I’VE GOT A CASE OF EMETOPHOBIA: Look it up, if you don’t know

I love my kids tremendously, but I the one thing I absolutely despise, is kid vomit! Really, I despise vomit no matter who it’s spewing out of. I’m not talking about that sticky, egg-shell colored, almost sweet-smelling spit-up that dribbles from a newborn or infant’s tiny orifice.  I’m talking about that dreadful, chunky, bile-smell of regurgitated table food. Now, I know moms and dads are designed to be mentally tough, especially when confronted with unexpected situations and I consider myself to be pretty hardcore at times, but when it comes to vomit, I get weak in the knees! I’m not the only parent that has a weakness or two when it comes to our children. Not my husband, nothing makes that iron man flinch. Some parents may freak out when they see their child bleeding from a cut or scrape or break down emotionally when their child is teased or made fun of for being different. Plain and simple; I cannot handle vomit! Just the thought of it makes me squeamish.

During the day, my boys are cared for by a sitter, recommended to my husband and myself. The event in question was about a month ago, on an average day during the work week, nothing out of the ordinary. Once I had collected the boys and their belongings, we proceeded to drive the 7 minutes to our house. As I do every day, I asked my oldest son if he had a good day. He seemed fine, playful as usual, babbling a mile a minute and pointing to objects out the window. As we got closer to home, my son began to throw a crying fit in his seat. Desperately, hoping he wouldn’t wake his younger brother, I tried to console him and attempted at best to uncover his sudden irritability. Well, having to sit at several stoplights with an ear-splitting scream reverberating throughout the large vehicle, quickly became quite aggravating. I wanted to get home quick, fast and in a hurry, so I put a little petal to the metal and as safe as I could, managed to arrive home in one piece, but with throbbing temples.

I had managed to get my youngest out of the car, car seat and all, and get him into the house, quite surprised he was still knocked the hell out. I ran back out to the driveway to calm down Mr. Tantrum. I told him in my soothing mommy voice, “Stop crying okay? We’re finally home”. As though my words had an immediate impact on him, the crying died down. Quite impressed with my mommy skills, I began to unbuckle the seat straps to free his little body. That’s when he started to cough and proceeded to upchuck the boogie right then and there, covering his cool little Baby Gap leather jacket (given to us by his Auntie and cousin), his corduroy overalls, leaving a trace of the foul mess on his knock-off Vans. “Uuuugghhhh!!!” I yelled out in a panic. This only made the poor kid shed even more tears and he reached his arms out towards me to express his need for his mommy at that very moment, because he was still too young to grasp what the hell had just happened.

“So this is why you were crying because your tummy was hurting? I am so sorry”, I said sympathetically but with slight uncertainty. Just looking at the poor boy’s stained clothes and puddle of partially digested… Oh my…Was that hamburger meat I just saw? Ewwwww! The sight of the vomit made me cringe to the point of undergoing “bitter beer face” contortions.

I mustered what little courage I had, and removed him from the seat, completely aware, so as not to get the remnants on me. At one point, I encouraged him to walk in the house by himself with me following close behind. That didn’t work, he wanted desperately to be held, but my fear stood in the way. Horrible, I know. I’m pretty sure I looked like the biggest Miss Priss, as I slowly peeled his clothes off, one article at a time with just the index finger and thumbs of both hands; my face winced, stomach churned. At that moment, I wished I had some latex gloves; it would have made the clean up process considerably easier for me. As soon as he was stripped of his clothes, his mood improved. After he was dressed in a change of clothes, Mommy thought about her plan of attack for the pile of reeking clothes and the vomit-ridden car seat. The first thought that came to my head, which seemed the most rational at the time, was to simply throw the clothes away! But I soon realized, that was the easy way out and my mom would be highly disappointed in me for not being a tough-as-nails-mom. Once again, I pushed my fear aside and rinsed the clothes in the laundry room sink, all while continuing to use index fingers and thumbs like a little pansy! Once rinsed and thrown into the washer, the next duty was to tackle the car seat, and the mere thought caused chill bumps to protrude on my forearms.

Once downstairs, you better believed I looked underneath the kitchen sink for the oversized, heavy-duty, yellow dishwashing gloves to ease my nerves, but found not a one. I had to get a move on it since we would be heading out of town in a few short hours! So, I tried psyching myself up, “Man up, woman and get this over with! You gotta stop stalling, heifer!” That’s when I took control of the situation and grabbed the seat and began scooping the remains and washing them down the sink, all while holding my breath. Well, I didn’t really scoop the remains like I had wanted to. Instead, I used a paper towel and swatted the crap out of the chunky residue, trying my best to get the stuff down the drain and out of my weak little face. I even called my mom and whined to her that I couldn’t do the assigned task, that it was just too gross. With little patience, she replied, “Don’t be a fool! Stop being scary and clean the boy’s seat already. Come on now, you’re capable of handling a little throw up. This is what moms do”. She was absolutely right.

After wasting ¾ of a Costco paper towel roll on the seat belt straps, nooks and crannies, I took the cover off of the shell and threw it in with the soaking clothes in the washer. I opened up all the windows in the SUV in order for it to air out completely and even sprayed a dose or two of Febreeze throughout the vehicle.

While waiting for the seat cover to wash and dry, I gave both boys a bath and put them in some pj’s. I finished packing and loaded up the car, carefully packing things strategically like a bagger at a grocery store. When the car cover was dry and smelling like the fresh linen scent of the detergent, I put the seat back together so it looked brand-spanking-new. I actually had to stand back and look at it and nod my head in approval. Not because it came out so clean, but because I was somewhat proud of myself for not allowing the vomit to defeat me. Once the initial shock of the incident was over, I realized that the aftermath wasn’t all that bad, I just make mountains out of mole hills. When I put my mind to it, I can take on anything, even a fanatical fear like kid up-chuck.

A few hours later, once my husband arrived home, we got on the road for a little getaway. I was feeling pretty good because the vehicle was nice and clean, the kids were in their jammies asleep and my difficult task was long over. As I let out a sigh of relief, my little boy woke up and shouted, “Mommy, tummy!” Oh frick! Vomit – 2, Mommy – 0; Game over.

I AM NOT TOOTING MY OWN HORN!

It was a rainy, early work day morning, and I woke up feeling groggy with a slight headache, slightly similar to that unmistakable feeling of waking up the morning after getting your ass creamed by one too many Vodka-soaked, Jell-O shots,  resulting in a mean cookie tossing episode! I may be exaggerating, but I’m telling you, I felt pretty crappy from lack of sleep due to, not one, but two sick kids (another story for another time). 

After completing my morning rituals of teeth brushing, bathing, and finding something suitable to wear, I prepared to head out the door and make the long 40 minute drive to work -but not before taking what was supposed to be a quick hit of my so-called drug: Cafe World. I like to be out of the house by 6:40 am in order to arrive a little early before starting at 7:30 am. But of course, this ridiculous, life-sucking  “hobby”,  succeeded in warping my fragile, little mind to forget and lose all track of the time. As I looked at the clock, I muttered under my breath, “Damn it all to hell!” because according to my standards, I was going to be late.

So, I snatched up my bag, netbook and whatever else was in arms reach of me and got the hell of out dodge. It’s a good thing my husband and I have made arrangements for him to drop the kids off at the sitter in the morning, while I pick them up in the evening. Remember, he’s like a hard, over-worked Jamaican with three jobs!

Once I pulled out of the garage, I noticed it was sprinkling a bit, so I turned my wipers on low intervals. Now at this point, I must have been hearing things (better get my hearing checked since old age is upon me in just 2 short months; the dreaded 30!), because I could have swore I heard my horn honk faintly. Why is it that when you’re in a hurry, something always prevents you from getting where you need to be? Un-freakin'-believable! I was  riding on fumes and there was no possible way, I would make it twenty-some-odd miles to work! So, I hit up the nearest gas station and got to pumping.

I kept thinking to myself that something was rather off because my damn horn would honk out of nowhere! It wasn’t too loud, but it was loud enough to annoy the crap out of me! I’m no auto mechanic, but I did my best to try and attempt to solve the problem. I turned off the car alarm, stopped and restarted the engine, I even looked under the hood but to no avail. There was nothing for me to do at that point, so I braved the rain, which I love dearly, and hit the freeway. I drove at a moderate tempo to keep up with the flow of traffic, but panic set in and it quickly became an accelerated speed, dodging in and out of traffic, trying my best to avoid the quizzical stares of passerby's. But the faster I seemed to drive, the louder and more frequent the horn sounded! I’m sure you can imagine my embarrassment. Yes, I admit to having a bout of road rage here and there, so I am definitely not a driver that shies away from the horn when an idiotic, douche bag behind the wheel makes a boneheaded move. But in this particular case, I was mortified that my horn was going off at a moments notice and almost at a rhythmic pace, as though it were trying to keep the beat to that classic 80’s,  hip-hop anthem, Rapper’s Delight. Instead of bobbing my head to beat, I sunk so low in my seat (you may as well have called me Titanic) and threw the hood to my jacket up over my head so hard I’m sure I resembled the Grim Reaper.

After about 30 minutes into my commute, I exited the freeway and as luck would have it, I hit every damn red light imaginable! As if sensing my frustration, the horn beeped again for the hundredth effing time, “Beep….Beep, Beep”. As a swarm of vehicles surrounded me, I sunk down even further in my seat, praying the person in front of me wouldn’t look in his rear view mirror and get so aggravated, that the only way to relieve his irritation would be to pull the gun from his glove compartment and pump my horn-honking-ass full of hot lead.  Sitting there waiting for the light to turn green, felt like an eternity. Seriously, was this light going to change sometime this freaking century? I mean, damn, I may have sprouted a gray hair or roots waiting for that damn light to turn green. When it finally did, I damn near ran the gun-toting fool in front of me, right over.

The kicker of this little humiliating trip to work? I had to drive past three bus stops full of junior high kids! We all know what these junior high kids are like these days. I could just imagine what the hell was going through their minds at 7:20 in the morning, waiting for the bus and having some crazed lunatic drive by honking their horn every two seconds. I’m surprised the little rebels didn’t throw shit at my car! I didn’t even make eye contact or look in the direction of the little hellions. My main focus was to escape and make it out of bus stop row in tact.

Once I made it to the rear entrance of my job, I started to feel my body gradually release 40 minutes of built up tension. But then I remembered that the speed limit is 15 mph on the plant and my horn would be heard for miles at the 160 acre facility.

My horn blasted  repeatedly, which took me further to the edge, so I hit the steering wheel with my tight fist and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Shut the f--- up, you piece of shit!” I know, I know, I’m so vulgar and pretty and stupid of me to yell at an inanimate object, but at that point in time, I didn’t give a shit. It was one thing to be embarrassed in front of total strangers, it’s another to feel this same humiliation in front of co-workers who I see five days a week!

As soon as I pulled into my parking stall, I damn near shut the car off before I could place the gear into park. The rain had let up, so I really had no need to run into the building, but I did anyway, hoping none of my co-workers had reported me for being a public nuisance. Once inside, I told Alice, the Plant Secretary, about my adventurous morning. She, of course, died laughing, but with concern advised me to talk to one of the maintenance guys to see if they would be able to disable the horn. Since there are plenty of maintenance guys, I grabbed the first one I saw and repeated my unusual story to him and asked if he would be able to look at my car and work some black magic. “Sure, no problem, let’s go take a look at it”, insisted Roy.

He started the car, noticed the windshield wipers cycled and heard the horn honk once. It took him less than a minute, no joke, to  figure out, what was to me, a complex issue.

“Yeah, it’s your windshield wipers that are causing your horn to honk like that. It seems as though your wipers have been re-programmed with your horn”, he informed me.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Wait, wait, wait”, I stammered dumbfounded. “That can’t be! How is that possible? Turn the wipers off and see what happens.”

Sure enough Roy’s claim was proved to be correct. With the wipers disabled, the horn did not blare.  This was weird. I’ve used my wipers before and this crap didn’t happen. That’s when it hit me. My oldest son had been playing in the driver’s seat of the car the previous evening, pretending he was driving - pushing buttons, starting and shutting off the engine – he was having a hell of a good time. Looking back, and remembering what Roy had said about the horn being re-programmed with the wipers, it only made sense that my sweet-angel-of-a-child, did God only knows, to cause me to have to drive in the rain for 40 minutes with a blaring horn, all because my damn wipers were on!!! I must be a damn fool, for not being able to put two and two together.

I called my husband at work to tell him about my morning ordeal and I think he was a little irritated with me for having a co-worker disconnect the horn. “There is no way in hell I can drive home in the rain with a horn that honks to the slightest movement of my wipers! I know how to reconnect the horn”, I told him impatiently.

“All I’m saying, is that cars were made with horns for a reason. Not for road rage, dummy; for safety”, he replied matter-of-factly.

What he said, went in one ear and out the other as I rolled my eyes, thinking to myself, “Whatever”, as though I were some annoyed teenager eager for the parent lecture to be over.

The drive home that evening was quite peaceful and a whole hell of a lot less stressful, without having  to duck and cover from the possible gun-toting-road-rage-fueled-drivers who may have been exceedingly aggravated, assuming that my ear-deafening-horn-honking-sequence was aimed at them directly.

No longer on the freeway, I had stopped at a red light in the right lane, about to make a left turn, when I glanced to my left to see a woman talking on her cell phone. Not a big deal, since we don’t have a  hands-free law, here in Nevada. When the light turned green, from my peripheral vision, it appeared the woman was about to make a U-turn since her turn was pretty tight. Once I had completed my turn, I just happened to look to my left and noticed this woman had turned into oncoming traffic! I had glanced quickly and caught sight of a school bus and began to freak out. To get this woman’s attention, I rammed the heel of my palm as hard as I could into the center of the steering wheel so the horn would snap her out of, whatever the hell this heifer was high on.   That’s when I remembered, “Oh shit! I don’t have a horn!'” I rolled my window down in a hurry and waved my arm frantically at her yelling, “Heeeeeyyyy! You’re going the wrong way!” Of course this bimbo wasn’t going to hear me, she was still on her freaking cell phone. I guess the oncoming school bus finally tipped her dumb ass off because I saw her brake lights light up the street behind her. Damn, I probably should have listened to my brainiac of a husband and reassembled the damn horn because every car has a horn for a reason. Better yet, from this point forward, I won’t ever let my almost 2 year old son, amuse the crap out of himself in the driver’s seat of my car to perform technical mishaps under my nose at my expense! From now on, I will take the bull by the horn (no pun intended)!!

*I DON’T EAT BABIES! Sleep Deprivation Part II

When will it stop? When will I be able to have a solid night of rest? This past weekend, my girlfriend gives me the answer to this lingering question of mine. Her answer was, “You have 18 years to go before you get any good sleep, my dear.”

Are you frickin’ kidding me?! 18 years, really? I don’t know if I can hang that long. I’m already losing my mind. My poor husband thinks I’m going to pull an Andrea Yates and drown our kids! So, I had another rough weekend. It doesn’t mean that I’m an unfit psychotic parent, or a post-partum monster, unworthy of caring for two little boys under the age of two.

My youngest is 4 months old today, but looks as though he’s 6 months. What can I say? We breed big babies! His teeth are finally in, so I thought maybe he would sleep through the night. Fat chance! This kid wakes up in an utter panic, crying like …uh, well, a baby. Does he stop crying once he’s been changed? No. He shouldn’t be hungry because mommy just made  a wicked concoction of formula, with a sh*t load of rice cereal. His nightly beverage was milkshake thick. So thick, I thought it would put him in a postprandial somnolence, (another term for a food coma; that drowsiness state following a meal). I tried giving him another bottle, but he didn’t want that. Impatiently, I looked him in his little sad, soaking wet eyeballs and asked him firmly, “What’s the problem? What do you want?” hoping to get some sort of telepathic response, even if he is only 4 months old.

He just wailed even harder at my lame-brained effort to read his little mind. So I went through the checklist: He’s not wet, he’s not  hungry. Maybe his bowels are in a knot since he hasn’t pooped all weekend. But wait, a minute. This little boy is spoiled and I was pretty sure I knew what he wanted at that moment. Boobs!!! So I sat in the infamous glider, that hallucinogenic rocking chair and put him on the boob. His crying stopped instantly. He was in paradise, in heaven if you will. Unbelievable! I just rolled my eyes. The breast fascination with men begins at an early age, I see.

Many times, my husband has had to come and rescue me from the midnight feedings. At the time, I think he’s rescuing me, but I’m sure he’s really rescuing my son from his delirious, annoyed mother. One night I was downstairs with our baby boy as he was yelling at the top of his lungs, totally dissatisfied. Nothing, made this little boy happy. Not the swing that usually rocks him to sleep, not a pacifier, bottle, boob, or dry diaper. I was in an absolute trance, staring in the darkness, looking like a institutionalized mental patient in the funny farm with this crying baby on my lap. I must have looked like the biggest crazed freak, especially to my husband when he realized the crying was getting increasingly louder. I’m sure he heard me yell, “Go to sleep already! I can’t take this anymore!” My patience was skating on thin ice. Come to think of it, my patience had long cracked the ice and sunk to the bottom, hard.

Out of nowhere, and in complete darkness, my husband traipsed down the stairs very carefully, rather unsure of what lurked at the bottom. As he neared the landing, he found his white-eyed-vampire-looking, wife with wailing baby in hands. He didn’t make any sudden moves, but rather looked at me hesitantly, for fear that I might pounce on him and puncture his neck with my ivory fangs, hoping to re-energize myself by sucking his sweet crimson blood.

Understanding how his wife functions on very little sleep, he  ordered firmly, “Go upstairs, right now and get some rest.”

But he was really thinking, “This crazy trick is off her damn rocker, he’s only four months old! What the hell does she expect him to do?!”

I followed his orders, which is rare because according to this man, I don’t  listen to him often enough, but I was at a point where I was on the brink of absolute insanity. Besides, I knew staying up in zombie mode would not benefit me or little man one lick, and he’s in pretty good hands with my-oh-so-patient-husband.

I guess as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out and out for quite a bit. I just remember waking up and feeling as though I had slept for an eternity. My husband, also awake and in jovial spirits, decided that now we could laugh about the incident in question since it was technically behind us, even if the event just took place a few hours ago. He decided to make light of the situation and said laughing, “Man, you sure were crazy last night. I didn’t know what to expect when I heard you yelling. I thought you were going to put him in the oven and roast his little ass and eat him!'”

I couldn’t help but to laugh at what just came out of his mouth! Not only because he cracks my sh*t up, but because I could actually look back and see how the situation looked from his perspective. I wouldn’t go so far to say that I would have roasted the kid! I told him that I couldn’t do something so grotesque to my own flesh and blood, even if babies taste like chicken!

But seriously, as parents, most of us have to endure sleepless nights for several months until the child gets the swing of things. It’s not easy, but I have realized that my boys mean the world to me and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for them, even if it means giving up a few hours of sleep here and there. I know I may have my moments and complain, but it’s all in good fun. I love my little boy, even if he doesn’t get seven hours of continuous sleep. I know there will come a time, when he’s Mr. Grown Bones and I will wish he was that little teething, 4 month old crying in the middle of the night for his mommy.

* I had found this unfinished story in my saved drafts and realized it needed to be finished because it was a tale that needed to be told. Looking back at the incident, I’m glad I did!

THIS LITTLE JUNKIE WENT TO REHAB, THIS LITTLE JUNKIE SAID NO!

 

I am a bonafide, self-prescribed addict. I might as well have a belt or nearest shoe lace I can find, tied tightly around my bicep, just above my elbow, producing a raised and enlarged road map of throbbing green veins, that are more than ready to invite the sharp jab of a cold and filthy heroine needle. Okay, so I don’t use drugs nor have a tried to shoot anything in my tiny veins, unless you count the time I honestly considered pumping my veins intravenously with Dreyer’s Limited Edition-Slow Churned-Mud Pie ice cream.   Mmmmmmm… (drool). I’m no drug addict, but I almost know how such an addict feels!

My addiction or obsession, some may say, is absolutely and without a doubt ridiculous. But don’t be quick to judge me until you’ve been in my size 9’s. I bet sometime in your earthly existence that you have also had an obscure or radical obsession. You may think I’m talking about food since I’ve mentioned by weight issue, and it more or less deals with food, but I’m not the one consuming. I am ashamed to say this, but I am addicted to Cafe World hosted on Face Book! 

It all began, when I started a Face Book account at the impatient requests and snide remarks of my friends. I was still involved with My Space like the rest of my friends, which is more known for appealing to the much younger crowd as of late. I was getting tired of the overall dealings of the My Space site and eventually weaned away from it and all the incessant friend requests from utter strangers. I wasn’t about to get myself caught up in a similar site just to find long lost peers one week, only to never hear from them again the next. Well, my husband and I, together, joined the Face Book world and reconnected with long distant friends we had communicated with using My Space.

After I familiarized myself with the ins and outs of this new site, I began getting quite comfortable and actually liked it a whole hell of a lot better than that whack-ass-teeny-bopper-spam-filled My Space crap. Browsing through my “wall”, I came across a brightly colored Cafe World notification from a friend, mentioning they had learned to cook French food and she needed friends to try some of her newly crafted French onion soup. Hmmm…. this perked my food-loving interest, so you know I had to see what this was really all about! No sooner had a designed my cafe the first day, had I been hooked and trapped in this endless charade.

This crap had me so damn involved to the point that I would get up in the middle of the night, between nightly feedings and grab my husband’s laptop, hide in our closet and make sure my cafe was running smoothly. That meant making sure my food hadn’t spoiled, serving a variety of dishes to hungry and waiting customers and preparing more mouth-watering meals from the available choices in the virtual cookbook. Sounds a little overboard, I know, but this horrid little “game” slowly started to take over my already hectic life!

Now some addicts, whether it’s alcohol, drugs, porn, or food, may like to suck other people into their compulsive hell so they don’t feel alone in their self-destructing habits. It’s almost a buddy system, if you will. That old saying is definitely true; Misery loves company! So you know I recruited my husband to join me in this new found addiction. It was almost as if I was the drug dealer and he, some loner, junior high kid looking for an edge over his peers. My conniving, smooth-talking “dealer” ass sucked this fool right in – hook, line and sinker! His immediate thought was that he could prove to me that he could run a cafe successfully and much better than me, his little old wife. Oh hell no! Who did this fool think he was?! I am extremely competitive by nature, but even more so when it comes to this man and I will stop at nothing to beat him at whatever sport, board game or contest we participate in together. So by him challenging me, it only pushed me further and deeper into a chronic abyss, making it that much harder for me to ever return to the “sober” world.

This thing I have with Cafe World is a got-dang compulsion and a sick one at that. At work, I would periodically desert  my desk in a *clandestine manner, with my net book in its perfectly concealed black carrying case gripped tight by my cold, lifeless grip and escape to my secret hideout in order to dull my equally satisfying and unrelenting craving. Sounds like some poor, itchy crack-head, fien’ing frantically for a much needed hit of a delicious, taupe colored, juicy-nugget-shaped crack rock, doesn’t it? Picture me in some cold and dimly lit stairwell, trying to find a decent wi-fi connection, scrambling to find, in a brief amount of time, Face  Book’s, Cafe World. Once I prepared the necessary cuisine and served it to my waiting customers, my longing, itchy craving was put to rest and I was well enough to return to work, or at least until that freakin’ craving resurfaced. 

My husband was, and still is a lot smarter than me when it came down to this sad situation. He realized that Cafe World became too much for him, that it became too high maintenance and definitely too damn time consuming. He no longer liked the fact that he got up at two, three and four in the morning just to take food off the stove and prepare more meals  for the day. He also felt that if he were going to put a considerable amount of time into this “game” that he should at least get paid for it! My husband is smart because he understands that he joined Face Book to reconnect with out of touch friends and that Cafe World has no end and it will continue as long as you invest the time. Am I am idiot for not seeing this? This Cafe World crap is not a game! A game has an end and a winner is declared, even in that long-ass, seemingly never ending game known as Monopoly! Games are not classified as having an infinite amount of levels! But this sh*t? This is more of a psychotic hobby, which is a bit of an understatement. Calling it an obsession is simply too nice for words. I have become obsessive and compulsive with finding more neighbors, expanding my walls to make my cafe larger, holding more patrons, making more money,  getting to the next level to unlock another menu item, counter or stove, and leveling up quicker than my fellow Cafe World junkies.

I’ve mellowed out a bit. I used to ask my husband to check my cafe, which I have named “T-Licious”, while he was at work because I was no longer able to find that wi-fi connection that had worked so well before. I would call him in the middle of the day and tell him before he left for work, “If you get the chance, can you please check my cafe at 11:52 am. My Spitfire Roasted Chicken will be ready by then.” It finally got to the point, where my husband looked at me with this slightly annoyed pity in his eyes, shaking his head as if to say, “Hey dummy, when are you going to learn? Just give it up and get out while you still can! This isn’t what you signed up for, remember?” Almost everyday, he asks me what my goal is and what I’m trying to accomplish with this so-called “game”. I think it’s just my extremely competitive nature and the strong desire to continue because apparently, I’m not too tired of it, just yet. As my dad always told me growing up, “Never give up!”, although I’m sure my dad wouldn’t apply this motto to this particular situation!

So why do drug, alcohol, food, sex, and Cafe World addicts continue their respective over-indulgent patterns? It’s a vicious cycle: the need to feel good and comforted during the perfect or attainable high, only to hit the bottom and have that strong urge creep back to the surface and suck our weak minds back into the compulsive hell.

My advice to you, is to stay away from Cafe World or anything like it!! Don’t even try it, whether you think you can handle it or not, for fear you will be sucked into the meal prepping nightmare! You will dream about it, think about it 24/7, you’ll be calling your available spouse to go online for you to check your cafe, you’ll devote all of your free time and your not-so-free time to this horrid obsession! I should really follow my own advice, by checking into the same “rehab” my husband checked into and re-establish my Face Book priorities, but… Nah!  It’s always easier said, than done.

*Thanks Dad, for introducing me to that $10 word!

THOSE AIN’T NO LOVE HANDLES! THAT’S FAT… %$#@ING FAT!

Whoever told me that its harder to lose weight after giving birth to your second than it was with the first, was absolutely right! I didn’t realized this fact until now, 4 months later, as I try to squeeze my, out-of-shape-no-longer-slim-college-athlete ass in my pre-pregnancy size 4 pants. I know I must look ridiculous as hell because that’s exactly how I feel, with that leftover, limp, fatty skin – that when extended to its complete max resembles the saggy, lifeless shape of pulled saltwater taffy. 

Getting up on a daily basis for work, and finding clothes that fit my unwelcomed thickness or at least appear to the human eye to suit me properly, is a flat out  challenge. I will stand in my closet, gawking disappointedly at the abundance of clothes that seemed to fit me a lifetime ago, hoping that maybe I will come across an undiscovered pair of roomy pants, buried among the hated smalls and the loathsome size fours. If I was afforded the option of sporting some comfortable sweats and tennis shoes, my mornings would be rather stress-free and I just might enjoy going to work a little more. But since this alternative is highly unprofessional in my line of work, I have to be creative by strategically piecing together an ensemble that will attempt to flatter my problem areas; thighs, ass, and spare tire – my insecurities, if you will.

You may think I’m exaggerating when I speak of my unpleasant weight, but it is truly no joke, especially the last 15lbs of it. I feel and look as though I’m three months pregnant again and I know  exactly what that feels like because I’ve been pregnant twice in two damn years! I’m surprised my co-workers haven’t eyeballed me suspiciously or have asked me if I’m pregnant, yet again, for the third time. But from some of their overheard comments and stares, they wouldn’t be too terribly surprised if this was true. I mean, damn, they either must think that my husband and I are nymphomaniacs and crave sex like a street junkie craves the crack pipe or that my main goal in life is to emulate Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar by relinquishing my overworked uterus every single year to house rapidly growing fetuses. At this point, I think I’d rather be pregnant. At least when you have a belly containing a life inside of it, it’s considered beautiful and strangers give compassionate glances, whereas a plain old droopy belly gets the, “Is she pregnant?” look or the “Man, her inner tube tummy could sure keep her and three other people afloat in the Pacific!”

I try hard with the clothes I have. I hate to admit it, but there have been times that I’ve had to go to work with my pants unbuttoned because my fat prevented the clasps from coming together. Embarrassing right?! Well, my nightmare doesn’t end there. I had a belly band which I wore early in my pregnancy for this very reason; too small for maternity clothes and too big for my regular pants. The purpose of the Bella Band is to conceal your exposed underwear for the simple fact that you are no longer able to zip or button your pants because of your expanding belly caused by the pregnancy.  Throw a shirt over it and it looks like you’re wearing a camisole under your shirt. It’s a novel idea, let me tell you, especially now and I’m not even pregnant! It sure as hell beats wearing maternity clothes. Besides, there was no way I was keeping maternity clothing leftover for fear that it would jinx me into having another baby! Crazy, right?!

I carefully coordinate my outfits with several layers, larger tops and my favorite, the Old Navy Cardi Coat. No form fitting shirts or sweaters on this chick! I am bundled up so much, I had a co-worker of mine tell me, “What, are you, cold? You look like a 90 year old woman with that sweater on!” I don’t give a damn! When I sit in my chair at my desk, I feel that flabby skin slowly spill over my pants, similar to molasses oozing out of a mason jar.  When the fat has settled, I look down and shake my head in disappointment. I poke at it thinking it may come to life or that I will giggle uncontrollably like the Pillsbury Doughboy, but neither occurs. I hate sitting for this reason alone! I have Dunlap disease, a frickin’ muffin top for crying out loud!

A good buddy at work expressed to me, “What are you talking about? You don’t need to lose weight!” I’m thinking to myself, “Fool, you haven’t seen me naked!” Clothes kind of keep certain areas in tact, but once the clothes come off, the fat falls freely and aimlessly. My husband constantly tells me I’m hot and that he finds me sexy. I tell him he needs to get his eyes checked. I’m sure I could gain 100 lbs and he would still find me sexy. Simple creature.

I want to lose this weight desperately and try to look like I did in college, but I’m too lazy to go to the gym and I don’t have the will power to say no to a bucket full of Dreyer’s Limited Edition Mud Pie ice cream. I’ve even considered taking the Acai Berry Cleanse that recent advertisements claim is endorsed by every celebrity imaginable. Apparently, it’s supposed to flatten your tummy by cleaning the “crap” out of your colon. I hear you won’t leave the toilet the first day on the stuff and I’m not down to be wearing no got-dang diaper if my bowels will be looser than  the lips on the nosey neighborhood gossip or looser than a two-bit hooker in a cheap, diseased-tainted brothel.

First, I will try and lose the weight the good old fashion way, by working out and eating better - no more fresh baked cookies, easy mix peach cobbler or ice cream (the tears are welling up). I have enlisted the help of my husband and we have set a pretty achievable goal of losing 8 lbs each by Thanksgiving. I must rid my frame of this wretched muffin top! Between you and me, my sails deflate every time when I see my good-looking girlfriends – with kids and without – with their perfect-figure-bikini-wearing-Venice Beach-worthy bodies. Has my life succumbed to being a young mom with a leftover, saggy gut from two c-sections, trying desperately to get back to her original weight, unable to ever wear her “skinny” jeans again?

As much as my new body sucks to be in and look at, I remember that my tummy is a badge of honor and my body will continue to change. I was able to birth two handsome boys and not every woman is fortunate enough to experience motherhood and all of its splendors. So, if you ever see me in bikini or see my cinnamon roll spilling over my pants, don’t throw that repulsed sneer my way. Give me a smile, show some compassion and know that I am as human as yourself and a proud mother with the body to prove it, love handles and all!

SLEEP DEPRIVED CHAMPION = GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS

  I am a sleep deprived, twenty-nine year old mom with a fussy 3 1/2 month old, teething little boy who wants to revert back to his newborn days, violently waking every one and half to two hours a night. Do you understand what I am trying to say here? I am one tired ass heifer!

I’m telling you, that this lack of sleep causes me to function improperly in the morning, afternoon and evening; time of day doesn’t matter. I am one who enjoys sleep to the nth degree and have the ability to sleep anywhere. Whether it’s in a stiff, cheap, non-ergonomic chair at work, on a cold concrete slab or curled up in the cramped backseat of a 2-door during  lunch hour. I love a good nap so much, that I refuse to answer the phone when it rings for fear of being disturbed out of my glorious and much needed slumber. Don’t believe it? Ask my mom, she knows I won’t even answer her calls during a nap.

What sucks about being awakened every two hours, is the fact that everyone else in the house is in a cozy, comatose-like nirvana, while mommy has to schlep down the dark, eerie -ass hall, staggering  and stumbling into walls in a drunken stupor like an alcoholic trying to recover from an all night whiskey binge. When I reach my son’s room, which seems 300 feet away from our room, I proceed to lift him from the crib and transfer him to the changing table to remove a pee-soaked diaper, all while he is wailing, but obviously not loud enough to wake the other two members of the house from their sleep-induced comas.

   Once he has been changed, I sit in the semi-plush glider and “boob” him, as my husband and I like to call it. Now, because it’s three o’clock in the morning and my eyes are at half mast, my brain malfunctioning, I often see things that are not there. I hallucinate, if you will. The bathroom is across the hall and as I rock back and forth in this glider, I swear I see a monkey near the sink, laughing at my delirious ass. Looking to my right, I see a sizzling baked potato, drenched in butter and sour cream, just sitting there, on the side table waiting to be eaten. WTF?! I’m not high, so I know my body must be craving a solid night’s rest, so I shake my head like I was a wet dog trying to dry off and shut my already half mast eyelids in mid-yawn, just in the nick of time before seeing a group of corn on the cob doing the  conga. 

Finally, after a decent feeding, back to bed he goes, slipping into an instant gratifying slumber as he coos preciously. For a brief moment, I feel a tinge of jealousy. What I wouldn’t give to have someone urgently respond to my every beck and call. What I wouldn’t give for a pleasurable snooze, swaddled in a soft knitted blanket hand-made by Mimi.  Oh wait, I’m a grown-ass adult who has to make the long trek back to my room in the damn dark, hoping to find immediate sleep when my head hits the pillow.

Oh no! What the hell! Why the frick is my bladder doing this to me now? I just want to sleep and my got-dang bladder feels like a fat juicy, ripe pimple that will burst with the slightest touch. Do I get up and try to find my way to the toilet to empty my, filled to maximum capacity bladder in order to feel some sort of relief? Hmmm…Screw it!  I’d rather lay in bed and piss myself. Gotta sacrifice my bladder and clean sheets in order to find my way to dreamland.

I hear a melody, a sweet tune humming in my ear. Yes! I have arrived to that much awaited nirvana known as sleep. So this is what it’s like, huh? Wait a minute, why is that tune becoming irritatingly louder? Son of a banche! It’s my alarm. I should chuck the damn thing across the room; it’s only been an hour and half since I climbed into bed! The only thought running through my head is, “I love my son to death, but I can’t wait for the day when he grows out of this waking every two hours phase and sleeps through the night because my tired ass is going to pull my hair out from sleep deprivation”.

As I get ready for my long, mind-numbing day with the most stiff and starched, anal individuals you could imagine, my husband turns to me, looks at my worn out, heavily bagged eyes and asks me, “When’s the last time you got a good night of rest?”

I think about this question as hard as I possibly can, being in the state I’m in. I gaze at him and what appears to be his twin (I’m seeing double; another hallucination), and bluntly reply, “I would have to say, sometime in 2007”.

The best sleep I have gotten was pre-pregnancy, well before having 2 kids so close together in age.  Ever notice how some women look much older than their significant others, when they are in fact the same age? I’ve clued you in as to why that is. Years and years of an effin’ lack of sleep, man!

So, if you see me, please excuse me for my ashen face, disheveled hair and bags large enough to have to check in and pay for on a Southwest flight. So much for being the hot M.I.L.F I strive to be…

UHH, PLEASE TELL ME THAT’S A SUNKEN BABY RUTH…

Let me tell you about my oldest son and his foul little habit. Since this boy was a baby, he would occasionally and spontaneously poop in the tub. The first time his bowels moved in the baby tub, it was cute. Everything babies do is usually considered cute or precious; spitting up all over your brand new shirt, peeing in your face in mid-diaper change or yacking up on your nice clean comforter. These are just some of  the things newborns and infants do warranting a smile and click of the camera from the parent. Why? Because babies are so innocent and they have no idea what the hell they’re doing!

Now, as a baby, my son would poop in the water, but it seemed as though this would only take place when only I gave him the bath, never with daddy.  This lead me to believe that both he and my husband had some sort of male driven conspiracy against the matriarch of the family.

I honestly figured this whole crapping in the water thing was a brief phase, something he would grow out of fairly quickly. Clearly, I was wrong. This boy still dumps in the tub and has no shame doing it! 

Just last night, I put him in the tub and let him play as I usually do. He was happy as a pig in slop, splashing water on the floor, writing on the sides of the tub with bath markers and talking up a jibber-jabbering storm. But I knew something was up as soon as a pin-dropping, silence took over our master bathroom. I immediately honed in on my son who was crouched in a squatting position with a grimacing expression on his little 18 month old, toddler face. I knew right then what he was up to, yet again, for the third time that week!

At the time, I was speaking with my mom on the phone. I broke the conversation immediately, and rushed her off the phone and frantically yelled, “Noooooo, Boy-Boy! Not in the tub!” 

His little innocent face and big brown eyeballs, casually looked up at me at said, “Boo-boo?”

“Yes, boo-boo, boy. And don’t touch it! We have to hurry and wash you up and get these turds to the toilet”, I responded impatiently.

In 30 seconds or so, I scrambled to wash him up, (double time on his poop-crumbed booty), drained the tub and kept any near-by bath toys away from the sunken butt logs, and finally, removed and transported the three warm toddler-turds from our giant tub with a plastic bag wrapped around my hand to our toilet.

Just as I’m about to dry him off, my husband comes in the room, laughing his ass off.

“What the hell is so funny?” I asked him annoyed.

“Everything is life and death with you!” he pointed out. “You probably woke up the freakin’ neighbors the way you yelled, ‘Noooooooo!’ Just take him out and disinfect the damn tub and be done with it, move on!” 

I may be life and death, but has it ever crossed his mind that he’s too damn laid back? Picking up little boy pebbles on a daily basis from our bathtub is a serious matter to me! Sheesh!

Mind you, I have seized a severe amount of fecal matter from our tub for the last year and each time, I grab the closest thing I can find to remove them as quick as possible. You might think that I would be use to this by now, but each and every time, the situation is treated as though it is the first occurrence. I take this pooping thing personal! I have tried to take my son out of the tub when I see him assume the position, and sit him on our toilet, but he freaks out, thinking the giant hole will swallow his tiny body and whisk him away to the sea or wherever our waste goes. I feel for him, it’s a nice warm tub that warms and marinates his little jam-packed bowels; the poop probably just eases on out!

All I’m saying, is that this pooping in the bathtub thing has got to stop sooner or later, right? Once upon a time, it used to be cute, but now? Yeah, not so cute now. His toddler pebbles will be so much cuter in the potty where they belong!  

TITS: KID-TESTED, FATHER-APPROVED!

   Often times females will ask themselves just what the hell it is they love about their husbands or significant others. I mean seriously, men are all cut from the same cloth and they all do the unthinkable; those things that make us roll our eyes in disbelief. Whether it’s leaving the toilet seat up in the middle of the night, tracking dirt in the house after you just mopped, or leaving dirty dishes in the sink.  Just when you want to pull your teeth out one by one because of one his brainless antics, he redeems himself  by making a fabulous dinner or brings home a beautiful bouquet of flowers with a pint of your favorite ice cream. Or maybe this man just does something so incredibly simple that you have to redirect your negative thought process.
I can tell you that my man has done some pretty idiotic things since we’ve been married, but I have to constantly remind myself of all the good he’s done.   Even if the good things happen to be eccentric as hell!
My Story:
My husband and I had ventured to California with our two month old son in tow for a nice weekend away to support  our friends from college as they begin their life sentence in wedded bliss. Our second son had yet to be born, so it happened to be easier to travel, especially confined in a  car for what I consider an entire work day - 8 hours.
The ceremony was very nice and it was particularly nice to visit with our friends/teammates from college that may see once or twice a year. Because we had left our son with my parents, my husband and I were able to enjoy our evening alone. It almost felt like a date! I hadn’t even thought to bring my breast pump with me, thinking I would be alright for the few hours were at the wedding. Boy, was my dumb ass wrong!
I was able to get through the ceremony itself without any problems, but the reception was a different story. Everyone and their mama wanted to hug me and when a woman’s breasts are engorged, they feel like they will burst at any given moment like a soda can that has been shaken too many damn times. They not only feel as though they could flood the room, your breasts are painful as hell! So painful, it sets your entire body off balance. I wasn’t able to think straight, I couldn’t sit still, I had difficulty breathing and my only thought was,  “OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod, this flipping hurts!”
I needed relief right away, whether it meant taking a butter knife to my bosom, puncturing each one to relieve the insane amount of pressure the abundance of milk had caused or finding the nearest baby, hungry or not, and slapping him to my voluminous lady lumps, making the kid take both at the same time to kill two birds with one stone. I could have fed at least 20 starving kids in Africa with these things, but I didn’t have time. I had begun to hallucinate and become delusional from the exorbitant amount of pain from the maximum capacity of milk that was about to runneth over.
I located my husband and gave him the eye. The eye that says, “I need you to get your black ass over here immediately before I start mutilating my body like that crazed lunatic, Jeffrey Dahmer!”
He knows this look all too well, and in particular my affinity for  all situations being life and death. I quickly blurted out, “This is an absolute emergency and I’m desperate enough to cut these damn things off with the fastest thing I can find, even if it’s the got-dang keys in your effin’ pocket!”
My husband calmly responded to my irrational behavior by stating, “I don’t know why you didn’t bring your breast pump”.
Come on, jack hole! Where’s the sympathy? I clearly didn’t need him to make such a  smart-ass comment, which was about to segue into a lecture thrown in my face. It only pissed me off more which in turn, intensified the agonizing discomfort!
Instead of making the situation worse, he grabbed my hand and quickly lead me to the parking lot, not speaking a word to anyone on the way out the reception doors.  Once outside, he suggested to me that the best solution would be for him to manually express the milk. Was he talking by hand? I didn’t need him to do that, I could have taken my aching self along with my milk sacs to the bathroom and squeezed the hell out of them myself. But, my husband quickly refuted my initial assumption, by giving me the, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” look. This look is quite mischievous and almost quite sexual.
Of course! I’m dealing with a man, here and if there ever is an opportunity for him to get close to any part of my body, especially the boobies, then by golly, of course he would be willing to help me extract milk in the best way that he knew how.
So, we both took our adult asses and got in the backseat of our Dodge Charger, laughing hysterically because of what was about to happen. There was an old, empty water bottle in the backseat that my husband used because he swore there was no way in hell that he was going to swallow the crap. It may be good for our 2 month old son, but he wasn’t down for making the milk his early evening mocktail.
When he was extracting the milk, I wondered whether he thought his bold ass suggestion was a mistake and even worth being contorted in the backseat to suck some warm milk out of his wife’s nips. Because if you saw the look on his face, it expressed a mix of a bit of pleasure but even more disgust. His description of the unorthodox incident, “I thought it would be enjoyable, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t tell the difference between the tasteless milk and my saliva, it was like sucking on a boulder, those things were so hard!”
And of course, the one thing that weighed heavily on his mind, was whether anyone saw him and if so, would they expose him at the reception by shouting, “Hey there’s that freaky guy that had his entire mouth on that chick’s bosom!’
But no one even knew what went on or why we had excused ourselves from the reception for 20 minutes. After the task was well completed, we left; he feeling rather odd and me feeling better, especially since I wouldn’t have to slice the suckers off with the nearest utensil.
Now wasn’t that nice that my man came to my rescue, that he thought entirely of me and put his wife first? Sure, he may have done it to fulfill his gratification, come on, he’s still a man. But, I have to remind myself that he sacrificed his dignity to help his poor engorged wife.
So ladies, just remember the little things your man does for you, even if it happens to be outlandish or even a bit absurd. This may have sounded farfetched, but we laugh about it to this day and humor helps in any relationship. Besides, I know I’m not the first lactating chick this has happened to!