I'm gonna go all Sex in the City, and start this post with a question, a-la Carrie Bradshaw (although I'm wearing less trendy clothing and I'm not currently smoking a cigarette. I also weigh more than 89 lbs soaking wet. But I've digressed...):
How do you define the word, Natural?
Of course, everybody has a vague idea of what something natural should and shouldn't be.
For example, something that is 100% organic - like, say, and apple - would be considered by most to be natural. Conversely, the energy that is now coursing though my veins after indulging in a supposedly decaf frenchvanillacoffeewithcremeandsugar from Dunkin Donuts is not good example of energy that originated from a natural source.
It is, however, a good example of regret. Would somebody please stop the earth from vibrating - I'd like to get off now.
I'm addressing this subject because for the first time this weekend, I was faced with the uncomfortable situation of having to reconcile what my ideal of natural is versus some other people's definition...specifically, on the subject of babies.
People are often surprised and thrilled when I admit I'm having twins. I get the typical "Oh wow," often followed by something like, "Do you know what they are?" and sometimes the much appreciated "But you're so tiny still" (and to those people I say YOU ROCK, and I'll be sending you a muffin basket in appreciation)
Sometimes, however, we start drifting into a more uncomfortable zone. They reach for my belly, which can be a bit startling, and while I don't blame them (honestly, that thing is freakish and just begs to be poked), I've had to reconcile with the fact that zones of my body are now considered public property (although I can't collect taxes on them. Trust me, I've looked in to it).
Another step into the "no-no" zone is when they ask, "Do twins run in your family?"
This seems like a harmless enough question, and I don't AT ALL blame them for asking. Twins are unusual, and they want to know WHY they happened. Humans are curious. Naturally curious, if I may say so (pun intended. Goodnight, everybody. Try the veal).
The reason it's a sensitive subject for me is because I feel compelled to lie. I want to say, "Why yes, my mother's father's aunt's cousin's daughter had twins" so people will nod their head and move on to a more comfortable topic, like the sore nipples I can expect and how my va-jay-jay will look after I give birth (and yes, both those subjects have been breached by people who's first names I wasn't even sure of).
And sometimes I DO lie. I say that they run in my husband's family, because his mother's father's aunt's cousin's daughter (or someone equally removed) DID have twins, just so we can talk about something - ANYTHING - else, even if it's about my private parts.
The problem is when I don't lie, and they tilt their head to the side and start thinking of non-hereditary reasons why I might be having twins.
Big problem.
This scenario happened this weekend, while I was coaching 4309256539023 children at our local horse show. The barn mothers - god love 'em - are ALL ABOUT this pregnancy. And I'm ALL ABOUT the attention and pampering I've received since they found out about the buns in my proverbial oven.
So, while sitting with a group of them, I got the usual line of questioning from one of the mothers that I don't typically interact with:
"When are you due?"
"Do you know what you're having?"
All good stuff. And then...
"Do they run in the family?"
Crap. Uhhhh, yeah, on my husband's side.
But it's not enough for her. She tilts her head, thinking, brows furrowed in concentration.
Here it comes...
Wait for it...
"Are they natural??"
KA-BOOM.
She dropped the bomb.
You see, my husband and I were diagnosed with chronic infertility. We spent a year trying to conceive without luck, and another year undergoing tests, taking pills, getting multiple rounds of IUI (if you don't know what that is...don't ask), and finally IVF. Two cycles, to be exact, with the first being an utter failure. The second...well...let's just say Hooray for modern medicine!!
Am I ashamed of undergoing infertility treatment?
Not. At All.
But do I think it's none of anybody's business?
Abso-freakin'-lutely.
Anybody who knows me knows that I'm a very open and honest person. I have no secrets. I'll tell anybody just about anything. And lord knows I'm not exactly secretive about getting IVF, otherwise I wouldn't be blabbing about it all over this blog.
But I DO like to choose who I tell about my IVF and how the subject is broached.
Talking about it one-on-one with a person who I'm at least on a first-name basis with?
Cool. Bring it on.
Talking about it in a group of 7-some-odd women, a few of which I've barely ever spoken to, and at least two of which I'm not even 100% sure of their first names and which kid they own?
Not so cool.
So I froze. I'm terrible at lying when I'm caught off guard, and I always wrestle with my dilemma over discussing IVF.
Part of me says "You're not ashamed - TELL THEM" and part of me says "This isn't an appropriate question - JUST LIE" and part of me says, "Who's kids you calling natural, beeyatch???" and part of me says "I'M HUNGRY - LET'S EAT PIE"
This time, I partially told the truth. I said that we had some reproductive help but it was still a surprise. Of course, nobody looked shocked, and nobody judged me (I think). They just nodded and moved on.
But it irritates me TO NO END that some people don't consider my kids "natural."
They are not clones.
They are not aliens (I'm pretty sure, although tomorrow's ultrasound will confirm the fact that they are - in fact - human).
They're not made out of plastic or part android.
They were made when my husband's sperm fertilized my egg.
And although that might have not happened inside my body, per se (which is...admittedly...a little creepy), they are 100% au natural.
Of course, when somebody asks me if my children are "natural," they're not implying that I'm attempting to give birth to the first ever androids. But what they WANT to know is if we had them the old fashioned way, or if there was some human intervention in the process. What they SHOULD be asking is "did you conceive naturally?" But that question sound even more personal than the former, so it is usually avoided.
But for the record, I'd like to state that my children are about as natural as they come, despite the slightly UNNATURAL means we had to go through to get them.
They may not have been conceived in the back of a car after a wild St. Patrick's Day party, but as far as I can tell, they have no artificial colors, flavors, or preservatives added to them.
100% organic, all the way.
So please don't ask me if my children are "natural," or I'll be forced to ask if your hair color/boobs/perfectly arched eyebrows are "natural," and NOBODY wants to got there.*
*Disclaimer - I'm not referring specifically to the woman who asked me the question over the weekend. She's lovely, and I have no idea if she has fake boobs or dyes her hair. I'm talking about women in general.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Being Bored: Not All It's Cracked Up To Be Since 1992
I never thought I'd say this in my adult life, but I'm bored.
Work is slow, which is both a blessing and a curse, because you have all the time in the world to do things, but not enough financial resources to make them happen (and no, building a fort out of the couch cushions is not an option . Turns out, it takes A LOT of cushions to adequately enclose someone who is nearly 5 months pregnant. Plus, Milo ate the couch cushions last year so they're all holey).
And of course, I could work on the house.
LORD KNOWS there are enough household projects that need to be finished before the kids get here.
But the problem is that every single one of them requires 1) heavy lifting, 2) the use of toxic chemicals, 3) use of the basement (which is currently a HAZMAT ZONE due to the mold), or 4) knowledge of home remodeling. And It's not exactly that I'm scared to attempt to rewire our recessed lighting, but if anyone has ever seen the movie Powder, they'd know what could happen to the twins if I electrocute myself, and I'm not gonna lie, it'd be difficult for me to love my kids if they were albinos. Where's their hair?!? THEY HAVE NO HAIR!!!!!!
And my hobbies? Turns out they're also off limits. There will be no horseback riding, mountain biking, hiking, jogging, rugby tournaments, or woman-on-woman mud wrestling for this preggo. I can't even take a decent walk, due to the hot-wet-washcloth-pressed-against-your-face weather known as summer in New Jersey (as if you needed ANOTHER reason why this state sucks. Come to NJ! If our winters don't depress you to the point of suicide, our summers will finish the job!).
And what am I left with? Reading. Sweeping. Doing the dishes and washing the dogs (although if I give them one more bath, they'll look like those creepy hairless cats, and I'll have to stop loving them too, along with my albino freak children). Sleeping is always an option, although I think I've crossed that fine line where you're asleep for more of the day than you're awake. And yes, I could just say Fuck It and watch TV all day, but then there's that darn Adult Guilt. Yanno what I'm talking about?
Adult Guilt: The inability to enjoy ANYTHING construed as relaxing or having fun, because you have responsibilities that you should be addressing, and if you're not addressing them, you're a shitty person and you're going to burn in hell for. ev. er.
So I'm sitting here, full of adult guilt, lacking in money, and physically restrained due to pregnancy. In essence, I'm bored. It's a feeling I haven't truly experienced since the summer of 1992, when my daily activities used to include 1) walking to the 7-11 to get a slurpee, 2) retreating to my girlfriends' rooms to read Seventeen magazine, and 3) begging my parents to let me have ANOTHER sleepover.
When I had a 9-5 corporate gig, I used to DREAM of being bored. I couldn't imagine what it felt like to be home, with very little to do, and the whole day at your disposal. But as they say, the grass is always greener on the other side of the cubicle, or something like that.
Now...I'm bored. And gassy. And I kind of look like a blimp.
I have tons of adult guilt, and no outlet to relieve my self-loathing for being unable to sand the cabinets or empty the guest-bedroom-soon-to-be-nursery.
Lesson of the day?
Boredom is for the young.
Guilt is for the old.
And pregnancy, although wonderful and magical and extremely effective at producing offspring, is kind of for the birds.
(Does anybody have all the "My So-Called Life" episodes?)
Work is slow, which is both a blessing and a curse, because you have all the time in the world to do things, but not enough financial resources to make them happen (and no, building a fort out of the couch cushions is not an option . Turns out, it takes A LOT of cushions to adequately enclose someone who is nearly 5 months pregnant. Plus, Milo ate the couch cushions last year so they're all holey).
And of course, I could work on the house.
LORD KNOWS there are enough household projects that need to be finished before the kids get here.
But the problem is that every single one of them requires 1) heavy lifting, 2) the use of toxic chemicals, 3) use of the basement (which is currently a HAZMAT ZONE due to the mold), or 4) knowledge of home remodeling. And It's not exactly that I'm scared to attempt to rewire our recessed lighting, but if anyone has ever seen the movie Powder, they'd know what could happen to the twins if I electrocute myself, and I'm not gonna lie, it'd be difficult for me to love my kids if they were albinos. Where's their hair?!? THEY HAVE NO HAIR!!!!!!
And my hobbies? Turns out they're also off limits. There will be no horseback riding, mountain biking, hiking, jogging, rugby tournaments, or woman-on-woman mud wrestling for this preggo. I can't even take a decent walk, due to the hot-wet-washcloth-pressed-against-your-face weather known as summer in New Jersey (as if you needed ANOTHER reason why this state sucks. Come to NJ! If our winters don't depress you to the point of suicide, our summers will finish the job!).
And what am I left with? Reading. Sweeping. Doing the dishes and washing the dogs (although if I give them one more bath, they'll look like those creepy hairless cats, and I'll have to stop loving them too, along with my albino freak children). Sleeping is always an option, although I think I've crossed that fine line where you're asleep for more of the day than you're awake. And yes, I could just say Fuck It and watch TV all day, but then there's that darn Adult Guilt. Yanno what I'm talking about?
Adult Guilt: The inability to enjoy ANYTHING construed as relaxing or having fun, because you have responsibilities that you should be addressing, and if you're not addressing them, you're a shitty person and you're going to burn in hell for. ev. er.
So I'm sitting here, full of adult guilt, lacking in money, and physically restrained due to pregnancy. In essence, I'm bored. It's a feeling I haven't truly experienced since the summer of 1992, when my daily activities used to include 1) walking to the 7-11 to get a slurpee, 2) retreating to my girlfriends' rooms to read Seventeen magazine, and 3) begging my parents to let me have ANOTHER sleepover.
When I had a 9-5 corporate gig, I used to DREAM of being bored. I couldn't imagine what it felt like to be home, with very little to do, and the whole day at your disposal. But as they say, the grass is always greener on the other side of the cubicle, or something like that.
Now...I'm bored. And gassy. And I kind of look like a blimp.
I have tons of adult guilt, and no outlet to relieve my self-loathing for being unable to sand the cabinets or empty the guest-bedroom-soon-to-be-nursery.
Lesson of the day?
Boredom is for the young.
Guilt is for the old.
And pregnancy, although wonderful and magical and extremely effective at producing offspring, is kind of for the birds.
(Does anybody have all the "My So-Called Life" episodes?)
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I Got 99 Problems But A B*tch Ain't One (Unless You Count Our Vomiting Cat)
I'm in a mood.
Blame the hormones.
Blame the COMA-INDUCING anti-nausea pill, which I had to take last night because I spent the last 4 nights awake and vomiting.
Blame my crack-head cat, who finds it necessary to vomit REPEATEDLY on my clean clothes.
Whatever.
Personally, I'm blaming Governor Christie, and his retarded pension and health care reform bill that seems singularly designed to drive hard-working firefighters and other public employees to an early grave from being overworked and underpaid.
Thanks to the increased pension and health care insurance payments, my husband, like all other NJ firefighters, will now be bringing home approximately 40% of his salary. FORTY PERCENT, people! Do you realize exactly how little money that is? Do you realize exactly how much he would have to be making to take home a reasonable income?
AARRGGHHH.
This couldn't come at a worse time.
It seems like the minute we found out we had some buns in the oven, the world has conspired to strip us of our piddling income and savings.
We ran out of bedrooms in our house, due to the fact that we were planning on ONE child and we got TWO children.
The A/C went postal and the compressor went on strike, even though the damn thing is only 4 years old.
The boiler has been giving us the stink-eye and making these HUGE, AWFUL noises, which can't be good.
Etc, etc, etc.
(Did I mention that our sun-room is being held up by 2-by-4s? LITERALLY).
And now this.
It's like the world kicked us in the balls, and then decided to give us a wedgie while we were laying curled up on the floor.
So now, despite the seemingly decent income my husband makes, he's probably going to have to take on a second job. Belts will have to be tightened. Rice and beans will be eaten. Our children will be wearing potato sacks. Our dogs will be flea-infested, and our yards will be full of living room furniture and dissected automobiles.
Okay, so it won't be THAT bad. But seriously - how does one cut back in spending when one spends very little to begin with? I rarely go shopping (except for a recent "spree" at WalMart to splurge on $7 maternity wear). We rarely eat out. Our vacations costs are limited to campsite fees and dehydrated meals, and we have zero debt, other than the house and our truck, which we bought new last year.
We don't even have HBO, for cryin' out loud!
So where are we supposed to cut? Eat less food? Cancel cable (which would end up costing us MORE money just to have internet alone)? Stop drinking water? I just don't understand how we can tighten our belts when we're already on the last hole?
ESPECIALLY we're looking at a future that involves up to 20 diaper changes a day.
I'm sure we'll make ends meet. People always do. But I find it unfair that we should have to clip coupons and make do with Milo-ingested couches when both my husband and I are educated and employed.
We've worked hard.
We've managed to save.
And for what? For that ass-clown Christie to rape us, take our money, and then spit on us for good measure.
*sigh
Our household needs are small. We don't dream of 46-inch plasma TVs or Audis. All we want is a family, a roof over our heads (that isn't about to collapse in on us at any second), and the ability to enjoy life a little.
But these days, wishing for enough money to make ends meet seems like wishing for world peace...
A nice idea - but entirely impossible.
Blame the hormones.
Blame the COMA-INDUCING anti-nausea pill, which I had to take last night because I spent the last 4 nights awake and vomiting.
Blame my crack-head cat, who finds it necessary to vomit REPEATEDLY on my clean clothes.
Whatever.
Personally, I'm blaming Governor Christie, and his retarded pension and health care reform bill that seems singularly designed to drive hard-working firefighters and other public employees to an early grave from being overworked and underpaid.
Thanks to the increased pension and health care insurance payments, my husband, like all other NJ firefighters, will now be bringing home approximately 40% of his salary. FORTY PERCENT, people! Do you realize exactly how little money that is? Do you realize exactly how much he would have to be making to take home a reasonable income?
AARRGGHHH.
This couldn't come at a worse time.
It seems like the minute we found out we had some buns in the oven, the world has conspired to strip us of our piddling income and savings.
We ran out of bedrooms in our house, due to the fact that we were planning on ONE child and we got TWO children.
The A/C went postal and the compressor went on strike, even though the damn thing is only 4 years old.
The boiler has been giving us the stink-eye and making these HUGE, AWFUL noises, which can't be good.
Etc, etc, etc.
(Did I mention that our sun-room is being held up by 2-by-4s? LITERALLY).
And now this.
It's like the world kicked us in the balls, and then decided to give us a wedgie while we were laying curled up on the floor.
So now, despite the seemingly decent income my husband makes, he's probably going to have to take on a second job. Belts will have to be tightened. Rice and beans will be eaten. Our children will be wearing potato sacks. Our dogs will be flea-infested, and our yards will be full of living room furniture and dissected automobiles.
Okay, so it won't be THAT bad. But seriously - how does one cut back in spending when one spends very little to begin with? I rarely go shopping (except for a recent "spree" at WalMart to splurge on $7 maternity wear). We rarely eat out. Our vacations costs are limited to campsite fees and dehydrated meals, and we have zero debt, other than the house and our truck, which we bought new last year.
We don't even have HBO, for cryin' out loud!
So where are we supposed to cut? Eat less food? Cancel cable (which would end up costing us MORE money just to have internet alone)? Stop drinking water? I just don't understand how we can tighten our belts when we're already on the last hole?
ESPECIALLY we're looking at a future that involves up to 20 diaper changes a day.
I'm sure we'll make ends meet. People always do. But I find it unfair that we should have to clip coupons and make do with Milo-ingested couches when both my husband and I are educated and employed.
We've worked hard.
We've managed to save.
And for what? For that ass-clown Christie to rape us, take our money, and then spit on us for good measure.
*sigh
Our household needs are small. We don't dream of 46-inch plasma TVs or Audis. All we want is a family, a roof over our heads (that isn't about to collapse in on us at any second), and the ability to enjoy life a little.
But these days, wishing for enough money to make ends meet seems like wishing for world peace...
A nice idea - but entirely impossible.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thar She Blows!!
I have a dilemma.
Tomorrow, despite my best judgment, I will be heading to the Jersey Shore for a few hours to soak up the sand, sun, and - most likely - AIDS from the hypodermic needles that litter the shores.
Now - there are two kinds of people out there (and by "out there" I pretty much mean the tri-state area because, according to us, we're the only people that count): 1) people who go to the beach, and 2) people who go to the mountains. I am, BY FAR, a mountain person. Shade, cool breezes, and social isolation are right up my alley, as are the activities that can be done in said mountains (like horseback riding, backpacking, and....extra-cirricular tent activities. Giggidy).
However, since riding around on a 1500-lb animal 6 feet off the ground or trudging 15 miles with 50 lbs on your back is generally frowned upon when one is "in a condition," I'll be turning to the shore for my recreation this summer. God help me. God help us all.
The Jersey Shore is not for the faint of heart. It's crowded. It's noisy. It's dirty, and it's full of fat people in teeny, tiny bathing suits. I've also heard there's something called a "Snookie" at the Jersey Shore. I don't really know what it is, but I've heard it's squat, round, loud, and the color of a Dorito. All of these elements terrify me, as they should any rational human being. Why people flock to the Jersey Shore year after year to spend their hard-earned two weeks of vacation packed like sardines on a swath of beach no larger than my yard, getting elbowed by some fat, greasy man named "Carl" and getting sand kicked in their face by his two adorable little monsters who have just run through their 3' x 3' beach camp is beyond me. ESPECIALLY when there are beautiful mountains (well, hills) within a few hours' drive. Okay, so the mountains may have dirt. And bugs. And bears. And mountain folk. But at least they won't be blasting their radios and sunning their goods within arms reach (although I hear the bears have become quite liberal these days).
Nonetheless, I have decided that the beach is a more appropriate place for me this summer, what with the lounging and eating and such. And these days, I sure do enjoy lounging and eating.
BUT...(and we finally get to the heart of my problem)...my maternity suit has not yet been delivered. Meaning that the only thing between me and the world will be a hot little two-piece designed for someone significantly *less* pregnant than I.
And so brings forth a question as old as time itself: Should a pregnant woman bear her belly in a skimpy bikini, or should she cover that shit up.
Part of me is proud of my belly. Knowing what I went through to get these twins, I kind of feel entitled to walk around in my impregnated state. However, I'm also considerate enough to recognize that others may not appreciate my hardships, OR the miracle of life, preferring instead for a view that is not obstructed by a walking host and her parasites.
I also have a distinct fear that a sailor with one leg will get a view of my pale, engorged stomach and try to harpoon me to avenge his leg.
"THAR SHE BLOWS!!!!"
And I'll have to be all, "Bitch, I ain'tcho white whale"
And he'll be all , "Arrrggghh, ready yer lances, fellas"
And then I'll have to go all Jersey Shore on his ass, and summon the dreaded beast Snookie to smote him. It'll be ugly, and we may get our beach tags revoked. Not good.
So what do you think, people?
Show the goods, or allow people to keep their lunches down?
Tomorrow, despite my best judgment, I will be heading to the Jersey Shore for a few hours to soak up the sand, sun, and - most likely - AIDS from the hypodermic needles that litter the shores.
Now - there are two kinds of people out there (and by "out there" I pretty much mean the tri-state area because, according to us, we're the only people that count): 1) people who go to the beach, and 2) people who go to the mountains. I am, BY FAR, a mountain person. Shade, cool breezes, and social isolation are right up my alley, as are the activities that can be done in said mountains (like horseback riding, backpacking, and....extra-cirricular tent activities. Giggidy).
However, since riding around on a 1500-lb animal 6 feet off the ground or trudging 15 miles with 50 lbs on your back is generally frowned upon when one is "in a condition," I'll be turning to the shore for my recreation this summer. God help me. God help us all.
The Jersey Shore is not for the faint of heart. It's crowded. It's noisy. It's dirty, and it's full of fat people in teeny, tiny bathing suits. I've also heard there's something called a "Snookie" at the Jersey Shore. I don't really know what it is, but I've heard it's squat, round, loud, and the color of a Dorito. All of these elements terrify me, as they should any rational human being. Why people flock to the Jersey Shore year after year to spend their hard-earned two weeks of vacation packed like sardines on a swath of beach no larger than my yard, getting elbowed by some fat, greasy man named "Carl" and getting sand kicked in their face by his two adorable little monsters who have just run through their 3' x 3' beach camp is beyond me. ESPECIALLY when there are beautiful mountains (well, hills) within a few hours' drive. Okay, so the mountains may have dirt. And bugs. And bears. And mountain folk. But at least they won't be blasting their radios and sunning their goods within arms reach (although I hear the bears have become quite liberal these days).
Nonetheless, I have decided that the beach is a more appropriate place for me this summer, what with the lounging and eating and such. And these days, I sure do enjoy lounging and eating.
BUT...(and we finally get to the heart of my problem)...my maternity suit has not yet been delivered. Meaning that the only thing between me and the world will be a hot little two-piece designed for someone significantly *less* pregnant than I.
And so brings forth a question as old as time itself: Should a pregnant woman bear her belly in a skimpy bikini, or should she cover that shit up.
Part of me is proud of my belly. Knowing what I went through to get these twins, I kind of feel entitled to walk around in my impregnated state. However, I'm also considerate enough to recognize that others may not appreciate my hardships, OR the miracle of life, preferring instead for a view that is not obstructed by a walking host and her parasites.
I also have a distinct fear that a sailor with one leg will get a view of my pale, engorged stomach and try to harpoon me to avenge his leg.
"THAR SHE BLOWS!!!!"
And I'll have to be all, "Bitch, I ain'tcho white whale"
And he'll be all , "Arrrggghh, ready yer lances, fellas"
And then I'll have to go all Jersey Shore on his ass, and summon the dreaded beast Snookie to smote him. It'll be ugly, and we may get our beach tags revoked. Not good.
So what do you think, people?
Show the goods, or allow people to keep their lunches down?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Why Boys These Days Are Pussies, And Being Gay Rocks
So, I have this irrational fear that my children are going to end up like Justin Bieber.
Not that I have anything against the kid...per se.
Its just that having boys comes with certain advantages and certain drawbacks. Sure, you might end up in the ER so often they initiate a Frequent Flyers program in your honor (present to be treated for 4 broken limbs and get the 5th limb free!!). An then there's that whole puberty thing, which is beyond uncomfortable for all involved ("Logan, put that encyclopedia down! you've been walking around holding it for days...OHHHHHHHHHHHH. Never mind.)
But one of the advantages of having boys is that you shouldn't have to do their hair.
Ever.
Like, in a million years.
Like, if you touch their hair they squirm and say "mooooommmmm" and run away.
So what am I supposed to do if one of these kid comes at me with a picture, a comb, and a can of hairspray and says, "Mommy, I want to be like him."?!?!
Am I supposed to do his hair for him?
If I refuse, will it only make the problem worse, like parents who refuse to let their daughter date, so she starts going to the mall in short shorts and tube tops and corn rows (even though she's white) and ends up losing her virginity to a biker named Masher, who eventually knocks her up and I have to be a grandmother at 40, which would totally put a kink in my plans to be an amateur porn star? (Another advantage of having boys I'd like to point out. Hey, it's not THEIR problem if their corn-rowed cracker-ass girlfriends get knocked up).
And then there's the whole EMO thing, which I didn't even understand until an old coworker explained it to me. We were on our lunch break and some teenager walked by with his hair all combed forward and to the side and eyeliner and skinny jeans and I was like, “Christ, kid, can you get that hair out of your face already?”
And my friend was like, “I think they call that ‘emo.’”
And I was all, “Why would they call it that? He doesn’t look anything LIKE an emu!”
And she was all, “Not emu, EMO. Jesus, can you get your hearing checked all ready?”
nd I was like, “No, I’m pretty sure they call that the GAY.”
And she was like, “Not these days.”
And I was like, “I know. Everything is so PC anymore. Fine, HOMOSEXUAL, okay?”
And she was like, “No, I mean, that style isn’t just for gay guys anymore.”
And I was all, “You mean HOMOSEXUAL guys.”
And she was like, “I hate you so much.”
But yeah, eyeliner and a coiffe hair and tight tight jeans and a high level of emotional expression apparently EXUDES sexuality to the ladies these days.
...Which almost makes me hope my boys are gay, so at least they'll man up a little, wear jeans that are appropriately loose, and be willing to put some heavy boxes in the attic without having to sit in the corner to write a poem about the injustice of it all while flicking a lighter on and off again.
So what's the point of this post?
Am I scared of my kids being gay?
Absolutely not. As long as their happy, that's all that matters to me.
...HAPPY being the operative word here.
I have no problem with my boys being romantically involved with men, doing all sorts of...uh...romantic man things with their gay lovers (and I won't continue, lest things get REALLY uncomfortable).
But having sons with painstakingly placed hair who wear make-up and are afraid to shovel my walk when it snows out?
THAT is a truly horrible thought.
After all - what's the point of procreation if I have to shovel my OWN driveway??!?
Dear Future Sons
For the record, you are not allowed to have a hairstyle that's more complicated and time-consuming to create than mine. You are not allowed to wear jeans that look like they were painted on. You are not allowed to wear anything that can be purchased in Sephora. And you are not allowed to take smoky beauty shots of you smiling, your head tilted slightly, in front of sparkly lights.
You ARE allowed to have male lovers, provided that both you and they are able to lift 50 lbs or more. And you ARE allowed to knock up your slutty girlfriends, provided that you deny it later.
Hugs and kisses,
Mom
Not that I have anything against the kid...per se.
Its just that having boys comes with certain advantages and certain drawbacks. Sure, you might end up in the ER so often they initiate a Frequent Flyers program in your honor (present to be treated for 4 broken limbs and get the 5th limb free!!). An then there's that whole puberty thing, which is beyond uncomfortable for all involved ("Logan, put that encyclopedia down! you've been walking around holding it for days...OHHHHHHHHHHHH. Never mind.)
But one of the advantages of having boys is that you shouldn't have to do their hair.
Ever.
Like, in a million years.
Like, if you touch their hair they squirm and say "mooooommmmm" and run away.
So what am I supposed to do if one of these kid comes at me with a picture, a comb, and a can of hairspray and says, "Mommy, I want to be like him."?!?!
Am I supposed to do his hair for him?
If I refuse, will it only make the problem worse, like parents who refuse to let their daughter date, so she starts going to the mall in short shorts and tube tops and corn rows (even though she's white) and ends up losing her virginity to a biker named Masher, who eventually knocks her up and I have to be a grandmother at 40, which would totally put a kink in my plans to be an amateur porn star? (Another advantage of having boys I'd like to point out. Hey, it's not THEIR problem if their corn-rowed cracker-ass girlfriends get knocked up).
And then there's the whole EMO thing, which I didn't even understand until an old coworker explained it to me. We were on our lunch break and some teenager walked by with his hair all combed forward and to the side and eyeliner and skinny jeans and I was like, “Christ, kid, can you get that hair out of your face already?”
And my friend was like, “I think they call that ‘emo.’”
And I was all, “Why would they call it that? He doesn’t look anything LIKE an emu!”
And she was all, “Not emu, EMO. Jesus, can you get your hearing checked all ready?”
nd I was like, “No, I’m pretty sure they call that the GAY.”
And she was like, “Not these days.”
And I was like, “I know. Everything is so PC anymore. Fine, HOMOSEXUAL, okay?”
And she was like, “No, I mean, that style isn’t just for gay guys anymore.”
And I was all, “You mean HOMOSEXUAL guys.”
And she was like, “I hate you so much.”
But yeah, eyeliner and a coiffe hair and tight tight jeans and a high level of emotional expression apparently EXUDES sexuality to the ladies these days.
...Which almost makes me hope my boys are gay, so at least they'll man up a little, wear jeans that are appropriately loose, and be willing to put some heavy boxes in the attic without having to sit in the corner to write a poem about the injustice of it all while flicking a lighter on and off again.
So what's the point of this post?
Am I scared of my kids being gay?
Absolutely not. As long as their happy, that's all that matters to me.
...HAPPY being the operative word here.
I have no problem with my boys being romantically involved with men, doing all sorts of...uh...romantic man things with their gay lovers (and I won't continue, lest things get REALLY uncomfortable).
But having sons with painstakingly placed hair who wear make-up and are afraid to shovel my walk when it snows out?
THAT is a truly horrible thought.
After all - what's the point of procreation if I have to shovel my OWN driveway??!?
Dear Future Sons
For the record, you are not allowed to have a hairstyle that's more complicated and time-consuming to create than mine. You are not allowed to wear jeans that look like they were painted on. You are not allowed to wear anything that can be purchased in Sephora. And you are not allowed to take smoky beauty shots of you smiling, your head tilted slightly, in front of sparkly lights.
You ARE allowed to have male lovers, provided that both you and they are able to lift 50 lbs or more. And you ARE allowed to knock up your slutty girlfriends, provided that you deny it later.
Hugs and kisses,
Mom
Saturday, June 11, 2011
AGAIN with the Chuck Norris?!?
Okay, so I admit it.
I might have some teeny, tiny hangups about pregnancy.
Like, is that a chip on your shoulder, or did someone just shoot you with a cannon?!?!?
I can't help it.
To say that my conception was "challenging" is like saying that Nick Nolte could use a root touch-up.
So yeah, I have a little bit of a chip on my shoulder when women I know have "happy accidents" or "weren't really trying" or what have you. Whoops, we're pregnant. What a surprise! Who knew those rumors about unprotected sex were true!!
Do I think these women are less deserving of their pregnancies?
Yes.
Whoops, I mean no. (Can I say yes?)
Well, kind of.
It's just that I see so many couples taking their pregnancies and children for granted. They complain constantly about their pregnancy symptoms or child rearing responsibilities. The pregnant ones go on and on about how crappy they feel, and how they miss their favorite foods and activities, and how pregnancy is SO HARD and you really should feel bad for them. The parents look at you with a sigh and say "Oh, you think you want one NOW, but wait 'till you have one. THEN you'll see..." As if you can't see with your own two eyes that their monster of a son or daughter is completely out of control, and is currently choking the dog, and excuse me, there's an easy solution to your problem and it's called DISCIPLINE.
The problem is that these people have no idea how hard it can be for some folks to get pregnant. These people had a crazy St. Patrick's day and woke up pregnant. Oops.
Whereas I spent years and a butt load of money getting poked and prodded and tested and inseminated and lord knows what else. And 99% of the time, these efforts failed and I was left devastated.
So did I earn these kids more than those happy accidents?
You bet your sweet ass I did.
And am I probably more grateful and appreciative than these women?
Considering I was facing chronic infertility and looking into adoption....I think it's safe to say yes. HELL yes. ABSOLUTELY.
I'm fully convinced that nobody can know what it's like to come face to face with infertility until they've been there. And nobody can be as grateful for a pregnancy as someone who was told that it would probably never happen for them.
INFERTILITY, REPRESENT!!!
True, I'm going to complain about my pregnancy and the kids occasionally. I'll have some funny story about hemorrhoids or pee in my mouth, and I'll speak, tongue in cheek, of how awful my life is. But don't ever, for ONE SECOND, think that I'm not 1 million percent grateful for these kids. They're everything to me. They're a miracle. And I'll be damned if I won't acknowledge how lucky I am to have them.
So a word to the wise out there.
Don't come complaining to me about your pregnancy aches and pains.
Don't glance over at your out-of-control child and ask me "Are you SURE about this?" with a look in your eyes that says haha I'm kidding but not really please kill me.
Don't complain about your spouse not pitching in and how hard your life is because you have to watch the kids all the time while he plays video games and goes out drinking (honestly, you should have known what kind of man he was PRIOR to procreation).
Because I may be 17 weeks pregnant and considerably less agile than I once was, but I'm willing to bet that I can still roundhouse kick you in the face.
The moral here? Be grateful what you have, people. Or I'll go Chuck Norris on your ass.
I might have some teeny, tiny hangups about pregnancy.
Like, is that a chip on your shoulder, or did someone just shoot you with a cannon?!?!?
I can't help it.
To say that my conception was "challenging" is like saying that Nick Nolte could use a root touch-up.
Somewhere out there, a gay hairdresser just lost it's wings.
So yeah, I have a little bit of a chip on my shoulder when women I know have "happy accidents" or "weren't really trying" or what have you. Whoops, we're pregnant. What a surprise! Who knew those rumors about unprotected sex were true!!
Do I think these women are less deserving of their pregnancies?
Yes.
Whoops, I mean no. (Can I say yes?)
Well, kind of.
It's just that I see so many couples taking their pregnancies and children for granted. They complain constantly about their pregnancy symptoms or child rearing responsibilities. The pregnant ones go on and on about how crappy they feel, and how they miss their favorite foods and activities, and how pregnancy is SO HARD and you really should feel bad for them. The parents look at you with a sigh and say "Oh, you think you want one NOW, but wait 'till you have one. THEN you'll see..." As if you can't see with your own two eyes that their monster of a son or daughter is completely out of control, and is currently choking the dog, and excuse me, there's an easy solution to your problem and it's called DISCIPLINE.
The problem is that these people have no idea how hard it can be for some folks to get pregnant. These people had a crazy St. Patrick's day and woke up pregnant. Oops.
Whereas I spent years and a butt load of money getting poked and prodded and tested and inseminated and lord knows what else. And 99% of the time, these efforts failed and I was left devastated.
So did I earn these kids more than those happy accidents?
You bet your sweet ass I did.
And am I probably more grateful and appreciative than these women?
Considering I was facing chronic infertility and looking into adoption....I think it's safe to say yes. HELL yes. ABSOLUTELY.
I'm fully convinced that nobody can know what it's like to come face to face with infertility until they've been there. And nobody can be as grateful for a pregnancy as someone who was told that it would probably never happen for them.
INFERTILITY, REPRESENT!!!
True, I'm going to complain about my pregnancy and the kids occasionally. I'll have some funny story about hemorrhoids or pee in my mouth, and I'll speak, tongue in cheek, of how awful my life is. But don't ever, for ONE SECOND, think that I'm not 1 million percent grateful for these kids. They're everything to me. They're a miracle. And I'll be damned if I won't acknowledge how lucky I am to have them.
So a word to the wise out there.
Don't come complaining to me about your pregnancy aches and pains.
Don't glance over at your out-of-control child and ask me "Are you SURE about this?" with a look in your eyes that says haha I'm kidding but not really please kill me.
Don't complain about your spouse not pitching in and how hard your life is because you have to watch the kids all the time while he plays video games and goes out drinking (honestly, you should have known what kind of man he was PRIOR to procreation).
Because I may be 17 weeks pregnant and considerably less agile than I once was, but I'm willing to bet that I can still roundhouse kick you in the face.
The moral here? Be grateful what you have, people. Or I'll go Chuck Norris on your ass.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Just What You Wanted....ANOTHER Blog!
This is my fourth blog.
I should probably be on that show "Hoarders." They'd come in and I'd be hunched over at my desk with 50 blogs going simultaneously, all of them scrawny and not fully developed and covered with viruses. And then they'd have an intervention and they'd be like, "Do you REALLY NEED a blog about pickles??" and I'd Hum and Haw and get all anxious and end up saying "Well, let's keep it - FOR NOW - because I think pickles are really important and I have 2 followers on that one"
My first blog was awesome. Epic, if I may say so (although my husband informed me that the term "epic" is now officially out of style). I had tons of followers. I blogged every freaking day. It was funny - nay - HYSTERICAL. I talked a lot about my love of cake and my loathing of the corporate world.
It had a "3 shark 1 moon" shirt in it.
Good Stuff.
But then I quit my job and the anger kind of went fizz and I was all laid back and hippie like, and it just didn't translate well into blogging.
My second blog was...interesting. Something about preparing for the zombie apocalypse. It started out good. But to be honest, I got knocked up with twin boys shortly thereafter, and quickly learned that it's hard to prepare for the zombie apocalypse when you're preparing for the baby apocalypse. (words to live by, kids. Write 'em down). So I chose baby preparation over zombie preparation because out of the two potential circumstances, quite frankly, the baby one is more frightening.
My third blog was just lame. But in my defense, I never really intended on going public with it (hence the absence of a link). I started it when I found out I was preggo. It was a lot grumpy and sentimental, very little funny, entertaining, or even interesting, and absolutely chock full 'o vomit. Needless to say, that blog will remain for my eyes only.
And now...my fourth blog. It's designed to be all about this pregnancy and - if science has taught us anything - the one or more children that tend to result from pregnancy. I know what you're thinking: Wow, that's a GREAT IDEA for a blog. Absolutely NOBODY has EVER started a blog to talk about their expanding family.
*sarcasm indeed detected
To you "nay-sayers" I argue yes, but most family blogs don't have the volume of cursing or bad parenting that this blog will likely have. In addition, I'd like to point out that most family blogs are written sober. And I'm not saying that I'll be drunk when I write these posts, but I will say that sleep deprivation does funny things to me, and if I happen to end up with a lampshade on my head singing Bjork songs...well....it probably has nothing to do with the 5 glasses of chardonnay I just pounded.
But before I launch this bad boy of a blog, let's set some ground rules.
1. I will not be blogging every day. Yes, I used to blog every day. But that was on my previous employers' time. Now, I'm the boss, and to tell you the truth, I can be kind of a hard-ass. I'll blog when I'm not working. Or watching Bridezillas. Or....yanno...doing pregnancy- or parenting-related things (mostly in the form of managing body functions. Mine and theirs).
2. I can't promise that I'll be funny all the time. I'll be funny sometimes. But I had a hard time being funny when I was in my first trimester, vomiting 10 times a day, and something tells me it'll be even harder to be funny when I'm up to my elbows in babies. As my Aunt Kathy would say, "Hold up your watches...it's getting deep in here" But I promise I'll try. It's the best I can do.
3. I also PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE I'll keep the sentimentality to a minimum. That goes for words AND pictures. The last thing this world needs is another blog littered with pictures of children with food on their faces and a caption, "Cooper needs a bath." I swear - I'll save it for Facebook.
4. There WILL BE CURSING and other offensive content in this blog. You've been warned. I don't want to hear it later. If you're under 18 and reading this blog - don't. Go read Harry Potter or something (Because let's all take a moment to remember that HARRY POTTER IS A CHILDREN'S SERIES, people. If you're 58 and think Harry Potter is the greatest book series ever, you should probably stop wasting your time reading Harry Potter and finally get that G.E.D. you've been dreaming about).
I'm sure there should be more rules. Maybe I'll think of them later, after I'm allowed to have coffee again. For now, I think that'll do.
So welcome to my blog. I could give you some nice closing words for this post, but anyone who knows me knows I SUCK at ending posts. So I'll leave you with this picture of Chuck Norris kicking the head off of a kangaroo.
(Find THAT in another family blog, Bitches!!)
I should probably be on that show "Hoarders." They'd come in and I'd be hunched over at my desk with 50 blogs going simultaneously, all of them scrawny and not fully developed and covered with viruses. And then they'd have an intervention and they'd be like, "Do you REALLY NEED a blog about pickles??" and I'd Hum and Haw and get all anxious and end up saying "Well, let's keep it - FOR NOW - because I think pickles are really important and I have 2 followers on that one"
My first blog was awesome. Epic, if I may say so (although my husband informed me that the term "epic" is now officially out of style). I had tons of followers. I blogged every freaking day. It was funny - nay - HYSTERICAL. I talked a lot about my love of cake and my loathing of the corporate world.
It had a "3 shark 1 moon" shirt in it.
Good Stuff.
But then I quit my job and the anger kind of went fizz and I was all laid back and hippie like, and it just didn't translate well into blogging.
My second blog was...interesting. Something about preparing for the zombie apocalypse. It started out good. But to be honest, I got knocked up with twin boys shortly thereafter, and quickly learned that it's hard to prepare for the zombie apocalypse when you're preparing for the baby apocalypse. (words to live by, kids. Write 'em down). So I chose baby preparation over zombie preparation because out of the two potential circumstances, quite frankly, the baby one is more frightening.
My third blog was just lame. But in my defense, I never really intended on going public with it (hence the absence of a link). I started it when I found out I was preggo. It was a lot grumpy and sentimental, very little funny, entertaining, or even interesting, and absolutely chock full 'o vomit. Needless to say, that blog will remain for my eyes only.
And now...my fourth blog. It's designed to be all about this pregnancy and - if science has taught us anything - the one or more children that tend to result from pregnancy. I know what you're thinking: Wow, that's a GREAT IDEA for a blog. Absolutely NOBODY has EVER started a blog to talk about their expanding family.
*sarcasm indeed detected
To you "nay-sayers" I argue yes, but most family blogs don't have the volume of cursing or bad parenting that this blog will likely have. In addition, I'd like to point out that most family blogs are written sober. And I'm not saying that I'll be drunk when I write these posts, but I will say that sleep deprivation does funny things to me, and if I happen to end up with a lampshade on my head singing Bjork songs...well....it probably has nothing to do with the 5 glasses of chardonnay I just pounded.
But before I launch this bad boy of a blog, let's set some ground rules.
1. I will not be blogging every day. Yes, I used to blog every day. But that was on my previous employers' time. Now, I'm the boss, and to tell you the truth, I can be kind of a hard-ass. I'll blog when I'm not working. Or watching Bridezillas. Or....yanno...doing pregnancy- or parenting-related things (mostly in the form of managing body functions. Mine and theirs).
2. I can't promise that I'll be funny all the time. I'll be funny sometimes. But I had a hard time being funny when I was in my first trimester, vomiting 10 times a day, and something tells me it'll be even harder to be funny when I'm up to my elbows in babies. As my Aunt Kathy would say, "Hold up your watches...it's getting deep in here" But I promise I'll try. It's the best I can do.
3. I also PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE I'll keep the sentimentality to a minimum. That goes for words AND pictures. The last thing this world needs is another blog littered with pictures of children with food on their faces and a caption, "Cooper needs a bath." I swear - I'll save it for Facebook.
4. There WILL BE CURSING and other offensive content in this blog. You've been warned. I don't want to hear it later. If you're under 18 and reading this blog - don't. Go read Harry Potter or something (Because let's all take a moment to remember that HARRY POTTER IS A CHILDREN'S SERIES, people. If you're 58 and think Harry Potter is the greatest book series ever, you should probably stop wasting your time reading Harry Potter and finally get that G.E.D. you've been dreaming about).
I'm sure there should be more rules. Maybe I'll think of them later, after I'm allowed to have coffee again. For now, I think that'll do.
So welcome to my blog. I could give you some nice closing words for this post, but anyone who knows me knows I SUCK at ending posts. So I'll leave you with this picture of Chuck Norris kicking the head off of a kangaroo.
(Find THAT in another family blog, Bitches!!)
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