UN-awareness

I have struggled with posting about this for a really long time but when I found out that this past week was Infertility Awareness Week, I knew that it was time, it just felt like a sign to share our story.

When Bobby and I decided it was time to add to our family 4 years ago, we thought “We’re ready now, so let’s get pregnant!” It wasn’t long after that conversation that we found out there was a little baby girl growing in my belly. It happened quick. It happened easily. So we thought that’s just how it goes. Fast forward two years and right after Emerson’s first birthday we had the same conversation, “We’re ready to add another one, so let’s get pregnant!” We just assumed that because it was so easy the first time around that it would be the same this time. It wasn’t.

For nearly 3 years we have been fighting the fight of infertility and it totally effing sucks. Before I started this fight I had no idea that something that seemed so easy could be so difficult. I have known lots of people who have had to go down this road and before I myself was walking it, I couldn’t even imagine what it meant. 

I’ve posted before about how awful Em’s birth was. I had an emergency c-section with complications. I vomited violently (think exorcist) the entire time they were getting her out and ultimately scaring the absolute shit out of my husband. Then due to an excessive amount of blood loss, I required two, TWO blood transfusions (which was disgusting – think Twilight) and then spiked a fever so I wasn’t able to hold my child for almost two hours. I was miserable, I was hooked to a million machines, couldn’t shower (it wasn’t pretty) and was too dizzy to walk, from the massive amounts of pain medications I was on. The first 3 days Bobby single handled took care of her. We got home and I was in a TON of pain. The pain only got worse each day and it hurt to even pick up Emmie. I kept thinking maybe I was being a baby, so I tried to suck it up, but after two days I noticed my stomach was turning blue and red all the way up to my chest. It was hot to touch and looked pretty effing gross. I made an appointment to see my OB and the minute they looked at it they said I needed emergency surgery. I had gotten a Hematoma where my c-section was and was sent back to the hospital for THREE days away from my newborn child. I almost didn’t go. The pain of the hematoma was nothing compared to the pain of having to leave her. We made it through that ordeal and told ourselves that the next baby would be sooooo much easier. HAH! 

For a year I kept telling my doctor that I thought my c-section complications might have impacted why we weren’t getting pregnant after a year of trying. No one listened. They put me on every effing hormone there was and of course they didn’t work, it was a waste of 8 more months. All it did was turn me into a raging asshole and help me to pack on some extra pounds. A year and eight months of watching people announce pregnancy after pregnancy. Watching beautiful babies be born. I tried really hard not to get bitter but it didn’t work. I was angry at everyone and Facebook became my enemy. People would harmlessly comment on my pictures and say “Emmie needs a sibling” unaware of the situation and my broken heart – and uterus. 😦

I finally demanded that they check and see if there was anything blocking and after a small in office surgery they saw that I did indeed have lots of scar tissue blocking my Fallopian tubes. Who’d of thunk? I had to have a another surgery to clear the scar tissue and after trying for another 7 months we decided we were done and needed to take another approach. Bobby was mostly done with my raging mood swings and I was losing my shit and turning into a bitter woman. I didn’t like the person I had become, jealous of every pregnancy announcement or baby photo. I kept asking “Why not me? Why is my body doing this to me? Why did they have to botch my body?” For the first time in my life I had lost hope. I was questioning God and his power. It was a dark time for me and I knew I needed out. So last week I had my first IVF transfer. I am terrified and excited at the same time. We have to wait two weeks to find out if I am indeed pregnant and after 4 days I already want to rip my hair out. Whatever the outcome I have promised myself to stay positive. It has taken a long time to get to this point and I know my heart will be broken if this doesn’t work but I also know that if we are meant to bring another child into this world, we will. 

So there it is, my infertility story. I know so many people have one and feel like they can’t share it out of shame. Which is insane. I have been open with my struggle. My friends and family have been right along side me helping me through it all I am so thankful for all of them. I knew I didn’t want to be afraid to talk about it openly anymore because going through IVF or infertility shouldn’t be embarrassing. It should be worn as a badge of courage. It is hard as shit. You have to give yourself a ton of shots (stomach and ass), your body is taken over by hormones and hot flashes (oh God, the hot flashes) which totally suck. Then if you’re realllly lucky you’ll start gaining a shit ton of weight (13 pounds and counting). It’s an emotional roller coaster and the whole time you are telling yourself it will be worth it. But you are also cursing the sky that you have to go through it. 

Now that’s its done and we are playing the waiting game, I just keep telling myself getting pregnant quickly gave me a terrible birthing experience. So having a hard conception can only mean that this birth cannot and will not be a total shitshow. 

A girl can dream can’t she? 

Sleep Walker

So it’s been a hot minute since I posted something wise and insightful for all you mommies out there. I mean, pretty sure I’ve NEVER posted anything wise and insightful on this here blog given I have no clue what I’m doing over here in the parenting department but anywho yesterday I said I was gonna blog so here I am doing it, a day late… go figure.
In the almost six months since I last posted my kid has started school (ER-MA-GAWD) and boycotted sleeping. We went from bragging about how badass of a sleeper she was to dealing with an ass who’s sleeping is bad. I’m preeeeeetty sure that’s called karma but I could be wrong. 

I dont want to point the finger here (finger directly pointed at my husband) but Em was sleeping perfectly fine until I took a fantastic girls weekend (AKA mommymoon) and left her with el Daddio. P.S. That was in July. In his survival mode state he let her sleep in our bed all weekend and whatdayaknow she kind of liked it! So now we’re stuck negotiating with her every night, like a freaking terrorist, trying to get her to sleep in her own effin bed that she “DOESN’T YIKE!” 

Promptly upon my return I started tough and laid the hammer down. I told her she was sleeping in her bed and that was that! I felt strong, Momma was home and shit was going back to normal. Then after about 15 minutes of her yelling “MOMMY’S MEEM, I WANT DADDY!” I caved and told her she could lay in our bed for “FIVE MINUTES and then she had to sleep in her bed.” Well five minutes turned into 10, and 10 into 20 and before I knew it she was sleeping in the damn bed with us for 3 weeks straight. Now if you have never slept in the bed with a toddler, consider yourself lucky. It’s like sleeping next to that very drunk best friend you had to take care of in college. You know the one that keeps randomly throwing karate kicks and high V’s all night. And if you’re reaaaally lucky they’ll give you a 3am bed pissing to get your blood flowing. The best part is that I would wake up halfway through the night to find my adorable husband had snuck off to the guest room and left me with the kickboxing queen. I mean he only created this situation, why stick around when it gets tough. After a week or two of getting the shit beat out of me I decided I couldn’t do it anymore and I told her I would lay with her in her bed but she could not lay in ours. Not sure who I was punishing with that one but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I laid in her bed till she fell asleep and then snuck out. Well as soon as she would wake up and realize I wasn’t there, she would come get me and then the cycle would repeat. ALL.NIGHT.LONG! And now instead of getting beat up all night long I’m dealing with her tiny ass creeping into my room and scaring the piss out of me every two hours. 

I don’t care what anyone says there is nothing scarier than being woken up out of a dead sleep to a small child standing next to your bed staring at you. The other night, in the pitch dark she came crawling, CRAW-LING into my room, with her long dark hair and I swear to God I thought I was about to get swallowed up like in that movie The Grudge. 

Me: (Gasping and possibly pissing myself) Em hun, you gotta get up.

Emmie: Why?

Me: Because you’re really creeping mommy out.

Each night I say I’m gonna do it and stick to my guns, tonight is the night I stand firm and won’t let her sleep in our room and then 3 am rolls around and in my half asleep stupor I fling her into our bed and wave the white flag. Because shitty sleep is still better than no sleep. But tonight, well tonight… I think I may just have to sneak off to that magical guest room and leave the creepy little wake up calls to the instigator himself.

I mean, you can’t help Karma people…

just ask Brad Pitt. 😉

Mother’s Weekend

So Mother’s Day is right around the bend and because I am a mom to a very “spirited” toddler I think I speak for mothers everywhere when I say … we deserve more than ONE day!

We put in 365 days of physical and emotional work as a mother. That’s 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. Exhausted is just a state of being at this point and yet we get one day, ONE measly day to be recognized for our actions. The fact is that we are so damn exhausted from the week that by the time the end of the weekend rolls around we cant even enjoy Mother’s Day and because some GENIUS decided to put it on a Sunday instead of a Saturday getting drunk isn’t even an option. Thanks a lot!

Don’t get me wrong I appreciate the fact that we even get a day to be celebrated at all but the cold hard truth is I am tired AF and would love some time to myself, and lately that shit just doesn’t happen. I mean I can’t remember the last shower or bathroom break I took without Emerson. So my proposal is this… I think it needs to be changed to “Mother’s Weekend” and the entire weekend be focused on the pampering of all the fierce Mommas out there. A weekend full of rest and relaxation and showing the mom in your life exactly how much her hard work and patience means to you. Not with a card or a bouquet of flowers but by leaving her the eff alone.

And just in case anyone needs help filling the space for “Mothers Weekend” here are some sure-fire things that I think all moms would love:

1. A reason to leave the house that does not include the grocery store or a child activity. Plan something fun for that amazing momma in your life. The fact that she gets to leave the house to do something besides watch as her child screams down the aisles at your local Harris Teeter will be the highlight of MW (Mothers Weekend, I am abbreviating it now).
2. A reason to wear real pants and lip gloss. This goes with #1. Pick a place that she can actually change out of her “mom clothes” and be that sexy woman she used to be before kids ruined her wardrobe and cool-factor.
3. Give us wine. Because we deal with your kid all day long, we need a drink. This seems self-explanatory.
4. Let us sleep. For once when the kid gets up in the middle of the night intercept her and let us sleep. And to top it off when that same kid comes strolling in at 6:45am grab them and go downstairs so we can sleep-in. Extra sleep = day made.
5. Cook for us. On MW we don’t want to have to prepare any meals so do your best Top-Chef and cook for us. We promise we wont be as picky as you are, the sheer fact that someone besides “Chic-fi-la” is preparing our meal is enough to make MW the best moment of our lives.
6. Pick up after yourself. Just like cooking, we also do not want to clean on MW so make a point to pick up all the shit you have strategically placed around the house knowing we would pick up. Just pretend that a famous sports star is coming to visit you. So make the house look nice for them… and us.
7. Some time alone with ourselves. Take the kid and let us sit on the couch and watch the Real Housewives uninterrupted. Let us catch up on all the trash tv that we never get to watch since we usually are forced to watch Frozen on loop or that bitch Peppa Pig with her annoying little accent. Bring on the trash-talking cat fights and Teen Mom reruns while I sit and stuff my face on the couch.
8. Take kid duty. On MW we want you to take the parenting reigns. Plan the activities, keep them occupied, get them dressed, bathed, fed and put them to bed. MW is our “time-off” so you’re in the driver seat. Having to not wipe one ass is quite possibly the best gift there has ever been given.
9. Let us pamper ourselves. A trip to the nail or hair salon is few and far between these days, so the ability to go spend a few hours at the hair salon and get those roots done that we have neglected for the past (oh I don’t know) 6 months, would be EVE.RY.THING!
10. Thank us. We know you appreciate us, we know you love us, but every once in a while it feels pretty effin awesome to hear your husband tell you how badass you are. So on MW tell that pretty momma of yours just how fan-effin-tastic she is. Smother her in compliments and make sure you let her know that her hard work does NOT go unnoticed because at the end of the day all anyone really wants is to be appreciated. And an entire weekend spent being complimented on how dope of a mom you are is a pretty dope weekend.

So Happy Mother’s Weekend to all my fierce mommas. I know this job is far from easy. We work for tiny little tyrants and get paid jack shit but the good days always out weigh the bad and the rewards make it all worth it. So enjoy your weekend, you have definitely earned it!

And don’t worry there is only 363 more days till the next Mothers Weekend.

Crying in the Cart

Two is the age that everybody warns you about and you sort of nod your head and think “that won’t be my sweet little darling” until the day comes and right before your very eyes your innocent princess turns into a little a-hole. Yes, I just called my kid an a-hole because honestly 50% of the time these days thats exactly what she acts like. Two is an evil age that sucks the very being out of your child and makes them act like they have been possessed.

Case in point, the other day I went to the grocery store with Em and she happened to see one of those massive carts with the car attached to the front. You the know the ones… they have the tiny ass cart attached and no room for groceries because the car is so effing huge. And navigating them around a grocery store is near impossible so you end up knocking shit off the shelves left and right. Evidently a man designed that thing, you know, “the bigger, the better!” Well she saw one. And then just as quickly as she saw it a lady and her son grabbed it. I immediately did a happy dance in my head for dodging the “car cart” shopping trip but my happiness faded seconds later when I realized I was dealing with a stage 5 meltdown.

Now, I debated leaving but we were out of milk… and ice cream so it was necessity. I pulled out all of my tricks, lollipops, the iPad, I said I would get her something “reaaaaaaaally cool” from the grocery store if she stopped crying but she was still pissed. I started to try and put her in the regular old cart at this point and she went completely straight leg on me. It was like trying to work a jackhammer. Moms are walking by and giving me the “your kid is terrible” look and then moms (with a-hole toddlers too) are giving me the “been there done that” look.. I finally got her into the cart and at this point I am sweating… its 32 degrees out and I was stripping in front of the Harris Teeter.

We start walking in and she sees those effing gumball machines with toys inside them and starts screaming that she “NEEDS ONE” I know I’m not supposed to cave to this behavior but I really just wanted to get into the damn store at this point so I start digging in my purse. I was struggling to find a quarter when a man handed me one. How sweet huh? He must’ve witnessed “cart-gate” and felt sorry for me.  I let her pick and we got the toy and life was good again. I even managed to make it halfway through the store without any more incidents until it happened … we ran into the damn “Car Cart” and just like that all of the trauma came rushing back to her. She screamed the rest of  the time until I got her back into the car and then like magic she was fine. The “car cart” brings out the evil in my child.

I’ve decided that in the future when I go grocery shopping, I am going to bring lots of quarters…

and a blind fold!

Zip it

I’m fairly confident that Em is on the hunt for new parents. It’s not that I think she doesn’t love us but based on her desperate need to make me look like a terribly inept mother I am convinced she is just trying to have CPS come and take her ass away to a home that has more kids, a mom that cooks better or just is generally more fun.

It’s no secret that Emmie suffers from some pretty hardcore constipation issues. Well when your daughter gets clogged up more often than the men’s restroom at Ben’s Chili Bowl you start to acquire a certain set of skills. A set of skills that make me a nightmare for stubborn poo like the kind that loves to inhabit my daughters bottom (somehow that just doesnt work the same way it did for Liam Neemson). Anyway, me being the amazing mom that I am, I often have to roll up my sleeves and go where no mom should ever have to go… you know “the darkside”. I’m talking enemas people. It’s not uncommon for a poo to get stuck and my girl to be in such pain that I “mom up” and do what all glamorous housewives do, I get that shit out. See what I did there?

Well last week, we were dealing with a particularly “BIG ONE” as Em referred to it and I did what I had to, to continue my reign as fanciest mom ever. That night when Bobby got home from work she promptly told him all about the days activities —

Bobby: “Hi Baby, how was your day?”
Emmie: “Momma got the poo poo out!”
Bobby: “Oh, that’s nice.”

Fast-forward a few days and Em was still fixated on my epic retrieval. As we were checking out at the Harris Teeter she decided that it was the perfect time to tell our local grocer all about my special skills. “Momma got the poo poo out! My momma got the poo poo out! It was a BIG ONE!” The look of disgust on the poor boys face was priceless as he tried to figure out why those words would ever need to be spoken by a person. I laughed nervously and tried to mumble something about how kids have the wildest imaginations but I know he knew I was full of shit (pun intended) and just some big weirdo who must be infatuated with my kids crap. I made a mental note of what he looked like so as to never go to that register again. Or at least a few weeks, until the shame of this ordeal had passed and perhaps he had forgotten what we looked like. Although that is unlikely.

Just as I was recovering from Poogate, this past Monday as I was rushing to get Emmie out the door so we could make it to an appointment on time (HAH! “on time”). I accidentally hit her in the face with my arm as I was putting her coat on. She was fine and she she didnt cry so I looked at her and said “I’m sorry honey. Mommy didnt mean to hit you. That was an accident.” She said “ok” and I told her she was so “strong and brave”. All was well with the world and we moved on. Or so I thought.

Once we got to my doctor’s office to check in the receptionist started telling Em how adorable she was and asking her some questions. I immediately braced myself for anything because these days Emmie is a walking “Kids say the darndest things” episode. The lady asked her how old she was and what was her name. And before I knew what happened Emmie looked straight at her and said “My mommy hit me!” I looked up and the receptionist was staring straight at me like THROUGH MY SOUL… I was horrified. I immediately started to explain the story and I kept saying things like “right Emmie?” “Isn’t that what happened?” The guilt was written all over my face and I was sure that she was dialing 911 under the table. Hoping that Emmie would corroborate my story I started to laugh nervously and feed Emmie some different lines about how “mommy didnt’t REALLY hit her.”  But Emmie stood silent…. until she wasn’t silent. Because then she said it again “Mommy hit me in my face, but I not cry. I brave!”

After the worlds most awkward doctor’s appointment we made it home and surprisingly CPS was not waiting for me as I pulled into the driveway. I decided it was probably time to explain to Emerson that sometimes we don’t repeat EVERYTHING momma says because sometimes it can come out differently then what we mean to say. 

Then we also talked about how perhaps MOMMY was really the brave one that day … you know for continuing to take her out in public.

Hats Off

A few weeks ago while I was putting away some of Emmie’s Christmas gifts in her closet (ok so I procrastinated so what!) she noticed one of her Summer hats. This wasn’t a NEW hat. It wasn’t anything particularly ornate but for some reason or another it struck her fancy and she popped it on her head. A few hours later as we were getting ready to go outside and play I asked her if she wanted to leave the hat inside, you know to keep it “safe”. She replied in a very matter of factly “NOOOO!” and that was that.

Fast forward a few weeks and the hat is still here. She went 4 straight weeks in that damn hat. We slept in it. We bathed in it. We jumped it in. We ate in it. What began as a fedora transformed into a bit of a bowler. The hat had taken on an entirely different shape.

Just so you can fully grasp the severity of the situation here are some pictures as proof of the obsession:

   
    
    
    
    
  
I have tried on a number of occasions to swap the original hat out for a newer more constructed one but eventually the ole’ “Cowboy Hat” (as she refers to it) comes poppin’ back out. A couple of times she has been in the middle of doing something, stopped dead in her tracks, reached up and felt her head and screamed “MYYYYYY HAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT??????” The sheer terror in her voice tells me this is not a joke and regardless of what I am doing…. cooking dinner; showering; going to the bathroom…. I must retrieve said hat.

When the evil Snowzilla reared her head the hat briefly took a break and an Elsa dress appeared in it’s place. Not sure which one I preferred. The dress was pretty disgusting by day 3 and she refused to give me a moment to wash it. So I honestly was a bit relieved when on day 6 the trusty hat made its way back into the daily mix.

I’m fairly certain she will be wearing this hat when she starts Pre-K next year (waaaaaaah!) and when she celebrates her 3rd Birthday in November. And its even quite possible that it makes it all the way to Christmas.

That is unless that ole’ cowboy hat just happens to “accidentally” get stuffed faaaar back into the closet somewhere. But then let’s hope that bitch Elsa doesn’t show back up.

Just Snow Away!

So here’s the deal… I actually really like snow, or did. I was totally amped up when my “weather freak” husband was running around this house last week shouting out things like “Blizzard” and “record-breaking snowfall amounts” I even got gitty at one point. But now, well now those words are evil. We are on day FIVE of what is being referred to as Snowzilla and rightfully so. That bastard rolled into town Friday night and ripped every shred of independence and freedom I had. Our streets have yet to be plowed. Well except for the one pass through we got because Bobby had someone from his work come out and attempt to free us. It didn’t work. I’m still here.

If this was 3 years ago I probably would be relishing in the fact I was trapped in my house and couldn’t do anything or go anywhere. No responsibilities, WOOHOOO!  Well, shit is a lot different these days and I have one very active responsibility. Being snowed in with a toddler is a lot like watching a pinball machine. That thing shoots up and bounces around, dinging off of everything in its path until finally it just crashes to the bottom until you reload it and it starts all over again. Well five days of pinball and I’m officially done. I need out. I need civilization. For God’s sake I need Target. I feel like I have been buried alive in this house.

I’ve tried everything I possibly can to keep Em entertained. We’ve baked, we’ve played dress-up, we’ve watched Frozen (698 times), we’ve done crafts; we’ve gone in the evil snow everyday (twice a day – sometimes more), we’ve made snow ice cream. I legit don’t have anymore fun in me. Things got so bad inside that I actually opted to go shovel mass amounts of snow yesterday versus being inside with Emmie. My back was breaking but I could hear the chaos from the window and I just kept telling myself “you can do this, this is easier!” Bobby kept coming out to tell me that I didn’t have to do that much and I could come in, but I’m no fool, I knew he just wanted me to relieve him of “pinball” duty.

Now there was some talk of another possible snow storm this weekend and I don’t want to be dramatic but if that happens I may just have to hitch a ride with a snow plow (if they ever come) and fly to someplace tropical. Sorry Emmie, mommy will write.

 

All I Want for Christmas

Ahhhhh, the holidays. The most wonderful time of the year. Time to relax and push the craziness of the usual work week aside and enjoy some downtime. Or in my house a time for last minute shopping, week of Christmas sicknesses and just general utter chaos. In typical Holupka fashion we have been spending the last few days running around like lunatics while Emmie pukes on stuff. Just making things Merry over here y’all!

Aside from sanitizing everything besides the Christmas tree. I know that buying gifts is sometimes the hardest part about the holidays. So in an effort to help anyone who still needs to purchase a gift for a mom in their life I have come up with a little list of my own 5 things that I think all moms would personally much prefer on Christmas morning. So chuck those slippers and listen up men…

1.) ALONE TIME –  I’m not even suggesting an expensive spa package or hotel suite (but that sounds effin amazing), a simple trip to the bathroom without an audience would honestly make my entire month. I can’t remember the last time I pissed in private or didn’t go running down the hall with my pants around my ankles because I heard the always terrifying “one, twooooooo, thr-”  Meanwhile all Bobby has to do is say “I can’t watch her right now, I gotta go to the baaaaaaaathroom” and he hides for 3 hours in the basement. So basically just coupons for bathroom breaks would be a huge gift win. Check.

2.) TV CONTROL –  As a toddler mom I have to endure some pretty shitty TV on a daily basis. All day long I listen to Mickey Mouse, Peppa Pig, the Bubble Guppies, and the list goes on. Now I love English accents as much as the next guy but I am fairly certain Peppa Pig was put on this Earth to torture the souls of parents everywhere.  And now I am stuck listening to that little heffer until my ears bleed. Gone are the days I could turn on the ole’ boob tube and watch any thing I wanted. I now have think about the well being of my child before I pop on some godforsaken trashy show. So for Christmas I would love to be able to watch endless amounts of KUWTK, Vanderpump Rules, Teen Mom and any other ridiculous television show that I have no business watching around my kid, whilst someone else (I’m looking at you hubby) makes sure she doesn’t hear any of the nonsense I am thoroughly enjoying.

3.) SLEEP IN – This is a biggie. Especially if your kid is no longer in a crib. Oh the crib, the binding, crib. How I miss thee. Now I will roll over and BAM! There’s a tiny human staring at me at 6:45AM. And then all of the sudden she’s climbing into my bed…. “Mommy, watch Peppa Pig?” Oh yes, please because the only thing better than being up before 7AM is being up and listening to that little twit. I would be very thankful if my Christmas gift included a few extras hours of sleep while little Miss Up Early Em watched Punkass Pig downstairs. So add that to the list Santa. SLEEEEPPPPPP!

4.) NO JUDGEMENT – this could cover a lot of areas but my “NO JUDGEMENT” gift is mainly for appearance. An amazing gift would be if you didn’t judge the fact that I have not changed my clothes or showered all day.  So what if I am still wearing the same clothes I was in when you left for work this morning. And maybe that IS ketchup on my shirt. Big Whoop. Some days, I just try and survive and if I haven’t managed to change my clothes or shower you can bet your ass this is one of them. Soooo it’s probably in your best interest to pretend like you don’t even notice I look like I’m homeless and you find something random to compliment me on. Ignore or adore husband you have two options. Judgement free days would be an amazing gift for the mom who does it all.

5.) FUN PARENT – In every successful family there is a good cop and there is a bad cop. The good cop is the fun parent that swoops in just in time for candy and ice cream and tickle parties. They get to do the fun stuff like play outside even when the bad cop says its too cold or its almost time for dinner. They let her lay in your bed to go to sleep even though they know its setting the entire switch to a big girl bed back 10 steps. They are the hero. They always win.  Then there is ME. The bad cop. The one who lays the law down and gives medicine and enemas and tells her that she cannot have skittles for dinner or pull on the cat’s ears.  I am not the hero, I am the bad cop. I am “MEEM”. Well for Christmas I want to get to be the good cop, at least for a day. I want to know what it’s like to be the fun one. But more importantly I want YOU to know what its like to be the “MEEM ONE”. Feel that burn just once in your life.

And there you have it. Easy gifts that don’t require any shopping at all but I guarantee that the mom in your life will like them a hell of a lot better than anything you can buy for her. Because sanity, well you cant put a price on that.

Although, I would be willing to put big bucks down if anyone was into taking down that bitch Peppa Pig.

Buggin’ Out

So last week we got hit pretty hard in our house with a vicious stomach bug. Everyone got it. EVERY.ONE! It did not discriminate. Emmie brought it into our home last Saturday (kids and their damn germs). It was actually her first time being REALLY sick and it was just as sad and upsetting as I thought it was going to be. She woke up at 5 in the morning gagging and I ran in to see what was happening when all of a sudden she started vomiting like the exorcist. I changed her and brought her into the bed with Bobby and I and where she then proceeded to taint our bed for the next hour or so. I had my sister’s Baby Shower that day so Bobby was on his own. I hated leaving my sick baby and Bobby looked pretty nervous about it all too but I figured he had it covered. He was awesome and took great care of her. The next day (after 14 barfs later) she was back to her crazy self.

  
Tuesday was Bobby’s birthday, Emmie and I had lots planned and we were super excited for a fun night celebrating him. I rolled over in the morning and looked at my clock to see that it was almost 7:00AM. Bobby was still sleeping and I jumped up to tell him he was late. He moaned something about not feeling good and how he couldn’t get up. Victim #2 had been hit. Happy Birthday Bobby! All day he was miserable, confined to the bed and unable to eat. What a terrible birthday. It took almost three days for him to finally start feeling better.

On Wednesday my mom called me and said that she was sick too and that my dad was at work and he was getting sick but wouldn’t leave work (he’s kind of a tough ass). Victims #3 & 4. Their’s lasted until Friday.

Thursday night I started feeling really nauseous and I just knew that my time was coming. I had tried everything to avoid it but it was inevitable. I lysol’ed the eff outta the house, I incessantly washed my hands, and I was popping Air Borne like they were candy. But lo and behold that germy little leech of mine had managed to get me after all. And now I was down for the count with no one to help. Victim # 5 had been struck. Friday I woke up so tired and weak that Bobby came home from work to help me (awwwwwwww!) and then my amazing in-laws took Em overnight Friday and Saturday.

While Bobby and I were watching a movie on one of those “kid-free” nights enjoying some R&R we heard a really strange noise and looked over to see Ginger puking EVERYWHERE!!!! And then sitting in it.

And there’s your Victim # 6!

I’ll blog right back

So I guess this is the part where I shamelessly admit I am the worst blogger in the history of bloggers. I think the proper way to do it goes a little something like this… “Hi my name is Annie, and its been 2 months since my last post.”

Yep, TWO effing months. I’d love to have a really great excuse for my lack of posts like my work, my child, I’m tired, my cat won’t stop shitting on the floor, etc. And honestly that’s all true but then again I follow a blog of a woman who has 7 kids — SEVEN and she blogs every damn day. Talk about overachiever. So I guess I am just a slacker and a liar because I promised I would start posting once a week. Remember that? Yeah, me either….. WHOOPS!

But before you all go throwing your cyber stones at me, hear me out. In my blogging hiatus I have accumulated the Moby Dick of material for you. So in a way it was like a research project, if you will. I now have a shit-ton of stories and terrible fiascos to keep you entertained for months and months to come — Just as long as I can get my ass into gear and blogging.

For my first blog back, I will leave you with this little gem of a story … the other day as I was minding my own business watching Emmie like a responsible adult, I took a normal old thing and turned it into a teaching moment. Feel free to call me Mary Poppins.

Me: Emmie please don’t lick Ginger.

Emmie: I’m NOOOOT!

Me: I can see you. Don’t lick the cat. It’s weird and she doesn’t like it okay?

Emmie: Okay mommy. (starts pulling her hair)

Me: Emmie please don’t pull Ginger’s hair out.

Emmie: Hehehehh

Me: Okay, but I warned you… and I’m on Ginger’s side when this goes down.

Emmie: WHOA! Ginjor not happy!

Well ladies and gents…. I believe that’s what we call a LESSON LEARNED!

Enrollment for my Winter teaching seminar will be posted shortly …. but it’s on the same schedule as my blogging so don’t hold your breath.