Ways to get a baby man to leave his womb:
1. Talk to your belly. Ask him to rub your feet. And then do a load of laundry. And bring you a coke. And...
2. Tell him how happy you are and how you want him to stay with you forever and ever and never ever leave.
3. Eat a salad.
4. Start talking about your past menses.
5. Wear only pink clothes.
6. Fry chicken. Lay it on your lap. Tell him he can have some if he comes out.
7. Listen to Alanis Morsette on repeat. "jagged little pill"!
8. Tell him you'd like to "talk."
9. Light a smelly, girly candle and dim the lights - any guy would run from that!
10. And finally, if all else fails, ask him for money to buy craft supplies.
:)~
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Cartman Did it
For a week h4 couldn't eat much. He was having a GI bug attack and all I could do was offer him a hug for comfort and a clean shirt for post-puking clean ups.
He lost so much weight in that week it scared me.
And then he started feeling better.
And, in two days, has managed to put back on all the lost weight plus some change.
He yells for more food and I jump, Happy to help but realizing, in true Dr Phil style, that our relationship is teetering on becoming that of Cartman and his mom.
"BUT MOOOOOOOM!"
He lost so much weight in that week it scared me.
And then he started feeling better.
And, in two days, has managed to put back on all the lost weight plus some change.
He yells for more food and I jump, Happy to help but realizing, in true Dr Phil style, that our relationship is teetering on becoming that of Cartman and his mom.
"BUT MOOOOOOOM!"
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
What's Up, Doc?
A few years back I had to go to the ER because of a pain I was having in my rib cage. Fearing it was an appendicitis, or worse, I laid on the table and ---- in walked a gorgeous man in scrubs.
"Does it hurt here?" He asked, palpating my lower abdomen.
"N-n-no," I half giggled.
"Here?" He moved his tanned hand higher and stared at me with big blue eyes.
"No!" I squeaked.
This was it.
He was going to go all the way, this hot doc was gonna slide to second, he was going to---
"There you are!" My husband popped his head in the door as the doctor moved his hand away from my jubblies.
"I'll get you some medicine for the pain. I think it's a rib strain," the vision-in-scrubs said and walked out the door.
"I walked in too soon, didn't I?" Harry grinned at me.
"Bastard," I muttered and rolled away from him.
Husbands! Can't live with em- can't get groped in a hospital with them either! :)
"Does it hurt here?" He asked, palpating my lower abdomen.
"N-n-no," I half giggled.
"Here?" He moved his tanned hand higher and stared at me with big blue eyes.
"No!" I squeaked.
This was it.
He was going to go all the way, this hot doc was gonna slide to second, he was going to---
"There you are!" My husband popped his head in the door as the doctor moved his hand away from my jubblies.
"I'll get you some medicine for the pain. I think it's a rib strain," the vision-in-scrubs said and walked out the door.
"I walked in too soon, didn't I?" Harry grinned at me.
"Bastard," I muttered and rolled away from him.
Husbands! Can't live with em- can't get groped in a hospital with them either! :)
Thursday, March 21, 2013
HEAL, HEEL!
I broke my heel.
Okay - "broke" is a strong word. I have Plantar Fasciitis in my left foot and it hurts to the point where I'm now not-so-glad that my kid is a feather-less parrot. Every time I step down I let fly a string of curse words that would make even the heartiest of barkeeps faint and swoon.
And the kid so kindly repeats them.
I should be careful not to say them around him - but I can't stop them - they bubble, they erupt, and he's always in ear shot.
Why?
Uh - because sometimes I use his little blond head as a crutch. ahahaha! He's 39" tall - so he's the perfect height. He giggles. I scream. We make a cute, albeit crazy, couple.
When I finally went to the doctor and he gave my my official diagnosis I had no choice but to sit back in my pleather easy chair thing (podiatrists have the swankiest "tables") and cry "THE DAMN INTERNET WAS RIGHT!" because I am an online google doc.
I will google my symptoms and decide that I have cancer.
Then I usually decide I'm too busy to have cancer since I have to raise a kid (and use him as an assistive walking device) and then settle on option number two.
This time it's that the underside of my foot hurts like hell and they, like all the doc and lawyers before us, stuck some fancy latin words together to make it sound better than "Hell heel" or "Heelishisness."
Maybe I should be the one naming stuff that ails us.
I'm renaming the paper cut to "Smuckingfit!" because that just feels better to yell than "PAPER CUT!" which, to be honest, could be that someone cut a piece of paper wrong and does nothing to describe the sheer ickiness of that tiny slice of immense pain that we all know and loathe.
I will also be renaming pregnancy to "Parasitic Procrastinator" or "Paracrastanation" - because that's what it is.
A lot.
What else shall I rename?
:)
Okay - "broke" is a strong word. I have Plantar Fasciitis in my left foot and it hurts to the point where I'm now not-so-glad that my kid is a feather-less parrot. Every time I step down I let fly a string of curse words that would make even the heartiest of barkeeps faint and swoon.
And the kid so kindly repeats them.
I should be careful not to say them around him - but I can't stop them - they bubble, they erupt, and he's always in ear shot.
Why?
Uh - because sometimes I use his little blond head as a crutch. ahahaha! He's 39" tall - so he's the perfect height. He giggles. I scream. We make a cute, albeit crazy, couple.
When I finally went to the doctor and he gave my my official diagnosis I had no choice but to sit back in my pleather easy chair thing (podiatrists have the swankiest "tables") and cry "THE DAMN INTERNET WAS RIGHT!" because I am an online google doc.
I will google my symptoms and decide that I have cancer.
Then I usually decide I'm too busy to have cancer since I have to raise a kid (and use him as an assistive walking device) and then settle on option number two.
This time it's that the underside of my foot hurts like hell and they, like all the doc and lawyers before us, stuck some fancy latin words together to make it sound better than "Hell heel" or "Heelishisness."
Maybe I should be the one naming stuff that ails us.
I'm renaming the paper cut to "Smuckingfit!" because that just feels better to yell than "PAPER CUT!" which, to be honest, could be that someone cut a piece of paper wrong and does nothing to describe the sheer ickiness of that tiny slice of immense pain that we all know and loathe.
I will also be renaming pregnancy to "Parasitic Procrastinator" or "Paracrastanation" - because that's what it is.
A lot.
What else shall I rename?
:)
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Name That Tune
"I was totally gonna poke you," my husband said.
"I know you were!" I said, letting the disbelief seep into my voice. "We had maybe ten minutes before the kid would've found us!"
"Hmm," he said. "I could've done it in three..."
"DUDE!?!?!"
"What? Yeah. All I needed was three..."
I found out it's really hard to safely beat someone up while driving down the road at 50mph. :)
"I know you were!" I said, letting the disbelief seep into my voice. "We had maybe ten minutes before the kid would've found us!"
"Hmm," he said. "I could've done it in three..."
"DUDE!?!?!"
"What? Yeah. All I needed was three..."
I found out it's really hard to safely beat someone up while driving down the road at 50mph. :)
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Fear Me
What is it about motherhood that makes women so completely fearless?
I can remember a time when everything scared me.
Even a trip to the grocery store would be enough to send me into a panic epic enough only to be calmed by the inhaling of an entire Hot-n-Ready pizza while watching back-to-back episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on FX.
But, somehow, after one goes through the horrific experience of both pregnancy (and don't let the hippies fool you - it's not a "beautiful and natural thing" - it sucks. A lot) and the joy of a mandatory C-section (Oh SURE let's invite the students in to see both my vagina AND my fat rolls AAAAND my innards) to make things like the frozen food aisle seem a bit less daunting.
I used to gag and wretch at the sight or sound of other's bodily functions but now, upon entering a rest room, I see only the germs that keep me from getting out alive, er, or without Influenza. And I can get in and out without touching a single solid surface. Which makes me think that the Olympics should sponsor some sort of Housewives version of their Chariots of Fire. We could score each other on Bathroom Dashes, Diaper Changes of Light, and Compromising for Champions.
Okay - no one would have time to watch - but I think it would be rather cool. I could finally get a medal in a "sport," since I'm pretty sure that Couch Surfing has yet to become a world-wide phenomenon.
Also - I'm pretty proud that I just spelled "phenomenon" without spell-check. Go me!
So, yeah, since I have become a mom I no longer suffer from the same kind of phobias I did before. The monsters may not live under my bed anymore but I'm pretty sure they still exist so I have to don my armor, ready my Lysol and protect my 2 year old for whatever he decides lives in his closet.
Being a mom sucks sometimes. But when you are their world, their deleter of baddies and dispensers of gogurt - you become - a god.
A god in need of a dye job, a hair cut and with ragged cuticles and dirty bras - but still - a god, nonetheless.
And gods fear nothing.
Except E.Coli - that crap is SCARY!
:)
I can remember a time when everything scared me.
Even a trip to the grocery store would be enough to send me into a panic epic enough only to be calmed by the inhaling of an entire Hot-n-Ready pizza while watching back-to-back episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on FX.
But, somehow, after one goes through the horrific experience of both pregnancy (and don't let the hippies fool you - it's not a "beautiful and natural thing" - it sucks. A lot) and the joy of a mandatory C-section (Oh SURE let's invite the students in to see both my vagina AND my fat rolls AAAAND my innards) to make things like the frozen food aisle seem a bit less daunting.
I used to gag and wretch at the sight or sound of other's bodily functions but now, upon entering a rest room, I see only the germs that keep me from getting out alive, er, or without Influenza. And I can get in and out without touching a single solid surface. Which makes me think that the Olympics should sponsor some sort of Housewives version of their Chariots of Fire. We could score each other on Bathroom Dashes, Diaper Changes of Light, and Compromising for Champions.
Okay - no one would have time to watch - but I think it would be rather cool. I could finally get a medal in a "sport," since I'm pretty sure that Couch Surfing has yet to become a world-wide phenomenon.
Also - I'm pretty proud that I just spelled "phenomenon" without spell-check. Go me!
So, yeah, since I have become a mom I no longer suffer from the same kind of phobias I did before. The monsters may not live under my bed anymore but I'm pretty sure they still exist so I have to don my armor, ready my Lysol and protect my 2 year old for whatever he decides lives in his closet.
Being a mom sucks sometimes. But when you are their world, their deleter of baddies and dispensers of gogurt - you become - a god.
A god in need of a dye job, a hair cut and with ragged cuticles and dirty bras - but still - a god, nonetheless.
And gods fear nothing.
Except E.Coli - that crap is SCARY!
:)
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
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