Emotions and Moving Baby to her Crib

How I feel when my husband subtly suggests we move Baby T from the bassinet in our room to her crib in her nursery:

And then I try to quickly dismiss the topic:

And then he says something else about it:

And then I realize he is actually serious:

And so I answer him as honestly as possible:

After a 30 minute discussion complete with panic and tears...(MY panic and tears, that is):

When he tells me we don't have to move her to her crib just yet after my horrifying reaction:

You're welcome for the overload of gifs.

Shopping with babe and those ugly shorts girls are actually wearing these days...

Lately it seems as though I've been forced to venture out of my hole and meander into town for supplies and such. So, in Coronado terms--that means walk a few blocks to the post office and to some specialty shops to get a few gifts for some mothers in my life. I really try to do most of my shopping online, err, don't mention that if you know my husband. :-/ Its a sore subject around these parts. Apparently, receiving a package a week is too much? I had no idea! I definitely just got in trouble Saturday because another package showed up. Seriously though!, who the hell delivers on Saturdays?! I didn't even get a shipping notification! Don't they know that husbands are home on Saturdays!? I try to intervene most packages because I stalk the delivery website. I know when it says "out for delivery" that means I better get my ass downstairs and wait for the mailman because God knows I don't want to hear, "Jenny, what did you order this time?" Or, in a really panicked-pissed voice, "How many fu&king packages are going to come from baby Gap this week?" (They send each item separately sometimes!! What the hell!? I cant keep up. PSA to GAP--send my baby's new shiat in ONE bag so I can continue to be your patron!)

Anyway...I've gotten off on a tangent. Point is, sometimes on rare occasions I have to leave my house. (And if you'd like to know why I don't like to do that, then read here.) There are lots of super cute stores here on the island that I like to frequent when the Husband isn't stalking the credit card statement. (If you didn't know already...I have a baby now.)

Well, I went out to shop around the other day for some Mother's Day gifts and I put my sweet little teeny tiny bundle of pure blissful joy in her stroller so that she could come with. From what I understand, it wouldn't have been appropriate for me to leave her home alone yet. Does this story seem weird to any of you? Mothers---you put your child in strollers when you go shopping, don't you? Or am I doing it wrong? Because, umm, I could seriously be doing it wrong. 

I get to my favorite store and walk inside. Its like sensory overload. I just can never choose what I want to look at first. Do I want to look at the jewelry? The scarves? The....the....well, you get the point. I guess I should add that real estate on this island is like 1 billionnnn dollars per square foot, so the shops are quite small. But! Not too small to fit myself and my trusty stroller. So I am in the store, muscling around the stroller, paying careful attention to its wheels and making sure I don't run something over or knock something off the shelves--nevermind the skinny-as-a-rail girls in there wearing those hideous shorts that are back in style from the 80's. You know, the ones where your ass looks really long and flat and your butt cheeks say hello to everyone walking behind you? Hold on, I'll find you a picture......


.....I'm back after googling "high waisted 80's shorts butt cheek".....

BAM! There you go.

Ok, no. Those are not them, but I just thought you'd enjoy a momentary boost in your self-esteem.

These are the shorts that I'm talking about here:

Umm, no. Just no. No, no, no. Oh, ha! "Those look way better on me than that!" That's what you're thinking if you happen to be one of the sad souls stuffing your cheeks into these monstrosities. Well, I am here to inform you that you do not look better and whoever told you that you did LIED to you sister! And furthermore, no female wants to see you wear these and only about 3% of the weiner-clad population are not offended that you are wearing those--and guess what? They, unfortunately lost their eye sight or either also like to stare at photos of donkeys in their free time.



Alrighty...so here I am in my favorite store---I peruse the racks, getting to a place of shear bliss...looking at all the maxi dresses and the colorful shirts. For a moment, I feel like I am 22 again and I am shopping for an outfit to go out on the town later! I can even taste the martini (or 5) I will have later. I see another girl, looking at me. I smile politely at her and continue with my shopping high. She clears her throat, so I am forced to look at her again. She looks at this stroller thats sitting really near me and then back at me again. I give her a puzzled look, and turn back to the party dresses. "Excuse me," she says, smacking her gum. (For a second I thought it was her ass cheeks clapping in the wind, but it turns out it wasn't them.) Her eyes roll a bit and she exhales really loudly. WTF. Now I'm getting annoyed. I look back at her and she says, "Can you move your stroller? I need to get by." What the hell is she talking about? Stroller?? 

Suddenly, I am sucked back into reality and I remember that no, no I'm not going out tonight and no, I'm not going to have a martini or 5. This is actually my stroller and the baby riding in it is mine too. 

Ok...so of course I didn't really forget about the baby. It was just a little mental vacation while I browsed some stupid dresses that not only should I not buy because there is yet another package or 7 coming to me already, but I have no place to wear this brilliant little dress. Turns out, babies don't care what you're wearing and they will spit up and poop on any and everything. 

I say all that to say this...what is up with people's irritation with strollers?? This has happened several times where I get a look like I shouldn't be somewhere or like I am in the other women's way while they are trying to shop. Like their shopping is ranked higher on the cool meter because they don't have a baby. *middle finger up bitches* I mean, I have to bring my baby with me. I can't just leave her at home. And inconveniently enough, we human mothers don't have a nifty little kangaroo pouch to stuff our babies in while we hop about our day. I cant balance her on my head...and I can't even realistically carry her in my arms while I try to shop one-handed. And to be honest, I don't give one RCH whether you don't want my stroller blocking the aisle. Seriously, I don't! Chances are that just before I got here, the baby just blew her diaper out and needed an entire outfit change and now there is a puddle of poop waiting for me to get back to the car to clean out of the car seat--and I have about 40 minutes to run 17.8 errands before she is screaming to eat again which would force me to pull my boob out and feed her in the store and we ALL know what a controversy that would cause--so unless you want me to aim her butt in your direction the next time I see her sweet little face turn red and she starts to grunt, then why don't you get your tiny, little, weirdly-long ass cheeks out of my way because I am one millisecond away from losing my mommy mind on you. And p.s. by the way...those shorts are like the stone once its thrown--you can never un-wear those. *look you up and down, eye-roll, hair flip*

Things that make you go shi%balls--baby blow outs and new mom woes.

As you know from my last post...I'm a new mom. I was a little on the crazy, irrational side before baby, and now...well, lets just say its hard to imagine that a pterodactyl isn't going to fly over us on a walk and steal her. Or maybe a tiny ninja Mexican drug lord might come in at night and take her. We DO live near Mexico you know. And human trafficking is on the rise. I don't have statistics to back that up so don't ask but I wouldn't lie to you, seriously. Its true. Point is, I am a worrier. A large, big ole, monumental worrier. This has always bothered my cool, calm, and collected big, bad, fighter pilot husband. I mean, clearly nothing bad would ever happen to that lean, mean fighting machine. Or maybe he just isn't a worrier. Its one of the two. But I AM. Last night, I woke up and stared at Baby T in her bassinet like I do every. single. night. every. hour. on. the. hour. I always see her little chest rise and fall and I know she is okay. Even then, I put my hand on her belly to make sure my sleep deprived eyes aren't playing tricks on me. Well, last night I thought I didn't feel her belly rising and falling. Panic isn't even in the realm of what I did. I woke her right on up at 3 AM by ripping her swaddle off of her and jiggling her legs. She looked at me like I was the Mexican ninja lord coming to get her. Anyway...you get the point.

The following happened when she was about a week old. And just as a warning, I'm not planning to censor this (Do I ever?), so if boobs and poop bother you, you should go back to hash tagging things about your selfie you just took...hopefully not in a dirty mirror with the toilet photobombing in the background. Seriously people, those are the worst. So. Gross. #nasty #lookatmytoilet #lookat mytoothpastesplatteronmymirrorohwaitmaybethatsnottoothpaste?

Back to the story: Baby T is a week old. (Not today, duh. But back when the story happened.) There were a few things that were bothering me. 1) Her umbilical cord did not look right. I mean, nuh uh. Surely that thing isn't supposed to look like the stuff that spews out of an alien when the hero finally slices its head off in those really swell alien-takes-over-earth movies?!? A gooey mess on this sweet precious baby? Nooo....that cant be right. And then she kept getting this blue tinge around her mouth-not to be confused with blue lips. Calm down folks.

I was worried. Husband was not. But he had already seen my postpartum hormones turn me into a puddle of patheticness, (yes I know that isn't a word), so he did me a solid and called the pediatrician which turned out to be the biggest clusterfu$% of our weeklong bout of parenthood. He called this lady which directed him to that lady and then she told him to call another number which sent him right back to the first lady. It was so ridiculous. All the while, the first lady is freaking out asking us when we were leaving to go to the ER. Why, you ask? Because my "potAtoes, potatoes" husband missed the fact that telling the nurse that there was a blue tinge around our newborn's mouth and telling her that her lips were blue meant two very different things. I am trying to mouth silently to him..."No, not her lips...you can't say her LIPS are blue. They will think she isn't breathing...this is different." After that confusion was cleared up, the nurse asked to call us back after she spoke with the Dr. *Minutes pass* I sit on the floor with two very odd cones attached to my boobs, ripping milk out of them in a way that should not be humanly possible, wondering if they will ever come back from this dark side that is breastfeeding and staring at the baby, wondering what the hell is wrong with her. Husband reads the news. I occasionally glance over at him wondering how he could read the news at a time like this and imagine ripping his phone from his hand and putting it in the garbage disposal, but then I decide that would take it too far and perhaps should be reserved for another time. I also wonder whether HE will in fact be able to bounce back after seeing my nipples stretched almost to the other side of the room with this torture pump device. I'm resentful that he doesn't have to have his boobs suctioned and so I ask him if he will let Baby T suck his nipples. Of course he said no. Typical. effing. man.

The nurse calls back and asks us to take the baby's temperature. Sure, no problem. We go for our easy peasy ear thermometer and just as we stick it in her ear, the nurse reminds us that she will need us to take a rectal temperature. Pause. We look at each other and both swallow hard. I mean, whoa. The days of taking shots until 4AM at a bar flashed before my eyes and I did a quick comparison of now and then. How'd I get here, I wondered? But! Good news. My cool, calm, and collected husband has this. There is no need for me to worry. Nothing is insurmountable to this think-on-your-toes, save-the-world kind of guy.

I feel like I should stop at this point in the story to say to my husband, "I love you, you roaring jungle beast."

Back to the story again: We've got a thermometer. Is it rectal? We don't know. But we go with it. Well you can't just stick it up her little bum without some lubrication. Who knew? (Soon-to-be parents...pick up some petroleum jelly now so you don't have to go the route we did) I'm wondering what we are gonna do, then in walks husband with KY jelly. See, he thinks on his toes. I got a good one, y'all. Alright, so we are ready. Baby is laying on the changing table, oblivious to whats happening. Husband has the lubed thermometer aimed at the target. The nurse is now on speaker phone.

In his most professional and polite voice, "I'm about to perform the temperature check now."

The nurse waits.

In goes the thermometer. I cringe, hoping he is doing is correctly. Im watching the baby to see if she is going to say, "Ouch", or "Umm, thats not very cool, daddy. Please stop." Nope nothing. But what I did see is the thermometer fly out of her bum at lightning speed--along with about a pound of poop splatter. Its everywhere. All over the changing table. All down the side of the changing table. All on husband's hands. Its running down the side of the changing table and she may or may not have doused a teddy bear's face with it. Everywhere. Seriously. My eyes were the size of watermelons as I registered what was going on. Think of a bomb exploding in a war movie--everyone is running for cover...the ground is shaking...fear consumes everyone's eyes--Thats what SHOULD have happened but we were stunned. We didn't take cover, but we should have. Husband stood very still for a couple of seconds at least, looking at all the damage from the bomb. I see his face and laughter begins to rumble in my belly-- something can in fact throw him off his cool train, and that something happened to weigh the same as a bag of sugar--but I try to keep quiet for the nurse's sake who is still clueless as to whats just happened. Also, for our reputation in the baby' pediatrician's office. After his damage assessment, he began trying to locate the thermometer and I stare at my phone wondering what would come up if I were to google "hazmat team...San Diego".

"What's her temperature?" The nurse asks.

*Shuffling sounds* on our end.

She asks again.

"Umm...one, one second. She just pooped." My husbands voice has risen a few octaves. "She just pooped the thermometer out all over the place...I wasn't prepared for this. Oh man. This is bad."

I begin to laugh uncontrollably. And I try to find something to clean the disaster that just attacked the entire nursery. Baby T is just staring around, kicking her little legs proudly.

"Did you get her temperature yet, sir?"

"Ummm....I...I got a lot going on here."

"Should I use a towel to clean this?" I manage to get out of my mouth through laughs. I've not seen my husband so taken aback by anything. Ive not seen him lose his cool or his ability to multi task. I cant stop laughing, then I feel something wet on my feet. Fearful, I look down.

Do you remember what I was doing before the nurse called back? Yea...pumping the udders.

So now I'm running around like a raging milk cow trying to catch milk with my hands while I look for a towel for him to at least wipe his hands with. Seriously, you do not want to come to our house anytime soon--not until I get that hazmat team over here.

It was a low point for us. We weren't prepared. We weren't prepared at all. Who knew a 5 pound baby could spew something out of her ass like a bullet bouncing around a ribcage, while not skipping a beat with her leg kicks? We do now I suppose. Yea, and experienced parents, why don't you warn new parents about this type of thing? I mean, we don't know what we are doing! We used KY Jelly on our newborn because none of you sons o'bitches thought you should mention that picking up some vaseline may be useful. A little help could have gone a long way and possibly saved a teddy bear's life. I guess its funny to you assholes to hear about little mishaps like this one. Jackassholes.

So, if you're a new parent or a soon to be parent and you need to take your baby's temperature rectally, let me help you newbies out--get some lube that's appropriate for babies and that you won't feel like shitballs for using on an infant, get some goggles, put on your worst clothes, and have a lawn size trash bag waiting at the end of the changing table for the explosion thats to come. Maybe you can catch at least some of it in the bag. You're welcome and may the force be with you.

A year has passed--Potatoes, eggs, and a NEW BABY!

Well hello there. You may remember me. I used to blog here and on occasion offended people...made fun of people, etc, etc, etc. All of this pretty much came to a screeching halt last year when I got pregnant. That's right, there is an offspring and its a she. She's already given me the finger several times, thrown up all over me, pooped ALL over me, and yanks my hair out hourly with her tiny demon fingers, so it is clear to me that she has inherited my genes and I will be repaid ten fold for how I have lived my life. Ehh, not to mention her father is a real ass too, so we are in trouble. Anyway, I digress. I stopped blogging because well to be honest, I was in the trenches. I was in the dirty, evil trenches of the 7th layer of hell also known as pregnancy. I was too busy trying to keep my head above water, err, out of the toilet to blog. I mean, it was a real, real hell of a time. And what really pissed me off was that nobody told me how awful pregnancy could be. Nobody warns you which, in my opinion is a complete and total betrayal among the female race. Aren't we supposed to stick together you bitches?! Ha! (No is the answer to this question obviously.) I finally decided it was because the women in the world want all the other women to go through what they went through. Its like this secret among mothers and they are all in this little mommy club just mothereffing the hell out of the cute little naive, newly pregnant girl that has no idea what she is walking into.

Are you puzzled? Are you thinking, "I never felt better than when I was pregnant." Well go straight to hell I say! Do not even bother doing the dishes. Just get up , go find the nearest bus and stand in front of it because you are hated by many women…even if they don't say that to your face. Or whatever, don't go to hell. Just know that one day you may say that to the wrong woman and she may lose it and I can't say I'd blame her. Especially if she's pregnant…and having a hard time. Especially if she spends her whole day swallowing just so she doesn't throw up all over everything around her. Especially if she has popped every pill the OB prescribed to her to help her be able to eat something other than a baked potato and all she got in return was 9 days of constipation from the pills. And especiallyyyyy, if her husband just happened to walk through the door from an emergency grocery store run because she ran out of potatoes and when she looked in the bag, she wanted to shove them down his throat because the only explanation for the size of these damn potatoes is that he got them from Saturn or Neptune or some-freaking-where in outer space and she knew they would NEVER microwave properly.

**Here is where I will stop pretending that this story happened to someone else. It isn't about someone else. Its actually about me, sadly.**

So, I go into the kitchen, wash the giant brick of a potato, all the while knowingggg its fate. I slammed it into the microwave and after 5 minutes, I retrieved the still hard as a rock potato. After 3 more minutes, then 4 more minutes, the damn thing no longer looked like food. The ends were wrinkled and the pure life had been nuked out of it, yet the middle was still hard as a rock. This was not edible. Translation to a pregnant, miserable, sick, irrational girl=breakdown. Full on total, uncontrollable emotional breakdown. I started stabbing it. Hard. With a really sharp knife. Which alerted my husband who was sitting in a nearby room, probably oblivious to how much his potato purchase had knocked me off my rocker. Stab. Stab. Stabstabstabstab. Long sigh. "Stupid, stupid, potato." STAB. Stabstabstab. Stab STAB. "Grrrrrrrrr." Another sigh. Tears. Tears. Can no longer see through the tears, yet still stabbing the potato and calling it stupid. And then I couldn't get my breath, but don't worry, Im still stabbing it with the extra sharp knife. I think this is the point where my husband finally was able to catch my hand that was doing the stabbing and take it out of my hand. And then I fell into his chest, sobbing and crying, and drooling all over his shirt as I tried to tell him what was wrong, but only spit bubbles gurgled out of my mouth.

What?? Don't act like you've never cried like that. Maybe it wasn't over a potato but you know you've cried like that.

I finally was able to say, "I hate that potato!!!!!" He was able to look and see what the problem was, although there were bits and chunks and pieces of potato all over the counter at that point. Long story short (ha), he made me another one while I sat on the couch and caught my breath and wiped my nose.

And this was my life. This was my life for 10 months. Oh, you thought pregnancy was 9 months?? Nerp, its 10. Surpriseeee bitches! There was also a little thing called gestational diabetes that occurred very shortly after I was able to actually eat and enjoy food again. And really, I could not think of anything except the fact that I was pregnant and was forced to eat a very limited diet, lacking anything and everything I actually enjoyed eating including pasta, pizza, cupcakes, chocolate, pie, cookies, and soda. It really was just bullshit. Near the end, I had to leave a restaurant because I was crying due to the fact that I had to eat eggs for breakfast for the 3rd month in a row. Yes, eggs every morning for three months because this kept my blood sugar under control. Holy holy holy balls. It was like a torture prison. I didn't want to blog! I didn't want to live!!!

So anyway. Here we all are now. Baby T is 2 months old, so I survived. My husband survived, luckily. Zeus and Fritz made it. Louie the first, our fish, sadly didn't make it, but I guess all wars have casualties.

So, now I'm one of those annoying people that only post pictures of their baby. I used to hateee people like that. I know people hate me and my baby posts. Oh well. Its my life now. Sometimes I brush my hair, but mostly I just take pictures of baby T doing the same thing she did yesterday and the day before that. I mean, she's two months old. She can't like really doooo a whole lot. I'm thinking of starting a separate blog about motherhood, so this one can continue to be about how much I hate people. No blurred lines here. Ugh, hate that song. Do I sound like my brain is smaller than the last time I blogged? Because I am pretty sure it is. The baby took a lot from me. But in all seriousness, I've heard pregnant women's brains literally get smaller. But I thought it grew back?? Its going to go back to normal size soon right? Oh yea, none of you bitches will tell any of us other bitches the truth about anything anyway so why am I asking?!

Welp, I need to sign off. My husband just said I was being vile to him. How is that even possible when all I'm doing is sitting on the floor writing this blog? Silently writing a blog, and still manage to be vile. That, folks, takes true talent.

Hope you've all had a really swell last year and were able to eat things other than potatoes and eggs. (Not really.)




Disclaimer:

It took me a long, long time to get pregnant. Roughly 3 years. A lot of shots, and procedures, and uncomfortable doctors appointments later, I managed to get pregnant. Something so many people take for granted. (hate you all too, by the way) Do not think for one second that I am not overwhelmingly, monumentally, insanely grateful for this precious little miracle baby girl. My heart is overflowing. I still, however, hate eggs and martian-grown potatoes.  

**No, I did not stab Louie the first with a knife. I assume he died from natural causes.**