Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Perhaps I recognize a bit of myself in this person, but that's for a different post.
Anyways, I have noticeably been down lately, not moping really, but I guess I used to enunciate my conversations with spirit fingers or something, because people have been bringing up my daughter's well being far more often then usual.
*remember I am that disgusting mom that talks about my child at nauseum and actually was apart of a very awkward intervention, where my friends were all like, um, Chelsea, shut the fuck up about your kid. So, imagine my surprise when people are actually engaging me. I finally caught on when the only time I seemed to be excited or smile was when I was re telling the story of when Allie tried to bite the cat.
But this person in my life that has a horrible habit of swooping in and taking a huge dump on my day, tried very unsuccessfully to "engage me about my daughter"
....by asking me about breast feeding.
And by ask I mean he criticized me for not breast feeding until she was six months old. I VERY patiently explained that I had in fact gone back to work, and pumping milk out of my boobs, while sitting on a public toilet is actually not my idea of a good time. To which he replied that, I should do whatever I could do, in order to keep my baby healthy, and he knows breast feeding is tough but I should really....(This is pretty much where my head spun around a la Linda Blair style.
I very calmly pointed out that the only way that he would have ANY indication of what breast feeding felt like, is if he got a stapler and stapled his junk over and over and over again, and then got up at 1AM, 2AM, 4AM, after two or three hours of sleep and stuck his junk back in a stapler and commenced with the pinching and gnawing. And ONLY then, can he say ANYTHING about how "hard it is."
And you know what he did?
If you have an opinion about breast feeding, do us all a favor and punch yourself in the face instead.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Grief has had its ugly hands held tight around my neck lately. Just when I thought I was past it, just when I thought I was going to be OK, it felt as if a sludge hammer came out of no where and slammed me to the ground.
And I feel weak.
Isn’t that pathetic? I zip up my feelings like I am protecting them, like I am holding on to it like it means something. Because I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.
I feel guilty for crying. I feel guilty for being angry. I feel guilty for being angry at how others grieve.
I am jealous of people that can cry with such ferocity that you can taste their anguish.
I am the person that is absorbing pain, trying to take it away, when really? For one second I wish for someone to absorb my pain.
I hate myself for always pretending that everything is fine. I hate that remaining calm and just taking it is what I have become.
My silence is suffocating me.
I miss my Dad. I miss my brother. I am so fucking angry that they are gone. I am angry at how their absence hurts. I am angry at how I say it with such ease- how it fits into every day sentences, “oh, my Dad is dead…and my brother too.”
Should I have not have said that? Was it too much for them? Did I make them uncomfortable?
I hate how my last conversation with my Dad was a mix of me pretending like I didn’t know he was dying, and him pretending like he wasn’t. A paradox of emotions. A game almost. I hate that my brother called me before he died, and I just didn’t feel like talking to him.
I hate that this post will send alarm bells off with my friends, and I will receive emails and phone calls, saying “Are you OK?” I think you need help?!” But I guess that’s just it. I have been so afraid of not being OK. Because then what? Am I weak? Am I depressed? Do you think that tossing me a bottle of anti depressants will bring them back? Cause they don’t come back. That’s the whole thing. I carry them on my shoulders everyday, and it’s always grief that whispers into my ear, just when I think I am finally past it. Grief is always there.
Waiting in the shadows just when I think the light is finally shining through the trees.
And I have to grieve.
And maybe this is a start.
Hi, my name is Chelsea, and no, today, I am not OK.
Maybe tomorrow though.
I know its been 6 whole months and all, but I still can't get over the fact that I Pick my daughter's nose.
Not only do I pick her nose, but I do it with such satisfaction. I am talking about really digging for gold here, like even licking my finger to get the crustiest goop that lines her nose in the morning. I actually enjoy gooping out the biggest juiciest boogers..ever. Like, how can she breathe..type boogers. You probably think I am gross, unless of course you are all like...I HAVE ONE OF THOSE TOO!
I did at one time write a entire blog post on how I do not pick my own boogers, but here I am, a 26 year old mother, who will gladly scrape boogers like I went to school and majored in booger picking. I am about three colds away from slapping a bumper sticker on my car that reads: HONK IF YOU PICK YOUR KID"S NOSE AND LIKE IT!
And I said Motherhood would never change me.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Anyways, Sarah mechanically mashes her squash/candy corn/ pumpkin scone into her mouth and begins recounting a very unfortunate adventure that she experienced with Karma.
I call this: Don't mess with Karma, because it will kick you in the teeth.
Sarah was out one brisk morning walking her dog, and feeling incredibly sorry for herself because she had left her wallet sitting on the kitchen counter, and being that she is probably the most narcissistic person I have ever met, decided that when she found a small wallet laying on a park bench, that God had decided that she really DID need that Venti Pumpkin spice latte.
Sarah explained that she did actually in that moment feel "bad" for going through something that clearly did not belong to her. However, she reasoned that the hankering for coffee was strong, and there was a folded twenty dollar bill folded among the credit cards, just sitting there begging to be used. Sarah decided that just snagging the wallet and dropping it in her pocket would encourage her to make a quick call to the local Police station, and would clearly smooth out Karma's nasty back lash, and justify taking the neatly folded twenty.
Well, the day went on, and the day was BAD. Sarah explained that her dog shit all over the house after eating half of her shoes, and her refrigerator just "stopped working".
I asked her if she had turned in the wallet, or spent the twenty dollars. Sarah leaned over the table, almost whispering, "I spent the twenty dollars. but I couldn't bring myself to turn in the wallet."
I briefly wondered what my life would be like if I lost my wallet that held my SS card and BIRTH CERTIFICATE, cause "YES!", she declared, "BOTH OF THESE DOCUMENTS WERE FOLDED IN THE PURSE." I also kinda wiggled uncomfortably in my seat, hoping that my cash would still be in my purse after leaving her.
Sarah flipped her hair, and gave me a pained look, "Things started to really suck after I took the money, having that wallet with me was like having a constant bad luck charm."
She explained that when things went badly for her the first day, she chalked it up to a coincidence, but when the entire week was a series of coffee spills, stepping in dog vomit, friends being fired, flat tires, that she figured that Karma had made her its bitch. But in classic Sarah fashion, It wasn't until she got stood up on her Match.com date that she decided that the wallet needed to go, and where it needed to go was out her moving car window.
This is when she flashed her eyes at me, "But yesterday, you are never gonna fucking believe what happened."
I sipped my latte and kinda snickered, "you got promoted?"
Sarah smacked her hand on the table, sending drops of coffee all over the front of her floral scarf, "No! When I decided to throw the wallet out of the window, I tossed it into the woods in MY neighborhood."
I didn't really see where she was going with this.
Sarah explained, "When I got home from work, Stephanie *her roommate* was all screeching like she just discovered she could shit out gold nuggets, and flashed the biggest diamond I have ever seen, and announced that her and Jay were FINALLY getting married."
I still didn't get the relevance or how this had anything to do with the wallet.
Sarah waved her arms frantically to emphasize her already hyper demeanor.
"She found that fucking wallet Chelsea! She Found it while she was running some morning and turned it into the POLICE, and SHE GOT ENGAGED the NEXT DAY. Do you see how Fucked up my life is?"
Blink, blink blink.
Do I really even need to say this? Karma 1 Sarah 0
Sarah is not her real name. But she wants me to clarify that she is super pissed- she got fired from her job yesterday and is still single. And the next time she finds a wallet she will immediately turn it into the Police.
Then maybe she will get married.
And the latte, totally was not worth it.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Vermont certainly was a fantastic time, and I am pretty sure it would have been even better if we were not toting around a 14 pound tiny angel that made it crystal clear that she was all set with the car.
So, naturally sitting in said car for four hours was not exactly a "magical experience" Also, see: trying to get baby to sleep in her pack in play. Allessandra also decided among other things, that she would rather not eat before bed, or sleep anywhere but in her crib at home.
I tried to reason with her, promising to give her diamonds and rubies if she would just rest her head and stop trying to melt mommy's face off with her screeching.
Out of pure desperation Josh and I pulled her in bed with us, in order to grab a few more hours of sleep- this was much like spooning a 89 pound gorilla on crack- with the rolling and the kicking and the HAIR GRABBING. So Josh and I did what any new parent would do, vacationing with their 6 month old.
We let her sleep in the room with the King size bed, and we hunkered down on the futon.
Which is as comfortable as you would expect sleeping on a futon in a cabin in Vermont would be.
I did, however have a wonderful birthday. Josh and I decided to go to a pub to get drinks and appetizers at 4pm, which is just early enough for it to be kosher to also be toting a small baby. Allie kicked back and enjoyed a cracker while Josh and I overdosed on homemade pretzels and mustard made purely from wasabi. We ran into a small snag though, when Allie completely lost her shit and decided that it was time for us to go, like NOW.
So Josh and I "enjoyed our drinks" by throwing them back in under five minutes.
And carried the child out of the Pub under our arms as if she was on fire.
The only "issue" was after the Pub we thought it would be a fabulous idea to hit up Ben and Jerry's....tipsy. Which only really made us giggle like assholes. And for me to declare rather loudly that the tour was super L A M E- which in my defense, was, but Allie had the hiccups incredibly loudly throughout the six minute documentary so I felt that Ben, Jerry, and I were even.
But really? Lame.
Go there and eat the ice cream, but skip the tour.
So Vermont, all in all was very nice.
But I kinda see why my parents always went there in the fall.
Without their four kids.
A Picture Taken at Ben&Jerry's, Josh's Comment: "Awesome. I am really glad I smiled for that one."
Friday, September 18, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
If you know anything about me, you know that I absolutely adore the Fall. I want to bottle up Autumn put it on a shelf and blow it kisses.
I love Pumpkins, pumpkins spice lattes, cider, trees, apples, I love the soft breezes, I just am the happiest I can be through September and October. Buuuuut...let me just say, this morning kicked my ass. Because it was COLD. As in, can't really be outside any longer with baby girl without getting death stares from old ladies walking their poodles.
Their judgment seeped underneath my skin, to the point where I was pretty sure I should have put a friggen snow suit on the child and draped a down comforter over the stroller. Look here people, it was 65 degrees out. She had on jeans, long sleeve shirt, jacket, hat, socks AND SHOES. So bite my ass. She was SWEATING FOR GODS SAKE.
Anyways, it got to me. So I called it a mile and left. And yes. It was cold. I was cold. Even tho I was rocking shorts and a tee shirt. I am thinking that Fall needs to stay at a consistent 70 degrees. And none of this "Hey look a snow storm!" in October. Cause I might lose my mind.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Today you are officially six months old. My astonishment at how fast time has flown, and my observations of how MUCH you have accomplished I am sure, is getting pretty old. I feel like that boring as shit mom who's only means of conversation is describing her kid's milestones with great detail, and listing off which tooth made its appearance FIRST! *Lower central incisor* and BOTH OF THEM TO BOOT! I am totally that woman who everyone wants to punch in the face, cause I say things like, "Oh, I have a five month old at home too! Is yours crawling?...oh what a shame, cause MINE IS!" Muahahhahah. Then I give them a shit eating grin, while you scream bloody murder because I removed my keys that somehow found their way half way down your throat.
So, anyways, the six month newsletter...so all you readers out there, kick back with your latte, nod your head at the appropriate times, and for GOD SAKES try not to look at your watch. I am serious. That's rude. At least pretend to care.
So where was I? Six months. We are six months away from your one year survival party!
Daddy would not let me make you a six month old birthday party, equipped with vanilla swirl cupcakes with lady bugs dancing on top. He assured me that we would have to wait to throw down and party, cause no one celebrates six month old birthdays. Pshew. Whatever. In this household we celebrate half birthdays AND open a gift on Christmas Eve! Yippee!
This Month has flow by at warp speed, one minute you were laying there on the floor, all content, and then I blinked my eye for a mere second and there you were CHASING THE CATS, and pulling up on the coffee table. And all I could do was calmly sip my coffee and pray to God that you would not add to the bruises on your face.
Daddy and I watched a video of you when you first came home from the hospital. You were all snuggled in your bouncy seat, wearing your ducky pjs, the ones that I was not too sure about buying until your Dad declared rather loudly in Babies r us "I WANT THE DUCK ONE!"
He has a thing for you in duck apparel, don't judge him for it. I promise to draw the line when he is searching for ducky themed prom dresses. But anyways back to the video, you were there all cute, and we commented that you seemed to be in slow motion- you would move your arm, AWWW SHE MOVED HER ARM! You would open your tiny mouth and yawn, AWWW SHE YAWNS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You would sneeze, you get the picture.
But now, ...now Daddy and I say things like, "Allessandra, that is not yours! No Allie, we do not eat the cat, open drawers, eat plastic, the remote, my cellphone, Daddy's shoe. And the other day, "Allie, PLEASE JUST STOP MOVING!"
See? You are a tiny wiggle bug, you refuse to sit still. I find myself tripping over my feet to keep you from finding the matches and vodka. I wouldn't put it past you to just burn this Mo Fo to the ground.
The things that you have accomplished way too early: Standing, crawling, feeding yourself baby crackers, developing one hell of a vivacious personality....case in point: um, the other day I swear to GOD you rolled your eyes at me. I kinda just stood there all flabbergasted. Oh, and that little number you pulled yesterday at the hair salon, remember? We ran into Nanny Lisa and you accidentally bumped your head into my face, and REACHED FOR LISA TO BE COMFORTED? Do you remember that?
Ha. Touche my dear daughter. Touche.
You are also learning how wave hi and bye, which I just finally figure out, was what you were doing when you whipped your arm up and down. You also do this lovely motion when you want something. It's pretty comical, since you are doing it out of pure frustration.
Even though you are stubborn as shit, and incredibly impatient you truly are the happiest damn baby I have ever seen. You smile at EVERYONE. And I do mean everyone. Even that creepy guy hanging out in front of Dunkin Donuts that I swear to God I saw on America's most Wanted. You were all like, HI I am Allie, Ok now tell me I am beautiful. Blink Blink.
And you are pretty damn beautiful, every time I walk into your room and am greeted with a huge dazzling smile and scream, I just swoop you up and devour your tiny face with kisses.
I love you so much kiddo, I am actually thinking of bedazzling it on a Tee-shirt.
Can I call you Jess?
I recently read your interview in INSTYLE magazine, and while I am delighted that you adore being a mother, I have a few "issues" with your attitude towards weight loss. While I find it absolutely adorable that you claim that a workout for you is..what was that again? Yoga, and walking? Really Jess? Walking? As in, you walk down the street? I am confused. Do you go to the gym and walk on the treadmill? If I walk will I have an ass like yours?
So I am just saying, after I had my baby, I had 15 pounds to lose, and this morning the scale finally did not scream when it saw me approaching. After six months I finally lost all of it...but I worked my ASS OFF. And I never once claimed that it was easy, or the weight just fell off.
I am thinking that you publically speaking about how much you hated being pregnant because you felt like a huge monstrous beast, (after only gaining 25 pounds) does not exactly match up to your lackadaisical attitude towards exercise and eating well.
I am just saying, if I chose brunch over working out, and did a few classes of yoga and ...walked..that my fat ass would still be holding on tight to those 15 pounds...but, instead I run everyday and have been doing Weight Watchers, but Ms. Alba, I still do not look like you in a bathing suit. So what is it? Green tea pills, Fat flush? Jenny Craig? Do you have a live in trainer? How long do you actually work out? Could you please just be HONEST about it? Because your body makes other Moms like me feel like huge beasts, especially when you say that all you do is walk.....
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I have been obsessively watching Super Nanny on the style network. And while I usually am all like OMG I AM SO MUCH SMARTER THEN THESE PEOPLE! There are some "issues" that really got under my skin and stuck.
One in particular. The episode where the SEVEN YEAR OLD BOY NEEDED HIS MOM TO WIPE HIS ASS AFTER HE TOOK A DUMP.
Holy mother of GOD.
I was pretty excited at the prospect of potty training, to kiss those diapers goodbye- and say so long to getting green poop underneath my finger nails. Cause nothing says classy like having shit coated fingers before breakfast! But...thinking about it...I will still have to make sure that my tiny baby's butt is free of nasty poo...? And how long is too long to monitor the wiping issue? Cause I think that when the kid is verbalizing the amount of POOP THAT IS ON HER BUTT- ITS TIME TO DRAW THE LINE.
But hold the phone here. I have actually in my early life, wiped asses that were hovering over a toilet. And those kids WERE NOT MINE! I changed diapers, I gagged at blue colored poop, and I was like TEN YEARS OLD. Ten. Think about that. I changed diapers and was responsible for other people's baby's butts...and was TWO YEARS OLDER then that kid on the show that still needed his MOM TO WIPE HIS ASS.
I have a lot of anger about this issue I guess. Thinking back on it, I should have demanded 25$ an hour instead of a measly 5$. Hell, if some responsible ten year old wanted to come into my home and change Allie for 5 bucks an hour. SIGN ME UP. Josh and I will gladly hand over our tiny poop machine.
Sooo when can we start introducing the potty?
Oh, she has to sit up on her own?
Saturday, September 5, 2009
I feel like an asshole.
My tiny beautiful baby, that cried like someone was shooting fiery hot acid all over her body last night, is in fact, NOT being a jerk.
She cut her first tooth.
As in, there is a piece of tooth shooting up through her gums. My baby, my tiny little baby that used to grunt like a piglet when she was hungry, has a tooth.
And not only that, she threw back 6 ounces of formula, and devoured a thing of baby yogurt.
And did not projectile vomit.
Just a word of warning, the ONLY reason why I know that this little one has a tooth, is she decided that this morning would be an excellent opportunity to try out that bad boy.
On my face.
Once I wiped away the blood, and reattached my nose, I tried to see said tooth, and she nearly bit my finger off.
She would rather you did not look at it.
Just warning you.
Friday, September 4, 2009
I truly thought that we were done with sleep training.
Josh and I consistently put the baby to bed at 7pm, high fived, kicked back and turned on some Ghost Hunters. Thinking what awesome parents we are to have a baby that sleeps all night.
No longer were we the parents with a newborn, walking around with the baby slung around our shoulders praying to GOD that she would JUST SHUT HER EYES AND GO TO SLEEP.
Well people. I have seen 4am way more in these last couple of nights then I care mention.
4am. Seems to Allie, to be the new black, its what all the cool babies are doing to TORTURE THEIR PARENTS.
Josh and I have been trading nights, one night he stumbles blindly to her room, to change her and shove a bottle in her mouth, and the other nights I do the same. Only difference is, I CANNOT GO BACK TO SLEEP.
Hearing Allie cry in her room, is much like trying to sleep with a jackhammer right up against my ear.
I can't ignore it.
Its the most aggravating, disturbing sound I can describe to you. No amount of ear plugs, pillows, or white noise can block out her: I am really displeased cry. Which starts with a low moan, and ends with a mind numbing screech, that is now accompanied with her pulling back and forth on her crib bars.
I fight the urge to swoop in and comfort her- and this fighting urge makes me more awake then if I threw back six cups of Starbucks Coffee.
I have started to pour over the Help me Please, my fucking baby wont sleep through the night literature. And surprisingly there is quite a selection at good O'l Barnes & Noble. I am talking like a WHOLE SIDE OF THE AISLE, dedicated to SLEEP- YOU AND YOUR BABY....HOW TO.
And there is a huge variety of opinions, suggestions, and you know what it comes down to? I have to let her cry.
She is old enough.
She has totally 100% made me her bitch, where I hop on one foot into her room, put her bottle back in her mouth, rub her head, sing her songs, lend her the car, buy her a pack of cigarettes. you know, COMPLETELY ENABLE HER?
I have to ...ignore her? I have to go against my instincts and let her go back to sleep ....on her own?
Blink ...blink blink
Can you see the tiny tear rolling down my face?
This is gonna suck.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
How about the license plate that reads MOMOF2? Does seeing this instantly make you want to set them on fire? Cause that was my instant reaction.
I love my child. There was a time when she was a needy newborn that my crazy cocktail of hormones convinced me that I MIGHT NEVER BE ABLE TO LEAVE THE HOUSE BECAUSE OMG MY DAUGHTER NEEDS ME AND NO ONE ELSE WILL EVER DO.
I was jealous of other people holding her, looking at her, breathing on her. I totally was that person that encouraged you to hold the baby, while she was STILL IN THE CAR SEAT. (Not true. but a funny Office episode)
Anyways you get the point. I went through my over protective manic obsession with her. Now after throwing myself head first into my job, watching the time tick by like a time machine, I am suddenly finding myself missing everything.
I don't suddenly think that Allie is going to be that girl licking windows because I worked 47 hours a week, she might just lick windows cause its fun! But seriously. I want my time with her. I need my time with her.
So I made the decision to take the shitty shift at work. Permanently. The shitty shitty shift, the one everyone bitches about cause its the shift that sucks huge monkey testicles.
And now its all mine.
In fact, when I asked for it, I had hardly gotten the full sentence out of my mouth before it was gift wrapped, tied with a shiny gold ribbon and tossed onto my lap.
But the shitty shift lets me spend my morning with Allie. Lets me be apart of her life for a couple hours, rather then a kiss in the morning and kiss at night.
So even though my work situation will most likely suck. I get to see my daughter, and not for any other reason, but because I want to. Maybe that does make me needy. Just draw the line when I start advertising it on my boobs.