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You know what? You might be surprised that I’m not going to go all snarky on Miss Lohan. No. I’m going to send her encouraging, compassionate, sober vibes.
Because Katy at I Want A Dumpster Baby has taught me something. Addiction comes in many people. Pretty people. Smart people. Privileged people. Poor people. Snobby people. All of them deserve a second chance.
Or a 6th chance. Yes, on May 1st, LL has to check into rehab for the 6th TIME! She is only 26 years old. Late night TV, Twitter, and even myself have been guilty of putting LL at the butt of our jokes. “She’s a train wreck.” or “April Fools joke LL is pregnant, what could be worse?” or “She’s dating Charlie Sheen, a match made in heaven.” But I’ve had a change of heart.
Most recently was her appearance on David Letterman. He asked point-blank about what her addictions are, when she is going to rehab and how she’s been in rehab before. I don’t think he was being spiteful or ironic. He seemed genuinely interested and concerned. She appeared taken aback and nervous. She even said ‘this wasn’t in the pre-interview’. She squirmed in her chair and looked to her right. Maybe to her publicist? And maybe some would say that’s a low blow on Letterman’s part. I think it was smart. It called her out on the elephant in the room. I think that’s one of the worst things about addicts and the people around them. They walk on eggshells about their sobriety struggle. But what Katy taught me is, it’s empowering to be open with your sobriety struggle.
You can see Lindsay, here in this clip-http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/10/lindsay-lohan-david-letterman-video_n_3050160.htm
She’s got some witty comebacks for Dave!
And then it hit me. This poor girl. She probably only wants to be sober. She just doesn’t know how. I remember Robert Downey Jr. in one of his court appearances I saw on one of the entertainment shows. He said to the judge, ‘It’s like I have a loaded gun in my mouth and my finger’s on the trigger, and I like the taste of the gunmetal.’
I hope LL can learn from RDJ. I hope she can want sobriety bad enough to know that the opposite isn’t worth it.
I don’t come from a background of addiction. It really isn’t in my family. I have known friends in rehab. Happily, several of them are successful in their recovery. Living with it, owning it, and choosing to be sober. I’m so happy for them.
But it really wasn’t until I started reading IWADB’s blog and how she shares her struggles of being sober EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. Or drug addict. Or whatever.
I thought of my own children. I hope the path they choose is a sober one. I thought of what Lindsay has been through watching her parents fight over her and her siblings. Using them as pawns for their own demons. Shame on them. I don’t know the extent of what that environment did for her, but I do remember enjoying her as a child actor very much, and then seeing her downward spiral splayed all over the magazine covers in the grocery store.
I think of Emma. She’s beautiful, talented, witty and freakin’ smart. She wants to act. She wants to be on Broadway or in movies. She’s like me. She wants to entertain. She feels happy and at home on stage or in front of a camera. Would it be nice to make a living doing it? Heck yes.
But if opportunity came knocking and we took it, and let’s say at a tender age of 18 or so, her life isn’t necessarily in my hands anymore. I don’t know what choices she’ll make. Even children of happy, stable, good parents, make bad decisions. And become addicts. Right Katy?
It scares me.
This is why I feel Lindsay needs a cheering section. People who believe in her. Who want her better. Not enablers, not yes-people, but people telling her that she can do this. That she doesn’t need to feel ashamed of her weaknesses. She needs to be honest, she needs to look in the mirror and ask herself, “what the fuck happened?” (I want to ask her why her face looks so different, but that’s another story.)
She’s a celebrity so we feel her life is different than ours. She’s rich, famous, has ‘people’ working for her. But she is human. And if we woke up tomorrow and read the headline that she OD’d, we’d feel bad, but then move on with our lives. But I don’t think that her celebrity-ness should diminish her human-ness.
So that is why I wish her the best. I hope she’s brave enough and strong enough to see her thirties.
I’m pulling for you Lindsay.
Oh my lawd! I’m gonna tell you a story so you better get comfy. Speaking of comfy- my dad broke his hip last week, so comfy he is NOT. If you are reading this with all your bones in tact, then you better be thankful.
So let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start (channeling my Maria VonTrapp). Last week, my 81 year old father, in his attempt to show my mom his foot for her to find a sliver he thought he felt; in an extremely dextrous fashion, he lifted his sockless foot on the table for her to observe with a light and a magnifying glass. Before you can say ‘orthopedic trauma’, he falls backwards and lands on his left hip. In agony he tries to get himself up. No luck. My mom tries to help. No luck. I wasn’t there, but she said his yelps of pain were somewhat sickening. I’ve written about my dad before, here and here, he’s a strong, self-reliant gentleman, who has never been in such a helpless state like this.
Even after my mom called over their neighbor to help him up, it was clear he needed an ambulance.
They called 911 and off he went to the Emergency Room. I met my mom there and they wheeled dad into x-ray. A fracture of the femural neck was evident. 3 shots of morphine later, he was still miserable. A shot of Valium into his IV helped him relax, but it was a long night.
He actually doesn’t remember it, thankfully. Our body’s defense mechanism to not remember pain is quite a blessing.
A day and a half later, he had surgery to correct the fracture and my mom and I spoke with the surgeon post operation. He was very clear that in my dad’s age range, and in order to return him to his status quo of health, he needed to get up and learn to walk, with the help of a walker, right away. (This is foreshadowing people.)
My mom was concerned for his discharge since they live in a split level house. Everything he would need would be on the main floor- kitchen, bed, toilet, bath; but there were 13 stairs in the way of his destination. How would she get him in the house?
When the option of post-op rehab, covered by insurance, in a facility was brought up to her, she considered it, especially as a way for him to gain strength on his walker to become more mobile and eventually be able to get in the house. Easy peasy, right?
Once he was discharged they transported him to the nursing home- let’s not sugar coat it. This was a nursing home. Even though they advertise as a “post-op orthopedic rehab facility”. BULL. SHIT.
It was a nursing home.
My mom immediately got the wrong vibe at this place and felt bad for leaving my dad there. He was in the wing with all the dementia and permanent residents. Translation- the droolers and wanderers of the place. A woman who likes to sit in the middle of the floor. Or another woman who constantly asks where the bathroom is, even though she lives there. So sad. Truly. My grandmother spent her last years in a home suffering from dementia, I know what it looks like. If I ruled the world, my Utopia would be beautiful rest homes for old folks that are free and run like 5 star hotels. But I digress…
My dad is not a whiner. My dad has lived on beans and toast for dinner during lean times. He doesn’t expect a lot. But when nursing staff doesn’t treat him as a respectable, lucid adult and also neglects to get him out of his wheel chair throughout the day- even though it is explicitly the surgeons orders for him to do so, he becomes frustrated.
And folks, the beds were hand crank beds, not mechanically adjustable, and the dresser and bureau drawers were broken. The TV only got four channels and the valences on the windows were from 1984. I’m picturing corporate off at the Miraval spa retreat enjoying the residuals they get from Medicare and keeping the overhead pretty low by cutting on corners, like, hmm, let’s say, no defibrillators on the walls for GOSH SAKES!
I’ve seen more defibrillators in an airport or school gymnasium.
We now launch Operation Get My Dad Out of this Shithole.
Mom heads over to the hospital and gets orders from the surgeon to get him an ambulance home and EMTs to get him up the stairs. She’s hoping these orders are covered by insurance. This is what she was told, so we’re sticking to it.
Mom makes an appointment with the Rehab Manager, the nurse somethingorother and the Social Services coordinator at the Shithole place to discuss their poor care of my dad.
I join the conversation. My mom is sweet. Kind. She has notes, she apologizes and tells them it’s not personal.
Social Services lady says she is sorry. Asks what they can do to make it better for my dad. Wishes she was able to .. blah blah blah waa waa waa waa waa (You know the Peanuts cartoon? This is how the grown ups sounds. This is what I heard coming out of their mouths.)
Lady tells my mom she wants her to understand that my dad can leave on his own accord, but it will be AMA (against medical advice) to which I want to say, “What medical advice? You let him sit in a wheel chair for 48 hours and never took him to physical therapy.) But I did not.
The meeting concluded and mom and I devised our strategy. We took him back to his room. Packed up his things.
She headed to the hospital pharmacy and got his pain medication prescription filled. Even though Nurse Ratched said she’d be happy to provide him with some before his transport, we decided not to count on anything. I stayed in the room with him and waited. Mom wanted to call the ambulance service- she had the signed paperwork- but she had to get him the meds first AND get the house ready and roll up the area rugs. Details are important people.
My dad and I sat and waited. I went to the coffee machine and sneaked a mocha in for him. The machine had a sign that read, “beverages too hot out of this machine, patients and residents are not allowed to drink beverages from this machine.” My dad has to have his coffee and tea extra hot, so this was perfect. I made sure no one saw me bring it to his room. Which added to the clandestine feel of Operation Get My Dad Out Of This Shithole.
Then my mom calls and tells me she’s waiting for the Oxycontin but the insurance company actually has to SPEAK to the doctor. The written prescription isn’t good enough for serious narcotics like this. UGH. Whatever!
Wait some more.
Mom calls again. Screw the insurance company, she paid cash for the pills and will get reimbursed later. She can’t wait for the doctor, that could be hours. She’s going to call the ambulance transport to come get him and will I meet her in the parking lot to get his Oxycontin for him. I see the movie version of this with Shirley Maclaine and Emma Stone by the way.
So I go out to the parking lot and get his prescription. I jokingly told her, “thanks for making me a mule for dad’s drugs!” <== a sense of humor is key in these Delta Force like missions.
When I got to dad’s room he says, “Do you have the D-R-U-G-S?”
Me, “Dad, I think people can spell around here.”
Then mom called again, the ambulance was going to be there to get him within 30 minutes.
Hooray! We wanted out of this place.
When they arrived in the hallway with their stretcher and wearing their navy blue polyester uniforms, my heart lifted. They were friendly, professional, joked with my dad, enjoyed his dry humor and British accent. They strapped him in and we rolled down the hall.
EMT Nate was filling out paperwork with Nurse Ratched and I heard her say, “no the patient hasn’t received any rehab.” Boom. Yeah, suckas, that’s why we’re busting this joint.
I told the EMTs why my dad had to leave. They said, “you don’t have to tell us twice. We’ve seen these places, they aren’t pretty. At least this one doesn’t smell so bad it burns your eyeballs.” Hmm, they had a point. It did smell decently.
They loaded dad and I texted mom to put the tea kettle on ‘cuz HE WAS COMING HOME!
Now the hard part began for the EMTs.
They contemplated the stairs and the stretcher. Of course, smart-ass me asks what the big deal is, the EMTs that got him to the hospital in the first place had to get him down the stairs. Well, they explained to me that getting down is easier than up, AND there’s usually about 6 folks at a site between EMTs and fire fighters. Sure enough, my mom described one of the EMTs that night as big and burly. These guys bringing my dad home were actually on the small side.
Once they determined it was easier to carry him up the stairs in a Baby Bjorn, they spun into action. Okay, it wasn’t a Baby Bjorn, but it was a plastic sling with handles. They got him up the stairs and into his awaiting chair.
My mom made friends with the EMTs, she makes friends with everyone. And friend requested them on Facebook, exchanged Twitter handles and took a few selfies. Just kidding!
I remembered to take the bottle of pain pills out of my purse and give them to my mom. Not that I didn’t think of keeping maybe, just one. Nope, that’s illegal folks!
Dad got a cup of tea and I did too. And mom took a shot of tequila. Okay, just kidding again. She didn’t, but I think she could’ve used it!
Since then, dad has been great in getting up on his own with his walker. Getting to his bed and the bathroom, slowly, but surely. And the nurses and PTs that come to the house check his pro-times (blood clotting) and all that, so he’s in good hands.
And most importantly, Operation Get My Dad out of this Shithole, was a success.
Here’s to being kind to your kids in case you need them to bust you out of a nursing home one day.
How did this happen? Grammarians, is it ‘mother of a teenager’ or ‘mother to a teenager’? I’m stuck. But either way. There’s a teenager living in my house.
Do you ever day dream into the future? I get caught sometimes jumping ahead of myself and thinking forward to the years of when Emma will be in high school. I have to almost catch my breath. I realize that I will blink and she will be off to college. Am I jumping the gun a little? Maybe. I remember when she was born, I fast forwarded in my head to maybe around her being 2 years old. And I thought, will I still like her? Gladly, the answer was yes. And still is.
Once upon a time, what feels not so long ago, I was anxiously awaiting the birth of this precious girl. I mean very anxiously. I had been on strict bed rest (not able to be on my feet for any more than 20 minutes per day) for the last 10 weeks of my pregnancy. I was ready for her to come out!
When she finally did, I felt the universe shift, my earth mother instincts kick in (okay, not really, sort of) and I could SMELL her. I literally smelled her when they placed her on me and she was the sweetest, most amazing smell ever. It was HER. I would smell her daily many times a day those next few weeks and months.
I miss that smell. Now I smell passion fruit or vanilla body spray or Dove deodorant. Maybe some Pink Sugar perfume or L’Oreal Elnett hairspray. Sometimes I smell some stinky armpits that smell like a Mexican buffet or her stinky shoes that smell like sour vinegar and Gruyere cheese.
When she was just a few days old, she was laying in her bassinet, asleep. She was on her side and her little profile was cherubic. Seriously, she was the most adorable baby. She looked like a painting. I burst into tears. My boobs hurt, my gut and crotch hurt and I couldn’t get over how amazing it was to have this child. I was the happiest woman on the planet, with the best baby on earth. Ever. That’s how it felt anyway.
I won’t sugar coat it (okay, I already kind of have) but there were moments of that first week of post-partum, I wondered what I got myself into. My nipples were torn open and bleeding due to poor latching on Emma’s part. Of course, I didn’t know any better and endured this for a whole week before the Lactation experts told me to get on a breast pump STAT and give my boobses a rest.
I was so tired I couldn’t see straight. Sometimes I would just cry for no reason. Well, duh. Of course there was a reason- I was hormonal and exhausted. Who’s brilliant idea was this??
Somehow I managed to get a rhythm to this parenting thing. The breast feeding finally clicked, it only took 3 weeks (pshaw), she never did sleep through the night, but I adjusted to her waking up at 4 am as part of our routine. She didn’t start sleeping completely through the night regularly until she was almost 5, that little stinker! Now I can’t wake her up for school. Totally figures.
When she was six months old, she was nursing on me. She took a bite of my boob and when I yelped in pain and when I looked down at her to tell her ‘no’, she smiled up at me. Oh boy did that push some buttons! I felt like she knew she was hurting me. Like she knew she was testing me. Maybe I was overreacting. But at that moment, I knew I had my work cut out for me and she would be a challenge. A good challenge. But definitely a crafty little thing.
She challenges me all the time. She keeps me on my toes. Sometimes she brings me to tears because she hurts my feelings. I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me. I know that I probably annoy the hell out of her with my goofy jokes, loud laugh and chit chat with the other moms. But still, she pushes my buttons like a college kid and a microwave. Beep, beep, beep. Pick a setting-’highly annoyed’, ‘ready to yell’, ‘losing my shit’; that’s how she can be to me.
So here we are. On the brink of another turning point. 13 years old. A teenager. Am I afraid? A little. Am I excited for all the possibilities she has in store? Yes. More than anything.
I look at her and see a better version of myself. Like a 2.0 of a prototype. She’s already mastered social interactions and fashion taste and make up application far better than I ever did at that age! And don’t even get me started on her perfect teeth. Yes, she’ll eventually need braces, but she sure dodged a bullet and skipped the awkward years. Of course, Owen has made up for that and will need orthodontia probably before Emma gets it!
So Emma, if you ever read this, know how much I love you. Know that even though your heart might break a few times in life, or you don’t find yourself exactly where you thought you would be, you are the best you I could ever ask for. You make the world better. You shine your light wherever you go. No matter what you do, or who you are with, because of you- the world is better with you in it.
You got that right. If you read that title above it sounds like I want to pee alone on a TV show. No. It’s the book is on a TV show!!
Reporter Kim Holcomb and cameraman Howard from KING 5 news came to my house to tape a segment for local television. They were awesome and funny and Kim wore a super cute polka dot blouse. She did. When I opened my front door for her and cameraman Howard, I said, “Oh my gosh, you look so cute!” I hope Kim knew I meant her blouse, and Howard didn’t think I was flirting with him. Hmm… I never thought of that.
They wanted natural home stuff. You know, life as it is every day. I got to empty and load the dishwasher and Owen and James kicked the soccer ball. Emma was on the lap top and I did lots of ‘typing at my computer’ shots. I offered to scoop the cat box, but that didn’t make for such great TV. Hey- they wanted real, so I offered real.
I’m so glad I got a manicure that week with all those typing shots.
It was a gorgeous sunny day. But don’t let that fool you. No. Cameraman Howard closed the blinds then added these giant lights on stands. Apparently natural isn’t always good enough for television.
Then Kim shared with me that she’s interviewed Daniel Craig twice. Twice. Her impression of him- polite, but doesn’t enjoy press junkets. Not very personable. Okay, I can understand that.
Not everyone can be so giggly and sweet like me.
Seriously. I giggle the entire piece, you’ll hear. Also, I don’t always end my sentences. It’s a habit I have. I can’t seem to finish my thoughts with words or something.
And for the record- I don’t want Gwyneth to play me in the movie version. That was sarcasm that Kim didn’t pick up on. I want Amy Poehler or Kristen Wiig to play me in the movie version.
Mostly, what’s important about this TV piece is, you need to buy the book. (on Amazon, see my side bar) And you need to tell your friends to buy the book.
What good would media promotion be for a book if you didn’t buy it?
Some notes; My house looks cleaner on television than it is in real life. I have too many mugs that don’t all fit in my cupboards, that’s why I have to stack them. I didn’t realize I had a double chin until I saw it on TV. Also, special mention needs to be made that isn’t in the video, Jen from People I Want To Punch in the Throat is the band leader of all this craziness. Without her, we wouldn’t have the book.
So enjoy the clip.
Do you know the blog, Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures? If you don’t, you need to.
She nails the parenting stuff to a ‘T’
The pictures really aren’t that crappy (okay, maybe a little), but make everything more funny.
Her book comes out this week and I was thrilled that I received an early-bird copy to get to read. Oh my goodness- I snorted out loud! My husband wondered what I was reading. He thought it might be that I was re-reading I Just Want to Pee Alone. True- I snorted at that too, but this time, it was Crappy Pictures I was laughing at.
Here’s some of my favorite highlights-from the Chapter- The 50 Crappy Laws of Parenting-
Law #10- “After a long car drive during which you hoped they would nap, they fall asleep a mile from your destination.”
Law #39- “They only spike a fever after the sun goes down and the doctor’s office is closed.”
Law #44- “The baby will fall asleep on you, but only when you have to pee. Very badly.”
Amber has asked her readers what they want her to do in the event her book gets on a best seller list. Like a challenge, per se to encourage people to buy the book.
Here’s some of her kids’ suggestions. By the way- she has two boys they are called Crappy Boy and Crappy Baby-
I think this is a good one though-
My vote is that she takes a real picture of her face and let’s us see her non-crappy self! But going to Disneyland is a good 2nd choice.
I’m giving away a copy of her book to one of you!!
And… wait for it- a copy of I JUST WANT TO PEE ALONE as well!
Yay- everyone is happy. By the way, she wrote a review of our book here that you can read. And low and behold, she graced us with some of her fine artwork. I just love it!
Here’s what you have to do:
Enter according to the Rafflecopter instructions, it gives you all kinds of chances to win.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
You can always buy the book as well!
It is a Cult of Peeps. Not the 80s rock song, but marshmallow Peeps. Peeps are sweeping the nation. They are everywhere. Not just for Easter either. But this is Easter week, so it’s only fitting to give those little squishy marshmallow guys, a shout-out.
The Peeps company has a campaign called Express Your Peepsonality. Here’s their adorable commercial you can watch on Youtube- go ahead- watch it!
So I thought I’d take part. How hard can it be? Really hard, apparently.
No, you will not be seeing my clever creations of Dr. Who Peeps, Lord of the Rings Peeps, or even Peeps jousting in a microwave. All of which have been done. Just check on Pinterest- they are all there!
I just went down the ‘less is more’ path and created a few simple Easter decorations that even a monkey could make.
Here are Peep ka-bobs. These would work well for a party favor in a little cellophane bag, a centerpiece grouped together like I did, or as part of another display. It’s truly the easiest thing ever.
Get some wooden skewers from the grocery store, an assortment of Peeps, some bags of jellybeans, (or M&Ms) and pour into any vase or clear glass jar you have. And voila! :
Start with a yellow peep and insert six toothpicks, 5 to the top, 4 to the bottom.
Pick a color of peeps, we used pink, (‘we’ meaning, Emma helped me with this) open up the package and take out the Peeps without pulling them apart. Turn them upside down, since their bottoms look like petals, fan them out in a little half-circle and stick them into the toothpicks that are sticking out of the yellow Peep you first used.
Take the next row of Peeps out of the package, doing the same thing and stick them on to the toothpicks. Take jelly beans and either glue with craft glue, (Don’t use a hot glue gun, it just melts the marshmallow and nothing sticks. Trust me on this- I know.) or you can use toothpicks, which is what Emma did. She cut toothpicks into little pieces, stuck them in the jelly beans and then stuck them in the center Peep. I was really impressed with how it turned out- you can see here: (setting it on some Easter grass really makes it ‘pop’) A whole row of these would be cute in a flower box. But I didn’t get that far!
Have fun and express your PEEPSONALITY!
This post was sponsored by Peeps but the thoughts and opinions are my own.
Recently, Kim Kardashian expressed to the media that pregnancy is harder than she thought. I will be honest. I thought that too after my first trimester. Pregnant women on TV always made it look so easy. Even people I knew didn’t seem to have such a hard time. Kim- Pregnancy. Is. Hard.
I want to be clear, I am in no way bashing a woman who is expecting a child. Any woman, even reality television celebrities deserve love, support and judgement free encouragement. That’s just the code of women. I mean, Taylor Swift would say there’s a special place in hell if I didn’t support a fellow woman. Right Taylor?
So instead, I will use this post as a service to Kim. To help her prepare for what she is in for. Now, Kourtney might be giving her advice. And her mom, Kris, is probably also giving her advice. But I’m guessing based on the way this show, er, her life plays out, Kim isn’t listening to their advice and telling them that HER pregnancy is probably the only one like it in the world. Which is kinda true. Pregnancies, children, and snowflakes. No two are alike. Except identical twins. But even they are different, sort of.
I want to warn Kim, that not only pregnancy is harder than it looks, so is labor, childbirth, post partum and, oh yeah- motherhood.
Labor- I know Kimye, or should I call you Mrs. Kardashian-Humphries West? I’ll just call you Kim. Kim, labor is hard and not pretty. It can go many different ways. You might schedule a c-section and not even deal with it. Of course the recovery of a c-section is no small task. But if you do go through labor, there’s things to consider. You might poop on the table. You might tear from the front of your lady business to the back of your poop hatch. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to keep it real.
If you do push that baby out of your canal, with or without drugs, about 24 hours later, you might see these things hanging down from your vulva that look like a bunch of California grapes. I don’t know if they are Merlot or Cabernet variety, but they are strange and uncomfortable. Don’t look down there. Just don’t. You might have the same cluster of grapes protruding from your asshole. Sorry, again, not trying to scare you, just keeping it real. These hurt. You need a rotation of ice, a warm sits bath and a pillow. I handled all this with just some ibuprofen because I wanted to be alert and ready for the baby.
OH MY GOSH- THE BABY! It’s hard to remember that after your insides have been turned outside, you have to care for this living, being thing! Even if you have a nanny, guess what- your milk is coming in sister. I’ve seen your girls. I mean, I haven’t SEEN them, seen them, but I’ve seen that you have a fine rack. Now times that by 1000 and you have a milk engorged watermelon that you are trying to get this little tit sucker to latch onto properly (properly is code for latching without shredding your nipples like a cheese grater (totally different story I can share another time)), but you can’t see their head for your mammary.
Even if you bottle feed- your milk will come in. And low and behold when it does- brace yourself. Nothing on earth will take away what is happening to you. It’s all you babe. So own it. A cool breeze will hurt like a mo-fer against them. Even the pulsating water from the shower head that felt good on your aching back, is like a fire house against your fragile milk bags.
Let’s see, what am I forgetting? Oh yeah, you will continue to have the worst cramps, kind of like the mother of all periods, about 48 hours after the baby is born. Mother Nature doesn’t relent. First the cramps, then those subside, then the milk comes in. Holy cheeze-tits Batman. Don’t worry, it gets easier. In about 6 weeks.
I know that you have people to look after you. But remember, women have been doing this since the dawn of time. They have given birth in fields, barns and even trees. Yes, I remember a news story about a woman in Africa during a flood, seeking refuge in a tree. She was 9 months pregnant, and before rescuers got to her, she delivered her baby. Can you imagine?
These are the sisters in childbirth I was thinking of as I lay in a hospital, writhing in pain from my own complicated delivery of my daughter. I kept thinking, how did women before me do this? And bless those that didn’t make it through because they didn’t have the means they needed or the medical help. Geeze!
There will be haters out there, you know this. Just remember, you are this child’s mother. It has nothing without you. It knows only you. Not the magazine cover with its exclusive first photo, not the diamond encrusted bracelet or pram that Kanye will get it. It only wants you and the softness of your touch, the warmth of your arms and the closeness of your skin. That’s it.
I think this is a good start for now. Perhaps in a few months, should you speak again in the press and say some nonsense of why this is so hard, or frustrating, etc. I’ll help to keep it real for you.
And thank you Lady Googoo Gaga who wrote a brilliant post to then-new celebrity mom Beyonce after Blue Ivy was born. Us regular moms have to bring folks down to earth now and then.
I think the best advice would be to tell Kim she needs to buy the book, I Just Want To Pee Alone. This will help her put it all in perspective!
Okay, if she doesn’t buy it- at least YOU need to!
Yep. Listen up men. My husband’s balls are so figuratively large that he signed up to get them literally snipped. Well, not the balls, the vas deferons. Right? Isn’t that what gets the clamp for v-omy?
I’ll never forget the day he came home from work and said he made an appointment. It went something like this:
McSweetie was on a lunch date with an old work buddy.
They joked about guys they knew who were getting fixed and then his friend revealed that they were pregnant with number 3. An oops.
Enter the sound effects of breaks screeching inside McSweetie’s head. Then all of a sudden both of my pregnancies flashed before his eyes and I think two terms of bed rest pretty much scarred this man for life.
He went straight to his office, got his referral and set the date. Boom.
Did I flinch that maybe I wasn’t ready for him to be ‘fixed’? Are you kidding me? Owen was already passed his first birthday. While I was pregnant with Owen I would announce daily that I was done having babies. My body doesn’t like being pregnant.
My body also doesn’t like birth control pills or a tubal ligation (not that I know this, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need another procedure). I feel it’s only fair, that if he wants to get the milk around this barn, he needs to come ready with his own bucket. That analogy actually didn’t work, but just go with it.
Sure, there are other ways of practicing birth control. The rhythm method is one option. This is not, by the way, any reference to white men dancing. Which when first explained to me in 5th grade, I thought music had something to do with it.
My point is that we (females) have enough to go through. Need I list them? Pregnancy- first trimester; nausea, constipation, insomnia, fatigue. 2nd trimester- voracious appetite, ability to eat from Old Country Buffet and swing by McDonald’s for a Big Mac on the way home. I heard this from a friend- of course.
3rd trimester- oh wait- BED REST for me. Yeah. Preterm labor with both anemia, high blood pressure and the ability to only be on my feet for 20 minutes a day. That was FUN. This is written in sarcasm font people.
Poor James barely wanted to have a second child after Emma was born. We thought and pondered long and hard up until the age of when she turned two if we were ready to do it all over again. We decided our family wasn’t complete yet. That having a sibling for her would be nice. So we went for it. All the experts, journals and medical professionals said each and every pregnancy is different. No two are alike. Okay, let’s spin the wheel and see what we get.
Bed rest at 28 weeks. Oh, boy. Here we go again. At least it wasn’t as strict and plus I was caring for a toddler. Let me tell you, Emma watched a lot of Winnie the Pooh and played with her princesses next to our family room couch, where I was laying with my feet up.
Owen came healthy and strong at 39 weeks and when I was pushing out the placenta, I basically announced that that was my last go at the baby making factory. This shop had closed and I had punched my time card.
Now fellas, don’t think you are out of the proverbial woods just by going and having the snip-snip done. No. You need- the follow up. This is very important. I know someone, family of three girls. Went for the v-omy- and 2 years later, wife is pregnant from a little swimmer that really got through at all costs. If I was them, all my bets would be on this kid. Surely he was the sperm that won that race.
Anyway, the follow-up is very important. About a year or 6 months afterwards, they need a specimen to test that hubs is shooting blanks.
I remember James leaving for work that morning with a brown paper bag that contained a cup. I asked him what his strategy was since he was busy with meetings all day at work. Tight lipped and with very little emotion, he told me he would take care of it.
That night I asked how it went. He told me he didn’t want to talk about it. In a fit of giggles I tried to pry the information of him and how he slapped the monkey for the cup. But his lips were sealed and I let it go.
The good news was a week later he got the call that yes, he was firing blanks.
The weekend of frozen peas on the crotch and that faint smell of burning flesh and his ball sack getting shaved, was all worth it.
I was proud of him. He really took one for the team.
If you haven’t already- please buy the book! It’s funny, even husbands are enjoying it. Makes a great baby shower gift!