HANDS OFF MY BABY, NUTJOB!

Please help me to understand why strangers feel the need to touch or kiss your child without your permission! I understand that babies, in particular, are adorable and hard to resist, but that doesn’t give an unfamiliar person the right  to fondle my baby with their germ-encrusted hands. I find it a little rude that such people don’t have the common courtesy to ask the mother or parent whether they can even cross that very delicate line. Most pregnant women don’t even like it when strangers touch their bellies without asking first, so just imagine when such a stranger comes in close proximity to her newborn!
A mother does not play when it comes to her children. We will scale a 1o-foot barbwire fence surrounded by thorny bushes and starving devil dogs foaming at the mouth in order to rescue our flesh and blood. We wouldn’t think twice about it. So you best believe, we will fight tooth and nail when some grubby ass stranger comes and tries to touch our baby.
I had some crazy, deranged, perfume soaked lady try and get too damn close to my kids one day. This woman, who I had just met and rubbed me the wrong way within the first two minutes,  had bent her middle-aged, pear shaped body at her generously proportioned waist in order to appear to be on my oldest son’s, eye level. But my son just gawked at the woman with disdain and slight fear in his eyes, as though he could detect the stench of toddler flesh rotting in between her blood stained teeth. The  harder he stared at this lunatic, the further he nuzzled his little body around my leg using it as a barrier, but did not dare to take his eyes off of her for fear of being her midday appetizer.
I clutched him even tighter, when she had the nerve to reach for him and declare, “Come to, Auntie!”
This stank ass heifer! I know she didn’t just say Auntie! I had known the woman all of ten minutes and now she thinks she’s part of my family? I don’t know her any better than my own damn neighbor! She got some nerve!
Then the idiot lady tried to remove my 2 month old son from my taut arms. Had the woman lost her got-dang mind? Apparently so. I can tell you this woman had no freaking understanding of personal space.
My response to her bone-headed attempt to charm my children… “Look lady, I don’t know where you’re from or how things are done in your culture, but here in my home, I don’t play that kind of sh*t!”
Now, I know every family has that crazy auntie, the one that they try to pass off as the mentally ill family member that forgot to take her meds or even pretend that she’s not technically a blood relative in a matter of speaking. All I knew at the time, was that this woman was not about to think she was going to get any closer to my kids because she claims she is their “auntie”. I don’t need any more additional crazy aunties in my family, trust me. If she did try anything funny, she would have gotten a swift blow to her bubble gut.
To be honest, I think strangers are delusional when it comes to other peoples’ kids, especially babies. Parents, please tell these fools that they need to back the hell up off your child. Protect them from those germ covered, crazed maniacs.  What the hell is so hard about asking the mother or parent first, whether it’s okay to touch or hold their baby? Asking is a hell of a lot better, and not as embarrassing, as getting a size nine foot up your ass without so much as a thought for crossing the line! Don’t you agree?!

LACTATION DISCRIMINATION!

Returning to work after being off three months for maternity leave, is pretty damn difficult. I should know, I’ve had to do this twice in 2 years! To be honest, I enjoyed spending time with my two boys. Don’t get me wrong, being at home was stressful and tiring, especially with two little ones in diapers, but I eventually learned to incorporate my duties with my kids’ needs.

I was in a little bit of denial during my time off, believing I wouldn’t have to go back to work. But with the current position of the economy, I was prohibited from being that bare-foot and pregnant, stay-at-home mother who cooks and cleans on a daily basis and wears nothing but oversized, unflattering clothing which just may possibly have come from her husband’s side of the closet. Besides, I really couldn’t allow my husband to take on an over-worked, multiple job consumed Jamaican persona. If he did, I may as well consider myself a single mother because he would never be home. So, I did what was best for all four of us and took my ass back to work.

Having just gave birth 3 months ago, I’m, still lactating and breast feed my son whenever possible. Last year, I was afforded the luxury of pumping in one of the conference rooms. It was nice and private with the door closed, no windows for the closet voyeur to peer in and watch my lady lumps be yanked on like the utters on a cow.  

But our new location doesn’t have the same type of conference rooms, so I had asked a higher-up how I could solve this little dilemma.

This woman’s response, “I don’t feel that it is appropriate to pump in the office, but if you do, I would suggest using the ladies restroom on your scheduled break times”.

After reading the email, I damn near lost it! She’s a mother too so I figured her punk-ass would have some compassion. But she must have been drunk as hell if she thought that I would pump or even think about exposing my milk supply while popping a squat on a cold ass, paper seat-lined toilet while the chick in the next stall takes a massive, gut rumbling, putrid ass dump. That is absolutely foul and if you ask me, down-right inappropriate.

   I shared this email with a co-worker and her response, “That’s discrimination against mothers that breastfeed and have to work. The bathroom is not sanitary enough for you to pump”. No sh*t Sherlock!

What does this woman think?  That I’m going to sit at my desk, which is out in front of God and everyone, pull my engorged boobs out from their safe and secure hiding place known as my bra, expose them as people walk by, and milk myself as though I were on a dairy farm? No! That would not only be inappropriate, but embarrassing as sh*t.

All I’m asking for is a little private room that I would be able to use three times a day in order to provide my 3 month old son nourishment. Maybe she would prefer for me to walk around the office as my boobies rapidly swell with milk and eventually fill to the max, looking somewhat like Pam Anderson’s robust knockers. I’m sure co-workers would feel rather uncomfortable once the booby levi broke, causing the front of my shirt to look like the aftermath of an erupted volcano.

Now that, would be both inappropriate and uncomfortable as hell! 

I honestly feel, that if a woman needs to breastfeed or pump her breasts, that she should be able to without feeling like she is a filthy, disgusting animal. Now, I know there are classless women out there that don’t give a damn and will flop their melons out without covering up with a wrap or blanket and I’m sure we’ve all seen that woman that loves breastfeeding so much, that she will slap her 4 year old on her chest! Hello! The kid is damn near grown with a full grill complete with molars and the freaking fang teeth! But hey, every mother is entitled to nuture her child the way she sees fit, even if it seems absurd as hell to most! We can’t discriminate, right?! 

   Mothers! Take at stand at your workplace and demand a proper and sanitary area to pump. We shall refuse to be shoved in a cold stall in the office bathroom to provide our baby nourishment. A nice area with a couch would be nice, but settle for an office with a door, and if it has a window, make sure there are blinds or curtains. The last thing I might demand is a sign on the door that reads, “Meal Preparation in Progress, Do Not Disturb!” 

Does my pumping in the bathroom complaint sound trivial or ridiculous? Well, let me ask you this…

Would you eat your lunch or dinner in a public bathroom??

ONE BABY-DADDY IS ENOUGH!

You know something? When someone hits on you or flatters you with kindness, it can feel pretty good. I don’t care who you are, when someone compliments you, it’s an ego boost. However, there are times when the flattery is totally, and without a doubt, unnecessary,  rude or even disturbing. Yes, I have had my share of being on the receiving end of flattering remarks in my twenty-nine years of life. But it’s funny, the disturbing remarks are the ones that I remember most.  
Example:
I was in the last stage of my pregnancy and utterly miserable working every freaking day. I was at the point where nothing made me happy. I was damn near the size of an Orca whale, nothing fit me right – I may have been better off wearing a damn bed sheet or burlap sack, at least it would have been more comfortable! I not only had the clothing or size issue to deal with, but I was moody and tired as hell! The last place I wanted to be was at work, with my fat ass sitting in a hard, butt-flattening chair, as co-workers pass by me and comment on my increasing girth.
I don’t know what it was this particular day, but I was feeling a little nauseous  and the thought of a nice plush queen size bed with two firm, standard size pillows, made me think of paradise. I lasted as long as I could, until I felt like I would pass out or throw up, whichever came first. Just picture me sitting at an L-shaped work station, with my head face down on the keyboard,   long and hard enough for the F, G and H keys   to implant themselves deep into my forehead as though I were a freaking horned animal. Not a pretty picture. Before I succumbed to total uselessness, I decided that it would be best for me to grab my things and head towards the nearest exit and proceed home. It’s not like I was doing anybody any good just sitting there, staring at a blank screen like I was in some sort of hypnotized state.
I informed my supervisor and co-worker that I needed to bounce. They agreed.  What else could they do? It makes absolutely no sense to argue with a rundown, substantially hefty pregnant woman that could spew her early morning breakfast with a snap of a finger. Besides, they’re men and they have no idea what pregnancy does to a woman, especially the last few months of it.
Once I was packed and ready with car keys in hand, I stepped outside in the scorching desert sun. As I headed to my car, I was consumed by the noise of traffic above on the freeway and the roar of the engines at the downtown bus depot. I am a focused individual and I happened to be on a mission, so of course I hadn’t noticed a gentleman speaking to me.
I had heard him say, “Excuse me”,  but assumed he was talking to himself. Working downtown, you see all types of lunatics yelling at no one in particular or homeless using the nearest bush as a urinal. I just figured this man had to be another vagrant.
This gentleman repeated himself and this time got my attention. I didn’t say anything, just looked in his general direction. The words that came out of this fool’s mouth was, “Excuse me, I just wanted to tell you that you are a beautiful pregnant lady, beautiful.”
Oh Lord! I really couldn’t take this man seriously. He was a young black man, early thirties would be my guess, wearing a pink plaid shirt, faded baggy jean shorts, white Air Force Ones, a white baseball cap shifted to the side and underneath that he had on a do-rag. I’m not finished. He had a a gold studded, pierced chin to put the icing on the cake and he was rolling a carry-on sized piece of luggage.
I was polite and responded with a thank you, even if I was thinking I just wanted him to get a move on to the damn bus station. I didn’t need this fool asking me for a ride anywhere!  Thinking he was done with his pretty pregnant lady comment, I turned to my car, but he wasn’t done.
“You are a really pretty pregnant lady. Your hair look good”, he said. 
Then he shoved his freaking fat foot in his mouth when he said, “Are you married?”
Shocked out of my mind that he really asked me some sh*t like that, I said firmly but with a slight chuckle, “Yes I am.”
His reply, “Are you two still together?”
In total disbelief, I again responded with a firm Yes!
Now this slow ass muff-nucka apparently wasn’t satisfied with my answer or he thought I was lying to his punk ass because he asked if I was sure. Check the damn County records moron! I am married and we are together!!!
A little disappointed, he did finally tell me again that I was pretty and to have a good day. Finally, I could take my married, pregnant ass home. As soon as I got in the car, I called my husband and told him what I had just experienced. His thought was, “Maybe he wanted to be someone’s daddy!”
No, thank you. One baby daddy is enough for me. Why would a man want to get with a pregnant chick anyway? I guess it’s no different than a man pursuing a women with kids, but one that’s in the womb?! Just a little disturbing for me. I’ll let you make the call as to what you think about it.

SHOUT-OUT TO ALL MISUNDERSTOOD MOTHERS!

I must say, I never quite appreciated my mom fully until I had kids of my own. Of course I appreciated her growing up, but I have a completely new understanding of just what it is that mothers actually do. So, I thought I’d write a little poem for all mothers out there; whether you are a stay at home mom, working mom, or single mom, you are a mom nonetheless and you deserve to be recognized.

Every mother out there, deserves more than just a pat on the back.

Unless you are a mother as well, I must say, You don’t know jack!

They are the hardest working women around and the things they do, deserves more than just praise.

Taking care of the house, the kids and the husband is a full-time job, but this job does not receive a raise.

A mother is one who gets up several times during the night, for breast or formula feedings.

But she can’t rest, there are tons of things to be done, although a nap is what she is needing.

Her day begins before the crack of dawn, but I guess it’s really a day that has no end,

From getting the kids dressed and ready, making breakfast; to the neighbor, a cup of sugar she will lend.

A mother will kiss the boo-boos, iron and fold laundry and everything in between,

If one of the kids misbehaves, she’ll put him in check and for this, she’s labeled as mean.

Paying bills, cleaning rooms and removing stains from funky man draws,

She may get upset, but will never complain, she knows this is all for a good cause.

When her kids have nasty booger noses and, oh crap, she just ran out of wipes!

She’ll use the shirt on her back, even if it’s especially nice, just to clean those snotty pipes.

No one sees or knows just how hard it is when everything around her has gone awry,

When the the kids are wailing, the  casserole has burned, the phone is ringing, and all she wants to do is cry.

She rarely gets time to herself, pampering of any kind may happen once a year,   

She puts those in her family first, she usually eats last, and,  “Thank you, Mom!” would be really nice to hear.

We often get covered in spit-up and we don’t freak out when we have to touch poop.

We know the songs and characters of Sesame Street, we are definitely in the kiddy loop.

When the kitchen is spotless, carpets vacuumed, toilets sparkling white,

She turns around not five minutes later, crumbs and juice spilled because the kids got into a fight.

She is also very handy, she can fix a bathtub that  has a constant drip,

She is the Queen of saving in times of need, grocery store coupons she will clip.

Finally, the house is clean and quiet, everyone is in bed.

But there’s your husband lying next to you, asking for some “head”.

He’s got to be kidding! She’s had a long a stressful day.

All she can think about is sleep, but she does her wifely duties anyway.

She says, “Oh baby, I’m tired and have a headache. Can you hurry and do this fast?”

He replies, “I’m horny, get naked and give me that beautiful round ass!”

I could go on and on reciting what us mothers go through,

This list is just a starter, just some of the things to name a few.

Motherhood may be trying at times, but this is what we were meant to do.

Just know you are mentally and emotionally tough,    and  this Misunderstood Mommy respects you! 

MY FAMOUS “COOKIE”

Southern Hills Hospital… Again? You’ve got to be kidding me!  It was the second year in a row doing what my husband and I apparently do best, have babies.  As you already know, this was a huge surprise and shock to me, and to my husband as well. To this day, he still looks at me suspiciously and will  jokingly tell me we need to go on Maury and prove that he is the father by taking a DNA test in front of millions of viewers. Yeah right, like my ass needs to go on that damn show with those ho’s who firmly and without a doubt proclaim,  “I am 160% sure that HE is the father of my child, they got the same nose and forehead, Maury”. Give  me  a break! The kid is only 3 weeks old and babies change so much in the first few months of life.  That’s the type of female that has a smorgasbord of men, that honestly doesn’t  know which man is the freakin’ father but will take her best stab at it, only to have to run off the stage in shame in front of God and everybody when Maury reveals the truth: That although she was adamant that that was the father of her child, the DNA test proved otherwise and now she’ll have to try and contact one of the other 70 some-odd men in order to try and compare his likeness to her bastard child.

Definitely, not me. My husband will one day realize that I’m not that type of woman, that he just has potent “stuff” and he doesn't know the meaning of shooting blanks.
Back to the story at hand….
I had decided to return to the same hospital since I had such a memorable experience the previous year. I figured most of the nurses that cared for me would remember me, since I gave them all nicknames and kept them in stitches during my stay; The Ruth is on Fire, Cindy Lou Who and Liz Handlin' Her Biz, just to name a few.
Once we checked in and got situated in the Labor & Delivery room, I was prepared for the laundry list of questions the staff asks, being a human pin cushion as they try to take blood from my miniscule, almost non-existent veins and whatever else they wanted to do to me before slicing me like a damn Butterball turkey on Thanksgiving morning. Since my husband and I again decided to keep the gender of the baby a surprise, I wore the same tube socks as last year. They were knee high socks: one with pink and yellow stripes for a girl and the other with blue and gray stripes for a boy.  I swore up and down this was going to be another boy, so I wore the blue and gray tube socks. I tried to see if Nurse Liz had remembered me from last year, but I think she just said yes to make me feel better and to shut me up. I understood, I mean, she sees thousands of pregnant chicks, how the hell would she remember a little quirky black girl like me?
Once it was time to get the show on the road, I was rolled to the Operating Room with my husband by my side, video camera in hand. Of course, he had to wait outside so the anesthesiologist could jab an enormous, spine numbing needle in my back in order to collect his $8,000. Whatever, as long as I couldn’t feel a damn thing during surgery or have any long term side effects, it was fine by me. Immediately before my legs felt as though they were encased in cement, the delivery crew helped lay me down so they could get down to business.
Now mind you, I am flat on my back, staring at the overhead light and listening to the nurses and whoever else was in the room ramble on about who slept with who. Yup, just like Grey’s Anatomy!  There were at least six to seven people in the room, not including my husband, he was still outside waiting for preparation to be complete. Now, I know these people were just doing their jobs, but laying there not being able to see what the hell is going on is a little nerve wracking. They pulled my backless gown up to my boobs so they could sterilize my belly, they shaved my nether region, and then they proceeded to contort my legs so my knees were pointed outward. In this position, I could have clapped my feet as though they were hands or flippers on a trained seal. So I’m sure you can imagine that I was not very comfortable and my only thought was, “ I wish they would cover me up because I am butt-ass naked in front of these perfect strangers and they probably don’t know my name, but they sure as hell know my “cookie” inside and out!” But hey, they see “cookies” all day, every day, so it’s no big deal to them.
They had me in that awkward position in order to shove that freakin’ catheter up my “cookie”.  Although I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down, I was rather uncomfortable. You would be too if these people saw your stuff and knew it better than you did and making sure you wiped well beforehand, weighed heavily on your mind. But I think I was the only one in the room concerned with my business being out there, that was until Nurse Liz Handling Her Biz excitedly said in Dolby Digital, “ I remember you now!'” You have no idea the surge of panic I felt at that moment in time. Here I am, my cookie hanging out for all the world to see like it was some sort of free exhibit at a museum, and she just happens to remember me now?! Oh my God! She didn’t remember my nice toothy smile and chipmunk cheeks, the thing that she recognized was my effing cookie! I was absolutely mortified and humiliated if you will. Every sweat gland in my body erupted like the damn fountains at the Bellagio. All I wanted to do at that moment, was to shut my listless legs and yell for my husband to come roll me away, the baby could come another day and at another hospital.
I’m sure she sensed my alarm because she very quickly added, “I remember you from your tube socks!” Sweet Jesus! I’m sure glad she cleared that up, not only for me, but for the other staff in the room that may have been thinking the same harebrained thought that had crossed my mind.
Once my husband was allowed in the room, I felt more at ease. He was the only person in the room that could recognize me by my cookie alone and that’s not mortifying, it’s quite flattering! He’s my husband, not a damn stranger!!