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Showing posts from January, 2019

Quit Ruining My Body

I’m not going to tell you that I had a banging, swing-from-a pole, video vixen body before kids. No, I won’t tell that lie. However, my lower stomach was NOT all poochy, with a noticeable C-section scar. I did not have stretch marks galore on my hips and across my butt (which my daughter got started, but her brother perfected). I happened to have her first, naturally, and she was clearly right at home and comfy because that chick didn’t emerge until after 27 hours of labor, a cut where NO ONE ever wants a cut, and a damn vacuum placed on her head to yank her out! 21 years later, I’m still baffled by this level of laziness. She wasn’t even trying! My girlie parts weren’t right for a solid year. And let’s spend some time on the boobs. I read all of the books and decided to breast feed. Well, I did EXACTLY what they told me NOT to do. You’re supposed to switch sides every time they eat, but I let them both nurse on one side more than the other. Let’s just say that had I breastfed for 10 m

A Serious One This Time

My 1st born was no surprise. I calendar watched and counted days to get her here. I could barely sleep the night before because I had decided, after being six days late, that I'd take THE test. After supplying the sample,  I put my head down, anxiously tapped my foot, as I waited the requisite three minutes to view the results. When it was time, I nervously turned the test over and those two solid lines jumped into view.  I. Was. Pregnant. I swung the bathroom door open and went over to my husband at the time and sang, "Guess whattttt?" Instead of verbalizing it, I handed him the test. He looked confused at first but he soon got it and a big smile spread across his face. We hugged, I skipped around the tiny apartment while he called everyone he knew. At the time of this revelation, three months after the ceremony, I'd already begun to question the strength of the union. I'd written in my journal, the same month of the wedding, that I wasn't sure it had been t

Quit Jumping Off of Stuff

If I’ve said, “I’m NOT taking you to the emergency room” once, I’ve said it a million times. Kids, especially boys, are dare devils. They want to stand on stuff they are not supposed to. They want to jump off of counters. They want to run around a house of tile with socks on. They want to dive off of furniture to perform wrestling moves on unsuspecting teddy bears. This shit stresses me out and makes me want, no need wine. Yes, I’m concerned they will get genuinely hurt and of course, no one wants that. However, in addition to that, I’m thinking big picture here. I’m in my pjs, I’m about to relax, I want to chill in peace. I do NOT want to sit in a bright hospital, after driving there with you screaming at the top of your lungs for the doctor to probably need to do something to you that’s gonna require me to help them hold your ass down. Then all of this gets followed up with a bill that I now have to fit into my budget. If you would just sit.the.hell.down, we could all be happy. Ok, m