Recently I've been feeling an urge to eat my children, so I figured I should write about my love for them before I actually take a bite out of their soft little arms.
I don't know what it is about extreme love that makes us want to place our chompers on new baby skin, but we do. We all do. Right? We take little nibbles of their toes and cheeks. We bury our faces in their hair and take long deep inhalations, hoping to capture that smell and memory for all of eternity.
Have you ever repeated a word so many times that it starts to sound strange and no longer feels like a real word? Well, that's how I feel about the word "why." Why, you ask? Because my son says it ten thousand times a day. Why? Because he's two and a half. This is what our conversations look like:
Cole: Why does that truck have a door, Mommy?
Me: So that the driver can get in and out of the truck.
Cole: Why?
Me: Because he can't live in the truck. He needs to get out sometimes.
Thanks for stopping by to check out the first installment of Rants In My Pants.
With these weekly rants, I'll be spouting off random shit that keeps me awake at night, but instead of writing about it, I'll be doing it in video form (it's good incentive for me to shower. And put on mascara...).
As an only child, I've always been fascinated with something I know nothing about from firsthand experience—sibling relationships. Any of my elementary school friends can attest to the fact that I was a very inquisitive (to the point of being annoying) only child. "What's it like to have a sister? Do you two share clothes? What is herfavouritecolour?
As you may or may not know, my mom lives with us and is the primary caregiver for our kids when we are at work. And guess what? It's awesome. It's a dream come true, for all of us. My mom is my best friend, and she's truly the easiest person in the world to get along with. In fact, my husband said the other day, "I think you annoy me more than your mom ever does." Ha. I wasn't even offended, because it's true.
I love breastfeeding. I do. I love it. It's been easy (thankfully), it's economical (woo-hoo), and for me it's been a great bonding experience.
What I don't love is how my breasts have turned into shrivelled little ballsacks, but oh well, I'll deal with those later. And by "deal with those," I mean place them on top of expensive water-filled bras. Or fold them into origami shaped swans. Either or.
When people find out I've done stand-up comedy, nine times out of ten they say, "Holy shit balls mother fucker I could never do that in my life! That's my worst fear!" (Usually they don't swear, but I'm having 1/2 a glass of wine as I write this and am feeling like a badass.)
Recently, one of my best friends had her first baby and she said to me, "I'm sorry I was such a jerk when you had Cole. I had no idea..."
This heartfelt confession nearly brought tears to my eyes. I wasn't expecting her to say that, and I wasn't expecting to feel relieved when she said it. But I was. It felt really nice to have someone so close to me finally understand how I had been feeling for the past two and a half years. It was so nice to finally share stories and experiences with someone I love like a sister.
A lot of people have been talking about free-range parenting these days, even here on YMC, so I'm going to jump on the bandwagon because I'm a Leo and I hate to miss a good party! (Though, to be honest, I haven't been to a party that's free of diapers and sippy cups in a very long time. That's for another post...)
I'm a picker. I always have been, always will be. Some people think it's disgusting and gasp at the thought of doing it, but most people I know are closet pickers. They don't want to admit it, but they get the same level of satisfaction as I do out of a great pick.
Everyone thinks her child is special (and yes, every child is special). Many parents think that their child is "advanced." They think their child is oh-so-freaking-perfect. And then that oh-so-freaking-perfect child becomes a TODDLER. And that's when the said perfect child stops shitting rainbows, and instead...paints the walls with their own shit and says, "Hey look! A rainbow!"
One of my dearest friends just had her second baby. She messaged me desperately saying, "Mayday, mayday, I need your advice! How was Cole with the new baby? I'm pretty sure my toddler hates me! Message me back, or better yet—write a blog post on the topic!"
Hello, my name is Jen and I'm the mother of a two-year-old who is addicted to trucks.
He eats, sleeps, and dreams about trucks. Excavators, backhoes, front end loaders. He knows all the names, and all of their parts. Shanks, stabilizers, and blades.
At bedtime, I draw pictures of various trucks on his back to help him fall asleep. I get in trouble if I accidentally draw wheels instead of tracks. I can never remember which truck has which, but he sure does.
You're probably reading this with 3 hours of broken sleep under your belt and eyelids so heavy it feels like they're full of cement.
You're frantically drinking your eighth cup of coffee while shushing your newborn hoping that I'll get to the point, stop rambling, and offer you the magical sleep advice you're so desperately looking for.
I totally understand. I've been there, and I still sort of am there.
Everyone, it seems, is obsessed with pregnancy. There are ten thousand kazillion websites (that's an accurate number) on the subject matter alone. When you're pregnant, everyone wants to talk about your pregnancy and touch your belly, while offering you unsolicited advice. When celebs are pregnant, we trash talk their wardrobe choices and analyze their bodies under a microscope (which enrages me).
NOTE: As I write this blog post, I have a sweaty six-week-old baby sleeping on my chest as I sit reclined awkwardly in my computer chair.
The past six weeks since Maeve was born have been hectic and awesome. I rarely get dressed before 2pm, and I don't remember the last time I wore my hair down. Bras are optional these days, and I maintain my hygiene by bathing with my kids. Glamorous, I know.
It's week five, and we have officially entered the ugly phase of infancy. My doting mother denies this, "No no, she's beautiful!" I can't tell if she's a compulsive liar or if she's just looking at my daughter through her "Nana goggles," but I'll be the first to admit it: Maeve is going through the ugly newborn phase. Cole went through it, and so do most babies.
When I first found out I was pregnant with our second child, my first feeling was one of excitement and pure joy, shortly followed by a genetic emotion in my family—guilt.
