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.

Little Ms. Independence.

Ah, the tiny toddler tyrant. The formation of confidence and independence are a necessary evil in the development of the mind. Maggie is currently in the “I do it” stage. She needs to do everything, even if she can’t. “No, I do it. Mama. I do it.” I tell her she has to take a bath 15 minutes prior because that is about how long it takes her to take off her socks. I try to help in ninja like sweeps to her heel. But she will quickly brush away my hand and say with authority and a frown “NO, I DO IT.” Okay, bitch, go for it. Luckily for me she is easy to distract with gummy bears. But who isn’t really? Last night when getting home, John said “Guess what your daughter did?” “Kill someone with her fury?” Not yet. However, while watching Dora the Explora, which she calls “Dorie”, she had a moment. If you are not familiar with Dora, it is a Nick Jr. animated show in which a girl is faced with a problem, and she needs to figure out the clues to attain a positive result. This, in theory, sounds reasonable. But this morning’s Dora, involved Dora waking up to find her twin brother and sister aged 6 months out of the cribs, and on a stroller that was capable of moving itself since the twins all of sudden disappeared. As Dora, her monkey, her mom and dad raced to find “the babies”, they went through a gate, and then came to a red hill, which was actually a giant rooster. Finally, they found the babies. Yeah. Anyway, when the mission is accomplished, Dora and her pals launch into a rousing edition of “We did it. We did it. Yes, we did it.” Ms. Maggie McCall, finding issue with this, suddenly ran to the television and started screaming at the top her lungs "NO. I DO IT. I DO IT.” And that is your tiny toddler tyrant.

Owen Turns Four (Pardon the Late)

It is hard to imagine four years ago, I had myself a brand new spanking baby boy. Especially since that baby boy full of blue eye wonder is now a 40 pound, 42.5 inch tall very independent mind of his own fun loving dork. Although to be fair, what four year old is not a dork? So Owen on your 4th birthday (albeit few weeks late), you make your father and I very happy, even if you may cause a certain eye twitching frustration every so often. You are a goof, pure and simple. You love to laugh, you make us laugh, and you make Mags laugh too. Aside from the occasional push, shove, hit you are an amazing big brother. Several times this year, your sister would pull your hair and all you would say was “Owww, Daddy, Maggie pulled my hair.” No retaliation. Although I would say that at this point that ratio is more 80/20 ration, but Maggie is almost two, she should know better. Right?

Your loves at the moment are many and include pretty much anything Pixar, but Toy Story in particular. You also like this new show called the Fresh Beat Band - which is more of a last month type of thing. It is a show about singing, you sing and dance. One day this will embarrass you more than you will ever know, and honestly, I can’t wait for that because this show is really, really bad. But you love it, so we suffer through. You love to do puzzles, which is pretty great since your Dad and I have images of all of us at the dining room table muddling through a 1,000 piece Giants win the World Series one. Oh, you kinda like sports. And my “kinda” I mean fanatically. We finally had to delete the World Series win because it was all you wanted to watch, Renteria’s homerun in particular where you would run around and yell crazily happy. Same for football, although I think you love baseball more. This year we took you to the AT&T Park for the Giants versus the Red Sox, Madison Bumgardner’s debut. For eight innings you sat enthralled. Clapping and yelling and watching the Giants lose (it was to be expected, it was the Sox for god’s sake). But that game made me realize that you were becoming a little guy.

Also this year you graduated to a twin bed. A bunk bed, for future sharing with your sister. The transition was easy and although there are the times you do not want to go to sleep and throw a hissy fit, but its getting better (through bribes of tattoos and candy). Your Dad reads you stories every night for 30 minutes, then you guys sing songs, and then (if we are lucky) you fall to sleep to wake up anywhere between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m.. So, yeah, that right there needs some work. Your sister sleeps like the dead, but you are and have always been an early bird. Luckily this is a trait both you and your Dad possess, because Mama likes to sleep in.

You are four Owen. Next year at this time we will be applying to Kindergarten. Or maybe the MLB, because your arm and bat skills are ridiculous. In fact, a 10 year old commented on it by saying to his friend “Did you see that little kid, I could not hit like that at his age.” Impressive, indeed. But I think kindergarten is probably the safer bet.

You are a good guy Owen. Even at times when I pretend to yearn for a life I had before you and Maggie, there is no way I could ever go back. You make my heart whole, and the pride and love I have for you is overwhelming. Okay, going to stop now, don’t need to cry. Owen Patrick, I can’t wait to see what the next year brings - like later wakeups!

Love,
Mama

Kay Jewelers "First Christmas" - A Reaction

Owen turned four years old and there are all sorts of how the heck does time go so slow and so fast associated with that, but I like to instead focus on a commercial that is running the rounds this Christmas. Perhaps you have seen it, the romantic image of a new family. Father, mother and baby happily cloistered around a tree. The baby is very young, seemingly just born. The mother is bushy eyed at what is indicated to be the wee hours of the morning. The father is gleaming at his son. Now while most watch this with hearts warming, I have a much different reaction. This is because I had a baby on December 19, 2006. When Christmas rolled around, Owen was a mere six days old. I can tell you the first holiday with Owen was not so idyllic. I was battling mastitis, a breast infection. Because Owen latched improperly created a cut in which bacteria grew that resulted in a fever of 104 degrees and hallucinations. This was easily remedied with antibiotics, but I was not the only one suffering that evening. On Christmas Eve, John “felt something” on the top of his ass. What was it? An ass boil. I know this because a few weeks when we finally emerged for the daze of having a kid I looked it up. It was stress related boil (because John was pretty much under the assumption that birth for me meant death). On that Christmas Eve, I sat with a pin over a burning flame in order to disinfect it so that I could pierce the boil atop my husband’s ass. What came out was a river of pus along with a smell that only can be described as what Lance Armstrong’s balls must smell like after the Tour de France. Gut wrenching waves of a most inhumane scent. So screw you Kay Jewelers and your “First Christmas”, because I don’t remember getting a freaking diamond necklace, but instead one boob as hard as a rock and a husband whose anxiousness and stress manifested itself as a boil on his ass that under the terms of “for better or worse” I got to pop. Happy Holidays everyone!

Goodreads

The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


She's Come Undone is a great book, and I was excited to learn that Wally Lamb had wrote another, because I had forgot the other book at my mother-in-law's and still don't have it back. And I was almost done, which is a headache for another day. The Hour I First Believe is a fine book. The beginning can be off putting with the Columbine references and the personal history of Caelum and Maureen. But I love off putting. Its a good book, evidenced by the fact I spent the entire last 100 pages transfixed and unable to put down. I need Mr. Lamb to right more books, they always seem to speak to me.



View all my reviews

Five Things.

1. This morning Maggie managed to stuff the mother of all raisins up her nose which was removed with tweezers. However, she seems only to favor her left nostril, which I am pretty sure means she is right handed.

2. Owen got pushed off a slide yesterday and I came home to this:



But fear not, as Owen has repeatedly told me, “Its okay Mama. Its only paint.”

3. Cirque de Soleil’s new show Cavalia has the tagline - A Magical Encounter between Human and Horse. Really? It never crossed anyone’s mind that the slogan could possibly have other meaning? Like those related to bestiality. This is reason #1034 I will never see a Cirque de Soleil performance. I know that everyone says they are awesomely amazing so much so you won’t believe your eyes, but my eyes do not care to take part in a “magical encounter” between man and mare.

4. Having kids is really putting a damper on my pseudo alcoholism. How is possible to drink and pass out when your 20 month old daughter has decided to go bat shit crazy. For the past two nights Maggie has been a tad angry about not having a full sippy cup of water. The fact is the cup is brimming with water. In response, to her uninformed cries, you firmly state, “It is full. It is not empty.” “More, MamaDaddy. More.” “Dude, its freaking filled already.” Attempting to reason with utter insanity, you take off the top to display the water filled cup. She looks at the water, then at you, blinks and then screams “MOOORREEE.” Because you will not do this 500 times like the night before, you shut off the light and close the door. To which Maggie proceeds go absolutely bonkers - crying, hysterical, not being reasonable AT ALL. (Side Note: I now know what every man experiences during a woman’s time of the month. John, I apologize.). And now this text John sent me: “Holy shit. Mags is off the rails crazy right now.”

5. I miss snow.

Happy Thanksgiving To You

Thanksgiving was had at a relative’s house (Thanks Sue!), so I did not get to indulge in best of Thanksgiving traditions - leftovers. Also there no Green Giant corn niblets in butter sauce, which is just fucking nuts. And San Francisco, it is called a Rutabaga. I am Irish and if I spend another god forsaken Thanksgiving without sweet creamy stick of butter in it amazement that is mashed yellow turnips, I might have a breakdown. On Friday morning, in a mission for leftovers, I purchased a nineteen pound butterball turkey for half price. On Saturday, the beast was cooked and my somewhat immediate family dined upon the carcass. Maggie who never eats a ton of anything was shoving corn niblets in butter sauce and turkey down her gullet like a Nathan’s Hot Dog contestant. A very impressive display of gluttony for a girl who maybe eats every three days. Later that evening the kids were bathed and dressed for bed. The usual fall asleep in 20 seconds at 6:30 p.m. Maggie McCall did not. Instead she cried, then cried some more, then had a hissy fit, then decided just to shriek. My mind, incapable of dealing with her wails, did the only thing it could. It sent the appropriate message along synapses to drink repeated shots of whiskey. Finally at 8:30 p.m., after two hours of delirium inducing screeching, I took her in our room where she promptly fell asleep and I promptly passed out. The next morning, she seemed better. We figured she was either over stimulated, teething or possessed by the devil (my vote). Later that morning, John took her to be changed. Wherein I heard, “Cass, I think there is something up Maggie’s nose.” “WHAT?”. “I think there is something up her nose.” “Let me see.” As I tilted her head back to peer into her nostrils, there was something. “What the hell is that?” “I don’t know.” “Get the tweezers.” John holding her hands and me armed with the tweezers, we removed one, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN pieces of turkey. Out of her nose. She had not eaten like a champ, but instead put various sized turkey pieces up her nose. And all that crying the night before was probably related to the fact that 2 pounds of that 19 pound bird were up her left nostril. And this, my friends, is my daughter: a person who puts bits of food up her nose for fun. Help me.

Its Owen Time

Having an almost four year old is a bumpy life lesson in psychology. A tiny manic depressive who goes from happily excited for all things awesome to a whiny crazed person afraid “of everything”. But all in all, for the most part, and this is not the wine speaking, it is pretty fun. Today I bring a few “Owenisms”:

1. Owen - The Easy to Please. At bedtime, Owen and I indulge in Little Boy Stories wherein he picks the subject and I tell the tale. Although never spoken, it is understood that the “Little Boy” is Owen. These stories usually involve life lessons - the little boy who did not hit his sister, the little boy who stayed in bed even though he was scared, the little boy who learned how to make vodka from potatoes. Again, useful life lessons. Because his preschool class was going to the Boat Park today, that was the story’s focus. I began, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy, whose was going to the Boat Park with his classmates. They lined up, held hands and walked to the park - one block, two blocks, three blocks, four blocks, five blocks. Finally, they were at the Boat Park.” At this point, Owen turned to me and said “Mama, THAT IS UNBELIEVABLE.” Not really, but I like the enthusiasm.

2. Owen - The Ladies Man. Last Saturday while at the mall, Owen took the opportunity to greet every female mannequin with the following - “Pleased to me you. My name is Owen. What’s your name?” He did this twenty-two times. Not to actual people, or male mannequins, but mannequins of the female persuasion, meaning the ones with boobies. Yep. Obviously, his year of nursing proved quite impactful.

3. Owen - The Vocabulary Expert. While at Target, Owen come upon his Holy Grail: a Toy Story matchbox racing track. His two great loves (not sports related) combined. “I want Daddy.” “No, Owen.” “Why?”. “It is too expensive.” Flash forward to later in the evening where Owen on the toilet has finished pooping (parenthood is awesome!), and he reaches behind him for his toddler wipes taking about ten. John, living under my frugal ruling hand says to Owen “Owen, those are expensive, do you know what that means?” “Yes, Daddy. That means I don’t get that toy.” Ba Dam Dam.

4. Owen - The Ipad Dancer. Whenever he hears this song, this is what happens:

DST Is Not For Me.

There comes a day in the realm of parenthood that ever parent dreads. They look to their calendars in November to see it blatantly bolded and italicized on the first Saturday of November: the words, “Daylight Savings Time.” As a parent of young children, there is one thing to which I hold an almost maniacal fervor, the early bedtime complete with routine. This soothes the crazed toddler/preschooler. It sets the stage for you and your husband to gaze adoringly at each other not in the presence of someone asking “Why?” a thousand times or the obsession of a 19 month old to that bold dickhead, Caillou. But then Daylight Savings Time arrives to fuck it all up. There is only one thing to do, extend bedtimes by an hour and pray after a few days things even out. But this weekend, not so easy.

To back track, last Thursday John picked up Maggie from daycare bringing her home. She proceeded to vomit in the car, then on John (repeatedly), then on the floor, then on the couch. Later on it was her crib. But by morning, she was absolutely fine. We figured it was something she ate due to the quick onslaught and violence of attack. However, in the early hours of Saturday morning, I awoke to a funny feeling in my stomach. It continued for a while as I become more and more nauseated. So much so, that at 3:30 a.m. I bolted upright for the bathroom to hurl out the contents of my stomach.

Owen decided this would be the perfect time to wake up. “Owen, you can’t wake up. You need to go to sleep. You will be exhausted.” Its daylight savings day asshole, and you need to be awake until 8:30 (at the least). But my vomiting obviously excited the little guy, since he decided that 4:00 a.m. would be the perfect time to awake for the day. Due to the fact I was a blubbering idiot incapable of doing anything but lying in bed wailing, John did the solid and took the boy. Maggie McCall hearing her brother decided to wake up at 5:30 a.m. This was also the time after making another stomach turning approach to the bathroom, I fell to the kitchen floor crying for a quick and immediate death.

As the morning progressed, my trips to the bathroom lessened. By 2:00 p.m. I was able to hold down some water, then toast, and finally soup. At 4:30 p.m, it was as though a switch was flipped. I was completely better and absolutely starving. Owen then looked at me, and proceeded to vomit the metric ton of buttered pasta and carrots he had for lunch, and the two pieces of toast, and the Hershey’s bar. Not once, not twice, but three times. Covered in his submission to the McCall Stomach Virus Abstract Art Show 2010, we proceeded to the shower. As the evening passed, I was the recipient of Owen’s stomach contents an astounding six times. This just goes to show you the level of a mother’s love. Holding his vomit in my hands after he puked like a Eucharistic offering at church because I did not want it to hit the sheets. Or maybe that was just laziness. Whatever. The point is the kid was passed out into a feeble state at 6:15, on muther effin Turn the Clocks Back Night. Which means he would be up again sometime around 4:30 a.m.

But by some miracle, he was able to sleep until 6:00 a.m., and by some further miracle, this dastardly disease bypassed John. We were able to go to the Academy of Arts and Sciences, watch football and enjoy the rainy day. The kids went to bed immediately last night and both slept until 6:00 a.m. this morning. So DST, I still hate you. Why do we even have it? Seriously. Also, I need a drink.

Putting the Oh in October

Remember a while back I spoke of a haircut that was to resemble a ponytail without the actual ponytail a/k/a worst idea ever. Back then every fiber in my being was willing it to be October. Hey guys, its October! I can happily report my hair is growing. It can be brought into a ponytail, albeit a weak impersonation of one. Finally, after that day in a fit of insanity I went into the bathroom with a rusty pair of red Ikea scissors to chop the mullet and wings on my head, the hair gods are smiling. Also good is the Neutrogena Clinical Experiment. This week the purchase of the night version was made. My skin is looking softer, radiant and more youthful. Not so good was the fact that Owen had the flu and a fever for five days. He is better now, thank god. He was one day from going to the doctors to see if he had a UTI because he is uncircumcised. Really foreskin? But alas, the fever broke. Even in his pathetic sick state, the boy made the world a tad more bright when handed a lime popsicle, he said a few minutes later “Mummy, Daddy. I don’t like this. It’s too spicy.” Lime popsicles are too spicy for my son, but extra hot salsa and chicken tikki masala are not. Go figure. Maggie had her 18 month appointment last week wherein she finally broke 20 pounds. 20.05 bitches. She is also 31.5 inches tall registering her 50% in height and 3% in weight. But this was before she discovered Pirate’s Booty. Baby crack. Pretty sure she can take down a big bag in 3.5 seconds. We give her some; she eats it, and then yells “Mooooree, Moooreeee”. John is just happy that the first time in a year and a half he is eating for him at night. However, it is pirate’s booty which may not rank high in the nutrient factor, but this is the same girl who at her one year appointment was prescribed ice cream by her pediatrician. My dream prescription. “Cassie, yeah, I think the only thing we can do here is have you eat ice cream, and bunch of it.” “Really, doctor? You are the medical expert. Will do.” But the reality is this girl will take after my mother. Who for the majority of her life was 5’11, weight maybe 120 pounds. Genetically destined to be tall and skinny cannot be a bad thing, can it? Well yes, for John when he is fending off potential teenager suitors with baseball bats. But we have a plan for this and that plan is “Giant Nerd.” Her brother already on this path will lead his sister accordingly. Then there are braces, glasses and Catholic all girl high schools. So take that genetics.

Cassie v. Age

Part I: Neutrogena Clinical

In forty-four days I will entering a territory known as “my late thirties” otherwise known as Happy 37th Birthday. As a side note, how the hell did this happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was turning twenty-one at Axis and dancing to alternative music while declining numerous offers of Zima with Chambord? It was. But now, my vagina has expelled two life forms, I am what Oprah would classify as “perimenopausal” and bangs a/k/a forehead wrinkle covers are about two minutes from my future. However, I resolve to go down fighting. And by fighting, I mean spending large sums of money on products that promise antiwrinkling age defiance. Truthfully due to a combination of genetics, not much sun exposure, the heavy consumption of water and almost maniacal moisturizing since the age of eighteen, I think I have done good thus far. But I will not be lax in this fight, this is where it gets dirty. Almost forty demands action.

Yesterday in Walgreens, I once again passed the Neutrogena Clinical Day Moisturizing combination promising a firmer more youthful look. I have read the reviews on this stuff, and was impressed, but the $39.99 price tag was what I would say was a bit “heavy”. Then I remembered the time where spending $75.00 each on Clarins Day and Night Cream was nothing. The magical time prior to kids and a mortgage, where money went to clothes, shoes, booze and skincare. I miss you so! So I forked over the money for my ION2 complex fountain of youth.

Today after my run of 6.1 miles - I would like to say that again because it makes me happy - AFTER MY 6.1 MILE RUN and shower, I stood under the harsh fluorescent lamps of the office showers. Those lights suck. I applied the quoted “dime size” amount of the gel serum covering my face and neck. It is gray and goes on like liquid silk. Then the application of the “dime size” activating cream. Oh la la. I can say after one attempt that I have not felt softness like this since the rubbing of Owen’s ass after his horrifying meconium poop. My face feels like a baby’s ass people. In case you don’t have a baby, that is soft. Very soft. Like the kind of soft you think clouds must feel like. My face feels like clouds.

Day One of the Neutrogena Clinical Day Cream Test has gone well. We shall see what the next days shall bring. But I am hoping pregnancy glow skin. Cause that shit was the best.

Football, Football, Football

Ah football. It is the season that allows the slow descent into insanity because of an overflow of fantasy football knowledge. If you have not figured it out, I can be a tad competitive. So much so, my family once accused me of memorizing Wheel Of Fortune (The Home Game) answers. This was not true, because in order to do that I would have to memorize over 300 phrases that paired with the sheet number visible on the board. Total idiot savant abilities that I unfortunately do not possess. But because of uber competitive spirit (problem), they totally believed I spent hours upon hours memorizing phrases with numbers so that I could win - at Wheel of Fortune. This gives you a slight glimpse into my competitive nature. The point is that for the last month there has been the steady consumption of fantasy football statistics, advice, magazine and websites (none of which I will share because they are my little secrets, and fucking find your own). The only thoughts this week have been fantasy football related as my drafts are tomorrow and Friday. Yesterday I came home with a tiered IDP cheat sheet as well as a tiered position cheat sheet with average draft position that John could look over so that we can discuss our plan of attack tonight. Couple time bitches! There was even the nightmare last evening about not drafting an IDP until the 10th round. A dream that woke me up, and kept me up because then I started to think of drafting strategy from the front end, middle and end draft spots. All because I am dorky. Or insane. Or competitive. But at least I have a hobby other than knitting on the train. So there!

An Open Letter

Dear PMS,

I hate you. For the past few nights I have been tossing and turning, incapable of any firm grasp on sleep. Usually my sleep is reminiscent of the dead, dead bed hogs, sure, but still - THE DEAD. Because of you and this ridiculous San Francisco heat wave, I lay in bed doing my best impression of a hot flashed fifty-five year old menopausal women while thoughts of who to draft in my fantasy football leagues bounce around in my head. Seemingly, the boy part and the girl parts of me have thrown down the gauntlet to battle. And since there will be no future use of my female parts due to fact that having another kid will inevitably make me a homeless insane drunkard, I would like to state with the most emphatic of all voices - leave me the fuck alone. I served my time through years of horrible cramps, moodiness, acne and that one time there was an unfortunate leak in high school pointed out to me by a girl in the presence of what seemed to be 1,000 boys. So yeah, cut me a break. Leave me and my mostly male mind alone. There are two fantasy drafts next week that need absolute focus. I can’t be drafting players with this girl brain of psychosis. For all I know, I will end up drafting Ochocinco because he is cute and was on the Dancing with the Stars. Shudder.

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

Things I Learned On My Summer Vacation

1. When thinking about taking a 16 month old across county on a plane why don’t you just stab your eye out with a fork, it will be less painful.

2. Humidity is an evil vile thing that one does not have to suffer from. You hear that New England?

3. Fenway installed more restrooms for the ladies. No longer need to miss three and a half innings when all those consumed beers make it known.

4. What the hell happened to Lansdowne Street? The Cask and Flagon no longer a dive bar and some place called “Game On”? Tainted, I say. Tainted.

5. Crane’s Beach is entirely too gorgeous.

6. If you want to see utter glee on your 3.5 year old son's face, take him to Water Country. Never has a kid been so happy as Owen was when in that water park. Insane giddy people.

7. The Dunkin Donuts strong arm on Massachusetts is iron clad (and almost mafia like in its tactics). How many Dunkin Donuts can one state have? I don’t think the people even enjoy the DD, but they have no other choice in the matter.

8. Drinking half of bottle of grey goose on a Friday night in order reclaim your drinking youth is not exactly fun the next morning. But when waking up that morning deciding with still drunk mind and eyes to run five miles is bordering on masochistic.

9. The antipasto appetizer at Massimino’s in the North End made my belly cry out in delight.

10. Although the pull of family and friends is great, I am now a San Francisco girl. I like my summers foggy cold so that my whiskey can gently warm.

Travel Thoughts

In less just about 23 hours I will be in the first hour of a five and half hour flight (SF to Boston) with my husband, 3.5 year old son and 16 month old daughter. This I wish happen on the plane:

1. That he purple glow of the Virgin American plane creates an almost spa like effect in my children lulling them into incapacity (sans drool).

2. That there are other children on the plane, so that when I look up and meet the eyes of another parent, we can via our eyes say “Holy god, I am getting so drunk after this flight.”

3. That toddler headphones work miracles.

4. That my daughter naps.

5. That I don’t run screaming to the exit in a fit of insanity because some asshole just bumped the chair and Maggie woke up 10 minutes into her usual two hour nap (this happened before, that flight is what in which hell is loosely based).

6. That crayons occupy tiny minds, and if not occupy, I really don’t care if they eat them, because an entire twenty pack will be what, 45 minutes of gastronomical delight?

7. That there is no divorce after we land.

8. That there are no explosive poops.

9. That I can hold myself back if someone rolls their eyes at me, because I might snap. And by snap, I mean place my kid on their lap and say “Okay, Dr. Sears have at it.”

10. That by some miracle of god, they are actually a-okay, behave, and people cheer and high five me upon my exit. And then unicorns, fairies and rainbows greet me at Logan (with vodka).

The Attack of the Yellow Pepper, Plane Rides and Boston Gimlets

What you see before you may appear to be a yellow pepper. But for me, it is a killer. Today at the allergist I happened to mention what happened to me in Hawaii a few years back when I had unknowingly consumed my allergic nemesis, the yellow pepper. After the doctor stared at me, he said “This is very serious Ms. McCall. What you experienced was anaphylaxis.” Yeah. “You will need to come in for further food testing and carry around an epipen. As well as get a medical alert bracelet.” Uh-huh. “You could die Ms. McCall.” All righty. Then I was instructed on how to save myself via the epipin and watched a movie about anaphylactic shock. And now for the rest of my life I will carry around an epipin and wear a medical alert bracelet because I am allergic to god darn yellow peppers. However, this is pretty exciting in the sense my nerd status has risen to “Stephen J. Hawking” levels. Also, I was told "never to eat alone." So I better not get divorced.

Two days from now John and I embark on our adventure east. We are both a tad bit fearful on this completely booked plane that our kids are going to go ape shit and make us the hated McCalls of Row 5. I am going to look positively towards this trip and negate all memories of the trip back home with Maggie in March. The one in which I think hell is loosely based, because positivity gets positive results right? Right? Anyone with me? Help me.

Anyway, see you soon Beantown! If you are in Boston and would like to get together for a drink, remember, I like gimlets.

Happy Anniversary

Today is my fourth anniversary with one Mr. John Preston McCall Jr. I would like to stress the junior part there, because I just kind of vomited in my mouth a little. No offense John’s Dad. Five years ago today we went to a Giants game (they won!), then to a bar (shocker!) and then we made out (whores!). Exactly one year later, we got married. Did I plan that? Oh hell no, total coincidence, what do I look like, an actual girl? But I did plan the pregnancy that forced him to marry me. Kidding - he got me drunk, bought an ovulation calculator and trapped me. Duh! But yeah, four years of babies and wine and laughter and beer and sports and vodka. And even though he once tried to steal Chris Carpenter from me in fantasy baseball (first official fight) and once watched Lost without me when I was a raging hormonal weaning mess (second official fight), I have forgiven him and love him very, very much. These past five years have been my absolute happiness (okay I am a girl, gosh darn it).

P.S. Still waiting on that third fight, but guessing it will probably involve not wanting to take Patrick Willis in the 5th round in our IDP League. (He is a total fourth rounder).

P.P.S. And we just happened to make these guys.

Update on My Life - Yada, Yada, Yada

What a bad blogger. Not updating the 2.5 people who actually read this thing. Well fear not loyal reader(s), I am back. And as such, here are a few of the things that have occurred in the past few weeks.

1. Lumpy was Excised. My surgery with Lumpy went pretty well. I was awake (but heavily drugged) for the entire thing. I asked to see my lumpy. Which in some circles would be weird, but the people in that room thought it was awesome. Lumpy looked like the fat part you cut off on chicken, but baseball sized and bloody. Totally gross, and totally awesome. Also, for a surgery that was “no big deal” I got a prescription for forty vicodin. The bad news is that a tiny piece of Lumpy survived - hello surgery circa 2022. The good part is that the scar on my shoulder looks like I was in a knife fight. Meaning, if ever imprisoned, no one can make me their bitch. Holla! (Side Note: I watched Reform School Girls way too many times).

2. Vacation. We headed up to the cabin last week with Owen and Maggie and our sanity. We left three days later with Owen and Maggie and shreds of that sanity. A not childproofed propane, rustic cabin is no place for a fifteen old month girl with what may be intelligence of Einstein combined with the definate personality of an insane Viking warrior. Girls are easy my ass.

3. Happy Anniversary. June was the one year anniversary of the start of my running. I have been exercising consistently for an entire year. Pigs are not flying, but it has to be soon.

4. Vacation Part Duex. We leave for Boston at the end of the month for two weeks of humidity. If you are a praying person, pray for me. Those kids on a plane for nearly 6 hours may be the death of me.

5. Happy Anniversary Part Duex. July 22 is the fourth anniversary of The Debastardization of Owen Patrick McCall. How can I have been married for four years? How can I have had two kids? How is it that I have not run out for a pack of cigarettes and never returned? Oh yeah, because I got to marry one Mr. John McCall, who all in all is a wonderful guy that I am lucky to have met (and trapped).

There you go. A summary of event of the past, and events of the future. There is a number of things I want to do in Boston. All of which start with beach and end in oyster. But that is another story.