I know, I know. You’ve heard it before. We (moms) think were goddesses and fucking saints for pushing watermelons out of our easy bake ovens. And if you had a C-section- power to you. Because stitches through five layers of tissue makes any guy whining over a vasectomy look like the pansy ass douche he is.
Where was I? Why am I so angry? I don’t know. I mean, maybe it’s the PTSD from the pre-epidural catheter they gave me in the labor and delivery room when I went hypertonic trying to birth Emma. Hypertonic- abnormal muscle tone. Sadly, my over active uterus did not leave me with 6 pack abs.
Maybe it’s the bloody nipples I got a week after she was born because I spent those 7 days with her latching on improperly while trying to breast feed. Then cried when I was pumping milk sitting on the toilet in our cramped little bathroom because I felt like a failure.
Yeah. Moms unite! Bitches get shit done. And you know what? We get birthing done.
When I gave birth to Emma, there was a story that week in the news of some natural disaster in Africa ( I can’t remember because part of the brain that holds memory and reason comes out with the after birth. It’s true.) that caused a woman to give birth in a tree. A GODDAMN TREE! By herself. Her and her baby were there for a good day or so before the rescue choppers got her. Did she worry about saving the placenta later because her MOPS group wanted to make smoothies out of it and then paint pretty pictures on canvases while drinking wine? NO! She did what she had to do.
And gosh darn, I was laboring in a comfortable first world hospital bed and I thought of her. HER. And she was my hero. But also, it kind of scared the shit out of me because the way things were going with Emma, I would have died in that tree and she with me. So yay, modern conveniences!
So I’m sorry if my wish for this Mother’s day is to be treated like royalty by the subjects of the house. But dude! I earned it. It’s been 15 years since all that happened. But still.
Not that you want to know this, but one of the first times I got up to go to the bathroom after I had Owen, I thought I had birthed a second child. I had been lying down in the bed for several hours. It was so scary, like, I paged the doctor and all and told her that a pile of left over something and I think it had teeth and whatnot had just smooshed out of my cooch and did they need to weigh it or take it for a biopsy, because that twin baby looked like I was bleeding to death. It was frightening.
She laughed, sweetly, and said, you know, most moms forget that their vagina is a long tunnel that fills up with all kinds of good stuff after the baby is born. It was just waiting to come out. Sometimes the muscles contract and it doesn’t until you get up to go to the bathroom. And then I was all, “Like a JELL-O mold!” And she’s all, “YES! You’re fine!”
Oh phew! I thought I hemorrhaged. And so does every other woman who just pushed an 8 pound bag of potatoes with a 90th percentile head out of a hole the size of a golf ball.
Let’s not forget the old days when our mothers and their mothers had babies. When they gave them enemas, shaved their pubes, and knocked them out with drugs. You know. Because it’s easier for the doctor. The male doctor. Oh boo on him for dealing with female pubic hairs. Thank GOD when they changed that. Even though now everyone’s got a Brazilian, so who cares. And I’m all for drugs, but I’d rather NOT wake up two days later to find out if I actually had the baby or not.
Ugh. Men.
“Waa. Let me whine some more because my wife snores when she sleeps and insists on sleeping with a body pillow we’ve named Phil. She never wants to do it anymore. WAAA.”
Someone call the whambulance, because I’m sick and tired of men complaining. I’m sick and tired of men complaining about their vasectomies and that their wife doesn’t want to have sex. Oh, and then newsflash. She’s not going to want to have sex with you after because, well. You’ve seen the Hindenburg disaster. Who wants to fly after that? We need some time. And by time, I mean at least, at LEAST 6 months post partum. And lube. Lots and lots of lube. And probably booze. And the promise of a nap afterwards without a baby attached to my body.
And again, sorry for the graphic nature of this- but if you had hemorrhoids, you don’t want your man down in your crotchal region with anything other than some nice cotton or microfiber breathable underpants. Stuff changes. It’s not the same.
Did you have an episiotomy? Or how about a 4th degree tear? Do the words ‘transvaginal mesh’ send you into flashbacks of trauma similar to a combat veteran’s? You didn’t know what a ‘taint was before, but now you do.
Yeah. So lay off dudes. We deserve pie, and croissants. We should have long leisurely baths alone without people asking to climb in the tub with us. That goes for little kids AND husbands. STAHP. If I wanted a bath with you, I would have said so.
Plus sex in bathwater leads to UTIs and nobody got time for that.
Happy Mother’s day mamas! May you get all the worldly goods you deserve. And peace.

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How to be nice on the internet. A primer.
I love the internet. I do. I have friends on the internet that I like better than some people I see on a regular basis in real life. I mean, the internet IS real life.
It reports the news, keeps us up to date socially, drives commerce. You can buy Winnie the Pooh slankets on the internet, or chia seeds in bulk. You can watch porn in the privacy of your own home. You can attend AA meetings and prayer groups.
But the internet is also a nasty, vile place. Like a dark back alley in Singapore, it’s rank, rude, and you might need a Hep C shot.
The phrase, “it’s not what you say, but how you say it” needs to be invoked more often. We need to remember that a keyboard isn’t a mask of anonymity. You need to say on the internet what you would say to someone in person.
I’ve noticed some very poor behavior. Whether it’s on Facebook comments or blog comments. And I’m sure the people are somewhat decent, they have just forgotten all human kindness when it comes to interacting with people on the web.
That’s right, people. We are all people. The people that write blogs, administer Facebook pages, write Tweets; we are human beings. Not cyber bots that just put this stuff out there for you. Oh, and we aren’t getting paid that much to do it either.
Join me in my classroom on how to be nice on the internet. It will be fun, I promise. And possibly, a little passive aggressive.
Examples:
Status on Facebook- “My husband forgot to use soap when he bathed our kids. Sorry if they look greasy.”
Nasty internet response- “Soap is evil, you’re a dumbfuck parent for even using the stuff. It’s horrible for the skin. What kind of monster are you? I feel sorry for your kids. :)” (Yes, that’s a smiley face, passive aggressive emoticon. We’ve all seen them.)
Say this instead- “LOL! Soap is for hobos in a shelter. Or jocks in a locker room. Who needs soap?”
Facebook status- “I just want to let you know about this new book I contributed in. Hope you order it on Amazon.”
Nasty internet response- “I don’t like braggy statuses so I’m just going to unlike your page. Who needs to know about your book anyway?”
Better internet response- “I’m selling vacuums through this website. If you want a flat stomach order here, www.drozwantsyoutopoop.com”
My favorite kind of parenting argument- Facebook status- “I’ve finally sleep trained my 9 month old. What a blessing to get to sleep through the night and fully function during the day for my family.”
Nasty internet response – “Sleep training is the devil’s work. You need to be at your child’s side at all times. Even wolf cubs take better care of their babies than you do.”
What you should say- “I love trains. Breakfast trains, dinner trains, sleep trains. All trains are awesome.”
Do you see my point? When you want to say something mean, just say something nice but still on topic. This way, you can get your point across without ruffling any feathers. And don’t just use one smiley face emoticon. There’s so many others you can use; penguins, sharks, hearts. Be creative!
Actually, I admit, my suggested responses are ridiculous. But isn’t banging someone over the head with your opinions a little ridiculous too? Have you ever won an argument by calling the person stupid, or telling them they are what’s wrong with the world? Hmm.. I doubt it. If you like to start arguments on the internet, you’re what is called a troll. And trolls have excessive body hair and live under bridges and talk to goats. If this describes you, then I suppose you wouldn’t know better than to type horrible, spiteful words. You probably need a hug. And a cookie.
If you are trying to persuade someone, it’s best to not insult them. I have found this works beautifully.
So carry on. Off you go. Just be nice.
This concludes Mrs. Frugies classroom. Come next week when I share tips on how to trim your cats matted belly hair with the kitchen shears.