Update

Just wanted to update you guys and let you know that I am once again writing at The Butter Knife...who is now all official and shit.

www.thebutterknife.com

I needed some space back.

Also, if I know you from work and you still read this...forgive all the shits and fucks.

Dear Parks,

It’s getting colder outside and I love the change. It will be the first Christmas where you actually understand there is something “different” going on and I can’t wait to see your face the first time you see a Christmas tree, or get to open a present, or dig through your stocking, or wake up on Christmas morning and see what Santa has brought to you with no knowledge that Santa is actually your dad wandering around in his boxers trying to find the ONE DAMN SCREW that holds THE WHOLE DAMN THING TOGETHER. You know, THAT screw. The one I’m pretty sure I probably threw away because your dad left it sitting in a half-empty coffee mug on top of the mantel taped to a spoon. Because that’s how he categorizes “important” things. AS IF ONE WOULD KNOW.

I’ve always been partial to the fall. My whole life I’ve been that way. When the first cool breeze hits the air and I feel the wind shift, things get clearer and clearer and are covered with less pollen and haze; it’s like I can see the world better. I feel as if an oppressive lingering heat depression lifts off my shoulders and I can conquer the world. I then make approximately two thousand commitments to people to keep my racing brain occupied and I already start to think about how the world will be different next summer. It won’t be as hot and I’ll be willing to get outside and run around with you. Missing the one fact that I’ve always hated summer, will continue to hate summer, and probably shouldn’t tell you that I’m pretty sure-after much reflection- I hate the summer because I was a fat kid and I didn’t want to be forced to wear the clothing that showed everyone how “fat “of I kid I was.

Also, I hate the smell of cut grass.

Your dad says this makes me Un-American. I think it actually makes me “Un-Un-American” as most of the Hispanics I know are usually cutting some sort of grass as the rest of us “Americans” can’t be bothered. And, oh, WE HATE THE SMELL.

We took you to the State Fair for the first time this year and figured out that you LOVE Pygmy Goats just about as much as you love the cats. Like, a REALLY WHOLE LOT. And, not in an “I like pygmy goats in a scary sort of child molester” way but in an “I really, really, really like a pygmy goat” sort of way. Judging from the way you reacted when we removed you from the presence of a pygmy goat, your dad and I need to purchase one just so we can have four uninterrupted hours of TV watching time on Friday nights. All that seems to be required is handing you a sack of sliced carrots and the leash to a brown pygmy goat. At least, I imagine that a pygmy goat would be on a leash. Who knows, right? I’m assuming there’s a carnie out there that knows but I’m not going to ask them. Mainly because I'm pretty sure there is more than one carnie out there that spent four hours on a Friday night with nothing but a bag of carrots and a pygmy goat to entertain them. And, due to that, they can keep their knowledge about pygmy goats on leashes to themselves.

So, you’ll have to live with your pygmy goat on a leash and LIKE IT, missy, you hear me? Now here are some carrots and go outside and let your dad and I watch Bill Maher and eat cookies and refried beans.

Lately (okay…like FOREVER AGO), you’ve become a hot mess of flinging whole-body-limp-going screaming fits of rage and tears…so almost two? We can’t take you anywhere. We figured this out in vivo-as they say-at a restaurant two weeks ago when your father and I made the erroneous assumption that we could peaceably take you into a restaurant, sit down, order, and eat a cheeseburger in some form of peace. After all, we’d been doing it for the past 15 months with no issue whatsoever. I’ll pause a minute for the seasoned parents to stop laughing.

They are laughing because they know we made a rookie mistake. The “rookie mistake” of believing that just because we could do anything TWO SECONDS AGO does not mean that we can do it NOW, as in RIGHT NOW, as in TWO SECONDS LATER. Because, in that two seconds, your brain formed different neurons that decided that event could NEVER BE ALLOWED AGAIN EVER-until eighteen years later when we’re beaten, saggy, defeated, and wondering at what point DHS won’t put us in jail if we decide you have to sleep under the house. Can you tell I haven’t been sleeping? What day is it? I can’t remember. WHERE’S YOUR FATHER?

Anyway, halfway through the meal I texted your Nana, “We have reached the point of restaurant melt downs”. She had the foresight to realize that this situation was probably not funny to me…YET. That maybe this was one of those situations that was going to take a few weeks to be funny, one of THOSE kinds of situations. You know, like the kind of situations where you turn on the gas stove and accidentally set your head on fire and it’s not really funny until you realize that your eyebrows will grow back and those sort of melted looking ears aren’t that bad. Because Nana didn’t text back anything. Not a DAMN WORD of “advice”. This is not usual behavior for your Nana as she usually has advice about everything and-in fact-gets paid by people to give them this advice in “therapy”. I’m glad your Nana didn’t text back because, at that point, anything she said would have garnered a response that pretty much sounded like, “EFF. YOU. I want a cheeseburger. I’m at pre-pregnancy weight. And I have I told you to go fuck yourself today, yet? ”

But she didn’t and I didn’t and all sat well between the two of us for a while.

Your Nana hasn’t been keeping you every weekend due to other obligations. So, your father and I are getting a break every OTHER weekend (poor us, I know, right?). Therefore, your Nana hasn’t had you spend the night at her house in over two weeks. That’s a LOT longer than two seconds, isn’t it? Are you catching my drift here?

So, Nana-not taking heed to my earlier text concerning restaurant behavior-woke up this morning obviously feeling very SASSY as you had slept all night and she wanted pancakes. She decided since everyone was so well rested and there’s a Cracker Barrel right up the interstate from their lovely abode that she would travel, you included, to said Cracker Barrel, sit down, and eat a calm and perfectly reasonable breakfast of pancakes while you sat in a high chair and glowed like the small angel that you are. In her mind, I'm pretty sure there were even blue birds floating around your head farting flowers that smelled like rainbows.

HA. TWO SECONDS, NANA. THERE WILL BE NO RAINBOW-SMELLING FLOWER-FARTING BLUE BIRDS HERE.

I was unaware that this was happening this morning as I was busy enjoying twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. I know, my body was like, “WTF? Are we in a Turkish Prison? Why have we been laying down this long? And while we are at it, who is this man lying beside me that isn’t wearing a diaper?”

Right when I was about to wonder out loud when the “dogs were being brought in”, I remembered where I was and my name. I then realized that my body had been asleep for a full twelve hours. It is about this EXACT time that your escapade at the restaurant two weeks earlier became amusing to me.

So, what was EXTRA amusing to me today, you ask?

Well, when I texted Nana my usual Sunday morning question of, “How’s that baby?”

This is the text I got in response:


“Slept great. We tried to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast-BIG MISTAKE. Great nap. Has some diarrhea. Little fussy now.”

I read it and I realized-except for that sleeping part-that Nana had pretty much summed up your entire last two weeks in five sentences and did you see how it took me, like, a bazillion? Nana’s much more talented than I am. And other than that, I think that might be the funniest text I’ve ever gotten. It’s like the telegram version of a status update, isn’t it?

But, I’m going to give her a couple of weeks before I tell her how funny I really think it is.

(I'm thinking its going to take even longer for her to think you pooping in the bathtub the last time you spent the night was even funnier)


Love,
Mom

Dear Parks,

Last week you received your very first set of skinned knees. I’m not sure if that was more of a milestone for your Dad and me, or you. I have a tendency to think it was probably a bigger deal for us as your father cried like a little girl, my first reaction was to call 911, and you basically stood up in the yard like Rambo breaking through the top of a lake in the jungle with an automatic weapon and fired off something akin to, “You WUSSIES. A LITTLE BLOOD WILL NOT STOP ME FROM EATING THIS GRASS.” Then you ate some grass and snapped a kitten’s neck just for pure pleasure. Kidding. That kitten part I totally made up.

What’s strange is that at the time I couldn’t decide which upset me more. The eating of something from OUTSIDE or the fact that you were bleeding and gave as much care to that as a roided-out college football player. In fact, you screamed your ass off when we dragged you inside for a rub of Neosporin and a band aid. Once we figured out that you were not going to break in half and dissolve into red plumes of skinned flesh, your Dad and I visibly relaxed, called both sets of grandparents, and retold the story like Korean vets discussing a jungle skirmish.

The next day I whacked you on the side of the eye with a dresser drawer when you snuck up behind me and it left a small cut near your eye. I then spent the better part of three days CONVINCED someone was going to report us for child abuse instead of reporting you for having a really, really hard head and a preternatural ability to sneak up behind people without them hearing you. If I wasn’t pretty sure who your daddy was, I’d think you were part Native American.

Lately, you’ve fallen in love with “Dora” and “Boots” (and can scream their names in a frequency only heard by ferrets, as well) but you also have discovered “The Backyardigans” and “Blues Clues”. “The Backyardigans” come on at 7pm and this is usually the time you are wrapping up dinner. If you can hear the theme song in the kitchen you raise your arms, bark, and demand to be taken out of your high chair so you can run into the living room to stare at the TV for 30 minutes. And, when I say stare, I mean loose all high levels of consciousness, go into a trance, and stand still staring at the television where even a hand being waved in front of your face will not break your concentration. Like a medium channeling “Uniqua’s” spirit. At first, we were a little freaked out as your ability to concentrate on something for a long period of time is extremely scary. Yes, SCARY.

When you have a 15-month-old who doesn’t even acknowledge your existence if you jump up and down and wave chocolate bunny cookies under her nose-and she’s related to you and you KNOW how much a good chocolate bunny is worth the effort-you WILL get freaked out about it. Your father and I have become increasingly more upset about the love you seem to have for the television. So upset that three days ago we became “those” sort of parents. You know, the sort of parents that decide “Hey! We don’t really like our child a whole lot so let’s REFUSE to let her watch television and see how pissed she gets. Just for shits and giggles”.

So, two nights ago with absolutely no ceremony, we turned off all the televisions and silently watched your head explode all over the living room for the next thirty minutes until you adjusted to the idea that you were actually going to be forced to interact with your parents for the next hour and a half until bedtime. There was wailing and slapping and screaming and stomping and dramatic throwing of oneself on the floor while beating of hands and fists and the gnashing of teeth. It was of Biblical proportions. I’ve never known I’d made a better parenting decision than right then when I was watching your reaction. If you loved Blue’s Clues THAT MUCH it was obvious your father and I were not making enough of a mark on your psyche.

You finally calmed down and let us read you books and point out pictures while you delighted in telling us what everything was, “buder-ply” (butterfly) and “bee” and “wow-wer” (flower) and “woof woofs” and “meow meows” and “dars” (stars). And, seriously, it’s not just because I’m your mom, but I think if we recorded you saying “buder-ply” and “wow-wer” that we could instantaneously cause world peace if we played it over world-wide loud speakers just with the cuteness dripping off the mispronunciation of each word. Last night I think I offered you a brand new car if you would just say “buder-ply” ONE MORE TIME. You obliged every single time until I could tell that you were getting a little tired and looking at me like, ‘Hey, Lady, I’ve told you what that effin’ BUG is fourteen times in the past thirty minutes. If you can’t remember, I’m sort of scared that I am your progeny. I hope my Dad is smarter for my own sake.”

But, you did oblige us every time we asked until about thirty minutes later when I asked you if you wanted to play in your room until bed time and you raised your arm, pointed towards the television, and pretty plainly asked me in your own language “Will the television be playing in the bedroom, M’lady?” I know you asked this because when I answered it with a very clear, “No. We aren’t going to watch television in the bedroom either” you returned to previous explosive head state full on with the slapping and beating of the floor. I couldn’t really get upset as this fit was, once again, about” Dor-da” so I just stood there until your father caved and picked you up and we seemed to convince you that you were going to live. It took a while for you to believe us. But, you eventually did and we finally put you to bed that first night with no television and you calmed enough to seem to enjoy the extra reading and interaction.

The second night….well, let’s just say there was about the same amount of angst regarding the TV not being turned on but for fewer minutes than the first and you settled into playing with your father and I a little quicker and took delight in showing us all the “bees” and “buder-plys” and “wow-wers” once again. We retrieved some new books and laughed as you made a “vroom vrrooom” sound for all the cars in it along with screaming “DUK” every time we turned the page and you saw the yellow feathered creature.

Every. Single. Time.

That book seemed to last as long as “War and Peace”. Only with less Russians and instead of having 16 different names, every one was named "DUCK".

Luckily, we finally came to a “tiger” in the book and-being pretty sure that you had no idea what that was-I pointed to it and said, “TYE-GERR”. You pointed at it and said “danke scheon”. OK, Wayne Newton. Whatever. Let’s try this again.

I point at the picture and say “TYE-GERR” and you point at it and say “Danke Scheon”. I have a hard time not bursting into song here and reenacting the parade scene from Ferris Bueller. So, I just say, “Yeah, it’s a Danke Scheon” and we moved on. I figure there will be a pre-school teacher somewhere who can clean that mess up. Just like they can tell you Mama’s cleavage isn’t really her belly button. What the hell are we paying them for anyway?

After finishing this book, it was nearing bedtime and as an afterthought we decided to ask you if you were “ready to go night night”. Normally, this incurs a little bit of screaming followed by some screaming with a little more scream-filled screams. But that night, you popped up, threw your sippie at your Dad and mumbled something that sounded like, “blowin’ this borin’-ass joint”, turned around, slid off the couch and practically ran to your room like your ass was on fire. You then pointed at your Dad, pointed at your paci, and then pointed at the rocking chair. You then stood there with your hands outstretched like, “Come on, bitches, let’s DO THIS THANG.” Your dad sat down, put you in his lap, cranked back and you were asleep within two minutes.

It’s so nice to know we entertain you that much. We love you too, honey.

There were lots of “firsts” in the past few weeks. We left you for the first time with people that were not family. Well, not “technically” family. But, your Uncle T and Aunt M are pretty much related minus that whole pesky ‘sharing blood’ thing. Although they don’t have kids…we thought if you were in your crib asleep there was slim to 23% chance of them not killing you within three hours. Surprisingly, they managed not to kill you and your father and I got over our fear of leaving you with anyone other than our mothers. Well, *I* did. Your dad checked his phone every two minutes and vibrated the entire time we were out for dinner.

Have we discussed the level of anxiety that you are naturally going to inherit from the both of us yet? If we haven’t, maybe I should go ahead and start schooling you on symptoms and pharmaceuticals. Although, with the way you react to some situations, I can already tell you are going to be an interesting kid who has her own ideas about how things should work. Basically, everything in the world belongs to you and the rest of us are just borrowing it without your permission.

Like, yesterday morning, when I got into the shower in “your” bathroom (which isn’t really YOUR bathroom so much as a bathroom that happens to be attached to your bedroom) and you pulled back the shower curtain and screamed, “NO MAMA. MY WA WA”. You continued to scream this for three minutes until I nearly broke a leg falling over laughing in the tub and your dad came in and dragged you away screaming “NOOOOOOO” as you beat your fists on his chest. You know, because no one should have the gumption to use YOUR WA WA without permission. Next time I’m going to bring up how you totally used my uterus for ten months without MY permission. Let’s not even mention the conditions under which you came into the world. I think that certainly makes me worthy of using a few drops of YOUR WAWA. At least, I think so. It’s also why I take bites of your ice cream cones, kiss you as much as I want no matter how hard you push me away, and occasionally put stupid ass outfits on you for my entertainment. I figure I’ve earned it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll totally show you my hemorrhoids.

I’ll leave you with something that your great-grandfather once said to me.

“Quit your crying. I’ve had worse things in MY EYE.”

He then rubbed me down with gasoline while smoking a cigar to kill the “chiggers” I was screaming about.

Granted, not the best parenting advice. But definitely a good perspective through which to see the world. Or, maybe just borderline neglect. Who knows?

All I DO know is that right now you are the coolest thing EVER.

Love,
Mama

Dear Parks,

I'd like for you to stop being so cute. Its making your bedtime especially difficult for your Mama and Daddy.




Love,
Your Parents

Come To Me My Danishes

There are currently nine people in Denmark reading this blog according to my stats. I'd like to thank them for being so interested in my little obnoxious American child who continues to bite, shake her finger in my face and tell me "NO NO NO" so much that The Man and I finally burst into tears of laughter yesterday after the third fit that included her flinging herself on the floor and protesting violently our "rule" of NOT EATING GLADE PLUG-INS. We are horribly unreasonable parents.

On that note, if you would like to inform me where in Denmark you currently are, I can have her on a plane in about two hours. Maybe "STOP. NO. DON'T TOUCH THAT. DO NOT EAT THAT. I SWEAR. PARKS ELIZABETH GARROTT. NOT THE OUTLETS. THE MEOW MEOW DOES NOT LIKE THE WAY YOU ARE TOUCHING HIM" (I'm currently checking to see if they make capitalized Capitalized font) will make more sense to her in Danish. I'm pretty sure with the string of babbling expletives she let loose on me yesterday that she's speaking in a different language anyway.

Last night I think she decided that her crib was too lonely and decided to fake an illness that lasted, surprisingly, JUST long enough for us to feel sorry for her and put her in the bed between us. She stayed there...flung out far and wide just like her dad sleeps until I gave up, curled up into a ball about the size of a quarter, and took the space in the bed the two giant DaDa and Baby-Long-Legs in my life decided to give me. She then farted ALL NIGHT and kicked me soundly in my boobs over and over again. This was only topped by this morning when she stood up in bed-angry that we weren't yet awake-and then violently tossed herself backwards ONTO MY FACE with a lovely morning full-of-urine diaper. It squished delightfully against my forehead as she landed. She then peed. I know this because I could feel the warmth spreading throughout the diaper and, despite being a really calm person most of the time, I screamed, gagged, picked her up, and then threw her against the wall. Kidding. We only throw kittens against the walls in our house. Never babies. Babies get tied in the corners and fed vodka until they pass out-or are willing to make prank calls to my father telling him that his PERSONAL TAX MONEY will now be funding the NAACP's yearly conference. Because nothing spells "funny" like killin' grandpa with a heart attack, am I right?

I'm going for my inheritance money early. All $12.45 of it.

Dear Parks,

Yesterday you woke me up by biting me on the arm. Hard. Right after I informed you that “OWWIE, HURT MOMMY” you got this extremely confused look on your face. You then raised your own arm and proceeded to bite your own self. REALLY hard. Immediately afterwards, I saw understanding dawn on your face and you very eloquently said, “UH OH”.

Yes, “UH OH”, it looks like the pediatrician was wrong and you aren’t a genius. Stop biting yourself, kid. Save that for the boys in pre-school, or high school for that matter. If you REALLY want to make your Mama happy you could also bite bitchy girls in junior high as well. I promise I’ll have your back if the principal calls and blame it on some rare genetic disorder like “Bitchititis”. And then I will tell them you can fart on cue and burp the alphabet and WHY AREN’T THEY CULTIVATING YOUR GOD GIVEN TALENTS? What am I hypothetically paying them for anyway?

The past few weeks with you have been nothing short of sheer joy dipped in sunshine with my only regret being wishing that I had more time with you just so we could “hang” and talk. I’m convinced you hold the secrets to the universe. Well, at least my universe. We can pretty much communicate like any normal talking human beings except no one else can understand you but me. Tonight you let loose with a stream of gibberish and I told your Dad that you very clearly said that “he couldn’t have your BaBa” right after he told you the beer on the kitchen counter you were desperately trying to grab was “Dada’s Baba”. I told him you were pissed-as any good offspring of mine would be at being denied a Budweiser-and that you pretty much thought he was denying you your night-night BaBa. And this grievous insult was the cause for the flinging, dramatic fit you were currently throwing. I think it took all he had not to throw the remote at my head when he smart assedly returned, “Thank you, Rick Warren.” Hey man, I got mad 14-month-old language skillz. What can I say?

I don’t know how I CAN understand you. I don’t know if it’s a “mama” thing or if I’ve just been around really, really drunk people for way too much time in my life. But, when you look at me very seriously and say, “I umba nee mah ba ba un me meow meow”. This means you would like a bottle and be taken to bed. Your dad, on the other hand, thinks it means you would like an Asian massage and another beer. Some nights we try both-just for shits and giggles. Surprisingly, they both seem to work equally well.

I would also like to mention that you speak fluent “Cat”. When you are either very angry or very upset, you will frequently scream-or whine ”UM MEOW MEOOOOW”. I occasionally want to ask Fat Jesus The Cat to translate. But, he’s too busy trying to reach his ass so he can clean it. I don’t like to interrupt him because his valiant effort at this undertaking of cleaning his undercarriage is probably the only reason he isn’t in a shelter. I’ll give anybody a chance if they are TRYING. (I AM a social worker after all)

Unfortunately, he can’t reach his huge ass and this often results in lots of “dirty tooter stains” on the couch. I won’t save you the gory details as they are part of my daily life. When Fat Jesus pees it catches in his tooter hair and dries there to make this lovely stench which he then drags along all the furniture. I might be willing to put up with this behavior without beating his ass daily if he would at least aid us in understanding your frequent long streams of “Meow, meow, meooooow, MEOW, MEOW”. Mainly because we are starting to think you aren’t normal. The spinning and repeatedly walking around the house shoving your whole hand in your mouth and then pulling it out and screaming, “EEEMMM” doesn’t help either. You are totally weird. I’m so proud. In fact, between all that and your freakishly large vocabulary for a 14-month-old it would normally have the hypochondriac in me screaming “AUTISM” faster than you can swing a dead cat if you weren’t the most social animal that I’ve ever met.

Your GG takes you story time at the library two days a week where she says that you must walk around and greet all the other children before you allow the librarian to start. The librarian then allows you to “ring in the ceremonies” by pushing all the noise-making books first. You get this from me. Just don’t get the whole “taking a shot of tequila and getting so friendly you take your shirt off” part from me and we’ll be good to go. I mean, at least until college. We don’t want to raise an after school special around here.

Three weeks ago you started waking up in the morning and immediately pointing to the mole in the center of my forehead. The mole I’ve had my whole life. The mole people constantly think is a huge zit as it’s almost skin colored. After a few days of your obvious intense curiosity, I finally just screamed “MOLE” one morning when you pointed at it. This is where I start cursing my impulse control issues as now every morning when you wake up, you roll over, point at my forehead and scream, “MOOL”. It’s like I gave birth to Austin Powers. But with better dressing style and no horrific English accent.

We’ve started a new routine in the afternoons where as soon as you get home we all go into the front yard and let you run barefoot in the grass while you squeal and frequently face plant into the ground. The obvious pure joy you have at this seemingly mundane activity gives me hope for the world in general as your Mom and Pops are feeling a little broken down right now. It’s been a rough month for all of us around here and not just because you are cutting six new teeth at the same time. Your father and I are struggling with both losing our idealist ideas about saving the world as within one month’s time we’ve both had our home, and our cars, broken into. Mama’s job got ultimately more complicated due to budget cuts, your Nana got put in the hospital this morning, and two weeks ago a kid at my facility went nuts and did five thousand dollars worth of damage while basically holding my entire staff hostage for an hour. Shits been rough, kid. You’ve been my rock.

Because, when stuff like that happens and I come home and your GG tells me that while you were having “nekkid time” that day running around the house she turned her back for one minute and then heard you say, “UH OH, WA WA” and turned to find you stomping in a puddle of your own urine, it makes the whole crappy day take on a brighter tinge of sunshine. I shouldn’t be as entertained by this as I am. But, you know, when it feels like the world is falling apart, if you can’t laugh at pools of pee on the floor, what do you have left?

Hopefully, I always have you. And when I have days like this…where my idealism is challenged. Where my cynical nature is running rampant and I’m cursing the world instead of trying to save it. You remind me WHY I’ve fought so hard for so long. And it’s that part of my life-you-that keeps my chin up and tits out-as my friend Em used to always tell me. Pools of pee in the kitchen always lighten the day. The fact that your GG said you spent three minutes stomping in it like it was a rain puddle lets me know there will ALWAYS be something worth saving. The fact that she lets you reminds me there alway was.

If only for our innocence, our sense of humor, and our little family's nightly Budweisers and Asian Massages. I love them so much I almost can't touch those feelings for fear of the gagging certain to follow. But always know, your Mama ain't as tough as she acts. Except for when it comes to you. Then I can turn into a eight-legged sixty-four clawed Saber toothed tiger with a set of poison darts and a blow gun with a scope. But, really, that's just because I've been living in Jackson for a while.




Here’s lookin’ at you kid,
Mama

Why The Man is The Man

Because when I told him I was writing a post about vaginas that was taking me WAY longer than I thought it would, he threw his hands up in the air and said:

"I just don't know. What you guys got going on DOWN THERE. It's just got too many responsibilities. Birth and everything else. Y'all need to delegate some of that shit out."

To which I replied, "Well, to which orifice shall it be delegated?"

And then he was quiet for a while.

But he never once said, "Please don't write a blog post about vaginas."

Dear Parks,

The other day your Nana sent me a text message that said, "I need more flogging" and it was only right before I was about to smartly answer back, "Well, yes, on most days I agree" that I realized the text actually said, "I need more BLOGGING." And, since Nana hasn't taken up a spot on the blog roll lately, I'm thinking she means ME.

When I finally realized what she was talking about I thought back and realized that with everything that's been going on since...oh, MAY, that I haven't had time to get on here and tell you everything cool that you've been doing. Mainly because I'm too busy spending time watching you do cool shit. But, I'll stop with the gushing.

It may also seem suspicious to some that the absolute black out on blog postings came about the same time you learned to walk well enough that you quickly turned into an 80-year-old Grandma about it and decided to trade in your knees. Kid, we can't keep up with you!

First, by some freak of nature you're twice the size of a normal one-year-old. You wear a 2T and were so tall at your one year check up that the nurse actuallly said, "I can't tell you what percentile she is in height because she's off the top of the chart." Unfortunately, the ability to empty the dishwasher or scrub the toilet has yet to appear on your development curve. Mama's waiting on those two. Those two are important.

Second, you are extremely, extremely FAST. I've never seen anything like it in professional sports. They should put 13-month-olds on basketball courts. I turn around for five seconds and you are GONE. And, what's worse, you are QUIET. When you are GONE and QUIET your father and I secretly have quiet panic attacks until one of us locates you. Usually this is in a bathroom splashing in a toilet...or sucking on one of your dad's dirty socks. To tell you the honest truth...sometimes we can't get to you before the "Thing That Isn't Supposed To Be Eaten" gets eaten.

It's probably fitting that you got your first real "virus" this past week. You've been in and out of everywhere the past three weeks and we can't keep you from licking most foreign objects. I'd pretty much expected you to contract some form of flesh-eating something way earlier than this point. But, instead of flesh eating there is just a "virus". There isn't even a name for it. The Doc just called it a "virus". It's caused a croupy, rattly sounding cough, a low grade fever, some intermittant general malaise and a reduction in your appetite.

The Doc was unable to explain much about its origin or progression other than us just letting it "work its course" and that sometimes "kids just pick up these things". It was about then that my mind flashed back to exactly a week prior when we were in Chatanooga (family reuinion...WHOLE OTHER Butterknife blog entry) eating at "Mud Pie" and I took you into the bathroom to change your diaper (as shitting in public is now your second full time job-behind being cute, of course) and when I dropped you down to stand on the floor in order to rehook the changing station I turned back around to find you rubbing your hands on it. Yes, THE FLOOR. IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM. Right after I had a panic attack, took a Xanax, and located the nearest antibacterial hand soap, I lathered you up to your elbows like you were prepping for surgery and just prayed that whatever disease you incurred didn't cause you to sleep less or cry more. Fortunately, this "virus" did both. YEAH FOR ME!!

Other than being "quick, fast and nimble" you are becoming increasingly more verbal. Every day. The pace of your language aquisition freaks me out. You know all your body parts, animals, and bodily functions. (Hey, we don't want you to miss out on the joys of farting!) You learn more every day. One day, you walked into the dining room when I was turning on the lamp and you pointed and said, "Light!" and I said, "WELL, I'LL BE DAMNED." My second sentence was, "Who taught you that?" Because we didn't. Weird kid.

We quickly figured out that you were in that stage of learning where several new words could be aquired in a given day. We delighted in teaching you "feet", and "hands", and "high five", and "POOP?" We excitidely told you everything we were doing and the name of everything you could possibly pick up. Not only were your Mom and Dad excited about it, but your Nana and GG were as well.

In fact, one Sunday after Nana kept you the night before so your father and I could hang out and talk about things that didn't involve your POOP, we walked into the kitchen and she exclaimed, "LOOK WHAT I'VE TAUGHT HER!" (I had to stop myself from asking if it was our taxes because we desperately need some good help with them.)

Your Nana looked at you and asked, "Parksie, where is your belly button?" And you immediately hiked up your dress above your waist, displayed your belly very proudly, and then vigorously stuck your finger into it. Everyone was very excited.

Everyone was clapping and saying lots of "GOOD GIRL" and all I could think was, "Way to go NANA! You've just pretty much taught my child how to get free beads at Mardi Gra." Guess we can go ahead and knock that one off the "Parenting To Do" list.

Although, I will readily admit that this "belly button" exposure has turned into a game for the family. Every morning you now wake up and have to find Dada's "BOO-EE-BUH-ON". This leads to a game where you lift up his t-shirt and firmly stick your index finger into his belly button then look up excitedly waiting for the clapping and praise. We oblige and then you wait one minute before you perform the exact same trick for the exact same price. Occasionally, you will throw in a viewing of your belly button for free. We all giggle and laugh and it's very cute. One would have thought you discovered a way to get paid for not working with the way we react each time.

This all leads to this evening. Tonight, while I'm pretty sure you were high on your cough medicine prescribed for your "virus", you climbed up onto the couch and threw yourself onto my lap giggling. You were teasing me and hiding your head while I was trying to kiss your neck. All of a sudden, you popped up, snatched down my shirt, and poked my boob (YES, I SAID "BOOB"). This is not totally strange to me as here lately you've had some days where you act like you aren't aware the milk factory closed almost a year ago. But, this time, you poked my boob, then put your finger right above my cleavage. You looked at me questioningly, like, "What is this strange valley in your chest? But more importantly, are their cheddar crackers hidden in it?" And, as you poked your finger into my cleavage for a third time (and right before I was about to demand dinner and a drink), your eyes lit up with understanding and you exclaimed, "MAMA BOO-EE-BUH-ON"!

And, well, I just agreed with you. Because when you ask at the age of 13 "Why aren't my belly buttons growing?" I can just have a large laugh, another glass of wine, and think about how wonderfully entertaining it is to be a parent. Much like tonight.

Love you Toot B,
Mama

Dear Parks,

Yesterday I didn't feel good and your dad's Father's Day didn't turn out well at all. In fact, it just didn't turn out. I'm trying to make myself feel better by telling myself that I made a HUGE big deal out of it last year as it was his first and you were a week old. See, I didn't get my first Mother's Day until this year. You were born smack in the middle of the two.

But, it doesn't matter. I should have tried to do better-despite the fact of being tethered to the toilet most of the day.

There's really no way for me to express to you how super cool your dad is. One day, you will find out.

I find that if I try to make myself list all the ways that make him as wonderful as he is...I start to cry. And that look isn't flattering on me at all. But, I'm going to try to give you just a few anyway.

1) The only time I've ever known your dad to cry was the night you were born and in the NICU. That's it. In fact, because I was incapacitated, *I* didn't even see it. Someone told me. He told me later that he just couldn't handle it. Your dad freaks out often when it comes to things he "can't handle" but he never, EVER cries. He just loves us a whole, whole lot and that night carried a lot of emotion for him.

2) Your dad openly admits-at least on a weekly basis-that his favorite thing to do in the whole world is hang out with the two of us.

3) He read the Dr. Sears Baby Book and decided you MUST eat beets. I know you don't see this as "kind" now. But, its kind of like discipline. It hurts us more than it hurts you. Actually, I'm not eating the beets...so it's probably going to hurt you more. But I promise it means he loves you. The same goes for the spinach. (Don't worry. I'll slip you napkins to spit it into)

4) He ALWAYS gets out of the bed in the middle of the night to get you a bottle. I sit in the bed, rub your head while you scream, and bark orders listing all the things needed: "BABA, STAT. FIGHTER, STAT. NEW DIAPER, STAT."

5) When I wander over to whatever he is doing while I am doing NOTHING and state "She pooped" he walks over to you without a word, picks you up (TRYING NOT TO PUSH ON YOUR BUTT!!!) and takes you to change your diaper. Sometimes I provide wipey support. Sometimes I finish doing whatever important thing it is that I was doing...like watching a McDonald's commercial and NOT GAGGING.

6) He gives your morning pee pee diapers "Purple Hearts" for being wounded in the line of duty because they are so full.

7) He lets you bite him. Like, on purpose.

8) He rubbed my feet EVERY SINGLE NIGHT of my pregnancy. Not that he didn't complain about it. But, who cares about complaining when you know a foot rub is coming?

9) His office is wallpapered with pictures of you in various stages of development. When anyone enters, he gives them detailed information concerning each one.

10) Every morning when we wake up he tells us "Good Morning" then asks if we slept well and then tells us he loves us. I can't tell you how often Daddy's DON'T do that.

And since we're here...Let's take this to 11.

11) He gets off work later than I do but still picks you up from GG's every day (an hour and a half trip in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic) just so I can have time to wind down and write.

And I don't think he'll ever understand what that means to me.

So, I hope that when you are 15-years-old and filled with angst and spite, you remember that every time you tell him he "sucks", his heart is going to break a little. Go easy on him. He's a big softy when it comes to you. Not that I'm not. But, I'm much more inclined to beat you first and ask questions later.

I don't think that point was more illustrated than two nights ago when you were having another difficult night sleeping and we were doing a version of "Cry It Out" that consisted of letting you cry for two minutes at a time and then coming in to soothe you after which we put you right back in the crib. This was a grievous insult to you and after the fourth trip where I held you until you calmed down and tried to lay you back down, your father entered the room and you began squealing at the top of your lungs, "DA DA DA DA" and hurling your body towards him. He moved to take you away from me and I quickly told him to leave the room and informed him in my best military voice that, "the enemy has identified the weak link and is working to divide the troops". He quickly ducked out of the room but not before he yelled back at me, The General, that he would "do it but it felt like his skin was being peeled from his body."

Love,
The General

Dear Everyone,

I totally underestimated how thrilling, yet sad, it would be to make her last bottle.

She's officially on milk-as of this week. I won't say "last bottle" because she still requires one when she goes to bed at night and I'm assuming that will last until at least 18 months. But, last week, we ended the mad dash in the morning to "make enough bottles" to send to her GG's in order to feed the human trash can she has become in the past week.

Remember that whole post about her not eating anything but corn? And then that whole other post about how if you say anything out loud it never works again? Well, OBVIOUSLY that also works for WRITING as my child has now decided to eat everything in the house that isn't nailed down.

Eggs? Check.
French Toast? Check.
Grilled Cheese? Check.
Hummus on pita? Check.

These are all things she previously stuck her nose up at while she threw handfuls of them under the high chair. Now, we can't keep anything ON her high chair as she beats her hands like a prison inmate until dinner is served.

Weirdo.

Dear Parks,

Your FATHER is making me feed you beets for dinner.

Just wanted to clear that up.

Love,
Mama

That's More Like It

Pullin' her weight...

Why The Man is The Man

Because as he changed the first poopie "toddler" diaper he hummed the theme song from "2001: A Space Odyssey".

Dear Parks,

A year ago right at this time I was in labor with you. The doctor had broken my water an hour previously and I was starting to feel some, ahem, rather “intense” contractions. I was still joking with your father at the time that the first thing I wanted when you “got out of my belly” was a 12 inch foot long from Subway considering they wouldn’t let me eat. I had no idea how 21 inches of infant was going to change every priority I had the instant you appeared and I was finally allowed to hold you. Let’s just say I still love a good sub sandwich but I wouldn’t run across a busy intersection risking life and limb just to hold it in my arms. No offense, Jared.

I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.

Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.

I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.

Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.

Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.

There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?

The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.

Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.

And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.

Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.

In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."

I love you now and forever,
Your Mama

Consistently Inconsistent

The above title of this entry is what The Man often calls The Baby. I agree on most days except for when she's screaming. Then I say she's "consistently consistent". (I jest about how much she screams, because if I told you my child was generally pleasant, smiles and laughs 89% of the day, and giggles with pure delight at most anything with which she comes into contact, well, that just wouldn't be funny. And then you'd hate me. I can't handle that. Just ask my shrink.)

But, its really true. My kid is just happy. I know this is how they "trick" you into having another one. Then you DO have another one and that kid sets the house on fire at 8 months, strangles the cats, and calls DHS as soon as they can jabber to report all the vodka you give them at night to knock them out. Little Bastard. In fact, I'm so sure this would happen if we had another one I'm trying to mentally tie my tubes as I type this.

I would say that "we've been blessed with an absolutely wonderful child" but I've learned that lesson in parenthood. As soon as you say something out loud...it NEVER WORKS AGAIN. This goes for sleeping habits, eating habits, dressing habits, playing habits, and for almost anything the child can do that either pisses you off or makes you laugh with pure joy. The Man and I have learned this lesson the hard way. In fact, now, when people say something generally positive about our child, you can probably hear us scream from two blocks away, "DON'T SAY THAT OUT LOUD." It doesn't help that The Man and I are horribly superstitous and think that pretty much anything we say can be spoken into existance. Due to this, we both feel a little responsible for Obama getting elected. You can thank us for this later.

Case in point: Yesterday I made a yummy dinner of organic homemade mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli for her dinner. I SLAVE FOR THESE DINNERS. In fact, I think The Man gets a little jealous because I make tiny amounts of wonderful food for these "baby-sized" dinners and then look at him and say, "Um, don't you have a Totino's in the freezer?" Last night most of the mac and cheese ended up hanging on part of the kitchen wall, down her shirt, and on the living room floor. No, she wasn't moving while she was eating. I'll let you imagine that scenerio yourself. So, I ended up feeding her what she would eat. Strawberries and Godlfish crackers.

I texted my mother a delightfully witty line (at least I thought so) saying something like, "Dinner Served: Organic mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli. Dinner Eaten: Berries and goldfish crackers"

My mother responded to this with, "Don't think its good at this age to not make her eat what you offer. Won't it spoil her?"

I TEXTFULLY LAUGHED IN HER FACE. This woman obviously does not understand the HORROR that is my child faced with food she does not feel like eating. There is no shrugging. There is no "trying of one bite". There is no "No, thank you." There is gagging, and opening of the mouth and spitting food into the neck of her shirt, there are handfuls of food snuck under the high chair tray and thrown on the floor. There is chaos and darkness and its somewhat like Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" with less Viggo and more ashy Apocolyptic scenes and gnashing of teeth. In short, its not pleasant. So, usually, after ten minutes of attempting to feed her something that won't make her GROW BOOBS AT THE AGE OF NINE. I give up and give her fruit and some version of a cracker. She is happy. We are happy. The cats come out from their hiding places because they no longer hear the small hairless thing in the living room keening and wailing. In short, there is sweet, sweet bliss. Then we all go to bed satisfied to live another day.

My mother keeps my child on Fridays while I work. She wonderfully works a 10 hour four day work week so she can do this on Fridays. Just for shits and giggles (and to get back at her for all the many and varied things she did to me in my childhood)I sent the leftover mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli to her house with a note that said, "TRY IT. I'll stand back and laugh."

Around 1pm I get a text from her with this picture:





The caption read: "I WON!! NANA LOST! BERRIES AND FISH CRACKERS FOR LUNCH!"

I immediately sent one back that said, "Hurling? Lots of screaming? Hand beating on the high chair? Glueing of lips together?"

Mom wrote one back, "Yes, that sounds familiar."

HA. Just wait until I send some meat over there. Then you might really get a taste of what its like at my house around 7pm and why the cats take cover under large pieces of furniture.

So, we get her back this afternoon and The Man once again tries with the mac and cheese. (Have I mentioned we are also both self-hating masochists?) I sit in the living room painting my toe nails, having a cocktail, and waiting for the nuclear fall out.

It is quiet in the kitchen.

I am intrigued. But, my toes aren't dry. So, I sit and finish painting and drinking my gin and tonic. Maybe I am drunk and Satan has struck me deaf and I have yet to realize it.

I finally get up and walk in the kitchen and The Man stops me at the door and whispers, "Don't say anything out loud. Just leave the room and whatever you do, DO NOT LOOK HER IN THE EYE." Like she's a cornered possum or something.

As I pivot to leave, I try to catch a glimpse of the imp out of the corner of my eye. There she is...sitting big as shit in the high chair shoveling handfuls of mac and cheese and carrots into her mouth as she giggles and talks gibberish to the cats.

Consistently inconsistent, I tell you.

Hotly Debated Topic Between The Man and I

How often the guy from "Blues Clues" gets laid.

Dear Parks,

I woke up today and-after extricating your foot from the small of my back-I realized that in two weeks you will be one-year-old. Like, HOLY CRAP. That means you'll be 1/33 of my age and practically as mature as both your mom and dad put together. Since this revelation, we've mutually decided that you will be responsible for paying the cable and internet bill. That's $162.50 a month. I don't care where you get it, but it's due on the 8th so I'd like it by the 6th. I figure by one you need to start carrying at least part of your weight around here. That's part of 26lbs. I'm carrying ALL of your weight most everyday. I figure you carrying part of it shouldn't break your back. And, hey, aren't you going to be driving soon? I've got some videos I need to return.

After realizing your birthday was looming imminently your father and I freaked out and realized that we have done NOTHING to prepare for this-and I'm not talking about a birthday party. We've already bought the tequila for that. We are "alledgedly" supposed to transition you to WHOLE REAL MILK and, like, FOOD. Someone even mentioned taking your BaBas away. Are these people crazy? I told your father that I was going to buy a flack jacket and some mace as I'm pretty sure you aren't going to take to this transition too kindly.

You DO eat "food items". Like, corn and corn and sometimes some more CORN. But, you really aren't too keen on anything else other than fruit and PUFFS. I'm pretty sure that corn and puffs-although they make for interesting diapers around here-are not nutrionally solvent for a one-year-old.

When we attempt to integrate green things and stuff that actually contain vitamins into your diet the result is usually not pleasant...remember that "hurling" skill I talked about? You've also developed this knack for making something your father and I refer to as "The Ricky Gervais Face". One day I'll let you watch the movie "Ghosttown" just so you can see what I am talking about. Its the face he makes during the part where he has dinner with Tia Leone and there is a large canine in the room that obviously smells horrbly bad? That face. It's a cross between a dry heave, a gag, and a full body convulsion. Sometimes you do it so dramatically that your father and I just laugh and call you out on it. Like a college freshman that's trying to hard at shooting tequila. WE GET IT KID. You don't like SQUASH. You don't have to fall on the floor, gag, and pee your pants. Save that for when you get into a sorority.

And then I say things like, "save that for when you get into a sorority" and I want to laugh, but all I do is get very upset and realize you will leave me one day and all of a sudden I'm in that moment where you are packed and 18 and sassy with long hair and not enough damn sense and are about to take off in your car and all I can think is, "This all went WAY TOO FAST" followed closely by, "I'M NOW ALONE WITH YOUR DAD. WOOT! BACK TO NEKKID SUNDAYS!!"

But, seriously, Happy Almost Birthday. Your Mama is now going to cry and make the Ricky Gervais face for a while (and possibly shoot some tequila).

Please stay little a little bit longer. If you do, I'll let you eat corn and take a Ba-Ba everyday. Or at least until the kids in high school start to give you shit about it. Then I'll help you kick their ass.

Love,
Mama

Phrase Most Often Heard Around My House Between 8:00 and 8:15am

"You just NEVER get used to the smell, do you?"

Actual Conversation Just Held In My House

Me: (casually) "Did you know there is a Lego in the guest bathroom sink?"

The Man: "DON'T TOUCH IT!!!!!"

Me: "Um, why? Because I haven't, er, um, or anything."

The Man: "Because she dropped it in the toilet."

And then I just walked away from that one. There's really no way to explain to "The Internets" in a way that makes sense (and doesn't make them think DHS needs to be called) that your husband holds your kid while he pees simply because the stream of pee hitting the toilet makes her giggle. Although I will admit he asked the other day at what point "that needs to stop". Um, like TODAY WHEN SHE DROPPED AN EFFIN' LEGO IN THE TOILET THAT I TOUCHED. ER, THAT I DID NOT TOUCH.

Son of a LINCOLN LOG

Just found a Lego in the sink of the guest bathroom.

This is beyond "un babi".

WHO IS DOING THIS?

The Real Mother Goose

My surrogate parents gave me a book of the old fashioned "real" Mother Goose rhymes when I was pregnant. The Man and I have started reading to Parksie before bed each night and occasionally we pull it out to read a favorite like "Sing A Song of Sixpence" or some other such nonsense.

Tonight we make it to page 62 and find THIS. And, despite being an ADULT, I can't get through it without giggling NOR can I read it to my child:

LITTLE PUSSY

I like little Pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her
She'll do me no harm;
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I
Very gently will play.

Later in life I will have to explain the danger of "pulling the Pussy's tail" to my offspring as I'm pretty sure this is what led to her existence.

Dear Parks,

Your cousin Joy recently gave you a lovely bag of jumbo-sized Legos that totally captivate your attention on most days. Your father and I have taken to calling you "Peg Leg" as you now crawl around the house with at least one piece clasped in a sweaty hand and every time you crawl forward we hear the "thunk" of the Lego piece hitting the floor. I kind of like this as I think the next step in this process involves you getting an eye patch and parrot. Eye patches are cool.

The one main problem I seem to be having with the Legos is their seemingly alien ability to reproduce like Gremlins…or rabbits on Viagra (I was going to say like “white trash in Scott County” but those people own weapons and aren’t well educated. In short, they scare me just as much as Republicans and Tea Baggers). Every time I turn around there are NEW Lego pieces scattered around the house. Recently, your dad found one sitting perfectly in the middle of the cat food bowl. (I REALLY don’t want to know how it got there or the behaviors that followed you placing it there) There are two on my night stand. There’s one currently sitting under the TV, one on the side of the front porch, two pieces on the fireplace mantel, one in the middle of the hall, approximately three in the bathtub, and I just pulled another from in-between the couch cushions. I’d like to thank your cousin Joy for this glorious addition to our household as I’m pretty sure she sent them down here while silently screaming “SUCKERS” under her breath as they had finally escaped the nooks and crannies of her house. I’m also going to be sure to pay her back for this favor by purchasing at least seventeen different toys that each make a really loud and annoying sound for both of her children at Christmas. I want to make sure the family love is shared equally.

Last night, completely engrossed in playing with the three that interested you the most, you insisted on bathing with them. One held in each hand, you giggled as the other one floated around the bathtub. You were so distressed at being removed from the bathtub without them that your dad had to carry you back in the bathroom, hang you over the side of the tub, and let you gingerly retrieve them so you could continue “thunking” around the house. I don’t mind the “thunking” as its sort of like having a bell on a cat and no matter where we are or what we are doing; we always know when you are on your way. This has the added bonus of letting us know when to hide the breakables and the vodka. Much like when Cousin Charles comes to visit.

Last weekend your baptism went down without a hitch. “Hitch” being defined in this family as a panic attack. It was touching and simple and beautiful and filled with people who loved you. The priest centered most of the ceremony on the wonder of being a child and learning to see the world with child-like eyes instead of, like, Jesus, and Satan, The Prince of Darkness, (not that we didn’t have to rebuke him. We did) of which I was very appreciative.

The only thing that slightly concerned me was that the priest looked at me and SMIRKED when he asked the question about the “glamour of evil” and “Satan, the Prince of Darkness”. And this is not a man that SMIRKS. SMIRKING is left for me most of the time. When he asked the question, I was only looking at him because I knew if I looked at your Auntie (and godmother) Elizabeth that I was going to do much more than SMIRK. I was going to GIGGLE INAPPROPRIATELY. And this, I could not do. Your great-grandmother was there. She is both deaf and blind and, well, I’d like for her to go to her grave knowing her granddaughter can make it through a thirty minute Christian ceremony without disrespecting the Baby Jesus with a SMIRK. Obviously, this priest cannot. Due to this, I think he and I will get along just fine in the future. Unfortunately, his SMIRK led to increasing paranoia about him reading this blog.

HOW DID HE KNOW ABOUT THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS, PARKSIE?

That, I cannot answer. Maybe he does have a direct line to God through the Pope. And, if he does, I’m terribly screwed. Or, maybe you and he have been having conversations on the side that you haven’t been telling Mama about. Because, sure as I’m sitting here, when that man asked if we “rejected Satan, Father of Sin and Prince of Darkness” you said OUT LOUD in front of the entire room, “I DO”. And then, everyone in the room nearly fell over and shit their pants at the same time. This was a huge surprise to all the participants-including your parents-as minus "Mama", "Dada","Kit-Tay" and some minor babblings that sound somewhat like a cat being strangled, you can't yet speak English.

Your outburst finally allowed your Mama to release the inappropriate giggle she’d been holding in for the past five minutes and then I just GLOWED WITH PRIDE. I had to stop myself from standing on the side of the baptismal font and screaming, “SHE’S A GENIUS. I TOLD YOU, GODDAMNIT!!” But then I thought the “goddamnit” part would be especially inappropriate for your great-grandmother to hear. ( Not that she could. But that doesn’t really matter)

The priest even stopped the ceremony and said, “Well, that’s a first.”

I wanted to retort, “That’s just because you’ve never baptized one of my offspring. We’ll surprise you occasionally with the crap that comes out of our mouths. Just ask my mother. She’s the one standing right over there in the corner shaking her head and making the sign of the cross.”

Thankfully, you saying “I do” was a lot better than your head rotating and green vomit spewing from your mouth. Those were my original, and as it turns out, unfounded worries.

You were delightful. You smiled. You even giggled when he poured water on your head. I REALLY wanted to pop a Lego block in there so you would feel more at home but it turns out you didn’t need it. You WERE at home. You charmed everyone. I was so proud I seriously considered tattooing your face on my arm.

Afterwards all 25 of the family and friends went to eat lunch to celebrate your dedication to The Sweet Baby Jesus, Savior of Mankind, and your Aunt Mary snapped this pick of you deciding what you wanted to eat.



Turns out you wanted strawberries and sweet potato fries. Well, you wanted those right after you took a huge bite out of the actual menu.

Good choice.

Love,

Your Very Proud Mama

How Mama Got Her Groove Back...

I don't have to tell anyone that's actually given birth to a child that there is a period afterwards where one feels very....UN-groovy. Your body has just been used as a growth pod. There are strange marks and skin hanging off of it. And, your boobs? Well, let's just say that they got an all-expense paid vacation to Mexico, picked up your ass at the airport, and hit the first flight south.

When you are pregnant you are so FULL. Not just of baby, but of fluid and life and glow and, in my case, macaroni and cheese. There is such a richness...almost a plushness to this FULLNESS. Everything is round and perfect and stands up and one ALMOST doesn't mind weighing somewhere in the neighborhood of a small rhino. Because, all the round parts of that rhino are so...so...I'm just going to say it-SEXY. This was one part of pregnancy I didn't mind. The roundness. Now, hauling all that "roundness" around...totally different story. I’m pretty lazy in general. Hauling around 65 extra pounds of lazy wasn’t pleasant. Just ask The Man.

I didn't mind being pregnant and getting bigger. I didn't mind the belly. I didn't mind the booty. And, I sure as hell didn't mind the boobs. It was the first time in my life I'd ever actually had anything someone would refer to as "boobs". Previous to that there were small raised bumps on my chest gloriously manipulated by many Victoria's Secret push-up bras. My boobs pregnant were MAGNIFICENT. I gloried at them and even told myself to go ahead and start mourning their disappearance sometime during the eight month as I knew, alas, they would not be here for much longer.

But, for as much as I prepared myself for the actual physical pregnancy aftermath, it was WAY WORSE THAN I EVER IMAGINED.

I don't say this to scare anyone off from having children in general. There are some women, some FREAKS OF NATURE, that pop back after being pregnant and return to wearing their pre-pregnancy clothes within 8 weeks. We hate those women. Do you hear me? WE hate those women. They convince other people that six weeks after giving birth you should be up, out, wearing spandex, and bemoaning that whole two pounds you have left to lose. BULLSHIT.

It wasn't that I wasn't somewhat forewarned. Co-workers and friends will tell you that before I ever got pregnant I announced pretty readily to anyone that would listen that I was NOT going to be an attractive pregnant lady. I was going to be a MOOSE. I knew it. I was going to be Catherine Zeta Jones. (As beautiful as that lady is...she becomes a moose when pregnant. Just look at pictures). My nose grew, my feet grew, and GROSSLY ENOUGH, my ANKLES grew. Like, EW, right? Unfortunately for me the fat ankles have yet to correct themselves and they might be something I actually have to deal with for the rest of my life. Would I give up my daughter for perfectly thin ankles again? Well, that just depends on what day you ask me.

Then what the hell is this post about, you say?

"Getting your groove back? That's not done with fat ankles and droopy boobs!"

Well, no, it’s not. I totally agree.

What I am writing about here today is a little something called "Hope". I know lots of people have been selling that in the past few years and I'm happy to jump on the bandwagon.

For the first three months post-partum, I was still trying to get used to the fact that I wasn't pregnant anymore. YEAH, GIN. AND CIGARETTES. AND LOTS OF CAFFEINE! WHOOT! You know, the usual. I was like a recovering addict leaping off the wagon and covering myself in sin. Look at all the things that I can do!! WHOOOPIE!!

The only problem being that I couldn’t really “do” them at all because I was being awoken every hour by a screaming infant who wanted a boob in her mouth. So, that phase was more like “Extension of Pregnancy: Months 10-12”. I also couldn’t move around really well because I was still dealing with post C-section pain. There was no real attempt to get back in shape or lose any of the SIXTY FIVE POUNDS that I gained. The motivation wasn’t there. And on days when I’d gotten about five hours of sleep and there was a little “motivation”, there was also probably some cake or something laying around. And my favorite pajamas. And a new episode of Criminal Minds. And maybe that screaming infant we had tied down in the corner.

Hence, the fat ass-ness continued.

The really fun part of this whole phase was that, due to my c-section scar, I’d put in an emergency phone call to my mother approximately 12 hours after being home from the hospital and requested “panties”. LARGE PANTIES. In fact, bring me the LARGEST PANTIES YOU CAN FIND. She obligingly showed up with ten pair of white cotton full-coverage high-wasted Hanes briefs. I’d actually never SEEN panties this large. Didn’t know panties this large existed. In fact, they bummed out The Man worse than me as I hadn’t worn underwear for ten years prior to being pregnant. He went from loving a commando girl to someone wearing panties that could genuinely serve as a purse, if need be.

I believe these are what most people call your “big girl panties”. Fittingly enough, I was a BIG GIRL. I needed these panties. And even as I cringed every day putting them on and pulling them up until they almost touched the bottom of my bra, I marveled at how they didn’t rub my incision and provided some modicum of “empty belly control”. And by “empty belly”, I don’t mean I was hungry. I mean there was now a lovely flap of skin that shot out over my incision. The skin that had once stretched over a fully formed human child. The belly that was now “empty” of the fully formed human child.

When I finally returned to work, I was so exhausted from caring for an infant from 5pm until 8am and then caring for mentally ill children the rest of the day that self-care was not something of which I really CARED. I wanted sleep and I wanted that sleep to be in a bed that didn’t smell like formula or one where I was fighting for space with The Man’s seventeen-foot-long super spider legs and an infant that liked to sleep tucked under my arm. And, while we are on the subject, maybe a shower that lasted longer than 37.6 seconds.

Working out fell into the "WTF?" category. Like, WTF? I'm supposed to get up, move around, and SWEAT on PURPOSE. No thanks. I just spent 28 hours of my life sweating trying to push a watermelon out of my vagina. I'm going to take a little break here and just sit down a minute. Maybe stop paying so mucy attention to my vagina and a little more attention to the television...and ice cream sandwiches. The Man bemoaned the vagina part but gladly took part in the ice cream sandwiches.

So, then I reach the six months milestone and I see myself naked one day (still wearing my HUGE BIG GIRL PANTIES) and finally decide that something must be done. I cannot wear these panties for the rest of my life. The Man was beginning to degrade them daily and I UNDERSTOOD. Not only were the panties getting me down but I was still wearing maternity and nursing tanks under my shirts. I was going downhill fast. I was becoming “that woman”. That woman that has a kid and then everything goes away and all of sudden I turn around and I’m a natural brunette who isn’t wearing fake eyelashes and my feet haven’t had a pedicure in an entire year and I look like a Hobbit.

I REFUSE to be that woman.

I won’t say I immediately jumped on the “let’s get this shit done’ bandwagon and started running five miles a day. Please note preceding statement about being LAZY.

But, as with most major life transitions, I started small.

I bought three pairs of LITTLE GIRL PANTIES and a brand spankin’ new push-up bra.

I almost felt fancy. ALMOST.

I won’t say that I feel like I’ve gotten back to “pre-pregnancy” shape at all. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. But, I will say that I’ve lost twenty-three pounds of that “empty belly.” And this weekend? I invested in some REALLY LITTLE GIRL PANTIES and a BLACK PUSH UP BRA.

So, you know, it’s coming along.

Next month? As painful as it is to announce…working out.

They really are right when they say it takes an entire year to get your shit back together. Because my shit was all over the place. Now my shit is held in, sucked in, tucked in, and…. one day I dream of it finally getting in to those size 29 Blue Cult jeans I have sitting at the top of the closet.

Right now, those are still two good lungs full of air from fitting. But, I’m thinking in a couple of months, if I lay down flat on my back and hold my mouth right, I might be able to zip those som’ bitches up.

I also wouldn't be surprised if you come over to my house while I'm cleaning only to find me dusting the furniture with a pair of extremely large white cotton BIG GIRL PANTIES.

I hate things not being put to good use.

Why The Man is The Man

Because he changes so many poopie diapers that when my daughter squatted, grunted, and dropped a little package of joy into her diaper yesterday she stood up and said, "DA DA".

I need some pampering.

O Manicure, Pedicure! Wherefore art thou primping?
Deny thy daughter, and refuse thy self;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll continue to be a calloused Mom-beast.

Dear Parks,

Yes, I am aware that I didn't post for say...four to fifteen days (remember that whole counting thing we talked about earlier?). Mama's been busy shoving things you want to chew on between the couch cushions and "hiding" them in creative places that she later can't remember. As a side effect of that, I now can locate around 1,348 pieces of oversized colorful Lego blocks you take pleasure in hurling at the walls, but the remote control to the DVD player and two hair clipees? Still missing in action.

"Hurling" was last month's developmental skill. That's a fun one, right? I don't get any "milestone" about which we are supposed to get excited that involves you throwing anything you might be holding as hard as you can at the wall. I mean, its not like we give you Bic lighters and bottles full of gasoline on a daily basis, but if we would have known you were going to develop this "hurling" skill we maybe would have rethought the decision to teach you to wash the crystal wine glasses. They are expensive and Mama's already broken three.(If you have any questions about this, please refer to previous post regarding your mother's skill level at walking)

You turned 11-months-old on Sunday and your father and I celebrated the occasion by attending church. No, it didn't fall down, burst into flames, or get struck by lightening. And, well, "technically" we didn't "attend" church. We attended a class required by the church for you to be baptized.

After much and lengthy discussion, your father and I have decided that you will be Catholic. My argument? It's MUCH easier to be born into the Catholic faith than to become one later. The Methodists that your father claims rights to will take anyone, at anytime, with no pre-required courses or class work whatsoever. Wanna be Methodist later? They'll practically ride over to the house, dunk you in a bathtub, and announce you a believer post haste. They're like the Mormons-except they believe in something that actually exists. Plus, Catholic people are cooler. I promise. (Just look at your mom and Uncle BT.)

Although, I will admit the Catholics are almost throwing around baptisms like the Baptists these days. It was MUCH easier to get you baptized Catholic than I thought considering you were conceived in sin, born into a marriage not blessed by the church, and quite possibly (due to your recently aquired ability to voice your displeasure at being removed from a enjoyable activity in such a way as to alert neighborhood raccoons) a messenger of the Prince Of Darkness himself.

But don't worry, we'll get rid of him this weekend. Your father and I (and your Auntie EB and Uncle BT-as your godparents) have to promise to "reject the glamour of evil and Satan, The Prince of Darkness" in your steed at the baptism.

Your Auntie EB asked if "rejecting the glamour of evil" meant she could no longer watch "True Blood". I informed her that was something she'd have to take up with a man more well-versed than me-the one upstairs. If he says "yes" we both are going to have some hard, hard thinkin' to do. We aren't giving up Sookie for just anyone...even though you are super cool and stuff.

My favorite part of the abovementioned phrase is the "Satan, The Prince of Darkness" part. I like how they qualify his title...you know, just in case you didn't know. Just so you won't get him confused with "Satan, The Director of Cruise Activities" or something like that.

Also, I love the COMMA. "Satan COMMA The Prince of Darkness".

PAUSE RESPECTFULLY, PARKSIE.

But, after Saturday, if "Satan, The Prince of Darkness" comes after you, you will have "Jesus, The Savior of Mankind" on your side. (That and your father can do a MEAN Daniel-Larusso-style crane kick in a pinch)

I'm really nervous about your baptism as the church normally dunks six-week-olds into fonts while they are sleeping-or at least halfway milk-drunk from feeding. You, my dear child, no longer sleep or exhibit any signs of "milk drunkeness". In fact, your walking skills exhibit all the signs of "alcohol drunkeness". The priest suggested "timely scheduling" of the baptism as for it to be "conducive" to your compliance. I had to stop myself from helpfully suggesting the age of 35. I really dont' know any 11-month-olds who "schedule" their compliance. In fact, I've known you almost a whole year and the only thing you really "schedule" is your 8pm high pitched request for someone to dump you in bed with a bottle of Jack-spiked Good Start and a new episode of "Bones" on the television. (Wait, that might be me.)

I'm taking his statement to mean that he wants us to dose you with Benadryl, or heroin. Whichever is more readily available. I informed him at the "pre-meeting" that I could not promise you wouldn't dive head first into the baptism font upon its first appearance. That you might have a few requests...Like, could he let you toot into it and then giggle? Maybe have a few rubber duckies floating in it? A full body massage with Burt's Bees baby lotion when you were done? You are used to this over-the-top spa treatment at home whenever there is an activity with water involved. There is also usually lots of splashing...and maybe some pee (I can't SEE the pee but I just assume you get the same urge everyone else does immediately upon sitting in warm water).

I've been racked with anxiety all week wondering what we are going to do about this whole “pouring water on the head” thing. Eventually, I realized I was just going to have to hand it over to God. How freaking ironic, right? So, Parksie, I hope Jesus makes you act right this weekend. Please don’t fart in the baptismal font.

Your GG bought a cake and everything.

Love you Tooter Bug,

LG, The Mother Of Parks

Shit My Cousin Says...

"Your kid will shit in the tub one day. And, you just better hope its a whole terd..."

Just Strange in General.

I was just sitting on my porch and noticed a twenty pound raccoon on my neighbors roof. I was freaking out that he was just sitting up there until I saw him scratch around, hunker down, and take a big ole pee. So, then I figured out it was probably a she, right? I mean, do male raccoons lift their legs or do they all hunker? Who knows? I don't.

Right afterwards, she jumped down, crossed the side yard to my driveway, perched on my second porch step and stared at me for a full two minutes before ambling down to the street. I was racking my brain for any sort of superstition that directly addressed face to face contact with raccoons and I found none.

Surprisingly, the raccoon probably wasn't the strangest part of my day.

But, I remind myself that the baby is safe in bed, the dishes are washed, the laundry is done, and maybe on some days that's all you get before a raccoon pees on your head.

The Birth Story: The Conclusion

So, I sat on the bed and waited.

I sat on the bed and waited for the nurse to come back, load me gingerly into a wheel chair, and burn rubber down the 60 feet of lineolium between me and my kid. She was 18 hours old and had yet to meet her mother. I was frightened FOR her. I can't imagine how freaked out she was. I don't like going into new convenience stores because of how scared I am about "not knowing how that one WORKS". Can you imagine popping out into this crap with the only place you've ever known being a warm and squishy and somewhat quiet place? (I say "somewhat" because she is MY kid and she did hear me prattle on for approximately 9 and a half months.)

I know that studies and most psychologists will tell you that kids don't remember a whole lot about anything until between the ages of two and three. BUT, psychology will also tell you that the ability of a child to attach in a healthy manner and sustain long and fulfilling relations is developed in the first two years of life. You know what that tells me? That although babies don't retain details of certain happenings and circumstances, that there is an impression made upon their brain that unconsciously guides these future abilities. Actually, there is. Because a babies brains are still forming up until, I don't know, around 21, I think? (Which is why teenagers make such ill-informed and stupid decisions, by the way) Being away from their primary caregiver creates a stress hormone called cortisol that can actually permanently alter brain connections. All I can think about is my kid laying down there having no idea what in the sam hill just effing happened to me? Hell, I'd like to meet her so we can at least commiserate.

In short, I wanted my child because I REALLY didn't want to pay those therapy bills later. If I'm going to pay for therapy, I'm going to make damn sure its because of something that I did.

So, I sit and wait for this nurse to show up with the wheelchair so she can take me to the NICU. And we wait. We wait for about an hour until she comes in and says one of the most morally offensive statements that I've ever heard.

I ask her, "Where is the chair?"

She very happily says, "OH, you don't need one! She's been in the Well Baby nursery since 8am. So we are going to just roll her on down here and she's yours. She's perfectly fine!"

I have to resist the urge to vomit on her. Or maybe take off this puppy pad I'm wearing and throw it at her face. I don't even know what to say at this point. I mean, I KNOW what to say...but I'm pretty sure it would have security called and then it would be just a wee bit longer before I HELD MY DAMN KID.

So, I take a breath and act excited and practically scream at the nurse to BRING HER THE HELL DOWN HERE ALREADY. And I sit and I wait. I sit and I wait with my mother, my mother-in-law, my father-in-law and my husband to see my baby for the first time. It felt foreign and strange. I was excited and apprehensive. Its not unlike waiting on a blind date to pick you up. People have kind of told you about him, given you descriptions of him, but you don't really KNOW him. And, besides that, I had NO IDEA what she'd be wearing and if my corsage matched, you know? I was nervous.

The nurse finally wheels in this plastic bin-not unlike a large tupperware container-holding my baby. She then spends ten minutes explaining exactly how not to KILL HER. I don't listen to a whit of it and am vibrating with excitement. And, well, here's a two minute video about how that went. (You will notice the grandmother's attempting to stay away and give us our space and failing very sweetly at it.)



During this entire two minutes and seven seconds of video I wanted to scream, "SHUT UP AND HAND OVER THE BABY AND NO ONE GETS HURT." I think I handled it beautifully and came off looking happy and composed, no? I think the fake eyelashes definitely helped. The video stops right when the nurse is about to make me "sign" for Parks-like she is a UPS package-and I finally get to hold her.

I looked at her. She was staring at me. The nurse called her "very alert" and told us "She has a set of lungs on her." I feel angry that this woman knows this about my child and I do not. I do not know anything about her except where she liked to kick my ribs and how much she enjoyed chocolate and peanut butter and oranges.

My first impulse is to strip her naked and check her out-like a head of cattle. I immediately announce this to everyone in the room and begin taking off her clothes and just LOOKING at her. I begin lifting up her gown and taking off her socks and hat.

Look at those HUGE FEET.

Where did all that black hair come from??!??

She has dark cobalt blue eyes that are almost strangely grey. I've never seen a color like them before.

She has all her fingers and toes and legs and arms and ears and she cries. Full and loud. And I love it and I want to hear it more.

But, wait....she totally has hair on her butt. I excitedly point it out to The Man and tell him our child definitely has an Italian throw back gene from my side of the family. Then we lament on how long that will take to fall out. It is THEN that I realize what it feels like to be a parent.

Because I love every single hair on that butt.

Not that I'm not totally excited that it finally fell out. But, in general, I would never find a child's hairy butt attractive. The thought that I found mine "cute" tells me a lot about what this whole parenting thing is going to be about.

I spent another three days in the hospital recovering. Friends had told us to take advantage of the Well Baby nursey while we were there so we could sleep at night. I was so traumatized by her birth she never left my room except for their "checks". She layed beside me in her tupperware container and slept. I breastfed her every two hours and stared.

After three days, the nurses came down to discharge us and this is when I quickly found out what the OTHER part of being a Mom means.

She'd had an IV port in her arm the whole time we were there. They had given her IV antibiotics in case the reason the fluid on her lungs was due to an infection. Their tests later came back and said there was no infection and it was just fluid. They "couldn't really explain the cause." Like someone just accidentally left some fluid laying around and, WHOOPS, there it is! In your baby's lungs! WOW! Glad we found that, huh?

They had left the IV port in the whole time we were there and I couldn't even look at it. When she was with me I tucked the newborn pocket of her sleeve over that arm and acted like it didn't exist.

At discharge the nurse was going to remove it and as I sat there waiting on yet ANOTHER wheel chair to take me out of the hospital (these wheel chair people have really got to get their shit together), she asked if I wanted to "leave the room" while she removed it.

"Leave the room? Why? Nah, I'll stay in here." I had no idea what she was talking about.

She turned to take out the IV and Parks started screaming and I saw blood and my stomach turned. I looked out the hospital room window and laid my head against the glass and wiped uncontrollable tears out of my eyes.

I got it then. I'd never felt more vulnerable or scared in my life.

And then we took her home.

A wheel chair actually showed up and two women, one steering me and another steering a cart with our bags, wheeled us out of the hospital right after they told me I could "take anything that was in the room because I'd paid for it". So, we loaded up on diapers and wipes and slippers and pads. Right before we got to the car I remembered the heavy terry cloth bathrobe that had been hanging on the back of the door. I had totally forgotten it.

I spent the next two weeks of her life mad as hell that I'd forgotten to steal the bathrobe out of the hospital room bathroom. I'd EARNED that robe. Actually, I sometimes still get mad about that robe-ten months later.


As for her? Ten months later that sweet angel turned into this hot mess of crazy!



And that, my dear friends, is definitely MY child.

The Birth Story: Part Two

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love."---Washington Irving


Around 8am my doctor comes to make rounds and-despite my horrendous burning abdominal pain-I’m somewhat NOT a bitch because I’ve been allowed to drink an entire cup of coffee for the first time in nine months without any guilt about gestating a fetus. I swear, sometimes I disappoint myself with how the tiniest crap can amuse me. She, unfortunately, is not wearing four- inch gold lame heels. Today they are lime green sling-backs with pointy toes and she’s curled her hair perfectly and is wearing contacts and lipstick. Obviously, unlike mine, her evening took an upward swing after we parted ways at 9:00pm the night before.

She checks my legs and calves as I’ve had on compression boots all night to prevent blood clots after the surgery. She says they look fine and will be off by noon or so. I show her my incision and she says it looks good as well and asks about my pain. I tell her the Percocet is working fine. She then tells me that I can go to see my baby just as soon as I can sit in a wheel chair. But, OH WAIT, before I try to do that she wants me wheeled down to radiology for an x-ray because of my chest wheezing and raspy cough. She then tells me that the neonatologist will be around in a bit to update me on Parks. I’m less excited about this as The Man has been sprinting down the hall with his super spider legs every twenty minutes this morning to check on her and then report. I married a good man. It was because of him that I was very well informed of her status and the fact that she was completely fine as of 7:30am and was just requiring observation for another couple of hours until they discharged her from the NICU into the Well Baby nursery. His actions during this time period are about the only things that kept other people’s eyeballs in their sockets and skin on their arms. That and the Percocet.

I’ll go ahead and admit that this whole “x-ray-before-you-see-the-baby” part is my entire fault. I’d had a nasty sinus infection that turned into bronchitis towards the end of my pregnancy. I’d refused medication at that point because, hell, I hadn’t taken anything thus far and I didn’t think it was going to kill me to live with some nancy sinus infection until she was born. I hadn’t been able to shake it for about three weeks despite continual neti pot use and lots of coughing, hacking, and blowing. Unfortunately, the doctor seemed to think it was killing me. Someone said something about “pneumonia” . Whatever. We don’t get “pneumonia” in our family. We just get a snotty nose and lay down for a week. People are such alarmists.

Unfortunately, my doctor didn’t believe in my family’s way of doing things and demanded the chest x-ray be performed before I went to see my baby as “she was still in the NICU” and all.

Looking back on this situation it is amazing to me that I wasn’t spitting fire and tearing off people’s heads at this point. People that know me will also be shocked that I was quiet, compliant, and did what staff told me. When I think about it now, I can tell that I was in complete and total shock. One thing you will learn is that there are two reactions when people go into shock. They will either do exactly as instructed or they will lose their shit and freak out. I’m just not the “freaking out” type. It just doesn’t happen. So, I went along.

Finally, about an hour after my doctor made the proclamation, an orderly pushing a bed wheels into the room and requests that I STAND UP AND GET ON THE BED.

What the living hell? I inform him them they’ve just separated my lower half from my top half and things are not quite held together that well yet. You know, the glue hasn’t dried and stuff. But it sounded more like, “I JUST HAD A C-SECTION 11 HOURS AGO. ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME? “He looked scared and ran and got a female nurse. Typical. Between the two of them, and one other aide, they managed to shimmy me onto the gurney with only a small amount of me screaming and muttering curse words under my breath. After which I immediately apologized and they forgave me. All twenty-eight times.

I am wheeled down the hall. We go past the “Well Baby” nursery and I look in and see four babies. We pass the door to the NICU and I know she is in there. The closest I’d been to her in 14 hours after living with her for the past ten months. I got sad. I started crying. The Man wipes my face and the orderly asks if I’m ok. I tell him an abridged version of the story. He tells me he will try to make the trip to radiology quick. I put on a brave face and start making jokes. That’s what I do.

The Man follows the gurney down to the bays used for people waiting to get into radiology. They have televisions that come over from the wall and we watch the news and pretend to talk about it. I cry on and off and we joke and freak out and talk about how weird this whole experience is and keeps on getting. The older man beside me is crying and shaking and I am reminded of how I never want to be old and I think about Parks and I cry. I then saw two nurses get into a semi-impressive cat fight and I realized how this is just a “day at work” to them and I think about my days at work and how you get used to the suffering. We wait for what seems like forever and then I am taken, begrudgingly, by the nurse that lost the cat fight into the x-ray room where I am curtly pulled up and told to stand and walk up against the wall.

I look dumbfounded at the nurse and almost start laughing because she has to be joking, you know? So, I just look at her and don’t move with a half smile on my face and she repeats the instructions a little louder. Like I just hadn’t heard her. I finally speak and want to say something eloquent like, “IF YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN, FIND YOUR CHILDREN, AND TATTOO PICTURES OF LADY GAGA ON THEIR FOREHEADS.” Instead, I kind of mumble, “I, uh, just had a c-section, um, a baby, you know? Like, um, twelve hours ago? And, well, I haven’t, um, stood up yet? And, I have these boots on my feet?”

“It’ll be fine. Get on up and walk over there to the wall and stand against it.”

She unhooks my boots from the power source on the bed and leaves them on my calves. I gingerly stand, holding on to the bed rails and she nicely offers her arm. I begin hobbling towards the wall she indicated and within seconds I feel it.

I KNEW IT. There is a wetness filling the inside of the compression boots and I can feel it on my legs and eventually under my feet.

I am so embarrassed and there’s nothing I can do. It starts light but as I look down I see the trail of blood following me and getting wider and deeper and it is when we finally make it to the wall that I motion to the nurse (who is looking forward this entire time) that either Freddy Kruger just visited this x-ray room, or I’m currently bleeding out on this here floor here, ma’am. I say it and I start to kind of giggle and I realize that I am FINALLY losing it. It is that hysterical giggle that escapes the lips in waves and you try to tamp it down because you know the situation isn’t right but there’s nothing else to do. Every other emotion seems fruitless. I have cried enough. I cannot scream loud enough to justify how this feels. There is nothing left. I will die if I do not laugh.

She looks at me funny and I return it just as sassy and say, “I’m sorry. I do this everywhere I go.” She didn’t laugh and walked into a side room and walked out with five green towels that she threw at my feet.

“That’s okay honey. Not a big deal. This happens all the time.”

I make a mental note to not have surgery at this hospital. I then make a mental note to tell God when I fall out and die here from blood loss that this woman is an insensitive bitch who deserves AT LEAST the fifth level of hell.

I stand on the towels and she places the plates in the correct position while I continuously drip onto the floor. She takes four plates and then just as brightly requests that I walk back and sit down on the bed. Knowing the level of pain to expect, I’d gotten faster at moving. No one helped me as I got to the bed, swung my legs around, and grasping on to a pillow, held it to my midsection where my stitches were placed while I settled back down on my back.

I was rolled out of radiology into the bay where The Man was waiting. He saw the look on my face and the blood covering my legs and the boots and got worried. He asked what happened and I told him. He was so mad he was about to go find my doctor. I stopped him because I wanted it to be OVER. I convinced him to sit in the radiology bay while he seethed and we heard the nurses’ station paging our orderly for the next thirty minutes. It was around 11am.

After watching more news in silence and talking about the absolute absurdity of our situation, the orderly shows up and rolls me back to our room. He casually asks about the blood on the compression boots and I just say “knife fight in radiology.”

My phone then rings.

I pick up because I see it is my father. We do not visit that often and I had not seen him since Christmas. We have never been especially close, but he’d been trying more in the past few years to keep in touch. I ask him where he is. He says, “I’m holding your baby.”

This is where The Man asks the hospital about their policy of giving someone Xanax…large, large amounts of Xanax to someone currently taking the level of Percocet that I am on. Or maybe just one of those shots in the neck and some restraints? Padded room? A riot shield? My husband was desperate.

My face turns red and I sputter. I cannot talk and I choke up and I act like I can’t hear my father on the phone. I scream I’ll be in my room in five minutes and hang up. I turn to The Man and before I can get a word out he just says, “I KNOW”. I know he knows but I have to tell him anyway. I tell him to leave me and run up to the NICU as fast as his super spider legs will take him and to tell them that NO ONE is allowed to see my child until I am allowed to see my child. I think I even use the term “bitch slap”. This is not normal cursing policy for me. He says that he will as soon as we get back to our floor.

I then say the “F” word a really whole, whole lot. I said it so much the orderly looked concerned. The Man, understanding the gravity of what had just occurred, looked very, very concerned.

I arrived back in my room to find my father, with his ever impressive timing, standing there with my step-mother and my six-year-old niece. I am angry. I am a gruesome mess of a sight. I am covered in blood and have matted hair and red eyes. I am angry that he does not know enough to keep a six-year-old out of my room. I am angry he did not ask permission to visit. But, mostly, I am angry that he has held my child and I have yet to meet her.

He asks me how I am doing and I immediately burst into tears and decide to actually tell him.

“I am HORRIBLE. I HAVE NOT SEEN MY BABY. I JUST WANT TO SEE MY BABY.”

I’d pretty much been repeating these two sentences one right after another for the past 16 hours. Yelling them one more time at him wasn’t really going to hurt anything, you know? And right before I collapse into a sobbing heap on the bed, I see him back slowly out of the room and mumble something about “hormones.” The Man holds me and kisses me and makes it better. We lay in the bed for a few minutes until a nurse comes in for my next dose of Percocet. She then tells me that I am allowed to go see my child but that since I’m completely covered in blood, they are going to send some aides down to bathe me before I go to the nursery. Defeated, I lay back in the bed and The Man and I stare at the Disney channel and I finally figure out who The Jonas Brothers are for the first time. Surprisingly, I don’t HATE them. A few minutes later two elderly ladies in scrubs walk in wearing gloves and looking all business-like and full of late- in-life sass that I usually appreciate.

They removed the bloody compression boots and helped me out of the bed. I wouldn’t take their hands because I’m hard headed and I’ve always been that way. I was going to stand. I was going to take a shower. I was going to do whatever the women told me to do if it meant getting me in a wheel chair and down the hall.

The older nurse purses her lips approvingly and says, “The young ones don’t stand up so soon. They’re afraid of the pain.” And right before the wave of burning stabs beat across my abdomen, I was able to squeak out, “They said I had to stand up to see her” and then I took a step toward the shower and realized how many and varied are the shapes that types of bodily pain can take. I stopped and took a breath and they asked me if I wanted to sit down. I just looked at them as I still couldn’t decide if I was going to be offended by the nurse’s obvious statement about my age. I ultimately decided that since I lived only four blocks from the hospital, I could pretty much come back and punch her in the face later-at my earliest convenience. NOW, not being that time. It is a sad, sad day when you know a 65-year-old woman could take you in a fight.

I walked to that shower like I hiked the last two miles out of Mt. St. Helen’s when my calves were screaming and my feet were numb from the previous ten miles half-way up its north face. I put one foot in front of the other. I saw only the shower and I said, “left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right” Because sometimes, when things hurt, the only thing that will get you through it is reminding yourself of the actual physical steps it will take in order for that pain to stop. There is only an end goal. And that goal becomes all that matters.

Right when I thought I wasn’t going to make it, despite my determination, the last dose of Percocet kicked in.

My Percocet Haiku
Percocet my love
There is nothing greater than
When the nurses bring me more.

Don’t get me wrong. There was still a high level of pain. I just no longer felt the need to hold my right arm in front of my stomach thinking that my entrails were going to fall out at any moment. Thank the Lord for small favors, right? No longer afraid of evisceration, I could actually balance with one hand and hold on to furniture with others. And I finally made it. Fifteen whole glorious feet.

I dropped my hospital gown and for the first time in a LONG TIME was naked in front of two people at once. I’m talking so long it might have been at MY birth. I look down at my deflated belly and it feels both empty and full of heat at the same time. It feels separate, no longer a part of me. It didn’t help the strange detached feelings that I could touch most of it and was actually unable to physically feel it either. I was completely numb from my belly button to the tops of my hips. I’d never felt so “undone” before. Pregnant, yet, Not Pregnant. Mother, yet, Not Mother. I instantly understood staring in the bathroom mirror looking at how strange that belly looked that I was in the “middle” of something. And, well, one cannot get done with being in the “middle” of something until one simply gets through until the end of it. I’ve endured enough significant events in my life to understand this. So, I commit to getting through to the end.

I carefully and slowly sat on the bench so thoughtfully placed in the shower and the two women began hosing me down with detachable shower heads. I was naked. In front of two strangers. Being hosed down. With hoses.

They were hosing blood off of me. The water ran pink down into the drain and I instantly understood why they tiled the bathroom stall a light natural mauve. I sat there and-because I am a therapist and will forever have an internal gauge concerning human interaction-I wondered if this event was shaming. Or, as she helped me wash my hair, strangely tender? When I genuinely think about it, isn’t true caretaking bathing another person? There are very few people one usually bathes in their life, you know? Your children, your spouse, and maybe-down the road-a parent. But, this wasn’t a relative, and while I totally appreciated the clean hair, I’m still leaning toward defining that situation as a bit fucked up. ( I was even trying to use a non-curse word there and I couldn’t. There is no other word for it.)

And, since I’m never just satisfied knowing my OWN opinion, and that combined with the fact that the last dose of Percocet had just kicked in, I ask the aides, “Its it weird to come to work every day and see strangers naked?” And, at that moment, I REALLY wanted to know. Because I don’t have to see people naked at work. I’ve seen openly psychotic people. I’ve seen extreme physical aggression, cursing, hyperactivity, but never just straight up butt-nakedness at work.

She laughed and told me no. I grabbed my belly protectively from habit and got sad.

I tried to stand up from the bench and realized sitting down for the shower had been the easy part. Now I required drying. Drying they left me to do alone. And, since I couldn’t really bend nor MOVE a whole hell of a lot, I ended up standing in the bathroom and staring in the mirror. After about five minutes I decided I wasn’t going to do that again for, oh, about six months until all that crap straightened itself out. No reason to depress myself now.

I then dried off the best I could, wrapped the adult diaper they left in the restroom they referred to as a “pad” around my crotch, threw on the netted underwear they left to hold them up, and waddled out of the bathroom to lay on the bed. To the amazement of The Man, I then applied make-up, false eyelashes, and blew dried and styled my hair.

The Man didn’t understand why I was bothering. I knew there was no use in explaining that in order to get up and get down that hall, I needed all the ammunition I had. I’d just completed about half of it.

I then sat and waited for the nurse. It was about 1pm on June 17, 2009.

TO BE CONTINUED