Misadventures of a 20-Something Mom: April 2012   

Friday, April 13, 2012

The Idiot's Guide to A Day In the Life of a Stay-at Home Mom (Husbands and Hilary Rosen Please Tune in)

Here's a clue...we don't eat bon-bons. At least I don't think we do. I'm not even sure what the hell a bon bon is...so perhaps I have eaten them. Hmm.

Regardless, the leisurely picture of a stay-at-home mom has really come to grate on my nerves. I'm embarrassed to admit that I used to be one those people who scoffed at these moms, as I was raised to be an education-achieving, career-driven, independent woman. Cue the Beyonce music.

So I went to school, got my master's degree, and got knocked up in the process. While I was raised to hate the idyllic 1950's housewife, I wanted a family, and was excited about the prospect. I figured I would stay home for a few months to get the little guy acclimated to this big, bad world and then dive back into the "working" world.

Fast forward, and my few months at home have turned into 9 months, with no end in sight. As difficult as it is, this is the best job I have ever held, and I plan on staying home for as long as our finances and my sanity will allow. I love spending every day with my son. I love that I never miss any milestones and he is turning into a full on "mama's boy". Like I said, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I consider staying at home a luxury and realize that not everyone has the option or even the desire. That's ok. To each their own. However, anyone who thinks this gig is a walk in the park needs a swift kick in the nuts...or the vag for that matter (Shout out to HILARY ROSEN).

My rebuttal to the epic question that I think my husband is too smart to ask anymore, "What did you even do today", is as follows:

We'll just start around

5:15 a.m: Was b*tch slapped in the face and got a titty twister from our son indicating that he'd like to nurse.

7:15 a.m: We repeated the above.

7:30ish: Stole some more shuteye before official wake up call.

9:00 a.m.: Wrangled a screaming baby in an effort to get his ear drops in. In the process, the baby took a bite out of the arm that was trying to hold him still. Awesome. At least he has his shots up to date.
9:30 a.m.: Held baby on lap, with my uninjured arm, while I peed so I didn't have to hear the cacophony that is his crying this early in the morning
9:35 a.m.: While making the bed I discovered a mysterious wet spot on the floor where the baby was previously sitting. Upon further investigation, I discovered that it is pee. These faulty diapers have failed me again.

9:40 a.m. Considered a strongly worded letter to the diaper manufacturer while I changed his diaper and scrubbed the pee spot.

9:50 a.m.: Entertained the baby by singing my rendition/remix of "Big Boys Don't Cry" while I shoveled as many frosted mini wheats into my mouth as humanly possible. For the curious at heart, the record seems to be around 12 mini-wheats.

10:00 a.m.:  Tried to check emails and jot down an idea for the blog... so I can convince myself that I am still a contributing part of society rather than a simple milk making, diaper changing, jester to an 8 month old. While I take this "me" time my son continually rams himself, via his walker, into the pantry closet door.

Hold your applause. I will accept my "mother of the year" award later this week.
10:10 a.m.: Pantry ramming had lost it's appeal. While trying to get him suited and booted for the epic battle that was breakfast..I managed to take a chunk out of my ankle with the high chair.
If you are keeping score for the morning that is: baby-2 mommy-0.

10:13 a.m.: Put some Cheerios on his plate as a distraction while I prepare his meal.
10:15-10:35 a.m. This time was spent playing my own version of the "Hunger Games." The object of which was to get as much pureed apricot into my baby's mouth as possible before it ended up in his nose, my hair, the carpet, and on the wall. This process typically involves a lot of crying and even the occasional gnashing of teeth. The games resulted in maybe a tablespoon of food actually making it to its intended destination.

10:40 a.m.: Clean up time. All those Cheerios I thought he ate were actually smashed under his giant diapered ass. Wiped down the offending apricot from the baby, the furniture, and myself.

10:50 Did the dishes with a 31 lb. baby on my hip as he refused to be set down. How do I still have flying squirrel arms??!

11:20 Began the process of cleaning up after the tornado that is my husband. How many M-Fing times must I tell him to pick up his clothes off the floor, or clean up his coffee mess, or my personal favorite..FLUSH the toilet?! What an asshat. A loving, wonderful asshat, but an asshat none the less.

11:45ish: Baby had begun spiralling into nuclear meltdown mode which indicated it was time to let the little leech nurse some more and put him down for a nap. Just as I was sneaking away, the UPS man rung the doorbell (FOR THE WRONG HOUSE) and the baby awakened even more pissed than he was before. I briefly considered throat chopping the UPS guy, but settled for a stern, angry look.

This all happened before noon.

On REALLY productive days I also manage to:

1) Make it out of my pajamas. Double points for the team.
2) Take a shower.. to rid myself of the homeless goat smell that seems to be my current spring fragrance.
3) Go grocery shopping with our son..who typically turns into the spawn of Satan somewhere between produce and the meat department
4) And my personal favorite...make the baby laugh so hard he shits his pants..this is a rare treat.

All in a days "work".

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

The Minivan Mom Mafia: Your SUV Can Suck It.

I can't tell you how much crap I catch for driving a mini-van. According to society, and the above cow, there is nothing lower than a minivan driver a.k.a. a "soccer mom". I'm pretty sure that purchasing a mini-van is equivalent to signing your life away in the eyes of the world. Clearly your dignity, your awesomeness, and your very soul are sucked into some cosmic oblivion as soon as you drive out of the dealership in a vehicle that seats 7. Right?

Wrong. I call bullsh*t.

Maybe I am in denial, in fact it is very possible, but I just don't understand this. Maybe you should sit down for the following confession, and avoid taking a drink or bite of anything (for fear of spewing it everywhere). Here goes:
I am 24 years old, I have only one child, and I F*$#ing LOVE my minivan. That's right. I said it. I F*%$ing  LOVE IT.

So you have the facts. I am not octo-mom. My son is not old enough for soccer, or tennis, or badminton. (Does anyone play badminton?). I'm a twenty-something. Technically I'm still in my partying prime. I could totally still drive an SUV, or a cute sporty something, or a super chic electric car that shows how much I care about our damn planet. I could load up my baby and drive it to some coffeehouse where a bongo beating hippie could serenade us. (That is still where the cool people hang out, right?)

But I don't.

I don't because having a baby, even just ONE, makes all those other cars and that other life obsolete in my mind. Have you seen the size of these freaking carseats?! What about strollers, diaper bags, and all that other mandatory baby gear? Have you tried to shove all that shit into your ever so sexy convertible or your too cool for school SUV? I bet you have. How did that pan out?

Don't try and front..I know it probably didn't go well because I HAD an SUV. An adorable, mid-size little number that affirmed my status on the cool totem pole of life. It was awesome in my pre-mommy life, but I quickly learned that it wasn't a good fit post-baby.

I love being able to pack up the stroller, swing, walker, highchair, pack & play, anything my little heart desires, when we are going out of town for the weekend. What's even more kick ass is the fact that even loaded up with all that crap, my minivan is still an oasis of comfort and space! I have approximately four million climate zones, window shades, autostart and power everything. Don't forget about my two DVD players, wireless headphones, and accesories to hook up gaming systems. I'll pause so you can go ahead and wipe your drool..

For all of you moms hating on my "swagger wagon", here's what it boils down to..
At the end of the day, you and I are both leaving Gymboree with slobbery cheerios in our hair and spitup on our blouse. We both still have that "baby weight" to lose and have Eugene Levy-like eyebrows because we don't make it to the salon very often these days. If it makes you feel better to have an epic life and death struggle trying to fit your rhino-sized stroller into the back of your trendy little vehicle, then more power to you. I will politely wave as I comfortably drive by in my anti-cool mobile.

You can keep your dignity, I'll rock my status as the solo member of the Mini-van Mafia.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Stranger Danger: Kindly Remove Your Filthy Paws From My Baby, Before I Karate Chop You In The THROAT

I gave birth to the cutest baby ever born. Ever. Seriously.

Don't try to argue this, it's a moot point. Your little masterpiece can be a close second..for now...until the day I decide to procreate again.
Clearly, I make awesome babies so your little Johnny would probably be knocked down to third, or even fourth if I had twins. Can you imagine?! The world would be overrun with cuteness. I think a magical rainbow might shoot from my vagina if I was able to bring two more of these handsome, little butterballs into the world. Perhaps I'd be given the "key" to our city..not sure what I'd do with a giant key. But I digress...

I know that all parents think this...but this is no joke.

I'm not telling you this to send you in a spiralling depression over your tot. So please don't go all "Toddlers in Tiaras" on me and end up botoxing and waxing your three year old in an effort to compete with the wonderess works of  my womb.
This isn't some kind of ego trip either. I tell you this because my life has actually become really complicated due to my baby's ridiculous cuteness.

Its like having an authentic Monet painting in your foyer. (I know! Who the hell has a Monet..or a foyer for that matter?) It's an amazing conversation piece, and you welcome questions and compliments. But would you let someone touch your one-of-a-kind work of art? Hellz No!

This is how I feel about my baby. Feel free to compliment him. He's fing adorable. I get it. Feel free to ask questions. (No, we don't feed him a tub of butter every day. He is just naturally chunky.) But..for God's sake..please DO NOT TOUCH MY BABY.
Don't touch him, Don't think about touching him, Don't even ask to touch him. While I respect this approach, and it will probably save you from a swift punch in the throat, it gets super awkward when I say "no thanks".

I can't tell you how many times people have reached their grimy paws into his stroller for a quick pinch or ran over to our shopping cart and lovingly (?!) patted him on the leg. These are complete strangers. Weirdos. Vagabonds for all I know. My mouth used to fall open in shock. I don't even touch someones puppy without asking..and here are people groping my eight month old.

My mother-in-law thinks I should be grateful for my little "baby Clooney" and let people paw him to their hearts content. "He's such a cute baby, they simply can't help themselves." We'll have to agree to disagree on that one. They CAN help it..and they WILL while I'm around.

I don't say this to be a douche canoe. The reality is that people are freaking disgusting. (Don't make me pull up the hand washing statistics!) Babies have fragile, undeveloped immune systems, and if I had just let every random weirdo touch my kid..I'm sure he would be dead by now. Or have hepatitis or chlamydia or something. Try explaining that to your pediatrician.

In summation, if you see some crazed, sleep-deprived twenty-something throat chopping an elderly woman, remember this post. To you elderly baby grabbers, you've been warned.