Sex Toys and Other Drunken Bad Decisions

I'm back in the land of the living. It's official. I've been in a dark hole peering out at those around me doing my best to act like one of them, but internally just wanting to crawl into a ball and sleep it off. I don't know what I'd be sleeping off, but somehow I just felt like sleep would make it all better. But a normal person doesn't get enough sleep when they have a baby, so I just pulled myself together and limped through the day.

Last Thursday I found out my favorite cousin had died. He had seen me grow up, and most of my memories from my childhood involve him. I use the word cousin loosely--he was actually my dad's cousin, so he treated me like a niece. He was funny, silly, loving, and (always important to an 8-year-old) semi-famous. He, as well as his father and brothers, were professional wrestlers. His youngest brother, Brian, was way more famous than he was, but he was and is widely regarded as one of the most under-appreciated wrestlers in the history of the sport. He was known for always making his opponents look way better than the actually were. But to me, my cousin was just Brad. Not Brad Armstrong, or "BA" or "Buzzkill," just Brad.

**For the record, yes I know pro-wrestling is "fake". So are sitcoms, plays, and movies. It's a form of entertainment and a lot of the people who take part in it are skilled entertainers who just happen to choose a different medium than most. I am not a wrestling fan, but I respect the talent it requires.

Respect the Mullet

Brad introduced me to habachi food. He called me and impersonated cartoon characters, actors, and sometimes character of his own invention just to make me giggle. He gave me a Dr. Seuss book, Oh the Places You'll Go, for my highs school graduation. He was the only person who didn't give me cash, and I still his that book. Recently he worked at a nutrition store next door to my tanning salon, and I'd pop in and say hello. He was always authentically glad to see me. There was always a hug hello and an "I love you" instead of goodbye. He was the most authentically kind person I had ever met, and he wasn't just that way with his family; he was that way with everyone. Everyone at the funeral said Brad was their best friend, and I believe he sincerely was.

My cousin's death was not the cause of my downward spiral; it was more of the rock bottom point. The day I found out about his death, I comforted myself with as many vices as I could legally get a hold of. I ate fried comfort food all day, and after Jackson's swim lessons, I made my husband go to the liquor store. That night I got drunker than I had been since I got pregnant. Did you know Evan William's has an apple cider? 1 minute in the microwave and it's Christmas in a bottle! Since my husband is the ever supportive man that he is, he of course got drunk with me.

I had been toying (no pun intended) with the idea of selling Pure Romance products for a while, but somehow, in our drunken state, this plan came to fruition. Did I get the small, conservative starter package? Oh no. At my husband's urging, I got the Mack Daddy, "Platinum" starter kit that includes almost $4000 worth of product. But, as my husband said about 82 times within an hour, he believed in my ability to make this a thriving business. No pressure.

While I was waiting for my plethora of sex toys and accessories to arrive, I attended my cousin's funeral. It was my first funeral for someone I was close to. It was kind of interesting--most of the attendees were pro-wrestlers from past and present, so there were a lot of gimmicky looking people wandering around. There was an Elvis look alike, a "wolfman," etc. The eulogies really hit home with me: story after story of Brad's kindness, humor, love, and charity made me realize that he's dead and the only thing I can do is honor his memory and his life by learning from it and showing everyone the kind of love he showed people. Pure, honest, authentic, child-like love.

I woke up this morning with a mission in my heart and a package at my door. A forty pound package of dildos to be exact. So I didn't vote today. I was busy inventorying arousal creams and vibrating cock rings and spending time with my baby. Because not only do I want to live my life the way Brad lived his, but I want my son to turn out to be as kind and honestly good as Brad was.

Babies are Manipulative Bastards

So basement Bobby and I were talking yesterday, and he saw a documentary about babies. Apparently they use their cute little gummy smiles to ensure their security. As we all know, human babies require a longer period of time for development and more nurturing than babies of other species. Seemingly unrelated, the human baby is the only species that can smile. This is, apparently, so that when the parent sees that little smile, they forget about all the work that goes in to caring for those little guys and just want to continue to nurture and care for them.

My mind flashes back to one of my many sleepless nights in the beginning. I remember hearing Jackson crying on the baby monitor and thinking how much it sucked. But as soon as I saw his little face calm down, look in my eyes and smile at me, I wasn't tired, irritated, frustrated, or hopeless. I was just so happy to have him in my arms, feel is skin, and smell his baby breath. That sneaky bastard.

Debby Downer Does Dallas

****SPOLIER**** This entry had nothing to do with Dallas.

Hello the Bold and the Bloggiful,

I haven't written in a while--not due to to lack of important events in my life, depression, or laziness. I've actually had writers block. I didn't realize that happened to writers of such whimsy as a blog, but alas, it has. So here's what's going on in my life:

1) I opened my medical billing business (woo hoo)
2) I went on another teaching job interview and did not get the job, again
3) I had a pregnancy scare (Not pregnant, thank you sweet little 8 pound baby Jesus in a manger)
4) I went to a pentacostal church (where apparently they talk in tongues, run around, yell at you for not being a zealot, and make your baby cry). After two an a half hours, I finally got out of the srvice. Not because it was over; rather because I realized I was missing football.
5) My little man is now pulling himself up and standing more than he's sitting. Every time I go in his room and he's standing in his bed, I get a feeling I'm in one of those Paranormal Activities movies.
6) And finally I've realized I cannot trust my father alone with my son.

He was "watching" Jackson while I was getting ready for my interview, when I noticed Jackson  playing on the coffee table. For most families, this would not be a big deal. But we have a special coffee table. The top is just a sheet of glass beckoning young children to knock their teeth out on it, and there are sheets of metal forming the legs. This is in fact the coffee table of death. I'm pretty sure my husband got it at the "Death to Babies and Small Children" section at Rooms To Go. And my father was letting my very wobbly son pull himself up on the coffee table and play in and around it.

Fast forward to me one my way to my interview, I get a call, and as soon as I pick up I hear my son crying. "Would you like to tell me what the f*** I'm supposed to do?!" Now this is not the first time my father has watched my son. And this is not the first time that my father has refused to listen to any guidance I give him. For example, my son is happily playing in the floor with his toys. My dad scoops him up and forces him to sit in his lap and suffocates him with a snuggle. Well meaning, but all this kid wants to do is crawl and play. I try to tell my dad this and he shouts at me, "I want to hug my grandson! I'll snuggle him if I want to!" Meanwhile, my son is crying out of frustration. Then my father hands a fussy baby to me that was just fine playing on the floor and says, "Here! He's such a mama's boy. He wants him mommy." No, actually he wants to crawl and play. And probably wouldn't mind if you shaved a bit more often and toned down the cologne. So when I got this call I knew my father had been totally oblivious to any cues that my son gave him, forced Jackson to submit to his will, and was then baffled that Jackson didn't want to go along with it.

Then shit got real. I came home and my father left without saying anything to me. A few hours later basement Bobby came up and gave me the run down of what really went down. Apparently he heard my father yelling at my son, "G**d*** it Jackson, shut the f** up!" and then when my brother came up stairs to hep, my father bitched about how I've spoiled Jackson and he's not watching him until I get my shit together. I would like to take this opportunity to say my dad ASKED to babysit. I never ask him to babysit; I usually ask my in-laws. When he finds out, he then gives me a guilt trip about how I love them more than him.

So this is what I learned from this experience: F*** guilt trips, f*** not hurting my father's feelings; my son is my first priority. I have been the target for my father's severe anxiety and anger issues and I made it through and got over it, but I will be damned if he uses my son as a target.

The End.

Invisible Mother Resurfacing...For Now

OK, so I was a bit of a Debbie Downer in my last post and I know all of my followers (all three of you) come here for my clever witticisms and brilliant, self-deprecating humor. But I come here to vomit my mind. If my mental puke makes its way onto your sidewalk, I can only hope that you appreciate getting a little on your shoe. If not, oh well, it's on there anyway. 

Anyhoo, I have made pretty substantial strides to reclaiming myself. I've gone walking multiple times this week and have the shin splint to prove it; I went to the tanning bed; and most importantly I GOT MY EYEBROWS WAXED!!!!!!!! This is a major accomplishment in my life. Seriously, they were getting so bushy they itched. It may have been in my head, but it felt like little creatures had inhabited my tiny face forests. When the tore the wax off my face, I didn't hear the desperate cries of a geographically transplanted species, so it probably was all in my head.

In television news The Real Housewives of New Jersey is about to be over (sad), the Falcons are 4-0 (woo hoo!), and I have started to fall for an entire new show: Breaking Amish. That's right, TLC has once again put forth an absolutely ridiculous premise for a show, and it has stolen my heart. 4 Amish and 1 Mennonite 20- Somethings break Amish/Mennonite tradition and go to New York to see if they want to break away from their home culture forever and most likely be shunned/disowned by their family and friends. Bring it on TLC. I can handle your heartbreaking tales of failure and triumph!

Things I have learned from Breaking Amish:
1) I'm super glad I have all my teeth.
2) I must have been so fucking annoying when I was a drunk 18 year old.
3) The preachers' kids are always the worst influences.
4) Apparently red is too bright for Amish women to wear, but bright blue and lime green are ok.
5) Amish people do not cry.
6) Amish pluck their eyebrows.
7) There are red neck Amish men out there who drive with their mouths open. Kristen Stewart style.

I would not make it as an Amish woman.

The Invisible Mother

I feel like motherhood has been a constant, unending struggle. Not really the actual act of mothering: the nursing, cooing, loving, protecting part has come pretty naturally. It's more of an internal struggle against external forces that I am at war with.

I feel like every day is a challenge to preserving my sense of self and establishing my identity as a mother. I'm fighting to convince those around me that I know what I'm doing because maybe if they believe in me, I'll start to. I'm struggling to be thought of as a mother rather than someone who got knocked up and am now dealing with the consequences.

Furthermore I'm struggling not to fade away. My father doesn't kiss me on the forehead when he leaves anymore. He doesn't even say goodbye, actually. He tickles my son, kisses the dog, and leaves. My social life consists of Dora the Explorer, pulling my son away from the edge of the stairs, and being home from 6 o'clock on because I'm the only one that understands and can effectively pull off his routine without upsetting him. If I do venture out, I'm filled with anxiety about if my son's delicate routine is in danger of being broken because his routine is his security blanket. And I don't think there's anything wrong with that. But where does that leave me?

I haven't waxed my eyebrows in 6 months because somehow I cannot get out of the house for the 5 minute, $8 procedure. I can't sleep through the night because when I wake, I hold my breath while listening to the static on the baby monitor waiting for my son to wake up. I can't remember to drink enough water, or take all my pills. My therapist keeps reiterating that I need to hold onto the things for me so that I don't completely lose myself, but I don't think I know how to do that anymore.

Always Wear Clean Underwear

Do you remember when your mom used to tell you to always wear clean underwear because if you get hit by a bus, all the paramedics and emergency personnel would see your underwear and inevitably judge you based on the snail trails left in your britches?  Well I got hit by a metaphorical bus on Saturday and my metaphorical underwear were metaphorically disgusting.

I went to Babies-R-Us to exchange some shoes that didn't fit Jax/find something to spend my nonexistent money on. I was standing in line at customer service to show someone that I had in fact walked in with the shoes and was not trying to pull a switcheroo (that's right, I used that word.), when I saw my bus. My bus was pushing a pink stroller and loading up bags of merchandise into a cart. My ex was there with the woman he left me for. Now I use the words "ex" and "left me" very loosly: this was my kind of slutty period, so it was more like we saw each other and I fell in love with him and he did not see me as girlfriend material.

Let me point out: he is not my bus because I'm not over him. Looking back, he was pretty much a loser, and it would not have worked out to my benefit at all. But that doesn't change the fact that if I saw him (or anyone I had once dated, for that matter) I wanted to look freaking amazing and show him a) he was stupid to let me get away and b) I wasn't crazy anymore. Unfortunately, I looked something like this:

My hair was up in a VERY messy bun due to bald patches from my son yanking my hair out and/or breaking patches of hair, my post-pregnancy pooch was nestling in for the afternoon (I had just eaten taco bell), and my eyebrows had not been waxed in months. So I hid behind the pregnant woman in front of me and reached the following conclusions:

1) I will never leave the house looking like that again. You never kow who you're going to see. It may be someone that you have petty resentment towards and want them to think you're better than they are.
2) I was lucky to have met my husband because he gave me the mama's boy I so desperately wanted (among other reasons). Since my egg was meant to be fertilized around the same time both men's sperm were meant to do the fertilizing, I got the preferable of the two specimens.
3) My ex, who I remembered looking like this:

actually looks like this:

So though it did not play out exactly as I had imagine, I think the experience had a pretty positive outcome.

Poor Shaniqua: I May Steal The Contents of Your Freezer

September 7, 2012

One of my nearest and dearest friends (We'll call her Shaniqua) just had a baby.  Shaniqua already has a 2 year old boy and just had a little girl.  Now Shaniqua and I have one very big thing in common: anxiety.  She is actually the first person I met who was seeking help for her anxiety, and she inspired me to do the same.  Now we all know that pregnancy and child birth send your hormones into a crazy land of frustration and torment; add an anxiety disorder in the mix and you have a real party.

Also like me, she will never ask anyone for help.  I remember when I had Jackson, everyone said the obligatory, "Hey do you need anything? Ok, well if you need anything at all, just call."  I just didn't feel right asking someone with their own life and responsibilities for what I really needed: a casserole, a shower, and a clean house.  My mother is not in my life, so there was no female figure (or any figure for that matter) that had been there, and would just swoop in and help me re-acclimate to my new role.  So I acclimated by attrition.

Shaniqua, on the other hand, has a strong family made up of all women who have had babies.  I still hear and see, however, the subtext whenever we speak/text.  The subtext being, "I have no clue what I've gotten myself into.  I can't do this, my life is falling apart.  I haven't showered in two weeks and I can't remember if I brushed my teeth this morning."  So I have given myself a mission; I will help her in the way I never was helped and never knew to help before.

The plan as I see it: I texted her this morning.  "I'm coming over Monday.  If you're not up to it, that's fine. I'm leaving presents and care items at your door.  If you are up to it, I'm going to come by and be your personal servant for the day.  I know you will never ask for help so I'm forcing it on you. :)" Smiley faces always make you less obnoxious.  I will spend the weekend picking up items that helped me out during my first few weeks: granola bars, rolls of toilet paper (I always ran out and never could go to the grocery store), lanolin, and whisky.

September 10, 2012

I woke up with good intentions. I was going to cook a breakfast casserole and Cheddar Ranch Bacon Chicken Pasta (I don't think they could fit anymore delicious foods into that name), get a few things at the store, and go and be Shaniqua's slave. So I start cooking the breakfast casserole when two plan changing events occur: I realize I'm out of eggs and my husband calls and tells me the air conditioning repair man is coming. Awesome.

Luckily Basement Bobby watched Jackson (not an easy task since he's been velcroed to me during the latest teething spell) and I go to the store. Upon arrival back home, I mix up the casserole (baby clinging to my side) and get it in the oven just in time for the AC guy. I'm Suzie Freakin Homemaker, people!

Then my plan falls apart. Velcro baby wants to start cluster feeding, so I can't cook the pasta, I realize I'm out of toilet paper (I guess I never learned my lesson the first time around), and my husband drank all the whisky last night.

Telling myself I'll have to be satisfied with just the breakfast casserole, I make my haul to Shaniqua's house. To my surprise, Shaniqua had it way more together than I could have ever expected. Not only was her little baby girl sleeping peacefully in her pack and play, her house was spotless and she was in the middle of potty training her son. Hoping to find consolation in another mother losing her mind as she was adjusting to a new phase of parenthood as I had, I made a realization: not everyone has had the same struggles I had. I had assumed that someone else had the same needs a me when my own son was miserable and just wanted me to hold him and comfort him. Perhaps my energy and nurturing nature were misdirected....

Then Shaniqua blew my mind. She opened her freezer to show me her pride and joy:

Holy Christ on a cracker. Her baby isn't even a month old and she has enough milk stored to open her own dairy farm. This sight flooded my mind for the rest of the day. I tested her later that night:

Me: "I can't stop thinking about your milk."

Shaniqua: "I don't even know how to respond to that."

I'm so lucky to have the friends I have. Anyhoo, I find it necessary to point out not only is Shaniqua pumping, she is nursing too! This woman is a le leche league goddess.

Things I learned:

1) Don't assume people need you when they don't ask for your help.
2) Take care of your own business before you force your services upon others.
3) I have to start pumping again. In fact, I'm pumping while writing this. Does that creep you out?
4) Always buy toilet paper.