Game of Thrones - Episode Two, The Kingsroad

Before launching into my recap of Game of Thrones Episode Two, in my last recap I forgot to mention that during the first episode each of the Ned’s children, including Bastard Jon Snow, received a direwolf. Direwolves in Westeros are like regular ole grey wolves in North America. Originally they were to be killed as their mother was dead, but them someone said, “But the Direwolf is the symbol on the Stark crest.” I wish the symbol on the McInnis/McCall family crest was Jameson Irish Whiskey, to know that I could never pass it by without taking it into my awaiting arms. Heaven.

We open on a whole lot of horses walking in a line. Horses like line dances, I know this from cowboys. Seems the Dothraki are nomadic. Daenerys looks at them wearing a lovely sheer gown. When I am on a horse, traveling with savages, I too like to look pretty. She is given something to eat by Jorah and she says “Isn’t there anything else”. What comes first the bitch or the queen? She is told that the Dothraki have an abundance of grass and horses, and people can’t live on grass. Tell that to San Francisco, Jorah! They come to camp and poor Daenerys can’t walk. Is it the horse ride, or the fact that her King is eight feet tall and makes Conan the Barbarian feel fat so I can imagine what that wedding night was like. Ouchy. Her brother is there being a big douche bag, as usual.

Back at Winterfell, seems Bran did not die from his three story fall, which is surprising given the fact that I am pretty sure leeches are the medical miracle of the day. He lies under his fur blankets (Pottery Barn?) with eyes closed, his mother looking on. Boring. Thankfully the next seen is a bunch of dogs in a barn, and who is that laying in the bed of hay - our very own dwarf about town, Tyrion Lannister. He awakes and find his nephew Joffrey looking upon him and saying “A better of lot of bitches than you are used to Uncle?” Oh, what! Tyrion tells Joffrey to pay his respects to the Starks, and he is all “Yeah, no.” But the Tyrion slaps him repeatedly to get his point across. Joffrey is aghast and runs away like the pansy he is. We meet his protector - the Hound. The Hound’s face is partly melted away. You can’t protect someone with a whole face, retards.

Tyrion bounces into the Lannister breakfast where he dazzles his niece and nephew with his wit and crude humor and infuriates his sister Cersei, especially when he brings up the fact that the Stark child is going to survive. Eyes bug. Tyrion sips on his dark ale and explains that he will not be traveling back to Kingsroad, but instead going to see the Wall. Sightseeing! Seems Jon Snow has decided to take the Black - which from I can gather, means you will never have sex again, because you can’t watch a wall and do it.

Cersei makes a bee line for Bran and finds his mother Catelyn, who apologizes for not being appropriately dressed. Thankfully, Cersei understands. She asks how Bran is doing, and then launches in how she lost her son. Because that is exactly what you want to bring up to a mother agonizing over her near death child. How your kid died. But this tale of her son’s death did put Cersei otherwise known as Bitchface into a better light. I guess but she is still the same lady screwing her brother.

There are many goodbyes. Jon to Arya (who gives her a sword). Jon to Bran (I wish I could see you wake up, but I am taking the black!). Jon to Robb (Hugs). Ned to Catelyn (Don’t cheat on me again, asshole). Ned to Jon (I’ll tell you about your mother when we meet again - which may be never).

The King and Ned have lunch and start to remember about the war and the women. It was war, what could we do? Remember that busty lass Bessie? Remember how you had a son with a wench and then brought him home so that your wife would silently hate him? Good times. Then the King gets down to business - Daenerys has wedded Khal Drogo - leader of the Dothraki. The Targaryens are after my thrown. This is proof. And Ned is all, dude, why even worry, that Dothraki don’t even have boats. They have horses and can’t swim. Fucking Kings are so stupid, right? But the King warns that a war is coming. Like I would be watching this show if one wasn't.

Back at Kamp Khal, the Dothraki are whooping it up, eating horse, and probably killing each other. Tired and Horny, Drogo comes in and flips Daenerys around and mounts her accordingly. Who says romance is dead? As Dany winces and cries, she stares at her dragon eggs - which are now in a box surrounded by candles - pretty, pretty dragon eggs take away the pain of honeymoon mischief.

Some guy I don’t know is talking to Catelyn about something (I had taken Nyquil at the beginning of the show). He is all - blah, blah, fire. He runs out, where this hooded man comes in with a knife wanting to kill Bran to put him out of his misery, but Katelyn fights him, her hands on the blades. Then Bran’s direwolf jumps from the window, into the room and basically removes said attacker’s neck and gizzards in bloody gore. Finally, blood!

I then closed my eyes in a Nyquil haze opening them to what I thought was Cinemax. But nope, just Daenerys and her lady helper engaged in showing Dany the ropes when it comes to pleasing Drogo. Seems while other girls at twelve were playing with Barbies and wondering if they truly had a psychic connection to Flintstones episodes (me), others were learning the ways of wooing (Dany’s helper). Interesting, the way to Khal Drogo’s heart, is riding him - just like a horse. You are what you eat it seems.

Joffrey and Sansa are strolling and drinking wine where the stumble upon Arya playing pretend swords with the Butcher’s son. Joffrey is pissed (because of his hair?), and takes it out on the boy while Arya and Sansa look on. As he cuts the boys face, Arya can take it no longer and hits Joffrey. Then Joffrey tries to hit Arya. But oh hell no, Direwolves don’t like people hurting their masters, and Joffrey’s hand is mangled while his sword is thrown into the water by Arya.

Because Joffrey is probably genetically handicapped, he runs to his mom who summons the King and all hell breaks loose. Joffrey wants Arya punished, her dog dead. But the dog ran off at Arya’s bidding, and now Cersei says that Lady, Sansa’s Direwolf, must take the punishment. Because Ned is Ned Stark does not let others do what is his to do, he himself insists on putting Lady down. Meanwhile the Butcher’s son was also taken down by The Hound. More gore, and here I was about to worry.

We don’t see the Direwolf being executed (because beheadings are one thing, direwolves are quite another), but what is this, what do we see next - Bran, with eyes wide opened. I’m back!

Two Stories

Story One - Out of the Mouth of Babes

Owen was home sick on Tuesday from some mystery fever that lasted all of the 2.5 seconds his preschool was able to take it and call us for the 24 hour mandatory stay away. Owen was not sick, but he had to stay home. John who has the fortune (not really if you have a sick kid) of working from home, watched him. About to be on an important telephone conference, John told Owen that he had to be very quiet and if anything came up, he needed to go to him and pull on his shirt and whisper what he wanted. Ten minutes or so, there was a gentle pull on John’s shirt, “Daddy. Daddy.”, Owen whispered (amazingly!). “What?”, asked John. “Daddy. Can I have my drums?”. “No.” “I’ll be quiet. I promise.” Then John laughed for 22 minutes.

Story Two - My Running Pants Raped Me.

Since the end of January, I have been running a ton. I have upped my distance, upped my speed and become one of those people who only use stairs. Hate me, I don’t care. Yesterday, on my 5.5 mile Fort Mason Up that Awful Hill Run something occurred. Granted, my running clothes are loose of late. Running clothes should never be loose because you will be like a gazelle down the Embarcadero - sweating and spitting and swearing - all the while, unbeknownst to you, because you are all hopped up on endorphins, your pants will be moving up and down repeatedly. Because you are cheap and prefer to by factory deficient running clothes from Ross, these cotton pants will begin to chaff you. The rough fabric and fantastic running speed no match for the smooth skin of your backside. So not only has the so-called healthy sport of running brought me exercised induced asthma, it now has given intimate knowledge of anal sodomy. Thank you exercise. Thank you.

Game of Thrones: A Recap

Unlike other recaps that delve into the intrinsic nature of plot and character development, this recap is simply my perspective of the show via a single viewing and while, most likely, drunk. Full disclosure, I have read Game of Thrones and have started the second book A Clash of Kings three times. Because I was either pregnant or nursing Owen, there is little I remember about these books. And let’s face it, fantasy as a genre is not my favorite - probably because I have a 25% chance of pronouncing anything correctly, and reading names like Daenerys over and over causes anxiety. Before proceeding I think we need to make mention of the Game of Thrones fan - I direct you to this: http://www.georgerrmartin.com/fans/index.html. Exactly, so without further ado -

HBO’s Game of Thrones, Episode One: Winter is Coming.

Up goes a gate and there are three men on horses. Horses! They exit through a tunnel carrying torches. Because it is fantasy people, and there is no electricity in fantasy. There are horses, fire, big gates, and fur. All of which is shown in 3.2 seconds. Is this the middle ages? No, its Westeros, a fantasy land created by George RR Martin. FANTASY. Our men exit the tunnel in front of a huge white snow covered imposing wall. Due to the ominous background music, I have deduced that these men are on a search for something most likely of a terrible nature. Our three men separate in the search. A tall lanky blonde blue eyed guy stumbles upon cut up bodies arranged in some sort of cultish symbol, or the murderer is obsessively compulsive. He races back to the others, where he begins to speak in an English accent. Because English accents scream fantasy, although poor choice George RR, because a Boston accent would have killed it. Killed it! Now we have some scuttlebutt because whisper thin Blondie is all - they are dead dude, we gotta go back. His friend, a burley bearded man, agrees. The leader is all - we gotta check it out, because “he” will want to know what happened. Who is this “he?”. I don’t know, but he sounds like an asshole. If I just saw a sculpture of body parts, I would have been all - outy 500 bitches. But Mr. Suck Up needs to impress his boss, so they travel back to the location. And nothing is there. No blood, no dead girl on a tree with weird eyes, and no bodies. Nothing. Basically, he of the cockney accent says “But sir, they were there.” “Oh really! Where are they now?” But then this super tall white half yeti creature appears and with a single blood laden sword swipe takes out the leader. Which is a lesson to all - when someone tells you there are a bunch of cut up body parts in a circle then you should probably not go back to check it out. The other two take off, and yeti gives chase catching up quickly to bearded fat dude, because he’s fat. He lifts his hair and a sweep of his sword decapitates while our blond skinny looks on. Yeti then flings this head so that it rolls up to Blondie with eyes fully opened. Holler bitches! This is Game of Thrones. Fade to black.

Theme Song and Opening Montage. This basically was a map with buildings sprouting up and some weird flutey music. I wanted to jig and/or fast forward.

Our story opens with an errant arrow. We pan to a young boy with bow, the source of many laughs. A man obvious of great power says - and were any of you great marksmen at the age of 10. Everyone becomes silent, because dude just smacked your ass down. There is some chit chat of a somewhat serious nature because of a deserter. Who dat? Dat is blondie, eyes bugged out and speaking all crazy talk of White Walkers (a/k/a the yeti snow giant). Ned Start, leader, must now take care of said deserter the only way he know how - in front of his kids with a giant ass sword. Another beheading is had and this time in daylight. Or fog-light, since you know, winter is coming.

Anyhoo, next some guy is dead. I know this because he is on a slab and has stones on his eyes. I can put two and two together with the best of them. Seems this guy was the Hand of the King, which is seemingly a close advisor. So now the king needs a new advisor - hello Eddard Stark. The King and Ned go way back. Homeys! In fact, the King travels a month to reach Ned in order to woo him into being Hand of the King. Is it me, or does that sound sort of gross and homoerotic? The King travels with his wife (Cersei), his son (Joffrey), her wife’s twin brother (Jaimie) and her other brother a dwarf (Tyrion) and his minions. Ned prepares by getting lots of booze and hookers. This is my kind of party.

The King arrives. Ned, his wife Catelyn and his children - Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran - bow accordingly. The King calls Ned fat, and they laugh. Just like me and my friend Diane, who is really fat by the way - I don’t care if she gave birth 2 weeks ago. By the way, Ned also has another kid named John Snow - he is a bastard. As in Ned got busy with someone other than his wife. The cad!

The King asks Ned to be his Hand. Ned wavers. The King goes to see Ned’s sister’s grave - whom he really loved because he is all she should be buried atop a hill in a meadow in the sunlight - also he said she should have been his wife. True love people. Ned is all she belongs here, underground in stone. No light for her!

Now begins the boobies. Our next family to meet are the Targaryens (I had to look that up), sister Daenerys and Vicerys. They are the descendents of the former ousted king currently exiled. They have silver hair, and Vicerys takes off his sister’s clothes to examine her “womanly figure” (boobies!) because he is going to marry her off to a savage. The savage is Khal Drogo, leader of the Dothraki. From what I can tell the Dothraki like to fight, drink and have sex. What a wedding. There are intestines gutted and a wedding gift of petrified dragon eggs. And I thought my Kitchen Aid mixer was cool. Then comes the wedding night - Dany crying while Drogo strips and circles her saying “No.” Just like me and John. Ah, memories. Drogo has some impressive man boobies. I told you it was all about the boobs.

Next we meet Tyrion who is a little person, although I don’t’ think there is any political correctness in Westeros, because we are calling one kid a bastard and another one a dwarf. But Tyrion has a big wiener, I know this because when with a whore, he states “It is my only gift from God”. I ask you, why is he called Tyrion and not Tri-pod? Also, he is played by Peter Dinklage. Dink! Is that too much penis humor for you? I don’t think so. Boobs galore in the meeting of Tyrion. He seems to like whores.

Party time. Queen Cersei and Catelyn sit watching the King who is “whoring” and “drinking”. Love him. He is dancing with a wench, then proceeds to make out with said wench in the presence of his queen. How dare he. The queen only flinches. A totally appropriate response. Then there is some discussion about Sansa and Joffrey getting married so that Ned and the King will become one big happy arranged marriage family. Sansa is pretty annoying, but this Joffrey guy looks a bit genetically challenged. Which is funny, because what do we find out at the end of this episode? Cersie and her twin brother totally going at it, to which Bran (climbing the castle wall) has the unfortunate accident of discovering, because (1) incest is gross and (2) Jamie shoves him out the window.

And there you have it - Game of Thrones, Episode One: Winter is Coming a/k/a Beheadings, Boobies and Let’s Kill a 10 year old - oh my!

The Tomboy's Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting - When Two Is Enough

Because John and I have decided that there would be no further additions to our family, I am on the birth control. John did volunteer to have himself snipped. But I said no. Do you know that if a man does not die of anything else, he is guaranteed a 100% chance of prostate cancer? That little nugget of fact made the vas deferens (science joke!) to me. And although the two are most likely not related, it screamed to me - let those sperm swim free and not be prisoners in my husband’s testicles causing his inevitable demise. Because if John were to die, I would be alone with those two kids. NO!!!!!

Now because these sperm are present with their little heads of genetic material waiting to ravage my eggs, I went on the pill. The typical use failure rate of the diaphram (my previous chosen birth control method) hovers at twenty percent. These are dice I had no intention of rolling. Pretty much anything that does not guaranty me 99.99% effectiveness is not going to fly. Because I do not want anymore kids, ever, in case I have not made myself perfectly clear.

The side effects of the pill are best summed up as short term monthly psychosis. I don’t say this lightly, because let’s face it people, the pill is telling your body - “Dude, you are so knocked up.” “You got a little baby in there.” “So don’t be shooting eggs off.” “Keep em housed up in that ovary.” “That a girl.” Then every 28 days it goes “Psyche! You stupid bitch, you ain’t pregnant.” “You are so dumb. Let me make you crazy with PMS.” “Look, that person looks like a Dorito, you better eat him.” I am sure there is some hormonal scientific explanation about this but I feel better that the pill is like the older brother I never had who is constantly lying to me and punching me in the gut at appropriate times. Because that is what the cramps feel like, punches to the gut.

But I suffer on a monthly basis because the thought of more children makes me weep and curl into the fetal posiiton. I can't stand Pill PMS, its a super hybrid of regular PMS which in itself sucks ass. Yesterday, every look to the mirror made me cringe. Incredibly uncomfortable in my body and super short-tempered - the best combination ever! But I took deep breathes, and more importantly downed an almost bottle of wine and a few beers. And today is better. I finished a 6.5 mile run and my thoughts are clearer and less psychotic. The tide, she will come. Although I am counting the months until I go back on the diaphram. Because 2 years from now, my eggs will be little old ladies of crippled DNA incapable of children. Hooray for my 40s. I can’t believe I just said that.

Eyes Like a Tiger

Two nights ago in a deep sleep I awoke to find our bedroom door ajar with the shiny white of an eye flashing before me. “Owen, is that you?” No answer. I was submerged in the drool phase of sleep and immediately thought this was a dream, all the while fearing my impending murder. “Owen?” No response. John woke up and looked to the door. “Owen?,” we said together. “Are you okay?” This is when he took the door, slammed it and ran back to his room. I stumbled there, to find him on his bed, head buried into the pillow on his knees with his butt saluting the air. This is his usual, “I am mad at you, so leave me alone pose.” “Are you okay?,” I said while rubbing his back. He was asleep in thirty seconds without a word. Maybe it was a bad dream, or sleep walking or any possible number of toddler sleep antics. But if anyone had a right to be mad in this situation, it was me. Being awoken from a coma like sleep to find a pair of hostile mutant midget eyes glaring at you with deep breathes of attitude is not something qualified as a proper wake up technique. And “scared” does not adequately describe my mental state: confusion/non-recognition/fear/recognition/amazement/why-are-you-slamming-the-door-you-are-going-to-wake-your-sister-and-then-I-will-have-to-kill-you/did that just happen? I have read about parents who say nothing is more horrifying than waking to find a pair of tiny eyes staring, and now I completely agree. At least I did not wet the bed.

Ten Things About Maggie McCall On This Her Second Birthday.

1. Strawberries. I do not believe there is anyone on the planet more in love with strawberries than you. I have to hide the pints below the carriage at the supermarket so you don’t go into hysterics shouting “STAHHHBEERRRRIIIEEESSS.” After giving you a half a pint, you will return with the empty bowl 3.2 seconds later, your face covered in strawberry juice, moaning “More, more, more, more.” Strawberries are freaking expensive, and it is your crack.

2. Your Hair. Holy cow, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Your hair is nuts. It is fine and curly, not tight cork screw but sort of long dangly curls that are always dry. This is what you looked like on Saturday when you woke up:



Wow. Thank god for conditioner and elastics, because if strawberries are your crack, this is your crack ho hair. Is it wrong to liken a 2 year olds hair to a crack ho, I don’t think so.

3. Owen. I believe that your brother is your favorite thing on the planet, aside from strawberries. Ohwin! Ohwin! You love him. You follow him around imitating his every act. Which is not good when he is doing something wrong, but hey, I decided to have two kids, and that is my punishment.

4. Fearless. You really have no real fear that I can see. In fact, a few weeks ago you at 22 pounds decided that it was an opportune moment after your 45 pound brother stole your car to tackle him, put him in a head lock and then throw him and you to the ground. I think you realized when you smacked your head, that your next assault would have to be better planned.

5. Rage. I think it is apparent that you have a bit of a temper, you always had. God forbid I got my boob to you 0.0003 second late when you were a baby, but now when you are mad, you throw up your arms and shake your clenched fists, a screaming malcontent. Its pretty hilarious. We try not to laugh, but its really hard. You look like the cover of Platoon for crying out loud.



6. Sunglasses. Just let’s say you like them:







7. Hugs and Kisses. You are very responsive with kisses and hugs to anyone. Which in the family is fantastic, but when we are leaving MUNI for the street, and you start saying bye and hugging the person next to us, well that is a tad bit too friendly. But also pretty awesome.

8. Dancing Maggie. Your dance moves are sick.



9. Toy Story 1, 2 and 3. I am pretty sure if you could replace your father and I with Woody and Buzz, you would.

10. The Mags. That is what we call you when we are not calling you Maggie, Maggers, Maggaroons, and her Magsesty. I think your brother said it best last night when I told him that today was your birthday and remember to wish you a Happy Birthday, “Mags is crazy. I love her.” I know your father and I feel the same.

Happy Birthday Maggie. We love you.

Evidence

Those familiar with this blog are also familiar with the torment caused to my psyche when last May I sat in a hairdressing chair and stated the following “So, yeah, I want my hair to look like it is in a pony tail, without the actual ponytail.” Again, people - NEVER FUCKING SAY THIS EVER. It is now almost the end of March and my hair is a chin length bob, which I like and plan to continue growing until god knows when because I have been damaged internally by excessive scissoring. My hair is finally to the point where I can put it in a ponytail, albeit a sad impersonation of one. But a ponytail. And this morning due to an almost comedic poof in my hair, I did just that (with a green elastic, my ode to St. Patrick’s Day). Because, again, my hair is short it falls out and was in need of a quick fix, I sauntered into my work’s ladies room where I saw it. What the hell is that? What is that? Is that . . . holy shit, that is a gray hair. Oh my god, it is not even gray, its white. White and kinky and glowing harshly under the cruel fluorescent lighting it stood bold. After a wince and a shudder, my fingers quickly excised the intruder from my head of hair. And as I examined the inch and a half long indication of my aged future, it occurred to me that this, this right here, was evidence that my kids were in fact, slowly killing me.

Tales from Bedtime

In order to curb the bedtime battle that was ensuing with Owen resulting in screams, cries and bottles of wine (all me), we decided a few months ago that after John read him stories, I would climb into bed with him until he was sleepy. It works great, usually by Owen’s third yawn I can head out of his room and he falls into a peaceful slumber. Because of this, Owen and I have been conversing while he tires. Two evenings ago, the following transpired:

Owen: “My head is itchy.” “Its soooooo itchy.” Scratching head.
Me: “You want me to scratch it?”
Owen: “Yep.”
Me: Scratching head. “What happened?”
Owen: “I hit my head.” “Its so itchy.”
Me: “How did you hit your head?”
Owen: “Maggie did it.”
Me: “I though you said you hit it.”
Owen: Silence.
Me: “You okay?”
Owen: “Mummy my eyes are itchy.” “Soooooooo itchy.”
Me: “Well, itch them.”
Owen: “No Mummy, you do it.” “I close my eyes and you itch them five times each.”
Me: “You are insane.” But yet itching his eyes, five times each in concentric circles.
Owen: “Thank you Mummy.”
Me: “You are welcome.”
Owen: “Let’s go to sleep.”
Me: “Okay.”
Owen: “Let’s cuddle.”
Me: “Okay.” (heart melting).

To be continued under Conversation With a Four Year Old: Your Window Into Insanity.

Whoops - Mothering Called

Sorry that the TBGTP&P took a day off, that was because this Tomboy was at Owen’s preschool for a meeting about my son’s unparallel blind rage. I blame this entirely on my genetics because the McInnises are known for their tempers, and also their jail sentences. Owen seems to have the switch where in he goes from happy, sweet and awesomely awesome to complete dick. This is a pattern that goes for a few weeks. Then suddently, he will stop the shenanigans and be back to his old self. John had a good idea that it might have something to do with his mental and physical growth because he seemingly grew two feet over night. When mad, we are teaching him to take deep breaths: “In with the good, out with the bad.” And, yes, I do live in San Francisco (but still hate hippies). I am sure this is a phase that will get better as he has a better grasp on his words, and it is evident he is trying very hard to be a “good boy”. To Mr. O, freshly shorn handsome:

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.