I Heart My Little A-Holes (5 page)

I was one of those babies who were born with hair on their shoulders. I shit you not. I vaguely remember the labor nurse yelling, “Quick, get me some hot wax STAT!” I mean if I don’t pluck my eyebrows every other day, I start looking like Burt from Sesame Street. I’m dreading the day Zoey gets older and asks if she can do shit like get her ears pierced and braid my leg hair. But anyways, I’ll get to my point.

So today we’re going in to get our big ultrasound to find out whether we’re having a boy or a girl. Well, really it’s to find out if all of its organs are where they’re supposed to be and shit, but what I most want to know is can I use all of those adorable little precious girl outfits we spent like a gazillion dollars on or do I have to go out and buy all new clothes for this little rug rat? I mean yeah the kidneys are important but there are some super cute dresses that still have the tags on them.

So anyways, since my life basically consists of thousands of post-it notes with things I can’t forget, I’ve gone ahead and written a post-it note with a bunch of questions to ask the ultrasound tech.

Is it a boy or a girl?

How ’bout them organs?

Does this baby have sideburns? A mustache? A hair sweater?

So to all of you parents with cue ball babies who want to punch strangers when they say shit like, “Awwww, isn’t he so handsome?” and you’re like, “Yo jackass, do you think I would dress my BOY head-to-toe in hot pink?” Wait, was that a full sentence? I’m not sure but it was really long so I’m putting a period on the end of it and starting a new one. Anyways, to all of you, count your blessings. That was me with Baby #1. This round I’m scared shitless I’m going to have to call Blue Cross to beg them to cover laser hair removal.

This chapter is not funny. No, I’m not kidding. Like if you think I’m joking, please just jump to the next chapter. I’m serious. But hey, by now you probably need a little break from laughing, right? Hopefully. Maybe. Shit, what if this book isn’t funny? Okay, well, at least this chapter isn’t supposed to be. No, F that, in case this book isn’t funny, the whole book wasn’t meant to be. Okay, back to the very serious, not-funny-at-all subject at hand.

So I have something to tell you. Something I have never told to anyone. ANYONE. Not even my husband. Especially not my husband. Like seriously, he’s reading this for the first time here. And honey, if you really are reading my book, you’re a stud and I love you and please start throwing away your little slivers of soap in the shower so I don’t have to.

Anyways, this thing I’m going to tell you about happened within the first two weeks of bringing Zoey home from the hospital when I was in total and complete love with her. I remember sitting there not being able to take my eyes off her as I watched her being a helpless blob that did nothing at all. And yet somehow she was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid (lay??? lain??) my eyes on. Look, her finger just twitched in her sleep, awwwwww.

But in the middle of all that love there was this moment I still can’t believe. I was sitting on the couch and I looked over at my two-week-old baby and suddenly this wave of emotion came over me. It was oppressive. All I could think when I looked at that tiny little being was what the fuck did I do? Not WTF. This was a full on WHAT THE FUCK. And then a thought crept into my head that to this day is so unbelievable to me. I tried to push it back down but it was too late. It was there.

Let me rewind a bit. Before Zoey came around, Greg and I had this perfect life. We had like this totally awesome marriage and the kind of life people envy. We both had good jobs. We ate dinner out and shared a good bottle of wine practically every night. On weekends we would cuddle in bed until nine or ten or whenever we felt like getting up, and then we would run along the Charles River or meet friends for brunch or go to a Red Sox game. We just did what we wanted, when we wanted, and we were crazy happy.

And then Zoey came along. And everything changed. I’m not saying in a bad way. Just in a very very different way.

As I sat there on the couch that day and my hormones felt like they were on the tilt-a-whirl at an amusement park, and it felt like red ants were eating my nipples from the inside out, and my belly still looked preggers spilling over the top of my
fatter
pants because my fat pants were no longer fat enough, as all this happened, I stared at this tiny little being and for a brief moment I thought— shit, I can’t even type it. That’s how bad it is. Nope, I’ve committed. Okay here goes. For a brief moment, I actually thought about throwing that tiny little baby off our balcony.

Gasp! Yes, there it is. That’s how F’ed up I was after giving birth. Was it postpartum depression? I don’t know. Is it possible to have postpartum depression for like five minutes? I mean for the most part I was over-the-moon in love with this little being. But suddenly it occurred to me that she was F’ing up everything. Did we still go out to dinner every night? Yes. But I spent like the entire meal struggling to figure out how to breastfeed Zoey without my Boppy under my Hooter Hider in front of fifty strangers as I watched my husband drink his glass of wine that I couldn’t have because I was petrified of trying to piece together the 2,000 parts of my breast pump.

So that’s why for a brief moment an image flashed through my mind. An image of me taking her out to the balcony and heaving her tiny little body over the railing. How absolutely horrible is that?

Did I really mean it? No, not really. Of course not. I never would have actually done it. But for a brief itty-bitty tiny moment I actually thought life might have been better if we decided to never have a child.

And suddenly I understood how moms everywhere are struggling with postpartum depression. Imagine feeling like that for an extended period of time. How awful. Suddenly I saw an itsy-bitsy glimpse of what Susan Smith must have been feeling when she drove her poor little babies into that water.

And then just as soon as the horrible image popped into my head, I pushed it out. It was a thought I had but didn’t mean. You’ve had those thoughts before, right? What if I jump off this balcony, or drive my car over the median, or just start screaming at the cashier who won’t stop talking to the person in front of me, or something else totally rash that I would never actually do? Or maybe I’m the only one who ever has these kinds of thoughts. But probably not. What I’ve learned the most from writing my blog is that I am
never
the only one to think the way I do. I post something and think awww shit, what if nobody relates to this? And then like 50 seconds later, 200 of you are like yeahhh me too! So if there’s one thing you get from this book (besides wet underpants hopefully. Wow, that sounds so wrong), know that you are never alone. No matter how wrong, how depressing, or how criminal your thoughts sometimes are, you are not the only person having them. But I digress. Like big time. Back to my very serious story.

Have you ever looked at someone else’s kid and compared them to your own kid? And if you say no you’re lying. I love when I’m sitting in Gymboree or some other place that’s touched by a thousand feet and I see some asshole mom coaxing her rug rat to show off some new skill so everyone can feel like shit that their own poop machine isn’t walking on their F’ing hands yet or speaking in iambic pentameter.

Like there’s this father in our hemp weaving class (fake class name so this dipshit won’t know I’m talking about him in case he’s reading this) who’s constantly saying stuff like, “People can’t believe he’s only one.” That’s because he’s not, jackass. He’s 19 months. This is why people speak in months when it comes to baby’s ages. But even if he
were
only one, shut the F up. You’re just making other parents worry and feel like crap.

And it kills me to watch some of the moms freak out when their kiddo is like the last one to talk or walk or go wee-wee on the potty. Is something wrong? Sure, sometimes there is, and that sucks balls. But usually they’re fine and just taking a little longer to master some skill. I know it sucks, but someone has to be last.

And I think my favorite thing about the assholes who brag about how advanced their kids are is that milestones actually SUCK. Most milestones make a parent’s life harder. So why brag about it? “Woo-hoo, my kid won’t sit still on a blanket anymore so I have to watch him like 24 hours a day!” So here we go. Ten milestones that SUCK ASS BIGTIME (FYI, I know bigtime is actually two words, but I don’t think it should be):

1. Eating solids

So the doctor finally tells you to go ahead and try solids with your newborn, and you’re like hip hip hooray when really you should be like awwww shit, really? Because there’s nothing easier than just feeding your baby breast milk. I mean I know breastfeeding hurts like a mother-F’er at first, but once you’ve got it down it’s like the easiest thing in the world. You’re at the mall and baby’s hungry. Just pop out a boob and lunch is served. And formula is almost as easy. But feeding your baby baby food is basically the same thing as putting a bunch of crap in your blender and forgetting to put on the top before you flip the switch. Suddenly your kitchen looks like a fugly 1980’s sweatshirt that’s been splatter-painted with diarrhea green peas.

2. Saying mama

Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama! Guess what my little rug rat can say now. The first time you hear it, your heart melts a little. The second time you hear it, your eyes well up. The 918,009,576
^th
time you hear it, you want to stab your eardrums out with an ice pick.

3. Dressing herself

As I’m standing there begging my kid to hold onto my shoulders and not my head as I help her pull on her pants, I dream of the day when she can dress herself. And then it happens. Ohhh myyyy Goddddd, it’s like watching paint dry.

ME: Hello, is this the Guinness Book of World Records?

MAN: Yes?

ME: Can you please send someone to my house because I am literally watching the slowest person EVER to get dressed in the history of the world?

And don’t even get me started on shoes. They’re Velcro! They accidentally get stuck to everything so how F’ing hard can it be to close them?! By the time she gets them on for school she’ll have to take them off again because it’s time for bed. In the year 2025.

4. Potty training

I remember all the jackasses, uhh, I mean nice people, asking me if my daughter was potty-trained yet. Ummm, seriously? ’Cause either she’s wearing a diaper or my three-year-old literally has Kim Kardashian’s ass inside her jeggings. WTF’s the hurry to potty train? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I hate changing diapers. But you know what I hate even more? Waiting for the F’ing seatbelt light to go off on the airplane because my kiddo told me the moment we pulled away from the gate that she has to go potty. Or how about this? When we pull out of the driveway and we’re like forty seconds down the road and she’s like, “Mom, I have to pee pee!” Uhh, no you don’t. You HAD to pee pee. And now you’re sitting in a puddle of urine in your car seat. Awesome. I miss diapers.

5. This milestone doesn’t have a name

So my son hit like the worst F’ing milestone EVER the other day. We’re hanging out in the kitchen (translation: I’m on a munchies binge) when I steal a piece of chocolate from my secret stash which is on a high up shelf so I can’t easily get to it, which basically means I have to drag a chair over and risk breaking bones every time I want a piece. Totally worth it and not a deterrent at all (FYI, I had to spell deterrent like four times before I got it right). Anyways, I’m standing on this chair and Holden is looking up at me screaming, “Cookie, cookie, cookie.” How the F does he even know I’m getting a dessert? He’s never had any. Yeah, I know “noticing when mom takes chocolate” isn’t in the stupid baby book, but it should be because it’s like the suckiest, most life-altering milestone ever.

6. Talking

MOM #1: My child is saying ball, truck, balloon, milk and mama.

MOM #2: Mine is saying wawa, dog, night-night, sissy and bubble.

ME: Mine is saying shit, fuck, damn, crap, and douchebag.

Yeah, learning to talk is so overrated. Remember that kid in Old School who they were always saying
earmuffs
to so he’d cover his ears when the adults were saying something R-rated? That doesn’t F’ing work. I tried it. As soon as your kid starts talking, it’s time to start a swear jar. Or in my case a swear wine barrel. In every fucking (I can’t say it, but I can type it all I fucking want) room.

7. Moving

Ahhh, remember the good ole days when you could literally put your baby anywhere and they wouldn’t move. Like I could put her on the top of a telephone pole and walk away and not worry. And then one day she rolled over and I was like awww shit, how am I supposed to shower if I can’t lay her in the middle of the bed anymore? And then one day she crawled, and the “experts” said to get on all fours at her level to crawl around and look for safety hazards in your house. Cord, cord, outlet, standing lamp, glass coffee table, surge protector, cabinet full of plastic bags, outlet. Okay then, this seems safe. Not. And then one day she walked and even though the baby book says, “Date baby first walked _____________,” what it should say is, “Date mommy was F’ed ______________.”