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What’s In A Name?

I have a weird name.  

Nary a keychain, mug, or shirt has been emblazoned with it. Never was it uttered from the fixed smiling lips of that freaky bee on “Romper Room” (you youngens may have to Google that one), and always, ALWAYS mispronounced during class attendance. Over the years, I have learned to live with, and embrace this assigned identity but have often wondered, did my mother know when she chose this funky, five letter word FOR me, just how much a PART OF ME it would become?  Do any of us know or think about this when we choose the names of our own children?

Some weird ass shit goin’ on here, and yet, I felt shunned….

Pregnancy, the very beginning of your journey into motherhood, is like a carnival dunk tank.  It seems sometimes as though there is a line of dickheads just waiting for their turn to take pop shots at you. Self-righteous motherfuckers come out of the woodwork, chucking hardballs of judgement your way in hopes you’ll take that icy plunge into the waters of prenatal insecurity. 

And that’s just the start.

Noooooo! Bastards.

More loaded than Lindsey Lohan behind the wheel,  it’s one of the most popular and baited inquires you’ll encounter during the baby growing process: 

“So, have you thought of a name yet…?”

You know where this is going, and although you’ve tossed a gajillion names around in your head, you’re not so sure you want to toss them around to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that asks. From the spelling, to the meaning, to the pronunciation, a half rotten carcass in a cage of starving vultures would probably get picked apart less then any name you might divulge to these assholes. You’re NOT about to press the restart button on this topic just because some jackass expresses their disdain…

…or are you?

Parenting is a fucked up dichotomy.  You want advice, but you don’t.  You’re proud of your choices but are always somewhat insecure.  You’re confident in doing what’s best for your kid, but constantly second guess what exactly that is.  Naming your child is no exception.  It’s one of the more deceptively monumental decisions you’ll make as a parent because, for the most part, it’s something that will stay with your child forever.

So there you are. Thumbing through endless volumes of baby name books, you go around and around asking yourself the same gamut of paranoid questions for each possible contender.

“Does it flow with the last name?”

“Is it too many syllables?”

“Does it have a douchy nickname?”

“Is it too common?”

“Is it too….weird?”

“Can it be spelled a different way?”

“How the fuck is it supposed to be spelled?”

There’s always that *forsaken* name too.  The one that, if it hadn’t belonged to that fucking bitch in high-school, you might actually like. Damn name ruining jerks, cutting the short list down from 20,000 to 19,995…

Can someone tell me what the heck a “New Age” name is?!

As I said earlier, I have a weird name.  Maybe it’s made me more aware of the impact that a single word can have on a child and therefore, has tempered my fantastical dreams of choosing a stupid, celebrity-type name that resembles more a piece of furniture, or a made-up color than an actual human being. Maybe having a weird name has strengthened my OWN sense of self. Maybe it doesn’t really matter because frankly, there’s a point in everyone’s life when they despise their own name no matter what the fuck it is.  

How important is a name after all…?

I’ve thought about this a lot, and while I DO think that a name can definitely affect a child, after watching my own kids grow and develop into the individuals they are, I’ve realized that this is only partially true.  Whatever name you choose FOR your kid, isn’t the defining force BEHIND your kid.  It doesn’t lessen or enhance their character.  It is simply a word given to a child by a parent, that over the course of their life, and throughout their endeavors, they will make their OWN.

Now, about that middle name…….

A Play Date? Sorry, I Have to Wash My Hair. – Guest Blog by Kimmy Dee

Those Negative Nancys that say you have to flush your social life once you procreate are as full of shit as the poop they’re pouring on your parade. You don’t get the luxury of telling the rest of the world to kiss your ass as you hunker down in your baby bunker for the next 18 years; you’re just no longer allowed to CHOOSE the faces that will drive you to drink on a daily basis.

No, once you pop out a pup you are forced to mingle with OTHER mom-like beings. And once that little manure machine gets to preschool… THEY pick the moms FOR you. 

Having other children around to keep yours out of your ass for an hour or two is fantastic… having to make small talk and compare diaper dramas with adults you’ve never done body shots off of in your last, KID-FREE life is freakin’ exhausting.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m antisocial. In fact it’s one of my best qualities; people are gross. Unfortunately my daughter is one of those proverbial social butterflies. She has cronies at all corners of the city, and none of them are orphans. They all come equipped with unique blends of moms and grandmas that want to shoot the shit over endless steaming cups of liquid laxative while the little ones frolic gaily and I contemplate how to gnaw through a major artery without interrupting my coffee companion’s riveting Pap smear story.

I’m not trying to rush the whole growing up gig; we all know it goes WAY too fast on its own. But I crave the day that one of my kid’s classmates can come out without the constant companionship of their guardian-types. There’s nothing worse than asking a fellow forebearer if their kid can come to play and having them say, “Sure, WE’LL be over soon.” You can’t just rescind your invitation; suddenly you’re the WING MAN for your progeny’s play date, and chances are the two of you will NOT be as compatible as your kids.

I can appreciate the puny people. All they want out of life is to have fun and eat junk food; admirable ambitions, if you ask me (which you didn’t). But ADULTS… I can’t deal with us assholes. We feel like we always have to TALK, and SMILE. That shit is ANNOYING. Silent stoicism gets a bad rap, but I assure you, it is bliss.

So, as I have yet to find a mom-mate that I mesh well with, I have composed a personal ad that will hopefully find me a suitable partner in play dating:


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    Dear Romance…

    Fuck you Romance, with your roses and sweets,

    Chocolates, perfumes, and pink satin sheets.
    Romance these days, means a whooole new thing.
    I’m married with kids, brah. What, you ‘aint seen this ring?
    There’s not too much room here for you anymore,
    So either step up, or get kicked out the door.
    You need a new game, NOT a dumb faced teddy.
    Do I look like a High School bitch being asked to 
    “Go Steady”??

    You better change your angle if you wanna get props,
    Pick up those rose petals, here, take this mop.
    You wanna make me swoon like at my Honeymoon??
    Tell my husband to wash dishes and break out a broom.
    I’m sorry but bubble baths don’t turn me on.
    A sure bet to get ME wet, is if you’d go scrub the John.
    I’m not bitter, or mean, or a shit starter,
    I’m just more experienced now, and a whole lot smarter.

    You got 50 Shades, son?  Well, I got 50 Shades MORE.
    It’ll take more than cheap candy to make THIS housewife a whore!
    I’m sorry, Romance, it’s not that I hate you,
    Things have just changed since I first started to date you.

    Gotta cut shit down to the heart of the matter,
    The only thing ‘chocolate’ does, is make my ass fatter.
    So Romance, heed what I’m sayin’ and don’t take it as disses.
    You’re very sweet when it comes to young couple’s first kisses.

    All that cutesy shit however, just makes me more tired,
    So have a Pow-Wow with my husband this V-Day, 
    or guess what?!


    Don’t Like It? Get Used To That Shit.

    Everyone’s got a PET PEEVE.  Some shit that just ruffles your feathers and gets your eyes redder than a mandrill’s ass.  It’s dreadful, and can range from your Mother-In-Law’s pesky habit of breathing to the synthetic death grip of your too tan, control-top pantyhose.

    Now, being that there’s about 1.5 MILLION people for every 22 square miles of this pretentious little borough, you can bet your fake Fendi bag that I got a whoooole bunch of PET–MOTHER-FUCKING-PEEVES.

    Just in case you don’t know what a Mandrill’s ass looks like.

    You might be thinking right now: 

    “With that mouth of yours, you’re starting to become one of MINE…”

    But just hold up….I ‘m getting to a point here that’s more prevalent than a wedgie on a summer day.

    Here’s the deal.  We all have “THAT FRIEND”.  You know, the one who, no matter what, you can whisper through clenched teeth to.  The one who brings your boiling blood to a tolerable and controlled simmer with a well timed alcoholic beverage and tells you in a “THAT FRIEND” kind of way to just: 

    “Calm the FUCK down.”  

    The one who reminds you, that sometimes: 

    “You can’t control every situation, so for the sake of your OWN sanity, and CRIMINAL RECORD, you’d best SHUT UP, act like the *lady* you’re not and  just, GET USED TO THAT SHIT.”

    You’re ’bout ready to put away that gas face and throw down but, because you know she’s right, you bite down, smooth out your Strawberry’s satin sheath, and curl you lips up into a painful smile.

    You’re bearing it.

    You HATE it….but you’re bearing it.

    Ok, here’s the part where I pull back on the Google Map and put shit in PERSPECTIVE.

    “You’re lucky my homegirl said to spare you and that dumb-ass hat…”


    Remember “THAT FRIEND”???
    Yeah, well, that bitch has been replaced by a tiny little, wormy being, that has sprung from your crotch.

    Good luck with that much needed alcoholic glaze, and if you thought a seam in your tube sock was bad try…..





    You thought your life was oh so *real*, riddled with heartache and strife and then…. 

    ….you have KIDS.

    You don’t necessarily realize it as it’s happening, but as you’re thrust into the greatest depths of selflessness bearing and caring for a child, you have become the MASTER of:


    Well, she’ll fall asleep if I bounce her for about 10,000 more minutes…”

    “He likes nursing until he spews tit milk all over, so I usually nurse on the hard floor…”

    “You gotta cut those grapes into unrecognizable nibbles and bits for her to not choke…oh, and skin them shits too, here, I’ll show you how…”

    “I’m totally functional, well, functional enough, on 37 seconds of sleep…”

    You don’t have a choice.  You don’t even have a “THAT FRIEND”….

    You have a baby…a responsibility full of the peeviest-pets you’ve EVER encountered….and guess what…?

    You do what you GOTTA DO, to simply:


    You’d better do more than just “THINK” you can, bitch.

    You’re a parent.  

    You’re dedicated to being a parent.

    You LOVE your child, even more than you thought you loved that pimply douchebag who popped your cherry….

    …maybe even more than you love your own mother…

    So, you bite your lip, take it down more notches than a pile of belts at a Weight Watchers meeting, and feel sorta proud that you were able to GET USED TO some ridiculous shit NO human should legally have to endure….


    THAT’S the exact moment that your kid, (the much shittier and selfish version of your single life’s “THAT FRIEND”) decides you’ve had plenty of time to get USED TO this set of shenanigans, and instinctively indulges you with a whole new gamut of fucked-up challenges that’ll send you to hell and back.

    You’re like the fucking Karate Kid except with a Mr. Miagi who’s on the permanent rag.  

    Don’t worry though, you were MADE for this.

    You’re becoming a black belt in art of insomnia.

    You may not be able to catch a fly with a pair of chopsticks EVERY time, but you sure as hell will get USED TO trying.

    So, keep your temper down, and your caffeine up, and remember, from one mother to another…


    What’s a Macchio gotta do to get a BREAK around here?!?

    “Why Is Life Worth Living?”

    Wassup y’all.  

    Now I don’t usually get too personal around here, mostly because everyone has their OWN shit to deal with, and I know you come here because it’s a place that you don’t *have* to deal with that shit.  You can come here and just LAUGH.  

    Hey, I’m pleased with that!  

    In fact, it’s the reason I created this blog in the first place.  Buuuut, (and there’s always a “buuuut”) tonight, I wanted to share with you a piece of MY life….  

    A picture I took a few years ago.  It’s of my “Little One” and my “Nana”.  The oldest and the youngest members of my family.  A generational gap spread so vast, it spans nearly a century, and yet, the connection it conveys so simply, is timeless.

    The moment is endearing because it’s universal.  You can switch the clothing, the setting, the time and place, but as long as the relationship is there…that primal acknowledgement that adheres to the basics of blood lineage, genetics, and instinctual, familial belonging to, the characters will forever be the same.

    My Nana died today.  

    She was two months shy of 98.  

    She was, as many others of her time, a refugee of her country and an immigrant to this one. 

    She endured two World Wars, the death of her parents, siblings, husband, and a child of her own. 

    She wet nursed in “The Old Country” so as to prevent other mothers from enduring the same tragedy…whether she knew them or not.  

    With a needle and thread, she was a genius

    From shirts for US soldiers crafted with the scraps of parachutes, to sliver satin mini-dresses stitched from scratch for my Go-Go dancing Mom in the 60’s, to intricate and lacy area rugs designed so effortlessly for the floors of MY dollhouse, she could do ANYTHING. 

    To me, she was EVERYTHING.

    She was the bringer of ice-cream and blackberry brandy when my throat was sore.  She made delicate clothes for my Cabbage Patch Kid, grew gooseberries and raspberries in her Brooklyn back yard, and could butcher and prepare a goose if she had to. Her heart was big, but her hands were bigger.  

    She believed animals should be kept outside but gave me milk in saucers to feed them anyway.  

    She cut my bangs too short, loved tennis, Benny Hill, and Sha Na Na.

    She took care of me when I had the chicken-pox with the pink crackling Calamine Lotion and lots of leg rubs…

    I could go on and on, but I won’t.  I don’t have to.

    I know many of you have lost loved ones and in that respect, I know I’m not unique.  Now that she’s gone however; I realize that her strength and sacrifice was and IS a remarkable reason to celebrate LIFE. 

    Even in all her struggle and strife, she persevered. She taught my mother what was truly important, and my mother passed that down to me.

    My “Big One” asked me today:
    “But if life can end so fast, and you lose everyone you love, what is the point of living???”

    I kissed her and hugged her so fucking hard I thought my heart would explode…either that, or I’d break her ribs.  When I finally let her go, she looked at me with welled eyes and a quivering smile.

    “The point of living,” I told her “is for moments just. like. these..”

    Rest in peace Nania, I love you so much.

    Yeah, me neither.

    So,  I often try to share somewhat relatable, mostly embarrassing “Have you ever..” posts with you guys, and from what I’ve found… I’m not alone.  It seems, no matter how diverse our parenting styles may be, where we’re from, or what we believe in, there’s still that one thing that connects us all….


    Ha!  Gotcha’ bitches.  And when I say ‘gotcha’,  I’m immediately inclined to say, ‘SphincterSaysWut??’…but today, I’ll refrain. 
    What I REALLY think is, that we all possess this totally encompassing, HUMAN ELEMENT.  It’s really something that’s so BASIC…so UNDENIABLE….

    “Stop all the Bullshitting and get to the fucking point already, bitch” you may be thinking…
    Ok. Well, here it is. We all…
    …….do weird ass shit that we think no one else does.
    We do it, we don’t admit it.  
    It’s almost as though we revert back to some ancient, childhood 

    “Cookie Jar Complex”.  
    “Nope, not me…”

    “Are you kidding me???”

    “I would NEVER!!!”

    But we fucking do.
    Listen, I ‘ain’t hatin’ now.  I mean, that shit’s personal!  It’s embarrassing.  Potentially incriminating, or at the very least, diary worthy………. blackmail worthy. 
    I mean, why should we??  Until your farting in the bed with a motherfucker, nobody needs to KNOW.  Word.
    Tonight, (perhaps because of booze) Imma be all vulnerable and shit.   Now, some of you may say about certain ones, “No shit, bitch”, but some of these, just may hit home.  
     deep down in the IUD.  
    Oh yes I did.
    Sooooo…HERE, in all it’s shame, I PRESENT/EXPOSE to y’all:


    1.  Have you ever, not showered for more than three days…? 
    Yeah, me neither.
    2.  Have you ever pulled a tampon outta yer cooch, and pulled out TWO (or more) instead…?
    Yeah, me neither.
    3.  Thought about a life without kids…?
    Yeah, me neither. 

    4.  Have you ever gotten hemorrhoids from pregnancy, and then lied about it to another Mom…?
    Yeah, me neither.

    5. While having sex with your spouse, have you ever fantasized that it was with someone else instead…?

    6.  Have you ever felt like the only bitch at the playground at 6:15 AM…?
    Yeah, me neither.

    7.  Do you put deodorant between your tits…?
    Yeah, me neither.

    8.   Have you ever wanted to sew your MIL’s lips together like in a fucking Saw movie just to shut her the fuck up…?
    Yeah, me neither.   *trying not to smirk*  Moving on…

    9.   Have you ever skirted another mother at a b-day party/bake sale/playground/whatever, not because you didn’t like her, but because you were just being all weird and hermity…?
    Yeah, me neither.

    10.  Have you ever just about flipped your shit between being the tutor, the cook, the maid, the homemaker, the ass wiper, the lesson teacher, the ass swatter, the boo boo kisser, the shoe tier, the “Learn How To Tie Your Shoe” teacher….. the Advocate….THE MOM? ** So you pour yourself a glass, or two… or three, of whatever and just said FUCK THIS SHIT……?????

    …me neither.

    So, let’s all breathe a sigh of relief, and be grateful that none of us have EVER been subjected to these moments we’d rather all forget… not that they happened to us or anything…. 
    Takin’ the H outta wHine…. <3

    **by “MOM” I mean dad, g-ma, or whoever.  Now get your panties outta yer ass.

    A PaRANThood Thanksgiving Wish…

    This year’s gonna be different
    revelation of sorts,
    While the bitches are cooking, 
    And the dudes watching sports.

    It’s all been worked out…I’ve planned what to say,
    I’m switching it up, in a “Shit Got Real” way…

    When the family is beckoned, to the table to sit,
    And they all go around, getting sappy and shit:

    “I’m thankful for love.”

    “I’m thankful for friends.”

    “I’m thankful for family, and the time that we spend.”

    “I’m thankful for life, and all that it’s taught me.”

    “I’m thankful for kids, and the joys they have brought me.”

    “Isn’t life grand?”

    “Isn’t life great?”

    Well, it’d be better if we did this shit AFTER we ate…

    But nonetheless, when they get up to me,
    I’m sayin’ “I’m thankful for sex and money.”

    “Yeah, my kids are great, and I’m happy for health,
    but it would nary exist without fornication and wealth.”

    I’m sure brows will knit,
    I’m sure teeth will gnash,
    But I’ll continue my speech about “Fucking and Cash.”

    “Keep pouring it on, this mush by the bucket,
    But we’d be dining on Ramen if it weren’t for ducketts.
    And if Nana and Papa did not get it on,
    You wouldn’t be here to sing holiday songs.”

    It’s the basics that count, and for that shit I care,
    Or else this table’d be empty, this table’d be bare!

    When the Pilgrims jacked the Natives 
    For twenty-four bucks,
    Did they “Give Thanks”? 
    Or did they give zero fucks?

    Did Native Americans say, after peace pipe puffin’
    “Yo, yo, it’s all good, let’s just have turkey and stuffin’!”

    What’s the big picture?  What is it worth?
    Well, there ‘aint shit for free
    ‘Aint no virginal births.

    ‘Ain’t no politicians singin’ Kum ba yah,
    ‘Ain’t no wish granted, cause you made it on a star.
    ‘Aint no handouts, no free boosts on the ladder,
    Just holidays like this, making Hallmark cats fatter.

    Frankly, all that shit doesn’t matter to me,
    We should be all just grateful for cheese and nookie.

    I’ll raise my glass, in the end and say “Word…
    now close your mouths bitches, and cut up that bird.”


    Pooters and Pee Pees

    A touchy subject?  Well, maybe but since I really just don’t know how to tip-toe around shit, fuck it, here it goes:

    Private Parts.

    Why the hell is it the only part of our kids bodies we give a nick-name to? We tell them they’re ‘private’, we tell them to ‘cover ’em up’, we tell them not to ‘talk about them in public’ yet we give privates a cutesy-ass little name….

    I mean “Weeeeeee!!” Isn’t that what they say when they go down a really fun slide?? 

    Yeah, but ‘don’t talk about your wee wee’, and definitely ‘don’t touch it while you’re going down the slide!!!’ 

    Vagina — there are SO MANY names I won’t even pick one, but most of the ones I’ve heard sound either like the name of a cute cartoon character or a childhood pet, we call it “ToTo” over here for instance… Wizard of Fucking Oz anyone?? 

    So why do we do this? 

    Are we that uptight about kids discovering their privates that our coping mechanism to deal with the ’embarrassment’ of something that is totally normal is to buffer it with a word like “pooter”? 

    Are we ‘naming’ privates for THEIR sake or is it something that makes US feel safer? 

    Are we afraid that if our three year old says ‘penis’ in public they will come off as knowing something about sex in some way? 

    Do we think that our daughters using the word ‘vagina’ sexualizes them in some way? 

    Does this image make YOU feel uncomfortable?  

    We don’t approve of attention being brought to their private parts but we seem to single out those parts at the same time. 

    I’m not sitting here with any answers. I just was thinking about why, we as parents, can be so different in so many ways as far as how we choose to raise our kids, yet do so many of the same funny things… 

    I guess there IS one thing that connects many of us……….. the society we live in… tell me, what does that say about our society??

    Just a little something to ponder.

    One more thing I need to get off my chest…completely unrelated, and in fact, it’s bothers me waaay more then nick-naming private parts.

    Since when the fuck are we supposed to give out party bags on our own kids birthdays???? When I was growing up, going to a birthday party was awesome enough. I would have NEVER expected to get a gift on someone ELSES birthday! 

    It’s fucking bad enough that birthday parties have gotten so ridiculously expensive, and now I’m supposed to organize all these games and activities AND give these buggers a gift bag at MY kids party?!?!? 

    Happy birthday to YOU! Now, whatcha get US??

    FUCK THAT. Ok, I’m done. 


    Parenthood Is An Investment…but is it worth it?


    What does it mean?

    Or more importantly, what does it mean to YOU?

    Well, according to the many antiseptic definitions I have encountered, it goes a little something like this:

    Noun 2. A thing that that is worth buying because it may be profitable or useful in the future.

    Verb  1. The action or process of investing money for profit   or material result.

    BUY! SELL! BUY!  These people look nuts to me.

    Now, call me naive, disconnected, fuck it, call me late for dinner if you want, but I have to DISAGREE with definitive definition…. I am, after all, a PARENT.  

    When I became pregnant, I may not have understood the propensity of the commitment I was making, but even in all my inexperience (and all the shitty diapers I was yet to change) I STILL KNEW I was on the forefront of a major investment.

    It wasn’t something I bought.
    It wasn’t something I “anticipated on bringing me financial gain”.
    It was something I felt
    It was something of which I had made an agreement with MYSELF that I wanted to accomplish…to experience…to achieve.
    It was something, that in my mind, “rounded out” all things bigger than ME.

    Today’s definition of “investment” entails a gratification that albeit requires a fair amount of patience, will in the long run, pay off in some monetary way.

    What the fuck am I missing here?  Or could it be, is it possible, that the definition ITSELF somehow got lost?

    Maybe we need to rethink this…

    Some of you are close to your own parents, but there are many who are not.

    Some of you take care of your parents now that they are too aged to care for themselves… but do all of us? 
    I think not.

    For those of you who do not, I get it, and I also know there are countless reasons as to WHY.

    Valid Reasons.

    Reasons due to money, time, availability, location… reasons due to the faults of our parents, as well as the faults of our own.

    What I wonder is, do those parents whose relationship with their own children is lacking (or ANY parents for that matter) anticipate this possible outcome when they decide to move forward with a pregnancy?  I say, for the most part, no.

    Does this image make you feel sad? Angry? Happy? Guilty…?

    I don’t think that having your child be unconditionally devoted to you, or even be a “best friend” is necessarily the motivating force here, and yet, the decision to raise a child requires an unequivocal sacrifice physically, emotionally, and mentally greater than any dollar sign.

    So WHY do we make this unique investment?

    Well, I can’t answer for YOU, but I can tell you what the fuck I was expecting before (and after) I was “expecting”.

    To me, the opportunity to bring a life into this world turned out to be quite the investment, but one that was indeed the opposite of any definition I had read before.

    I don’t want “financial gain” from my child and I certainly don’t expect it.  On the contrary, I want my children to to achieve for themselves, separate from me.

    I want THEM to gain.
    I want THEM to benefit from the fruits of MY labor.

    Would I like
    my children to feel close to me?  To appreciate the sacrifices I have made to raise their asses?  

    Of course I would.

    But more than anything,  I want my children to invest in THEMSELVES.

    THAT is parenthood to me.

    A selfless investment.  A contradiction of terms…. a gamble, if you will, that cannot be defined by any dictionary, yet who’s meaning is deeper than any written word, and who’s “payoff” cannot be bought.

    Will my children reach this point?  Can this moment be bought?

    Romancing the Sleep

    We all know that being a parent is harder than a scrap of grilled cheese from under the couch five days old, but I think one of the hardest things for new parents to swallow, is being plunged into the deep dark depths of SLEEP DEPRIVATION.  

    There were times that I really didn’t think I could manage.  Times I thought I just might break the law in one way or another due to extreme exhaustion.  I’d call my single friends in tears but they just didn’t get it.  

    “It’ll be okay.” they said.  

    “You’ll get through it.” they said.  

    “Please, just don’t fucking kill anyone…I don’t have enough bail money…” they said.  

    I wanted to tell them all just to shut the fuck up, and yet I NEEDED a voice of reason… even if it was from people who slept until noon and went out on the weekends…. Bastards.

    I’m happy to say, after enduring countless sleepless nights, that I’m FINALLY past this ugly stage with my children (although facing new, and uglier ones now) but I can say, with more of an objective point of view, that the sleeping patterns of babies are…well… they’re… disgustingly torturous.  So torturous in fact, that there were times I was willing to endure the pain of childbirth a million times over in exchange for a full night’s sleep.


    Why is it so fucking hard for babies to do something that is so seemingly natural, and moreover, ENJOYABLE for US??

    Well, I’ll tell you why.  

    It’s because ironically (y’know, the word, that after having kids pops up more often then a teen boy’s weewee  at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show) SLEEP is a LEARNED behavior.  Yup.  We actually have to TEACH our baby HOW TO SLEEP.  Did I mention the fact that there’s NO true method on just how to accomplish this feat??  It’s more of a trial and error thing whereas the ERROR results in you practically LOSING YOUR SHIT.

    Below I have listed the multitude of ways in which I have attempted to lull my two bundles of hell into “LaLa Land”:

    Bouncing.  Bouncing until my knees were more sore than a crack whore who specializes in blow jobs.

    Breastfeeding. Breastfeeding until my nipples were more scabbed over than a 5 year old’s knees (or the aforementioned crack whore) and until the glutton of a baby was hurling buckets of tata juice.

    Shoving little thumbs into little mouths.  I used pillows, stuffed animals, Boppys, ANYTHING as a propping device to have my baby suck on something other than ME.  (This worked pretty good but not without good old IRONY fucking me over in the form of my seven year old getting hooked.  When tired, she’s still sucks her thumb to THIS DAY!)

    Cry it out.  Cringing like a PETA member watching a Sara Mclachlin commercial on loop, with Daddy climbing the walls, you have to really be willing to commit to this shit.  Sending a pre-apology letter to your neighbors is a good idea as well.

    Giving up my “marital bed”.  Willing to forgo not only sex (as if you want it… NOT) but also the guilt of “creating a bad habit” I many times, have allowed the foot of a baby up my nose just to actually not have to “GET UP”, walk into the next room, only to start the process of ALL OF THE FUCKING ABOVE. 

    Walking to China and back.  Well, not literally, but I have paced my house SO MANY times, sleepless baby in hand, that if I added up, all the steps would equal at least that.  If I lifted my hallway runner and put a level to the floor, I’m pretty sure there’d be a worn out groove not unlike like the prehistoric waters that ultimately carved what is now known as the Grand Fucking Canyonminus the fucking part.

    Swaddling.  Well, one of us was gonna end up in a straight jacket and THAT’S a FACT.  Since I was still able to hide MY insanity within the walls of my abode, why not put the screaming baby in one first?!  It seemed cruel in a way, restraining my baby’s arms and legs as she ferociously fought back (with her surprising strength I might add) in order to free herself from the swaddling mummification I subjected her to, but if kindhearted, crunchy midwives did it,  how wrong could it be????


    Did this shit work?  Sometimes…. and sometimes it didn’t.  But when it did, it was HEAVEN. No, MORE than that… it was Johnny Depp, with a dozen roses, courting my stretchmarkless body whilst sitting on a fucking mound of chocolate and champaign goddamnit!!!  In a word, it was SLEEP.  And so, I tried whatever the hell was working at the moment to attain it.  And I lived…. AND I have a mur
    der free criminal record.
     You see, for me as a MOM, that’s a WIN.

    Sleep tight bitches.