Planets have aligned. Both babies are sleeping. No one is sucking on me or needs me to kiss their boo boos or make them cereal or wipe their ass. Wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t accidentally gotten myself drunk last night. Now I’m hungover on a Tuesday! Stupid!! Somehow that second hot toddie seemed like a sound judgment call. Just kidding! Afternoon nap. I’ll join…

Say you’re not a parent.  Have you ever had a pet?  Did you occasionally worry about its health or well-being?  Maybe you’re like my boyfriend and you’re not a worrier.  Lucky fart.  You are a rare bird and I envy thee.

When they say parenting is hard and all that, the non-parent muses, “Ah, yes.  Sleepless nights, much running around after tiny tots, labor…” the non-parent (of which I was once one) mostly just considers the physical difficulties of the endeavor.  Sure, sure, emotional stress will likely set in with the lack of sleep, but it can’t be that bad forever, right?  Well, actually it probably can.  I like to consider myself a buoyant person.  I like to look for the bright side in any given situation, however horrible.  When my favorite dog that I ever had ran out in the street and was killed by a rumbling semi a month before my son was born (yep, I did finally have that baby), I thought to myself, “Well, at least this is happening now and not a month after his birth, at which point I would have had no space in my heart to mourn her passing”.  I mean, that’s really looking for the mushroom on the steaming pile of shit, isn’t it?  Like, really.  My effing dog just got flattened.  (I’m still Major McSadtowns that she is gone, though I do not for one nanosecond miss her fleas and hair and chewed up household goods and dirt and shit and occasional vomit).  Just sayin’.

So… why is it that I am awake at 11:39 in the pm writing to the Internet about emotional difficulties in parenting and trying to always look on the bright side of life? (Can you hear that whistling in the background?) Well, dear reader, I’ll tell you.  I’m awake because just as I was drifting off a half hour ago, my crazy-brain proceeded to throw out some horrible image of my toddler falling down a storm drain.  In this mental exercise, I was immediately supine on the street with one arm down the drain swatting futilely at a screaming child, the other hand dialing 911.  OMG, has it recently rained in this vision whereupon a flood of water is on its way to wash her tiny body away and out of my reach?  Or is it merely 115º outside and she in danger of dehydrating?  Are there broken bones?  Will they have to use a jack-hammer to get her out?  Ummmmmmm, yeeeaaaaaeah…  This is what your mind does to you when you are responsible for something so precious that your life would be utterly ruined without it.  

So there I was, lying in bed with this visualization, and for SOME REASON my heart began to race and sleep was suddenly a distant idea.  I ask you, WHATTHEHELLISWRONGWITHME?!  Apparently, nothing that’s not wrong with most parents.  Oh dear sweet baby shit-burgers this is normal.  I’m not even alone in my insanity.  I have heard this lamentation from many, many other parents.  I once posted about it over on the Facebook after my daughter’s birth and got a barrage of responses reporting all manner of horrible fantasy.  It’s always the same: Brain comes up with some gruesome/ terrifying scenario.  And then your mind begins to work out how to best overcome the variable.  What if… what if… what if… OMFG, BRAIN!  Shaddap!!!  This is when I have to remind myself that everyone is asleep and safe in their own beds here in the house so I ought to just go the hell to sleep already.  Usually, that works.  But sometimes, sometimes… you have to get up, drink a glass of wine or three and then go back to bed after writing a little post about it.

Night.

(From the bathtub):

Daddy: “Please don’t pick my nose with your big toe!”

Toddler: “Patty cake patty cake bake me cakes!!!!”

Toddler: “Can I touch those?” (gesturing at my chest).

Me: “What?  My chi-chis?”

Toddler: “Yes!”

Me: “Um, no.”

Seeing as how this could be my last post for a while (due to have that second baby in T minus 4 days and counting if he’s on time), you’d think I’d have more to say right now.  You’d think I’d be waxing prosaic about how bittersweet it is to be ending such an exciting phase of gestation knowing it’s the last time I’ll breed.  And maybe I do feel that way, but hell if I really feel like sitting at a computer to expound.  Or sitting at all.  Being upright is just a chore these days, so if this transmission is brief or a tad on the less than rosy side, it’s only because it’s hurting my lower back to be here and I’m finding it difficult to keep my eyes open.  

Alas, I feel a tad obligated to you, Internet.  I know it’s been over a week since I had anything to say and I want you to know that I’ve been thinking about you even in my remiss communication.  I’ll be back to tell you more things about stuff soon enough- promise.  And, believe it or not, my schedule is cleared after tomorrow.  Of course, tomorrow there is a full moon, so that may just be enough sway to get this kiddo out a bit early.  Who knows?  I hear caucasian boys take the longest to cook, though, so again… there really is no way of knowing.  

This is a weird place I’ve found myself.  I’m terrified of labor.  You’d think I’d be cool about the notion what with agreeing to do this again, but, um, as it turns out, ihappentohatethisshitmorethanicanadequatelyexpress.  I’d like to say this pregnancy has been a beautiful, magical time during which I have devoted all of my energy to thinking positive thoughts, talking to my nascent aquatic darling through the amniotic barrier, but NO.  Let me just go ahead and air out a long list of grievances.  I feel like I’m in a safe place to do that.  Thanks for providing that, cloak of anonymity!  Here’s what I’ve been through in this pregnancy so far:

1) A giant major horrific and thankfully not as bad as it coulda been rollover car crash.  With my daughter in the car.  Which resulted in:

2) A broken foot = read: horribly unstylish moon boot for two months plus much hobbling.  (Eye roll).  Oh, and of course the inevitable buying of the minivan.  The gold, nay CHAMPAGNE minivan.  For the love of creation, I cannot believe I bought that thing.  Minivan + Moon Boot… I went ahead and turned myself in to the style police.  Just… take me now, y’all.  (And, I need to also say that I am actually quite grateful that my child was unharmed.  If anyone was going to have any sort of injury, I’m very glad it was me and not her.  Clearly.)

3) But what else, you say?  2 stomach viruses!  Once I even was holding in my own barf whilst cleaning up Colette’s because she had it too and we stayed home doing a tandem puke dance all day!  Joy!

4) A case of food poisoning.  Thanks very much Torchy’s Tacos that I didn’t have special affection for to begin with.  I shan’t return.

5) 2 UTIs!  Gimme them antibiotics!  Mmm Mmm!

6) And while we’re doing antibiotics, how about a third round (cuz it’s totally the charm) for a combo ear and sinus infection?

7) Did you think my snotty issues stopped there?  Try NO. LESS. THAN. FOUR. COLDS.  Yes.  Get a toddler in your house that puts one bitty lil foot over the threshold of a daycare and you’ve got yourself a regular cesspool of germs in the home.  All the time.  Now take away your own immune system and give it to that toddler’s gestating brother.  Et voila!  You are never going to be well again!!!

8) My darling sweet awesome dog got out of the yard and was killed in the street.  Heart.  Break.

9) My shitty bitch dog bit my child a week later.  Not as much heartbreak, but still, she was my shitty bitch.  Anyways, shelter… shitty-bitch-be-gone-with-yer-ass.

10) I’m involved in a lawsuit.  We haven’t set a court date yet, and clearly even in an anonymous context I’m not going to get into it.  But suffice it to say it involves being bent over for a very large sum of money.  Like, almost an entire year’s worth of wages. 

11) My sweet little tatertot was attacked by another child (a devastatingly autistic 8 year old child of some dear friends).  Talk about cling-on level 4000 aftermath.  My kiddo was weird and needy and out of it for weeks…!  

12) We decided that we didn’t have enough to do around the house, so we took on the task of potty training our child.  Dude.  You better have time, patience, and the stomach of a labrador for that job.  Like, WOW.  I’ll leave it at that.

13) My dad went to the hospital last week with pancreatitis and they still don’t know what the hell caused it.  He’s home now, feeling better, but can you even give me a break with the stress, life?  Like, please???  

14) My hip is effed the eff up.  JACKED.  I’m talking bi-weekly chiropractic appointments with a smattering of acupuncture and massage.  And guess what?  It’s related to TMJD, so my face and jaw and neck are also affected.  (Pass the Tylenol, cuz I ain’t even makin’ it from the couch to the bed).  This last item on the list, I can at least say, has been steadily better with the attention I’ve been giving it.

Aaaaah.  (Insert neck-cracking).  That feels better to get out.

I mean, taken one at a time, each little line item sucks but could be handled.  I’m not one to really whine and bitch and moan.  I don’t wanna bring ya down.  But if you see me around, I can dig a hug.  That is, if you can get your arms around my giant Santa Claus belly!  Chances are I won’t see you until after I get this little critter out, though, so much of this immune system not belonging to me and hormone-exacerbated stress junk will be clearing up.  Wish me luck, wouldja?  I wanna be able to get this boy out safely and expediently.  I’m gonna say… let’s shoot for a quarter of the 52 hours it took to labor with my first.  Is that too much to hope for?  I’m thinking that her blissful, stress-free pregnancy resulted in an overly rude birth as compensation.  The universe was probably all, yeah, pay up, lady.  Perhaps I can expect a trade off this time around!  Stupid difficult pregnancy in barter for blissfully stress-free birth!  YEAH!

Good night, Internet.  Thanks for being my shoulder.  Love you.

I’ve been trying to figure out how I want to make these introductions to you, Internet.  I don’t want to offend anyone.  I’d like to be frank without overstepping any boundaries.  I’m sure that if my in-laws ever dig this blog up that they’d be able to pick themselves out of the line-up (and me, for that matter).  Still, I feel the overwhelming yen to write about this stuff (and hopefully open conversations with you friends who are reading this).  In the unlikely but still probable event you have somehow stumbled upon this blog from the ether, maybe you’ll just be reading about a unique perspective.  I feel that it is just that.  You see, I’m a tattooed Godless lefty weirdo raising babies alongside of a very conservative slice of America… my in-laws (and I’m not even married!).  I say alongside because I see them a few times a year, but they don’t live in this heathen city of Austin.  No, they’re elsewhere in Texas, the closest of which are about 5 hours away by car, the furthest, more like 10.  To be sure, it’s a hoof gettin’ together.  Anyways, I know they’ve got my number on most of those fronts.  They know I’m a liberal.  They know I’m not married to their son/brother/nephew/cousin.  They know we live together and have one child, one on the way.  They know I have tattoos, but this is a much more recent revelation since we’ve begun seeing each other during warmer seasons sometimes and I’m inclined to not wear sweaters in 100 degree heat.  They know I’m kind of weird about food.  What they don’t know is the extent of my leftyness or just how gay-lovin’, Godless, and socialist I really am.  

Years ago before we ever had a family when I first started dating their relative (almost a decade ago now), I only ever visited during Christmas.  It was easy to smile and nod (whilst wearing long sleeves since it was winter), and then leave totally perplexed and sometimes pretty irked.  I was less tolerant back then.  I’d never been exposed in such an intimate setting to my polar opposite in terms of political and religious beliefs, lifestyle choices or demographics.  I was really kinda stunned.  But the interesting thing is… we were getting along.  I’ve done a lot of thinking about this.  Part of it is, I look like them in a lot of ways (and used to even more before they knew about my weirdo style).  How could they tell that I was anything other than a church-going, corn-fed-beef-eating, Republican if all I did was come over for a few days a year wearing a sweater and smiling sweetly, helping with chores in the kitchen?  I was accepted.  And so it was that I became privy to another side of America that I rarely see in this little liberal bubble called Austin.  The OTHER half.  Hey, these folks are also living in bubbles.  Very, very white bubbles.  Because I look like them, I am treated as one of them.  I’m pretty sure that if I was brown they’d never deign to make any racist remarks or jokes, but the fact is, I’m in a very particular position.  And I am listening.

Marginalize each other as we do in this country (and world), I’ve been fortunate(?) enough to straddle this particular gap affording me a very clear picture into what these folks are like.  I’m going to concede that I am fortunate in this voyeuristic position.  Forget the question mark.  Yes, it’s often infuriating, baffling, and has incited tears from these eyes.  But moreover, it has forced me to look, to really see.  When you’re not really paying attention, it’s easy to just see another set of folks for their most exaggerated traits.  Maybe even just cherry-pick.  Can you hear my eyes rolling when I think about how much Fox “news” they watch?  Wait, listen… there.  Ya heard it, didn’t ya?  It drives me crazy!  But at the same time, these are humans.  They’re not dumb.  They’re not even uneducated.  They’re not heartless and they are not awful or even usually provocative.  They are extremely different from me.  They just don’t really know that.

I’ve also thought a lot over the years about whether I should stand up for who I am and let them know just where I’m coming from.  But the thing is, you gotta check your motives.  And check them I did.  What would be the point?  A more honest relationship?  Would that be… a positive thing?  Does complete honesty always equal something beneficial?  I figured out that at least in this scenario, it probably doesn’t.  Think about some Baptists who love to kiss their little baby relative… and then think about the horror and fear that they could possibly harbor if they knew that a feminist atheist was raising that kid.  I mean, that lil tot could go to hell!  Maybe that baby’s mortal soul is in danger!  I mean, crap man!!!  I know I just made a little light of that, but I am actually respectful of the degree of heartache that airing something like all this personal information about myself could foment.  Dude, that ain’t cool.  

So, what’s the price then?  I know them, but they don’t really know me.  I fume and stew and pitch an inner fit about some of the less savory things they have to say on occasion.  (Hello, racism is such an accepted part of life around those parts.)  Well, ya know what?  I’ve got me some BFFs from the axis of evil and some more of all colors and sexual orientations, so lemme tell ya… it’s hard to listen to that rhetoric.  Pretty much all I can do is disagree.  To myself.  In my own, silent brain.  I’m in their homes, in their zip codes and ain’t no amount of activism from one weirdo gonna change shit.  Believe me, I’ve bellyached enough over whether I’m doing the right thing by being mostly quiet.  Aren’t I supposed to speak up on behalf of my colorful friends???  Isn’t that how we’re supposed to change racism?  At this point, I truly believe the way to change it is to set an example (and raise my kid(s) to reflect the values that I believe in).  Blame and shame never did much except infuriate in my experience.  

And so it is that when they come to MY zip code, they are exposed to my life, friends and family without apology.  I don’t have to shove anything in their faces.  All I have to do is cheerfully introduce them to thoughtful, intelligent people who also happen to be in same-sex partnerships or black as night.  I think exposure is more powerful than any debate.  And THAT, dear Internet, is about all I have patience to write about today!  It’s a thousand degrees outside and somewhere, on the opposite side of town, a poolside BBQ is totally calling my name…

I’m 9 months pregnant.  Take a look at this bellybutton and see what you think it looks like. 

Not good, right?  But think of it as a Rorschach test.  What do you see?  Spaghetti?

A cat?

A cat’s butthole?  This one speaks to me.  I think this is it, don’t you?

 I think I’ll just expound on the last post’s theme.  Because I’ve been holding onto these gems for a while, I’m seein’ fit that it’s high time they got aired out in public for y’alls’ benefit.  If you’re my friend, chances are you’ve already heard some of these stories, but allow me just to record them for posterity, eh?

There are times when your tot will say things that are baffling, uncalled-for, and downright inappropriate.  Heck, learning how to talk is hard.  But you know what word seems to be really easy to pronounce?  The eff one!

“Look baby, there’s a frog!  Can you say frog?”

“FUCK!”

“Close.  Um, look, there’s a snail!”

…

“Oh, you like this dish towel with the birdie on it?  That’s a parrot, honey.  Parrots go squawk!  Can you squawk like a parrot?”

“FUCK!”

(Later find child screaming “FUUUUCK!  FUUUCK!  FFFFfffFFFUCK!” at the dishtowel hanging from the oven.  Took me a good 45 seconds to comprehend whyyyyyy.)

…

“Awwww, it’s so cute!  That’s a fox, darlin’!”

(Cheerful as can be): “Fuck!  Fuck! Fuck!” :) :) :)

Sooooooo happy.  Delighted.  Chipper to the Nth degree.

The dog just bit our toddler.  (Don’t let the door bump your butt on the way out to the animal shelter, dog.  Yes, really.  Totally, 10000% not kidding.  Tomorrow.)

Now she’s outside whining.  Yes, I know it’s 100 degrees.  So I say, “Suck it, DOG”.

Guess what’s on toddler repeat?

………………….

UPDATE: The next broken record?  ”Suck it, Daddy!”  I didn’t even have to say that one.  It was the next logical step.  OB-viously.

Cannot stop laughing.  I am a bad parent this evening.

I feel like I should sing that Phil Collins song, “I’ve been waiting for this moment…”  well, maybe not for all my life, but for a while.  That is, a chance to share some of the more, um, interesting moments of baby-raising.  Listen up, all you would-be parents, because this is how it is:

Becoming a parent is like consentingly becoming manic depressive.   Actually, let me go one step further and say that you’re also paranoid.  My friend J. calls it “mama-noia”.  Quote me on that.  Or don’t, since, you know, I’m anonymous and shit.

But really.  Everything is funnier, more tragic, more exciting, scarier, and more disgusting.  To you.  Not to anyone else, just to you.  Why?  Because it’s YOUR genetic material prancing around being funny and sad and exciting and scary and disgusting.  Other people might concern themselves with your child’s affairs, but not the way you do because you are now sort of mentally ill insofar as it concerns your offspring. 

So.  It’s my job now to try and navigate this world as a conscious nut.  I know I’m off.  And I totally chose this.  On purpose.  I’ll attempt in these blogs to convey the depth of emotion I go through in being a parent.  Try…

…………………………..

Addendum: Things are actually probably less disgusting to you in regards to your own child than they are to onlookers.  I touch poop and shake stale, sweaty cheerios out of my bra on a regular basis (and then scurry to discard them because they will get eaten if seen).  Not that I’m NOT sicked out by this.  I totally am.  I’m just saying, there’s things you get used to that other people would be horrified by.