A Festival and a Fail

Happy Monday? No. I didn't think so.

We went to the Temecula Valley Wine and Balloon Festival yesterday. And while we missed the 6 am launch of the balloons (throw my sucker in the dirt and kick it), we did not miss the wine part.

Umm, should we be worried? Does this show us a glimpse into her future?

Yesterday was also the San Diego Half Marathon. We missed that, however, about 8 months into my pregnancy, I hear my cell phone beep one day while Husband was at work. As I reached for my phone, I realized I'd have to get out of my current position to be able to reach it. So I lurched myself to the left, then I used some other muscles to lurch myself to the right--this continued until I had enough momentum to roll my whale-sized belly onto my actual side, after which I roll down off of the couch and onto my knees on the floor. Then I used the ottoman to push myself up to standing--hearing my poor knees cracking the whole time. My dogs sat nearby, watching--the only thing missing was a box of popcorn and a soda because they were clearly entertained by the scene I was creating. Anyway, I finally made it over to my phone even though I was out of breath and saw that my dear husband had sent me a schedule of all the 5Ks, 10Ks, and half marathons we would be participating in the upcoming year. The rest is history really, I walked calmly to the laundry room where my husband keeps some tools, located the hammer and smashed my phone to death. After which I sat waiting on my husband to get home from work, hammer in hand. 

NO, y'all! I'm kidding! But you probably believed me didn't you!? I'm sure I've convinced you all how insanely scarily crazy I really am. 

Anyway...he got home and asked if I received the schedule that he sent me to which I replied, "Yes." I waited for laughter or at least a "oh giant pregnant wife who hasn't slept or pooped in 78 months, I'm just kidding."---this didn't happen. Quickly, I realized he was serious. This mother effer was serious. Pride took over and I went along with the plan...knowing that even before pregnancy, I wasn't much of a runner--like, at all. To say that I loathe running would be a small understatement. I like the results of running, but unfortunately the results never outweighed the horrendous hate of the actual act. 

Fast forward to 6 weeks postpartum. Husband says, "Can't you workout again now?" Daggers shot towards him out of my eyes. "Because I googled and it says that women can workout as soon as they feel like it after birth." 

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Well in that case, I guess I'll put on my running shoes, buddy. So I ran. After all, we were training for the dang Iron Man so I needed to be ready! To his defense ladies, (because I know you are appalled at his suggestion and your jaws are probably dragging the ground while you google how-to-build-a-bomb-and-send-it-in-an-envelope-to-this-bitch's-husband) he didn't mean I *needed* to work out, body-wise. He was actually very complimentary about my giant pregnant belly and body afterwards. And if you know him, this is probably surprising. He just wanted us to both to do these damn marathons. What can I say? He's a planner. And an idea guy. And a go-getter. Which happens to be my polar opposite. It makes life interesting to say the least.

.......SO I'm running. He's in front of me with the dogs AND the stroller and I'm quickly falling behind. 

It was a bummer and I was questioning my sanity, but it was good to pretend to have the freedom of my body back after 10 long months. And, umm, just in case you are going to start running again soon after having a baby----heads up, you may be absolutely certain that your uterus is falling out of your vagina. I mean, you may not. You may be one of those women that don't feel like they've left their reproductive organ in the middle of the street--and for that we, other women, hate you. So shut up. And go away. And if your uterus didn't feel similar to what I would assume over-full cow udders feel as the cow is running for its life from a crocodile then lucky you, Miss Uterus of the Freaking Year. 

Fast forward to a few weekends ago--about 5 months after having Baby T. And how is my training going? Umm, its not going. I hate running! I admit it. I can't make myself WANT to do it! But, a tiny little 5K is coming up and I totally forgot that I signed us up. WTH was I thinking? Its the Coronado Bay Bridge Run. What's that you ask? Its this:

source

So, there we were. Waking up balls early to go run over this bridge. I was less than excited. I'd never done any kind of organized run before so I didn't know what to expect. I thought about feigning illness--not because I didn't want to do the run (because who were we kidding? I knew I'd probably walk a lot of it) but because I was scared we would get bombed. I don't like big crowds anyway and I was convinced there would be a shooter or something crazy happen. Gawd, y'all...what is wrong with meeee? I'm one of those people that looks normal but I'm not! At. all. 

Because I wouldn't take Baby T without her carseat in the shuttles that were taking people from Coronado over the bridge into downtown San Diego (where the race started), we were forced to drive...and find parking in the chaos. Husband is a real stickler for punctuality and told me the night before we had to leave by 7:14 am. "Not 7:15," he said, "We need to be in the car at 7:14." 

"Okay," I nodded, wide-eyed, implying I understood the necessity of being at the "race" on time. Welllllll..............we departed at 7:24ish. Wah wahhh. Fail. Husband was annoyed and I didn't have the slightest clue what the big deal was. It wasn't like we were actually running the race portion. 

Turns out, he knew best. We spent the entire time behind the elderly walkers. I mean I was cheering them on, but it doesn't do much for your self-esteem to be behind them let me tell you. Shamefully enough, I was still hideously tired at the end of it.  

Single and ready to....

pass the fu&k out.

The husband was out of town this week. He likes to tell me how much he works and how long his days are and how hard the wind blows and how bad it hurts to get sand in his eyes. He's in the desert, yes. He is also hanging out with a bunch of dudes, blowing shit up. Now, I could be wrong, but that mostly sounds like any guys dream week. Not only do they get a break from their lovely wives, but they also get to be warriors and bomb the hell out of things with no repercussions.

Doesn't he look cool and important and yummy and warrior-istic? 

Oh, me? What did I do while he was away besides long for his return? (I wouldn't even read all the crap that I'm about to type out if I were you.) 

Wake up, feed the baby, change the baby, walk the dogs, scold Fritz for trying to fight two dogs, scold Fritz for biting his brother because he couldn't get to said dogs, soothe screaming mad baby because she wants to take a nap but doesn't actually want to take a nap, brush my teeth, workout, stop halfway through, feed baby, change baby, pet the dog, talk sweet to the dog because of my guilt for ignoring dog, watch dog scoot his butt across the floor for the 1700th time, make a note to call the vet, spray anti-itch oil on dog's butt, then blow on it so it will dry before he licks it off, eat a protein bar, warm coffee from 3 hours earlier, forget it in the microwave, wonder what the microwave really does to our food, coo at baby, love on the baby, try to sing a song but I don't know one, feed the baby, rock the baby, she backhands me, I rock more and harder, she screams, she's mad, she pokes me in the eye, I rock and rock, baby falls asleep, I creep to the crib to lay her down, she wakes up bright-eyed and laughs at me, I take a shower, feed baby, change baby, walk the dogs, the same dog that Fritz tried to bite this morning is in front of our house again, wish ill-will on the old lady who walks her perfectly well-behaved dog next to my house, bring dogs back home, continue walking baby, walk faster to get nervous energy out, come home, take trash out while baby sleeps in stroller, baby wakes up, hold baby while I pee because now we apparently have terrible separation anxiety...feed baby, play with baby........................microwave a potato and drink wine from a bottle after baby goes to bed.

Right back at ya, husband. 

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.