And I mean every word of them.
Tag Archives: babies
1. Lose all the baby weight immediately. Do you want your child to think of you as svelte and conventionally attractive, or slovenly and besaddlebagged?
2. Get rid of your TV. Well, don’t just get rid of it — that’s wasteful. Convert it into a planter for an organic herb garden.
3. Breastfeed. Until he’s 12 years old. Continue reading
- It’s very late at night.
- I’m the only one awake in the house.
- I’m watching my husband and son, who are both sleeping on our bed, over the video monitor.
- I watched Paranormal Activity 4 today. (It wasn’t bad. Easily the fourth-best Paranormal Activity I’ve seen.)
- So my husband and son are both motionless, but my cat is also on the bed and licking herself in a very ordinary way, so I know the feed is live and hasn’t gotten stuck.
- I’m sitting at my laptop, maybe fifteen yards away — close enough to the bedroom that I can hear the white-noise machine both through the door and over the monitor.
- There’s a weird knocking sound I can hear over the monitor, but not through the door.
- I totally believe in ghosts. (I’m undecided about demons, because they always seem very religious to me, and I’m not a religious person. But anyway.)
- I’ve been watching this feed with the unexplained video-only knocking for a few otherwise-quiet minutes, and this is exactly the point in a Paranormal Activity movie where something loud/fast/scary would happen.
- OH MY GOD, THE BABY JUST STARTED CRYING RIGHT WHEN I TYPED “LOUD.”
- OK, he’s fine now. But that was terrible timing.
- Almost the kind of jump-scare fake-out you would find in a Paranormal Activity movie… that’s it. I’m totally shitting my pants.
- (Probably doesn’t help that I had huevos rancheros for brunch.)
Ugh, babies — am I right? They’re a lot of fucking work, if you’re trying to do a halfway decent job. But there are a few simple tricks that can make the ceaseless indignity of being a parent so much easier, you’ll forget you even have kids! Read on if you’re ready to be dumbfounded by these amazing life hacks …
1. Drop your baby off in the woods to be raised by a pack of feral cats. Cats are majestic and beautiful animals. What’s more, they are very clean and super-intelligent. Now, take a hard look in the mirror. Can you honestly say the same about yourself? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Continue reading
I want to make it clear right up front that this is not a post about bodily fluids. I mean, I could write a novel about that, if you want — but I don’t think you do. If you are squeamish or simply not interested in the secretions of others, know that this is a safe place.
However, we’re coming up pretty quickly on my son’s first birthday, so I’m about to get very mommy-blogger in this bitch and reminisce about the day he was born. And, more specifically, what it was like for ME. (I’m only about six months removed from being a legit Millennial, so yeah this is about me. Duh.)
The funny thing about being in labor is the tricks your memory plays on you. Time kind of stretches out and loops back on itself, and it’s hard to keep track of what’s happening and in what order.
(Also, I don’t have any basis for comparison, but I assume this whole time-shifting, memory-warping experience is amplified if you’re on magnesium sulfate — which I was. Here’s my one-sentence review of magnesium sulfate: “I’ve never in my life been so unhappy to be so high.” Once magnesium sulfate gets a Yelp page, it will be hearing from me.)
So in the interest of family history, I feel the need to write down the few ephemeral labor memories I have left before they go the way of Brian Austin Green’s hip-hop aspirations, or Jordan Knight’s solo career. (Which reference is timelier? Neither.)
My son is only 10 months old, but he’s very advanced for his age. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that he’s very advanced for your age.
Go ahead and accuse me of being biased. But I don’t have blinders on. In fact, I have no problem admitting that he can be a real simpleton sometimes.
For example, he doesn’t know how to operate a standard transmission. He can’t distinguish between Baroque and Rococo. He doesn’t seem to grasp the symbolism of the red pickle dish in Ethan Frome, no matter how many times I spell it out for him.
Believe me — I could go on! But I’m not here to discuss my kid’s intellectual shortcomings. (What kind of asshole do you think I am?) We all have our cognitive challenges, after all. The important thing is that we celebrate and hone our strengths … even if “we” can’t seem to get a handle on basic French grammar, vous me suivez? Continue reading