Why I’ll Never Get a Boob Job (Even Though I Really Want One)

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A couple weeks ago, my husband posted a photo of my boob to Facebook, and no one noticed.

TFW didn’t notice when he took the photo, and he obviously didn’t notice it when he uploaded it to Facebook, either (he certainly wasn’t trying to show off my goodies). Facebook’s notoriously overzealous censors didn’t catch it, nor did any of our hundreds of Facebook friends — several people commented on what a cute photo it was, but no one seemed to notice that an adult woman’s breast was in full view!

Of course, when I fired up Facebook sometime later in the afternoon and noticed the photo on my page, I saw the offending boobage immediately. I will confess to briefly debating the merits of leaving it up there since it is otherwise a fairly flattering photo of me — my hair, in particular, looks nice and frizz-free — but ultimately I decided that I was not interested in displaying my nipple to the world without at least getting paid, so I made him delete it.

Now, you’re probably wondering two things at this point:

  1. Why was your boob hanging out in the first place?
  2. How the hell did no one notice?! Surely you can’t be serious!

The answer to both of those questions is the same: my boobs are very, very small. My boob was exposed because I was bending over and there was a giant gap between my child-sized brassiere and my breast (because the aforementioned tiny bra was still too large for its even tinier occupant), and no one noticed because, well, there’s really nothing for anyone to notice. They probably thought my nipple was a button on my sweater or something.

Here’s a tasteful Photoshopped version of my debut as a topless model:

See?

Anyway, while this incident was amusing, it obviously wasn’t alerting me to a new problem; I’ve been small-chested forever (with the brief but glorious exception of those fleeting breastfeeding days, of course). It did temporarily reignite my desire for a surgical fix, though. The option of getting an augmentation has crossed my mind many times over the years, and with this latest reminder of the ridiculous non-size of my poor boobs, it’s been on my mind a lot.

Alas, as usual, I’ve determined that it simply will never be reality.

I’m not worried about the possibility of looking ridiculous — my hypothetical boob job would be very modest indeed, perhaps enlarging my breasts just enough so that they would fit into normal human-sized bras instead of leaving gaping spaces that make me vulnerable to unintended flashing when I bend over in low-cut tops. And the cost isn’t prohibitive, either. I’ve crunched the numbers, and a boob job could easily be saved up for in short order if I were to make subtle changes to my budget, such as not drinking my weight in Dr. Pepper every week.

No, my concern is that damn anesthesia.

Specifically, the fact that people DIE while under anesthesia. It happens, you guys.

And do you know how stupid it would be for Bubba to have to go through life saying “my mom died while getting a boob job” every time someone asked him about his family?!

Very, very stupid. The requisite sympathy he would be due for having a deceased parent would go out the window immediately; people would be choking back guffaws as they listened to the poor lad tell the tale: “yeah, she was perfectly healthy, but she really wanted to fit into this cute 32B bra from Victoria’s Secret…”

I can’t do it to him.

But if anyone knows of a plastic surgeon who is willing to shove some silicone under my skin without the aid of anesthesia (can’t we just use some novacaine like a dental procedure? I have a high pain tolerance!), I will gladly accept your referral.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesay: Mother’s Day!

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Mother’s Day 2012 was my first as a Certified Mama. Bubba was five months old, so one might think that at that point I would have had plenty of time to adjust to the crazy parenting life and not be so frazzled, but you’d be wrong.

I was too exhausted to give much thought to taking quality photos, for one thing. We tried for one family photo and then I was over it, despite the blurry result:

I also made a rookie mistake that day, neglecting to pack enough costume changes for our afternoon at my mom’s house. Bubba spent most of the day naked:

And I think I spent a total of 16 seconds on my own appearance, which certainly seemed to alarm poor Bubba:

This year, I’ve got my shit together! I put on makeup like a normal person and dressed the baby in his most dapper duds:

Of course, that darling hat only stayed on his head for a grand total of less than 2 seconds (I’m amazed TFW was even able to snap a single photo as evidence of the fleeting cuteness), but he still looked adorable in his remaining finery:

Like last year, though, he wound up naked by the end of the day:

It’s good to see not too much has changed.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Mystery Allergy Theater

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This may come as a shock, considering my well-documented love for true-crime documentaries, but I am not a fan of mysteries. When it comes to the crime shows, I am not particularly interested in the mystery aspect; I just like to be told how they figured it all out. Don’t even get me started on Unsolved Mysteries — I get anxious just thinking about that program.

I am even more adverse to mysteries in real life, and especially with regard to my child. Is there anything more maddening than having a problem and not knowing that’s causing it?!

Unfortunately, we’ve got a real head-scratcher going on over here with Bubba’s skin. The saga started a few weeks ago when he developed a splotchy red rash on his back, chest, and arms. It didn’t seem to be bothering him and the doctor said not to worry about it when I called to inquire, so I did what any fantastic mother would do: ignored it.

A few days after that brilliant plan, the mottled skin morphed into a mass of hives and a swollen face, necessitating a trip to Urgent Care and a cycle of steroids that made him act like a maniac but cleared things up for the most part.

The reprieve produced by the ‘roids proved to be short-lived, though, and we were back in the doctor’s office yet again the following week. This time, the doctor agreed that something was amiss (duh) and that whatever poor Bubba was experiencing was not just a funky fluke of some sort. She gave me a referral for an allergy specialist and I made the first available appointment, which was two weeks in the future (because a toddler’s hives are apparently not cause for more immediate concern, I suppose?!).

As we waited for the appointment day to finally arrive, Bubba’s symptoms ebbed and flowed. Some days he looked a lot better, and others he looked like a sad little tomato. And to make matters worse, the problem was no longer just cosmetic: the itchiness set in and nothing we did seemed to make it better. He was guzzling Benadryl and marinading in cortisone cream, but he was still scratching like crazy and screaming all night long.

And the appointment with the allergist was still a week away!

Yesterday, I reached my breaking point. An hour after dropping Bubba off at daycare, at which point he had a few rashy spots but overall looked OK, the daycare owner called me. While Bubba screamed his head off in the background, she informed me that his rash had spread big-time and that I needed to take him to the doctor immediately. I ran over to retrieve the pathetic lad and then made an impassioned plea to the receptionist at the allergist’s office: see my son TODAY, he cannot wait until next week! More importantly, I cannot wait until next week because this kid can’t sleep and guess who has to deal with that all night (1am “please fall asleep” cruises in the car have become the norm around here)?!

Luckily, they agreed to see him (which made me feel like the worst mom ever for not just insisting on an earlier appointment back when I made the initial call), and TFW took him in (I have very limited time off work and these things are tricky for me; cue more worst-mom-ever guilty feelings). I was sad that Bubba was so uncomfortable, but I was quite happy that we were finally going to get some answers! Surely the allergist would be able to sort out the problem and provide us with some solutions!

After a two-hour appointment and some reportedly very unpleasant skin testing (I am kind of glad to have missed that; I probably would have cried right along with the kid), the doctor had precisely ZERO answers.

The testing didn’t show any reactions, but apparently it’s only 30% accurate, so we can’t actually conclude anything from that (so what was the point?!). The doctor was not willing to wager a guess even as to whether the allergy appeared to be from something he was ingesting or from something topical — he made a couple suggestions for both types of allergies (avoid flaxseed since that’s a common hive-causing allergen; try different laundry detergent and buy 50 different expensive soaps and lotions) and prescribed yet another antihistamine to help with the symptoms.

Now, is it just me, or does that seem COMPLETELY UNHELPFUL!? First of all, if we eliminate flaxseed and also make all these soap and lotion changes, how will we know what change made the difference (assuming his rash does indeed improve)? Second, what are we supposed to do with the antihistamine — just give it to Bubba forever? What happens when we stop it?

And what if none of this works and he remains an itchy, red mess and I go bankrupt because I bought so much freakin Cetaphil?

Send help. And Cetaphil.

at least his shades match his rash

The Time My Former Teacher Called Me a Disappointment

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Ten years ago, when I was in the midst of the first of my two major life crises (you can read up on that here if you enjoy a good trainwreck), I took a job as a waitress at a local restaurant while I tried to sort out my life and my plans for the future. I wasn’t planning on being a waitress forever (not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course), but I certainly wasn’t ashamed of my job. Considering all my other problems, my career path was at the bottom of my list of concerns. Plus, I was an awesome waitress, if I do say so myself (and I totally do).

The restaurant was in my hometown, so naturally I ran into a lot of former classmates, teachers, and neighbors. I know some people cringe at the very thought of having to encounter (and wait on!) past acquaintances after leaving town, but it didn’t bother me. Again, I had more important things to worry about than what some random girl from my high school was wearing or what my sixth grade softball coach was eating for dinner. In fact, I quite enjoyed seeing people from my past — they always seemed happy to see me, and after such a miserable couple of years it was refreshing and reassuring to be reminded that there were people in the world who knew me just as “that nice girl I went to school with” rather than “that poor pathetic chick whose life is a shambles.”

One day, I came out from the kitchen and was delighted to see my beloved second grade teacher being sat at a table in my section. This woman was a true gem: the type of teacher who calls her class a “family” and never loses her patience with oversensitive crybaby little girls (ahem). She was a favorite of everyone who was taught by her, myself included, and I always felt that I had been a favorite of hers, too — she was so very kind to me when I was her student, and whenever I saw her in the years that followed she always expressed genuine interest in how I was doing. Even though I hadn’t seen her in about five years, I was certain she’d remember me when I told her my name.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have to refresh her memory — she recognized me instantly. She smiled broadly when she saw my face, but it faded as she gave me a once-over. I watched her expression change from one of friendly recognition to one of…disgust? I started to panic. Had my shirt come unbuttoned? Did I have something in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose? Was I emitting an offensive odor?

I addressed her tentatively, bewildered by her very apparent unpleasant reaction. “Um, hi!” I stammered. “It’s me, Mo.”

Her response was more an attack than a greeting. “What are you doing here?!” She sounded truly appalled, and my confusion mounted. “You’re supposed to be DOING something with yourself!”

Her disappointment was palpable. I almost vomited. My heart literally ached. I knew that my life was off track, but to hear it from someone else — someone who had once complimented my super-fast multiplication skills and given me stickers to cheer me up when I cried at recess — was crushing.

I don’t recall what I said in response (I probably apologized or something, knowing me!), but I remember escaping to the bathroom as soon as I could break away. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what she saw: a sad-looking girl with haphazardly-dyed red hair and entirely too much eyeliner. The scars on my arms suddenly looked alarmingly visible — they might as well have been outlined with highlighter to emphasize their presence. (As a sidenote, can you believe the jerkface owners of the restaurant wouldn’t let me wear a long sleeve shirt under my uniform t-shirt?! I tried and they said it wasn’t part of the uniform.)

I looked like I had given up on life.

I was a far cry from the little girl who posed outside this woman’s classroom in 1991:

(Although I do look a teensy bit sad there…I had probably missed a word on a spelling test or something; have I mentioned that I was the biggest stress-case crybaby on the planet as a child?)

To say that this incident shook me up would be an understatement. I wasn’t angry with her, although I probably should have been (I was 19 years old and doing the very best that I could; at least I had a freakin’ job! What a judgmental old bag!). I was just embarrassed and deeply ashamed. People had expected me to be “something,” and I had failed to deliver. I wondered who else had been harboring similar thoughts about me but just hadn’t had the effrontery to tell me. I felt like I owed the entire world an apology for not being…more.

Even now, nearly a decade later and with miles of emotional distance between myself and my past struggles, thinking about that conversation makes my heart skip a beat. I have come a long, long way, but there are still moments in which I mourn all the wasted time (I could have gone to medical school or penned a book or built a damn house!) or worry that I haven’t utilized my intellect or talents (I swear I have some; did you know that I am an above-average cake decorator?!) to their fullest potential. And if we’re being honest, those feelings are completely valid: I did waste a lot of time sitting around crying when I could have been doing something productive, and I don’t really do anything that requires any particular talent or skill.

But so what?

I have a wonderful life — better than I ever would have imagined possible. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude that my heart feels like it might burst under the strain of joy. I am not a doctor or a lawyer or a second-grade teacher, but I am happy and healthy I have a husband who thinks I’m funny and a son who smiles non-stop and gets really excited when airplanes fly overhead:

So I consider myself an unqualified success.

And I hope I see my former teacher again someday, so she can see what I see.

How to Build a Treadmill Without Killing Your Spouse

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As you may remember, I spent the first few months of 2013 torturing myself training for a marathon until I slipped into a pothole like a clumsy idiot and busted my ankle. That literal misstep left me mired in self-pity for a few days as I assumed that all of those horrendous hours of running had been for naught, but as it turns out, being really stubborn and refusing to accept defeat has its advantages. I got over my self-pity, rested up, and guess what? My ankle is back in action and I’m soldiering forth with my training!

…with one important change: I bought a treadmill so that I can do most of my running on a nice, even, pothole-free surface. Not only will I not have to worry about tripping again, but I also get to avoid the sun and won’t have to torture the baby by making him sit in the jogging stroller while we do endless loops around the park. GENIUS, right?

Things were definitely looking up. We ordered a treadmill from Amazon, cleared a space for it in my office, and I got to work getting optimistic and excited about the marathon again. The treadmill was due to be delivered on Wednesday, so naturally I envisioned myself running on it Wednesday evening. I had missed 12 days of training while my ligaments glued themselves back together or whatever was going on down there, and I was ready to get back in the game.

Unfortunately, there was one thing I hadn’t realized: building a treadmill is not easy.

In fact, it’s quite maddening.

If you’re in the market for a treadmill — or any piece of bulky exercise equipment, really — I urge you to consult my guide before moving ahead with your plans. Your sanity, as well as any other humans or pets residing in your home, will thank you.

Maureen Wachter’s 10-Step Satisfaction Guaranteed Guide to Building a Treadmill:

Step 1: Tip the delivery driver extra so that he’ll heave the behemoth directly into the room in which you plan to use it. Feel really proud of yourself for thinking of this and pat yourself on the back for saving yourself so much trouble.

Step 2: Ask your husband to build the treadmill. Tell him you looked it up online and it sounds really easy.

Step 3: Become alarmed at the amount of packaging your husband is tossing out of the room. How many pieces are involved in this thing?!

Step 4: After one hour, check on your husband’s progress. Try not to express your surprise that very little progress appears to have been made. Tell him he’s doing great and you appreciate his hard work.

Step 5: After one more hour, offer to help your husband.

Step 6: Commence heated bickering over what the instructions mean and how the pieces are supposed to fit together. Insist that something must be amiss — surely it can’t be this difficult!

Step 7: Stare at the half-built treadmill, utterly baffled. WHY DON’T THE HOLES LINE UP? HOW ARE THESE PIECES SUPPOSED TO SCREW TOGETHER?! WHO THE F*?# DESIGNED THIS GODDAMN PIECE OF SH*%?!?!?!

Step 8: Deep breaths. Encourage your husband to take a break, as if you might be able to figure it out on your own.

Step 9: Post an ad on Craigslist seeking someone to build your treadmill.

Step 10: Hire the first person who replies to your ad and feel 100% vindicated when he has to bust out some crazy power tools to bore larger holes into the treadmill so that the pieces can finally screw together. IT WASN’T JUST US! WE WEREN’T DOING ANYTHING WRONG! THE HOLES REALLY DID NOT LINE UP!

Enjoy your run!

I’m a Maniac, MANIAC, on Prednisone!

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My son, if you have not noticed, is very, very cute. He’s cute when he’s running around shirtless outside throwing lemons, he’s cute when he’s in his high chair covered in spaghetti, he’s cute when he’s wearing a shark hoodie…heck, he’s even pretty cute when he’s rocking an accidental mullet.

He’s NOT as cute, however, when he’s puffed up, as red as a tomato, and covered in hives:

Poor Bubba woke up Saturday morning with a bit of a rash on his face, but it didn’t seem to be anything serious — I thought he’d just spent a bit too much time outside the previous day (we are very, very pale people over here). By Sunday morning, it was obvious that this was no sunburn situation. Believe me when I say that the above photo doesn’t come close to doing the hives or redness justice (shockingly, an iPhone camera is NOT the best tool for capturing the details of an skin reaction), nor does it show the extent to which this Monster Rash had spread down his poor little back and tummy and arms. He was a mess.

Naturally, we headed right over to Urgent Care (despite his frightening appearance, he didn’t seem phased by it in the slightest — no breathing issues or even itchiness, luckily — so no need for the ER). The doc confirmed that it looked like an allergic reaction to something (duh — to what is the question), prescribed some Benadryl and some steroids, told us to follow up with the pediatrician in a few days, and sent us on our way.

The good news is that Prednisone (the steroid) is very effective! Just three days later, the puffiness has completely dissipated and the hives and redness are at least 80% better.

The bad news is that apparently one of the side effects of Prednisone is hyperactivity.

Have you ever seen a super-energetic puppy relentlessly chasing the other dogs at a dog park? Or a wind-up toy that just keeps going and going and going? Or a group of tween girls at a slumber party?

That’s pretty much what we’re dealing with over here.

On Monday night, he woke up at 12:30am and decided nighttime was over and ran around the house for an hour before he agreed to give that whole “sleeping” thing another shot. Yesterday afternoon, he spent ten straight minutes running from one side of the house to the other. Just back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, shrieking with excitement each time and making the occasional dive into my arms. When we went to the doctor for the follow-up appointment, he did laps around the tiny little examination room the whole time the doctor and I were talking (the cause of the allergic reaction, by the way, remains a mystery).

I tried to get a picture of him last night while he was running back and forth throwing balls all over the house, but he was moving too fast to really get a good one:

And now I’m tired.

Tonight is the last dose, at least! Let’s just hope the hives don’t return along with his sanity.

Worst Boyfriend Ever

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I was itching to write something today, but I was coming up empty when I tried to think of a topic. In hopes of finding some inspiration, I texted my little sister:

Me: I need your creativity! I can’t think of anything to blog about. Can you think of any funny old stories or memories I could write about??

Within ten seconds her reply arrived:

Jamie: Worst boyfriend ever

I knew exactly what she was referring to — no further explanation needed. Of course, there was no mystery about to whom she was referring (there can only be one Worst Boyfriend Ever, after all), but I also immediately knew which cringe-worthy anecdote she thought was perfect blog material (and there are a lot to choose from!): The Birthday Breakup.

I dated my WBE about ten years ago, at a time in my life when happiness was scarce and self-esteem was scarcer. As a result, my screening process for potential boyfriends was…flimsy. You like the same music as me and find me attractive? Great, let’s go out! What’s that, now? You have no job and no intention of getting one, you’re irresponsible, wildly immature, disrespectful, and insanely jealous? No problem, let’s not let that stop this love connection!

As you can imagine, this led to some relationships that were perhaps a shade shy of healthy.

Now, to be fair, WBE wasn’t abusive or a drug addict or anything — just sort of a jerk. There were a lot of problems right from the get-go, but one of the most troubling red flags was that he didn’t like me hanging out with the twins (my little sisters, for the uninitiated). He complained that I “acted like a teenager” around them (I was 20!) and was prone to rolling his eyes and getting snappy whenever he was in our midst. He once barked at us for having a little too much fun singing along to an AFI song in the car (apparently we weren’t giving Davey Havok’s soulful screeching the respect it deserved); another time, the twins and I all purchased some cheap matching rings at a thrift store and he was appalled by our immaturity (irony!). He wasn’t outwardly rude to the girls (most of the time), but it was clear that he was not a fan of our closeness.

Perhaps we were annoying when we were together (and by “perhaps” I mean “we absolutely were”), but I think it’s more likely that he could see that I had a far better time with them than I ever did with him, and it made him uncomfortable.

Regardless of the reason, his attitude towards the girls really, really bothered me. I was very meek (read: pathetic) in those days and rarely stood up for myself, but I certainly wasn’t going to stand for any mistreatment of my precious twinsies. I never let him talk me out of spending time with them or including them in our activities (not that we were taking them on dates with us or anything creepy), and I always stuck up for them when WBE got sassy or rude around them. Unfortunately, it never sunk in: WBE continued to be threatened by our sisterly bonding.

By June of 2003, my relationship with WBE was hanging on by a thread, but we were still an item. I was sick of the relationship and knew it was going nowhere, but I was having trouble finding the courage to actually split up with him. I knew I didn’t want to be with him anymore, but the prospect of breaking up with him and dealing with that mess seemed scarier and more difficult than just keeping the status quo. I needed a push, and on June 28th, I got it.

That day, he came to pick me up for a date of some sort. It was the twins’ 15th birthday, so I waited for him to come to the door rather than dashing out to his car — I assumed he’d want to wish them a happy birthday before we headed out (I lived at home at the time, so WBE was accustomed to visiting with my family whenever he came by). He apparently didn’t want to come in, though (he honked his horn repeatedly instead), so I dashed outside. When I got to his car, we had a brief but life-changing conversation:

Me: Don’t you want to come in and say hi to the twins? It’s their birthday, remember?

WBE: No, why would I? What have they ever done for me?

And that was the end of that! I did not get in the car. We broke up right then and there, in the driveway in front of my house.

Five months later, I met TFW and my entire life changed. TFW was and is everything the WBE was not. I had never dated anyone like him. He had a college degree! And a real job! And he was kind and funny and sensitive and uncomplicated. It was a shock to the system, if we’re being honest. I am so, so glad I met him, and I am so, so grateful I had broken up with WBE and was single and ready to mingle when our paths crossed. Sometimes I think of what my life might be like if I had never met TFW, and I feel physically ill at the very thought.

But we are together, and life is beautiful.

And yes: he loves the twins.

the twins and I, circa the WBE era. not pictured: the annoying matching rings

Jinxed!

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As I mentioned earlier this month, despite a distinct lack of athletic talent and in spite of the fact that I do not particularly enjoy the activity, I have been training to run a marathon. I’ve made a number of jokes about how absurd it was for me to think I could achieve this ridiculous goal, including this ominous gem I posted to Facebook in March:

The truth is, though, despite my self-deprecation (I really do suck at running) and my repeated insistence that I hate running, I’ve actually been looking forward to the marathon. A lot. While I don’t always have a great time while I’m running (what is this elusive “runner’s high” I keep hearing about, and how do I get in on that action? I guess running faster than a turtle’s pace would be a good start), I do love the feeling of accomplishment at the end of a run, and I have to admit that being so active is great for my mood and confidence (although not so much for my hair, which is permanently smooshed into a greasy, frizzy ponytail).

If only I’d spent more time talking about that and less time joking that I longed for a broken ankle, perhaps the universe wouldn’t have felt the need to call my bluff by causing me to SLIP IN A POTHOLE AND SPRAIN MY ANKLE BAD ENOUGH THAT THE DOCTOR SAYS IT IS UNLIKELY I’LL BE ABLE TO RUN AGAIN FOR “MANY WEEKS.”

And the marathon is six weeks away.

I was nine miles into a 17-mile torture test training run on Saturday morning, and I was feeling FANTASTIC — my pace was the best it’s ever been (at least 10% faster than a turtle), I wasn’t fatigued, no nagging aches or pains — when I stumbled (literally) upon some loose gravel, skidded a couple inches, and slipped into a pothole. I knew immediately that my ankle (which was already a little weak and sore just from the training in general) was not going to be too pleased with that little endeavor, but I shook it off and tried to keep going.

(Have I mentioned that I am a stubborn individual, often to my own detriment?)

I made it two more miles before deciding I better call my husband to come retrieve me so I could rest up and run again the next day.

HA!

By nightfall I could barely walk. The swelling and pain (and the worry about all my training going to waste) kept me up all night, and I finally headed for Urgent Care on Sunday morning. The doctor did some poking, prodding, and testing, and proclaimed it sprained. I still had hope at this point — sprain, shmrain, right? Sprains aren’t serious! — until he said the dreaded words: “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I don’t think you’ll be running a marathon any time soon.”

I cried.

I know it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of life — there will be other marathons, although unfortunately I’ll have to wait till the fall since no one schedules marathons in the summer! — but it’s such a letdown. All that training, which I didn’t even enjoy, for naught! It’s not like I looked forward to the runs every day and relished pounding the pavement; no, those runs were HARD WORK. It’s as if I spent the last three months working an extra job in my spare time to save up for something fabulous, and then had my paycheck stolen.

And the worst part is, since I’m not running all the time now, I have no justification for eating whatever I want and drinking sugary fountain Dr Pepper nearly every day! (Remember, when you run — no matter the duration, pace, or intensity — the law dictates that you can eat whatever you want with no guilt whatsoever. IT’S THE LAW.)

So screw you, city of Pasadena, for not maintaining your stupid, shitty roads. And you too, nature and water and earthquakes or whatever causes potholes to form. And every driver who has driven on that road and contributed to its state of disrepair, too. And also the “austism speaks” group for taking over the Rose Bowl, where I had intended to run that day, thus forcing me to run on the surrounding pothole-ridden streets instead*. I HATE YOU ALL.

However, Bubba has been enjoying saying his favorite word while I ice my ankle:

COLD! COLD! COLD! OOOOOOH! COLD!

*Obviously, I wish no actual harm upon them; I’m sure they’re a lovely group and I hope their event went swimmingly. Still, though: you needed the ENTIRE Rose Bowl area for your fundraiser? THE WHOLE THING? Other people couldn’t use the area for their own activities at the same time? Grrr…

Bottle Addict

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Today’s post is written by Bubba himself! Well, I transcribed it for him…but the sentiment is all his.

My name is Ryan Wachter, and I am a bottle addict.

It’s very difficult to admit to myself that I have a problem, but I can no longer deny reality: I am entirely too dependent on that sweet white nectar and the comforting silicon teat through which it’s delivered. In recent weeks it has become increasingly rare for me to even consider falling asleep without a bottle, and if another is not available to me immediately upon waking up, I have been known to turn into a screeching, sobbing maniac (even if the slumber from which I’m awaking was just a quick nap and I had just had a bottle prior to said snooze). Many’s the time that I’ve awoken with a jolt at 2am, jonesing for the good stuff, and flat-out refused all other comfort measures offered by my long-suffering mother until she finally gave up and produced a bottle (which I then sucked on for precisely 30 seconds before chucking it out of the crib and going back to sleep).

I am not proud of myself.

You’re probably wondering how I ended up this way. Like most babies, I’ve always enjoyed a good bottle — both for the tasty milk itself as well as the simple fun of sucking on it — but my innocent affinity turned into something darker only recently. I suppose things started to go downhill as soon as I mastered saying “BABA!”. How I love to say that word! I get such a thrill from barking it at my mom, demanding that she fetch me one. It’s so much better than non-specific whimpering, or, worse yet, giving up and just moving on to some other distraction. Then I learned where the bottles are kept, and I was able to up the ante by running over there, outstretching my hands in desperation, and issuing my plea. Like this, but with tears, because life is so hard:

Since my sweet, pathetic mom is so eager to please me, I always get my way, so I simply became accustomed to indulging in some bottle therapy whenever the mood struck!

(I know addicts aren’t supposed to blame others for their problem, but come on: surely my mom deserves some castigation here, no? I am, after all, a goddamn baby. As my dad is fond of pointing out to her, she could say no to me every once in a while.)

Adding to both mine and the aforementioned pathetic mother’s collective denial was the fact that it all seemed so harmless. It’s just milk! And I’m just 16 months old! Can’t a kid drink a bottle? But the other night, I hit rock bottom. After drinking my usual pre-bedtime bottle, Mama put me in bed like usual, but, as has become all too common lately, I refused to sleep until she brought me more milk. A few hours later, I woke up and demanded another (my mom actually tried to trick me by giving me a pacifier — which I never liked, not even as an infant, and haven’t even touched in at least a year; I don’t even know where she found that disgusting thing and I sincerely hope she sanitized it first — thinking perhaps I just needed something to suck on; she thought wrong). Then, not three hours later, I did it again! And then at 5am, before the sun had even come up, I begged for yet another!

By the time my mom plucked me from my bed to get ready for the day, my floor was littered in half-drunk bottles (as previously mentioned, I like to throw them out of the crib as soon as I’ve gotten my fix — which could be anywhere from one sip to the whole thing, and there’s no way of guessing how much I’ll want at any given time), droplets of now-sour milk dotting the carpet. It was eye-opening, really: surely that mess wasn’t all from one night, right? And worst of all, I still wanted my breakfast bottle but all the bottles were on the floor of my bedroom and I had to wait in agony for an endless three minutes while Mama washed one of them!

Enough is enough. I can’t live like this anymore! It’s time to turn over a new leaf, a leaf wherein I’m capable of falling asleep and waking up without relying on this crutch. I’ll still drink milk, of course, but surely I’m old enough to just drink it out of a cup like a normal human.

Grant me the strength!!!