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!