Motherhood Uncensored

Keep it in the closet

I've been trying for weeks to get Margot out of our bed.

I had the whole "well, I'll probably never have a baby sleeping next to me ever again *sniff*" nostalgia for about a New York minute, and then I wanted our bed and my boob back.

But since the extra-slash-guest room is on the first floor, kicking Margot out of the bed meant doing a complicated shuffle that would land Drew in Quinlan's room.

And the prospect of giving him the ability to freely roam a room which would no doubt steal his nap along with my sanity scared the living shit out of me.

So, the only other option was to put Margot in our closet.

When my husband first suggested it, the idea of putting her in the closet sounded completely absurd. We have a fairly large house and so it seemed sort of wrong that we couldn't find a room for her.

But after a solid week of her sleeping while attached to my boob for the entire night, I decided that to the closet she must go. So I hooked up the rain machine, I dragged the playpen smack dab in the middle of my closet, and sprawled out on my bed while watching television for the first time since before I had her.

Freedom. Sweet sweet freedom.

Except that I quickly remembered that when she cried, I'd actually have to do more than pop open my bra; I'd have to get out of bed, pick her up, and lean standing up against my shelves while she nursed.

Perhaps if I had a closet like Carrie in the Sex and the City movie I could move my glider in there, or hell, even a kitchen chair, but alas, I was stuck rocking her back and forth between my husband's flight suits and his shoe hanger.

The first night I did that four freaking times.

On the plus side, closets are dark - so no aluminum foil windows or weird vinyl window coverings that drive slightly OCD husbands completely insane trying to apply. And with the bathroom between us, as well as a couple of doors that we can close, we're able to let her whine it out on those instances when she doesn't necessarily need to eat. Of course, I've yet to determine which ones those might be exactly.

So ironically, I'm not sure I'm getting any more rest than I was with her in the bed. Well, yet at least.

And instead of doing the co-sleeping "talk of shame," I get to tell everyone that my daughter is sleeping in my closet.

16 and pregnant

I sort of wish I had completely forgotten that the premiere of MTV's new show 16 and Pregnant was on this past Thursday. Seriously, what is with MTV and 16 year olds?

Oh. Because that's who's watching that shit.

Right.

Honestly, whatever happened to the fun lighthearted music videos, or hell, even the crazed spring breakers running around half naked?

I fondly remember when they'd cram two drunk college students in a telephone booth and make them change clothes.

I suppose you could say they've gone from one method of exploitation to another.

Now I really should have just watched the 4000 other shows that were on television, but I was feeling sort of weepy (must have been the fact that my husband was having a terrible time in Venice without me or something like that).

And I have this soft spot in my heart for pregnant teens, hence why I cried my way through practically all of Juno, so I figured why not just stand there and let MTV punch me in the face a few times.

Now if you have no idea what the hell this show is because you're one of those goody goodies who doesn't have cable or worse, doesn't own a television, then you should enjoy riding your very high horse for this one.

I mean, I'd give you a recap but the title basically implies exactly what the whole thing is going to be about.

Sixteen year old girl in an urban location or the South (surprise!) gets knocked up by her doofy, immature teenage boyfriend who proposes to her so she can call him her "fiance'" when really he's still just her doofy immature boyfriend who just wants to hang out with his doofy, immature friends while she does almost every single thing for the baby along with working and going to college while her mom watches the baby but she doesn't want to say anything because he's happy and that's all she wants at which point point he tells her that he doesn't think it's going to work out and that everything changed when she got pregnant and then they decide to "work it out" which means she'll still do everything and just put up with his shit hoping that he'll change.

Just when you thought we'd come a long way the good old South reminds us how it likes its women to kick it "old school" oppressive style, yo.

Now I will say it was as predictably depressing without the calories or hangover of a bad bottle of wine as it sounds.

But if that's not a reason to talk to your kids about sex and temporarily sterilize them until they're at least 25, I don't know what is.

8 months - This is how a sex columnist gets her kid to crawl

Bad is the new good

I don't wake up in the morning and think about what kind of mother I'm going to be. On most days, like most mothers, I turn on auto pilot and just go about the business of raising my children the best that I know how.

Sometimes, more often than I admit, it's wrapped up tightly in a bow, so sweet that you can taste its goodness in a chubby cheek, a crooked grin, or your face buried in a mop of hair that smells like nothing words can really describe.

On others, it's a bloody massacre that requires all of what you have left to pick up the pieces and fashion them back together into something other than a heaping pile of stinky shit.

Parenting is a dance of give and take, wins and losses, ups and downs, belly flops and beautiful pirouettes.

And no matter how lovely your spins are, on most days, I'd much rather hear the sound of your post partum belly slapping against the water producing a big huge gigantic splash that nearly drowns half the kids at the pool.

So while you might not agree that bad is the new good, it sure as hell makes me laugh, and it reminds me that I'm not the only idiot out there that still doesn't know how to dive.

Go Go Gadget Nipples

It seems that around six months of age or so, the world becomes an oyster and my babies want to see it all.

With my nipple in their mouth.

It's one thing to breathe in what once was a bunch of shadows and blurry figures that is now the beautifully bright world around them.

I fully support their exploratory spirit. Onward children!

But does it really need to happen while still attached to my boob?

I think it's safe to say I rely on my nipples more than I do my brain, and in fact, I'm pretty sure that my nipples could effectively continue to run my household, as well as feed and entertain my children (and my husband too, I guess) in the absence of my mind.

In fact, had it only been my nipples and my husband on the flight home from Philly on Monday with all my children at the butt crack of dawn, I'm pretty sure everyone would have been just peachy. 

One less pair of shoes to take off at security.

They're a teething toy, a hose, a pacifier, a food source, an "easy" button (ahem), and lately, Gumby.

It's hard enough trying to do the quick cover up when she pops off after two minutes or so of nursing because a kid ran by, or the phone rang, or the air blew on her head in the wrong direction.

No, she does not eat that fast. There's a very interesting speck of lint on my shirt that is more captivating than sustaining herself with food.

However, when she's stretching her neck to make sure GOD FORBID she doesn't miss anything with my nipple still firmly planted between her teeth or tongue it just makes me feel like a circus freak.

But instead of feeling all sorry for myself and my poor chewed on Inspector Gadget nipples that sort of resemble an old elastic that's been used a few too many times (sexy, right?), I figure I should put them to good use.

Safety first.