Second Baby Weight

Before I popped The Cool Cucumber out, I had heard many warnings that losing the weight after a second baby was hard. I want to track all those bitches that said that down and punch them right in the vagina. It is not hard, it is impossible. Plus, the sagging skin and stretch marks are about a million times worse after #2. (Shut it, Alessandra. I swear to god I will drive to your house and slap you right in the face with a bottle of fat free salad dressing if you say how easy it was for you. You know how I feel about you and your friends.)

Anyway. The bitch of it is? I worked out more, ate better and gained less weight in my second pregnancy. And here I am, 9 months later, fatter than I was RIGHT AFTER I gave birth. Excellent. Thank god for jeans with space-age stretchy shit in them. I finally bit the bullet and bought some in size Fat Ass, so now I can actually button them and breathe at the same time. Bonus. Suck.

I am a realist. I understand that my body will never fit into single digit sizes. Ever. Seriously, ever. I don't strive to weigh 120 pounds. Or 130. Or, hell, even 140. That isn't healthy for me. I have child-bearing hips. They have served me well, as evidenced by my immaculate deliveries (see parts 1, 2, 3 and 4).

I think Lady Gaga is on to something. I may not have been born this way, but I sure as shit earned every pound and stretch mark I have gained along the way. Let's start the Mommy Body Revolution. One where we can have a second slice of pizza and bottle of wine without feeling dirty and comparing ourselves to our thinner mommy friends, or, worse yet, our thinner non-mommy friends.

I want pizza, wine and brownies. Suck it, salad. You too, Alessandra.

Advice Under the Influence

Dear ILBAB,

So I'm preparing for my son's first birthday party. He was born last year on Black Friday so I have the misfortune of having to plan his party during/around Thanksgiving. Anyway, I'm the kind of person who is SUPER creative and I LOVE to do crafts. But I don't want to drive myself nuts doing all kinds of stuff from scratch by myself. On the other hand, I also don't want to break the bank with buying all the cutesy decorations, favors and stuff. So where do I draw the line? What is worth doing myself and what is best to just buy and save myself the grief? (Theme is turtles btw). Thanks.

Best regards,

Monica






Dearest Monica,

I feel your pain, sister. The Quiet Contemplator's birthday falls Thanksgiving week and The Cool Cucumber's Christmas week. Holidays are a bitch at our house.

For The Contemplator's first birthday, I went crazy with the theme. I matched the invites, cake, tablecloths, birthday signs, napkins, etc. The big day came, people ate my food, trashed my house and she just sat there crapping her pants and playing with cat toys. My point? Don't stress yourself out on the first go-round. Parties aren't that big of a deal for kids until AT LEAST three. Then, all they want to do is go to horrible places like Monkey Joe's and act like heathens while stuffing their face with processed sugar.

The Quiet Contemplator's 1st birthday party was a pirate princess theme, not to be confused with a pirate hooker.

Overall, it is all about perspective. Remember why you are doing this: to celebrate the birthday of your son, not to impress people with your Pinterest skills. Keep things easy and light for the first time. It will make it a heck of a lot less stressful on you, and, in turn, make your son enjoy it a lot more. Don't blow the budget on favors for a first birthday. Or even budget for them, really. What does a 1-y-o want for a favor beside food and a diaper change?

If you still feel the need to get crafty, I would recommend the invite and the party banners. Overall, just go with the things that give you the most visual bang for your buck. And, if you are still feeling frisky, you are welcome to create some circus-themed crap from my kids' joint 1st and 3rd birthday party in December. :). 


Anywho. Hope this helps.

Smooches,

The Beer Bitch

Advice Under the Influence

Not sure of whether to go with Playtex or Dr. Brown's? Looking for a way to keep your toddler from shaving your cat again? Want to know what to do when your husband pees on the toilet seat again? Well, the Dr. is in. Email me your query and I will put on my thinking cap and publish your question, along with my answer. 

Parents at the Park

When looking for the perfect park for The Quiet Contemplator to play in (The Cool Cucumber still only eats his own boogers, he could care less about the park), we found that there are some real politics involved in playing at the park. It is like being in a parenting fishbowl where you get to swim with parents from all walks of life. It is fascinating. Here are some of the parents we have encountered at different parks throughout our journey to find the Goldilocks park that's "just right" for our family.

The Stay at Homie
These mamas are usually in some form of yoga pant and a comfy T (Hell, who are they trying to impress?). These women (and some men) are talkative and friendly and just seem damn happy to be able to have an adult conversation. They pay attention to their kids, but don't suffocate the fun out of them.

The Silver Spoon Sally
These mamas show up in designer duds--usually some form of ridiculously expensive track suit. They tend to spend most of their time at the park on the phone (actually talking, who knew people actually used phones for that anymore?). They drive vehicles that cost more than my house and that are usually about the same size.

The Helicopter
These parents can be dressed in any fashion. The key to The Helicopter is breathing down their child's neck the entire time they are at the park, worrying that something might happen if they give them any space. Pray your kid does not want to play with The Helicopter's kid. You might need to provide your child's DNA markers to allow them to interact.

The Business Meeting
These parents are usually dressed in an outfit that would be appropriate for casual Friday--even if it is Sunday afternoon. They spend their time at the park buying and selling, or making mergers and acquisitions, or whatever important people do. They often have Bluetooths and make frequent trips pacing around the actual playground while they are working.

The Marathoner
These parents are always dressed in running shoes and sporting the shirts from their latest Ironman. They tend to encourage their kids to do the more strenuous activities at the playground. They can frequently be seen throwing Clif bars at their kids while they scale the rock wall. I imagine most The Marathoners kids could probably bench press mine.

The Babysitter
These parents don't have a particular dress, but if they did, it would be sweatpants. They see the park as an opportunity for someone else to watch their children for a while. They pretty much park themselves on a bench and zone out while their kids play with dog turds and push other kids down the slide.

The Nanny
The Nannies at the park always seem to be legitimately having fun. This weirds me out. I mean, I know it is their job and all, but they seem to actually enjoy it. They also seem way better at it than me. Whatever. Ever since I saw The Hand That Rocks The Cradle, nannies have freaked me out. And don't even get me started on Au pairs. I need some hot foreign chick who my kids like better than me sleeping in my house like I need to birth another baby.

The Over Achiever
"OK, Bridget. You can do it. I know you are tired, but let's try the monkey bars just one more time. You don't want the others kids at school to be able to do it and you can't, do you?" These parents want their kids to excel. At everything. Even going down the slide. They are like gymnastic coaches at the playground. Maybe Bridget doesn't want to do the monkey bars. Maybe she just wants to shovel sand into her pants like all the other kids. 

The Cheerleader
These moms are happy. Really happy. Really, really happy. If their kid as much as takes a dump, they practically beam with joy, shouting encouragement with every little fart. Their kids are going to be incredibly disappointed when faced with the real world. No one is going to say, "Hooray, Timmy! You turned your TPS reports in on time! I am so proud of you!"

The Foodie
These parents do everything they can to give their kids the best start in life. Gluten free, soy free, non-dairy, organic, minimally processed, etc. Their snacks at the park are all individually portioned in BPA free containers and served with hemp napkins. Give it a rest. They serve chicken nuggets made of donkey balls once they get into grade school, so let your kid live a little and have a Goldfish cracker.

The Boozer
This would be us. We show up in jeans and an old t-shirt, looking like either retired rock stars or homeless people. Hey, it's Sunday. We had friends over last night and didn't know the park was such a fashion and political hotbed. We let our kids play, play with them when they aren't playing with other kids, then go home. Give us a break. And stop shouting, I kind of have a headache.





Want to see the park from other perspectives? Visit the links below to see what other moms (and one non-mom) have to say. Want to toss your own opinion into the ring for future posts? Contact me.

Aspiring to the Middle 
A Calibama State of Mind

Cloudy With a Chance of Wine 
Mod Mom Beyond IndieDom
Mommy Rotten  
Something Clever 2.0 
The Next Step 

You Sure Can

As parents, I find we are often worried about our kids inheriting our worst traits. Will they get my wicked temper? Will they pick up my bad habit of cursing? Will they grow up to have ape-like fingertoes? We spends countless hours worrying about things that we can't change, because it is already ingrained in their DNA to be one way or another. The problem is, we don't spend enough time looking at all of the wonderful aspects of ourselves that our children get. Their father's kindness and patience, my verboseness and free spirit, etc.

The other day, I was changing The Cool Cucumber's diaper when I asked The Quiet Contemplator if she could go get something for me in the other room. She cheerfully responded, "I sure can!" It made me stop. What a sweet reply and what an odd way of saying yes. I was proud of her, but more so, I wondered where she had picked this expression up at.

The next day, The Contemplator asked me if she could have a cookie and since she had been a good girl all day, I replied, "You sure can!" And I stopped. It was me that she picked it up from. I was the person that she had mirrored herself after that had made her respond in that way. My heart swelled. One, because she is such a sweet freaking kid that it is fucking disgusting, and two, because I had something directly to do with that. Score one for Mommy!

As parents, we don't often take the time to pat ourselves on the back for our successes, we are too busy beating ourselves up for our perceived failures. We only credit ourselves with the bad habits our kids pick up, not with all of the wonderful things that they learn just by being with us.

So, today, Mommies and Daddies, take a moment to remind yourself of what a good job you are doing. Even if the house is a mess. Or you burned breakfast. Or you snapped at your toddler to get their ass in the car because you are already late. Today, try to focus on the good you are doing.

Because I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And doggone it, people like me.

Being a parent is hard. Being hard on yourself is easy. Let go. Just for a minute. Or an hour. Or a day. How long can you make it without beating yourself up? How much good can you see in yourself today? Here's hoping you see a lot.

What we are reading

I know I am always looking for new books to read for the kids and myself, so I thought I would share with you what my family's favorites are at the moment. I would love if you would all share yours, as well. Always looking for more to read!

What We are Reading to the Kids:


On the Night Your Were Born For some reason, The Cool Cucumber LOVES this book. Every time I start reading it, his whole face lights up and he starts cooing. It is really weird. I never liked it much with The Quiet Contemplator, but love reading it to The Cucumber.


The Tickle Monster The Quiet Contemplator loves this book right now.

Where the Sidewalk Ends
Falling Up
A Light In The Attic
We love reading these books. I grew up with Shel Silverstein and, thankfully, my kids are too. One of my favorites is Hector the Collector, from Where the Sidewalk Ends. The Contemplator loves Complainin' Jack, from Falling Up.

The Pout Pout Fish Such a cute story and well written. I think it is a great reminder that we can all be happy if we just allow ourselves to be. Sometimes we feel we just aren't "designed" to be happy.




What Mommy is Reading:

The Hunger Games This was my first real dip in the reading pool since I had the kids. Sad, I know. What it did was remind me of what an ridiculously addictive reader I am. I finished these books in about a week. It was gross. I couldn't stop. Not because they were awesome or anything, but just because I love to have something easy to read.

Fifty Shades Mmmmm...Mommy porn. Me likey. So easy to see that this is Twilight fan fiction in the beginning, but it goes away about halfway through the first book. Besides, at least Christian gives it up, unlike that prude Edward.

(Yes, I sometimes read more intelligent stuff than Twilight-esqe drivel, but Mama is tired and just wants to give her brain a break for the time being.)

I, apparently, did not put the lotion in the basket

We all know the trials and tribulations The Quiet Contemplator and I have with soap and lotion. It gives me an eye twitch just thinking about it. Well, it is far from over and it has reached an entire new level. A level so embarrassing that I might be shunned by the entire Mommy Community after I tell its tale, but tell it I shall, because we all know I have no shame, as evidenced here and here and, well, pretty much this entire blog. This one might take the cake though.

The other day, as I was getting ready, The Contemplator came into the bathroom rubbing her hands in her usual mirthful way. Yep, lotion again. As my temperature began to rise, I asked her where she had obtained said lotion. She replied, "By the bed." Funny, I thought. I don't remember having any lotion by the bed. Then it hit me.  





Wait for it.








Wait for it.







You guessed it…







My daughter had coated her hands in lube. Hi, My name is Julie (Hi, Julie) and I may have accidentally committed a sex crime against a two-year-old.

Now, before you get your spanx all in a bunch and think ADD Daddy and I are some kind of sex perverts, hear me out. The "lotion" (I am going to keep referring to it as "lotion" because even just the word "lube" really freaks me out) she had found was actually a bottle of Pre-seed fertility lubricant, not a 20-gallon bottle of Astroglide. This particular "lotion" was used to help conceive both of the kids, not for hot, stinky monkey love. Regardless, I was mortified.

I immediately took her to the sink to wash the "lotion" off her hands, though there was no amount of soap that was going to wash off the crimson flush that had taken over my cheeks. After I cleaned The Contemplator up (a remarkably speedy process, given the presence of the "lotion"), I sent her on her way to play. No "No more soap or lotion" talks, no scolding, no nothing. Just a hope and a prayer to the big man above that she would not tell her friends at school about the incident and that the sex crimes enforcement agency wouldn't be visiting me at work that afternoon.


Anywho, enjoy this video by the Greenskeepers that cracks me up. Put the lotion in the basket, Boozehounds!

Time Out

After we left the 5th circle of hell Monkey Joe's on Saturday, The Quite Contemplator and I swung by the house to pick up ADD Daddy and The Cool Cucumber for some family fun we all could actually enjoy. We headed to a little fall festival our town was throwing. It was filled with hayrides, corn dogs, live music and, best of all, $1 beers. Mommy likey.

After we had had our fill of artery-clogging treats and had drown ourselves in the we-are-in-public-and-responsible-for-children-but-still-like-to-drink appropriate amount of cheap beer, we took the kids over to where the band was about to start--because we all know how much The Contemplator loves to shake her groove thing to a live band. And sister did not disappoint. She even pulled apart the glow necklace I had bought her earlier and waved it around like a neon freak flag while working the dance floor. I love that kid.

There were a few other kids running around on the large, open-lawn dance floor as well. Two little girls, maybe 6 years old, were running around and having fun. When they came close to where we were standing, The Contemplator gave chase and caught up with them. The two of them went about, running and squealing, all while The Contemplator was doing her best to keep up with them, given her legs were three years younger than theirs. She was in heaven. Hanging out with two "big kids", running like a maniac, listening to music and waving her freak flag. She was having the time of her life. Until she wasn't.

After a few laps around the dance floor, the two girls stopped and said something to The Contemplator. They then ran away laughing as The Contemplator just stood there. She didn't move for a minute. Then she slowly started to make her way over to where ADD Daddy, The Cool Cucumber and I were standing.

With each passing step, her lower lip grew bigger and bigger. It was then that I knew: someone had hurt my baby and mama bear was going to have to cut somebody. Through hysterical tears, I ascertained that the girls had told The Contemplator that she was in "time out" and then ran away from her. A death penalty-worthy offense? No. But to a two-year-old, life changing.

After we left, The Contemplator cried for over an hour. It killed me. She was shattered and so was I. The first permanent scratch had been made on her previously-unscathed surface and there was nothing I could do about it. I swooped in with my Super Mommy cape, but it was too late.

I know that this was just the tiniest ripple in what will inevitably someday be huge waves of pain in her life, but it was the first one, and it was hard. It showed me that no matter how hard I try on a daily basis not to break my children, that it isn't in my control. In the end, anyone can just elbow their way through my stronghold and break my babies.

It is terrifying the power two little girls and two little words can have. Time out indeed, ladies. Time out indeed.

My Saturday in Hell

Saturday was The Quiet Contemplator's first official "friend" birthday party. She has been invited to others, but this was the first one we were able to go to and she was old enough to lose her fucking mind for the three days preceding be really excited about. The party was at a place called Monkey Joe's.

Here is how Monkey Joe's describes itself: Bring your kids to Monkey Joe's fun-filled inflatable play center! Our wall-to-wall inflatable slides, jumps, and obstacle courses will keep your kids active, happy, and healthy.

Here is how I describe Monkey Joe's: the 5th circle of hell. For those of you not familiar, the 5th circle is the one where those who commit wrath and sloth go to. Monkey Joe's fills me with wrath and the place was basically a pit ravaged by Ebola and other disgusting kid diseases, so it seems apropro on the sloth front.

Anyway.

Here is the Monkey Joe's breakdown for kids:
get wristbands.
take off their shoes.
enter blown up pits of snot and fungus protected only by a thin layer of sock.
jump up and down in said sloth-pit until you lose the ability to stand.
go to a private party room (not as dirty as it sounds).
eat cake.
regain stamina and want to bounce some more.

Here is the Monkey Joe's breakdown for parents:
get wristbands.
watch kids jump up and down in germ cesspools.
try to make idle small talk with other parents.
want to die.
go to private party room (much dirtier than it sounds).
watch kids eat cake.
drag  kids kicking and screaming to the car when it is time to leave.
lose will to live.

 

My kid getting taken out by another kid, AKA, how Monkey Joe's rolls.

I was lucky enough to be the parent with the kid that climbed to the top of the tallest blow up slide only to freak the fuck out get too scared to slide down and need to be removed by an employee. Let me tell you the awesomeness of not being able to enter the cesspit (no adults allowed!) to retrieve your screaming toddler all while trying to find an acne-prone teenage manager to help get them down. It is even awesomer 5 minutes later when they still have not hauled their asses up to the top to go get your baby and you are stuck watching your kid cry and looking like a helpless asshole of a mother.

Needless to say, I hate Monkey Joe's. Also needless to say, The Contemplator loves it and can't wait to go back. Balls.