Category Archives: motherhood

Work out with me

I had my third baby a little over a year ago. I don’t remember how much I gained during pregnancy. 35 pounds? Something like that. After giving birth I lost some but most decided to stick around. That was fine, I didn’t GAF. At least I didn’t GAF until one day last winter when I looked at myself in a different mirror with different lighting and was like, damn girl, your noggin is way too small.

Historically I’ve been a pretty big ole bitch with an average-sized head. We can make do with that, no one minds. It’s not until I get a little bigger and my head size remains constant that I start looking like a pickle with a pea on it. No one’s writing songs about bitches with pickle-pea proportions! It was time to start working out!*

Fig. 1.0. I know you’re probably thinking wow, what a hack, she used AI to create that graphic. Joke’s on you.

The problem with working out is that 1) it sucks and 2) nobody has time for it. One time, before I had kids, I was at my sister’s house and her husband was telling me how it’s hard to make time to exercise. They had two kids at the time. I asked him, “Why don’t you just go work out? Ain’t that hard.” Because he’s a nice man who prioritizes family harmony, he laughed and brushed the comment off. But he never forgot it. I know because he reminds me of it all the time. And I deserve that. If someone said the same thing to me right now—as a working mother of three little kids, a weird dog, and a butthole cat—I’d lose my mind. Might go full Eminem-as-B-rabbit in the motion picture “8 Mile” and start rap battling them right there. YOU WENT TO CRANBROOK, THAT’S A PRIVATE SCHOOL.

But I digress.

Working out blows. But since I was highly motivated (see fig. 1.0), I went to great lengths to find a workout that worked out for me. I tried nearly every form of exercise in the greater classygallie area. Here are my reviews of each.

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CrossFit

A girl I went to high school with opened up a CrossFit gym in the town over from mine. I ran into her at the grocery store and she looked exactly like she did in high school except younger and fitter and more beautiful??? Meanwhile SHE DIDN’T RECOGNIZE ME.

No one recognizes me. When my oldest was a year old I took him to a baby swim class and a guy I’d known throughout all of school was there. I mean, I remember when he puked on the carpet in kindergarten because he took too big a bite of apple. We took the SATs together and this m-effer sniffled for the entire 3+ hours. I recognized him the second I saw the back of his head. “Oh look, it’s [name redacted]! Still has those lil bald patches from when he got his moles removed back in 1998!” Meanwhile he had no forking clue who I was.

Anyway, my former classmate at the grocery store eventually remembered me and she told me about her gym and suggested I try it out. So I did! I tried it out. I signed up for a 5am workout of the day.

OF COURSE IT WAS A MISTAKE. Jumping back into working out after three babies and six or so years with Crossfit is not the move. They pair you up too, and you’re basically competing against the other duos to see who can do the most reps. I hate teamwork, I hate competition, and sadly, I hate Crossfit. Plus I effed up my wrist and my thumb. 0/10.

Barre

I don’t know how to describe barre. There’s a ballet bar and they make you do teeny tiny movements that cramp my hips so, so bad. I flat out cannot do half the movements because some mechanical malfunction in my hips simply won’t allow it. Except for that, it’s fine. 5/10.

Trampoline barre

For my second class at the barre studio, I accidentally signed up for a trampoline class. I showed up and they asked me if I had grippy socks and I was like, oh why? They then showed me the six little trampolines set up in the studio. It turned out to be pretty fun, and my one complaint is that I was the only one whose trampoline kept on hitting the floor. How silly that I happened to select the only faulty trampoline! 7/10.

Pickup basketball

If you knew me in high school you knew I balled pretty hard. No, just kidding. See above: I hate teamwork and competition. But I still kinda like basketball. There’s an elementary school near me that does women’s pickup basketball on Wednesday evenings, so I tried it out. It was fun however I was terrified I was going to get hurt. Plus it was from 7 to 9 at night and that’s midnight to me. 6/10.

Group fitness at a local gym

These were 45 minutes of HIIT style classes. They went by fast, which I liked. I also liked that a random lady held me back after class once and told me all about how her daughter was pissed at her for cheating with her remarried ex-husband. Does that make sense? She got divorced, her ex got remarried, and then they started an affair. I love a good human-interest story (aka gossip). What I didn’t love though was that the gym membership was $49/week. What kind of Jeffrey Bezos bullshit is that! 5/10.

Jogging/biking on the streets

On one of my bike rides, I called to three tom turkeys and got them to gobble at me FOUR TIMES! Talk about a boost of confidence! 7/10.

Tennis lessons

I signed up for an adult ed “learn to play tennis” course through my town. I’m bad. Like, swing-and-completely-miss-the-ball bad. During a match the other day, I accidentally hit myself in the head with my own racket and knocked off my sunglasses. Gave myself the giggles because of it. I LOVE getting the giggles. 10/10.

Online yoga classes

One of my daughter’s teachers is also a yoga instructor and offers online classes. I used to go to different yoga studios before kids, but those classes were too long and it was embarrassing when I’d inevitably start queefing. These online ones are 30 to 45 minutes and over Zoom and they’re great. I usually keep my camera off but will turn it on after class to let my daughter say hi to her teacher. The first time I did this, I didn’t realize that Curtis was shirtless and in full view of the camera. He had to grab our dog to cover himself up. So it was just me chatting away while Curtis sat behind me, visible to a whole yoga class, half-naked and desperately hugging a dog. I laughed so much when I finally realized it. 10/10.

Driveway basketball

We got our driveway paved last summer so as soon as spring hit this year, we was like, time for a b-ball hoop! Curtis and I play one-on-one now, which may sound ridiculous but HEY IT’S EXERCISE OK! And it helps me keep track of my #bodygoals because every time I crumple to the pavement in pain cause I’ve hurt myself, Curtis outlines my body in chalk to make fun of how dramatic I am. SHE’S STILL A PEA HEAD, FOLKS!!! 10/10.

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In conclusion, I did lose like 12 pounds in six months. But only because I got norovirus in March and peed poopfire out of my butt for three days straight then got a colonoscopy and did the same thing all over again. 0/10, and my head’s still small.

*I didn’t actually start working out because I look like a pea on a pickle, I hope you know that. I just feel old and rickety and “they” say exercise is good for that. I’ll be a dill pickle foreva idgaf.

Substack Cats

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Do you know what Substack is? It’s a newsletter/blogging platform that lets CrEaToRs charge for subscriptions to their content. I’ve recently wanted to start writing more (trying to dust off some of these brain cells know what I mean) and I thought it’d be good to have a fresh start, maybe encourage me to write more. So I made a free Substack and wrote some stupid shit about my cat and shared it with my mom and my mom only.

And thank gourd for that because twasn’t free at all! They tried to charge my mom $8/month! To read a few dumbass paragraphs about how my cat pisses me off! Substack is the equivalent of those point of sale machines that ask you for a $5 tip on a $4 pastry. We all agree those blow, right? Those touchscreens every restaurant/store uses now? I used to like putting a buck or two in a little glass tip jar, but I am HIGHLY AGGRIEVED whenever I’m asked for a 30% tip because some dude passed me an empty coffee cup.

Anyway, I do pay for a couple Substack subscriptions—mainly Samantha Irby’s, the greatest writer and thinker of this and any generation—but the idea that anyone would pay $8 A MONTH for my nonsense is truly unthinkable. So here, have it for free. Read about my stupid cat.

My stupid cat

His name is Sunny or Sonny, depending on his mood (this is according to Curtis). We mostly call him Cat or Skittery Jones/Skittery Snicket.

I wanted to get a cat for years but it always seemed like dumb thing to do. Now, after having Sunny for 6 months, I can confirm I was right. Pretty dumb! He’s adorable and I love him, but he’s also a mewing hairy butthole that attacks me with his razorblade claws and teeth every chance he gets.

We tried to keep him an indoor cat but he protested (and escaped constantly), so now he goes out every day and stalks our yard and woods for all variety of vermin. He’s good at it too! But he also has a discerning palate and prefers Fancy Feast to rodent, so now I’m greeted by intact dead mice and moles on my doorstep most mornings. Sometimes, when I’m walking barefoot in my yard, I feel the spongy give of a decomposing mouse carcass beneath my toes. Ahhh, refreshing!

No, just kidding, not refreshing. So nasty. Turns out I have an irrational fear of mice/rats/chipmunks/etc. I just looked up the name of that phobia. Musophobia, apparently. The first time Sunny brought a dead mouse into the garage (yes, it’s happened more than once now!) and I had to pick it up with a dog poop bag, my hands shook and I was on the verge of crying. I know that’s dramatic. THAT’S WHY IT’S CALLED A PHOBIA!!!

Every time I come upon one of Sonny’s kills I scream like I’m being actively murdered. My family has gotten used to it now, but the first few times they came running with pitchforks and Nerf guns, prepared to kill my assailant.

Sonny kills snakes and bugs too, though I don’t mind that so much except for when his face gets swollen from a bee sting and I take him to the emergency vet for no reason. Because as much as I complain about him, I love him so much. The whole family does. Including Dizzy! Dizzy, our 11-year-old mini labradoodle—who is either indifferent to or dislikes 99% of other creatures, including humans—freaking loves Sunny. They play together! It is so cute.

A few things I’ve learned about cats:

If you close the door to the room where their litter box is, they WILL try to let you know by being as annoying as possible, and they WILL shiz’n’pizz^TM all over your most expensive bed.
If they suddenly start speaking English, that’s because they’re about to puke so, so much.
Spray bottles teach them absolutely nothing.
Any cat toy or scratching post or cat bed will be ignored.
If you have a baby, that baby’s crib is now the cat’s property. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, bitch!
They hate water, but will intentionally spill every vessel of water in your home, including their own water dishes.

OK, that’s all. I should find a tidier way to end this but I’m not getting paid $8 to put in that kind of effort!!

Best Bedtime Hack for Toddlers – You Won’t Believe How I Did It!

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Most parents can relate—bedtime with little kids is capital H Hard. Especially when you’re right in the thick of it with multiple littles. Like, how?! How do you get your kiddos to go to sleep at the right time to optimize their health and well-being while also keeping YOUR cup full and protecting YOUR own mental health? And hey, maybe your partner’s too? Is it even possible!?

Lucky for you, I’ve got the answer. It took me over five years, three littles, and LOTS of trial and error to figure it out. And I won’t even make you read a whole article before getting straight to it! Ready for the cliff notes version? The answer is:

Give up.

OK, whew. That first part was a joke. That was clear, right? Or did you think that I suddenly started talking like a millennial influencer who uses ChatGPT to write her podcast scripts? Talk about capital H hard, I’ve never sounded so bubbly in me whole life. It amused be for 30 seconds though, so I guess it was worth it.

Anyway, I really did give up on the idea of bedtime. Goddammit I hate bedtime. BEDTIME! I SWEAR TO DR. BECKY I’M REALLY THIS PISSED JUST THINKING ABOUT BEDTIME. TELL ME BEDTIME ISN’T PROPAGANDA BULLSHIT SPEWED FORTH BY THE PATRIARCHY TO FORCE MOTHERS TO FORCE CHILDREN TO SLEEP SO MEN CAN WATCH FOOSBALL. WHAT? YOU THINK THAT’S NONSENSE? YOU THINK I’M CRAZY? OK WELL FUCK YOU MOTHAFUCKA I SPEND MY WHOLE LIFE TRYING TO GET THREE KIDS TO SLEEP IN THEIR OWN BEDS AND WHAT DO I GET IN RETURN? JUST ENOUGH TIME TO WASH DISHES BEFORE EVERY ONE OF THEM WAKES UP, CRAWLS INTO MY BED, AND SPENDS THE REST OF THE NIGHT 1) NURSING 2) HANDBOOFING* 3) KICKING 4) CROWDING 5) AND GRINDING BABY TEETH IN MY GODDAMN EAR. I’M UP EVERY 20 MINUTES BETWEEN 9:30PM AND 6:30AM WATCH OUT FOR ME BITCH I DON’T GET TIRED!!!!!!!!!!!

So, yes, it was time to try something else.

I have a 5 year old, a 3 year old, and a 1 year old and up until about a week ago, we spent, at a minimum, thirty-two hours a day doing our nightly “bedtime routine.” This consisted of:

7 to 7:30pm – Bath time
7:30 to 8pm – Chasing children around the house, trying to brush their hair and put them in pajamas
8 to 8:15pm – Wrestling
8:15 to 8:18pm – Brushing teeth
8:18 to 8:25pm – Asking them to go to the bathroom
8:25 – 8:30pm – Asking them to wash their hands
8:30 – 8:35pm – Filling water cups
8:35 to 8:55pm – Reading books and telling dragon/ghost/witch stories
8:55 to 9:00pm – Getting yelled at because I didn’t tell the right dragon/ghost/witch stories
9:00 to 9:05pm – My turn to do some yelling
9:05 to 9:30 – Going between two beds and a crib, singing songs and patting backs and presenting dissertations on the benefits of sleep, etc.
9:30 to whenever the sun rises – I don’t know. Dozing off and waking up over and over and over

You bored? Same. For us, bedtime routines were exhausting and tedious and—worst of all—thankless because they don’t work. I read so many books and tried so, so hard to do it right. Put them to bed earlier! Give baths! Read books! No screens!

ALL 100% PURE BULLSHIT.

Then I listened to about two chapters worth of Hunt, Gather, Parent and heard the author say something about how only western cultures do bedtime. I didn’t bother listening any further, didn’t dig for details. That was enough for me. Your dog could’ve told me the same thing and I’d have said, hell yeah fuckin right, let’s send it. That night, I told my husband, “We are done trying so hard. I don’t give a shit when they go to bed anymore, let’s stop fighting.”

It’s been working! And by working, I just mean there’s no more yelling at bedtime. I’m still not sleeping very well, but I wasn’t anyway, and at least there’s no yelling. The only rules are—

Brush teeth.
Go to the bathroom.
If dad and I are going to bed, then you have to lie down too. I don’t care where.

Two nights ago, my oldest slept in his underwear. Last night, his clothes for the next school day (which was awesome, by the way. Made getting ready for school—which is our other big battle—so much easier). And they’re pretty much going to bed at the same time they were falling asleep before, but now we’re just spending those extra hours hanging out together rather than battling.

The one drawback is that it means we can’t watch whatever we want on TV. I’m trying to think of a good example of a dirty show, but it’s been so long since I’ve watched TV anyway that I can’t even think of one. True Blood? Haha. Clearly it’s not a sacrifice for me. And Durt will still watch sports or whatever around them, so that’s fine.

Am I a parenting expert now??? Check back soon for more tips and tricks for still not sleeping great, but maybe shouting less!

*Handboofing is just when babies stick their hands inside your shirt to keep their hands warm.

I can’t go to Starbucks anymore

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STARBUCKS! People love Starbucks. Me? I like it. Not bad. Some of their mocha-y shits make my belly hurt and give me that nasty tooth fuzz feeling but overall, yeah they’re pretty good. Decaf iced latte with extra sugar here, iced chai tea there. I fuxs with them.

The last time I went to Starbucks was on Christmas Eve. My li’l fam was headed up to my sister’s house to spend the day, and my mans and I wanted some pick-me-ups on the way. The drive-thru line was insane, total fuckin’ loserville—

Oh wait, a brief digression: A few months ago, I was in a long drive-thru line at Dunkin’ Donuts. While idling in my enormous dumbass van, a man with long luscious brown hair and wearing a sleeveless T-shirt rode up on his bike (that looked like a chopper motorcycle) and started doing circles around the drive-thru line. My windows were down because it was nice out, and I heard him shouting, “LOOK AT THIS FUCKIN’ LOSERVILLE! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” And now I will forever call drive-thru lines “fucking loservilles” because dude was clearly unhinged but also 1000% spot-on, what the fuck was we doing?!??)

OK back to the Christmas Eve story. We weren’t going to sit in Starbucks loserville, so I told Dirt (that’s my husband’s name, Dirt) to pop into the lot and I’d run in, order our drinks in person, and save us some time. Dirt did. I ran in. I ordered our drinks in person. But I did not save us any time.

Turns out that if a drive-thru line is very long, and it’s Christmas Eve in a big ass shopping development, ordering in person at Starbucks will take forever, too. And it’s far worse than sitting in loserville because—rather than breathing in your own germs, in the comfort of your own car—you’re breathing in strangers’ germs, in the discomfort of a poorly ventilated strip mall Starbucks.

No, who knows, maybe their ventilation is freaking sweet. Could be. Still, there were a bunch of maskless people in there, and who wants covid for Christmas?? Surely not I. I got the impression people were waiting about 20-30 minutes for their orders, so I stepped outside to wait for mine.

There was only one other person waiting for their order, a lady in a mask who looked to be about my age. A kindred spirit! I made conversation.

Me, feigning exasperation: Whoa, crazy in there, huh? What’s up?

Her: Yeah, nuts!

Me: Finishing up some last minute Chwis—uh, Christmas shopping?

Her: No, I finished mine over the summer. I had twins a week ago, so I knew I’d need to get my shopping done early.

Y’ALL! YOU ALL! ALL OF YOU! This woman was out in the world a mere seven days after giving birth to two children! And she was a first-time mom! Homegirl really popped two humans out her belly, brought ’em home, and was already out living her life, drinking Starbucks and everything!!!

When I first became a mom, it was only to one sweet, squealing mandrake, and I still didn’t leave the crib for weeks. Pachinko was torn up, butthole was inside out, body was sleep deprived and amped up on hormones. You might be thinking “Oh blah blah blah cry me river! Tired new mom, tale as old as time, thank u next!” Well, if so, then middle finger to you and your hatin’ ass. Becoming a parent is intense as hell. Except for this ho, I guess.

We chatted some more and she told me that breastfeeding was the hardest part so far because her milk hadn’t fully come in yet. Then I got an idea.

An awful idea.

Mama Mungus got a wonderful, awful idea.

Her: And you know, there’s two of them, so I need double the milk.

Me: Ugh, yeah that must be wicked hard. Well—if you want it—I have a bunch of milk in my freezer. My daughter won’t really take bottles, so I haven’t used anything I’ve pumped. It’s yours for the taking!

And that was it. The conversation stopped. Neither of us said another word.

I can’t imagine why. Perhaps because I HAD JUST OFFERED A COMPLETE STRANGER FROZEN BAGS OF MY OWN BODILY FLUIDS. ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

HO, HO, HO, MERRY CHRISTMAS! HERE’S SOME MAMMARY MILK I PUMPED OUT MY TIDDIES AND FROZE IN PLASTIC BAGS AND SLIPPED UNDER YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE. GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN!!!!!!

Hemming and hawing

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I wasn’t going to write about my pregnancy hemorrhoids but then “hemming and hawing” came to me this morning and I thought, who am I to deny fate? So here’s a post about my butthole.

If I had to choose a theme song for the past couple of months, it would be Busta Rhyme’s Light Your Ass on Fire. That is because MY ASS HAS BEEN ON FIRE for the past couple of months.

I’ve had mild hemorrhoids for most of my adult life. Who hasn’t? An itch here, a smear of blood there, big deal! A few years ago I made an appointment to go to the doctor’s because I had this weird bump on my knee where I’d gotten hit with a softball. (I don’t play softball—I was just helping a friend so her team didn’t have to forfeit a game. What a bad, bad sport grown-up softball is. Softballs ain’t soft! Out-of-shape adults have no business hitting and throwing hard ass balls at each other!) Anyway, I made an appointment and my doctor wasn’t available so I had to see a different one, Dr. H.

Dr. H was the coolest. She was the doctor for an Olympic-gold-medal-winning team, and so nice, and so helpful. SO helpful indeed, that after she ultrasounded my knee and confirmed it was a clump of scar tissue or something from getting hit from that piece of shit softball!!!!, she asked if I needed help with anything else. I was in the middle of a bloody b-hole bout, so I decided to bring it up.

Me: Now that you ask… I think I have a hemorrhoid but I’m not 100% sure.

Dr. H: Well your uncertainty is easily remedied! Roll on over and pull down them pants.

Me: Oh.

I rolled over and pulled down my pants.

Me: Aghh this is really gross. I am so, so sorry.

Dr. H: I know, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. But I look at buttholes all the time, doesn’t even faze me. Yup, congratulations. You have a hemorrhoid!

And that was the extent of it. At my next checkup, my primary care doctor saw it on my chart and brought it up. For some reason I thought he might want to take a gander at it too? I asked him and he politely declined. HAHAHAHA of course he did. Being a doctor must suck.

Since then, I’ve lived in a happy state of mild hemmy flare-ups. Until I started having kids.

After giving birth to my son my undercarriage was in, um, some disarray. There were tears and rips and stitches and things even the doctors didn’t recognize, along with some popped hemorrhoids. To say I was uncomfortable would be an understatement.

I always assumed it was all pachinkal related—the tears and whatnot. NOT SO! That was all hemorrhoidal, my friends! I now know that because I popped a humungous hemorrhoid a couple months ago and my downstairs felt the same as it did post-birth. My god. Who knew a throbbing purple grape coming out of your butt could cause so much agony?! I was nearly incrapacitated.

I was sure it wouldn’t go away until after I give birth, but it only took a week and a decent amount of blood loss before it started feeling somewhat normal. I believe the grape has shrunk and just become part of my b-hole topography. I’ve since popped another, smaller hemorrhoid that isn’t nearly as painful, but still requires careful treatment.

My treatment plan, which is the same advice you read/hear everywhere:

A few times a day (certainly after any pooping takes place), soak butt in hot water for 10ish minutes
After soaking, fold a soft ice pack in half then stick in buttcrack, between pants and underpants
After icing, stick a witch hazel pad in buttcrack and leave it for a while

I don’t mess with Preparation H because I’ve used it before and don’t notice that it does anything, and it’s gross to apply.

Happy hemorrhoiding!

P.S. I FaceTimed my mom before posting this to ask if it was too gross to talk about hemorrhoids, and she was outside and her 65-year-old friend/neighbor heard me and said “I GET ‘EM TOO, THEY’RE NO FUN.”

What my toddler eats in a day

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Back in my Instagram days—so like a month ago—I used to love those “what my toddler eats in a day” posts.

One, because I like food.

Two, because I like getting ideas for food.

Three, because I like to see how my kid’s diet compares to other kids’ diets.

I stopped looking at those posts because of that last point there, number three. My son—a super fly 2-year-old who I’ll call Mr. T—eats pretty well, I think. For example, he had an egg for breakfast the other day. That’s good, right!? But he sure as hell don’t eat three pieces of tofu, organic beans, and a broccoli and salmon smoothie everyday (or ever). And it seems like that’s all these Instagram influencers feed their children.

So I’m going to list out Mr. T’s daily diet because… I want to, mostly. Nobody else cares. Maybe it’ll encourage me to feed him better? Cause two nights ago he basically only had a glass of orange juice for dinner and then was out of his mind hyphy for like, three hours. Are sugar highs real? I don’t know. I’m no nutritionist. But no matter!

Yesterday, he ate:

Grapes
Few bites of a raspberry fig bar that he carried around for an hour and called a burger
Half a blueberry waffle
Orange juice (shit)
Slice and a half of American cheese
Banana
Orange
A very large strawberry
Baby carrots
Half a peanut butter sandwich (whole wheat!)
Half a chocolate croissant (not whole wheat!)
Some whole milk
Half a fruit leather

Midday note: It’s now 2pm. Is that too much food? Too many snacks? Damn, sure seems like it. The two of us is just jungry all the effing time.

More baby carrots
Bath water
Broccoli
Yellow pepper
Significant amount of ranch dressing
Beef pizza with onions and olives (sounds disgusting right? we all succumbed to near debilitating gas afterwards and Curtis claimed my burp was “one of the nastiest things I’ve ever smelled in my life”)
One Godiva chocolate
A couple sips of whole milk

OK, the end. That was good. Thanks for reading.

Oh wait, one more thing—my son has a wicked old pediatrician (he was also my pediatrician when I was a kid) and at every checkup, his doctor tells me to make sure I’m feeding him chopped beef every day. That’s what he says. “Make sure to give him a little bit of chopped beef every day. You can serve it with whatever he likes. Mayonnaise, ketchup, whatever. He needs to eat furry animals for the iron.” Do other pediatricians prescribe that??

What’s This: Round Two

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I had an OB/GYN appointment the week after I posted that blog about my weird undercarriage. I wasn’t planning on asking my doctor what’s the deal with my pachink, but curiosity got the better of me. After my doctor smeared my pap—aka stuck a double-sided shoehorn in my cervix and scraped it with a chimney brush—I gently broached the subject.

Me: Hey, um, so… I’ve got a weird question.

Doctor, stepping out of her HAZMAT suit: Cool, I like weird stuff. ‘Tis why I spend all day checking in on strangers’ downstairs. What’s up?

Me: When I finished pushing my baby human out last year, the doctors said something about my… flaps? They was like, “What’s that? IDK but I was gonna snip it off lol.” Any idea what they were talking about?

Doctor: Hmm.

Me: Yes, hmm! That’s effed, right?

Doctor: Pretty effed. Maybe it was *some medical term I don’t remember.* If I’d been there, I probably would’ve pulled that out with a pair of forceps.

Me: OK thank you for that information SEE YA LATER BYE.

That’s actually what my doctor said: that she didn’t know either, but it was probably some indecipherable medical term, and then that she would have “pulled it out with forceps.”

This seemed absurd to me. That a doctor might nonchalantly pluck an extra bodily appendage off a ho with a set of forceps. I asked my mom if it seemed absurd to her too. She hemmed and hawed for a minute, then told me that her doctor once found an extra pachinkal part on her too.

“Oh yeah,” says my mom. “After I gave birth to one o’ y’all, my doctor mentioned some dangling hangle or another. She said I could ‘tease it out’ later on. So that’s what I ended up doing. Not that hard.”

DID YOU KNOW THIS?????? THAT FAJINAS REGENERATE LIKE MUFUCKIN LIZARD TAILS?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!??! WHY HAS NO ONE EVER TOLD ME THIS BEFORE???????????????????

I’m so sorry for the overabundance of passion and punctuation but holy shit, why did I not learn about this in health class? I know all about gonorrhea and, like, wet dreams (gross) but ain’t no one ever told me that at some point during my life I’ll probably grow a couple extra haginas.

Who knew!

What’s This?

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I haven’t written anything in almost a year because I don’t think I’m funny anymore. I once thought I was kind of funny, maybe even actually funny, and now I do not. I’m just your average awful middle-aged mom, wiping down countertops and changing diapers and being unfairly demanding of my loved ones and judgmental of my neighbors. I’m a boring ole biddy who can’t live up to her older, funnier self.

At least that’s what I thought. But I just went back and read some random posts from 2011 to 2015 and HOLY. Not good, not funny, only embarrassing. Do you know how grand a relief that is? To know that I was never that funny at all?! I feel liberated. Free to blog to my heart’s content, with no fear of failing short of any expectations. Congratulations to me!

With that happy news, I’d like to finally share a story I’ve wanted to tell for a while. The point of this story is strictly to bring shame upon my family—particularly my brother-in-law who was embarrassed by my last post about my boobs. IF YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS BAD, YOU’LL BE ESPECIALLY UPSET TO LEARN THAT…

I have a weird vaghina.

Quick editor’s note: I’m mostly going to use euphemisms and made-up/misspelled words to refer to my *downstairs* because I don’t want this post to show up in too many questionable Google searches.

OK, again: I have a weird vaghina.

I only found this out about a year ago, which is very surprising when you consider I’m a 30-year-old who’s had countless OB/GYNs check me out over the past decade or so. Actually, I will try to count them.

Blonde lady gynecologist who only ever made small talk about ticks
Old man gynecologist who told me I had a VERY COMMON, NOT STD rash around (not on!) my nether regions
First obstetrician who had hideous clavicle tattoos and talked to me with a mouth full of food, the disgusting idiot
Second OB, excellent and extremely tiny
Random OB when the tiny one wasn’t available
Another random one
One more random one
Dude OB with a nose ring who confirmed my water broke

That’s eight doctors. Eight doctors who have all seen hella pachinkos in their lives. Eight doctors who spent many years and hundreds of thousands of dollars studying them. These mofos probably take continuing education courses on, like, labias and pubic hair every year. And yet not a one of them ever told me that my pachinko looks different than most.

It wasn’t until moments after pushing out a small human, while simultaneously trying to attach his squirming mouth to my nipple and also getting my shredded undercarriage stitched up with a needle and thread, that anyone ever thought to mention it.

And the only reason I learned about it then is because there were two doctors down there—the resident who was practicing her backstitch and the incredibly mean on-call doctor who was teaching her—and they remarked on it amongst themselves. Here’s an excerpt from that moment in time:

Nurse, helping me breastfeed: OK, now, pinch your tiddy like this and shove it in there just… like… that! Oh, poo. Your nipple’s inside out.

Baby, crying: Who are you? Where is this? What is that? Why is world? When is how?

Doula, taking pictures: *Snap* *Snap* *Snap* We can crop out the blood! Your boobs look huge! *Snap* *Snap*

Baby Daddy, losing steam: Great job! You did so good! Cool if I take a nap before the Pats come on?

Doctor, instructing: All right, now stick the pointy end right through that dangling piece there.

Resident, stitching: Oops!

Doctor: No not that piece, this torn one here.

(What follows, unfortunately, is verbatim)

Resident: Got it. And what’s this?

Doctor: Not sure. I was going to get rid of it, but since she came with it I figured we’d leave it.

Resident: OK.

Let’s repeat that one time: NOT SURE. I WAS GOING TO GET RID OF IT, BUT SINCE SHE CAME WITH IT I FIGURED WE’D LEAVE IT.

And that’s it! That’s how I found out I have something extra down there? I have no idea. I wanted to follow up on that fun revelation but I was distracted by, u know, my brand new human and all the sharp instruments and hands poking around my ripped apart fajina.

I never even thought to follow up with my own doctor (the tiny, good one) when I saw her a few weeks after that for my post-delivery checkup. She took a gander down under, called it “beautiful” (HAHAHAHAH I wish I were kidding; she was talking about the healing but still, wicked gross), and then sent me on my way.

I finally got brave enough to take a mirror down there a couple months ago and I gotta say it is, um, pretty weird looking. Like, maybe a rogue flap or two? Or just heavy-duty asymmetry? I really, truly don’t know. I’m not interested in doing a Google search to compare it against more conventional hoohas. I mean—mine works, right? I got a really, really excellent baby out of it. We good!

Confused with mountains

2 Replies

Big boobs.

Dog, my boobs are so big. They were pretty big before I had a baby, and then I had a baby, and holy smokes. I would say I had mom boobs before I became a mom, and since becoming a mom they’re more like grandma boobs. My boobs look like Mrs. Doubtfire’s except approximately six thousand times saggier. I wish I had Mrs. Doubtfire’s boobs.

Tiddies on perk (via https://www.buzzfeed.com/mattbellassai/mrs-doubtfire-is-actually-the-most-horrifying-movie-of-all-t)

And breastfeeding! Most of the time breastfeeding is messy but convenient, until you go a little longer than normal without nursing and suddenly your boobs fill with coal and shattered glass and your nipples erupt and you have to spend a full 24 hours nursing, pumping, punching, squeezing, and burning your boobs.

There’s so much I want to say about boobs and breastfeeding. But I have a little baby and I don’t sleep that much, so I have neither the time nor the brainpower to form like, a cohesive story or anything. So here are several unrelated boob thoughts—

1.

Like I already said, my boobs are rather saggy. They’re also really dense. The lactation consultant at the hospital actually called them substantial, as in: “You can’t expect that baby to hold up those substantial breasts up on his own! You got some heavy, floppy tiddies, girl.” But because they are so heavy, and so floppy, I can stick a lot of things underneath them.

Screen Shot 2019-04-06 at 10.47.07 AM

Here’s a list of actual things I have successfully carried between my boobs and ribs, and the difficulty rating in doing so (1 is easy, 10 is hard).

My cell phone – rating: 1
A TV box (also known as a remote control) – rating: 1
A 350-page novel – rating: 1
A can of diced tomatoes – rating: 3
A half-full bottle of wine – rating: 4
An L.L.Bean boot – rating: 6
An acorn squash – rating: 5

Things I could not carry:

A whole pineapple (hurt pretty bad to try, actually)

2.

My baby and I read Dr. Seuss’s One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish a lot because it’s a dope book. I re-wrote the Gox poem (“I like to box. How I like to box!”) to be about breastfeeding.

I need to pump.
How I need to pump!
So, every day,
I pump my lumps.

Then I dump.
I pump my lumps.
I pump and then
take a lump pump dump.

This poem is symbolic of my need to pump out my oversupply of milk every day, and how also breastfeeding makes me poop. I come so, so close to pooping my pants most days now.

3.

When my milk came in a couple days after giving birth, I felt shaky and achy and had a low-grade fever. I called up the doctor and we agreed that I couldn’t have mastitis (infected tiddy) already because my boobs didn’t hurt and I barely had any milk yet.

Turns out I had milk fever, which is when you get a little feverish when your milk comes in. But if you Google “milk fever,” you will find that almost all of the results are about cows and goats and other barnyard mommas.

“…and shuffling of the hind feet”

Milk fever is primarily seen in dairy cattle but can also be seen in beef cattle and ALSO ME, YER GIRL.

4.

When I lie flat on my back, my boobs flop to either side. I could easily nurse two babies at the same time. Send your babies to me, I’ll nurse em.

(For real, why not? Pumping sucks, I got too much milk, and wet nurses used to be a thing! But your babies probably won’t want me milk. We went away for the weekend and I didn’t bring my pump, and my baby slept the entire time, and my boobs went out of control. I tried to get my niece babies to help an auntie out and they tweren’t having it. When I offered my boob they were.so.creeped.out. It was kind of funny, to see such confusion and terror on the faces of sweet babes. Also a little insulting. LIKE WUT, MY MILK AIN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??)

5.

Actually, I tried my own milk and I think it would’ve been perfectly good enough for them. I’ve drank the milk of thousands of cows I don’t even know—why wouldn’t I try my own!?! It was fine. Sweet and watery.

I may not love the way these boobs of mine look, but I’m pretty thankful for the sweet and watery melky cabrera that comes out of them and feeds my baby so good. So, thank you, flopping tiddies o mine.