How to Parent

I hate guns.  I think they are really scary and stupid.  So we don’t buy toy guns for our almost 3 year old, and we discourage him from shooting lasers out of his finger pistol.  I feel like “no fun” when I do that, and I’m wondering if discouraging it will just make him more curious about guns as he gets older.  That’s how it works, right?  Your parents forbid you to do something, so you do it.  Your parents encourage you to do something, so you don’t.

So maybe I should just say, “Griffith, Shoot guns for Mommy. Lets shoot guns and lasers and play war, and cops and robbers all day!”  Maybe he will begin to get bored of it, and start thinking it is really uncool to do that violent stuff because I told him too.  And maybe when he is a teenager, I should say, “Griffith, go out and have a bunch of unprotected sex with your girlfriend, get AIDS, get her knocked up, and ruin your life!”  While I’m at it, I could say, “Griffith! Drop out of High School, Don’t go to college, and become a drug dealer!  Drug dealers make a lot of money, way more than most people.  You may end up dead or a junkie, but at least you will be rich!”  Then I might as well also say, “Griffith! Drive Drunk! It is really cool, and it makes everything easier than calling a cab.  You might die or go to prison for life for killing a baby, but hey, its worth not having to find your car the next day. I do it all the time.”

We also are raising him vegetarian, and he is not allowed to eat butter or drink regular milk unless it is super organic.  This is more my Husband’s hang up.  But I don’t have a problem with it, and I drank my Husband’s veggie kool aid a long time ago, so I follow through with those rules.  We also rarely let him have dessert, and we never allow him to have candy.  Not even on Halloween.  We had him trade his pumpkin of candy for toys, which he loved.  I actually think that is a pretty cool tradition.  Toys are way better than candy.  Then we just trashed the candy.  But with all of these strict rules, I am afraid he will freak out when he gets to be a teenager, and overcompensate for what he missed out on by becoming a super carnivore who is obsessed with meat and a sweet tooth who is obsessed with candy.  Maybe he will get really into understanding the difference between eating healthy and eating like a regular American, like we hope, but I don’t know.  Its that whole rebellion thing I worry about.  So maybe we should say to him when he goes over to friend’s houses, “Griffith!  Make sure to fill up on meat and sugar when you are out of the house since you never get it at home.  You may end up sick, and fat, but at least you got the thrill.”

Not sure what is more effective.  Maybe using educational humor like this will help, but who knows, it could also fuck him up and make him resent us. I have tons of books on parenting, and they all seem to have conflicting advice and tips.

I guess this is what being a Parent is all about.  Trying your best, but not knowing for sure if anything you are doing is right. I guess for now I will just stick with the same routine of, “My house, my rules.” and “I’m the adult, you are the child” minus the sick jokes. I haven’t mentioned my Baby girl in here because all she does is look cute, giggle, breast feed, poop, and sleep.  Man, are babies easy.  Its when they get older that things start getting tricky.



Roller Coasters Are Only Fun At The Park

The changes that have been going on in my body, my mind, my emotions, and my hormones in the past 3 years is incredible.  Your body goes through so much when you are pregnant, and it seems as if it never ends when you breastfeed.  I went from being pregnant to nursing my son for a year and  a half, to becoming pregnant again and now nursing again with no breaks.  I am not complaining, I love all of it.  Well, yeah, I am complaining, but I love being a Mom, and I think it is awesome and fascinating to be a walking, talking beverage that is keeping a baby alive.  It is still kinda insane to think about how much a woman’s body can go through, and its no wonder so many Moms go fucking crazy after they pop out a few kids.  I am fairly certain I would have been a much less bearable person to be around the past few months if it wasn’t for this blog, and twitter to pour out all my thoughts into.  I am SHOCKED my husband didn’t leave me because of how I acted at times.  I was a horrid, horrid woman.

Sexual changes can be good and bad.  Like, when I was pregnant, my orgasms were so insanely strong that it made sex better than it has ever been.  My nipples were way too sensitive though, it just hurt to get them touched.  But then, after the birth, and when you start wanting to have sex again, you have the extremely sucky experience of the first few orgasms postpartum.  They are so lackluster, they cannot even compare to the giant pregnant lady orgasms, it is enough to make you cry for days.  All the pressure and fluids from the baby pressing down on your vag, cause all the blood to kind of pool down there, so your body is pretty much ready to go for sex 24/7.  My clit was permanently aroused for the entire last trimester.  It was distracting, and sometimes felt so good it hurt.  I miss it so bad, but one must move on despite these painful circumstances.  Pregnancy orgasms vs. postpartum orgasms is a lot like the difference between ecstasy sex vs. sober sex. Or like diet coke to diet pepsi.  Or Mcdonald’s croutons to Outback steakhouse croutons.  Or Natural Ice to Blue Moon.  Or $4 bottle of wine to a $100 bottle of wine.  Can you tell I could do this for days?  You get the point.  It just can’t compare, and you are stuck with it. You have to make the most of it.  Eventually you get used to it, and start appreciating it for what it is.

I just started getting to that point postpartum where I feel like the old me, I feel good about my body,  I enjoy and want sex, I am having fun with my husband again all the time, and my kids aren’t overwhelming me to the point that I have to run in the backyard and scream.  I finally feel relaxed.  It is so nice to get over that hump.  I think the entire 9 months of pregnancy have nothing on the first 3 months postpartum in terms of difficulty and pain.  Jesus.  I am getting chills just thinking about what a nightmare it was.  Seriously, a total nightmare.  You have this beautiful new baby, but all you wanna do is cry, plan your escape to Mexico, and contemplate starting an addiction to heroin.  I am very proud of myself for turning to comedy during this phase, because laughing is really the only effective way I have found to handling bullshit.

Thick Means Fat

Last week I was sitting outside of starbucks working on shit when a big ass black girl came up to me and asked me where I got my boots from.  She and her friend seemed sweet, and they were both stylish and obese.  After I told her I got the boots from a store in NYC, she said, “What girl, you used to live in New York?  You don’t have no New Yorker accent though. You don’t sound like you from all.”  I went on to explain that I was actually from Connecticut and only lived in the city for a short time period.  She replied, “Well shoot girl.  You don’t sound like you from there neither.  You sound like you from here, girl.  Right here in Texas. That’s where you sound like you from.”  As she was saying this, she had a suspicious look on her face.  I felt like she wanted me to admit to her that I was lying or something.  Fucking psycho.

These ladies are the types who feel compelled to tell their life story to you and for you to tell yours while you are in line together at the grocery store.  I don’t mind that much, I can talk a lot too.  But it was a little excessive, and it was getting late and I wanted to get back to what I was doing.  She just kept yapping no matter how many times I made it clear with body language that this conversation ended 5 minutes ago for me.  The only way I know how to wrap things up politely when I encounter talkers like this is to not make eye contact and not volunteer any more information, and only answer questions with yes or no.  I began staring at my computer screen more and more and glanced at her occasionally with a “seriously? seriously?” look.  Still no sign of her shutting up. By this time, I heard about all of the places her and her friend have lived, all of their favorite clubs in said cities, the kind of guys they like to go after, how much jail time their fathers and father’s fathers have served, etc.  After 25 minutes or so,  it seemed as if they were beginning to wrap it up by saying words like, “well..” and “okay…”.  The last segment of the harassment was them talking about Shreveport, LA, and what a great city it is, and how great their food and restaurants are.  She asked me if I have ever been there, I said “no”, even though I had been there.  There was no way I was going to tell her how I had been there and get stuck talking about all the landmarks and shit.  So she said, “Well, you should definitely go there because it is so great, and it gots like lots of great foods. I’m talkin great red beans and rice.  Great fried chicken.  Great biscuits.  Great collard greens.  Great ribs and gumbo.  It got all that girl, check it out.”  I gave her a friendly nod and said, “sure I will check it out, nice talking to you”.  She then asked “do you like that food?”  I said, “sure, sounds delicious.”.  Then she leaned over and peeked at my legs and stomach, smiled and said, “oh yeah, you will love that food, cuz you are thick.  Okay, bye now, nice talking to you. Get back to your work.”

Really?  You are really going to come over here bug the shit out of me for nearly 30 minutes, and be all obese and call me thick?  I felt horrible.  I am trying so hard to lose the baby weight.  I know it will come off,  I know these things take time.  I know I look “good” considering how long ago I gave birth.  I know it is so cliche to be a woman who is all worried about their weight.  But do I really need to hear comments about my appearance by a complete stranger?  I didn’t tell her I just had a baby, because mostly, I was in shock that she just said that and felt speechless.  She obviously doesn’t know much about white girls.  Black girls can say that kind of stuff and it is a compliment.  Pretty much all white girls are obsessed with being skinny and have had an eating disorder at some point in their life.  I was bulimic for 10 years because I’m white and I’m from Connecticut.  So baby weight is like having a giant zit on your nose all of the time.  You just want to hide, but you can’t.  Everyone can see it.  I run and do pilates 5 times a week, I eat things that I wish were tastier just so it will come off, but this is the price you pay for wanting kids, your body takes its damn time getting hot again.  Just for the record everyone, it is a lot harder to get in shape after the second kid.  I guess that is common sense, but I thought maybe I was the exception because I am athletic.  Nope.  My husband thinks I’m nuts for not being easier on myself, but I am retarded and he and fat black girls just need to respect that.  He is not the one who has to look in the mirror and see a foreign body covered in so many stretch marks it looks like an impressionist painting staring back at him.  Fucking chocolate chip cookies did me in this time.  I seriously ate them every night in the last trimester.

I feel so bad for overweight people.  Do they have to deal with this all of the time?  People coming up to them just calling them names and offering them food?  WTF?

The good thing about this is, it has given me more ammo and stamina to run faster and longer distances.  I never want to be called “thick” again.  I don’t care if Beyonce and JLo are thick.  Thick looks bad on me.  White people are either fat or skinny not thick.  Fuck thick.  Thick means fat.  I need a shrink.

Mompocalypse Now

The usual sounds in my house while I am trying to take a shower:

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.  “stop that, sir.”  BANG BANG BANG BANG.  “griiifffitth, stop, please”.  “MOMMY??  Where are you Mommy?  WAAAAH.  Mommmmmmyyy”  “Mommy is in the shower, Griffith.  Come here and help me with baby sister.”  CRASH! BANG! CRASH!  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh wah wah wah wah wah WAAAAAAAHHH!”  “GRIFFITH!  WHAT HAPPENED??!”  “Ouch, Daddy, OOUCH!”  “Oh, NO Griffith, Don’t do that.  That’s a No-No-no!  You have to be more careful.  Here, now it is all better”  WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAAAAAAhhhh.  “Baby girl, its gonna be okay.  Its okay girl.  NO GRIFFITH!  NO SIR! NOOO SIR!  Baby girl, its okay.  Griffith, put that down and lets play with Savannah.  Come here, lets make her laugh.”  “Okay, Daddy.  Juck a minute!….OWWWW!  OUCH!  WAH WAH, Mommy kiss it!  Mommy Kiss it!”  “No, Mommy is in the shower, Griff.  Just come here and help me make baby sister laugh.”  “No!  Playground!  Lets Go on a special trip.”  “We will in just a minute, Griff.  Be patient. We have to wait for Mommy to finish her shower.”  Mommy!?  Mommy?  Mooommmmmyyyy???  Wheerrreee arrrreee yooouuuuu??”  BANG BANG BANG BANG.


Basically it sounds like a war zone outside the door.

By this point I am usually leaning against the shower wall letting the water run over my head, and trying to hum the background sounds away.  Reminiscent of a scene from any movie that involves a mental hospital or a mental patient or a woman in mourning.

I yell out, “I will be right there, Griff”.  I get out of the shower.  It is suddenly eerily quiet.  I get out of the bathroom to see all three of my family members quietly giggling on the couch, calm, having a blast together.  The calm after the storm.  Seems like the storm is just more convenient to take place at the exact time that Mommy is trying to relax in the shower, or bath, or when I am trying to get work done, or trying to take a nap.  Its just the way it is.

Weird thing is, if it went away, I would miss it terribly.  If the house was totally quiet while I was in the shower, I would probably be depressed.  Strange how I have grown to really love chaos.

Shit Baby

Your body is weird right after having a baby.  At least mine is.  You have lots of giant blood balls coming out of your vagina for the first 6 weeks, all day.  They look like you are giving birth to a miniature, bloody alien.  Your boobs are enormous boulders leaking and spraying dairy product all over everyone.  You are a homicidal maniac who wants to divorce your husband if he even looks at you wrong or coughs too loud.  And your shitting routine is all over the place for a while.  Right when I left the hospital, I was not shitting at all.  Then it turned into light shitting every two hours for a month.  Now I am, as we like to say in my house, “Filling The Bowl”.  Which means exactly what it sounds like, the shit is coming out ferociously like thick throw up out of my asshole, and it is filling up the toilet so much that it has surpassed the water line.  I am very excited that I am now in the enema stage, because my figure is getting back to normal pretty fast.


But the problem is, this type of pooping is a bit stressful, because it is pretty much like giving birth through your butt.  And just like when you are in labor, you don’t want to be touched, you want silence, and you are overall in an agitated state.  So the beginning of the enema pooping began Saturday night.  Luckily my newborn was asleep, but my 2.5 year old just finished his dinner and was ready for his nighttime routine.  He was pretty pissed that we hadn’t gotten the bubble bath started, so while I was giving butt-birth, I had to turn the bath on and get the bubbles going.  Then he became impatient with seeing the fun bath there, and not being able to get in.  It didn’t matter that I was in ass labor,  I had to undress him, take his shoes off, etc. and put him in the bath.  Now remember, this is all DURING me sitting on the toilet, sweating profusely, feeling faint, and throwing up out of my butt.  After about 5 minutes in the bath, my son got bored, and demanded I get in there with him.  Which, I do every night.  That’s right.  I bathe with my son. Naked. Every night.  I really look forward to it too.  And I will miss it when he gets to the age where it is too weird, like around 13.  (j/k).  Anyways, I felt bad that I could not get in there with him yet, and he began to whine, “Mooommmy, Get In!!”, so I told him to grab one of the bathy books we have in the toy corner of the bath.  I proceeded to read him an Elmo book, a counting numbers book, and a color naming book, during the birthing shit process.  I was moaning in between sentences, grunting, wiping the sweat off, hanging my head down in pain, frantically bearing down on the shit baby, and talking in an Elmo voice for my son.  Elmo has never sounded more pitiful and horrifying.  After the books got boring, he wanted me to play with the toys and make a toy baby pretend to dive into a toy boat.  That got boring, so we had to give his froggie a bath by shampooing his plastic froggie head. This went on for 15 more minutes.  At the end of the laboring and delivery process, I estimate I gave birth to 10 pound quadruplet shit babies.  After using half the toilet paper roll, I got off the toilet feeling slightly faint and sick like I had just finished running a marathon.  I was glad I could help my son have fun throughout the process, but I was really just looking out for myself. Because if he had cried and yelled in anger from me ignoring him, it would have woken up the infant in the other room, and who the hell knows what would have happened then.  I probably would have ended up tracking shit all through the house trying to calm everyone down.  But the real person to feel bad for in this situation is my son, Griffith; I sat in the bathtub, naked, with him after I was done.

Scandinavian Kiss

My son is 2.5 years old.  I kiss my son’s boo-boo’s.  Except we call them “ouchies”, because we nicknamed my tits (for reasons I cannot recall) “boo-boo’s” while I was breast-feeding him as a baby.  My husband made up a song that he would sing whenever Griffith was hungry and it was time for a feeding.  He sang, “Griffith Samuel Brown Needs his Boo Boo Juice, Mr. Samuel Brown needs his Boo-Boo Juice, Griffith Samuel Brown needs his Boo Boo Juice, Ahhhhh, Give Me. My. Boo. Boo. Juice!”  It is actually pretty catchy, I wish I could sing it for you.  I breast-fed him until he was 16 months old (creepy me), so he remembers that tits are called “boo-boo’s” in our family.  So it is pretty confusing for him to hear people refer to injuries as “boo-boo’s”, cuz ya know, he thinks that means that my tits are the same as painful abrasions you receive after doing something clumsy.  So anyways, when he gets an ouchie, he needs a kiss.  He is now entirely dependent on a kiss to heal the ouchie.  This is my fault, I kissed an ouchie once, and said “All better now!”, and now he thinks he cannot be all better unless an injury is kissed.  It is usually cute and enjoyable to kiss his ouchie, but he often stubs his toe in our house, and then points to his foot and says, “Kiss it, Mommy.  Make it all better.”  While he is pouting.  I cannot deny that little pout, so I bend over, pick up his dirty, clammy little toe, and kiss it, while I say, “ALL BETTER!”  This routine happens on average about 10 times a day.  The usual kisses are given on his foot, his elbow, and his head.

This morning, however, the ouchie was in a new place.  He bit his tongue.  And he must have bit it hard, because he was crying pretty bad.  While crying, with his tongue out, he desperately gasped “Kiss it Mommy!”  But it sounded more like “Tith thit Thommthy!”, since he had his tongue out and all.  So here I am, with a hysterical child, requiring a disgusting French, more like, German or Scandinavian kiss from his own Mother, because I accidentally trained him to need this.  So, with my Husband standing nearby, laughing, I winced and went ahead and kissed his tongue.  He immediately smiled through his tears and said, “Thanks, Mommy.  I’m all better.”  To be honest, seeing his relief was so satisfying, I would do it again.  Even if we were in public, I probably would do it again.  Which would probably be reasonably acceptable  here, and is most likely a common occurrence round these parts, since we live in Cowtown.  But I informed my son that I draw the line at butt holes and penises.  If he has a butt hole or penis injury, I am not doing it.  I would never.  He will just have to tough those ouchies out on his own.  But I can almost guarantee that he will injure his butthole or penis soon, and ask me to kiss it.  I will do a lot for the sake of Motherhood, but I draw the line at incestual activities.

Horrifying Cleavage

So, I just expressed milk into a starbucks sink for the second time today.  Today is the first day since my daughter was born 6 weeks ago, that I have actually been away from her.  I needed “me” time.  “Me” time involves writing on here and tweeting.  That is a very 21st century kind of “me” time, don’t ya think?  But I have these giant, veiny boulders on my chest that are leaking milk, and it makes me feel less human and more animal like.  I feel like I should keep checking my neck for a leash.  I should be covering these puppies up, but I like to dress semi-slutty, so my shirt is low cut and you can clearly see my tits from a mile away.  I actually feel like I should apologize to anyone who stares at them, and I have caught a lot of stares today, because they look really gross.  They are actually so engorged that the veins are now protruding, it kind of looks like there are 10 skinny blue rattle snakes trapped under my skin.  And I am showing that shit off.  WTF?  When I went to express the milk, I grabbed my boob out of my bra, and it sprayed at about 60 mph all by itself without any squeezing.  It is so sick.  The mirror was covered in milk.  If my milk were red, the bathroom would look like a crime scene.  Don’t worry, I cleaned it up.  Which was gross too.  And I got a lot of my milk in my hair, and now I have a There’s Something About Mary type of thing going on.  FYI: Breastmilk makes for a good adhesive, but bad hair gel.  So the moral of this story is, nature bitch slaps a new mom who dares to attempt to take any time away from her newborn.

I feel ya, Brooke.

I just had a baby 6 weeks ago, and my hormones are a piece of shit right now.  Guys, if you want to know what postpartum anger/anxiety/depression feels like, just imagine having a hot stripper get you all hot and bothered, start to jerk you off, then step on your dick right before you cum with her hooker heel while she forces you to listen to her about how she was raped as a little girl for hours.  That is what it feels like for a girl.  Sorry if that is kinda abstract, but that scenario seems like a perfect hell for a guy, and hell is what postpartum depression is.  So that is what I am in right now.  I used to think postpartum depression was just an excuse for whiny bitches to feel sorry for themselves for having a new responsibility, and having the attention diverted away from them.  But no,  Brooke Shields is right and Tom Cruise is wrong.  It is fucking hell.  God I hate that I am “one” of them.  The postpartum crazies.  But I guess I had no choice.

Today my Husband told me “you don’t handle things well”.  So combine postpartum depression, homesickness, loneliness, no car-ness, and sleeplessness and you get this kind of response in my brain:

What things?  All things?  Some things?  Many Things?  Life?  What, do I suck at life?  You are telling me I suck at Life?  You hate me?  You never loved me?  You are a bad guy.  I made a mistake.  This is all too much.  I need air.  I will go outside.  There is not enough air in the air.  What the hell, is someone burning a fire next door, I can’t breath, where is the air?  I will go for a run.  Why is everyone watching me?  Why is everyone staring at my belly?  They think I have a weird run.  They think I will never lose my baby weight.  They are judging me.  I hate them.  I am such a bad mom.  We were too poor to have kids.  Responsible people get rich before they get knocked up.  They will never be able to go on tropical vacations.  It’s my husband’s fault.  Yeah.  He should have done this.  He should have done that.  Why doesn’t he do this.  Why doesn’t he do that.  I am so fat.  I am getting wrinkles.  God hates me.  I should meditate.  Okay, OHHHHMMMM….but, but, but, but, but, why, why, why, why, cry, cry, cry, cry, yell into a pillow.  I hate this pillow.  That never works.  Break something.  Oh, we need that. Put it down.  Try being a cutter like the kids on MTV.  Oh, that will hurt.  Never mind.  Its my Husband’s fault.  Why did I turn down that sweet guy in middle school.  I should have dated him.  His family was rich.  Then I would be rich.  Then my kids would be able to go to Tropical islands.  I understand gold diggers now.  They are just savvy investors, not whores.  I wish I had a car.  I wish I had a cell phone.  I traded money for romance.  The romance is lost since the baby was born.  Will it ever come back?  “WWAAAAAHHHH”, OH!  baby is crying. Baby needs to nurse.  “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY.”  OH! Toddler needs me.  But baby is attached to boob.  Don’t want to detach baby from boob, for fear of further nipple pain.  Toddler will have to wait.  “MOMMY!! MOMMY!!  WHHEERRREE ARE YOU???”  Hold it together.  Your ex would laugh at you right now.  Get the last laugh.  He can’t win.  You need to win.  Charlie Sheen is a douchebag.  But he is kinda smart too.  What the hell.  I need to get hammered.  I need to get hammered with Charlie Sheen.  What?  I need a line of coke.  NO!  I am a mom. That is wrong.  That is horrible.  What is wrong with you.  Keep it together.  What time is it?  4pm???  It needs to be toddler bed time NOW!  I can’t do this.  This is too hard.  “Yes, honey, I will get you your juice in just a minute.  Waaahhhhh.  I said I would get it.  Please be patient.  Waaaahhhh.  Oh, don’t you start now, baby girl.  EVERYONE CALM DOWN.  Let’s go outside. Oh, it is 105 degrees out.  Nevermind.”  Why the hell do we live in North Texas.  This is hell on earth.  I miss my friends.  I miss my mom.  I miss my dad.  I need a car.  I can’t let people know I am struggling.  Everyone needs to think I am great.  Everyone needs to be jealous.  They can’t see me like this.  They can’t hear about me like this.  I am NOT like this.  This is not me.  I am not weak.  My nipples hurt so bad.  My brain hurts more.  My stomach hurts, I need to eat.  But not too much, I need to lose weight.  Is is nap time yet???  “yayyy!  Go down the slide!  Whheeee.”  I just want to scream.  “Yay!  this is fun!  show me how high you can jump.  Oh, calm down lil girl.  momma’s here.”  I shouldn’t have called my mom today.  She will just use this against me.  When I forgive him, she will say all the wrong things.

So yeah, Psycho pretty much.  It is such a huge burden.  It sucks.  Luckily it won’t last forever, but for shits sake.  One minute of this is long enough.

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