June 25, 2007

Thunder Thunder Thunder (on Sunday Sunday Sunday)

Down here in the wiles of swampland Florida, it rains a lot. Correction, it storms a lot.

When you’re just a wee one who has grown up in storm free California, things like thunder tend to make you poop your pants.

My little guy is scared shitless of thunder. Its been cracking and booming since we arrived in the sunshine state sending my 4-year old diving under blankets about 3pm, daily.

Of course he is comforted and hugged and told the loud booming noises are nothing more than “people” bowling. (we said angles back in my day and I’m fairly certain my mother said “people” due to the number of times my husband and I have discussed religion with our families and why we’d like them to refrain from mentioning it to our kids) So the “people” are up there bowling bit still isn’t sitting well with my son, and my father starts down a road I’ve seen so many fathers, grandfathers, and uncles march down before: oh, don’t be a baby…we need to toughen you up!

Two guesses how that went over with me.

Now I realize every man is afraid his son will be a pussy. Every uncle, grandfather, father, and male in the world seems to think it’s perfectly all right to nearly scold a little boy over his fears.

I don’t.

So, men of the world. Fathers reading my blog, random males that came by to oggle my tits…explain to me why I don’t knock Gramps into next week? I did everything, stopping short of calling the grandfather of my child a bully to be ignored, in front of my child.

How, men of the blogosphere, do I handle this?

January 8, 2007

Penis Envy

The men are in hiding.

Count Waffles the Terrible is sleeping in a tent in the living room.

The Kaiser has been on the couch.

Houseboy (my brother) took the day off work after a 3am scream session had him tossing and turning.

She pouts. She pleads. She even tries to buy some breast time with kisses.

But the pouting only lasts so long and the sweeter-than-honey attitude is dropped when she asks for a snack, and when given a snack decides its not good enough. The Kaiser had to duck as orange slices wizzed past his head. I nearly lost an eye today to olives.

Weaning. Good times. Gooooood times.

Did I mention my tits are the size of my head? Oh, and hard as bowling balls? And not even regular bowling balls-but those rock ones Fred Flintstone bowled with.

And the bandaid? That serves TWO purposes…she understands the “bup” is “all gone” and they have “boo boos” and it also keeps her from latching-on unexpectedly in the middle of the night or otherwise. They leave lovely skin tears on my nipples.

I’ve also been close to vomiting from the pain. And just reaching for cereal today made me cry.

I haven’t even tackled the emotional part of this yet. This is my last baby. I am done breastfeeding forever.

By far, breastfeeding was the most amazing part of my motherhood experience. These children were attached to me and part of me in so many ways for so very long. But I don’t have time to think about any of it. I don’t have time to be sad or to get weepy. This has to be done. And it has to be done now, not the night of my surgery. I can’t, as a decent mother, leave my unweaned child with her Nana and Daddy to fend for herself while I lay in a hospital for several days. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I would be so worried.

No. I have to do this myself. I have to make sure she’s ok. I have to make sure she can go to bed and drink enough milk and be stable before I am admitted. I just have too.

I’ll deal with the sadness and mourning later. I’m sure there will be much crying. I’m sure I’ll freak out on my poor husband at some point. I have no doubt I’ll pick up stray dogs and cats from the freeway. If only I see some. I always HOPE to see some so I can save them, yet never do.

It’s a good thing spring is coming. I need to grow something. Anything. Weeds. I need to cry and plant and dig and wonder about all the babies I never had. About all the things I could have done. About all those tiny hands and feet and lips that will never suckle from my breast.

I don’t think I’m particularly good at this Mother thing. I don’t think I’m bad, either. But what I do think, down to my very core, is that it is what I am supposed to be doing. What I was meant to do. What I am here to do. And while there is still much work to be done, a very large part of those early years are officially gone. I don’t know if I thought there would be small ones around here forever-if I would always need the nursing pillow or the tiny, tiny diapers. Or the tiny nose sucker thing. Or those little nail clippers.
It all became such a huge part of my life that I never stopped to think it would soon be gone.

I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to do any of this. I want to peel off this bandaid and bring joy to my daughter and myself and let the milk flow. In many ways, it’s like letting the baby years flow. Just drag them out.

I had to trade in the Johnson&Johnson Babywash for real kid shampoo recently, and it nearly killed me. I miss that smell. I miss they way they looked at me while nursing. I miss the way I could pat their heads or play with their hair or pick their noses while they sucked. They would stay still. And we would just be.

Now she’s mad and everywhere. Healthy, but annoyed. He’s so confident and strong. He asks big boys to play and plays along even when they don’t want him around.

It’s funny. I started posting to try and amuse you and myself with the fun around here. And somehow I just got very…well, whatever. At least I can admit I really like showing the internet my boobs. If only I were 10 years younger I would show you everything. Inside and out. That’s just me.
Surgery is on the 30th. I have no doubt my strong daughter will have no trouble with any of this by then. She’s like that.

Me.

I’m not so sure.

December 25, 2006

Xmas Swag

I love it when my man listens.

…and then I made the mistake of asking my dear, wonderful, superb gift-giving husband if he had any gifts to show the blogosphere:

And yeah, the kids got some crap too. Too much. Including that fucking Elmo I swore I wouldn’t buy.

All of that said, I’m not sure there is anything better than watching your own children  wake up on Christmas morning and react to Santa’s bounty. Seriously. NOTHING. BETTER.

MERRY HOLIDAYS AND A HAPPY HO HO!

December 22, 2006

Jesus is a GIRL

Count Waffles the Terrible is adamant that Jesus Christ is a woman.

Apparently the preschool, preholiday puppet show included “a baby girl, a donkey, star people, an angel, clouds, and a blue guy.”

When I tried to tell my little guy that I was rather certain the “baby girl” he spoke of was actually a baby boy, he stopped me.

“No. No. Mom. No. It was a girl. I saw it. It was a girl.”

Funny I didn’t even question the inclusion of “star people” or a “blue guy” in the nativity, as far as I know there aren’t any scientologists at our preschool. Or smurfs. But Jesus? A GIRL? Hell yes that got my attention. Seeing as one of my favorite feminist cartoons depicts a nativity scene with everyone peering into the manger and exclaiming “IT’S A GIRL!”

Later on in the day I asked the Count again why he thought the baby in the manger was a girl. And the feminist household I covet had it’s image shattered into pieces, by a 3-year-old;

“Mom, I knew it was a girl because all she did was cry and whine.”

Ouch.

So in the spirit of the season, please, please, please, go listen to this wonderful rendition of O Holy Night. Sung by some guy. Please, promise me you will listen to the end. Promise me. Now. Then return here and tell me how much you love O Holy Night and Jesus as a woman.