Maybe you just like to point at me and laugh. Maybe you are SURE I bite. Maybe you were a little overwhelmed at the 5 million comments in those last few posts. Whatever the reason you normally don’t comment, now is your chance to come out from the shadows. Its National Delurking Week. And I know, that you know, that I know, that you know YOU want too. Show me some love and leave me a comment.

I never know where.
Mommy…Mommy…
I never know when.
Mommy, are you ok?
I never know how bad it will be.
Mommy, why are your eyes closed?
I never know how long it will last.
Mommy, why are you sick?

I’ve suffered from migraines with aura since puberty. They always start the same.
I can’t see.
Not really a good thing when you have two children.
But then comes the really fun part…after I am unable to see (go rub a few streaks of vaseline in your eyes) I lose my ability to talk. And walk. And find light switches on walls. And find the bathroom I’ve been using for years.
Its debilitating.
I got one yesterday. And after it was all said and done, medication was working, and I could breathe again…I cried.
Its like waiting for that other shoe to drop. I’m convinced next time I’ll be driving a car when it comes. And both kids will be strapped in back and I won’t know how to get home. I won’t be able to see to drive. I won’t be able to explain to the cop what is wrong. I’ll be in jail throwing up and the kids will be wards of the state. Or worse, I’ll get into a horrible wreck. California has cliffs, you know.
Ok, maybe that’s a little much. But you know what I mean.
Yesterday I cried because my brother was home. And I was so thankful he was around. What would I have done if he didn’t live here? I would have tried to call my husband…but not remember his number or be able to speak. A nearby friend? I know she wasn’t home last night.
I live in constant fear of getting another migraine.
So I will tip-toe through today, humbled again by my curse.
I will probably tip-toe for weeks. And weeks. And maybe months, before it happens again.
…maybe not.

When Count Waffles the Terrible was born some very good friends of ours got him a gift. Our 6-week old received a subscription, in his name, to Playboy. It was meant as a joke, but my husband was thrilled. (We, being good friends, then enrolled their newborn twins in the Youth Communist League-but that’s another story. Heh)
And there it came, month after month, in that black plastic bag…so the neighbors couldn’t see what nasty mag we were getting.
Not so long ago, a few friends of mine, unknowingly, began trashing this magazine.
It was offensive to women. Or so I was told.
Their husbands did things with it. Or so they thought.
And no one in the real world could possibly look like that.
And since I’ve now used this blog to get on my soapbox, I figure why stop.
Hoooray for masturbation! Hoooray for Playboy!
Stop blushing. You know you are still reading.
First of all, have you ever actually sat down (toilet or otherwise) and read Playboy? Despite all the women bending over, its really very intelligent. I swear. I just finished an article on Shel Silverstein. Yes, THAT Shel Silverstein.
Second of all, I’d like to know how many of my mommyblogger friends out here are getting it regularly. Or giving it regularly. I try my damnedest to keep the Kaiser, ahem, satisfied…but in case you were born this week and just started reading my blog, we’ve got a 9-month old and a toddler. The 9-month old still sucks my tits and the toddler and the baby are in our bed.
Which means sex, when we can, in another room.
Did I mention my brother lives with us?
Now, we can easily get around all these little sex obstacles with some planning, or just by staying up late. But let’s be real here, when the hell is the last time YOU stayed up late?
Just last night I was going to stay up late and spend some quality Kaiser lovin’ time…and I fell asleep putting the Count to bed.
HOOORAY PLAYBOY.
Now on to the trickier part of this…the whole, unrealistic body image, plastic, fake, toned, fit, boobheavey women gracing those pages…I’m going to propose something to you that I can guarantee you are NOT going to like…
That could be us.
I’m not saying face wise. We can’t change what we landed here with.
But that could be us.
Sure, we’ve had kids.
Sure, we gots da flab.
Sure, we have mother bodies.
But that could be us.
We could get off our asses and exercise.
We could make time to tone ourselves.
We could work hard to look like that.
We could.
Personally, I could actually put on makeup and something other than sweats everyday. That might help. Add in some exercise, less goldfish crackers, and I just might be on to something.
SHOULD we? I don’t know. Obviously we’re engulfed in more important matters.
But if I can try and stay awake to take care of the Kaiser. I could probably try to get up early to go to Yoga.
Two small things that would just add to my tiredness. And let’s face it, that’s not going away…so why not add ??
And I’d like to give you one more, delicate, reason why you should either stop trashing your man’s Playboy or run out and get him one.
The women are hot. There. I’ve said it.
They are hot. And when that thing is laying around the bathroom and I pick it up, I get turned on. And then I work even harder to make time for the Kaiser.
I’m not afraid to admit it. I’m not ashamed. And I’m not going to pretend with you, my good friends.
There is one trick, with this whole Playboy thing, though.
I am forever reminding the Kaiser to put the damn thing UNDER the sink counter, especially when playgroup is coming.

She is strong
She is mother
She is wife
With child on her back
her front
her side
Riding alongside her life
sometimes wondering why or how
she found
her way to this place of fear and love
The loss of self into the other self
The smaller self
Tiny only in size
But on her side
Near her side
By her side
Always her Tribe.

They come from East
West
North
South
from across the sea
With a force
Forcing dark back
Back
Back
and only then does she stand tall
taller than dark or light
Lighting the dark
with a force.

She is strong
She is mother
She is wife
She is never alone.
Before her they came
by her they came
After her they will come
Lighting the dark
with a force

Always her Tribe.

I need to clear something up. Not because I should. But because I want too.
Poke the sleeping Bear. I dare you.
It has come to my attention that not everyone lets their kids sleep in bed with them and some people actually let their children scream themselves to dreamland.
Shut up. Really?
To be more accurate, its come to my attention I’m a bad parent. And because I don’t do things the normal way, my kids, apparently, manipulate me and will grow up to be freaks.
Normally this is where I would play nice and say “we all do things different, and different isn’t wrong. Its whatever works for each family!”
But today I’m feeling more like, umm…
FUCK YOU. I AM RIGHT AND YOU ARE WRONG AND THAT IS WHY WE DO THINGS DIFFERENT.
Lets be real here, my Mommy friends. We all don’t agree on certain parenting issues. And the reason we don’t agree ISN’T because we live in this nicety-nice playground world, where you just happened to choose to let your kid cry it out and I just happened not too. If it were that easy, everyone could play nice together. But its not. I choose not to let my kids cry it out because I simply don’t believe in it. Other parents do.
And its like religion or politics. Either you tolerate and listen to the other side’s reasons, or you act like an ass and try and convert everyone to your ways. Admittedly I think all cry-it-out parents are wrong. But it works for them. So who am I to tell them not too? I also think Christians, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, etc. are wrong…but so long as they are happy and not hurting me, live and let live baby. (Republicans suck too, by the way)
BUT, some of those on the other side of the issue have not-so-recently told me I was wrong. And instead of living and let live, I was told I was hurting my children.
In case you haven’t noticed, I am the Queen. Big Mistake, asshole.
So I am sick of playing nice. I’m sick of saying we should all try and support eachother’s parenting decisions when clearly we think some of them are dead wrong. Why should we hide this fact and try and placate eachother like we’re back in high school?
Oh Suzie I think you’re hair looks so cool today, and I really love your shoes.
Nope, you know what. I’m done playing pattycake with you other mother’s out there. You want a piece of me? You got it.
And for those of you who just live and let live, and are nice about it…bravo. Apparently you are above this crap. Most days I’m with you, but today…I am not. Here we go:

Formula sucks. I breastfeed because its the best thing for my kids.
I breastfeed on demand. Find me a person who is hungry at the same exact time, every single day, and I’ll consider scheduling feeds.
I breastfeed for nourishment and for comfort. Suckling at mom’s breast provides everything a baby could want in the world, the sucking motion, and Mamma close.
I don’t use pacifiers. They interfere with breastfeeding.
I don’t use bottles. They interfere with breastfeeding.
We cosleep. Breastfeeding is much easier this way. It provides comfort to both children. My husband works long hours and loves reconnecting with the kids everynight. “If Mommy and Daddy get someone to sleep with, why do I have to sleep all by myself?” Is not an issue.
Slate did a great defense of cosleeping here. (the original url has moved…but that link has the full text)
No, I don’t think my kids will be freaks for having slept with us. In case your small mind was not aware, most of the REST OF THE WORLD does this. But I suppose you are the type of person who thinks foreigners are freaks.
My kids will leave our bed when they are ready. My kids will wean from the breast (the Count weaned at 19 months, gasp! he’s very well adjusted, just so you know) when they are ready. Its a milestone. Its a right of passage. I will help both issues along, but ultimately its up to the child to grow up and gain that independence. I am in no rush to rush my babies.
Now, the big one: we don’t cry it out.
I was never a fan of Ferber. It just seemed cruel. And wrong. But I thought I was alone. Then, early on in my first pregnancy I read Elizabeth Pantley’s The No-Cry Sleep Solution.
Horray! There were other parents who found ferberizing EVIL!
Basically, I believe what Pantley says on trying to Ferberize: “I thought, ‘This approach is responding to a child’s needs? This is teaching her that her world is worthy of her faith and trust? This is nurturing?’ I decided…they were horribly intolerably, painfully wrong. I was convinced that this was a simplistic and harsh way to treat another human being, let alone the little love of my life.”

She goes on to quote other experts:
“A child can not comprehend why you are ignoring his cries for help. Ignoring your baby’s cries, even with the best of intentions, may lead him to feel that he’s been abandoned.”

Basically you stick your kid in room, and after a few nights of screaming her/his head off, they realize that Mommy or Daddy WON’T come. That he/she can NOT rely on Mommy or Daddy. That he/she’s only way of communicating is IGNORED. And that they are alone. So they GIVE IN TO THEIR BASIC INSTINCT, and fall asleep.

I’m sorry, but I’m teaching my children that not only are their voices heard, but Mommy or Daddy will always respond. I’ve been told this is how the child manipulates me.

Fucking ridiculous.

If my baby is crying simply because she wants to be held, and its 2am, I am going to hold her at 2am. She has a basic need, and I will meet her basic needs. COMFORT IS ONE OF THOSE NEEDS. And as difficult as it may be for you to haul your ass out of bed at 2am, you are not just a day time parent. Shutting your child in a room and letting them cry so you can sleep is LAZY parenting. Must be nice not to have to work nights.

Ok. Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest. I’d like to say that I know many of you don’t have kids that will breastfeed, or you are not able to breastfeed. Or kids that will sleep with you. Or do anything BUT cry before they pass out. Even when you are comforting them. And I’m sure you’ve found a way that works for you. Good for you.

I’ve found a way that works for me. And I’ll defend it to the death. And the next time I’m called a bad parent, and told I’m fucking up my kids, I’m punching you in the face instead of blogging.

Huh, so this is how all those holy wars start.

Since many of you have been very kind to play along with my contests, I thought I should go ahead and jump in one myself. Here is my entry for the free book give away over at A Mamma’s Rant. I like to call these “My Husband Had Waaay Too Much Time On His Hands.”

Back when we only had one child, and that child was still immobile and incapable of mass amounts of destruction, Daddy actually had time to make goofy stuff. These are oldies, but goodies…and should serve as a warning to those of you who think parenting gets easier as the baby gets older. Daddy no longer has time for this sort of thing.

That’s a melted Ipod firewire cord.
That’s a burn mark on my carpet.
There were fumes that made me dizzy.
There were raised voices…Panicking when we couldn’t figure out where said fumes were coming from.
There was a tragic house fire around the corner from us just a few weeks ago.
This all happened just before we went to bed.

Being me, I wanted to unplug anything remotely flammable for the rest of our lives.

I then confided in the Kaiser it’s possible I have more anxiety than a normal person and should maybe call a doctor.

This feeling of wanting to keep everyone you love, safe forever…The mother part, is making me crazy. If I could just control the universe I think, maybe then, I’d be able to sleep.

Quick. Where is your frenulum???

I am now an expert in frenulum. Because this cute kid over here tore his. Tore it clean off.

Run your tongue over your top gums. Feel that flappy thing connected to your upper lip? That’s a frenulum.

Count Waffle’s frenulum is no longer attached. He thought it would be fun to stand on a Leap Frog drum and then fall/jump into an end table. Mouth agape, apparently.
The blood. Dear Ozzy the blood.
The panic. Dear Donna Reed the panic.
Then came the questions. Where is the blood coming from? Is that thing really no longer attached? Is that a big deal? Do I call the doctor? No, the dentist? Do I just go to the ER?
I opted to call my pediatrician who wanted to see him, pronto. They even stayed open during lunch to let us in. Apparently we haven’t met our take-kids-to-pediatrician-at-least-5times-a-month quota.
As it turns out, you don’t need your frenulum. And most of us did the same thing the Count did as children and it didn’t affect us at all.
No stitches.
No acidic or salty food for awhile.
Tylenol.
Popsicles.
And whatever else he wants because he scared the shit out of me and I don’t ever want to see blood pouring out of him again. Ever.

…so how many times will we do this again? Do these boys just jump off crap all the time? Girls are better, right? Should I just bring a fruit basket over to my local ER doctors now?

…this is only the beginning…isn’t it???