The Transfer

Those of you with babies and other small children will know exactly what I’m about to describe: The Transfer.

Alright, so you’ve just boob juiced/rocked/bounced entertained your baby to sleep. That, in and of itself, deserves a medal. Well, maybe an award ribbon. Here, I’ll draw you your very own craptacular prize. Print this out, color it, frame it, shelf it, post it on the fridge, pin it to your child/Pinterest, whatever. Let people know this mundane shit is really what makes us parents.

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*pats self on back*

Now comes the hard part, lying said baby down without tripping, falling, stubbing a toe, screaming, “FUUUUUUCK!!!!!” about said toe, or having a 2 year old “assist” in the process. I gotta be real, I fail 6/7 times, and that’s just a mid morning nap attempt.

That damn toddler gets me every time

Without further ado, allow me to paint the wonderfully picturesque attempt of this very morning.

Today, my 2 year’s old’s cousin was over to hang out. So he kept the tot busy most of the morning. I normally choose 1 of 2 situations when I’m attempting to put my 9 month old to sleep. Either I nurse her while cradling her in my lap, or I lay down in bed next to her. You can betcho ass they both come with their own set of difficulties!

If I were to have held her in my arms while nursing her this morning, I would have had the privilege of still being mommy in person to the toddler. I also would have eventually either had a very heavy paper weight, sealed against me by a thin layer of sweat and baby dribble, or I would have had to attempt the dreaded transfer, where I then prayed to the Gods in the heavens above that I didn’t wake the baby with the aforementioned possible(read “probable“) scenarios.

I chose to instead lie in bed next to her, with my door open, to hear the scramblings of my 2 year old. The baby had already almost fallen asleep on me, so I thought, *just possibly* the toddler would stay entertained long enough for me to get her good and asleep. I know, I know, laughable, right? This is why I only get the task accomplished 1 out of every 7 times. Ok, so I set the pillow up on the outside of the baby, making her feel all cozy and shit. The bed is only a few inches off the wall. Getcher panties out of that wad.  ;)  I put another pillow on the side that separates us, because my hope is that while I’m holding my breath and trying to inch away from her, she wont be startled awake in my absence. Alriiiiight, I’ve got this. I can hear Skylar pitter-pattering downstairs. She’s *almost* in a deep slumber, no longer suckling, deep breathing…..aaaaand along comes her brother trampling in. “Dora!!!“, he demands. I told him the TV was on in the living room and to go watch it in there. “Noooo! Doraaa!“. This goes on for another minute or two. He finally goes into the other room to whine and moan about me not rescuing him with his beloved Dora. Then, I hear the freezer open. I hear scrounging around. The freezer door closes. I hear a drawer open and shut. He’s OBVIOUSLY on a mission. THIS is why we’ve put all the flammables, poisons, and sharp objects up high. Anyway, I guessed right. He brought me a frozen gogurt to open for him. I thought I was in the clear, but in the process of getting up, the baby woke, too. I went to the kitchen, opened his yogurt, went back to the bedroom to attempt to put Odie Pie to sleep.

Oriana: Nah, Bruh. It’s play time.

Me: *heavy sigh* Oooooook

Snack time, diaper changes, oreo truffles, clean up, and play time ensue. Then, more nursing and a possible naptime window opens.

Ok, I got her laid down a 2nd time, thought I was in the clear all over again!

Aaand then I heard a toddler walking into the bathroom next to my room mumbling, “Poopoo, poopoo.”. He refused to wait to be changed(Good call, Sky.). She cried. I changed a diaper, felt a little loss, and then found some perspective.

I gave up on attaining the mid morning nap, but found joy in yet another cup of coffee…

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and in this.

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aaaaand also there was this.

Afternoon naps are easier, right???

1st Date

(This is what has recently been put on my POF profile.)

I’d magically find someone aware of the fact that my time is very, very precious. Someone considerate enough to show up at my door on time, or if running late, willing to be honest about it. It’d be refreshing to see flowers. Not to be confused with a monetary purchase, something that says, “I thought of you when I picked these flowers.”. I’d pack a picnic of foods I prepared with thoughtful consideration. I’d love to be taken to a place in nature that meant something to my date. For example: a hidden waterfall, a special tree or rock or pond or… Ya know, something I’ve never seen, something shared. Possibly, there’d be a bottle of wine or a small flask to share an adult beverage to take the edge off of our nerves, but not enough to be used as a crutch or vice. Maybe a thermos of tea or coffee to go with the meal, depending on the food & time of day. Conversation and hopefully enjoying each other’s company. If not, having the gall to say so. If the chemistry is right, perhaps a sweet kiss, but without expectation(s). A hand to hold. Silence. Being content learning how to be comfortable in the other’s presence.

Ooooorrrrr, do you like to read? We could go into a used book store together, and pick out a book for the other person. Perhaps we could then read short passages aloud to each other at a local park? While eating sandwiches, because sandwiches…

Orrrr we could make gift baggies for those less fortunate than us and distribute them together. I want someone who is unafraid to conquer life with me. And by conquer, I mean someone willing to get the sh*t beat out of them, because this journey we call life is rough. I’m willing to laugh over the cool looking scars if you are…

Let’s Talk ‘Bout Cho Gut !

My daughter is 9 months old. If I were to go into a daycare now, I’m assuming I’d see most of the babies under a year of age eating crappy jarred foods. Although, it sounds like I’m judging, I’m really not. I was a jar, attempted force feeder to my first(she didn’t have the same interest in food that my younger 2 have). I mostly made homemade goodness for my middle tot, but I still started him on solids way too early. When you know better, you do better, ya know??? This is my polite push for you to research and discover gut health, good gut flora, and how it’s interconnected to your entire body. There are so many things you can do to help it flourish and grow.

  • Vaginal birth
  • Breast is best! ;)
  • No foods under 6 months of age.
  • Probiotics
  • Apple cider vinegar
  • Kefirs
  • Kimchi
  • Sour kraut
  • Ferments
  • Cultured products
  • When you get an infection, 1st attempt to take food stressors and triggers out of your diet(dairy, wheat, gluten, sugar, processed foods, booze) rather than take antibiotics. Antibiotics are amazing, but they should absolutely be used last. They kill the infection, but they also kill all the good bacteria in your gut that you NEED to be the best you!!!
  • Add in nature’s natural infection fighters: High quality supplements and vitamins(My go tos are currently MAGNESIUM!!!, Vit D, Vit B Complex, L-lysine, Fish oil), obviously high doses of vit C if you’re trying to kill an infection, or stick to the most natural sources~real foods! I also highly recommend cutting garlic into little chunks, pressing, waiting 10 minutes or so, and then swallowing. Do that as often as possible. Research why. I dare ya. ;)

Ok, now that I’ve given you a few things to research, while you’re at it, please discover the awesome that is baby-led weaning!!! My daughter only has 2 teeth. She mostly eats fresh and raw. I’ve recently introduced a few citrusy foods and noodles into her diet. Still no egg, dairy, or artificial dyes(she had sensitivities early on).

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This is one of the easiest, tastiest meals I’ve ever made.

Ingredients:

  • Chicken Thighs
  • Spaghetti noodles
  • Arugula/spinach
  • Tomatoes
  • Salt – I’m talkin’ real salt, guys! I’m a pink lover right now.
  • Pepper – Fresh ground, of course!
  • Garlic crack. Aldi’s has an amazing, cheap garlic/sea salt grinder!
  • Fresh basilI
  • Fresh mozzarella
  • Lemon

I threw 3 frozen chicken thighs into the crockpot after breakfast and let them do their thing with nothing else added. The littles’ grandpa had made spaghetti noodles the night before, so I simply reheated those. Around lunch time, the chicken was cooked, so I deboned it, added some of the stash and broth to the noodles, fresh arugula, fresh cubed tomatoes. I WISH I would have had fresh basil, but dry worked. I added a squeeze of lemon, salt, pepper, and garlic crack. Fresh mozz would have MADE this meal, but herb goat cheese on toasted sour dough was a decent replacement.  :)

Hope you enjoy!!!  <3

Ageism Is Real.

If you don’t believe that sentence, you’re straight up lyyyyying to yourself.

Even if you’re anti-kid, you’ve been around at least ONE baby or small child that’s made your face physically ache from all the laughing you’ve done, right??? If not, I dunno that you’ve truly lived, and I’m not sure we can be friends…

I’ll rethink that statement if you’re willing to laugh at my kids with me.  ;)

Let’s get started, shall we?!

Things babies/small children do that are socially acceptable and even possibly downright cute, that would get most adults the side eye, avoided, thought to be mentally ill, or arrested.

  • They are content(and socially accepted)all day long in only a diaper, underwear, or onesie. Ok, so I just googled the shit out of diapered men, and it just repulsed me. I should probably examine why, but no thanks. I’ll just post a cute diaper clad baby instead…

11738020_1621045204837652_5769056107412899346_n“Like, oh my Gawd, Mom. This shit right here. *insert Homer Simpson gurgle and drool*

Noooow picture a grown up sitting there doing the same… Drugs, right? Or booze. Lots and lots of booze.

  • While she’s up there looking all cute and innocent, let’s discuss my next point. When baby’s are learning to eat, they often throw food and beverages on the floor…and laugh. Thankfully, my chubs is mostly too into eating the food(all the food, and fuzz, and dirt particles, and …) right now to be interested in seeing if Gravity is still hangin’ out to play. Oh! And my 2 year old still mostly uses his fingers to eat everything…cereal…soup…ice cream. Fingers. Ok, now imagine us(you and I) having a public lunch date. Italian sound good? No? How about Chinese buffet? Oh God, that sounds so fuggin’ good right about now. K, I’ve now got my wonton soup, and my gloriously filled plate filled with fried rice, an egg roll, crab rangoon, broccoli in some kinda magical sauce, and sweet and sour chicken of course, served with sweet and sour sauce. Oops, looky here, I’ve spilled my water. All over me…and the floor..and I think a piece of ice may have even made it into our neighbor’s shoe. I’m now screaming at you to take my shirt off. “OFF! OFF!!!”, I cry. You cringe, yet oblige. So now I’m sitting in my booster, clad in only my bra and bib. I’m chowing down! I told you I was hungry! I think I may have managed to get some of the rice into my mouth. That crab rangoon was my favorite. You can tell my the way I smeared it all over my face and hair. And although I really, really, really enjoy the process of dipping, not necessarily the eating, just the dipping, the smooth, artificial coloring and texture of the sweet and sour sauce is just too damn enticing! I start painting and squealing in delight, “I PAINT! I PAINT!!!”. The broccoli is just taking up too much space on my plate so I dispose of it onto the floor. I realize that’s kinda fun, so I giggle and do it again. You tell me sternly not to do it again. So, I look at you, evaluate the situation, and throw my wonton soup on the floor instead. You’re horrified, and you decide to never bring me into public ever again. You’re welcome.
  • We don’t get to ride in shopping carts.  :(

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  • Skip. 2 year old galloping? A-fucking-dorable. 6 year old skipping and singing? Still pretty damn cute. A 35 year old, tutu’d, bearded man, skipping and singing the same nursery rhyme? Weird…
  • I’m potty training my toddler. He’s doing super awesome. I may or may not be bribing him with mini marshmallows. AKA “manoof!”. He hasn’t quite got the hang of going poop in the potty yet. He’d rather go hide to do it. Let’s say, we’re watching TV in the living room together, and I get up to walk behind the couch. I start the push face. I exert myself a few times, and then you really start to smell something. The look of disgust is pretty present on your face. “Miranda, you might want to go change your pants…”, you say. “NO!!!!”, I declare as I go running through the house away from you and no where near the bathroom.
  • I can’t turn in a billion circles really, really fast to get insanely dizzy, laugh, and fall down. At least not in public… But my toddler can!
  • I’m going to throw whining and tantrums into one subject. This is not so cute, normally short, but really, really fucking intense. “Popsicle!”, I say with a smile of expectation on my face. “No, not right now.”, I hear. “Popsicle!!!”, I try with a little bit more enthusiasm, and an even more radiant smile. I head to the freezer as I’m abruptly cut off and told that I can have one later. “POPSICLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”, I wail, as I fling myself onto the floor, crying and yelling and withering around like a beached whale(whatever that looks like…). That goes on for another very long minute until you invite me to look at the squirrels out the window. Problem solved.
  • I can’t fart and scream, “TOOOOOOT!!!” and laugh hysterically.
  • So we’re walking through Walmart when I decide to start singing my ABC’s, and by sing, I really mean yell as loud as my vocal cords will carry me. You try hushing me, but I just KNOW that the shoppers here today are my audience and they NEED to see/hear me perform. You’ll thank me later.
  • I’m not allowed to run around nekkid outside.
  • I’m not allowed to talk about pezises all day long. You have a pezis. I (don’t) have a pezis. Grandpa has a pezis. Everyone has a pezis. All.day.long.
  • I’m also not allowed to put trains or pretzels or phones or BATTERY POWERED BUBBLE MACHINES on my pezis, although I try.
  • I’m not allowed to pull my pezis out and leave it hanging out over the side of my diaper to catch air. Cuz ya know, it just looks cool, trust me, I’m examining  all the angles. (To be clear, my tot is always told that he’s welcome to touch his pezis all he wants in private, but it’s not welcome at the dinner table/living room couch/porch outside, etc)
  • My youngest thinks it’s the most fun thing in the world to head butt(think bam! to the collar bone as she’s chilling on my lap) and throw herself back for her own entertainment(normally on my bed, but not always). I’m not sure if it’s the thrill, “Oooh, I wonder if Mommy’s gonna catch me THIS time!!!!” or if it’s really just fun. She does this often though, so it’s gotta have some kinda pull to it. Imagine me sitting with you in the living room, enjoying some nice one-on-one time, when you see this sudden look of mischievous amusement cross my face. Without warning(other than that expression), I throw myself back full force!!! Oh maaan!!!! What a rush!!!!! You had to practically dive, hitting your own head on the coffee table in the process, in order to sacrifice me giving myself a concussion. Thanks!!!! :) That was fun. Let’s do it again!

Ageism is real.

Put On Your Fuckin’ Party Hats

…cuz we’ve got a lovely life to celebrate.  :)

I’ve got a bunch of emotions rollin’ around in me right now. I normally do on this day. I called my brother earlier, left him a voicemail. I told him he was handsome. Who does that? Who randomly tries not to cry while admitting her love and devotion to her little-big brother? This girl. I don’t remember the last time I got to actually talk to him. It’s been 2 years since I’ve seen him. It makes me sad, sometimes. I miss him… If you see that guy, tell him to call his sister!

Facebook tells me what I did this day last year. I was 6 months pregnant and caring for my 93 year old grandmother who’d broken her hip in a fall. I couldn’t get any doctor to understand the severity of the situation. They kept telling me she was “fine”, because they missed reading the fracture. She was completely bed ridden. She also had rapidly declining dementia. It was undocumented. I lived 6ish hours from her. I saw her in April when she had a mini stroke, and she appeared to be fine. Noone knew how bad her memory had gotten. It was really sad for me to discover her overdosing herself and under medicating herself. She’d wake up really disoriented in the middle of the night. It was all so very confusing and difficult for her to understand. She admitted she felt like she was going crazy. She felt like a burden on me. Thankfully, she mostly only has short term memory loss. So, basically we had the same few conversations on repeat all day long. I was also caring for a toddler in a non toddler proofed home. This was immediately after my ex had financially abused me and stopped paying child support. I was lost, and confused, and about to have a baby, and had to let my big girl live with her dad, just so much fucking transition.

Oh, and it was my mom’s birthday…

So, that was last year.

I’m in a really good spot in comparison… It’s all about perspective, right?

Today, is my mom’s birthday. Well…today would have been her birthday. I’m not so good at math, so it took me a small eternity to figure out that she would have been 59 today. Ya know, had she lived.

59… God, I can’t even imagine. Part of me tries really hard to visualize that. The greying hair. The wrinkles. The little, old, tall lady set in her ways. And part of me tries so very hard not to. Because with the extra 11 years. Fuck. 11 years, guys. I’ve been without my mommy for 11 fucking years. I was just a baby at 19. I don’t even think my boobs were done growing yet. We had just started our adult relationship. I was just starting to learn to trust her again(you know, from childhood dramas). She was gloriously human. Amazingly, angelically, poignantly, human. So to get back to the point I was trying to make, with 11 years added onto an ailing, lupus ridden body, she probably would have been in a lot more pain than I even remember her being in back then. I don’t want to think about that.

I wasn’t lying when I said I have a bunch of emotions going on. Not only emotions, but sometimes my mind goes into overdrive, and I just start playing out these scenes and possibilities and pretend conversations that would have taken place had she lived. Sometimes it sucks to be so creatively inclined…

Like, more than once today, I imagined her scooping Skylar up to love and sing and play and dote on him. I teared up while cuddling with him, seeing this make believe scene play out. And then I cried even more because I know he’ll never get that opportunity. I realize he’ll never feel that loss. But he’ll never know the joy of having a Grandma Nancy, and that brings me sorrow.

I pretend she saved me from getting together with assholes. And I pretend she wasn’t dating a pedefilic asshole when she died. I don’t make those claims lightly. He tried to fucking hit on me at my mother’s funeral, and I later found out his TWO previous marriages failed, because he’s perverse. And I pretend that I didn’t learn those loose boundaries and self worth standards from her. But it’s not like she intentionally taught me those things. It’s a cycle. I get that. And different things manifest in different people. And we all look at the world from a different view, a different lens, a different perspective. It’s all about that damn perspective, and goddamn if I don’t want to just be able to talk to her about perspectives! She saw the good in every one. That’s what she chose to see. It’s what kept her sane. It’s what kept OTHERS sane. Her light was so fucking bright, it blinded the dark in others. I remember my dad talking to me about stuff like that when I was way too damn young to understand. When she didn’t have a dollar to her name, she’d scrounge for change in order to send me off into my own entitled teenage world with whatever it was that I was wanting…probably candy or a soda at lunch.

I miss cuddling with her. I miss talking to her on the phone. I miss her self righteous, always right attitude. I miss the gift of hating that same attitude. I miss the boisterous laugh I was always so embarrassed to hear. I now own that same cackle. I used to be embarrassed of my own, unadulterated laugh, but now, at 30, I finally fucking own it. It’s me. It’s her. It’s real, and it’s beautiful. We’re loud… We’re quiet. We’re intense, and we’re passive. She was such a humble goddess. She could bring chills to anyone with her gift of song. She was such a fucking diva. She rocked any stage. Bella gets that from her. I sure as fuck don’t. I have the gifts, but I also have the anxiety, and I’ve learned finally, I can’t just wish it away. Anxiety doesn’t work that way.

I wish she were here to argue mundane stuff like me cussing, or me choosing not to spank, or me using woowoo medicine before pharmaceuticals. God, I would have taught her so much(and vise versa of course)! And she would have been defensive, because it would have challenged her prior ways of thinking and doing. She also would be so, so, so, so proud. Because I learn, and I admit fault, and I challenge myself and others to destroy the fucking box. I live in my authenticity. And I value others for theirs. And she’d see and know that with all of her being. She’d see my gullibility and love me because of it, and not make fun of me for it. She’d be so proud of me. Not the fake, “Oh your mother would be so proud.” kind of comment I get in passing, cuz really, looking from the outside in, just, no. But she’d see that I grew up on canned and processed foods and how now I eat mostly real, homemade foods. I have my 1st garden ever! She’d get me. She raised me. I’m a part of her. She’d be fucking proud…and still hate my love of the word fuck, and my weird hippie ways. And we’d both be ok with that. She’d be a right wing conservative, and I’d be a liberal anarchist, and we’d find middle ground. We’d fight and argue and not talk and then we’d make amends, because we valued each other. I still value her. I even giggle at the imagined disdain she’d wear for my love of tattoos. I can see the disgust and misunderstandings she’d have about them, but I also imagine them growing on her. Maybe that’s just because I now have her permanently, symbolically tattooed onto me. I’m rocking the canvas she co-created. <3

She’d be such a radiant grandmother. I.miss.her. She’d be that quirky woman with self confidence who quietly still battles self image issues, who wears outfits that are a bit outdated, who keeps a birds nest in her hair, because it takes too much energy out of her to brush through her long, thick locks. I’d massage her cracking, dry hands and feet. I’d pray her scoliosis would stop causing her pain. I’d pray her arthritis would disappear. I’d pray all of these things for her. And she’d pray for me. And we’d pray together. And together we’d be made more whole.

I’m left with all of these what ifs, and I’m left with all of these memories. I’m left with a lot of goodness and a lot of sadness. I want to be able to yell at her for some of the decisions she made, and I want to hug her for others.

I can’t do any of that.

So, I pretend. And, I wonder, and I believe what it is that I believe when it comes to the afterlife. I don’t know what the fuck it is that I believe, so I continue to talk to her and ask her for guidance and help. It may be crazy. It may be insane, but it’s what gets me through both the good days and the tough days. I realize it’s a coping skill, but it’s one I’m comfortable with.

Tonight, I sang Happy Birthday with Skylar with one lone pink candle on a slice of german chocolate cake. He was pretty into it. The singing, the anticipation of devouring the sugary goodness, the process of extinguishing the fire, yeah, all pretty perfect for a 2 year old. I started this tradition last year. We got cupcakes. I made an asian fusion meal the other night and texted my brother, “For as much as mom loved Chinese food, she never cooked it, did she???”. Chinese was her favorite. When I introduced “in bed” to end her fortune cookie’s phrase, she laughed and laughed and laughed. That’s one of the last memories I have with her. Someday, I’ll be in a position to take my loved ones out for Chinese in honor of the amazing woman they’ll only get to hear about in stories. So until then, I’ll just tend to my memories, and wallow with them for a bit.

Happy birthday, sweet Nancy Sue(I never called her that. She was always just Mom or Mommy.). I love you.

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Mischief

So, my 1st (and probably last) nursing shoot was scheduled for the other day. Got canceled due to the rain. It was rescheduled for tomorrow morning. My son went home with his aunt and cousins this afternoon (2nd non mommy sleepover ever) with the promise of him arriving first thing in the morning. And then I got this…  :/  11924906_1634922463449926_1070271954756076488_n Hahahaha My first impulse was to laugh, cuz he’s just so fuggin’ cute! And then, I thought, “Wait, is that permanent?!”. Next was, “He’s holding toothpaste. Did he eat toothpaste?!(cuz he’s 2…)”. I’m not sure if his aunt got it off of him or not. I guess it’s good I was going to go with a hippie-esk look, tie-dye and a straw hat for him.  ;)

How Not To Be A Fucking Idiot: A Guide To Online Dating

Hi, I’m Miranda. I’m a young(ish), single mother, doing the young, single mother type stuff. That basically consists of having little to no free time, which is why I’m on a dating site to begin with, cuz “Aint nobody got time fo dat!”. Dat being the whole meet and greet thing. Especially if you’re me, a SAHM and new to town. I realize I have baggage, but I don’t feel it’s unpackable… That junk may even be complimentary to someone else’s. It’s what I’m hoping for anyway. I am a total romance junkie. I am also quite literate, creative, and attractive. I convey all of this on my dating profile(s). I express what I am looking for(a friend and possible future partner). I also share what I’m not looking for(a booty call, hook-up, one night stand). People, and to be incredibly sexist here, men, men have been fucking rude, inconsiderate, and just all around entitled assholes.

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1) Please be literate. On the contrary, I am NOT some nit picky bitch, but dis just aint gon work fo me as an initial request of my precious time.

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2) I am ALL FOR sexual freedom. I am ALL FOR anyone who wants to engage in consensual, age appropriate shenanigans. My profile starts out stating I want butterflies in my belly that imitate teenage love. That doesn’t equate a hook-up. Just, stop.

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3) Do you see our rating?! “Your” an idiot.

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4) My friends and I determined you’re wearing a bathrobe. What??? You need some more practice with your “come hither” look. You’re an idiot.

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5) Yes, admit to non consensual groping. What’s next? Date rape? That’s cool, Bruh. No, really, it’s not. You’re what’s wrong with humanity. You are an idiot.

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6) Just, no. And if I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you…

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7) Don’t copy and paste the same thing to a plethora of women. Women(people) want to feel wanted, want to feel sought after, explored. We(ok I) don’t want to be sold a product.

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8) Stay classy.

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9) Dearest Brody, I could care less(well actually, I could possibly care a great deal) if you’re a young lesbian, confused, or a transgender man. But 26?! I want, deserve, and only allow honesty. Whatever this is, is not honest… (the only other picture was of a young boy on a dirtbike)

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10) He doesn’t mean to offend, so it makes it alright. Men, no. Just no. Make it palatable. If you have these compulsions in your head, let this blog come to mind, and remind yourself that you don’t want to be a fucking idiot. Keep your stupidity from coming to fruition.

***If you just can’t help yourself, you should genuinely seek out some form of psychiatric help.

Peepee Dance

When my oldest was 2, she caught me in the kitchen red handed. “Mommy, you gotta go peepee?”, she asked me, ever so sweetly. I was in the middle of the peepee dance.

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Have you ever gone to the bathroom at a gas station? Yes. Ok. Now, how about with a munchkin? Add in 2 munchkins(2 & under!!!)? Hell, let’s get really rowdy here. Ever gone pee in a public restroom with 3 chitlins?! That’s just crazy talk… There’s a reason I NEVER leave my house without going to the bathroom, first. I also procrastinate, nurse, pack a diaper bag, procrastinate some more, pack a snack bag, prepare beverages, change diapers, pick my nose, and nurse again ~ all before even loading the car!

Ok, so I’ve pulled up to put some sustenance in Maggie. Maggie is short for Margaret, because I’m sure you wanted to know. Margaret has been my faithful friend for the last year, except for that 1 time she stranded me and the babies on the side of the road at like midnight… That wasn’t very cool.  Maggie is my ’94 grey Volvo station wagon. Yes, she really is as cool as she sounds. Indy meets Mommyhood. Her thirst is a lot like my own, unquenchable. Normally when I pull into top dear Maggie off(*ba dum chh*), I also have a screaming infant…or one who’s just woken up(which means she needs boob juice pronto in order to continue being that adorable, cheeky baby, and not that annoying, screaming one). Since I’ve also decided to down an entire gallon of water to keep the boredom at bay while driving, and not all of the excess has gone to my water bags(holy engorgement), that means, I too, now have to pee.

*shoot me*

Ok, so the Littlest is still quiet enough to keep her in her carseat during the short trip in in order for Mommy to pee(praise Jeebus). This is the mandatory order in which I have to do things, or else my life gets much more complicated much faster. And, really, no one wants extra points on that damn complication scale. I pull out 2 diapers, wipes, my phone and my wallet. I’ve learned, normally these things are just fun(and later useful) chew toys for the infant, sometimes the tot gets to hold onto an item to “help”, and I don’t have to worry about giving someone, whether that someone be a stranger or my 2 year old, a black eye with the dark abyss that’s commonly known as a diaper bag. Ok, so I lay these items on the baby. I unbuckle her from the car. I bring her to her brother’s side of the car. She’s at my feet, so she doesn’t get run over. I (again) put socks and shoes on the toddler, answer about a billion 2 year old questions, unfasten him, wipe off the army of snacks that cover him and his seat, close the heavy, creaky door with my butt, firmly hold onto my toddler’s hand, give him the wipes because of his persistence to “help”, pick up 20 pounds of Odie with however many more pounds of uncomfortable car seat, and away we go!!! And by away, I mean, I’ve got that awkward, snail paced gait thing going on, because of the weight in my left hand, and the small legged man child attached to my right. I’m center, but I MUST lead, or else I’m trampling the tot. He forgets this sometimes, so occasionally, there’s a trip or 2…or 57. We made it to the door! Whew! Now sometimes, there is a nice person who is either coming or going who will open the door for me and my posse!!! And sometimes, there are people who see us coming from a mile away, avoid eye contact, and get the hell out of dodge! Sometimes, there is no one. This is one of those times. I haven’t quite mastered from here on out. Because baby, but mostly, because toddler… Those creatures are unpredictable. So, I chose to set the baby down, opened the door, picked her back up, all while trying not to knock my 2 year old over with the car seat. We’re back in action. He’s dropped the wipes half a dozen times by now, no, just kidding, only twice. I’ve got my sexy fashionista model walk going on, ya know, one handedly keeping my toddler from being a noodle baby or from insisting on the nearest “Boof!!!”(juice), or “Tandy!”. Fuck you, junk food. You’re a single mom’s worst nightmare in a store. Ok, we’ve made it to the bathroom! Aaaaaand, the handicap stall is out of order… Somehow, I manage to crawl into the miniscule stall, with my tiny viewing audience. Thankfully, Baby Love has been pretty content this whole time eating (clean) diapers, so she’s not thrown a fit up until this point. She sees how the walls are closing in on us. She watches me speed pee. She also listens to me rapidly fire out “No!”s to Skylar like they’re going out of fashion. “No, pleeeeease don’t lay on this nasty floor.” “No, don’t lick the door!” “Please don’t unlock the door. Please don’t unlock the door. PLEASE DON’T UNLOCK THE DOOR!!!” “Baby, it isn’t polite to look under the doors like that. The other ladies want privacy.” “No, the lady doesn’t have a peziz.” “No, I don’t have a peziz.” “Yes, you and Baker and Cameron and Julian and Dad and Grandpa and…every other man(except for those who identify as men who don’t have “male” genitalia) on this planet have pezises.” “No, I don’t want your help wiping, thanks.” “Get out of my butt.” “No, I still don’t have a peziz.” “No, don’t pick your sister’s nose.” “GENTLE hugs to the baby!!!” Ok, whew, done. Time to wash hands and change the babies. “Skylar, please don’t play in the trash can. Get away from the door, it’ll hit you and you’ll get hurt. It’s ok, the loud noise is just drying my hands off. No, I really need you to not look under the doors again. Hey, Sky, you can open the door in just a minute!!! Ok, your turn!” In the mean time, I have an irate baby wanting out of her car seat, getting redder and redder and louder and louder, and a toddler that wants to simultaneously play noodle baby and practice jumping off the changing table at the same time. Somehow, I manage to throw old diapers away, get new ones on the babies, and waddle out ever so ceremoniously with a baby who is now so upset, she is has pools of salty tears streaming down her face and is almost crying so loud she’s losing her air supply. By this point, I am almost in tears myself. I know I don’t want to go through the hassle(which translates to my patience-o-meter is in the red) of running after a 2 year old who has,”Ooh look, SQUIRREL! syndrome” in a gas station, so I scoop him up, and comedically(to you) half run to sweet, sweet, reliable Maggie. I still have to get gas, but first I HAVE to stick a boob in Little Miss’ mouth. I take the key out of the ignition, and let Sky play in the car for a bit while I nurse, put gas in the car, and scrape up a little bit of both my sanity and dignity that I lost from somewhere along that very short path to the bathroom. I take some deep breaths. I play on Facebook. I people watch, recenter, give Sky some “Boof!”, answer a billion more 2 year old questions, buckle  them back in, and then we’re “On The Road  Again!”.

No sweat off my back, Jack.

I may or may not have knocked an entire display over with my diaper bag, before.

My son may or may not have licked unsanitary bathroom walls before.

I click-clacked 1 handed throughout 9/10 of this blog. If that isn’t dedication, I’m not sure what is.

#lazydeadbeatmom

Unassisted Homebirth of Oriana D’Andrea

I fell in love with an asshole and had 2 babies with him. He chose to financially abuse me(I was completely dependant on him financially.), and stop paying child support without any kind of conversation prior to this bomb drop, so when I was 6 months pregnant with our youngest child, I moved away from the co-op I was living in in Chicago, and moved in with my grandma temporarily. Once there, I realized her dementia had gotten really bad, so I moved her into a nursing home, and went to live with my ex’s parents. They’ve been incredibly giving to open their home to me and my children, but it’s all so very awkward at the same time. There is tons of drama that has happened in this last year, and I’ll eventually get to writing about it here if I ever feel it’s a safe spot for it. The written word can always be used against you! ;) Anyway, my ex’s mom was not comfortable with me free birthing in her home, so I went up north, by Chicago to have a homebirth in my Littles’ dad’s home. I just found where I wrote a quick version of my last labor right after giving birth. I’m so glad I wrote it! I don’t remember most of the small stuff. Here it is! :)

Shorthand: I’ll use this to help me remember and later blog.

I did tons of ball bounces, hip circles, and toddler nursing. I did end up opening my arnica tablets and Angelica tincture. I took the recommended dosage of both. 5 arnica tablets, and 5 drops of Angelica in a little water. I was already crampy and having mild contractions. Not sure if either helped, but my contractions started getting closer together and I knew they were probably more than the BH I had been experiencing while nursing.

I ate a couple mini slices of pizza, split an avocado with my toddler, took my vitamins, drank plenty of water – all in hopes to be prepared and well nourished for labor.

I was very surprised with how fast the contractions were becoming intense and close together. I pooped a lot, but very quickly realized most of the pressure I was feeling was baby descending.

Baby daddy was upstairs attempting to put Skylar to sleep(1st time since we’ve been here…). The last time I checked my phone, it was 7:30. I knew I was close. My water broke during a standing contraction in the bathroom. It had a yellow-greenish tint to it, so I was a little worried about meconium, even though I’d read/researched it’s not that big of a deal(She was 42 weeks and 1 day “past due”!!! My other 2 had come at 40 weeks, 1 day!). I spent most of my time pacing. It felt best to walk/stand through contractions. I was open to any position to labor/birth in, but I wanted to listen and both lead and follow the intimate dance between me and my sweet babe. I was having some “oh shit” thoughts, like, if BD didn’t come down in time, where was she going to land?! It was becoming too painful to sit or be on all fours. I knew I wanted to birth standing. I took the cushion off the daybed thinking I could possibly stand over it(seriously, imagine that shit! a 9+ preggo deep in transition in the throws of labor moving furniture around!), but after a contraction, I realized I really needed to hold on to something. Most of my hard laboring was done in the bathroom. I went back there and held onto the countertop and YELLED for BD. I’d tried a few other times(yelling for him), but I knew crowning was super close at this point, and I wanted help with catching her. He arrived a lil sheepishly, peeking his head around the corner asking, “Did you call for me?”. I immediately said, “Come catch your daughter! That’s her head, don’t drop her!”. He started breathing reeeally heavy, and I swear she was completely out entirely and immediately within the next push. Right before he arrived, I was having another, “Oh shit.” thought, praying SUPER, SUPER hard that it wasn’t a cord or butt or any other body part other than her head coming out first(I’d been checking/feeling, and it felt hard like a head…lol). I was never so relieved to see hair before !!!!

Daddy handed her over to me. Man she was slippery(found out later he almost dropped her, so I’m glad I warned him!)! I was still standing in the bathroom. I stayed like that for a good while hoping the placenta would, ya know, plop out or some shit. haha. No such luck. I’d already laid the shower liner on my bed(right next to the bathroom!). With help from dad, baby and I laid down til I couldn’t stand the contractions and pressure any longer. I asked for more arnica and Angelica to help expel. I also asked dad to boil the scissors and hemp thread. We cut the umbilical cord (it was ice cold and not pulsing), and I left her with him so I could shower. I was DETERMINED to birth that placenta. It took a lil while, but it happened.

She arrived pink except for blue hands and feet. She was crying immediately! Very aware and awake. No harsh suctioning(as in we didn’t use any tools, we let her come to us naturally). She latched on and quickly nursed. She’s still trying to get some labor gunk up…or maybe I overfed with colostrum(I have a lot since my toddler had been nursing the whole pregnancy…).

Regardless, she’s doing great. I’m doing well. This is the best I’ve felt, strength wise out of any of my pregnancies. I eventually remembered to take the placenta upstairs to rinse and refrigerate. I took a couple small chunks and swallowed them like a pill and just refrigerated the rest to deal with it tomorrow. I’m juiced up and have eaten a couple of protein bars. I’m not worried about my blood loss, so I didn’t take the Shepard’s Purse.

She’s currently without a name, and we’re waiting to weigh her until tomorrow. She looks kinda chunky in the pics, but I honestly believe her to be smaller than my other 2 were. She’s darker than my towheads. Labor started right around 4, & I gave birth to her shortly after 8pm.

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1st Latch, still standing in the bathroom

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homebirth

hb2

She was the smallest out of all of my babies. Right around 8 1/2. I called her Aurora for several weeks, before her dad decided it was too difficult to say… So, she got renamed Oriana. It’s a variant of his name, go figure. ;)