Motherhood Uncensored

Apparently I Am Still at Junior Mom Status

I pride myself on knowing a bit more than my husband about kids.

Okay. A LOT MORE. (He doesn't read this, so what do I care about offending him? Never stopped me before... heh).

I mean, I've been around kids, in one capacity or another, my whole entire life. I babysat for years, and worked daily with children with various disabilities, and I'm pretty decent with the young ones. Sure, I needed a diaper changing refresher, a "how-to-get-a-child-to-sleep-off-my-boob" tutorial, and still need some help with the whole broken bone thing, but all in all, I'm good. Kids like me DAMNIT.

I have gotten picky kids to eat something other than candy, I can distract a child from an extremely painful blood draw with an amazing song and dance routine (for which I garner quite a pretty penny), and I can usually win over even the shyest and most cautious of all children with my charm and pretty cool accents.

However, it was made apparent to me today at the grocery store that I have yet to earn my "wings," because without even thinking twice, I bought my daughter the following:

1) Pooh Rubber Ink Stampers
2 A Harmonica

Go ahead. Whip me with a wet noodle.

Maybe I'll get my promotion next year.

You Can't Make This Shit Up

As if things weren't complicated enough, Q fell off the computer chair we were playing on and...

broke her left clavicle.

Yes.

So, not only has she broken her left leg in March (if you haven't read my blog for long), she now has yet another broken bone.

Now I must endure a visit back to the orthopedist, as well as fend off calls from human services. Rightfully so, I look like a complete ass of a mother and human. I'm not sure what's worse. Seeing her in a sling, or me feeling like a big shit. Okay. That's easy. Her in a sling. For sure.

Thankfully, her leg (which she wouldn't walk on after the fall - which was on CARPET from a CHAIR - moving yes, but still) is FINE.

I, however, am not.

Now back to my crying fits.

Potty 1, Mommy 0

So, remember when I told you that my daughter was a nudist and liked to poop on the floor? Well, she actually decided to poop in the potty the other day. Okay, let me rephrase. She was naked, started grunting, and I grabbed her tiny butt and stuck in on the toilet with the tiny-butt seat. But, she wouldn't go. You know, no privacy, legs dangling, no leverage. Hell, a no leverage poop these days is totally unheard of (hello, Mrs. Roid... Nice to meet you). So, I picked her up and ran her over to her Pooh Potty (note exhibit A) which provided her with a) leverage and b) privacy.

With repeated offers of candies falling from heaven, there she sat and there she pooped. And after much praise, a toilet paper wipe, and 14 gummy lifesavers later, there it sat. The poop.

So, then what? Um HELLO. What the heck do I do with the gigantic crap sitting in the purple bucket? I know to dump it in the toilet. And then I rinsed it out IN THE TOILET. But people. There were scrapes and scraps and remnants. And where does one scrub such things? And with what? The special potty scrubbing sponge?

I'm embarrassed to say I used half the bottle of toilet cleaner and a quick whipping wrist action and got most of it off. And then I rinsed the rest... in the sink. And then I decided, pooping in that damn potty is highly overrated.

So people. Help me out. She needs the leverage to poop. She's a stand and grunt kind of girl. However, cleaning the pot? Oy. I can barely pick hairs out of the shower drain (my OWN hairs), let alone scrub a big old poopy skid. What should I do here?

So it Has a 10 Foot Cathedral Train, But Can I Breastfeed in it?

There are a few things breastfeeding moms should never have to worry about. Okay. Maybe there's just one.

Buying a wedding dress.

Yep. Not something you like to think about while caressing your large brown sunflower nipples with lanisoh and cool gelly pads. But I did.

For some reason that I have yet to figure out (pregnancy hormones, perhaps), I agreed to have a church wedding 3 months after having my daughter. I really wanted it to be later, but I gave into peer pressure (read: persistent husband), and there I was, planning a wedding while trying to figure out why my daughter was pooping green sludge and blood (amongst other things) while rubbing large amounts of prep H on my own poor asshole. What a lovely combination.

I was bitter, frustrated, and um, bitter. My mother-in-law was bitching to my husband about MY flower choices, my sister-in-law was bitching to my husband about the bridesmaid dress choices (choose a black dress you like and wear it... what's there to complain about?), and I was complaining to my husband about not sleeping, not eating (elimination diet), and the worst of all tragedies, not fitting into my wedding gown.

So at about 1-month post-pardum, I stopped my nightly rants and crying sessions and hit the only bridal shop in a 100 mile radius.

A Southern Wedding.

Perfect. Just what I wanted.

NOT.

I admit that the store actually had a lot of lovely dresses (intermixed with some total "My-name-is-Kristen-and-I'm-yer-new-Miss-Mississippi"), particularly in my price range and size - "way larger than I ever wanted to be in a wedding gown or any gown for that matter." But no matter how big you are, nothing beats having to tell the lovely 19-year-old engaged sales girl Amanda-Jean that you "need a dress you can breastfeed in."

I bet she never heard that before.

I mean, like I wasn't under enough stress, I had to buy a wedding dress based soley on whether I could whip my tit out in a reasonably discrete manner and nurse my daughter. On my fucking wedding day. In the cool teal studebaker marked "just married" as we drove off. In the hallway of the boat deck (our reception locale - a large boat). In our honeymoon suite. Ack.

But, the young commission-motivated salesgirl grabbed a bunch of choices, and away I went to the dressing room. And there I was - trying on wedding dresses I wouldn't have even looked twice at and crying at the prospect of having to get my pictures taken looking like a large beached whale in white. Oh, and all while the salesgirl bounced my infant daughter outside the curtain. Let's just say, it was not the wedding dress shopping trip in my dreams - or even in my wildest imagination.

Thankfully, I found a great halter dress (unhooked at the neck - even during my wedding mass... woohoo) with a corset back (great for sucking in the mom scooch) that was rather pretty and relatively inexpensive. And it looked fabulous.

So, if it wasn't apparent to you before this post, it's pretty obvious now. I'm pretty damn talented - you know, nursing in a wedding gown and all.

And I have no shame. But you probably already knew that.

YAY! Photos (sorry, no bfing ones though)

View this photo

View this photo

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Come visit me here for a little potty mouth, er, talk. I need all the help I can get.

What's in a Name?

Welcome my June Blog Exchange Partner Mayberry Mom... (If you didn't read this yesterday, um, you should. So get to it and leave her a comment! I'll be back later).

The moment of truth came not at the altar, when I said “I do.” Nor did it come during our honeymoon, or when we crossed the threshold for the first time as husband and wife.

In fact, Jeff was miles away when it happened. The Moment was between me and the desktop support guy at my new job. It was my first day, and he was there to configure my computer and set up my email account. He asked, innocently enough, what my name was, so he could create my username and address.

I froze and fumbled for an answer. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. It was three weeks before my wedding, and I still hadn’t decided whether or not to take my husband’s surname. Now, suddenly, my feet were to the fire. It was time to make my choice.

I’d thought about it a lot. Way too much, probably—for years before I even met my future spouse. On one side, my feminist beliefs. Why should I change my name, sublimate my identity, just for some archaic, patriarchal tradition? Why should I have to go through the hassle of getting a new social security card, changing my passport, alerting every friend, relative and creditor I’d amassed in the previous 30 years? Plus, I already had an eight-year career as a writer and editor. I had a stack of clips with my maiden-name byline. Plus, it is a nice name—alliterative, easy to pronounce and spell.

But there were compelling arguments the other way too. If I chose not to change, I’d always have to correct people when they called me “Mrs. Jeff’sName.” I might feel like being married was no different from living together, as we’d already been doing for over a year. And what would happen when we had children? I wasn’t about to give them a five-syllable, hyphenated last name. They’d get his name, and then I’d be the odd woman out in my own family.

I pondered it day and night. I envied my friend Laurie, who married a man who happened to have the exact same last name she did. I thought about using my maiden name for work and his name for everything else. I wished I could fall back on my college-era plan, which was to marry someone with a one-syllable last name so I could use both mine and his (2 + 1 = manageable; 2 + 3 = not).

When I landed the job, fairly unexpectedly and so soon before the wedding, the balance started to shift, ever so slightly, in favor of making the switch. I was at a new company in a new industry, meeting a lot of new people. No one knew or cared about my byline. But in the end, the winning argument was the thought of my future children. I very much wanted to share a name with them. So in my first act of Mommy sacrifice, I gave up my maiden name. There in my cubicle, the die was cast, and I’ve been Mrs. Jeff’sName ever since. I don’t regret it, but I still miss my old name.

A few weeks after the wedding (conveniently after the email address was up and humming and all the other bureaucratic paper had been chased), he told me how much he liked my maiden name. And that if I’d wanted him to, he would’ve taken MY name instead. Now why didn’t I think of that?

Mrs. Jeff’sName, also known as Mayberry Mom, now shares her last name with her husband, two kids and a dog.

 

This post is part of the June Blog Exchange on the theme "What's in a Name?" For more, visit the other participants!

Mrs. Fortune

Soul Gardening

Another Mommy Moment

Mommy's Dirty Secret

Chicken n Cheese

A Mommy Story

A Crack in Life

Divine Calm

Three Sunsets

Orthotic Contessa

Mayberry Mom

Taste the World

Mama Mama

Knitting Spells

Binkytown

Elissa Lerma

Cheap Chocolate

 

And if you're interested in participating for July, email me.