Fall is by far my favorite time of year. I love the cooler weather, the clothes, the sights and sounds, and most importantly I LOVE the food. Fall food means the best of the best: squash, pumpkin anything, apple pies, and the big kahuna: THANKSGIVING DINNER! It's like a fat kid's delight!
And this time of year brings back a very strong memory for me. It's something that I did about this time last year. I'd like to say it wasn't me, but then it wouldn't make for a very funny blog. It's a little something involving pumpkin pie, my hormonal rage, and me... nearly beating a woman up and a punk-ass teenager.
About this time last year I was about 4 months pregnant. I had cravings, but my cravings consisted of people who had food needed to leave my smelling radius because everything made me want to puke. I was sick nearly every day until about the 6 month mark. So the fact that one night I even got an actual craving that wouldn't pass after the thought of it made me dry-heave was a little extraordinary!
It was after 10pm and Abby had just left to go back to her place. Stoofy was in Kuwait in the midst of his contract out there. So I was on my own and I needed pumpkin pie. And I mean NEEDED it!
So I climbed into bed thinking, I can let this pass. If I fall asleep, I won't want it anymore and I'll be fine. That lasted all of 5 minutes and then I climbed out of bed, put on something decent to go out in and hopped into my car. I was on the hunt for fresh baked pumpkin pie.
I knew that being the end of September meant there would be pumpkin pie available. (It’s fall time for God’s sake!) I knew exactly what store would have it too. Harris Teeter. Because I had been there the day before and saw the pies lined up for display at the front of the store.
At 10:10PM I arrive at HT and walk through the door. I can't wait to get to the pies all sitting there waiting for me to snatch up and eat on the car ride home. Except when I got there, they were out of pumpkin pies. They had sweet potato pie, but everyone knows that's totally different. Even if you smear it with whipped cream, I knew I would be able to tell the difference.
So I scoured the rest of the store. I went through every pie in the bakery section. Checked behind random loaves of bread just in case some jerk tried to hide one for themselves until they got off shift. I'd show that asshole! But alas, there was no pie. I checked the freezer section thinking, ok I'll just find myself a Sarah Lee and pop it in the oven. That bitch creates pies that take an HOUR to bake! Uh, I needed my pie fix immediately!
What's a hormonal pregnant woman to do? Search the store and buy cinnamon rolls for breakfast the next morning, juice and lemon poppy seed muffins because they've got the best ones. And that'll hold me over until I get to the next store. I did pass the baking section and thought, damn, it'll take too long to bake my own pie. I'll just go to Giant and get a pie there.
As I check out, the cashier asks if I found everything ok. Uh no, you do you have any pumpkin pies left in the back? I'm seriously craving them and I want one.
And the pimple-faced douche bag bagger turns to me and says, "I bought the last ones about an hour ago. (ha ha) If you want a slice I'll sell you one in an hour when I go on my break. (HAHAHAHA)."
To which I respond, "Listen here you fucking asshole, I'm pregnant and I want a fucking pie now. Don't be a prick and tease me."
I quickly paid and left the store before the manager, who was headed my way, could escort me out.
Now I'm just pissed! I want a fucking pie and if I could figure out which car was that kid's I'd consider breaking in for a slice. Then I decide going to jail tonight wasn't going to be the best decision... so on to the next store.
10:35PM- I arrive at Giant and make a beeline to the bakery section. I leave no slice of pie unturned in my quest for pumpkin. They've got cherry, apple, sweet potato, pretty much everything but pumpkin. And nothing is going to do until I get a slice of pumpkin. So I start sprinting (as fast as a pregnant woman can go) to the freezer section hoping I can find a pie that doesn't take an hour to bake. But as I get to the freezer section I start to search people's carts as I pass them, hoping to find my pot of gold.
Low and behold, I do! There is a woman with a pumpkin pie in her cart. So I rush up to her in a panicked frenzy and ask her (in my mind it was with good, friendly intentions. It came across as scary and abrasive) if I can have her pumpkin pie. She says no.
I explain to her I am pregnant and I really NEED that pie.
She says no.
I dig in my purse, pull out a $20 and start shouting I'LL GIVE YOU $20 IF YOU GIVE ME THAT PIE! I'M FUCKING PREGNANT AND I NEED THAT FUCKING PIE!
She starts to walk away scared. I take a few steps after her yelling... it did me no good.
Back to the freezer section. And yes, they do have pies that take only 25 minutes to bake... but they’re all out. I'm nearly in tears and I want to scream at the top of my lungs (which I already had at the woman with the pie).
I storm back out of the store feeling defeated. But across the street I see the hazing red light of a bulls eye sign. FUCK YEAH! Target is open until 11PM tonight! And it's only 10:50!!!! I zip across the street and throw it into park.
I don't think I've ever hustled as fast as I did to get into the store.
I run to the freezer section and find a pumpkin pie, and it only takes 25 minutes to bake! FINALLY, VICTORY IS MINE!!! But it's a bittersweet victory. Because deep down I know it's not going to be a great pie. I know that with the time it took to track down this pie, I could have baked one in my house already and be sitting in my bed with a warm slice topped with crumb topping like I like and a dollop of whip cream on top. But I don't fucking care. I just want the pie.
So I purchase the pie (and vanilla ice cream… ala mode, DUH!), speed home and throw that sucker into the oven. 25 minutes later (plus the time it took to preheat the oven and the time it took to cool and set), I dish up my pie slice and dig in. Only to find that it sucks just as much as I knew it would.
I go to bed even more pissed and in tears that I didn't have good pie, that I nearly accosted a woman and teenage kid. And I'm even more pissed that I didn't just buy the ingredients and make my own pie. Because now that it’s nearly midnight, going back to the store to buy the ingredients and bake another pie is just flat out CRAZY!!!!
Lesson learned: when you have a craving, it's just easier to make it yourself. And it's less likely to get you arrested.
About Me
- Betty Bakedgood
- I'm a working single mom who loves to write in my spare time... so bare with me when there's a lull in the blogging. It means I'm out enjoying my daughter, Elly's, crazy antics!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Queen Looking for a King
Sleeping is a time for stretching in my house. We (I mean the female we's in the house) like to sleep as starfish as possible.
My daughter still sleeps the same way she did when I was pregnant with her... Stretched out as far as she can go. However, now she's only restricted by the walls of her crib, not the walls of my uterus or my rib cage.
Even the dog who sleeps curled up in a ball for most of the night tries to gain a little more tail room by wiggling her boney ass in an attempt to wedge me from my designated sleeping area. (She usually gets kicked out for this infraction.)
This in turn means I start to encroach on Stoofy's space. Basically at the end of the night, he's literally on the edge of his seat and I've taken up most of the rest of the bed, minus the dog's spot at my feet.
And this violation of our bed's Monroe Doctrine is a violation of Stoofy's and my unspoken marriage vows.
I apparently vowed I wouldn't try to take over his whole life. So taking over his sleeping space kind of negates my promise. Oops!
I can't help it. When it's time to sleep, I need my space. No cuddling allowed! I need room to myself to stretch out and get comfy. I roam free, even in my sleep. And I've passed that on to my daughter.
It worries Stoofy to no end that he may never get to actually have space to sleep as she gets older. Because there will inevitably be nights where the boogie man scares Elly and she finds her way into our bed for safe keeping. And although I'd like to say I'd shoo her back to bed immediately, but I’d probably be lying. When sleepy, I’ll give in to just about anything just to get back to my REM cycle. So if that means letting a crying child climb in to my bed so I can get back to my dream I'll probably do it.
In Stoofy's mind that means two starfish. Two competing sets of arms and legs flailing around looking to occupy as much space as possible. It concerns him to say the least. His solution is to put his foot down and make me go back to my side.
The really amazing thing is that when I have a smaller space to sleep in, I only occupy that much space. But give me a bigger space, and I'll use it. Kind of like the bigger the purse the more stuff you NEED to carry with you!
I mean, on deployment 'racks' (as we call them in the Navy) are TINY to say the least. (I think the reason why there are weight restrictions in the Navy is because if you're too fat to get into your rack then what the hell are you going to do? You can't exactly knock out a wall to make more room!) And I do just fine there. I don’t' flail around. There just isn't room for that. You just climb in and sleep. No moving except for the rocking of the ship. (If the ship's a rockin' don't come a knockin'! HAHAHA! That's what she said! I'm 12 this morning.)
So I feel like the only solution to this conundrum is to upgrade sleeping arrangements.
TIME FOR A KING!
My daughter still sleeps the same way she did when I was pregnant with her... Stretched out as far as she can go. However, now she's only restricted by the walls of her crib, not the walls of my uterus or my rib cage.
Even the dog who sleeps curled up in a ball for most of the night tries to gain a little more tail room by wiggling her boney ass in an attempt to wedge me from my designated sleeping area. (She usually gets kicked out for this infraction.)
This in turn means I start to encroach on Stoofy's space. Basically at the end of the night, he's literally on the edge of his seat and I've taken up most of the rest of the bed, minus the dog's spot at my feet.
And this violation of our bed's Monroe Doctrine is a violation of Stoofy's and my unspoken marriage vows.
I apparently vowed I wouldn't try to take over his whole life. So taking over his sleeping space kind of negates my promise. Oops!
I can't help it. When it's time to sleep, I need my space. No cuddling allowed! I need room to myself to stretch out and get comfy. I roam free, even in my sleep. And I've passed that on to my daughter.
It worries Stoofy to no end that he may never get to actually have space to sleep as she gets older. Because there will inevitably be nights where the boogie man scares Elly and she finds her way into our bed for safe keeping. And although I'd like to say I'd shoo her back to bed immediately, but I’d probably be lying. When sleepy, I’ll give in to just about anything just to get back to my REM cycle. So if that means letting a crying child climb in to my bed so I can get back to my dream I'll probably do it.
In Stoofy's mind that means two starfish. Two competing sets of arms and legs flailing around looking to occupy as much space as possible. It concerns him to say the least. His solution is to put his foot down and make me go back to my side.
The really amazing thing is that when I have a smaller space to sleep in, I only occupy that much space. But give me a bigger space, and I'll use it. Kind of like the bigger the purse the more stuff you NEED to carry with you!
I mean, on deployment 'racks' (as we call them in the Navy) are TINY to say the least. (I think the reason why there are weight restrictions in the Navy is because if you're too fat to get into your rack then what the hell are you going to do? You can't exactly knock out a wall to make more room!) And I do just fine there. I don’t' flail around. There just isn't room for that. You just climb in and sleep. No moving except for the rocking of the ship. (If the ship's a rockin' don't come a knockin'! HAHAHA! That's what she said! I'm 12 this morning.)
So I feel like the only solution to this conundrum is to upgrade sleeping arrangements.
TIME FOR A KING!
Friday, September 23, 2011
BFFs are AWESOME!
Today I'd like to recognize my BFF, Abby. It's her birthday and she's pretty much AWESOME!
She's the kind of friend that'll laugh at your jokes even if you're not that funny, help you plot your husband's murder and promise to purger herself on the stand if asked if it's premeditated, and she's willing to turn a blind eye when you're at your worst (and simultaneously best) moment of your life giving birth to your daughter. (She'll even take pictures for you, but not the seriously gross, gory ones that freak me out. Because NO ONE wants to relive that mess!)
She's the kind of friend that helps you stalk your favorite hockey team until midnight and won't judge you when you try to squeeze your 8 month pregnant ass out a window 5 stories up just to see if you see your dream husband boarding the tour bus.
(Note, that's as far as the window would open, so that's as far as I could squeeze out.)
Abby is the kind of friend that hates the same people I hate. And helps plan their demise with me. Because honestly, I'm a sick and twisted individual who watches too much CSI and NCIS, clearly. But she'll hop on board without a second thought and she’ll bring the Oreos.
She's also the kind of friend that helps you talk through all your troubles, and prays for you when you think you've just hit one of your lowest points (when in actuality, you could probably slouch even further down, but she won't let you totally tail-spin out of control with that kind of thinking).
But most importantly, she's the kind of girl that when it really counts, she's all in and there for you. She's truly willing to risk her life for her country, beliefs, and friends.
Finding this kind of friend isn't easy. We've found out during our years of friendship, that where we grew up isn't far from each other. Our mothers are very similar in a lot of ways. In fact, they have mutual friends. Turns out we could have met sooner!
But timing is everything.
My mom and her best friend are about to celebrate their 40th anniversary as friends. That's longer than a lot of marriages I know. They have gone through marriages, child birth/ child rearing, divorce, long distances, pretty much everything that can test a friendship. And through it all, they're relationship has endured.
It's truly awesome to see that. Especially in this day and age where women being catty and getting into stupid bickering matches is what makes a top-rated TV show (don't get me wrong, I can't wait to see what happens next with the new chick on RHWofBH). It's nice to see that's not reality everywhere.
It's that kind of endurance and longevity I pray for in my friendship with Abby. Because without her, I have no idea who I'll laugh with when it comes time to heckle Penguins fans in Pittsburgh. And I'm going to need someone to gossip with me when we become snow leopards in the nursing home and we're hitting on all the younger guys!
Because she's that kind of best friend. The kind of best friend you want to have for the rest of your life.
And she's the kind of woman I hope my daughter grows into.
She's the kind of friend that'll laugh at your jokes even if you're not that funny, help you plot your husband's murder and promise to purger herself on the stand if asked if it's premeditated, and she's willing to turn a blind eye when you're at your worst (and simultaneously best) moment of your life giving birth to your daughter. (She'll even take pictures for you, but not the seriously gross, gory ones that freak me out. Because NO ONE wants to relive that mess!)
She's the kind of friend that helps you stalk your favorite hockey team until midnight and won't judge you when you try to squeeze your 8 month pregnant ass out a window 5 stories up just to see if you see your dream husband boarding the tour bus.
Abby is the kind of friend that hates the same people I hate. And helps plan their demise with me. Because honestly, I'm a sick and twisted individual who watches too much CSI and NCIS, clearly. But she'll hop on board without a second thought and she’ll bring the Oreos.
She's also the kind of friend that helps you talk through all your troubles, and prays for you when you think you've just hit one of your lowest points (when in actuality, you could probably slouch even further down, but she won't let you totally tail-spin out of control with that kind of thinking).
But most importantly, she's the kind of girl that when it really counts, she's all in and there for you. She's truly willing to risk her life for her country, beliefs, and friends.
Finding this kind of friend isn't easy. We've found out during our years of friendship, that where we grew up isn't far from each other. Our mothers are very similar in a lot of ways. In fact, they have mutual friends. Turns out we could have met sooner!
But timing is everything.
My mom and her best friend are about to celebrate their 40th anniversary as friends. That's longer than a lot of marriages I know. They have gone through marriages, child birth/ child rearing, divorce, long distances, pretty much everything that can test a friendship. And through it all, they're relationship has endured.
It's truly awesome to see that. Especially in this day and age where women being catty and getting into stupid bickering matches is what makes a top-rated TV show (don't get me wrong, I can't wait to see what happens next with the new chick on RHWofBH). It's nice to see that's not reality everywhere.
It's that kind of endurance and longevity I pray for in my friendship with Abby. Because without her, I have no idea who I'll laugh with when it comes time to heckle Penguins fans in Pittsburgh. And I'm going to need someone to gossip with me when we become snow leopards in the nursing home and we're hitting on all the younger guys!
Because she's that kind of best friend. The kind of best friend you want to have for the rest of your life.
And she's the kind of woman I hope my daughter grows into.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Running: Still Hating Life
So, after a couple weeks of running, I still pretty much hate it. I mean, I truly hate its stinking guts. It's awful.
Listening to Abby telling me about how her boyfriend went on a run before his race just makes me want to pull a Tonya Harding on his Nancy Kerrigan knee. I mean seriously. Who the HELL RUNS BEFORE A RACE?!?!?!
Jerk.
Makes all the rest of us look bad. Me in particular.
Because no matter how hard I try right now, I am not exactly getting any faster. I will say I am going further, but we're not talking by leaps and bounds.
And then this morning on a friend's status update (which by the way, I hate the fancy Facebook update) I come across this little gem:
(And I still hate everything about it!)
And my first thought is: Jackass! I am bitter because I am a turtle and a mile is a long, long, LONG distance. Two miles is twice as long, three sucks thrice as much and well whatever the 5K is, 3 point whatever miles, sucks even more. And no matter what I do, a mile's measurement is never going to get shorter. Unless somehow I can take over the world and be THE world leader, it's just not going to happen.
The only thing that is going to happen is I'm going to just have to suck it up and run more and find some kind of motivation.
Lucky for me, I came across this touching story.
Really kid? Now you're just making me look bad. Because not only am I crying over how touching it is that this kid had so much compassion for another athlete, he also had the ability to carry him a half mile, then continue on his damn race.
I feel like a slug. I better not see a double amputee on skates again today (I say again, because a couple weeks ago I met one at a hockey game for wounded warriors), or I might want to off myself, which is the same feeling I get when I run.
Basically, I'm still waiting for that so called 'runner's high' everyone's (my running friends that is) talking about.
Listening to Abby telling me about how her boyfriend went on a run before his race just makes me want to pull a Tonya Harding on his Nancy Kerrigan knee. I mean seriously. Who the HELL RUNS BEFORE A RACE?!?!?!
Jerk.
Makes all the rest of us look bad. Me in particular.
Because no matter how hard I try right now, I am not exactly getting any faster. I will say I am going further, but we're not talking by leaps and bounds.
And then this morning on a friend's status update (which by the way, I hate the fancy Facebook update) I come across this little gem:
(And I still hate everything about it!)
And my first thought is: Jackass! I am bitter because I am a turtle and a mile is a long, long, LONG distance. Two miles is twice as long, three sucks thrice as much and well whatever the 5K is, 3 point whatever miles, sucks even more. And no matter what I do, a mile's measurement is never going to get shorter. Unless somehow I can take over the world and be THE world leader, it's just not going to happen.
The only thing that is going to happen is I'm going to just have to suck it up and run more and find some kind of motivation.
Lucky for me, I came across this touching story.
Really kid? Now you're just making me look bad. Because not only am I crying over how touching it is that this kid had so much compassion for another athlete, he also had the ability to carry him a half mile, then continue on his damn race.
I feel like a slug. I better not see a double amputee on skates again today (I say again, because a couple weeks ago I met one at a hockey game for wounded warriors), or I might want to off myself, which is the same feeling I get when I run.
Basically, I'm still waiting for that so called 'runner's high' everyone's (my running friends that is) talking about.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The Art of Compromise SUCKS
The last few weeks since Stoofy returned home from Washington has had its ups and downs. Just like every time we reunite after a separation, there's some getting used to and getting back into the swing of things.
Mostly, it's a fight over compromise. When we have to go our own ways for deployments (or this last time, he was our "advanced party" for our move west, which didn't transpire) we have no choice but to become independent of one another. He has to learn to fend for himself when it comes to eating and doing laundry. I have to suck it up and take out the trash and get the oil changed.
When we reunited, it's a matter of relinquishing a bit of that independence and depending on one another to work as a team. It's all about compromise. And let's just go ahead and say it: I DON'T LIKE TO COMPROMISE.
Honestly, what's the point when I'm right? (I should probably stop writing this if I ever have a dream of running for Congress some day... oh wait, no one there compromises either. I'll fit right in!) I mean, who wants to give up the TV remote to watch another mind numbing episode of Family Guy when I still need to catch up on my RHWofNJ, RHWofBH, and Jersey Shore? Uh, not this Betty.
And if you ask Stoofy who's right during our 'disagreements' he'll tell you he's right. So, there you have it... two stubborn, unwilling to compromise people... married.... FOR-EV-ER. (How the hell did this even happen? Oh yeah... LOVE)
Our latest issue to find a compromise on: Elly's sleep patterns. She's had a dedicated bedtime for about 2.5 months... until daddy came home and decided to put her to sleep when he feels like it. And semi-dedicated nap times through the day? Yeah, those are long gone and nap time is when he feels like it.
Now, I've tried to be flexible, I've tried to explain it's good to have a set routine. Kids thrive on routine. According to him, this is his routine. (It's like you can see the speeding train about to de-rail and yet, no one does anything to stop it. You can see how this is about to work out, right?)
Ok, fine. I'll give in. Except, now the consequence is she wakes up screaming for an hour and a half at 2 in the morning. And who gets the privilege of waking up, calming her down, and waiting for her to cry it out? Me. Stoofy snores right through it all, since that's his contribution to the compromise according to him. And each morning he wakes up wondering why I didn't come to bed. Seriously?
And this is why compromise sucks. I hate it and I don't like to do it. I want it my way damn it! And I want some fucking sleep!!!!
So here's my compromise to him: When she wakes up screaming tonight (because I know she will), I'll be elbowing him until he's awake, and he can come stand next to me and wait for her to fall back asleep (two hours later). The compromise? All three of us can be sleep deprived and miserable. Because fair is fair!
I think it'll only take one night of that for him to compromise and see it my way again! :-) Because if mama ain't happy, nobody happy!
Mostly, it's a fight over compromise. When we have to go our own ways for deployments (or this last time, he was our "advanced party" for our move west, which didn't transpire) we have no choice but to become independent of one another. He has to learn to fend for himself when it comes to eating and doing laundry. I have to suck it up and take out the trash and get the oil changed.
When we reunited, it's a matter of relinquishing a bit of that independence and depending on one another to work as a team. It's all about compromise. And let's just go ahead and say it: I DON'T LIKE TO COMPROMISE.
Honestly, what's the point when I'm right? (I should probably stop writing this if I ever have a dream of running for Congress some day... oh wait, no one there compromises either. I'll fit right in!) I mean, who wants to give up the TV remote to watch another mind numbing episode of Family Guy when I still need to catch up on my RHWofNJ, RHWofBH, and Jersey Shore? Uh, not this Betty.
And if you ask Stoofy who's right during our 'disagreements' he'll tell you he's right. So, there you have it... two stubborn, unwilling to compromise people... married.... FOR-EV-ER. (How the hell did this even happen? Oh yeah... LOVE)
Our latest issue to find a compromise on: Elly's sleep patterns. She's had a dedicated bedtime for about 2.5 months... until daddy came home and decided to put her to sleep when he feels like it. And semi-dedicated nap times through the day? Yeah, those are long gone and nap time is when he feels like it.
Now, I've tried to be flexible, I've tried to explain it's good to have a set routine. Kids thrive on routine. According to him, this is his routine. (It's like you can see the speeding train about to de-rail and yet, no one does anything to stop it. You can see how this is about to work out, right?)
Ok, fine. I'll give in. Except, now the consequence is she wakes up screaming for an hour and a half at 2 in the morning. And who gets the privilege of waking up, calming her down, and waiting for her to cry it out? Me. Stoofy snores right through it all, since that's his contribution to the compromise according to him. And each morning he wakes up wondering why I didn't come to bed. Seriously?
And this is why compromise sucks. I hate it and I don't like to do it. I want it my way damn it! And I want some fucking sleep!!!!
So here's my compromise to him: When she wakes up screaming tonight (because I know she will), I'll be elbowing him until he's awake, and he can come stand next to me and wait for her to fall back asleep (two hours later). The compromise? All three of us can be sleep deprived and miserable. Because fair is fair!
I think it'll only take one night of that for him to compromise and see it my way again! :-) Because if mama ain't happy, nobody happy!
Friday, September 16, 2011
The Meaning of Mom
Mom, mommy, mama, mother, mum... It all means the same thing. They all refer to the woman responsible for raising you.
Moms come in all shapes, sizes and forms. Most moms have given birth to their kids, but not all moms have to. Some women raise kids that aren't theirs, but still care for them as if they are. I'd call those women heroes. (Anyone willing to take on someone else's kid needs a medal!) Either way, it doesn't really matter how you became a mom, it still means the same thing.
If there's one thing I've learned in the last 6.5 months, it's that being a mom is seriously hard work! And what's really crazy is this is ONLY THE BEGINNING! It only gets harder from here folks. FML. (Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't take back a second of it and Elly is easily the best thing I've ever done in my life!)
If you look up what MOM means in the dictionary, you just simply get a woman who raises a child. I find that to be completely lame. So here's what I've got so far as to what being a MOM means:
Incubator
Milk maid/ dairy cow
Storyteller
Human paper towel
Sherpa
Pacifier
Photographer
Disciplinarian
Magician
Short-order cook
Hostage Negotiator
Baker
Guidance counselor
Taxi driver
Caregiver
Alarm clock
Telephone operator
Maid
Zookeeper
Mediator
Endless ATM/ Money tree
White noise
Fashion consultant
Listener
Mathematician
Seamstress
Fortune teller
Diaper gene
Teacher
Firefighter
Coach
Party planner
Nag
Confidant
Doctor
Back scratcher
Hair stylist
Personal assistant/ Scheduler
Instruction manual
Travel guide
Toy/ jungle gym
Scout leader
It reads more like a job listing than a definition. I think it's because ultimately, mom's really have to do it ALL. Not that dad isn't there to help here and there, but when your kid is crying in the middle of the night, dad isn't likely to hear a thing (or at least Stoofy doesn't!). But mom, she doesn't sleep a wink, so she can be there in a flash if needed.
Moms come in all shapes, sizes and forms. Most moms have given birth to their kids, but not all moms have to. Some women raise kids that aren't theirs, but still care for them as if they are. I'd call those women heroes. (Anyone willing to take on someone else's kid needs a medal!) Either way, it doesn't really matter how you became a mom, it still means the same thing.
If there's one thing I've learned in the last 6.5 months, it's that being a mom is seriously hard work! And what's really crazy is this is ONLY THE BEGINNING! It only gets harder from here folks. FML. (Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't take back a second of it and Elly is easily the best thing I've ever done in my life!)
If you look up what MOM means in the dictionary, you just simply get a woman who raises a child. I find that to be completely lame. So here's what I've got so far as to what being a MOM means:
Incubator
Milk maid/ dairy cow
Storyteller
Human paper towel
Sherpa
Pacifier
Photographer
Disciplinarian
Magician
Short-order cook
Hostage Negotiator
Baker
Guidance counselor
Taxi driver
Caregiver
Alarm clock
Telephone operator
Maid
Zookeeper
Mediator
Endless ATM/ Money tree
White noise
Fashion consultant
Listener
Mathematician
Seamstress
Fortune teller
Diaper gene
Teacher
Firefighter
Coach
Party planner
Nag
Confidant
Doctor
Back scratcher
Hair stylist
Personal assistant/ Scheduler
Instruction manual
Travel guide
Toy/ jungle gym
Scout leader
It reads more like a job listing than a definition. I think it's because ultimately, mom's really have to do it ALL. Not that dad isn't there to help here and there, but when your kid is crying in the middle of the night, dad isn't likely to hear a thing (or at least Stoofy doesn't!). But mom, she doesn't sleep a wink, so she can be there in a flash if needed.
Monday, September 12, 2011
BOOBS!
I couldn't come up with anything catchier than the word BOOBS for a blog all about boobs. Because honestly, boobs are generally pretty catchy all on their own. Or at least mine are. (They catch plenty of food I accidentally drop, which in turn leaves a stain. They're the reason I need new clothes... that and my little drool monster.)
To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall. It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face. I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing.
And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get. I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year. (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!) Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest. Awesome. I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own.
And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better. In fact, it's only made it worse. Because I am the Dairy Queen. And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size. I don't even know how that is freakin' possible? But it is!
When I was pregnant, I grew huge. And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable. I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell? A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT! She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls. As if! Let's try bowling balls!
At least that's what they feel like! Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk. Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes? Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke. And it's painfully not that funny.
Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit. Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!). And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region.
And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"
To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life."
Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either. Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?
To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall. It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face. I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing.
And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get. I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year. (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!) Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest. Awesome. I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own.
And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better. In fact, it's only made it worse. Because I am the Dairy Queen. And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size. I don't even know how that is freakin' possible? But it is!
When I was pregnant, I grew huge. And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable. I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell? A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT! She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls. As if! Let's try bowling balls!
At least that's what they feel like! Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk. Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes? Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke. And it's painfully not that funny.
Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit. Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!). And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region.
And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"
To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life."
Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either. Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?
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