Let's pretend for a minute that you woke up in the middle of the night screaming for me because you pooped your pants. Like, really pooped your pants a lot.
Because I presumably love you, I clean you up - while you scream in my face the entire time. I'll go ahead and chalk that up to the fact that no one likes to sleep in an inescapable container of their own poop.
Now, let's assume you're a bit of a hog and since you're awake, you decide you might like a little snack and who can blame you really. I just cleaned up a good portion of your body weight; so it stands to reason you would be a little peckish.
While we're at it, let's conjecture that your favorite meal is milk...from my breast. And we all know I'm a giver. So I get us set up in a comfy chair because it's 3 in the morning and I want you to have a full stomach so you can go back to enjoying your blissful dreams.
To recap our imaginary scenario: It's 3 AM. I've cleaned your poop mess. I'm getting ready to feed you because you're hungry.
Why, I ask you, why would you thank me with a titty twister?
Monday, December 5, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Sunny Side of Life
OK. Before friends and family start a suicide watch on me, call child protective services or run to the doctor's for vasectomies, I have a confession to make.
Parenthood? It doesn't all suck.
Pinky swear. No backsies.
It's easy - and a lot funnier - to focus on the mishaps and trials of parenthood because you go into parenthood thinking you have it all figured out; only to be rendered completely useless and frazzled by something weighing 10 pounds and unable to lift its own head.
Talk about humbling.
But when it comes down to it, parenthood is awesome and I wish I had done it sooner (you know, when I was younger and staying up all night was what I wanted to do).
Month 1 sucks (totally sort of kidding). The child eats, sleeps and poops - mostly sleeps. Which would be awesome if you weren't completely amped up on adrenaline and convinced the only way the child will survive is if you stare at it. Forever.
Month 1 involves a lot of TV.
In Month 2 you learn to sleep when the child sleeps which makes your own survival through parenthood bootcamp possible.
By Month 3, you are suddenly grateful for being alive. Not because you've made it this long in parenthood bootcamp, but because you realize it took great restraint for your own parents to not kill you when they went through this crap with you. There are some major Mother's and Father's Day presents on the horizon for Nana and Grandpa this year.
Month 4 brings with it baby smiles and baby laughs that can melt your heart...or extremely embarrass you because your child sounds like a dying hyena when she laughs and then it hits you that she is mimicking what she hears from you.
And by Month 5 you realize you have a little human on your hands. It's a person already becoming independent and having their own thoughts; most of which do not coincide with your own...a theme that will last throughout both of your lives.
It's amazing.
It's tough.
It's worth it.
Mostly.
Parenthood? It doesn't all suck.
Pinky swear. No backsies.
It's easy - and a lot funnier - to focus on the mishaps and trials of parenthood because you go into parenthood thinking you have it all figured out; only to be rendered completely useless and frazzled by something weighing 10 pounds and unable to lift its own head.
Talk about humbling.
But when it comes down to it, parenthood is awesome and I wish I had done it sooner (you know, when I was younger and staying up all night was what I wanted to do).
Month 1 sucks (totally sort of kidding). The child eats, sleeps and poops - mostly sleeps. Which would be awesome if you weren't completely amped up on adrenaline and convinced the only way the child will survive is if you stare at it. Forever.
Month 1 involves a lot of TV.
 |
| Month 1 |
In Month 2 you learn to sleep when the child sleeps which makes your own survival through parenthood bootcamp possible.
 |
| Month 2 |
 |
| Month 3 |
Month 4 brings with it baby smiles and baby laughs that can melt your heart...or extremely embarrass you because your child sounds like a dying hyena when she laughs and then it hits you that she is mimicking what she hears from you.
 |
| Month 4 |
 |
| Month 5 |
It's tough.
It's worth it.
Mostly.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
We Need to Talk
It's time someone blew the cover off the greatest conspiracy of all time: Parenthood.
I'm not sure when all the parents in the world got together and decided to become a gang of lying bastards. Misery really does enjoy company, doesn't it? That is the only explanation for why people I know and trust would lie blatantly to my face.
Despite my sky-high levels of skepticism regarding parenthood and platitudes, I blindly believed the following statements. Because they are the only explanation for why people actually CHOOSE to have children. Now that I've discovered everyone's a lying scoundrel, I can't make heads or tails out of deliberate procreation.
This post was brought to you by Sleep Training Day 1. A wildly unsuccessful program which makes all parents question why they decided to throw their lives into complete upheaval by having children just when they were getting the hang of mature adulthood.
I'm not sure when all the parents in the world got together and decided to become a gang of lying bastards. Misery really does enjoy company, doesn't it? That is the only explanation for why people I know and trust would lie blatantly to my face.
Despite my sky-high levels of skepticism regarding parenthood and platitudes, I blindly believed the following statements. Because they are the only explanation for why people actually CHOOSE to have children. Now that I've discovered everyone's a lying scoundrel, I can't make heads or tails out of deliberate procreation.
- It's different when it's your own child
- Relish every moment; the time flies
- After 4 months, everything gets so much better
- The good moments make you forget all about the bad ones
- It's a phase
This post was brought to you by Sleep Training Day 1. A wildly unsuccessful program which makes all parents question why they decided to throw their lives into complete upheaval by having children just when they were getting the hang of mature adulthood.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Mondays. Oh I Hate Mondays.
Mondays are a particularly bad day in the D-Zo household. A Monday after a holiday erases all residual memories of turkey-induced joy and makes you wonder why we need a day to celebrate anything at all; particularly if the celebration is going to interrupt The Schedule.
It's time for the useful tip portion of today's story: Infants do not remember CRAP if it doesn't happen every flipping day.
For the past three months, my Mondays look something like this:
This is every Monday. For the past 3 M.O.N.T.H.S.
Because on Monday morning, The Bean is fairly certain I've let an infant-eating, psycho lunatic into the house to tend to her while I go watch Wiggles videos all day long.
She has zero recollection of the events she participated in a mere 2 days earlier:
But today. Today, my friends, was a special Monday. A Perfect Storm of a Monday.
Fact 1: The D-Zo clan is all getting over a cold because God hates us and after 5 years of not being sick has bitch slapped us with 2 sicknesses in one month. This, naturally, means The Bean has been even more of a parasite than usual...I didn't know it was possible either.
Fact 2: It was a rainy, cold day in Atlanta today. This is important because one of the nanny's go-to Bean meltdown diffusing techniques is a walk outside.
Fact 3: The Bean opted to not take her morning nap this morning because, hey, it's Monday. A time for daring and thinking outside the box.
Fact 4: And, of course, the piece de resistance - we haven't seen the nanny in SIX WHOLE ENTIRE OH.MY.GOD.DID.SHE.EVER.EXIST.WE.JUST.DON'T.KNOW. DAYS.
Normally, I lock myself in the office andwatch an episode of Top Chef with the volume cranked become so engrossed in my work that I don't even notice the screaming. See *I* know that if I run out there every time The Bean screams she will eventually learn this behavior and we will never break her of the habit.
*I* know this.
Guess who else was working from home today?
You're never going to guess.
As we all know, the whole D-Zo clan caught this cold. Men. Sickness. Need I say more?
9 AM rolls around and I hand The Bean off to the nanny and within 20 minutes (far longer than I thought, to be fair) The Bean has hit her stride and is in perfect voice.
Her father cannot cope. Because he is a sucker.
He runs to rescue his baby. But his idea of rescuing is talking to The Bean while the nanny holds her.
2nd Helpful Tip of the Day (because it's the holiday season): The most efficient way to elevate an infant meltdown to window-shattering, eardrum-rupturing, tear your own face off levels is to stick her with a "stranger," walk away and then come back and taunt her by not picking her up.
The Bean turned magenta.
It was time for Mama Intervention.
I pick up the child who is now violently purple, soaking wet from her own tears and covered in scratches from clawing her own face off out of anger.
0.000000000000005 seconds later, she looks like this:
Manipulative little bugger.
I can hardly wait for the two-week Christmas vacation extravaganza we have planned.
Dear Santa,
Wine.
XOXOXO - Mrs. D-Zo
It's time for the useful tip portion of today's story: Infants do not remember CRAP if it doesn't happen every flipping day.
For the past three months, my Mondays look something like this:
This is every Monday. For the past 3 M.O.N.T.H.S.
Because on Monday morning, The Bean is fairly certain I've let an infant-eating, psycho lunatic into the house to tend to her while I go watch Wiggles videos all day long.
She has zero recollection of the events she participated in a mere 2 days earlier:
But today. Today, my friends, was a special Monday. A Perfect Storm of a Monday.
Fact 1: The D-Zo clan is all getting over a cold because God hates us and after 5 years of not being sick has bitch slapped us with 2 sicknesses in one month. This, naturally, means The Bean has been even more of a parasite than usual...I didn't know it was possible either.
Fact 2: It was a rainy, cold day in Atlanta today. This is important because one of the nanny's go-to Bean meltdown diffusing techniques is a walk outside.
Fact 3: The Bean opted to not take her morning nap this morning because, hey, it's Monday. A time for daring and thinking outside the box.
Fact 4: And, of course, the piece de resistance - we haven't seen the nanny in SIX WHOLE ENTIRE OH.MY.GOD.DID.SHE.EVER.EXIST.WE.JUST.DON'T.KNOW. DAYS.
Normally, I lock myself in the office and
*I* know this.
Guess who else was working from home today?
You're never going to guess.
As we all know, the whole D-Zo clan caught this cold. Men. Sickness. Need I say more?
9 AM rolls around and I hand The Bean off to the nanny and within 20 minutes (far longer than I thought, to be fair) The Bean has hit her stride and is in perfect voice.
Her father cannot cope. Because he is a sucker.
He runs to rescue his baby. But his idea of rescuing is talking to The Bean while the nanny holds her.
2nd Helpful Tip of the Day (because it's the holiday season): The most efficient way to elevate an infant meltdown to window-shattering, eardrum-rupturing, tear your own face off levels is to stick her with a "stranger," walk away and then come back and taunt her by not picking her up.
The Bean turned magenta.
It was time for Mama Intervention.
I pick up the child who is now violently purple, soaking wet from her own tears and covered in scratches from clawing her own face off out of anger.
0.000000000000005 seconds later, she looks like this:
Manipulative little bugger.
I can hardly wait for the two-week Christmas vacation extravaganza we have planned.
Dear Santa,
Wine.
XOXOXO - Mrs. D-Zo
Monday, November 21, 2011
Remember When I Used to Post?
Me neither.
The Bean and I have been in an epic battle of wills. I'm sort of insistent she sleep. At some point. Ever. She's pretty sure sleep is for suckers. So during the time I used to set aside for blogging, we intellectually debate the impact of a good night's sleep on one's ability to make it through the daytime hours without melting down because the air is touching her.
We will begin sleep training next week. So you can start sharpening your daggers now since I fully intend to Ferberize The Bean. Don't worry though, I skimmed half of an article about the Cry It Out method on BabyCenter, so that pretty much makes me an expert. The main lesson I've gathered is that you can make adjustments to the technique so it works for you and your family.
Which clearly means I can let The Bean cry it out while I don a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and enjoy a martini.
New posts soon as I plan on pawning The Bean off on her grandparents during the holidays and sleeping...then posting.
Safe travels!
The Bean and I have been in an epic battle of wills. I'm sort of insistent she sleep. At some point. Ever. She's pretty sure sleep is for suckers. So during the time I used to set aside for blogging, we intellectually debate the impact of a good night's sleep on one's ability to make it through the daytime hours without melting down because the air is touching her.
We will begin sleep training next week. So you can start sharpening your daggers now since I fully intend to Ferberize The Bean. Don't worry though, I skimmed half of an article about the Cry It Out method on BabyCenter, so that pretty much makes me an expert. The main lesson I've gathered is that you can make adjustments to the technique so it works for you and your family.
Which clearly means I can let The Bean cry it out while I don a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and enjoy a martini.
New posts soon as I plan on pawning The Bean off on her grandparents during the holidays and sleeping...then posting.
Safe travels!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Hippie Membership Cancelled
Dear Breastfeeding,
Suck it (pun totally intended...unless it wasn't funny).
Hearts and sparkles,
Mrs. D-Zo
Look, I'm not a touchy-feely person. In fact, I'm the awkward person you meet who never goes in for the hug. I have to know someone an average of 25 years to feel comfortable hugging them. You could be coming at me with wide open arms and I will place my hand shaker firmly in position. Because hugging is confining and what are you doing behind my back anyway Marcus Brutus?
Cuddling? There is a reason the bed is this big. Get on your side unless you want to be shanked.
During The Bean's Vomitpalooza last week we had to use a bottle so I could regulate how much milk she was getting at each feeding. More than 1.5 ounces and the boob juice would gush forth...from her. So we pumped, we measured, we fed, we didn't throw up.
What I'm about to say will oust me from the Hippie Mom Club for life.
I didn't miss breastfeeding for one second. Not a one.
The Bean has inherited my aloofness and her father's desire to not.miss.anything.ever.or.I.might.die. So breastfeeding for us is not this dreamy bonding time where we are surrounded by flying fairies, singing squirrels and dancing cupcakes. There are no snuggles, coy gurgles or shared secrets.
It's a business transaction. Boob. Milk. Make it happen.
In fact, I find it downright intrusive, especially since The Bean has a new found fondness for swinging from my nose hairs, or eyelids, or whatever else she can grasp with her shockingly strong grip.
This past week was liberating.
I'm sure mothers around the world are gasping, but it's the truth. And if I feel this way, there is bound to be one other mother out there ready to pull her hair out strand by strand because she is tethered to whipping her boobs out every two hours for someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to check my schedule for important events like conference calls, eating chocolate or contemplating if potato chips would indeed make the best hot dog topping.
It's empowering being able to whip your boobs out on your schedule.
Now unbunch your panties. She still gets breast milk only (I haven't let go of all my hippie tendencies) and we still feed straight from the hose in the morning and evenings, but we are using the bottle more and more.
My name is Mrs. D-Zo and I do not enjoy breastfeeding. Bite me.
Suck it (pun totally intended...unless it wasn't funny).
Hearts and sparkles,
Mrs. D-Zo
Look, I'm not a touchy-feely person. In fact, I'm the awkward person you meet who never goes in for the hug. I have to know someone an average of 25 years to feel comfortable hugging them. You could be coming at me with wide open arms and I will place my hand shaker firmly in position. Because hugging is confining and what are you doing behind my back anyway Marcus Brutus?
Cuddling? There is a reason the bed is this big. Get on your side unless you want to be shanked.
During The Bean's Vomitpalooza last week we had to use a bottle so I could regulate how much milk she was getting at each feeding. More than 1.5 ounces and the boob juice would gush forth...from her. So we pumped, we measured, we fed, we didn't throw up.
What I'm about to say will oust me from the Hippie Mom Club for life.
I didn't miss breastfeeding for one second. Not a one.
The Bean has inherited my aloofness and her father's desire to not.miss.anything.ever.or.I.might.die. So breastfeeding for us is not this dreamy bonding time where we are surrounded by flying fairies, singing squirrels and dancing cupcakes. There are no snuggles, coy gurgles or shared secrets.
It's a business transaction. Boob. Milk. Make it happen.
In fact, I find it downright intrusive, especially since The Bean has a new found fondness for swinging from my nose hairs, or eyelids, or whatever else she can grasp with her shockingly strong grip.
This past week was liberating.
I'm sure mothers around the world are gasping, but it's the truth. And if I feel this way, there is bound to be one other mother out there ready to pull her hair out strand by strand because she is tethered to whipping her boobs out every two hours for someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to check my schedule for important events like conference calls, eating chocolate or contemplating if potato chips would indeed make the best hot dog topping.
It's empowering being able to whip your boobs out on your schedule.
Now unbunch your panties. She still gets breast milk only (I haven't let go of all my hippie tendencies) and we still feed straight from the hose in the morning and evenings, but we are using the bottle more and more.
My name is Mrs. D-Zo and I do not enjoy breastfeeding. Bite me.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Raining, Pouring, Overreacting...The Usual
Triage Nurse: So, what's going on with this little cutie?
Mrs. D-Zo: She went all Linda Blair on me.
Triage Nurse: Aw, poor thing. OK...so what else?
Mrs. D-Zo: Green puke isn't enough?
Triage Nurse: Are there any other symptoms or changes in her behavior? (The Bean coyly grins at the nurse and giggles.) She seems pretty happy.
Mrs. D-Zo: Well, that's a change. She's normally a miserable git...she's also been lethargic.
Triage Nurse: Oh. That's not good. She's been spacey and can't focus on you?
Mrs. D-Zo: No...I would've said that if I meant that. She's lethargic. Sleeping. A lot.
Triage Nurse: That's not what lethargic means. It means not active physically or mentally, but awake.
Mrs. D-Zo: (Under breath) Hate. You.
Triage Nurse: So...you brought me a happy baby that sleeps?
Since I hate to act like a typical first-time mom, having it thrown in my face so bluntly and accurately was a big blow to my ego. To be fair, I called the pediatrician before hauling The Bean to the emergency room and they were all "Bring her in. STAT!"
But in the interest of full disclosure, we called from the emergency room parking lot.
New post in which I don't discuss vomit coming soon.
Mrs. D-Zo: She went all Linda Blair on me.
Triage Nurse: Aw, poor thing. OK...so what else?
Mrs. D-Zo: Green puke isn't enough?
Triage Nurse: Are there any other symptoms or changes in her behavior? (The Bean coyly grins at the nurse and giggles.) She seems pretty happy.
Mrs. D-Zo: Well, that's a change. She's normally a miserable git...she's also been lethargic.
Triage Nurse: Oh. That's not good. She's been spacey and can't focus on you?
Mrs. D-Zo: No...I would've said that if I meant that. She's lethargic. Sleeping. A lot.
Triage Nurse: That's not what lethargic means. It means not active physically or mentally, but awake.
Mrs. D-Zo: (Under breath) Hate. You.
Triage Nurse: So...you brought me a happy baby that sleeps?
Since I hate to act like a typical first-time mom, having it thrown in my face so bluntly and accurately was a big blow to my ego. To be fair, I called the pediatrician before hauling The Bean to the emergency room and they were all "Bring her in. STAT!"
But in the interest of full disclosure, we called from the emergency room parking lot.
New post in which I don't discuss vomit coming soon.
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