True Story

{July 24, 2010}   The Penis Chronicles

True Story:  I promise I don’t mention the word penis in all my posts to get a lot of hits on my site from the pervs out there searching. This really did happen verbatim.

True Back Story:  G Monkey is in a phase right now where he calls everything little, “wittle”.

Example:  He’s holding a stuffed animal and says, “he has a wittle hat”. He sees a baby and says, “she has a wittle feet”. He sees an elephant on TV and says, “He has a wittle trunk”. You get the picture. I have to give this disclaimer for Nephew’s pride in coming years if he reads this. G Monkey doesn’t necessarily mean something is actually little when he uses this phrasing.

So G Monkey and Nephew are lying on the bed reading books. Nephew is potty trained and only has a shirt on because apparently he needs to take his big boy underwear all the way off to pee every time.

G Monkey:  He’s got a wittle penis.

Me:  Yes, he has a penis too, like you. He’s a boy.

G Monkey tries to lift my nightgown.

G Monkey:  Does Mommy have a penis?

Me:  No, Mommy doesn’t have one because she’s a girl.

Nephew looks up from the book he is reading and stares deadpan into my eyes.

Nephew:  My Mommy has a penis.

True Story:  His Mommy is better than your Mommy.

{July 22, 2010}   I gave birth ONCE

True Story:  Three years ago this month I gave birth to… Well, not really… It was more like I was gutted, and my sweet baby angel took his first breath of oxygen.

I really should probably be a surrogate. And if money gets any tighter I’ll be filling out applications for a 10 month temp job. According to my Doc, I have a cervix of steel, “a knotty pine”, he called it. Ain’t nothing coming out of there too early.

So after a pretty easy pregnancy, I’m staring down the last month, giant belly, peeing every 10 minutes, sleeping with mouth wide open snoring (this is when Pump started sleeping in a different bed), in Alabama, in late June. So you can imagine I was ready to meet my little fella.

I keep going in for my cervix tests and dilation. Nothing. Nada. Every time. I think G Monkey would crawl back in if he could. He never wanted to come out and he is STILL a Momma’s Boy.

So, FINALLY, my Doc says he will schedule an induction. We wanted it to be on July 6, my Dad’s 60 birthday, but the maternity ward was booked up. People book these things in advance now days like the Ritz Carlton. Plus a popular birthdate was coming up: 07/07/07.

So, I’m told that I can check in the evening of July 4th, 2007, around 11:30pm.

The 4th of July rolls around. Still no sign of a child coming out of my Vagina any time soon. My family is in town. We go to a BBQ at a friend’s condo. Just killing time waiting to take me to the hospital, Pump and my Brother in law, thank goodness, were able to slip in a few hours at the Florabama while their pregnant wives were nourishing their unborn babies. Understandable on their part.

We check into the hospital. They ask Pump to leave the room and ask me various questions. Advice: Be careful how you answer these questions ladies. Example:

Nurse:  Are you afraid to take your baby home?

Me:  (Nervously) Yes…

Whool! Whool! Whool! The cops start swarming.

Me:  No, I mean I’m nervous about being a new mom. Not that Pump is going to beat us.

I get settled in to my “gown” . Got hooked up to fluids, monitor on pre-born G Monkey’s head, vitals taken. Then they check my cervix. I wait with bated breath. ..Nothing. Nada. I’m as tight as a… (I’ll let you use your own words here).

So, they give me a little pill to soften my cervix overnight while I “rest” along with an Ambien. Need to rest up for the big day.

Pump, started bitching immediately about how fathers are treated because he only had a lazy boy in this room to sleep in. He asked the nurse if he could have an Ambien too. She said no, and gave him 2 Benadryl instead.

He was not happy. She said, “Good night. Try to rest”, and turned out the light.

True Story:  Within 5 minutes of light’s out, something started shooting out of my birthing area. Little squirts.



Me:  Pump, something is squirting out of me.

Pump:  This recliner is bullshit. Why wouldn’t she give me an Ambien?

Me:  Because you are not an admitted patient. I’m calling the nurse.

Pump:  Tell her to bring me an Ambien.

The nurse comes in and flips on the light and does a little litmus test on the squirted stuff.

Nurse:  You broke your water. You’re having contractions. Try to get some re-est. Goodnight.


I have never prayed for a catheter and/or 7am so much in my life. I spent the whole night getting out of bed every 10 minutes to drag my fluid/monitor friend across the cold floor to pee. Only to climb my big ass back in bed to hear Pump rolling over and complaining about his sleeping situation. Maybe he should have had 1 more bushwhacker at the Florabama and he would have slept soundly… Note to new fathers.

7:00am rolls around and people come in and turn on the lights to “wake us up”, yeah, right.

Here begins the day (ultimately, 22 hours of labor that my husband likes to argue me about). Maybe there is a reason he doesn’t live with me anymore).

I’ll give you the short version: I start the morning off about 2 cm dilated and get my epidural early at the advice of my nurse who said once the on-call anesthesiologist goes into a surgery I will be up a creek.

My Doc and nurse predict I will give birth about 3-4pm…. Uh, No.

Most of the day is spent with me nauseated, vomiting, listening to CDs I had made, family members coming in and out to look at my vagina. At one point my nurse decides to turn down my epidural so I could feel more, in order to push. I woke up from a 20 minute nap/pass out session screaming in pain.


Nurse:  You are having a contraction.

Me:  Make it F*&@King Stop!

Nurse:  Oops, I turned down your epidural too much. Better get you a boost (This would be when the anesthesiologist comes in to shoot more drugs in your spinal cord).

4-5pm rolls around. My Doc and nurses decide to “let” me push for a while, apparently just for fun. My doc goes home for dinner while I push but can’t get anywhere with getting G Monkey out. I basically become a joke. The nurse will tell me to push  the she and some family members stare at my gaping hole with a look of “Uh, Uh, not going to happen. Uh Uhhh. Not today. Ain’t no baby coming out of there”. I’m like, “I’m right here. I can hear and see you”.

Apparently a C-Section was unavoidable. I just couldn’t push that big boy out. But they let me push for another hour or two longer until I could get MY head around it and accept that I needed a C-section. Thanks for that people. Thanks!

The anesthesiologist comes in to give me my C-section epidural. This is a WHOLE nother ball game, people. If I am never that numb again, that will be just fine with me.

I have a history of anxiety and panic disorder, so not being able to feel my chest FREAKED me out. They told me to cross my arms over my chest. I felt like my arms were crossed way up in the air and they were actually resting on my chest. Weird.

An angel, a tall gray-haired man, my nurse anesthetist, saved me. He would rub my face (about the only thing I could feel) and tell me I was just fine.

Me:  How do you know??? How do I know my lungs are working?

NA:  Do you see this thing on your finger?

Me:  Yes…

NA:  It is monitoring your oxygen saturation. Do you know what that is?

Me:  Yes…

NA:  It’s at 100%

Me:  I don’t believe you.

Out the corner of my eye I see my doc walk in.

Me:  Doc! Doc! This isn’t good. I’m having a panic attack and they won’t give me anything. Oh God, I’m nauseous. I told you I have panic disorder right?

Doc:  Ashley, I’m taking your baby out right now.

Me:  What?!?! What?!?!

G Monkey:  WHAAAA!

Pump:  There he is. Look at him.

I turn my head.

Me:  Hey Buddy.

This 22 hour ordeal was rounded out by me in a recovery room shaking violently from coming off of all the fluids and drugs and epidural and no food, while members of my family tried to shove my little bundle of joy on my teet. Seriously. It was very bright, my teeth chattered violently, and my mother and MIL were trying to shove a breast in G Monkey’s mouth. Not my favorite memory.

True Story:  He was all worth it… Even the 1st month of his life when my body felt like I had been hit by a bus. Never my mind though. I had the opposite of baby blues. I couldn’t stop smiling.

I even smiled about the fact that all my friends and family that showed up late morning of the birthdate stayed until 10pm that night to see G Monkey. Even if they had to go out to the car to drink beer while they waited.

{July 13, 2010}   My Amazing Son

True Story:  Not only does my son read a book 2 days before his 3rd Birthday (Momma plug: YouTube: Gray reads a book) but he also knows how to Bullshit.

Seriously. Example:

I pick him up today from Ma’am Juwee’s house (one of his grandmothers). The minute I walk in the room he says, “I want a cookie,” and turns to Juli (Ma’am Juwee) and does a slow long wink with one eye. He’s not sophisticated enough to know not to let me see the wink, but continues to say this and wink over and over, until we both think it is so cute that we look for a cookie to give him. And, so that we instill in him this very suave behavior.

Ladies I’m here to tell you how to raise a Ladies Man… Of course, only if you want one. Hehe.

Example #2:

Me:  G Monkey, did you poop in your pants?

G Monkey:  Nope.

Me:  Don’t tell a story. Don’t tell a lie. Do you want the sad spoon? (A baking spatula with a sad face drawn on it with a sharpie)

G Monkey:  No… Hahahaha… I so funny… I SOOOOOOOOOOO funny. (That means, of course, there is poop in my pants and I don’t want to get caught telling a story, or get the sad spoon).

True Story:  He has really only had Sad Spoon laid to thigh a couple of times. The threat of it is much worse.

He’s like one of those guys that will insult you, then end every insult with, “I’m just kidding”. You know the ones. Come on, grow a pair and land an insult. Don’t just cover them up with I’m just kidding.

I’m sorry, I stepped back into the adult real world. Back to my amazing kid.

Of course he melts me every time with, “I so funny”. Just like when he says, “Oh, I so sad”.


Me:  G Monkey, what do you want for breakfast?

G Monkey:  Birthday cake.

Me:  No, you can’t have cake for breakfast.

G Monkey:  Oh… I so saaaa-yaadd. 

Point in case. Are you melting yet? Wait till you see his little face when he says it.

 True Story:  All I want is for him to be happy and healthy. The fact that he reads early… Cherries on top baby… Cherries.

{June 23, 2010}   Dat Hurt!

True Story: When G Monkey is emotionally hurt he will say that one of his body parts hurts.


Me:  What do you want for breakfast?

G Monkey:  Cake!

Me:  You can’t have cake for breakfast.

G Monkey:  OH! Dat hurts da tummy.


G Monkey:  Go outside and pway.

Me:  We can’t baby. It’s raining.

G Monkey:  Oh! Dat hurt da head!


True Story:  The other morning G Monkey and I were in bed and I had a glass of water and he had a juice box. He drank the last sip of my water and said, “more wadder pweese”.

Me: No baby, you’ve got a juice box there. Drink that.

G Monkey:  Oh! Dat hurt da penis.

Me. That did not hurt your penis because I don’t want to get up and get you more water right now.


{June 13, 2010}   He’s an “Only”

True Story:  For several reasons G Monkey will be an only child.

Now, I may take in a stray down the road, and love them as my own. But there will be no more babies up in this muth.

I didn’t realize being an only child was a disability or truly a “label” until the MIL said the other day, “Well… he’s an Only… So, you know… gonna be rough”.

Me:  What?!?! 

Me Thinking:  WTF is she talking about? That child has more love, more grandparents, cousins and friends than he can stand. He actually chooses to be alone sometimes and play.

The good news is his parents are no hermits. We’ll probably let him out to shake some of that “only” off of him every once in a while.

Myself, having a large family, have wondered from time to time if he would prefer a sibling. I have asked grown “Onlies” how they fared. Most seemed to have turned out alright. So I don’t think I will get him a therapist just yet.

True Story:  He’s going to be just fine. And here’s an example of why:

Sometime over the last year our portable video player decided he couldn’t play Elmo, Curious George, Big Bird, Barney, or Thomas one more time, and flung himself onto Interstate 65 while I was going 70 (80) miles an hour. Take note that the video player is a ” he”. I think “he’s” bail out a lot quicker than “she’s”. If it had been a female video player, she would probably have hung in there a little while longer.

True Story:  I have considered jumping off of something myself after hearing Thomas the Tank Engine tell me he’s cross for the gazillionth time.

So, I was concerned on our last road trip together how G Monkey would be entertained for 4.5 hours.

Well… That turned out to be a moot point. “Only” read his flash cards the WHOLE time, minus a 1 hour conversation that he had with a french fry.

The only time he got upset was when I stopped to stretch his legs ( he was too busy studying) and when he would drop a flash card:


Me:  What is it?

G Monkey:  Oh No. I dwopped a  caa- awd… I can’t weach it.

At which point I would proceed to run us off the road while trying to reach a site-word flash card whilst driving 70 (80) miles an hour.

True Story:  He has lots of imaginary friends. Does that count?

{May 17, 2010}   What’s THAT?!?!

True Story:  G Monkey phases like the moon.

He finally decided to come on out with it and talk… Well, bring on the questions.

Example:  We enter the drug store.

G Monkey:  WHAT’S THAT?

Me:  Sunscreen

G Monkey:  WHAT’S THIS?

Me:  Adult Diapers.

G Monkey:  WHAT IS THESE???

Me:  Wine Bottles.

G Monkey:  Ooh, soooooooo prit-tee.

Me:  Yes.

I am not exaggerating. This goes on everyday, everywhere. He actually scattered the dog’s treats all over the floor and said, “Oooohh, so prit-tee.

True Story:  It was inevitable.

The other day G Monkey runs in from his room with just a t-shirt on and nothing else.

G Monkey:  WHAT’S THIS!?!?

He points to his genitalia.

Me:  That’s your penis.

G Monkey:  OOOhhhh…. MY PENIS…. SOOOO PRiT-TEE.

Me:  And so it begins…

{April 24, 2010}   Validate me!!! Pweeese!!!

True Story:  Children’s phases are one of the coolest things about motherhood. 

I really try to enjoy them. Cause when they’re gone, they’re gone. Remember Ricky & Louie? We don’t see them very much anymore.

Right now G Monkey needs me to validate everything he says. As I mentioned before, he spoke later in his development. He always understood everything we were saying and what everything was called. He could even speak the word if he wanted to. He just preferred to think about things, rather than talk about them.

True Story:  We are not sure who his real parents are.

I think it was Pump who conceived this child with me on my birthday camping trip a few years back…

It WAS dark out, though.

Neither Pump, nor myself, think very often or know how to be quiet. So, it was very shocking that we had a sweet, quiet, thoughtful child.

Well, it all comes to an end at some point, right?

Some time back after a weekend spent with his younger cousin, also known as G, who has talked like a politician since the womb, G Monkey began speaking more. I think after witnessing his cousin, he realized he could get more from us if he used words instead of pointing and whining.

It really was over-night like that. He just started talking. Now that he is, he really enjoys the validation he gets by correctly identifying something or using the correct phrase or endearment.


I pour a cup of coffee in the morning half asleep.

G Monkey:  MMMMMMM! Hot Coffee.

Me:  Yes…

He tugs on my PJs.

G Monkey:  MMMMMM!!!!! HOT COFFEE!

Me:  Yes, baby, Mommy’s hot coffee.

Okay, so now I have identified his subject matter, right?  It doesn’t stop there.

Now he will have to go through every phrase, or description he knows, that will let me know that he understands that I like my coffee.

Stay with me here… Examples: 

I try to sit down at my computer to check what happened in the world while I slept. Meanwhile, G Monkey yells these phrases to me. If I don’t pay enough attention, he will grab my face and yell into my eyes.


G Monkey:  MMMMMMMMM! Coffee is sooooooooo Tasty.

G Monkey:  MMMMMMMMMM! Yummy!

G Monkey:  MMMMMMM! MMMMMMMM! Excellent. (The MIL taught him that word)

This goes on and on… Until he runs out of descriptions. I just nod my head in agreement until he goes away.

The best is when he does these same phrases to the beer I am drinking at a restaurant.

True Story:  My two-year-old has had neither a sip of my beer nor my coffee. Ever.

Just thought I should point that out before you all give me the “mother of the year” award. 

The best though, is when he has an accident or does something wrong; or even sees an accident on TV. He will run up to me and go, “UH OH!”

Me:  Uh Oh.

He runs back to the scene of the crime… Then back to me.

G Monkey:  Whoopsie Daisy!

Runs back and forth again.

G Monkey:  What happened?!?!

Runs back and forth again.

G Monkey:  Sawwee, Mommy!

Me:  That’s okay Buddy…

And then it starts over again…

G Monkey:  Uh OH!

{April 11, 2010}   Whine (Wine)!

True Story:  I never knew my son knew what a beer was.

When you have a child that talked a little later in developement, you forget what sponges they are. He picks up my beer the other day and says, “Mommy’s beer”.

Me:  That’s right. That’s Mommy’s beer.

I’m thinking I never told him what a beer was….

Oh yeah. I guess he must have heard it a thousand times.

Me:  Pump, would you grab me a beer.

Me:  Hey Pump, how bout a beer?

Me:  Pump, you want a beer?

Me:  Pump, Momma’s thirsty.

Pump:  Is it beer thirty?

Pump:  Want to crush a couple beers?

Pump:  I’m thinking about sizzlin a few beers.

Makes since now.

So the other evening we are attending an art show, Myself, Pump, & G Monkey.

They have complimentary wine and snacks. Pump and I are both enjoying a cup of white wine. G Monkey is running around eating chips and what not. He see’s my cup and stops suddenly.

G Monkey:  WINE!!!!

Me:  Shh. Yes, baby, that’s Mommy’s wine.

G Monkey:  WINE!!!

Me:  Wine is for Mommy’s & Daddy’s and grown people. You want some water?

G Monkey:  I want wine!

Me:  You can’t have wine. You can have water.

He reaches for my cup.

G Monkey:  Mines wine!

At this point it is starting to get loud. People are trying to have intellectual, artful conversations, probably wondering why a 2-year-old is there in the 1st place, and why he knows what wine is. I am starting to feel the eyes of “how is she going to handle this” on me.

What would you do?

I chose to take his cup of water & add a splash of the lovely green tea they were serving, hand it to my kid and say, “Here you go. Wine”.

He danced off doing the hot diggity dog dance.

True Story:  We don’t get handbooks… Oh wait, I think there are some parenting handbooks lying around here somewhere???

{February 21, 2010}   Stud Muffin

True Story:  My son is a Lay…dees Man.

In his class of 7 at preschool he has 2 girlfriends.

1 friend he “hugs” all the time. The teacher actually asked me to see what I could do about all the hugging.

The second one he sleeps with. Actually sleeps, as in nap time, people. Geez, he’s only 2. They cuddle in the corner of the room together and if one of them is absent or home sick, the other one refuses their nap that day. The teach tried to mix it up and move the kids around, but G Monkey and his girl would have none of it.

True Story:  He is the only one in his class not potty trained.

I don’t want to hear it. As soon as the weather gets warm we’re going diaper-less until we can make it to the potty. I’m not a hypocrite. I’m not going to wear mine either.

So his teacher asks me if we are working on potty training at home. “Sure”, I say.

Teacher:  Well, I try to get him to go potty here at school but he just wants to watch the girls pee and flush for them.

Me:  Well, he is his father’s son.

{February 6, 2010}   Motherhood

True Story:  It’s the most fun I’ve ever had.

And I like to party y’all. Whoo! Hoo! Rock out with your cock out!

et cetera