Laurie at Stranded in Suburbia is, by far, the coolest chick ever. She ruined the first day of my diet with Paczki’s STRAIGHT FROM DETROIT.
For those who don’t know, these are jelly filled pastries used to get you all sugared up for Fat Tuesday. It’s a big tradition from my hometown. Basically you indulge before Lent.
They are the yummiest things on earth. And filled with calorie goodness.
As for the Hippo diet. Umm…we’ll start Monday.
Naked and vulnerable, I was stepping into the shower this morning when I hear a tiny giggle behind me.
“Mommy, your butt is bouncy…like Gloria on Madagascar.”
Dejected, I shower and emerge to tell the Kaiser what his son thought of my ass.
“Wow,” said the Kaiser.
And then nothing. It was the typical male “if you can’t say anything nice” freeze.
Yes, the baby will be 1 at the end of next month. Yes, I’m still carrying a dozen or so extra pregnancy pounds. Yes, I’ve given up the diet while focusing on my mental health. I can honestly say chocolate is the reason I did not kill anyone during the worst of the post partum.
So, I suppose, it’s now time for my hippo ass and I to get back on the wagon. It is Fat Tuesday afterall.
Tomorrow starts my own Lent. I’m calling it the Hippo Diet. Who’s with me????
I braved the Rat Palace today, for no other reason than it’s raining here in La La land and playgroup didn’t want to go to the mall. No one wanted to clean their house or make coffee and muffins, so we all opted to take our chances at the place-that-shall-not-be-named.
I survived. And I ate salad. Bonus!
But here are some things that hit me while chasing the Count through a maze of “ping ping” “ding!” “beeps” and “clink clinks” rounded out, of course, with some horrible animatronics and cheesy covers.
Why do so many random Dads bring their kids? Is this a divorced/single Dad staple place?
How much are the 40-somethings working there making? And do they really love their jobs, or are they just pedophiles?
Is there crack in the pizza sauce? Because its the only substance on earth I know of that had every toddler in our group actually EATING. And eating well.
Is whack-a-mole too violent? The Count played once, then got upset he was hurting the moles.
Punch a duck? We punched ducks, and that was hilarious. So does whacking moles equal abuse yet punching ducks equals high comedy?
Is it just standard practice the cheap toy “bought” with the minimal tickets a toddler can earn ALWAYS break on the way home? Every. Single. Time.
How long until we’re all sick from that germ infested place? I’m giving us 24 hours.
It’s unreal the transformation that has gone on with me. UNREAL. Today, the Kaiser said “Glad to have you back.”
Ouch. and WOW.
I’m so happy I’m on meds and feeling better, but I’m also, very sad. It took me too long to get help. Too long. And I’m feeling the guilt, big time.
For those of you who may even slightly suspect you have PPD. Get help right now. Don’t wait. Don’t tell yourself it’s just a phase and it will get better soon. Just GO GET HELP. Drop what you are doing right now and call a doctor.
Don’t be ashamed. Don’t hesitate.
It’s a night and day difference around here. And I wasn’t even sure I had PPD. So if you even have just the slightest thought in your head that you may be post partum-get help.
Public Service announcement over.
I promise something stupid and light later-maybe another crotch shaving story.
Some houses have their “Good Night Moon” and “the Cat in the Hat.”
We have the Thomas the Tank Engine catalog. Count Waffles is obsessed.
For 4 full days, naps included, he’s wanted to “read” the catalog before he goes to sleep. He likes to point out what he “has at home” and what he would like to have at home. These toddlers, not so good with the subtle.
This whole thing has the Kaiser and I a little worried the Count maybe has too much. He’s so
focused on what he has and what he wants and what a friend has.
Did we do that?
I certainly didn’t try to do that. I don’t give him everything he asks for. He wants a turtle for his birthday.
He’s not getting a turtle.
But we will drop a stupid amount of money to ride Thomas, again. Last year the Count nearly had kittens when he saw Thomas chugging down the tracks.
So maybe we are suckers. And I should just get comfortable with the idea of spoiled brats now, instead of later.
…and I’m trying to get a post done over at BlogHer.
Why is it I am so PROUD my daughter can now wear a barrette? Is it some rite of passage? Some bizarre girl bonding thing? Or is it, simply, that it makes her hair seem less insane?
Whatever the reason, I love that I can stick things in her hair now. And I can’t wait until the morning Daddy has to do it. That also excites me. I have no idea why. I just think Dad’s doing daughter’s hair is hilarious.
Does me liking her hair all girly girly ALSO kick me out of the feminist club? I feel like I keep getting kicked out of that club. I give her dolls to play with too. If you ask Princess Peanut to give her doll some milk, she holds it to her chest to nurse. Cracks me up every time.
As for my little man, he’s repeating phrases from Madagascar that include him spitting out apple juice and saying “Ziplock Fresh!”
Last night we read a book with a farmer, and animals on the farm. We moo’d. We quacked. Then they showed the farmer and Daddy taught him to say “Fricken’ Frackin’ subsidies.” And you people wonder why I’m medicated.
p.s. Sarah has posted a very old picture of the Kaiser today that has me in tears. Go see my hot, hot husband.
***I normally don’t get crazy political…but I believe this is an issue that needs to be talked about. So I’m going to do it, and I hope if you disagree with my stance, you can join in this discussion with respect for everyone involved.
And so it begins. South Dakota lawmakers are challenging Roe V. Wade head on. They have voted to outlaw nearly all abortions. I can’t believe I just typed that. What year is this???
I wish I were surprised. But with the new Justices on our high court and our conservative White House, nothing shocks me anymore.
I am a mother of two beautiful children. I am a woman. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am a daughter.
I have had an abortion.
I am not ashamed. I do not have any regrets. And I will tell you it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Not many days go by that I don’t think about it. And in that same thought, I thank God, Goddess, and everything in this world that I had the OPTION to make that decision.
Today, in a Starbuck’s parking lot, I saw a 20-something man get into his car that was riddled with Anti-Choice stickers. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to ram my car into his and smack him in his smug, conservative face. He smiled at me because I was with my baby. He gave me that “awww, what a cute baby, now aren’t you glad you didn’t abort her?” look. This 20-year old boy knows nothing of my uterus. Knows nothing of the choices I faced. It’s not his decision. Or my government’s. It’s mine.
I once saw a political cartoon of a woman in stirrups. She was spread apart, on her back, feet in the air. Peering into her vagina was her doctor. Behind her doctor was her preacher. Behind her preacher was her congressman. Behind her congressman was her president. You tell me, did all those men belong there?
I’m ready to march. I’m ready to head to DC. This is a fight and a right and I will make sure my voice is heard. I will pack up my kids and hold signs on Capitol Hill. Every woman needs to make her voice heard on this issue. We will not go back.
The family that prays together, stays together…no, that’s not it.
The family that plays together…no…no…wait.
The family that dresses to match look like a bunch of fucking freaks…BINGO!
I love the kids’ clothes over at Hanna Andersson. Cute stuff people. Stellar work.
Striped tights? Who doesn’t love a little ringlet-headed girl in striped tights?
Crisp khaki pants? I’m sure if I went to church (instead of practicing witchcraft and becoming a lesbian) I’d dress my son in some of those crisp khaki’s.
But the matching family long underwear makes me think any family wearing this is a little too close. And Muffy and Biff play a kissing game in the basement while Dadums and Moms are at the club drinking highballs and boffing tennis instructors.
It completely creeps me out.
I honestly thought when I got the family together for one of those obligatory photos that no one wants to take, we’d at least try and coordinate. Look somewhat together. But ever since my sister-in-law called one year, asking we all wear navy and khaki for a big family photo, I’m 100% against matching clothing. 110%, really. The conversation went something like this:
“Do you think the Kaiser could wear some nice slacks and a collared shirt and maybe you could wear a skirt?”
“Ahahahahahahhahahahahah. Really? Oh, you’re serious?”
First of all. Who the hell says “slacks?” Second of all, my husband wears jeans, a t-shirt, and his black Converse every single day to work. He may or may not have a pair of slacks. I’m not telling.
Third of all. I’m going to, now, wear pants simply because I was asked to wear a skirt. I can be just as girly girl as the next femme. But don’t make me wear a dress.
Just a few months earlier, a long skirt was brought for me to borrow by my sister-in-law so I could enter a church. And sit on the woman’s side. No. Really. I’m not making this up. The family took a “field trip” and I was handed a long skirt to put on. I said “uh…what’s this?” and they said “we didn’t think you had one, so we brought this for you to put on over your pants.”
So forgive me, if the idea of a family dressing to match completely turns me off. But when, ahem, those family photos come in the mail and I see certain mothers actually knotting a bandana around their necks to match the bandana in their husband’s shirt pocket and daughter’s dress…
I puke.
*****stupid Hanna Andersson site won’t let me actually link to the long john family. Go to their site, click on “shop our catalog” up on the right, click on the Winter 2005 catalog…pg. 22-23.****
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