I gotta go poo!

Here’s something annoying about being a mom:

I can’t ever poo when I have to.

I’m constantly having to suppress the urge to go because I have to feed Hudson, or supervise Berlyn while she plays outside.

The kids are happy, meanwhile, I’m sweating poo-bullets and all I keep thinking about is, Man, I shouldn’t have had that 4th cup of coffee, AND a bran muffin.

Remember that TV show with that chick who could stop time with her fingers?

That was bad ass.

I need to learn to do that.

Then I could poop when I wanted, and I wouldn’t have to take money from the kid’s college account to fund my colon cleanse.


Child Labor

Crap.

Who’s gonna clean this mess?

I’d ask Hudson to do it,

but he has like ZERO dexterity.

I’d ask Berlyn,

but she’s in a mood. And I’m kinda afraid of her.

Fine. Whatever.

I’ll do it.

But I don’t understand why pepole have kids,

if they don’t do your chores for you.

I’m super nice. Most of the time, except in the mornings, at night, and at select times in between.

I’m mostly always in a bad mood in the morning.

And at night.

And usually around 3:00 in the afternoon.

But I don’t think I’m a total bitch.

Just during those times.

Ohh, and also if I can’t find anything to wear.

Or if I’m hungry.

Okay, so basically I’m a bitch in the mornings, nights, around 3pm, when I’m naked in my closet, and we’re out of Doritos.

Just make sure you don’t run into me during those times.

Oh, and also when I’m pregnant.

Remember that?

I was an asshole.

But other than that I’m super nice.

The bad mood night and morning thing?

That’s because I’m sleepy. And I make it my number one priority that nothing gets in the way of me and my precious sleep. I am not one of those people who are like, ZOMG! I got like ZERO sleep last night, but I feel great because I just drank a 24oz can of Monster and 3 cups of coffee. AND not only do I feel great, but I’m super svelte because I took a massive leaky dump. Gotta love a good caffeine surge!

Those are the type of people I’d like whack with a lawn chair. Or a garden gnome.

The ones with the pointy cement hats.

I have to have at least 9 hours of sleep at night. And if I happen to get 10, I might give my husband a BJ. Just because I’m am so filled with joy.

But with a baby in the house, I’m lucky to get 5 consecutive hours of sleep. So instead of drinking energy drinks and stinking up the downstairs bathroom with my giant caffeinated poo, I’m tired, and cranky.

But don’t feel sorry for me.

Because I’m trying to soak up this precious time. As much as I loath waking up at 4 in the morning each day, I love that I get to snuggle with my baby.

I know that this time is fleeting, so I’m trying to enjoy it.

But it would be nice if my husband could lactate every once in a while so I can get a break.

**UPDATE**

I write about sleep a lot. Don’t I? What the hell? I need to write about something else.

Like carnies. Or bees, or flaming hot Cheetos.

What do you think I should write about?

Do you like that? I totally outsourced my creativity.

But, I need to. Because apparently I’m just writing about the same thing over and over.

So lemme hear some ideas…

Come on.

It will be fun.

5 down.

5.

It’s been 5 years.

5 years since this guy:

decided to married me:

and it’s worked out pretty well.

Hip hip horray for us.

5 down 70 more to go.

Happy anniversary Pat. I love you until the end.

My butt: A introspective study in pictures.

I’ll start this story in college, when my ass didn’t have a care in the world. My ass and I would go out and party late into the night. My ass was adorable, in a skinny bitch kind of way. It could have been an ass double for one of those Olsen Twins. But the down to earth one that didn’t have the bulimia and a coke addiction.

And then I got married. And I got happy-ass syndrome. You know?

When you’re so happy you get a little fat.

Mainly in the ass.

But just enough to where your husband thinks, oh, yeah, I’d like to back that thang up.

And you’re all, this thang?

And you point to your butt and try to do a sexy booty shake like you’ve seen in rap videos, but it comes off like you’re having some type of diarrhea convulsion, because you’re super-white with no ass shaking abilities whatsoever.

Well, all that convolutionary booty shakin’ paid off because after that, I got pregnant. And then I stopped working out, because I was almost positive that when I jogged, the baby was just going to fall out on the ground, and then I was going to trip over her, and sprain my ankle. So instead of risking a sprain, I started to eat enough marshmallows that my butt started to resemble a lumpy marshmallow.

mmm, marshmallow-yyy

(kinda looks like shredded wheat, I definitely wasn’t eating any of that)

Then I was done being pregnant, and I had developed a very severe case of I don’t take care of myself anymore, because I have a baby now, and if I stop mommy-ing for a while and do some yoga, my baby will miss me forever and forget who I am.

Plus, I developed a very strong addiction to M&Ms.

And as a result, my ass got even sadder.

And apparently, based on my drawing, it started to look like a boob.

I got pregnant again, and the cycle repeated itself, this time with way more marshmallows, M&Ms, and self-pity. So my ass did what any other self respecting ass would do in this type of situation:

It got bigger.

And now?

Now it looks like something that could give you nightmares.

Couple my pregnancies, and poor eating habits with my increasing age, and I’ve got a rump that no amount of Spanks, or dim lighting can rectifiy.

But I’m okay with that. Because my ass has always been there for me, It’s always given me a cozy place to sit, and my husband likes a lady with a little junk in her trunk. It’s like a badge of honor.

…Or it’s just plain scary, and I need to get off of it and do some damn pilates already.

Beckey’s awesome factoid #1

After my 4th cup of coffee this morning, my skin was buzzing, and it then occurred to me, I should give you, my dear reader, awesome factoids about me.

Because factoids are fun.

I donno.

Whatever.

I’m bored.

So, here you go:

I grew up in a brothel.

j/k

LOLz

Look at me, I’m so silly.

Actually, I grew up in a magical land called Chino.

What? You never heard of Chino?

Allow me to explain.

Chino is like Compton, but tougher.

I used to live next door to a gang member.

He’d invite my brother and me over, and then he would give us gang tattoos with a Bic pen.

He was so sweet.

Also, there is a very large penitentiary in Chino.

That’s where the really bad men go.

Chino has a swap meet where they sell tube socks, churros, and burro rides. I got a Snoopy piñata there one year for my 6th birthday and we filled with with Mexican candy.

¡Olé!

Chino is also a big dairy and agricultural city.

Meaning, lots of cows, chicken, and ostriches live there.

Every morning when I’d ride my bike to school, I’d be greeted with the sweet, sweet smell of cow poop.

It always smelled the strongest in the morning.

My step-sister was a part of the Future Farmers of America, or something like that, and she raised a steer.

His name was Babe. He was black and beautiful.

When he turned two, he was slaughtered…

…and then we ate him.

We put his remains in our freezer in the garage.

And for 6 months we had Babe hamburgers, Babe roast, and Babe steaks.

Babe was yummy.

Napping.

It’s all quiet in the house.

Berlyn is napping.

Hudson is napping.

Zoey is napping. Or contemplating a fart. Or eating the crotch of the underwear I wore yesterday. Well, whatever she’s doing, she quiet.

I think I’ll take a nap too.

But I have to sleep on the couch downstairs, because that’s where Hudson is sleeping. Except the couch downstairs isn’t as cozy as my bed. And it smells like dog farts. And there’s crusty breast milk on the arm rest. Don’t ask me how it got there. I don’t know.

I’ll bring my pillow and cozy duvet down.

That’s nice.

My eyes are closed. I should be sleeping by now.

Hudson hasn’t moved in a while, maybe I should make sure he’s breathing.

Yes.

*Carefully high five Hudson*

He’s alive.

Okay, now I’m going to sleep.

Here I go. Deep breath, aaand start sleeping, NOW!

Ohh, I have an itch on my shin. Better get that or else it will bug me.

**Scratch, Scratch**

Now my cheek itches.

**Scratch, Scratch**

Okay, I’m seriously tired. **YAWN** I’m going to fall asleep now. Here I go…

Oooh, the sun’s in my eyes. I’d better close the shutters.

My boob itches

*Scratch, Scratch**

Maybe I should take off my watch, I’d be more comfortable with my watch off.

There, that’s better.

Is my phone turned on vibrate?

I would hate it if someone called me right  now.

I better check.

Oooh, I got some emails.

This one is from Rachel Zoe. She’s suggesting I buy some Chloe gladiator sandals.

I’ll think about that, Rachel Zoe.

I’m thirsty.

No, wait…I have to pee.

I’d better pee, or else I’ll never fall asleep.

**Bathroom break**

Ahh, that’s better. Now that I’m all cozy on the stinky couch, it’s time to sleep.

**YAWN. STRETCH**

Crap.

Hudson’s awake. I have to feed him.

Well, that was a nice nap.

A nice, relaxing stroll

So, there really ARE mountain lions in the hills behind our home.

And it turns out that my crazy neighbor is actually telling the truth.

Trusted people that I know have seen this lion with their own two eyes. And there was even a fleet of helicopters here last week trying to capture the animal.

Well, they failed.

Which means if I ever want to leave my house again, I’ll have to come up with a line of defense to protect myself and my babies.

I’ll need a blow torch, because animals are afraid of fire.

A mask, in case it malls my face.

A rape whistle, to call for help

A tranquilizer gun

And a bullet proof vest, incase I accidentally drop my tranquilizer gun, and the lion tries to use it on me.

A piece of chicken fat so I can throw it and then run in the opposite direction.

And some really fast shoes.

That should do it.

Anyone wanna go on a walk with me?

mountain lions in this neighborhood? Not only is that absurd, but highly improbable.

When we moved here we learned some interesting stuff via our crazy neighbor. Namely, the wild animal sightings.

She was all, “Be careful with your dog and children playing in your front yard because there are coyotes, and mountain lions.” And then she paused for dramatic effect, gave me the creepy eye, and I’m almost positive she growled like a lion.

And I was all, “Okay lady. Whatever. I’m good. I know all about werewolves because I’m up to date on my Twilight novels.”

No, not werewolves, coyotes and mountain lions.

Yeah, yeah. Whatevs.

No, I don’t think you heard me, they will snatch your baby right out of your arms and rip his head off, and when they’re done dismembering your tiny newborn, they’ll eat your idiotic pug whole, and then they’ll take a steamy dump on your porch. And bits of your family will be in the poo, and because you’re so beside yourself with horror, you’ll probably dig in the shit to piece everyone back together. And you’ll lift your poo stained hands to the sky and scream, ‘WHY??!’ And I’ll be looking through my front window, and chide quietly to myself, ‘told you so.’

You’re kinda crazy, aren’t you?

Mountain Lions!

Okay, Crazy. I’m going inside now.

And then I googled mountain lions, because in my mind they looked like this:

And they don’t look like it could rip my head off, and then take a spiteful dump on my porch.

But after a quick google search, I realized that mountain lions actually look like this:

But let’s be honest, crazy neighbor lady, we live in a concrete jungle of sprawling suburbia. There aren’t any mountain lions. There are rats, and crows, and the occasional abandoned Chihuahua, but mountain lions?

I don’t think so.

Little Miss Judgy Know-it all

I think I know everything about being a mommy.

And it took me going to 4 baby showers since Hudson was born to realize that I don’t.

Because ordinary, at baby showers, I’d be all, “Listen to me. I’m really smart, and I know all about this crap. And if you do it differently than me, not only are you weird, but you’re wrong.”

I’d find a way to turn the gift I got the new mommy into a 21-step tutorial.  I’d say, “Here is how it works, and if you don’t execute it precisely as I’ve instructed, your baby will probably die. Here, I even laminated this card for you.”

And while I’d be showing a new mommy  how to properly diaper a baby, some other mom would be all, “Yea, that way is cool and all, but try this instead. And BAM, my thunder  would be stolen, AND she would actually do it faster and better. Because she’d make her own wipes out of organic cotton pledgets saturated in rosewater, which hazel, and tea tree oil, from a tea tree that she grew in her back yard. And instead of me being nice and saying stuff like, OMG! You’re so creative and at one with the earth, I’d get all judgy, and feel threatened, and think she’s a giant whore-bag, and all I’d want to do is kick that mom in the vagina for showing me up, because who does she think she is? I bet her diaper wipe concoction has made it’s way to her kids’ brain through their anus and now they’re crazed-psychopaths.

But something lately has switched in me. I’ve learned that my way isn’t always the best way, and *GASP* other people can do it differently, and everything will be okay in the end.

With the birth of Hudson, I’ve learned to trust my inner mommy more. I’ve leaned less on books, and more on what I think is best.

Maybe I lacked confidence before, and that’s why I was so judgy and got so threatened when other moms did it different than me. But now I really don’t care if my friend wants to exclusively bottle feed her newborn, or that my neighbor is planning on potty training her 13 month old, or that my other friend lets her son sleep in the swing all day long. Because it really. doesn’t. matter. We’re all in this together, and instead of being a raunchy bitch, it’s so much nicer to be supportive.

Can I get a kumbaya?

I just do what works for us, and I’m completely fine with telling other judgy moms to F-off. But after that I’d offer them a compassionate hug, and tell them I was once a judgy know-it-all too.