The Queen's Throne

Once upon a time, not long ago, I was a neurotic, Type-A nut job with an obsession for utilizing every minute of every day efficiently. At one point, I tried to decrease the time I spent in the bathroom with a pee-and-flee mentality. I despised going the bathroom. It was such a damn waste of time. With so many urgent matters to deal with, I could never understand why men liked spending so much time on the toilet. There’s too much to do! Get in and get out, right ladies?! Well, things have changed.

Let me tell you, I can't remember the last time I pissed in peace. I now long for what was once an inconvenience. I rarely get the opportunity to use the commode without two little eyes watching me, and when I am alone, my son is screaming bloody murder and the dog is trying to scratch down the door. My mom always told me that one day I would understand how exhausting motherhood could be, and that it really is a 24/7 job. Even when you pee, you are not on a break. Mom, you were right, and I’m sorry for watching you pee.

In addition to a lack of personal space, toilet paper has become an issue. My son thinks toilet paper is meant to be confetti. He rips it to shreds, and now every time nature calls, I find myself using MacGyver-like skills to weave together some semblance of a goddamn toilet paper square. I really don't think that's what Charmin had in mind.

Recently, my son barged in on me peeing (I was peeing, not him- but that would have been much funnier). Instead of standing and staring, however, he thought he could give me a hand with wiping. I could see the wheels turning in his little head, and as his hand reached up toward me, I did what any sane person would do and karate-chopped him in the throat. No, not really. Calm down. I wanted to- but I just screamed "NO!" and he fell over and cried. For the love of God, all I wanted to do was the pee-and-flee, but I had to quilt a piece of toilet paper and then console my screaming child. 10 minutes later, I was searching for answers...WTF just happened? So help me God, if my son makes a habit of trying to help people wipe their nether regions, I'm going to start doing drugs (And not your simple run-of-the-mill "gateway" drugs- I'm talking crystal meth or Robitussin). I know he's just trying to help, but I'm not prepared to teach a toddler why he can't be Mommy's helper with EVERYTHING. 

So nowadays, I find myself in deep reverie, fantasizing about alone time- just the John and me. I daydream about urinary tract infections, constipation, diarrhea, and kidney stones- really, anything that would give me an excuse to enjoy my throne for lengthy amounts of time. Who would have guessed that I'd be praying for more terlit time? I would just like to say sorry to my husband for all those times I nagged you for taking 45 minutes in the bathroom. I will respect your time of tranquility from now on.  

I hope I have not traumatized too many of you, but I don't sugarcoat things. Don't say I didn't warn you. Parenting means never being alone. I think I need to pee...

Do-gooder or Squanderer?

I’ve been in the trenches for the past few days, elbow-deep in poo and puke, so forgive me for not blogging. I know you all hang on my every word, and I apologize for leaving you in suspense/despair/panic while anticipating my next post. My poor baby was sick- AGAIN. If you refer to my post The Plot Thickens, but the Poo Doesn’t, you can familiarize yourself with my desperate quest for freedom from the Shit Shenanigans I’ve been subjected to for the past several months my son has been in daycare.

My family is currently transitioning to a new city, and calling it a cluster f&@# would be putting it mildly. Okay, so I’m a little dramatic (hence the title of the blog), but I have been going nuts trying to pack 20 pounds of shit in a 5-pound bag (or at least that’s what it seems). I am known for my extremely clutter-free lifestyle and pride myself on excessive waste and/or donating. I get rid of everything. I think TLC should create a new show called “Wasters” and air it juxtaposed to “Hoarders”. I will gladly be the star/host/director/producer.  I can’t stand junk. If my house even begins to resemble a garage sale, I will burn it down and start from scratch. I think the Goodwill should put my name on a plaque or something since I’ve given them some pretty awesome shit. I try to de-clutter every couple of months, and it works very well. Here’s the problem: I had a kid. The kid isn’t the problem, but the ten tons of useless crap that goes along with a kid is driving me to drink.

I can remember spending four agonizing hours in Babies-R-Us (the Devil’s Emporium) attempting to navigate my way through all 872 “necessities” the store recommended on their Nazi registry list. I just kept repeating the same question over and over- “Do we really need all this stuff?” Are you telling me that a crib, bassinet, pack-n-play, swing, and bouncer are all necessities for a newborn? Does a baby really need 5 different places to sleep? They spend most of their time on a boob! If you are a soon-to-be parent or new parent, take my advice- YOU DON’T NEED ALL THAT CRAP! Jesus was born in a manger- I think you will manage.

So, needless to say, we have accumulated a ridiculous amount of baby gear and nowhere to put it! I should have registered for a freakin’ storage unit! I might suggest that to Babies-R-Us. While some of the gear is storage-worthy (for future babies), I will be damned if all of this baby stuff follows us to our new house. So, the question is-What is a necessity? I really don’t think my son will lose sleep if I toss a few of his 78 stuffed animals. Or what about blankets? What is with the baby blankets? I know I didn’t register for 92 of them! I have nightmares that I will end up on Hoarders, but instead of piles of trash and animal crap, I’m covered with the entire cast of Sesame Street. I can see the headlines now- “Mother’s Home Condemned, Muppets Taken into Custody.”

So I'm extremely wasteful, I know. I like to think of it as philanthropic or altruistic. Like I said, I'm still waiting for Goodwill to recognize my charitable contributions. I’m on a mission to be more minimalistic- I’ll let you know how it goes.

No Joke!

I had an epiphany. Scary, I know. Today I realized that I am now eligible to be the punch line of a “Yo Mama” joke. As in, Yo mama is so fat, she got arrested at the car wash for impersonating a Buick!” Okay, so in no way do I resemble a Buick, or any full-size sedan for that matter, but I have my concerns. I’m aware that “Mama” jokes were in the height of their hay day in the 90’s, but I don’t doubt they are still loitering where you least expect. In the event I am in a verbal altercation with a “Yo Mama” joke-slinging imbecile, I suppose I should have an adequate response prepared. In the meantime, please entertain me with some “Yo Mama” tomfoolery so I can add them to my repertoire.

An Old Soul

So, at what point was someone going to tell me that being a parent automatically makes you old? And by old, I don’t mean my chronological age (somewhere in the late twenties). I mean out of sync with pop culture, incapable of staying awake after 10pm, and obsessively watching the Goddamn NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams, followed by a riveting 30 minutes of Jeopardy every night (If Brian or Alex are reading, I think you two are the bee’s knees).  This post is not meant to be ageist. In fact, I think American society should be paying more attention to the older and wiser, rather than worrying about what’s going in or out of Snooki’s va-jay-jay, but I digress. This post is my examination of a seemingly overnight transformation from Dakota Fanning to Diane Keaton.

Yesterday, I reminded my husband about the VP Debate, and this was his response: “Oh, yeah. Should we, like, go to a sports bar or something to watch it?” Dear, sweet hubby…WHY ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH WOULD I WANT TO DO THAT? Is he even more out of touch with youth than me? I quickly realized that he was joking and probably wanted to watch the football game- I’m sure he is sick of Brian and Alex. Shockingly, we stayed home and watched the debate (on NBC with Brian Williams) while sitting on the couch.

A few months ago, we were asked to tag along to a party for a friend of a friend, and upon arrival, discovered it was a girl’s 21^st birthday party. I know, right? I almost had a panic attack. Thank God I didn’t bring a bottle of wine. I quickly went into survival mode, looking for ways to not look so obviously old. I debriefed my husband on the subjects to avoid discussing (401K, insurance, childbirth, mortgages, etc.). When some kid came up to us and asked, “Aren’t you a little old to be here?” it was apparent that my efforts had failed me.

More recently, I saw a kid point to me and say, “Mom, look at that lady’s dress.” AHEM…LADY????? Since when am I a lady? I thought I was a girl. You know, like, “Hey, look at that girl’s dress!” Not LADY!

Needless to say, I am making a valiant effort to be more youthful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to set the DVR to record the Nightly News. 

Ya Heard?

Go the F#*K to Sleep

This post is coming from a dark, depressing corner of the world (both literally and figuratively)- yep, you guessed it- my screaming toddler's bedroom! The halls are filled with the sweet echoes of blood-curdling screams as we approach the always-exciting nightie-night time. It has been 56 minutes since the tantrum commenced, and I’m quite proud of myself for bearing the brunt of it without a single alcoholic beverage. If you have not already been exposed to the brilliant works of Adam Mansbach, here is a little taste for all of you poor bastards out there suffering through the relentless dictatorship of a toddler.

From Go the Fuck to Sleep, by Adam Mansbach:

The cats nestle close to their kittens,

The lambs have lain down with the sheep.

You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear.

Please go the fuck to sleep.

The windows are dark in the town, child.

The whales huddle down in the deep.

I’ll read you one very last book if you swear

You’ll go the fuck to sleep.

The eagles who soar through the sky are at rest

And the creatures who crawl, run, and creep.

I know you’re not thirsty. That’s bullshit. Stop lying.

Lie the fuck down, my darling, and sleep.

And that's a wrap people.

Wait...what's that sound? Is that silence?...Only by the grace of god...could it be true...?

My sweet boy is finally asleep. Goodnight baby boy. Mommy loves you.

The plot thickens...but the poo doesn't!

Since my son started daycare at 7 months old, I think he's been sick about 487 times. Yeah, he's only 16 months old, but you get the point. Don't get me wrong- I absolutely love his preschool. The teachers are great and he learns so much. But if I have to experience one more Diarrhea Delight from my little monkey, I'm going to have myself committed. Is it too early for a little Imodium? But seriously folks, what is it about these places? Where do these germs come from? Are these toddlers cruising seedy bars at night, picking up homeless women and sharing a drink? I don't see how these upper-middle class children create these classroom cesspools of infectious misfortune. I'm starting a revolution...

And so it begins...

Welcome to my blog! It is my attempt at comic relief for parents everywhere. My hope is that when you have one of "those days" (your baby peed in your mouth, which made you flail your arms, which made you knock the baby powder onto the floor, which covered the dog, which caused the dog to jump on your $500 designer comforter...), you can simply check out my blog for a little parenting therapy. Happy reading!