Motherhood Uncensored

What to expect when you're weaning

Every time I've weaned my kids it's because I was pregnant. This means that my barometer for how much of an asshole it makes you is not quite accurate.

So when I decided it was time to wean Bridget after traveling a bunch of times with my trusty electric pump, then downgrading to a handpump (which, by the way, I'm convinced that real dominatrixes use in their sessions), I didn't completely know what to expect.

And no one really talks about weaning. Well, unless it's "child-led" or so you can get pregnant again. Then somehow it's okay.

Otherwise people keep it on the down low because that means you're switching to the demon-posessed formula (which my kid sucks down like baby coca cola by the way - the nerve).

Or maybe because it makes you a complete batty bitch.

And I'm not just talking about the engorged breasts stuffed into a sports bra because somehow that's supposed to make them feel better.

I know, I know. Cabbage leaves. Whatever.

At least when I was pregnant I could sort of mask it in the whole crazy hormonal cocktail that already had me screaming and laughing in the same breath, with nipples so sore you could swear there was a rabid fox hanging from them.

But the more I think about it, I'm starting to believe that all this is a joke by "the man" to suppress women even more. An insult to injury.

They're all being "distinguished" while we've got the stretch marks, the stitched up and stretched out vagina, the saggy boobs that we can either fling over our shoulders or tuck into our saggy bottom jeans and now we have to put cabbage into our bras to ease our pain.

Cabbage?!

If that's not a conspiracy I don't know what is.

In any other situation in this world, people would be like "No way in hell would she be doing that for free!" "This has got to be an episode of Punk'd!"

"She must be trying to get her own reality show!"

Nope. I'm doing all this on my own free will.

These last few days have been slightly trying, can you tell? I feel like I've been PMSing all month long. I'm yelling at the sweet clingy baby for being grouchy HOW DARE SHE? And I'm shoving my face full of Trader Joe's dark chocolate star cookies because that's what people do when they are relegated to wearing sports bras and cabbage in their bras.

Truth be told I'd rather smoke a doobie. But the last time I smoked a doobie (hypothetically of course) they were called "doobies."

And the best part is that when this is all over, when the engorgement has stopped, the hormones have run dry and the cabbage has been placed in the composting bin, I've got to deal with boobs that look like this.

Yep, Ashton better be popping out of my hall closet with a camera crew any minute now.

The truth about being tall

It never fails that everywhere I go, at least one person comments about my height. 

And it's never as cute as the time these little kids in my music therapy group had a conversation about it that went something like "Wow, she tall! Yeah, she eat wotsa bwoccowee!"

It's more like an entire conversation based around the fact that I am tall. Something I have absolutely no control over. And good God I'm tired of telling people "Yes, the air, it's so clean up here!" Or, "At least I don't need a step stool in the kitchen!" Because that's what we tall people say when someone tells us we are tall, which we actually already know, and are unsure if you mean this as an observation or a compliment.

Would you say "Your hair is brown!" to something and then expect them to say "Thank you!"?

I get everything from "I never knew you were this tall!," which is fair enough if you're meeting online friends for the first time but not when you're a relative that's seen me several times.

And happens to be a grandparent to my children.

There's also the "Oh, it's just the gigantic shoes" which is partially true, but I'm still tall without them on and psssst still taller than you.

Also, note to yourselves: The word "gigantic" should never really be used in anything you discuss physically about a woman unless you're talking about her brain. Or balls.

And then there are the pick-up lines, which oddly always circle around sports. Like "Hey, did you play basketball in high school?" or "You must have been a volley ball player" which I'm not quite sure how that's supposed to segue into any sort of meaningful conversation or hell, even a one night stand. 

Bad "playing with balls" puns? Yes. Me putting your balls in my mouth? Probably not.

But this past weekend, amidst all the gasps and gushes about my height, I got the best comment ever:

"Your height is INCREDIBLE!" this guy told me in passing, with admiration and gusto and not an ounce of skeeviness. 

Too bad he was homeless, otherwise he might have been able to get me back to his place.

Shoegate 2011

A few days ago I couldn't find my shoes. My new, one-time worn TOMS that, as you can see, should not be easy to lose.

We're a shoes-off-in-the-house type family, with a gigantic plastic bin by our front door that we use to hold all the many shoes you might imagine four kids might have. Or, at least, four kids of a shoe addict.

Since my husband and I can usually only fit one pair of shoes in the bin, ours generally end up next to it, or somewhat near it, for the most part, save the times when I'm home alone with all the kids and in my haste I dump them in a kitchen corner or by the garage door. Never in a spot where people could trip over them. And certainly not in a place, like on a dinner plate or on his pillow, where someone should be bothered by them.

So after searching around for a good ten minutes, I asked my husband where my shoes were and he proceeded to tell me that he had put them in the garage.

And by put, he meant "carelessly tossed them the fuck out of this house" because I found not just one but two pairs of my TOMS in the garage, not neatly placed on the steps (which still, WTF?) but tossed. Angrily.

To which I sort of lost it a little, not because I actually care that my shoes, my nice moderately expensive shoes, are on the ground of our garage, after probably being smacked against the car wheels.

But because not only were they not in his way whatsoever but because he leaves his shoes out all the time.  And his suitcase. And his backpack. And his dirty laundry. And...

You get the idea.

And I step over them. Or look at them and sigh. Or move them. Or just put them away. All without being one ounce of an asshole about it.

So I made note of such, in a not so pleasant manner, which was made worse by the fact that he completely denies it "WHAT IS THIS LAUNDRY YOU SPEAK OF?" and then left the house for an impromptu night out, at which point I returned home to find the laundry of which I spoke mysteriously in the hamper.

Good thing, because I was about to give my TOMS a little company in the garage.

This almost makes me want another baby. Almost.