HIPPO BRIGADE

THREE!

In between all the snuggles, the walks to the park, the cupcakes covered in sprinkles, the time-outs, the explorations, and the princess dresses, you turned three, and I guess that means you’re not my baby girl any more.

I am astonished sometimes when I glance over at you and think, who is this little girl, and what did she do with my baby?

Your birthdays have always had a way of making me pause and reflect on your life. I remember the day you were born, there was so much chaos and drama that surrounded your arrival, but the minute I touched you for the first time, it was as if the whole world said, hush.

You instantly calmed me, when I was supposed to be the one calming you.

I can’t imagine a single day without your sunny face in it. You are a joy and blessing to my life. I love your personality,  your rhythm, your cadence, and your heart.

You constantally make me laugh. And you’re so concerned on whether or not I’m a ‘happy girl’, and if I’m not a ‘happy girl’ you will do everything in your power to make me smile.

You love adventure and exploring new places.

You have an amazing sence of style,

And you will argue that you can never have too much purple.

You are unique.

You are truly a gift and I wish you a very happy birthday.

I love you with everything in me,

Love,

Mama

It could be worse, at least I’m not resistant to learning about bears or kung-fu, or something equally as important and/or relevant to my life.

My husband’s mad at me because I don’t want to learn how to use our kids’ car seats.

All I need to know is how to stick the nuggets in the seat and buckle them in, and BOOM that’s the end of my knowledge.

Everything else is my husband’s business.

But he insists I learn how to reajust the straps and be able to take the cover off when it needs to be washed, and blah, blah. My eyes start to glaze over and I tell him, I’m just a housewife that can’t be bothered with complicated information. I need to focus on my pot roast recipie and laundry.

He’s good at buckles and stuff anyways. Why would I want to deprive him of feeling good about himself? I can imagine the overwhelming pride and sense of accomplishment he must feel when he accurately adjusts the straps, and the mastery of making sure his babies are all buckled in safely. I would never want to take that away from him.

Besides, that kind of stuff makes me go all wonky.

I have no patience for it.

I was at the mall today and had to call my husband because I couldn’t attach the car seat to my stroller.

Yesterday I had to call him because I couldn’t figure out how to take the car seat out of the car.

I’m not an idiot, I’m just a good wife.

Good, because I make my husband feel needed when I call him.

Yes. Okay so maybe he’s on the other line with an important business-type person and he has to hang up with Mr. Business because I’ve called 6 times in a row and he thinks that maybe one of our babies was stolen, or I’m stranded on the highway, but imagine his happiness when I explain that everyone is okay and I just need him to tell me how to work our baby gear.

See?

Now, that’s what I call a loving wife.

Wanted: a Sassy, Snarky, Silly Side Kick

I just realized that I don’t have a cheeky side kick.

I need one of those.

He’d have to be a petite gay man who wears a ity bittly Gucci backpack. His backpack would be filled with fruit flavored gum, a Swarovski encrusted cell phone with matching hand mirror, and Lactaid, because he loves frozen yogurt, but it gives him wreched  gas…just like me. OMG! We were meant for each other.

He needs to be able to say out loud what I am thinking silently in my brain.

Like being in line at the bank for instance, because I’m always in line at the bank. Actually I was just thinking, “Gosh, when am I NOT in line at the bank, sheesh and frick almighty. I have so much cash that always needs to be banked!”

Banked?

So, when I’m in like at the bank making a deposit and the teller has an eye patch, and I’m thinking, clearly she’s a pirate. My cheeky side kick will say something like, ” Now, are you going to bury that treasure or just put it in the vault?”

And then the teller will give us a dirty look with her one good eye, and try to throw pens at us as we leave, but her peripheral vision is compromised, so she’ll miss and end up throwing pens at a paraplegic nun and a bunch of babies. Then we’ll giggle like a couple school girls, give each other a hi-five, and then go get some fro-yo with sprinkles, on our way to HELL.

That would be so much fun.

I need someone like that in my life.

His name could be something random like Tulie, and he’d always borrow my scarfs and skinny jeans, and of course, he’d look better in them than me. And the only rule would be that he’s  super not allowed to have a tiny dog. Because I already have Zoey, and she’s the queen bitch around here. Plus I don’t get the whole dogs as accessories that wear sweaters and ride around in strollers thing, and neither does Tulie. Instead we’d make fun of those people and then, just to see what all the fuss was about, we’d walk Zoey in my stroller.

And we’d realize that it’s kind of fun.

Yeah, I totally need someone like that in my life.

Is there some sort of website-type service for finding me my snarky side kick?

If not there needs to be.

YES!. That’s my million dollar idea.

sidekickforbeckeyandanyoneelsewhoneedsone.com

Hands off, it’s my idea. Go get your own.

Nobody talk to me, I’m an idiot.

I tried to have a conversation the other day.

You know, like with words and stuff.

It didn’t go so well.

Its like I’m forgetting how to communicate.

“So, Beckey now that you’re a mom of two, how do you feel?”

“You’re right. I do have two kids. It’s like I have a pair of kids! How cute is that? Speaking of pairs, did I ever tell you about my purple socks I got for Christmas?”

“No.”

“I think my Grandma got them for me. She usually just gives me a rolled up five dollar bill in a secret hand shake. And I’m pretty sure that before it goes into my hand, it was in her bra because it’s always warm and dewy, and smells like Gold Bond. So anyways, she got me these royal purple fuzzy socks, and every time I wear them I feel like royalty. But not all of me feels royal. Just my feet. And ankles. Maybe because the color itself implies royalty, or maybe it’s because they are so plush and wonderful that every time I take a step it feels like I’m crushing commoners. I think everyone deserves to feel like royalty, sometimes. Don’t you agree?”

“Ummm, sure. But I don’t think you answered my question.”

“Wait, but didn’t you ask me about what makes me feel special? I thought about bedazzling my cooter to feel special, like Jennifer Love Hewitt, but that would require me to visit the waxer, and I’m never going back there. I told you what they did to me, right?”

“Um…Beckey. I asked you about being a mother.”

“That’s weird, because I have no recollection of that. Cheeto?”

“No thanks.”

See? I have a problem with human interaction.

I blame the baby.

He’s waking me up at night, and good gravy, he’s a month old now, can’t he sleep through the night already?

It’s like he doesn’t even care that when asked a serious question I start to talk about socks, or transforming my vajango into a fancy display of jewels.

He’s so inconsiderate.

Leave a Message and I’ll Call You Back

When you call my phone, a small-boned, 12 year-old, pre-pubescent, and sexually confused boy leaves the outgoing message. He’s all, “Hi! You’ve reached Beckey’s cell. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you right back!”

But Beckey, you don’t know any 12 year-old, pre-pubescent, and sexually confused boys.

Damn. You’re right.

Alright fine, it’s not a 12 year-old boy. It’s me.

I should really change it. But the thing is, I never ever ever hear it.

But I know it’s there, lurking on my phone and embarrassing me behind my back.

And I always send people to voicemail. Because I’m a bitch like that.

It’s like I’m inviting them to make fun of me.

It’s like I’m saying, “Hey, wanna hear something strange and a little disturbing, and it might make you look at me weird from now on? Then don’t hang up because here it comes, BAM!”

And then they hear my voice, and they think, Wait, who did I call? Is Beckey doing some strange impersonation? If so, I don’t get it. Why am I friends with her again? This chick’s lame. I’m gonna call someone way more awesomer. And then you hang up. and never ever talk to me again.

Rats.

I’m loosing friends.

But, I’m waiting for the right time to change it.

I’m waiting for laryngitis. I want to get all raspy first. But the thing about laryngitis is I’ll be too busy laying around hacking up mucus balls and watching daytime court-TV that I’ll forget to change my outgoing message.

Honestly I’m just waiting for a robot to do it.

“Hel-lo. This. Is. Bec-key.”

Who leaves voicemails anyways?

Apart from your mom?

Just text me, and we can avoid this whole embarrassing situation.

UPDATE:

I now have a robot on my outgoing message. His name is Fred and he says beep bop boop. You’re free to call me now.

You can thank me when you leave a message.

Biscuits on the Brain

I’m trying to concentrate on writing an inspiring and fascinating blog post, but how am I supposed to think straight when there are biscuits in the fridge? You know the biscuits I’m talking about, the ones that come in a tube that scare the shit out of you when you unwrap them, and you scream like an 8 year-old girl and drop your biscuits on the floor. And you think, BALLS! My biscuits are on the floor. But you’re crazy for those biscuits, like a rabid biscuit junkie, and you want the buttery processed goodness to go in your mouth immediately. So you dust off the dog hair, coffee grounds, and dried onion skins, but the dough is all sticky so dusting them off really just means rubbing it all in, and then you pop those suckers in the oven. Yeah, those are the biscuits I’m talking about. And I can’t get anything done with biscuits on the brain.

The bummer about them is that I only want like 2 or 3 as a snacky snack, but once that tube is open I have to bake them all, and then I end up eating all of them.

What? Don’t look at me like that.

So right now, part of me wants to bake them all, eat a few, and save the rest of them for when I get snacky later, but the other part knows that they won’t save well, and then I’ll get stuck eating stale and inflated biscuits, but I’ll still eat them because I have very low standards when it comes to food, which may explain why I’m eating biscuits that come from a tube in the first place.

Okay, I have the solution. I’m going to bake my biscuits, and a few of you guys can come over and I’ll share them with you. And if you don’t come over, I’ll take it as a sign that I should just eat them all myself.

Deal?

Breastfeeding Ain’t for Sissies

My life has been reduced to a tiny man attached to my boob. All the time.

No, really.

And I read somewhere, probably in one of Dr. Sears’ books, which I can’t stop buying, by the way, because Dr. Sears is a baby doctor, and he writes lots of books about babies, and somehow that makes him a supreme authority. Like if my kid all of a sudden caught on fire, I’d stop, pick up the massive “Baby Book” by Dr. Sears, turn to Chapter 46, and find out what I’m supposed to do. I’m sure he has a lot to say on spontaneous baby combustion, because he’s cool like that, plus he has like 12 kids, his wife and him are like the frickin’ Duggars, except really really smart, because all his kids are doctors–all Doogie Howser style and stuff. And I’m sure at lease one of his 14 kids caught on fire at some point, and at the time he was probably all “Stand back family, I have this under control!” And his wife started taking copious notes because she had the mad foresight to know that it would end up in Chapter 46 of her husband’s book, entitled “What to do in When Your Kid Spontaniously Catches on Fire.”

Wait, fires, babies, Dr. Sears…

Oh that’s right, I was going to tell you that I breastfeed all the time and I’m sick and tired of it. But Dr. Sears says that it releases prolactin, which apparently is the hormone that makes you a good mom, and not sick and tired of sticking your boob in your baby’s mouth all the time.

So maybe my prolactin isn’t working.

Instead of being all, Oh look how sweet and precious my baby is nursing all the time. I think, I’m over this shiz, Mama needs to sleep.

I mean, really.

How much boob does one tiny baby need?

Every hour just seems ridiculous.

Right?

And do you see what it’s making me do? It’s making me loose my mind. And Dr. Sears doesn’t have a chapter on that, I know. I’ve checked.

But I know what Dr. Sears would say, he’d say if your child wants to eat every hour, feed him every hour.

But every hour at night?

Dr. Sears, do you have any idea what this is doing to my brain?

No, no you don’t. So I’ll illustrate it for you, because I care, and because I want you to update your book, and possibly reference me, and perhaps make me an honorary doctor, and then adopt me…?

Here is my brain normally:

See how nice that looks? Everything works well, and at any given moment I’m probably humming the tune of Dream Lover and thinking about eating some fried chicken.

But when my baby boy demands the sweet nectar from my lady jugs every hour throughout the night, my brain turn to this:

When my brain turns into scary a t-rex with fire and lighting then we have a problem.

Please advise, Dr. Sears.

I can’t keep this up for much longer.

I’m not ready to be alone.

He left.

He shut the door behind him and left me.

Alone.

With two kids.

No, he didn’t actually leave me.

That would really suck. And If he did actually leave me, I’d find him and cut his man balls off with a rusty pair of lawn sheers, because I’m crazy like that. CRAZY, I say.

He just left me for the afternoon, to work, or some lame excuse like that.

All I know is, he’d better come back with a crap load of chocolate, because I’m scared. And with enough chocolate in my mouth, I can forgive anyone.

So, what’s there to be scared of, Beckey? Your children are perfect angles and you’re such a poised and always in control mother.

While that’s only 92% true, there’s still some crazy shit going down right now: Berlyn is parading around the house exclaiming “BEER BONG!” which is super weird considering that I’m not in a fraternity, and I don’t really like when beer comes racing out of a funnel-tube towards my face. But maybe she does? Humm…perhaps she’s been spending too much time watching The Real World with my mom.

And she keeps pretending to shave her face.

And she’s torturing the dog. Which I don’t really mind, because sometimes someone needs to torture my dog. She’s an asshole.

Then there’s Hudson, who keeps sharting.

And he keeps spitting up, in his ear. UGH, so his ears smell like baby stomach acid.

I thought newborns were supposed to smell like Cabbage Patch Dolls.

Mine smells like a shart and barf.

I’m hoping my husband comes home soon. And I extra hope he’s carrying one of those chocolate fondue fountains they sell at COSTCO.

Wanna know how to lose 20 pounds in 5 days?

Have a baby.

Hot Jambalaya! I almost look and feel normal again, well, except for the leaky tits, the giant puff-balls under my eyes, and the not being able to sit in a chair for longer than 12 minutes.

Just one glance at my little precious, soft, smooth, newborn, and I’m so far beyond bliss that I sometimes forget that my ass and surrounding lady parts look like a jelly fish minus the tentacles. Except I wouldn’t actually know that it looks like a jelly fish minus the tentacles from personal experience, because, HELL to the NO, I am not brave enough to look in between my legs. Nope. I might take a glance in 4 to 6 weeks if I happen to find myself holding a bottle of whiskey and a hand mirror in a poorly lit room, but for now, I’ll pass.

So, do you want to hear my birth story?

I have to tell you about it because it makes me a bit of a hypocrite.

Yes, me. A hypocrite.

I had 12 hours of the most intense labor, and then I demanded the drugs.

THE FUCKING DRUGS!!

I went into the whole labor process clear-minded and ready to experience the natural and beautiful gift of childbirth, with all the pains and sensations that go with it. I was excited, and a little nervous, but mostly excited.

Cut to me 12 hours later–

And I was done.

My body started to feel like it was being ripped apart. With each contraction that came on, I felt myself uncontrollably fight it, and I was unable to acquiesce to the work that my uterus was doing despite all the preparation I did before labor that taught me how to handle that type of pain. The room was black with agony, and my back, my legs, my abdomen all throbbed with fire.

My husband and doula tried to remind me that I wanted a natural birth, but that seemed such a miniscule notion in light of what I was going through: all I wanted was this baby out, and the pain to stop.

After the epidural I was happy again.

And then 9 oozy gooey hours later Hudson Jack was born.

12+9 = 21 hours of labor.

WTF?

I thought second babies were supposed to come out faster?

Whatever.

The good news is I had a successful VBAC and I talked it over with Jesus, and he’s cool with me using the drugs.

Introducing Hudson Jack