Season's Greetings (It's a Movember Thing)

Merry Christmas from the Slapstick Motherhood Family

Love, Simon, Isaac, Lily, Brian, and Brian's Mustache.

Alcohol: Making Parenting More Bearable Since The Invention of Babies

Oh No!
Your baby of choice just took a shit with enough PSI to leave a skid mark from his butt hole to his shoulder blades! What are you going to do?!?

Hi. I'm Lily.
You might remember me from such blog posts as Everything You Never Wanted To Know About Delivery (Srsly, Don't Read This Post), Circ? You Mean Like Cirque Du Soleil?, and the ultra-classy In Which I Explain Why You Might Find A Baby In My Clothes Dryer.

Washing your baby can be exhausting, time-consuming, and downright dangerous. But if you follow these patented tips, your baby-washing experience is guaranteed to be much more enjoyable, and might even result in a clean(ish) baby.

Step 1: Gather your supplies.
Washing a baby takes an obnoxious amount of equipment. And since it's generally frowned upon to leave your baby unattended in the tub (although I consider it tough love), you need to have all your supplies within arms reach. These include diapers, wipes, clean clothes, shampoo, baby wash, a wash cloth, and a cup or similar container for rinsing. And vodka. Because it's five o'clock somewhere.

Step 2: Grab your baby
Be warned: babies can smell fear. Grab your baby with confidence; any hesitation on your part and the baby will figure out it's about to be bathed and let out a shriek that doesn't quit 'till the skin between its teeny, tiny toes is dry. Once you've grabbed it, hang on tight - those things are more slippery when wet than a baby seal involved in a upper class ponzi scheme. And again, dropping your baby is frowned upon in most cultures, so best to get a good grip.

Step 3: Get peed on
It's gonna happen eventually (multiple times) so you might as well get it over with. Just make sure you keep your mouth shut and try to keep his wiener aimed away from Grandma's priceless hand-crocheted decorative toilet seat cover. And if its a girl...well...all bets are off. Better get your poncho.

Step 4: Wash like you've never washed before
You know all those spots on yourself that you kind of gloss over in the shower because you have to be at work in like 28 minutes? Well, make sure you scrub 'em good on baby, or they'll develop some kind of horrible rash or fungal infection, and you'll have to display your lackluster parenting skills for the world to see as you parade them through the pediatricians office. You might as well hold up a sign that says I'm Going To Hell Because I'm incapable Of Cleaning My Infant. Trust me - there are plenty of less obvious ways to screw up your kid. Wash them properly and then feel free to use them as pawns in your ugly divorce. I wont tell.

Step 5: Look the other way
Because your baby probably definitely just peed in the tub again and do you really want to stop bath time so you can dump and refill that bitch while tipsy and struggling to hold onto your squirmy seal-baby? ...I didn't think so.
What?
It's sterile!!

Step 6: Get that diaper on QUICK
In case you didn't realize, bath time - and parenting in general - is 90% about dodging bodily fluids. And your wet, naked baby has a back-up supply of piss that would rival any dog at the dog park. The good news is you've already changed enough diapers to consider going pro, so you SHOULD able to get that thing on in under 5 seconds. The bad news is that the vodka you consumed while washing baby has significantly dulled your cat-like reflexes. Just try to get the diaper on the butt instead of the head, and we'll consider it a draw.

Step 7: Sniff your baby.
Go ahead. You've earned it. Your baby now smells like dreams and rainbows and unicorns. Sniff him good. Oh yeah. Just like that. Breathe it in, because in about 5 minutes he'll smell like day-old formula and fart again, and you'll go back to handling him in a Hazmat suit.

So there you go. From a dirty to clean baby in 7 simple steps. Also, depending on how much you drank during the process, your day just went from shitty to vodka-tastic in 7 simple steps.

So really, everybody wins. Your baby gets thoroughly cleaned and sniffed, and YOU get to have a few cocktails and make some bad decisions.

Cheers!

Why God Hates Us: A Social Commentary

Let's talk about someone else's children for a change.

When I checked my email this morning, Yahoo! News informed me that Michelle Duggar had had a miscarriage.

Now, I have paid a little more attention to the Duggars these a past few months than I should have, mostly because A) 19 Kids and Counting is on ALL THE TIME, and when one is on bedrest or feeding babies at 2:00 am, one cannot be choosy when it comes to television programming, B) there was a small chance that I was going to be hugely pregnant for my friend's Halloween-themed wedding (Hi Nora!), and I was boning up on my potential Halloween costume (read: Michelle Duggar), and C) watching someone handle 19 kids makes twins look like a cake walk, so it helps me keep perspective.

This family is more than a little perplexing. Not only because they continue to pump out children at an alarming rate, but also because they just seem so damn happy all the time, which makes me draw the conclusion that they're on something, and it sure as hell ain't God's love (I'm thinking more along the lines of Vicodin).

So when I'm watching Jim Bob and his clan in action, I can't help but think, why?? WHY would you have all those children? Why would you take on that kind of social and financial responsibility? And perhaps more importantly, how many loads of laundry do you do in an average week??? And don't give me that God crap. Even if there was a god who told man to procreate like rabbits, he told us to do it a long time ago, when the human population could pretty much fit in the Super Dome.

Oh, Jim Bob, how times have changed.

You see, we're experiencing this little thing called OVER POPULATION, where the planet cannot possibly sustain all these people. In a sense, there are not enough communion wafers for the entire congregation. So your insistence on not using birth control and spawning massive amounts of children who will be raised to do the exact same thing is not only antiquated...it's downright immoral (and I don't give a rat's ass WHAT your god tells you to do. Morality and religion are two different things).

So while my heart goes out to the Duggars (and it does - truly - because a miscarriage is always difficult to bear), I can't help but think that the universe is trying to tell them something. Maybe that 19 kids is enough. Maybe that her uterus is just plain tired, and needs a fucking break already. Maybe that they should count their (numerous) blessings and wrap it up next time.

Of course, people who take their marching orders directly from the Bible rarely listen to the universe, so I'm sure they'll continue to do the unprotected baby dance as soon as she's able. And I'm sure there will eventually be a 20th Duggar to exploit.

But it just goes to show that fanatical religious views doesn't exactly align with what's best for the planet...or your fellow human beings, who, BTW, are already consuming more processed foods and breathing more polluted air than they would like. So next time you think God tells you to do something, take a long hard look at what he's really asking you to do, and I think you'll find that maybe he loves you, but he clearly hates the rest of us, otherwise, he'd tell you to keep it in your pants.

The moral of this story? You can listen to God, or you can listen to scientists, and from what I can tell, scientists are the only ones who don't hate our species.

Also that God seems a little passive aggressive, if you ask me.

Psych. It's Totally My Job To Enterain You (A List!)

This past Monday, the boys were 2 months old.
Can you believe it?
In the time it takes most women to get around to washing their favorite bra (don't lie - we all do it), my little meatloaves grew about 4 lbs...which is more than what they weighed when they were born!

*sigh

In those two months of parenting (well, okay 3 weeks NICU support and 5 weeks of real parenting), I figured a couple things out.
Mind you, only a couple.
But here they are, so that those of you who are pregnant or thinking of having kids can learn from my mistakes.

1. You only ever have two hands.
When it comes to babies, the more hands you have, the better. Which is great when people are around, but when it's just You Vs. Meatloaf (or meatloaves, in my unfortunate case), two hands is about 4 less than you need. So here's the thing: Sometimes, you just gotta let them cry. I'm not talking about letting them cry while you catch up on episodes of 30 Rock (although I've been sorely tempted)...and I'm not talking about letting them cry because they've wriggled themselves half way out of their bouncer and are precariously close to taking a floor dive. I'm talking about letting them cry (from a place of safety) while you finish preparing their bottles/take a quick shower/poo/finish switching the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Is their unaddressed crying going to lead to deep neglect and abandonment issues that may or may not cause them to grow up to be serial killers? Maybe. But whether they're developing a psychosis or not, again, you only have two hands, so it's probably best not to worry about it. Finish eating your slice of cold pizza and THEN go feed your little Son Of Sam.

2. There's dirty, and then there's DIRTY
Everybody knows that babies = gargantuan amounts of laundry. So in an effort to save your sanity and a few loads of wash (think of it as a 'green' initiative), you have to decide where exactly to draw the line in the sand when it comes to so-called 'dirty' baby laundry. Before you throw that bib in the hamper, think to yourself: does it really need to be washed? Is the damp spit-up touching your baby's chin or hanging out harmlessly on their chest? Could the bib potentially be dried and turned around, thus creating a new, relatively clean surface? How many clean bibs are left before the laundry reaches that critical point where you are elbows deep in vomit with nary a burp cloth to be found? Of course, a lot of this depends on how much of a hassle it is to throw the laundry in the wash. If your washer/dryer unit is conveniently located in your kitchen, it's a lot easier to do multiple loads than a house like mine, where venturing into the cold, dank, stinky basement to do the laundry is akin to The Lord Of The Rings: The Cat Piss Edition. But either way, it's best to think of "dirty" as a spectrum, rather than a fixed point. Trust me - the planet thanks you for your conservation.

3. That soft spot on their head is super creepy.
No explanation needed. Just sayin'...

4. Breast feed, breast feed, breast feed.
I'm pro-breast feeding. But not for the health benefits or the mutual bonding. In this case, I'm all about the dolla billz, y'all. Formula is MAD EXPENSIVE, and they eat more of it than you can imagine. I personally tried my damnedest to breast feed. I started pumping the minute they were lifted out of my abdominal cavity and didn't stop the whole time they were in the NICU. Unfortunately, by the time they were home, I was pretty much sucked bone dry. It was devastating....but not NEARLY as devastating as it was to find out that one can of Similac Neosure cost about $15 and we were going through a can every 48 hours. Imagine how much they'll eat when their stomachs are larger than the size of a marble?!? So yeah, breastfeeding is the way to go. And if you MUST go the formula route, remember to save the receipts so you can whip them out when they start complaining about the costs of keeping you in a nursing home. Payback's a BITCH, yo.

5. Think negative.
I've come to realize that the absolute worst thing you can do while waiting for your little bundle of joy to arrive is to reassure yourself that whatever comes your way, you can handle it. Instead, I want you to imagine the absolute worst scenario: the baby (or babies) is(are) screaming, the living room has been overtaken by laundry, there's a pot boiling over on the stove, the phone is off the hook, and you're in a corner having a nervous breakdown, pulling out your hair and sobbing uncontrollably. Now, keep imagining this scenario every day until you actually give birth. Rest assured, I'm not telling you to do this because that's how it is. No...I'm telling you to do this so when the baby comes home and it's not quite as bad as you imagined....well...that rocks. You see, it's all about perspective. When I use my vacations to go backpacking, it's to help me appreciate the little luxuries in life. Like eating off a plate. Or going to sleep without worrying about bears ripping through your tent and mauling you to death. The same can be said for child rearing. If you are 100% prepared for the worst experience of your life, then you're pleasantly surprised when there are moments of calm and you find yourself managing to get through the day without considering suicide. See? Perspective.

That's it for now. I'm guessing the babies won't be sleeping for that much longer (always a safe assumption), and I should probably prep for the next round of feedings, changings, and burpings. But keep those items in mind, should you find yourself with a bun in the oven; the difference between an awful day and a great day is often simply how you approach the obstacles set in front of you.

On Why It's Not My Job To Entertain You

Sorry I haven't been blogging much lately.

Every day I have 28 hours' worth of things to do and 24 hours to do them. Feeding and changing babies takes 6-8 of those hours, and talking them down from epic temper tantrums takes another 3 or 4 hours. Working takes 5 hours (yes, I'm back to work. Can we say masochist, anyone?). Sleeping takes only about 4 of those hours, I'm deeply troubled to say, and then there's the requisite hour of me-time where I sit in a corner, hold myself, and rock back and forth. Housework is squeezed into what's left of the day (which ain't much, I can tell you. I haven't seen the counter top or a clean pair of underwear in a month).

Note that I didn't say anything about eating, showering, letting the dog out, or giving the cat her insulin shot. Quite frankly, there's just not enough time for those things. Needless to say, Milo's been doing the pee-pee dance for 3 days now and the cat is looking disturbingly sluggish.
But it's all about priorities, yanno?

I'm still loving motherhood, but now that the novelty has worn off, I love it like a person might love running a marathon...which is to say, quite a bit, but if someone wants to take over for a bit, they're more than welcome.

And after all, parenting is just one big marathon, isn't it? Where you dig deep and keep going despite the suffering, always keeping one eye on the prize (which is, in this case, relatively well-adapted offspring who leave the nest, hopefully with a full scholarship) and doing your best to ignore the fact that your body is screaming for you to give up, acknowledge that maybe this wasn't the best decision, and go find the nearest bar.

But the babies...they sure are cute. Which makes it worth it, even when they're pooping on you and sneezing in your face and having mental breakdowns at 3:00 am.
And then there's the tax write-off...
Cha-CHING!!

So who knows when I'll be back to post again.
Probably when the planets align and Aquarius is in the house of Saturn and the Eagles win the Super Bowel.

Until then, if anyone needs me, they can find me at home, because I never, ever leave.

Binkeys Rule, Parents Drool

All hail the binkey

Reliever of woes
Grantor of serenity
Deliverer of peace
Giver of precious minutes to facebook-stalk old highschool friends and lady-scape the privates.

I don't know what kind of messed-up baby crack they put on those binkeys, but whatever it is, I need to buy stock in it.

Binkeys are amazing. They can turn your screaming, tomato-faced infant into a limp bag of happy baby in approximately 3.4 seconds. I could probably submerge the kids in a tub full of ice water and dead puppies, and as long as I shoved binkeys in their mouths, they wouldn't cry.

Personally, I don't quite see the appeal.
But there you have it - babies are weird. They're soothed by the oddest things, like being thwacked on the back repeatedly hard enough to dislodge a lung, or flying through the air in various swinging contraptions.
What's tantamount to an old-school beating or a roller coaster ride to us puts babies to sleep faster than a Nyquil cocktail with a Lunesta chaser.

Go Figure.

In other news, I almost microwaved a fork yesterday.
Not even with a plate of food or anything - just a lone fork.

I think I might have been preparing soup, but things were so hazy after getting scant amounts of sleep, I very well could have been readying a bowel of Windex. Not that the babies are up all night, but they're up often enough where REM sleep is a thing of the past. And without REM sleep, people do funny things.
Like remove a dirty diaper from a child and dress them without putting a new, clean diaper on, resulting in an impromptu pee party mid-feeding.
True story.

So I'm mildly concerned about my ability to effectively parent, but I figure if I endanger the kids, they really have nobody to blame but themselves. If they want better parenting, they should learn to sleep through the night.
Simple as that.

So that's the status in our household; very little sleep, and a general atmosphere of poor decision-making.
It's a lot like college, except now I'm the one cleaning up the vomit instead of producing it (which is - admittedly - a lot less fun, and gives me a new appreciation for the Rutgers janitorial staff). But, also like college, everybody is relatively unscathed at the end of the day, so I guess I'm doing an okay job.

The babies, however, seem a bit...underwhelmed...with my caretaker abilities. The looks they give me when I accidentally drop a poopy diaper on their heads or poke them in the eye with the bottle nipple suggest that they are 100% aware of what is required of a mother and I'm not making the cut.

They're like, Mom, can you please get your shit together?!?
And I'm like, I know, I know. Sorry about that.
And they're all, Didn't you learn how to do this before you took the test
And I'm all, Uhhh, well this is awkward. They actually don't make you take a test first
And they're all, Are you fucking kidding me?!?
And I'm all, 'Fraid not
And they're all, So any jerk-off can have kids?
And I'm all, Yep.

And then they roll their eyes and mutter something about how that explains everything.
Which is pretty rude, but what can I say? My kids can be assholes sometimes.

So in summary, it would appear that binkeys are better at parenting than I am, and my children have already learned how to curse through facial expressions.

And I think I speak for us all when I say this is not surprising in the least.

I Scream, You Scream

If you know you're a mom when you can ignore a little spit-up on your shirt, then you know you're an exhausted mom when you can ignore the fact that your kid just pissed on your jeans and continue to wear them for the next 3 days.

We're on week 2 of solo daytime parenting duty and I'll tell you - it's something else.
It's equal parts magical and suicide-inducing.
Like spotting a unicorn at a Barbra Streisand concert.

When they're both sleeping, it's awesome.
When one is awake and fussing, it's manageable. Almost cute, actually. I get to cram them into my Moby wrap and use it as an excuse for not cleaning the bathroom.
But when they're both awake and fussing, it's game over. I never, ever want to hear someone complain about how hard it is raising their single infant, because I swear to all that is holy, I will roundhouse kick them in the teeth Chuck Norris style. Because I'm pretty sure it was two children screaming simultaneously that caused the Heaven's Gate cult members to drink the Kool-Aid.


Today is one of those tandem fussy days.
Fantastic.
"And how," you might ask, "are you managing to blog if they're both incensed about the condition of their tummies?"

Easy.

I'm ignoring them.

Okay, I'm not so much ignoring them as acknowledging the fact that nothing I can do will help them feel better. So I can either choose to stare at them while they fuss and squirm and chant supportive phrases like "it's okay" and "I'm sorry you don't feel well" and direct them to the inspirational poster of the kitten dangling from the branch with the words Hang In There printed at the bottom...

...or

...I can wish them well, get a second cup of coffee, and let the interwebs take me away from this horrible, horrible place.

Don't worry - I'm checking on them. When they stop screaming, I hold a mirror under their noses to make sure they're still breathing. And I'm providing binkey retrieval services for a small fee, which I'm taking out of their college funds.

(Psych...AS IF we had college funds set up for the babies. It would totally cut into our beer fund.)

But I'm learning that with babies, a lot of the time, there's just nothing you can do.
They cry.
You cry.
Everybody cries.
And at the end of the day, everybody is still alive and relatively in one piece. Which is the ultimate goal of parenting, isn't it? To get through the day without death or dismemberment?

Some might call me a bad parent.
Negligent, if you will.

But I prefer to think of it as fatalistic parenting.
If there's nothing you can do about it, then there's no point in getting all worked up about it.
Plus, anyone who wants to judge is more than welcome to spend a day in my vomit and poop-covered shoes. If you're not this close to gouging your eyes out with a spoon after 2 hours of surround-sound screaming, I'll eat my words.

...and then offer you my kids, because you're obviously better at this than I am.