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October 21, 2010

To The Makers Of Teething Toys: You Suck

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A is, overall, a very sweet and happy girl. She had a rough patch between 6 - 15 weeks, but I've decided to let bygones be gygones. We are now, however, officially in the throes of teething hell.

She drools all day long, fights sleep with everything in her - honestly, I feel like I'm in a wrestling match when I try to rock her before bed, - spits up all over me and spends a good part of the day grunting, clinging and crying. Oh, and did I mention she woke up screaming at 4am this morning and despite a marathon bouncing/rocking session in the early hours never really returned to sleep? Good times. Good, good times.

Desperate and exhausted, I've been duped into buying just about every teething product known to man - and I'd like to take this opportunity to tell the makers of all of said products: F*ck you. And you all owe me $7. Oh, except the Sophie the Giraffe people: You owe me $25.

None of you work. Sure, you all claim to with your vibrating/soothing/fridge-friendly/multi-pronged/textured/eco-friendly/gel-filled/"I'm also a rattle"/French/rubbery goodness. But every time I offer any of you to my screaming baby she just screams even harder. As if to say, Hey crazy lady: There are hard, sharp things breaking through my gums - get your ridiculous toy store crap away from me.

I am in the trenches here and you're handing me water balloons. Thanks for nothing, folks. We're going it on our own from here on out.*

(And here's what else has been happening lately: A lesson from my preschooler on a very bad day, Facebook bans breastfeeding pics, VCRs and other things my kids won't know and In defense of my very messy house.)

* By "on our own" I mean with the assistance of Infant Tylenol and Baby Orajel. Obviously.

October 21, 2010 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

October 05, 2010

The Mom Competition

Girl fight
When A was 5 days old she came along on a trip to the playground with me and Mads. I was still walking as if I'd just finished a long horse ride and feeling as though I'd been hit by a train. But these things don't really matter to a 4-year-old, so off we went.

We ran into another mom who was there with a newborn of her own. She comes over and points to the stroller, in which A was sleeping.

Her: "How old is yours?"

Me: "Hi. 5 days."

Her: "Oh... you beat me. Mine is 3 weeks."

And then, right away, this:

Her: "Did you have a natural delivery?"

Who asks that of a complete stranger? Childbirth necessarily involves either bad things happening to your vagina or intestines being placed on your stomach. I don't want to talk to a complete stranger about either one.

Me: "Yes..."

Her: "Oh. Me too."

So if I beat her on the age thing, I guess we tied on that one? I got the strong sense that she was hoping I'd 'fess up to a C-section or an epidural, in which case she could jump on the top ropes and beat her chest and then piledrive me.

Sorry I've been neglecting the blog. But I have been writing, tons. Over here and here. (About Birth Rape, Breast vs Formula, Disney Princesses, why My Daughter Isn't Who I Thought She'd Be and An Old Lady Who Shot A Preteen Bully among other things.)

And while on the topic of CMS (Competitive Mom Syndrome), enjoy:

 

"I think a baby seal just died..." Love it.

October 5, 2010 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

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"Having a two-year-old is like having a blender that you don't have the top for." ~Jerry Seinfeld.

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