Doctor Show

Before I had children, I had grand plans of protecting my future spawn from the evils of television. I remember babysitting my nieces one time and being disgusted by the crude, seizure-inducing nonsense mascarading as children’s entertainment and thinking, Not for my kids! I wasn’t delusional enough to think I was going to adopt a unilateral no-TV rule (even idealistic pre-kid Maureen had the foresight to know that a little TV time was going to be vital to maintaining my own sanity), but I had every intention of limiting the viewing options to age-appropriate educational programming and enforcing some serious daily screen-time limits to ensure that my children didn’t spend their days zoned out on the couch when they should be playing outside or learning algebra or something.

How cute, right? Bless my little heart.

Three years later, I can tell you that my track record on regulating both the quality and quantity of television consumed by my child is…shaky. At best. You may remember1 that I screwed up right from the get-go by watching true crime dramas while feeding Bubba as an infant, but I forgive myself for that one since he wasn’t really watching and I did put a stop to it once I saw him start to take a peek at the murder scenes. When he was old enough to actually watch a show himself, I did start out with Sesame Street and Super Why and other pseudo-educational options…but then the kids at daycare started telling him about Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers and I felt bad having him be out of the loop, and my husband somehow convinced me that they really needed to watch WWE together for bonding purposes, and at the same time I realized that allowing him to watch TV meant I could have some glorious quiet time, and my smug anti-TV stance began to wane.

Still, though, I had some standards. I tried to avoid Cartoon Network since their shows are the most obnoxious (not to mention the incessant commercials for as-seen-on-tv crap that looks awesome but is doomed to break within moments once in the hands of an actual human child) and always encouraged other more worthy activities ahead of TV watching2. I knew I wasn’t doing a great job enforcing TV limits and boundaries, but I let myself slide since at least I wasn’t letting him watch soap operas or something.

Until Baby G was born and a fatal combination of laziness, sleep deprivation, and a desire to give Bubba some alone time with Mama somehow spiraled into the creation of a nightly ritual in which my three year old son and I snuggle up in bed and watch Grey’s Anatomy.

You know, that show about sexy doctors doing surgery on maimed and gravely ill individuals. Pretty much right on par with Sesame Street, right?

I know, guys, I’m THE WORST.

It started innocently enough. I got in the habit of nursing Baby in my bed while Daddy got Bubba ready for bed, and I used those precious few moments of alone time (Baby notwithstanding…sorry, Baby) to binge-watch all the Grey’s Anatomy I had missed out on in my twenties by thinking I was too good for trashy shows3. Bubba came into the room one evening and asked if he could snuggle with me, and while I attempted to turn off the smut like a good parent would, he declared that he WANTED to watch “The Doctor Show.” Furthermore, he demanded to know what kind of injury the dear fellow on screen had sustained, and if, in fact, said injury had been sustained when the guy — and I quote — “was climbing on dangerous stuff and then he came crashing down like POW CAPOW OWWWWW!”

So now every night he asks if he can watch Doctor Show with me, and every night I say yes because I just love him too much and it’s not the same if we watch something else. And I’m not a total monster: I mute the sound and turn on the captions so I can follow the story while Bubba just watches the doctors rush around trying to save people with terrible injuries, the sights of which may or may not scar a three year old for life (TBD). He asks questions about every patient and speculates on how their injury or illness may have come to be (“did he fall like CAPOW? Did he get too much germs in his blood?”) and provides some delightful commentary on the lives of medical professionals (“why are those doctors not wearing their doctor coats at home? Are those doctors friends?”), while we eat snacks and share my blankets and just enjoy each others company. It’s a marvelous way to unwind at the end of the day and I only feel marginally guilty that this wonderful bonding experience is centered around a show that features a character named McDreamy.

And yes, I realize I could probably find a better way to nurse Baby and give Bubba some attention at the same time, but then when would I find out if Cristina and Owen are going to break up or if Bailey’s OCD will get cured or if Arizona will ever shut up about her damn amputated leg?!

OK, I’m the worst.

IMG_9033The 8pm scene in my bedroom. EVERY. NIGHT.



1That post was from three years ago. If you really did remember it, congratulations on being my biggest (and presumably only) fan!

2OK, not always. Usually would be a more fair assessment. Unless I am really tired. Or need a break. Or….just stop judging me, ok?! Go watch some TV.

3So much wasted time! What else did I miss?!

The Crazy Files, Vol VII: I Probably Ruined Bubba’s Life By Not Breastfeeding

As I imagine is the case with most new mothers, the first months of Bubba’s life were all about survival. It only took a few sleepless nights for me to abandon virtually all of my preconceived notions about parenting and to start making decisions based on only two factors: will my kid survive, and, presuming so, is it the easiest possible option available. Sure, I had assumed that I’d breastfeed with ease and that baby would sleep in his crib and wear cute outfits and I’d probably shower from time to time or something, but within weeks I had that kid sleeping with me, drinking bottles, and both his outfits and mine were perpetually covered in layers of spitup I simply could not be bothered to remedy.

The sleep deprivation hit me hard, and everything about taking care of a newborn was so much more difficult than I had ever imagined — especially breastfeeding. Prior to having Bubba, I barely gave a passing thought to what nursing would be like, so convinced was I that it would be effortless. But when he arrived and I discovered that breastfeeding required endless patience along with every last ounce of my extremely limited energy supply, and that it could be totally uncomfortable, and that the use of what amounts to a torture device just to pump milk for him while I worked would get old real fast, I quickly determined that it was more than I had bargained for. When Daddy offered to give the baby some formula at three weeks so I could get a little sleep, I agreed without a second thought, and by the time Bubba was seven weeks old the ease of formula feeding had won me over and I gave up on the boobs entirely.

Months later, once the haze of the sleepless newborn days had finally worn off and I had some time to reflect on Bubba’s infancy, I felt a twinge of regret about my decision. Was I an awful person for choosing comfort and sleep over nourishing my child? Could I have done more and tried harder? But Bubba was perfectly fine! He was happy and healthy and smart and clearly no worse for the wear, so I let that assuage my guilt and moved on.

Then I had Baby G, and with him came the opportunity to learn from the mistakes I made with Bubba and do things differently. I decided to give breastfeeding another try, and as it turns out, everything is easier the second time around! My body is already used to reduced sleep, and just knowing what to expect makes a world of difference. To my great surprise, the breastfeeding experience this time around has been a breeze — Baby G is a champion eater, my milk supply is stellar, and other than a couple of clogged ducts (TMI? Gross) things really couldn’t be going any smoother.

And I feel so, so terrible about it. 

Not for Baby G, of course. No, I feel horribly guilty that I couldn’t do it for dear Bubba! I was okay with my decision for three years, but now that I’ve had success with Baby G, I am plagued with guilt and regret and am kicking myself daily for not having had just a little bit more patience with my firstborn. How could I have been so selfish?

And of course my brain doesn’t stop with just a little regret. No, I go further off the rails: what if Bubba only seems fine to me because I had nothing to compare him to? What if this kid grows up to be way smarter or more athletic and it’s totally because of the breastfeeding?! And poor Bubba is left watching his little brother thrive while he withers away due to some as of yet unknown deficiency and he never achieves his dreams and then he finds out it’s all because I let him drink FORMULA and then he HATES ME FOREVER and I can’t even blame him for hating me because it’s ALL MY FAULT?!

On the other hand, I’m surely ruining this baby’s life by never being able to offer him my undivided attention because his big brother is always around and by taking selfies while he nurses, so perhaps I can take comfort in the fact that both of my children will grow to hate me in due time.


Silver linings!

The time I had a baby 20 minutes after getting to the hospital

Until 7 weeks ago, I thought those stories of women giving birth on the side of the road on their way to the hospital were kind of eyeroll-worthy. Come on, ladies: it takes goddamn FOREVER to have a baby. Unless they live a day’s drive away from the hospital, how long did these idiots wait to get into the car to make their way to the land of epidurals and medical professionals that they couldn’t make it?!

And then I came within 20 minutes of that happening to me.

Seriously, guys. I was one minor traffic jam away from giving birth in a dirty Prius on Beverly Boulevard.

And now I can tell you definitively that the problem these poor side-of-the-road mothers faced wasn’t that they were too dumb to get their pregnant asses out the door in a timely fashion, but rather that they simply didn’t understand that some babies have no interest in following protocol. Because no one really expects to go from “hmm, is that a contraction?” to “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THIS KID IS COMING OUT OF ME LIKE RIGHT NOW” in just a few short hours. No one!

Ironically, I actually spent a great deal of my pregnancy worrying about getting to the hospital, but I was more concerned about enduring too many contractions in the car than actually giving birth on the road. Midway through the pregnancy, I moved from the westside of LA to the suburbs about 25 miles away, and I elected to keep my doctor rather than pick someone new in the middle of the game. Thanks to the horrors of LA traffic, this meant that it would take me anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes to reach the hospital, and with each passing week I got more and more nervous about being subjected to a tortuous hours-long journey to the hospital while I timed contractions and counted down the minutes till I could get an epidural. I vowed early on that I would make sure to leave for the hospital at the first inklings of true labor in order to minimize that issue.

But alas, like those side-of-the-roaders, I made the mistake of assuming that labor takes a long time, even the second time around, and neglected to consider that a “leave for the hospital early on in the labor process” plan is irrelevant when you don’t know how long labor is actually going to take. So when I started feeling contractions around midnight on March 19th, I didn’t immediately leap into action. I told my husband to get a few hours of sleep while he had the chance, called my mom to warn her that we’d be dropping Bubba off sometime in the morning, and took my sweet time getting myself ready. I packed my bag. I took a shower. I made sure to take one last selfie to document my belly at its peak:

IMG_7945The timestamp on that photo is 2:32 am. By that time, the contractions were getting pretty painful and I realized I was inching closer to realizing my fear of having to withstand a bunch of heinous pain on the car ride, so I woke up my husband and told him it was go time. “We’ll have a baby by noon!” I told him psuedo-cheerfully as I tried not to pain-vomit on his face, still naively thinking I had hours of labor ahead of me. At 3:15, we dropped Bubba off at Grandma’s, at which point I further demonstrated my idiotic lack of urgency by spending ten minutes cuddling with Bubba and getting him settled in. Sure, the contractions were getting closer and closer together and I felt like I just might die from the horrendous pain, but I still thought we had plenty of time because LABOR TAKES FOREVER EVEN WHEN IT’S “FAST,” RIGHT?!

Three hours or so after feeling the first contraction, we were on our way to the hospital. Thankfully, since it was the middle of the night and not rush hour, we made it to the hospital in record time and my husband only had to listen to me threaten to smash my face into the dashboard for thirty minutes or so (have I mentioned that labor is painful?). I walked through the hospital doors at 3:57am and immediately told everyone in my path that I wanted an epidural, including several people who I do not think actually worked for the hospital in any capacity whatsoever. I was in a lot of pain and each contraction felt exponentially worse than the last, but as the nurse walked me into a room, I breathed a huge sigh of a relief, knowing I wouldn’t be in pain much longer because surely one of those 100 people I’d begged for an epidural would deliver!

As soon as we arrived in the room, the nurse examined me and announced that I was dilated to 6 centimeters, and this is when things went a bit off the rails. A resident joined the crew and assured me that the doctor was on her way and that she would call the anesthesiologist as soon as I was fully examined and checked in, but not two minutes later, I was screaming — like, bloody murder, no shame, no dignity, all out SCREAMING — that I was in pain and needed drugs. And then two minutes later, the same thing. And one minute after that. And again. And again. And in between each contraction, I was telling the nurse, “it’s so much pressure! SO. MUCH. PRESSURE.”

At the mention of all the pressure, the nurse decided to take another gander at my progress and was surprised to discover that said “pressure” was in fact my baby being born. Like, RIGHT THEN.

Even though I had just been at 6cm 10 minutes prior.

And my doctor hadn’t arrived.

And I hadn’t even filled out the check-in paperwork.

And there was obviously no time for drugs.

And it really did hurt a lot.

I will never forget the look on the poor resident’s face when the nurse told her there would be no time to get me the drugs I was begging for; the sweet women had been making a valiant effort to get the anesthesiologist to hurry up and appeared to be as terrified as I was to learn that not only would she be delivering this baby herself since my doctor still hadn’t arrived, but that she’d be doing it while I screamed in her face about how badly it hurt.

And just like that, with me in denial and screaming for drugs till the very end, I officially became a mom of two. Graffin Thomas Wachter busted out of my loins at 4:17am on March 19, still in the amniotic sac, 6 pounds 2 ounces, 19.5 inches long, and super cute (in a scrunched up smushed-face newborn kind of way):



I had never given so much as a passing thought to the possibility of a drug-free birth, and I truly cannot overstate how painful it was and how I will never, ever, ever do that again. But I must say that I feel pretty bad-ass for having done it, no matter how unintentional. And it goes without saying that it was absolutely worth every second of torture:

IMG_8006 IMG_8029 IMG_8104 IMG_8163 IMG_8200 IMG_8281 IMG_8309 IMG_8407 IMG_8618But seriously: never again!

The Time a Sponge Was Stuck in my Nose for THREE MONTHS

Ever the jokester, Bubba attempted to amuse me the other day with an age-old toddler trick: pretending to stick a jelly bean in his ear. To a normal mother, this type of silliness likely would have been met with a swift but gentle reminder that sticking foreign bodies into any of our orifices is a no-no, and then quickly forgotten.

Not me.

When I saw that jelly bean heading towards the dear lad’s ear, flashbacks came screaming into my mind like a shellshocked soldier, adrenaline rushed through my blood and I jumped into action, intercepting the candy mid-flight with cat-like reflexes. I may or may not have shouted “NOOOOOOOO DON’T DO THAT!” and had to resist the urge to chuck the jelly bean out the window like a grenade, nearly forgetting that the confection itself was not actually to blame for the near tragedy.

I realize that probably sounds like an over-reaction, but when you consider the fact that I once lived with a piece of a rotting sponge stuck in my nasal cavity for a quarter of a year, I think it’s perfectly reasonable.

The horror began innocently: picture a three-year-old me, happily enjoying a bath with my big sister on a totally ordinary evening. In lieu of bath toys that fateful night, my sister and I were enjoying a pack of those little sponges that start off in capsule form and then expand in the water — like these, except this particular assortment featured letters of the alphabet. Well, I don’t know if it was something in the sponges themselves, the bubble bath, our shampoo, or what, but those letters smelled divine. I couldn’t stop sniffing them…which would have probably been OK, had I not also been experimenting with tearing the sponges into smaller pieces.

It was only a matter of time before one of the pieces went right up my little nose mid-sniff. A piece of an N, to be specific. And I can assure you that it was an N and not an A or L or K or any other letter, because I spent the next three months telling anyone and everyone, “THERE’S AN ‘N’ IN MY NOSE!!!” over and over again in hopes that someone would free me from my spongy torment, to no avail.

Now, to be fair to my family — because you’re probably wondering what kind of horrid neglect I was enduring that resulted in me walking around with a goddamn sponge up my nose for any longer than three minutes, much less months on end — my mom did pry out the sponge immediately after the ruinous sniff. The problem was that she only pulled out part of it, not realizing that another piece remained lodged deep within my nasal cavity. I, of course, was well aware of the stranded fragment, being that I couldn’t breathe out of my nose, but she was unaware that her extraction had been incomplete. This little problem surely could have been quickly remedied, if not for the simple fact that I was three years old and lacked the verbal dexterity to properly articulate my plight. Perhaps if I’d said something like, “Mother darling, despite your best efforts, a small portion of the sponge you attempted to withdraw was inadvertently left within my nostril and further nasal examination is necessary,” I would have seen some results…but alas, I was three and the best I could come up with was “THERE’S AN ‘N’ IN MY NOSE!!!” and thus the sponge remained.

I suppose my family just thought I was insane.

It wasn’t until three months later when I sneezed (in church, no less!) and my mom nearly gagged from the foul odor that accompanied my mucus that the figurative lightbulb went off and she finally realized that the “N” I’d been babbling about was probably related to that sponge she thought she’d removed a whole freakin’ season prior. She marched me on over to the doctor the very next day, where, at long last, with the assistance of some very large tweezers and a blindingly bright light, the now-moldy sponge was freed from its sinus prison. I don’t remember much about the aftermath of this incident — my memories of The Great N-Sponge Tragedy of ’86 all focus on the frustration of trying to get someone to believe there was an N up there in the first place — but my mom reports that I sneezed incessantly for days, my nose probably ecstatic to have such freedom after so many months. It must have felt fantastic, and it’s really too bad I don’t remember that sweet relief.

(My mom, for the record, felt terrible. AS SHE SHOULD, SINCE HER CHILD HAD A ROTTING SPONGE UP HER NOSE FOR THREE MONTHS. Ahem. I love you, Mom.)

The good news is that this experience made a lasting impression on me: never again did I allow a small object to come within sniffing distance of my nose; I’m hesitant to even get a tissue too close, if we’re being honest. I’ve used the story as a cautionary tale for babysitting charges and young relatives many times over the years, and I was happy to share the tale with Bubba after he flirted with disaster with the jelly bean. He had a lot of questions about why I felt the need to sniff the sponge and why I had chosen an N instead of another letter, so I’m not entirely sure the point of the story really sunk in…but I can assure you of this: if he’s ever spouting nonsense about something being stuck anywhere in his body, whether it’s a letter N or a number 8 or an Elmo or a tree, I’m taking him to the damn doctor.

If nothing else, they can just confirm that he’s insane and at least I’ll know his sinuses are clear.

mo_1986My mom did not have the foresight to take a photo of me on the doctor’s table mid-extraction (if Facebook had existed in the mid-eighties, surely she would have), so here’s a photo of me from the same era, playing with paper dolls and wearing some kind of bonnet.

How Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible etc etc Bad Day Confirmed I’m Doing OK

Alexander and his shitty day

Alternate title: Alexander the Cranky Brat and his Negligent, Cold-Hearted Mother

Now that we live in suburbia and have access to a delightfully clean, well-stocked and 99% hobo-free library, one of my first orders of business was to get Bubba hooked up with his very own library card so he could start enjoying the excitement of a constant rotation of new reading material. (Also, they have kickin’ air conditioning in there and it’s a fabulous way to kill an hour on a hot afternoon.) After spending a few minutes knocking down every block in the children’s area and likely annoying everyone in the entire building, Bubba turned his attention to the books and made some selections. Based on the cover illustration alone — he was intrigued by that upside-down skateboard on Alexander’s filthy floor — the first book he chose for his foray into library patronage was the 1970’s-era monstrosity Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Have you read this thing? Somehow I missed it in my own childhood (the grumpy scowl on that punk’s face would have precluded me from ever so much as touching this book, I assure you), but after reading it with my son no fewer than six bajillion times in the past five days (conservative estimate), I can safely say I was not missing out on anything. This innocent-looking tale is riddled with terrible behavior from the titular Alexander, and the treatment he receives from his virtually absentee mother raises some alarming red flags.

The plot of the book is simple: Alexander spends the entire book sulking about everyday irritations that should not, under normal circumstances, be cause for more than a passing complaint, much less be cited as ruining your entire freakin’ day: tripping on a skateboard, having to eat lima beans, and being relegated to the middle seat during car pool. I’ll give him a pass on his friend being mean to him and the dentist discovering a cavity; either of those can certainly put a damper on your day — but the rest of his complaints are just plain over the top.

Even Bubba was baffled by Alexander’s attitude. For starters, the dear lad couldn’t quite wrap his head around the concept of a “bad day” in general. “But why he not cheer up, Mama?” He asked, quite reasonably. “He gonna be happy a little bit later!”

And, like me, he found Alexander’s level of upset to be disproportionate to his problems. There’s a scene where Alexander bemoans the lack of treats in his lunchbox whilst his pals devour chocolate and cupcakes (and really, Albert’s mom? TWO cupcakes in your kid’s lunchbox? Good luck with that diabetes diagnosis next year), and while Bubba was somewhat sympathetic to Alexander in this particular instance (who wouldn’t want a little dessert?), he was also quick to point out that Alexander was leaving the rest of his perfectly good lunch un-touched. “It’s OK, Alexander,” he said consolingly, speaking directly to the book. “Don’t forget about your sammich! And you gots some milk over there!!”

Seriously, Alexander: a freakin’ toddler is telling you to take a chill pill. Simmer down, drama queen.

Even worse than Alexander’s bitching and moaning, though, is his mother’s reaction — or shall I say, her non-reaction — to Alexander’s plight. Sure, Alexander is undoubtedly overreacting to 99% of his “bad day,” but he is just a kid, and we all know that kids can be kind of emotionally stupid at times. So where are the hugs? The kind words? The encouragement? NOWHERE TO BE FOUND, that’s where. Never ONCE does this woman so much as cast a kind look in her poor kid’s direction, much less lay a tender hand upon his disheveled little head! The closest we get to seeing some compassion from this monster is on the penultimate page, when Alexander remarks that his mom says “some days are like that.” Gee, thanks, Mom. I totally feel better now.

And I swear I’m not just overanalyzing things — Bubba noticed her absence, too! “Why his mama not help him?” he inquired when Alexander complained about his bath being too hot. “Why his mama be mad at him with da mud?” he demanded after Alexander got into a muddy tussle with his brother. Most touchingly (and saddest of all for Alexander), Bubba took note of the lack of space for Alexander’s mother in Alexander’s bed (we do a lot cuddling around these parts, and Bubba’s bed contains one pillow for him and one for me to use when I’m in there with him). “There’s no space for his mama!” He cried. “Where’s her pillow?! How they gonna do some hugs?”

Yes, Alexander’s mother, explain yourself: HOW YOU GONNA DO SOME HUGS?

While I’m thoroughly annoyed with this book at this point (and we still have two more weeks before we have to return it! HELP), I am glad we borrowed it, as it has done wonders for my confidence as a mother. The fact that even at his young age, Bubba is wise enough to recognize the need to keep things in perspective instead of flipping out over a lack of dessert in your lunch seems like a pretty good accomplishment…and while I’m not sure what I did to make him think like that, I’ll go ahead and take credit for his maturity since I’m his mom and thus it must be related to my awesome parenting. This is not a kid who’s going to let a little muddy puddle ruin his day:



But when a bad day does eventually rear its ugly head, Bubba knows he should be able to rely on me for comfort and encouragement — and that feels like an even bigger accomplishment. Keep that space in bed ready for me, Bud.

Movin’ and Groovin’ (and Crying and Screaming Because Moving SUCKS)

I think literally everyone on the planet can agree that moving is, at best, unpleasant. Even if you’re a minimalist with like 12 total belongings and are blessed with a gaggle of weirdo saint-like friends who want to help you pack, it’s still an annoying exercise in patience and logistics-management.

And that’s in ideal circumstances! If the house you’re moving into is significantly smaller than your current one, necessitating a lot of reorganization and Goodwill donations, and if you’ve got a toddler underfoot during all of your preparations, and you can’t take any time off work to pack, the whole experience starts shifting from “annoying” to “panic-inducing nightmare.”

If you’re pregnant and can’t bend over or lift anything over about 3 pounds, get fall-down-exhausted after about ninety seconds of exertion, and are prone to bursting into hormonal tear-fests at even the most innocuous provocation, you might as well just give up and start considering abandoning all of your possessions and living in your car.

I’m moving in 5 days and my car is starting to look pretty good. I could have a nice life in a Prius, I think! The front seats recline quite nicely, and I’d never even have to leave my “house” to drive through Jack in the Box for a soda. Alas, the new baby probably needs a crib or something, so I have to persevere.

All joking aside, moving really, really sucks. I don’t know how or why I have so much stuff, but I do, and now we have to sort through it and pack it up and it’s just NOT. FUN. AT. ALL. I don’t even understand why it’s so hard — it’s just throwing stuff in boxes, right? But everything is heavy and you have to bubble wrap delicate stuff and you run out of tape and you want to clean everything first because moving dusty things seems silly…and then you discover that you can no longer fit in your clothes anymore and so you have to pull out the maternity clothes like a month sooner than you thought you’d have to and you realize that all of your regular clothes can just go straight into storage instead of into your closet at the new house, and you kind of have a nervous breakdown.

clothesThis happened last night. It wasn’t my best moment.

On the bright side, the house we’re moving to is right across the street from one of my sisters — literally right across the street! — and just a few blocks from another sister, and my mom lives in the next town over, so I’m pretty freakin’ excited about all that. Every time I want to throw a box across the room in frustration, I just remind myself that each hideous pair of flared maternity jeans I pack is getting me one step closer to being able to step out my front door and enjoy an enormous glass of wine with my sister and not even have to drive anywhere.

Except…wait a minute…I’m pregnant and can’t drink. SON OF A BITCH.

Maybe I’ll just send Bubba over to have a sleepover with the cousins and I’ll sit home and watch Forensic Files.


Yes, that sounds like a good plan. 5 days and counting!

P.S. I have been intending to write this post every evening for the last week, and every night I instead just stare at the various piles of junk I have “organized” around the house and cry.

Where the Hell Have I Been?! A Six Month Recap

My lengthy blogging hiatus was unintentional. I didn’t wake up one day and decide I was done blogging or anything so dramatic; it was just one of those things that kept getting put off for a myriad of reasons until it became bigger in my mind than it really needed to be and then I couldn’t decide how to jump back into it, like when you forget to email a friend back for a couple of days and it spirals out of control until one day you realize you haven’t talked in a year and it’s totally your fault and now you CAN’T contact them because it’s just SO AWKWARD.

(Please tell me I am not the only horrible person that does that.)

The initial reason for my absence was a simple lack of creativity: my damn kid was behaving too well and failing to provide me with easy material, and I was having trouble crafting any of my own tales of insanity (and there are many!) into anything remotely amusing. Since those are really the only two things I write about, I was tapped out. Now, under normal circumstances I probably would have gotten my shit together and written something lame just to avoid the above-described “now it’s been TOO long to blog again!” shame-spiral, but then my life underwent some serious upheaval and all I could think about all day every day was how overwhelmingly stressed out I was, and it just seemed disingenuous to write blog posts about my son dancing with glow sticks (sooo cute, you guys) when I was sending my friend daily texts that said “MY LIFE IS FALLING APART HELLLLLLLLP!!!”

(Too dramatic?)

And then I got pregnant, and in one fell swoop both of those problems were solved! I’m finding that now I have about a million things to say, and everything that I was stressing about no longer seems quite as important because there’s a HUMAN BEING GROWING INSIDE ME and I’m hungry and stuff.

(Of course, in reality the pregnancy actually makes the sources of my stress all the MORE relevant as well as bringing stresses of its own, but it gives me a positive focus and some serious motivation to at least pretend to be an adult who is marginally capable of handling life.)

So here I am! I’m back and committed to regaling you with tales of Bubba’s cuteness, embarrassing memories and photos that will make you pity and/or mock me, and, of course, news from the pregnancy front (today’s headline: I’m too fat for my pants). First, though, allow me to bring you up to speed on what’s been going on these last six months:

Bubba has maintained his interest in all things superhero:batmancapespidermanmaskAnd I made him an AMAZING (if I do say so myself) decoupaged table with Marvel cards:

superherotable(And yes, his nails are painted in the above photo. We were bored. They’re Spider-Man colors! His toes were painted “green like a lizard,” if you were curious.)

Potty training was a success!!!

pottytrainingWhich necessitated a journey to Toys R Us to pick out a new toy (or two), because I believe in positive reinforcement (AKA bribery):

newtoysMy sister and I took Bubba and her three kids to Legoland:

legoland1 legoland2 legoland3Bubba’s been practicing his Big Brother skills with his baby cousin:ryan_babyWe spent the summer in our luxurious resort-style pool:poolAnd cooling off with overpriced (but oh-so-delish) milkshakes:


And most importantly, I can assure you that my bond with my dear sweet Bubba has not changed one bit during that six month hiatus:

ferryWhew! All caught up? Ready for more? Stay tuned…I promise not to disappear again.