phone?

Instead, I am going to tell you a story.  A story that explains the way that motherhood leaves you without a shred of dignity from the moment of childbirth when twelve people are staring at your vagina telling you what a good job you’re doing, to the day you are so busy and overwhelmed that you almost shit your pants.

Yes, Bitches.  That was correct.  I almost shit my pants yesterday.  Not in the figurative sense. In the very real way of holy fuck I am NOT going to make it in time.  And then I’ll be standing here with my babies and the dogs running away and shit running down my legs, because sometimes, being a mommy is really shitty.  Pun intended.

So yesterday was a supremely whiny morning.  Buddy has been waking up way too early and then spending most of the day bitching about it in baby speak.  Which means I have to carry him everywhere, even though the little stinker can walk just bloody fine.  Destroyer was in the mode of “repeat what she wants 100 times in a row until it magically materializes.”  I could feel my blood pressure rising.

We had plans to meet friends at this ass hat thing called Ride N Play.  You pay three bucks, and the kids can run wild while you find another mommy to bitch about your life to.  There’s a craft and bikes and toys and a bouncy castle and its a couple hours of YES.  I’m even smart enough to bring another Mommy.

So we’re hanging out at the craft table and I get this sudden urge to go take a shit.

First of all.  I only ever shit in my own house.  Maybe my parent’s house.  Not even Bestie’s house.  So I’ve gotten pretty good at holding it over the years.  NO Problem.  It was better than trying to shit at the community center.  Could you imagine?  Trying to take a dump in a public stall, with two toddlers crammed in there with me.  Trying to manage them crawling under the door and acting like total assholes while I am paralyzed by fear of another person walking in and knowing that I’m taking a shit?  OMG.

It was getting time to go ( as in leave)  and that was good, because it was getting time to go.

So we get home, and I say to Destroyer, “go right in the house, because Mommy has to use the bathroom.”  Should be simple, right?  Open the door, go upstairs, take a shit.

The problem, for all of you non-parents out there, is that nothing within the parameters of parenthood is linear.  Nothing.

She pokes her way into the house, and stands right in my way,  leaving just enough time and room for two of the dogs to sneak out the front.  I guess they had to go too.  Then Destroyer follows them back out, and I am holding Buddy and trying to chase them all inside.  All while squeezing my butt cheeks together so fucking hard, I’m pretty sure I now have a fucking hemmerrhoid.

I finally get them all back inside the house and drop the diaper bag and sprint up the stairs.  I put Buddy down, and he immediately starts crying.  And I’m almost crying because I’m trying to pull off my underpants in time because I seriously cannot hold it any more.

And I made it.  Because as a mommy, you always make it work.

But you know what?  This putting everyone before you crap is going to end in disaster someday.

So, the next time you are upset that someone who is a mother isn’t doing things on your timeline, please take a moment to give her a fucking break.  Because babies.

And then be thankful that you can take a shit anytime you want.  Without an audience.

At This Time Last Year

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I don’t know if you remember, Bitches, but my Buddy tuned one at 1:35 am this morning.

At this time last year, Bestie was at the hospital with an armful of freezies and they had just brought my Buddy back from the NICU.  We were eating frozen sugar sticks for breakfast because hospital food sucks ass and Bestie knows exactly what I need most of the time.  Except last week when she texted me a picture of a giant woodtick.

At this time last year, we were sitting there discussing the size of then tiny Buddy and his giant testicles.  We were convinced it was a baby thing, but the nurse said he actually just had really big balls.  Now, a year later, they seem to have evened out.  So maybe the nurse was wrong, or maybe the rest of him just caught up.

At this time last year, I hadn’t slept in 48 hours.  I was exhausted.  Physically, I could hardly walk.  Emotionally, I was beat.  There is nothing scarier ever than having a nurse take your baby from your breast and rush him to the NICU.

At this time last year, I was reminded of what it felt like to fall in love. I was reminded how things that are hard are always worth it in the end.

At this time last year, I threw away all the things about myself that I thought defined me as a mother.  All of the rules I believed were the only way because they worked with my Destroyer were given up.  I let myself bend to fit the needs of my new baby.  Maybe it took a rough first few days of tests and bloodwork and scary moments to make me realize that the how doesn’t matter.

At this time last year, my heart grew a million times bigger than I thought it could get.

At this time last year, I imagined a year of firsts.  First smiles, first steps, first foods, first words.  I imagined all of the quiet moments with my Buddy and reminded myself not to waste them.  I reminded myself not to be so excited for the next thing that I missed out on the right now.

At this time last year, I cried for my Destroyer, because now she had to share us and I hoped that she would love him.

At this time last year, I finally quit my bitching and held my Buddy for the first few times.

At this time last year, my Buddy’s adventure had begun.

Happy Birthday to my little guy.  I love you, my Buddy-Baby.  More than you will ever know maybe.  I hope your second year brings you as much joy as you have brought us all in your first.

AfterOtis

Written by Natalie Louise Oldham.

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