Motherhood Uncensored

Post Partum Panty syndrome

Last week, I drove my husband's car to run some errands alone, a rare and much-appreciated occasion around my neck of the woods. So, when I went to pop the groceries in the back seat, I found these:

Now, it's not every day that you find gigantic, tattered, maternity underpants in your husband's back seat. Especially when they are not yours. 

So I just left them there, you know, the underwear that is not mine, because, well, ew, I was not going to pick them up. And because I was sure that my husband has a very good reason for having underwear that is not mine in the backseat.

And if he didn't, well I kind of felt bad for whoever is wearing those, or was wearing those.

If you want a girl who wears those big panties, then have it it, mister.

Though based on their current state, they must have had some rip-roaring fun.

Get it? Rip?

I didn't think much about it again until Shannon (aka Mr. Lady) tweeted this:

Which made me think of the panties I found in my husband's car, so I replied:

And then I decided to take a picture of them, and ask my husband about them, and well, let's just say that it was made clear that I have Post Partum Panty syndrome, as identified by the five well-documented stages:

1. Denial

2. Anger


3. Blame

4. Depression

5. Acceptance

Yep. They're mine people. All mine.

Though they say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. (And heading straight for Victoria's Secret where they should offer you a no-questions-asked trade in program).

My name is Kristen. And I used to wear gigantic maternity underpants.

Inconsolable

Getting the "The baby is inconsolable, what should I do?" text is never good. She'd been feverish all night and day, but when I got that message, I immediately called the doctor to schedule a sick visit (a 45-minute drive each way during holiday rush hour, no less) and headed straight home.

When I got there, I found a chipper little girl chasing her siblings outside.

I shouldn't be surprised since my husband is the king of the man cold, and has, in the past, called me with various situations that require my immediate attention that he is quite capable of handling.

An emergency is a child who will not wake up from a nap, not a child who doesn't want to take one.

But in this case it had a little less to do with the male characteristic exaggeration of illness symptoms and more about having a child who is always pleasant.

If you have one, then you know what I mean.

Our first baby was rarely chipper or pleasant, well unless she was attached to my boob or I was holding her.

And so we were sort of trained into being patient. Very patient.

We'd perform a veritable Cirque du Soleil act to get her to stop crying or fall asleep or just let me go poop alone without you sitting on my lap for the love of God.

Look, it's Daddy juggling 9 bowling pins on a unicycle! Now just give me three seconds to put a fucking bra on because I can't do that while holding you.

But Bridget is ridiculously pleasant. From when she wakes up in her crib babbling and smiling at you to when you put her back down in her crib babbling and smiling at you, she is always babbling and smiling.

And we just got used to it. So much so that when she's not, we're short. And snippy.

We lament the clingy baby who isn't really clingy compared to old Magneto Squid Face who was attached to my leg or nipple for a solid year.

And when she cries, for more than a minute, we think she's inconsolable.

Please. Quinlan cried for almost three hours straight one night during my feeble, guilt-inducing, DYFS-calling I NEED TO GET SOME MOTHER-EFFING SLEEP GODAMMIT CIO session one night.

The next time I tried to avoid my full-length Swan Lake ballet bedtime routine (spins, twists, dips, oh my!), she jumped out of her crib and broke her leg in two places.

So, with her, we would have celebrated one minute of crying. 

I just had to text you, honey, and let you know that the baby only cried FOR ONE MINUTE STRAIGHT! We're getting out the fancy vodka tonight!

But when you have a sweet baby, that one minute is like hell. An awful, pain-inducing hell that feels like three hours.

Thankfully she just had a cold, which I had the pleasure of paying money to hear personally from my doctor.

Next time, I'll be sure to get a little more information before freaking out. Because one kid's "inconsolable" is another kid's really good day.

The Elf on the Shelf. That asshole.

When I was a kid, just the threat of Santa's impending arrival was enough to scare us into good behavior and cleanliness.

One year when I was being particularly difficult, my parents swiped my stocking and returned it to the fireplace with a note from Santa with specific requests: Clean your room, make your bed, and practice your freaking violin without complaining.

Or else.

On Christmas Eve they'd jingle bells. Clop around like reindeer.

Yes, they were overachievers.

But that was 1986. 

Now there are hand-signed letters and voice mail messages from Santa. You can track Santa with an app on your mobile device.

And there are elves. Weird footless elves.

I bought into the Elf of the Shelf a couple of years ago, like many parents, out of desperation.

THIS WILL MAKE THEM BEHAVE, I thought. 

I basked in my brilliance.

Then I realized that I had to remember to move the damn elf. 

What, he likes to sit in the Christmas tree! It's warm by those eco-friendly LED lights.

And find places to put him.

Yes, he's back on the bookshelf again but look, he's sitting on a book this time!

Your stocking was just so cozy he couldn't help himself.

One time I hung him from the television brackets and felt pretty darn proud. I took a picture.

But apparently that's nothing. Every day my Facebook and Instagram feed scoff at me. 

Pshaw to your elf pinned on the bulletin board, Kristen!

{C'mon that's a good one!}

Apparently I'm surrounded by Elf on the Shelf overachievers.

Yesterday a neighbor dad updated that their Elf had stolen their kids iPod, downloaded the "Elf" movie, and was caught watching it.

Well, I know who's getting my kids if my husband and I get hit by a truck.

It must be that I got shafted on Elves and somehow picked the Fundy Christian Anorexic Elf who doesn't drink booze or eat anything.

And he certainly doesn't do any sort of fancy tricks that might be considered ungodly. None of that Cirque du Soleil hanging upside down from the bannister.

And most of all, he doesn't seem to be getting my children to behave very well. I mean, you shouldn't really have to yell "The Elf is going to report back, right ELFY, and you're going to be in big trouble now!" should you?

In fact, the only thing our damn elf does is teach my kids math. Just ask Margot:

"Mommy, our Elf on the Shelf does a patterin. Move, no move, no move, no move, Move..."

 

If formula equals failure, who's grading?

I'm not quite sure how I ended up with a formula feeding = failure stance though I suppose it was good for something.

I owe my rapid 80lb post partum weight loss after my first kid to it. It also made me tired and reallllly sick of cranberries.

After each respective kid, I realized that after a few months, hopefully six if I could make it, the whole formula versus breastfeeding debacle didn't really matter that much. My kids would sooner be reporting about how much I cried or yelled at therapy than what I fed them in a bottle.

And the sleep, the ability to escape from my house without a baby for longer than a few hours, might actually make me a better mom.

Yes, I breastfed them exclusively for six months (and then continued through over a year), but not without a heavy price.

Sure, my kids will "supposedly" be smarter, healthier, thinner. But where is the research that says it's better for moms to nearly kill themselves to breastfeed their kids exclusively for a certain period of time than it is for their kids to get formula?

I stopped exclusively breastfeeding Bridget at around four or five months, at which point she got baby food, and then formula on occasion when I traveled.

And then right before I weaned, she was getting more formula bottles than breastmilk.

I loved being able to leave the house and not have to worry about saving milk. I really loved being able to roll over when she cried in the middle of the night and let my husband get up and give her a bottle.

And I wondered why the heck I hadn't done this sooner.

I know, I know. I'm not supposed to say this because we moms are supposed to suffer it out. I mean, that's what life is like with a baby -- sleepless nights, inconvenience, a change in lifestyle. And so what if our babies might not be gaining weight or our nipples hurt like shit or we haven't slept in days because the baby is attached to our boob all night long?

If we somehow say that breastfeeding is not easy or inconvenient, then we're not breastfeeding advocates and we'll turn mothers to the "dark side."

But I like to think that women aren't that stupid or impressionable. And if perhaps, we take the pressure off and make expectations a little more realistic that moms it might be better than this "all or nothing" attitude that a lot of uber boobers have.

I want all women to try to breastfeed. I wish they could do it exclusively for three months or six months. And then continue on past a year.

It bums me out when moms won't even given it a try.

But let's stop bashing women who can't. Let's celebrate that they breastfed for three months or six months, whether they did it exclusively or supplemented with formula.

And then let's figure out a way to help them if they need it. And give them support if they decide not to.

Just because you're willing to give up your independence, your sleep, your breasts for however long, doesn't mean you somehow love your kids more.

What I did to breastfeed my oldest daughter was stupid. I used to be proud of it, like I was somehow a hero for eating four foods every day for months at a time.

But now I wish I knew that there was no such thing as failure. And that there were two people to factor into my choices: My baby. And me.

 

Air Swimmers - From the people who hate parents

Last week while my kids were watching Pokemon (yes, the kids are still watching tv like it's 1999), I saw a commercial for Air Swimmers, which, if you're not familiar, are gihugic clownfish or shark balloons that fly through your house thanks to a remote control and helium, which you must buy.

Unless you in the business of clowning (not to be confused with clownfishing). Then I suppose you already have a helium stash.

Of course, I see these and envision nightmares and shit being knocked down and "Will someone please get the Shark out of the ceiling fan!" which is awesome because it's not like I already say enough ridiculous things why not make mommy sound more insane with a flying shark in the house.

A shark blimp.

A motor powered shark balloon.

Now some of you tell me that the kids love it, which yes, I'm not surprised at this. But children also enjoy sitting in their own crap and eating boogers.

Since when did we let "kids loving things" determine what we purchase?

So I do not think they are a good judge of why I should pay $40 to have a insanely huge clownfish knock my carefully placed knick knacks off my mantle.

Now I'm not actually angry at the Air Swimmers, but rather, all things that have clearly been made to piss parents off. And really, why are these people trying to mess with us? We get no sleep. We find crushed goldfish between our toes. We repeat ourselves 400 times a day.

We're two stamps short of a postal worker.

Just add Air Swimmers to the long list of annoying crap invented by the people who hate parents:

{It's just like real snow, except it never melts. Ever. Even after one million years!}

{It'll play music and double as a security system!}

{He whines in English and French!}

{Toys that they'll tired of before anyone can get them out of the packaging!}

{Sand! In the House!}

What's next? A baby doll that talks, cries, and shits herself? Oh wait, they already make that too.