Category: Family
Staying At Home: I Guess I’m Batman In This Situation?
I can’t remember when it started… Maybe last week? It began with a whimper, and has become a full-scale nuclear meltdown. Separation anxiety. What. The. Fuck? My sweet, even-tempered little boy has started channeling Harvey Dent in the last couple of days. Most of the time, he’s fine. We hang out, he laughs, we do stuff, all is right in the world. But then, I take a step out of the room. I go to the bathroom. I LEAVE THE HOUSE. And he’s no longer cutie-patootie Aaron Eckhart being all mild-mannered and trying to woo Maggie Gyllenhaal. He’s that weird half-skull Terminator baby that’s going into business with the Joker. The REVENGE business. Continue reading
Thoughts From A Mom Of All Boys…
I have two, beautiful, funny, loving, freaking insane little boys. They are my whole world. My oldest is just like his father: really laid back, easily made to laugh, a daredevil, and tough as nails. My youngest is just like me: super cautious, very snuggly, sensitive, and can be very silly. I can’t put into words how much I LOVE them both with every part of everything that I am.
Living in a house full of boys is….well, it’s crazy. They are nonstop. I literally take them out and exercise them just like I do my dog. They are boys. They need to run. Often, they feel the need to run naked…we try to save that fun for inside the house. Today my youngest decided to pee a beautiful design onto the carpet in our playroom. He was very proud to show off his artwork and absolutely devastated to discover that I was not impressed. Both of my boys are totally obsessed with all things poop, pee, butt, etc and honestly it’s hard not to laugh at all of their antics. Yet underneath all of this boy weirdness there are these sweet little men who love to wrap their tiny arms around me and tell me that they love me, or exclaim “OH Mommy!! I love youw pwitty, pwitty, pwitty, pwitty dwess!” (Even though I’m just wearing a long t-shirt and sweatpants.) They like to brush my hair, snuggle on the couch, draw me pictures, play dress-up…I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.
My first pregnancy was not easy to conceive and through that experience we learned just how precious and miraculous a baby really is. People were excited for us when they found out we were having a boy the first time around. The second time around was a totally different story. So many people, including family, were disappointed. Flat out bummed to hear our news. “Oh. We were hoping for a girl.” Really? So no congratulations on this healthy miracle we created? Thanks. Before I even gave birth people were asking me when I was going to try for that girl. The blatant disappointment from others was devastating and we learned a lot from it. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional. But I will never forget how it made me feel. Continue reading
In The Kitchen: Chocolate Chip Cookie/Brownie Bars
In The Kitchen is a sporadic (word of the day!) column featuring what we’re eating and making. Warning: Your ass may get fat. But in an awesome way.
My food therapy
This weekend has been a total shitshow and I don’t want to even try to process it at this time. So, I went to my happy place, Pinterest. I found a pin for Chocolate Chip Cookie Brownies and figured that amount of chocolate would make me feel better.
The recipe is simple – brownies, chocolate chip cookies – but because you’re making two things, it takes a little longer and needs some pre-planning to get everything together on time. Is it worth it? After a day like today, after a weekend like this, after a really hard week? Absolutely.
Recipe can be found here…
Gooooooey, chocolatey comfort
Feminist Friday: Pink Jersey Hater
This is one of my favorite times of year. NFL draft season, NHL and NBA playoff season. Yes, I am a girl. Yes, I like LOVE sports. No, that doesn’t mean I want to look like I’m 21 going “clubbin'” when I go to a game. No, that doesn’t mean that I want to wear pink or sea foam green or any other color other than my teams ACTUAL colors on game day. Just because I have a uterus does not mean that I am not capable of sports knowledge and fashion knowledge at the same time. And I can not be the only woman like this in the world.
I have been a sports fan since I was born. Really, I had no choice in the matter. My parents thought I was going to be a boy. This was before they did ultrasounds on a daily basis, but the doctor told them that he was sure my mom was carrying a boy. So needless to say when the big day came my parents were more than shocked. My grandmother had to go to my parents house and redo the nursery while my mom and I were still in the hospital, which still ended up in navy and maroon because there is only so much you can do on short notice. My uncles had all gotten me shirts from different teams and colleges. I spent the majority of my early life in team apparel if only because it was bought with the understanding that I was to be a boy. Man I really screwed things up for them, huh?
My Dad never really let the fact that I am a girl get in the way of taking me to every sporting event under the sun. I have been to everything, from the four majors (NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL) to every college sport to minor league baseball and hockey, to arena football, to horse races and boat races. I was a well rounded little sports girl. He taught me not just about the history of all his favorite sports but how to really know the game. If that QB’s bad pass was because of his weak throwing arm, awkward throwing motion, or because the guy ran the wrong route. Continue reading
My Boobs Hurt: Breastfeeding Woes
So, I know that breastfeeding can be a controversial issue, and I’m not here to preach. The decision to breastfeed is a personal one, and I would never judge a woman for choosing not to breastfeed. That is HER choice. And I know that some women don’t even get a chance to make that choice, they just aren’t able to. I am thankful that I have been able to successfully breastfeed both of my children, but there have definitely been some ups and downs. That’s what this post is about. So, here it goes…
The thing about breastfeeding is that your boobs are “on call” ALL THE TIME. That’s right, 24 hours a day, your baby has access to the girls and all they have to offer. This seems a little unfair, considering that same baby just took over your body for the last nine months, but, that’s what you sign up for when you decide to breastfeed.
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Stuff My Parents Did Right: Left Me Alone
I think it’s pretty common for people to talk about how their parents fucked up. From petty grievances like, say, being an incredibly embarrassing audience member (from theater to sports) to for-real shit, like abuse, everyone has SOMETHING to say about how their parents fucked up. My grievances, I suppose, for the most part are in the former category. My parents and I managed to butt heads quite a few times over the years (we exist on opposite ends of the political spectrum), and I don’t get my irrational anger from (as my mother would say) a stick or a stone. But I’m okay! A few Things here and there, but fairly well-adjusted and not, you know, an idiot. So, those issues aside (for now), I’d like to take a second to give my parents an internet high-five for doing this thing. And this thing? Was leaving me the fuck alone. Continue reading
Feminist Fridays: Raising a Not-Douchey Boy
I wanted a girl. I wanted a girl SO BAD I convinced myself that I had one inside of me instead of the boy I knew was in there before I even had that damn ultrasound because I like to pretend I have a sixth sense (I don’t). But I grew up with 2 older half sisters, one younger, uh, full? sister, and a plethora of female friends. My plan was to raise her to be a little badass. Play guitar, read Steinem, fight against the patriarchy, listen to 7 Year Bitch. (Some might have suggested “SPORTS!” but we, as a clan, are not athletically inclined at all.) So when I got that ultrasound, and saw my kid poking at his wiener in utero, I thought: What am I gonna do with a boy? Was he gonna grow up to be like his irresponsible father, unable to grasp the concept of accountability? Could I teach him to respect women, despite what his “boys” might dictate later on? That catcalling WON’T win him any points with the ladies (or with me)? Would he follow in the footsteps of way too many dudes in my family, dudes who enjoyed making comments about other women (for better or for worse) in front of their wives and daughters? Worse yet, would he grow up to be an entitled fucktard who was mean to girls? Or, my worst nightmare, a boy who thinks that what happened in Steubenville was okay because girls who are labeled as “sluts” are asking for it? Cue panic attack.
During my pregnancy, I had already resigned myself to the notion that I would mostly be in charge of the kid’s upbringing. His father is…much like a child himself, a statistic of a broken home that I did NOT want to translate to our son (look at me, being diplomatic). So, when our son was 3, I did what any smart feminist would do and gave his father the boot. He sucked up my money, time, and soul and I knew our son was not being brought up in a happy home, nor one that was teaching him how to accept responsibility for himself. In true feminist fashion, my already amazing friends (both male AND female) stepped up to help me out with childcare, advice, and wine.
Staying At Home: You Can’t Tell Your Toddler To Fuck Off.
Before I was a stay-at-home mom, I worked in the restaurant industry for years. I did a little bit of everything. I waited tables, bar-tended managed, manned the take-out, booked bands… Pretty much every position except cook and delivery driver. I started working at my last job at the tender, non-back hurting age of 25. The restaurant and I had a deep love/abiding hatred for each other. I loved making double my rent in one night. I loved the fast pace, and the fact that it was always changing. I had regulars, fostered friendships and had all of the fun. At the same time, I hated people. Nothing makes you more scornful of the general public than having to wait on them. People are terrible. Oh, the horror stories I could tell. Continue reading
Anecdotes Aren’t Data
So, maybe you’ve read this article about the state of daycare in the US. Maybe you haven’t. Would you like to be incredibly depressed? You would? Awesome. I’ll wait while you take a few minutes to read it. [drums fingers] All done? Wonderful. Here’s a tissue. You’re welcome. It was that last bit, wasn’t it? And all of the other terrible things.
I’m lucky. Very lucky. When I decided to actually follow through with my pregnancy, I did so knowing that I had support. I had support from my friends, and from my family. My parents, while not wealthy, are certainly well-off enough, and kind enough, to help me out of a tight spot if necessary. My child’s father, while not a bastion of support, was (for better or for worse) (probably for worse) still around, and he worked nights, which allowed me to return to work after 6 really fucking short weeks and work 12-14 hour days (after being screwed out of my short-term disability pay and almost being screwed out of my health insurance…but that’s another post for another day). So I wasn’t concerned with the cost of childcare.
But as time wore on, I started noticing things at home. Like how the top shelf of my baking cabinet had been decimated. Or my new Urban Decay (bought on clearance, thankyouverymuch) eyeliner had been smeared on my bathroom wall. I knew my child’s father was not doing his job. Granted, he did work nights, but it was at a bar. And I really REALLY doubt he was forced to stay there til the 5 or 6am at which he normally came home. My then 2 year old son was busting out of the baby gate and having his way with my home. In my kitchen and in my bathroom. Cue heart attack. Finally I said FUCK IT, and managed to hire an old friend of mine to watch E 3 days a week hoping to assuage my fears. It was definitely helpful, and I trusted (and still trust!) her with the care of my child. After I gave E’s dad the boot, I had to find a place for him the remaining days because I knew his father was the most unreliable. After making half-assed arrangements with friends (god bless them) and being late to work more times than I could count, I finally sent him to a co-worker’s sister’s home daycare. It wasn’t a nightmare, but E wasn’t having a great time, and they gave preference to their own (horrible brat) granddaughter over ALL of the other children. I had to come up with a better solution. Continue reading
A Win’s a Win
Autism changes the way you measure progress. It’s near impossible to compare your child with a “neurotypical” kid. If you try, you’re just going to see the ways in which your child falls short and that’s a disservice to you as a parent and your child as a person. So, normal progress charts are thrown out. Your victories are small and hard fought and usually short-lived, but when it happens, when that one thing you’ve been working on finally clicks, goodness does it feel amazing.
We’ve lived together as a family for almost a year and it feels like no time at all until I think about the boys last summer and the tiny changes we’ve made. Things that may not seem like much on the big scale, but in our house they were monuments. Little things that make me feel like a good parent, even when my throat is about hoarse from screaming and I’m looking at the dog’s crate as a reasonable timeout zone.
Charlie eats vegetables now. Before, if it was green, it wasn’t eaten. Now I can make him a salad and he’s happy. Right now he’s tearing up some baby carrots. 10 months ago, those would sit on the plate all night. But I’ve seen him finish carrots before his chips. It warms my tiny, food group loving heart.
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Put Your Damn Pants On! 