True Story: These words actually came out of my mouth today.
I was driving and G Monkey was in the back seat with his fingers jammed up his nose.
Me: Uh, uh, baby, no boogies. We’re going to eat lunch.
True Story: He is often caught taking boogers from his nose and putting them in his mouth. One day I said, ” No Booogies”, and he screamed, “Ah! I want to eat da Boog-ers”!
True Story: I’m lucky to be alive.
I just hosted my Seester from another Meester and my niece and nephew for 8 days. Sounds like fun, right?
Well, it was FUN, but man these chiren are a lot of work. We had 3 chiren 3 and under, 2 ill-equipped Mamas, and one late-game Grandmother. Whew!
For the record: Chiren can tear down a house faster and more efficiently than any throw down honky-tonk thump you could ever think about throwing. They make picking up beer bottles in the morning seem like a joy.
Here’s what I have learned from this last week.
1: Moms don’t get a REAL vacation until your children are at least 25.
2: You only unload the dishwasher to refill it with the piled up sippy cups with crusted milk in them.
3: There is seriously NO point in cleaning until they are gone. In fact, my nephew requested that I not clean in a room he was playing in.
4: Restaurants: Out of the question!
5: No one will ever believe what we witnessed these 3 cousins doing or what we experienced. Neither of us had a working camera, camera phone, or video camera the whole time.
True Story: Can’t wait to do it again… when they’re about 16.
True Story: Sorry for not posting much lately. I’ve been busier than a rooster in a hen-house.
I mean! Where does a woman find time to drink and write???
The last 2 weeks: Company (young-uns all up in my house). Had to pull a Hazmat crew off the oil spill clean up to scrape the pop tarts off the floor.
Showing property everyday. Not complaining but it’s a little hard when G Monkey is out of school. As many of you may know, there are know weekends in real estate (especially in a resort town) so Pump and I are handing him back and forth pending our schedules.
True Story: One awesome thing is that the director of his school, which starts back in 2 weeks, told me he has to be potty trained to come back.
Awesome! So among all this business I am cleaning poop and pee off the floors all hours of the day. G Monkey tells me he’s afraid to go on the potty because a bear might get him. I told him I would be more worried about crabs, but he didn’t get it. Isn’t this child reading???
Mommy bloggers of the world: TIPS? Don’t tell me to throw away the diapers. Already did, hence the poop and pee on the floor. I got 2 weeks. Give me your best guru stuff!
Looks like British Pollution might pay up. If they do I’ll be blogging from the Caribbean next week… Naaaaa. I owe more than BP’s got left.
True Story: More nonsense to follow. Let me catch my breath. Geez…
True Story: I ain’t got no problems.
If you think about it… If you have your health and your family is healthy… No bitchin allowed.
Peace.
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.
True Story: I ironed the other day.
It was awful. I’m never doing that again.
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.
Squirt…
Squirt…
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.
WTF???
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.
Me: WHAT IS GOING ON?!?! IT HURTS! IT HURTS!
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.
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”.
Example:
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.
True Story: Spent my first 4th of July alone, except for one almost 3-year-old little fella.
Guess what? It’s awesome. Not bad at all. Kinda like that 1st New Year’s Eve you spend at home not doing anything. You realize… You anin’t missin nuttin.
True Story: I went to a party the other night.
So, by choice, I have been holed up at my house either by myself or just with my son for the last month. Suffering from a little bit of depression for the first time in my life. Mainly due to an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico (don’t know if you have heard about it) which has greatly affected my business and income although Fienberg doesn’t understand how; my marriage ending, brokeness, CNN, power bills, dead dolphins, and so on. You get the picture. I have had no desire to go ANYWHERE.
Well, I got invited to a girlfriend’s birthday party. G Monkey was at his Daddy’s for the night and I thought what the heck. I’ll get out of the house, raise a little hell, and not talk or think about oil or anything else horrific.
I should really stop writing here. Hehe.
Let me paint the picture for you:
Some 30-something single gal friends of mine have been hanging out with some pretty cute, early 20-something Navy/Marine boys, that have rented a bachelor pad on the river across the street from the world-famous Honky Tonk, FloraBama Lounge and Package.
I don’t really have to go into any more description here, but why not, it’s fun.
Upon entering the house I hear loud drinking people out on a porch. I see unmade beds with clothes on the floor, toilet lids up and no toilet paper. But the best part is when I get to the living room/kitchen area to find 3 refrigerators. One had been turned into a “Kegerator” with a large pair of boobs drawn on it with a tap attached to the nipple area of the right boob. Am I taking you back to the old days yet?
Common of men this age, I am not really greeted as I come into the party, just more or less passed in the hallway and nodded to. Then, being the grown, southern woman that I am, and knowing you always show up at a party with one arm longer than the other, I whip out a meat and cheese tray I had picked up on the way.
I Suddenly became the most popular person at the party. One young man says to me, “This is why I like women. They bring food.”
Me: That’s the only reason you like women?
Young man blushes and walks away.
As I pour my first cup of keg beer from the boob I say to guy next to me, “I wish I had one of these things when I was nursing my son. Would have made it much easier”. He just looks at me like, who invited this one, and walks away. How are breast feeding jokes not funny???
True Side note: This is a joint Birthday party for my “30-something” friend, and one of these guys. I spit my beer out at one point when I heard one of the lads say, “I was born in ’87”. The 34-year-old birthday girl gave me a quick head-shake and the international neck slashing symbol to keep quiet, about our age. She had told them she was celebrating her 28th, which still almost let’s them in on our PUMA status. (Pumas being slightly younger than Cougars).
True Story: I’ve played drinking games since I was knee-high to a grass hopper… It’s just been a few years.
Slap the cup is what this new game I learned is called. It’s amazingly fun… And I only lost twice.
If you know anything about drinking games then you know losing, is not a good thing. It usually means you have to drink that BIG glass of beer in the center of the table. Well…
A couple of hours, including fun, debating conversations about whether the sky was falling or not, later I excused myself from the young man I was debating with to go to the ladies room (nasty boy bathroom).
After going potty, and not used to drinking lots of keg beer in short amounts of time anymore, I thought… I’ll just lie down on this bed right here for just a “few minutes”.
4 Hours later, a sweet young couple, cute little blond girl and her tall boyfriend, wake me up.
Tall guy: Excuse me, Ma’am.
Me: Huh?
Girl: Hey, you probably need to wake up.
Tall guy: Yeah, listen, sorry to wake you, but this is Josh’s bed… And well, the bar is about to close across the street… And well, he’s going to be coming back here… Um, most likely with a girl… And…
Now having had time to sit up and pull my brain together.
Me: Oh, understood. Sorry. Didn’t realize I’d been asleep so long.
I get up, find my purse and sunglasses, grab a coca cola out of one of the refrigerators (can’t believe there was a coke) and take off.
True Story: I’m not very cool.
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True Story 