The Tomboys Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting: Bat Shit Crazy

My children have decided that they are a tag team duo in an effort to drive me and their father insane. If one is happy, quiet and occupied (Owen this morning), then the other decides to throw a temper tantrum for no discernable reason from 6:15 a.m. until 7:45 a.m. (Maggie). The pain behind my right eye that took residence about 3.2 seconds after arriving home on Tuesday night remains still, made only slightly weak by the drone of work. They say the perfect spacing between children is four years. Mine are 2 years, 3 months. What you negate to realize when you decide to have another child when the first is 18 months is that you have absolutely no fucking clue as to what will come. You think you do. At the park, adoringly you admire those seemingly happy and self sufficient two, three and four year olds. But what you see is a lie, because you don’t live with the bi-polar assholes. The park is their Prozac. The place John and I visit when our sanity is in mere shreds. This is not to say that there are not moments of happiness and bliss (bedtime and naptime, namely). It is to say that this is hard; it is really, really hard. A typical conversation with Owen when he has done something wrong.

Us: Owen, why did you do that?
Owen: Because I did that.
Us: Why are you mad?
Owen: Because I SOOOO mad.
Us: Owen, why did you hit your sister?
Owen: Because I hit her.
Us: Owen, why do mommy and daddy drink?
Owen: Blank stare.

That there is crazy talk. Nuttiness to the nth degree. It makes no sense, and I without the aide of corporal punishment. Have you tried to reason with a four year old? You can’t. And you can’t yell because that makes Captain Insano more “SOO mad”. Instead, you reassure him. Say things like “Owen, Daddy and I are not mad at you. We love you. But you can’t hit your sister. You can’t hit anybody.” A concept he seems to be grasping more and more as the days go on to what I perceive to be a five year old Shangri-La. (If it isn't, don’t tell me. Please let me have my delusional hope).

Then there is Maggie, who last Saturday, when Owen took a car from her, came up behind him, put a choke hold around his neck, and then slammed him and her to the ground. Her 23 pound body was no match to Owen’s 43 pound linebacker frame. What resulted was her head hitting the floor with an awful thud, tears of anguish, and Owen looking at her like she was, quite frankly, retarded. I was impressed by her gusto. But the parent in me had to reiterate that we don’t hit people when we don’t get our way. But seriously, though, wouldn’t that be awesome if we did? I dream of it constantly.

I guess this is parenthood, and this what I get for not spacing my children at the recommended ages. Although it can be horrible, torturous and eye-twitchingly maddening, I must admit it is also amazing, laugh filled and kind of awesome. Which is why we do it right? That and the invention of wine and the fact they are pretty cute (see below). But what I don’t understand for the life of me is why any person would ever consider having more than two. That is just an entire level of psychosis to which I want no part. All hail the empty womb.

The Tomboys Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting: Breastfeeding

As promised, this week we delve into the topic of breastfeeding. I breastfed Owen and Maggie each for 11.5 months, then gave them milk. Why did I breastfeed? Yes, there are the immunological benefits and the supposed high IQ but truthfully have you people seen the price of formula? Holy god. While pregnant, I bought a book about breastfeeding. I got through the first chapter which was touting the benefits, the bonding, and the ballyhoo for you before putting it down. First and foremost, formula is not poison. I was raised on formula. More than likely, you, of the stink eye towards formula feeding mothers, were too. Not all of us can do it, not all of us want to do it. Also, I am pretty sure parents who give their children formula bond. I mean, my mother (formula giver) showed up on my doorstep last week as a surprise from Boston and I started crying happily and hugging her. I know, totally embarrassing. But the point is we bonded. As have probably 99.99% of the women giving formula to their kids during the first year of life. Nursing was easy for me. I did not have the trials and tribulations that plague others. Meaning that these ginormous knockers I carry around, that were responsible for a baseball size growth on my shoulder to be surgically excised, actually had some fucking purpose. I went with the mindset try it, see how it goes, and go with what feels right. Never would I ever feel guilty about not breastfeeding my child. I don’t get that guilt, or the mindset. Who the hell cares what you feed your kid as long as it is not lead paint or rat poison or mayonnaise (seriously, that stuff is so awful to look at). Another thing, why is it when you tell people that your kids were not formula fed you get congratulated? Good for you, wow. That is so great. Why the hell give me a sash and crown just because I had kids on my titties for a combined 23 months. If anything, look at my boobs and say - wow, after all that they still hover high. And then I will wink, and say “Dude, seriously, thank god for underwire.” We need to get over the breastfed mommas are superior attitude. Although we are superior in artful ways to conceal our boobs in public with a baby and cloak. This brings me to another point, if you are nursing in public, please hide your boobies. I once was in the Ferry Building walking when my eyes stumbled upon this earth mother with blue vein etched boobs displayed with suckling seemingly six year hold child attached. It’s the god damn Ferry Building for God’s sake; I want to taste free samples, not vomit. Gross. In conclusion, breast feeders and formula feeders, we are all the same thing - people in dire need of a good night’s sleep and a bottle of wine. Don’t feel bad about your choice, or judging of another’s choice. We all want what is best for our kids, and it is up to us to figure out what that “best” comprises.

The Tomboy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Parenthood

Because I tend to do best in regimented environments (thank you Catholic School), and this blog is in dire need of directive, I have decided to try to write daily (Monday through Friday) focusing on one subject. What those subjects will be, I don’t know. But today, Thursday, will be known as “The Tomboy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Parenthood”. Those wondering at home, this will be my tomboy related view of things relating to pregnancy and parenthood. Really, the title pretty much sums it up. Pregnancy views will be restricted to my prior two pregnancies, and no future pregnancy, because this womb is closed for business. The sight of a pregnant woman causes a violent eye twitch followed by instant headache. If that does not say “done with kids”, perhaps this possible tattoo on my abdomen will be clearer:



Let us begin with the reason this is called the Tomboy’s Guide. Before actually reading the positive sign on a pregnancy test, there was a lurking suspicion in my mind that I would never become pregnant. It was absolutely impossible. The reason? A wrestling move. My youth was one filled with the wrestling styles of the WWF. Such stars as Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage, and the Demolition Duo. I loved it. One evening, my brother and I locked in wrestling battle, he managed to get me on the ground, stand up and then kick me in the stomach hard. An immediate pain like none I ever knew surged through my stomach (this was the lovely time before my period and the hell of cramps). I cried and rolled around clutching my stomach. This is when my mother said it “Michael, you can’t kick her in the stomach, she may never have kids.” Because of this utterance by mother, I believed that my chances of getting pregnant were very remote. After all, a Jimmy Super Fly Snooker kick to the abdomen even performed my younger brother would be extremely damaging.

Flash forward to April 2006, as I sat peeing on a stick the first month of us “trying” for a kid. Five minutes later, there it was. A positive sign. I was pregnant. And what did I say to John upon exiting the bathroom “Positive. I’m pregnant. I can’t believe it. I mean, my brother did that wrestling move on me.” To which he stood staring at me dumbfounded. Let this be a lesson to all parents, the things you say casually to your children can be etched in their minds forever. This is why I often tell Maggie in her sleep that boys are horrible, horrible creatures she should never date until she attains her 21st birthday.

Next up on the Tomboy’s Guide - Breast Feeding: Get Over Yourself.