Let it be known that my husband and I drove three young children (then aged 6, 3.95, and 1.9) from the state of Maine to the state of Florida:
without sleeping anywhere overnight; and
without iPads or other handheld devices
WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT
YOU EVER DONE THAT
YOU EVER DRIVEN THAT FAR WITH LITTLE KIDS WITHOUT SOME TYPE OF SCREEN-BASED ENTERTAINMENT
NO MOVIES OR SHOWS OR YOUTUBE OR TIKTOK OR VIDEO GAMES OR
Can you believe our accomplishment!? In the year 2025!? A 24+ hour road trip with that many kids and no digital devices? I mean, no digital devices for them. We obviously had our iPhones and used them to entertain ourselves as needed because, you know, that whole “do as I say not as I do” thing.
We meant to bring an iPad for them. I was worried though because one kid was in the third row and the other two were in the middle row, but one was facing forwards and the other backwards. Realistically, one iPad was probably going to create more problems than it solved. How could they all watch something at the same time? But it was at my mom’s house, and I was supposed to pick it up when we dropped off the dog, and I forgot it. So we had three little kids strapped into car seats for over 24 hours, and they didn’t spend a single minute looking at an iPad or phone.
If you think I’m bragging—I AM! THAT’S NUTS! I’m so proud of them. Of us! I mean, they cried plenty. Mostly the littlest one. And the oldest one when we had the nerve to go through a Panda Express drive-thru at 7pm in Georgia (he hates strong smells and the sound of chewing) on the way home.
How did we do it? They had a lot of toys and they ate an insane amount of Dorito’s in the middle of the night and they asked me for things approximately every 14 seconds. Also what is Crayola Model Magic made out of? Cause we definitely destroyed the model magic rainforests of the world with how much model magic those kids blew through.
But we did it! We arrived in Daytona Beach approximately 26 hours after we had set out on our journey. We should have put them on the speedway and let them run a few hundred laps because they were maniacs for the next 4 hours after our arrival, but they did amazingly well all things considered. Damn I love my kids. They’re the best.
And there’s my story. We drove from Maine to Florida without iPads and it is one of my greatest accomplishments to date. The end!
If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that I’m a wheeler and a dealer. A dreamer and a schemer, folks. You got plans? How funny, me too! Let me figure out how to combine them, complicate them, and ultimately ruin the day for both of us.
For example, I bought a bed off Facebook Marketplace a few weeks ago. The seller lived in the next state over. He was originally going to deliver it to my house for a fee but then decided my profile looked too sketchy (I have no friends and no posts because it’s my mom’s fake account that she once used to get into political fights with strangers). I was like fair enough, I do look sketchy, would you meet halfway? He agreed (scheme #1) and we planned to meet up at a Walgreens between us. Why Walgreens? Because I had a bathing suit to mail back and Walgreens is a drop-off location (scheme #2).
The seller and I planned to meet up at 6:30pm, which you may recognize as prime time for dinner. If you’re like me, you may also recognize dinner as one of the devil’s most devious dealings. Is there any daily task more tedious, more exhausting, or more thankless than planning and preparing dinner?! No, is the answer. When we made plans to meet at 6:30, I decided my family should come along and we would get takeout on the way so Curtis and I didn’t have to cook or clean diddly (scheme #3).
We didn’t know where we would get dinner—remember: I’m a schemer, not a planner—but we drove past a pretty hopping seafood joint and I was like, bingo, that’s it. We didn’t decide on it until we’d already driven past it though, so we had to turn around. We ended up pulling into the next business to make a U-turn, and as luck would have it, it was yet another seafood joint. Again, bingo, they looked basically the same to us, so we just decided to eat there instead.
This place we ended up at was called Captain’s Clam Box*. You might be thinking “Hahaha oh damn, that poor restauranteur didn’t know what they was doing when they called their restaurant Captain’s CLAM BOX. Probably just wanted to sell some wholesome boxes of clams!” Except the restaurant also has a clam mascot named SQUIRT, and that dirty old restauranteur knew exactly what they were doing.
“Clam” and “box” are both slang for vagina, if you weren’t aware. You’re on your own if you don’t know why the name of this mascot is meaningful though. I ain’t explaining that.
I’m not one for pachinko themed restaurants, but we were already there and it was busy enough, so I figured the food would be fine. We placed our order, hold the clams, and took a seat to wait. Five minutes passed, then ten, and we realized I’d need to leave to meet the Facebook fella at Walgreens. I decided to take the van and leave my husband at the restaurant with the kids, except two of the three kids demanded to come with me, so I ended up leaving Curtis and the eldest child at the Clam Box (scheme #4).
We got to Walgreens and made the Facebook bed exchange. It took a while because I had to put the bed on the roof of my van and all that. Then of course I had to go into Walgreens to try to return my bathing suit, however I’m dumb and didn’t print the label. Mildly annoying. But you know what was more than mildly annoying? When we got back to my van and the DUMBASS WOULDN’T START.
I don’t mean to trash talk, but my van really is a dumbass. Mostly because the trunk—which is not automatic, even though the sliding doors are—only opens up, I don’t know, three feet. I don’t know the technical way to measure for this, but let’s figure my van has approximately -27 (that’s negative two seven) units of head clearance. Please, I beg you, try to open the back of my dumb stupid fucking van and not give yourself a concussion.
Back to Walgreens—my van wouldn’t start because the battery was dead for the second time in two days. Really should have calculated that small issue into my scheming. I flagged down the only other people in the parking lot and asked them to help. They were willing, so they pulled into the spot next to me and we hooked up the batteries.
My battery was dead dead and needed to be hooked up for several minutes before it would start again. So while the batteries were doing their thing, I made harmless small talk with the people who were helping me.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I would have been in trouble if you guys weren’t here! My husband’s stranded at a restaurant without a car right now. I dropped him off on the way here.”
“Oh man!” my rescuers said. “What restaurant is he at?”
“He’s eating out down at the Clam Box. You ever hear of it?”
A beat passed. “Um, yeah. Captain’s. We like it there.”
Turns out the locals don’t refer to it as THE CLAM BOX, just Captain’s. I was very embarrassed and ruined the evening for myself, my husband (he hates all schemes), and those fine strangers.
*The real restaurant is called someone else’s Clam Box, but I didn’t want this to show up if they had a Google alert set up or something.
Today we woke up and watched a couple hours of cartoons. We had pancakes and smoothies for breakfast and guacamole and chips for snack. Then Curtis dropped the older kids and me off at a birthday party while he took the baby to the grocery store. At the party, we ate pizza and cake and the kids played on a mermaid water slide. They had a blast! Curtis picked us up a few hours later. On the drive home, we stopped at the river so he could run a quick errand—reel in the rotting bear skull he’d dropped in at the beginning of the week. He forgot a bucket but fortunately we had a reusable grocery bag in the van, so he stuck the skull in there and threw it in the back. We made it about a quarter of a mile down the road before we had to pull over because the smell was so potent, so reminiscent of rotting flesh and fresh diarrhea, that we were all gagging and it was unsafe to drive any further. Curtis tied it on my roof instead. The skull made it home safely, thank goodness. Unfortunately, however, Curtis found that “most of its best teeth” had fallen out, so he only boiled it in his cauldron for a few minutes before abandoning the whole endeavor. The entire yard still smells like shit.
I’ve really been hyping up my colonoscopy to you guys. I’ve mentioned it twice already! Yet every time I go to write something about it, I struggle. You’d think that 24 hours of pooping chartreuse buttjuice and then paying a highly educated stranger thousands of dollars to fish a camera up my bunghole would make for a good story, but alas. Really ain’t too much to say about it.
Tale as old as time Poo that feels like pee Nowhere close to friends Then the doctor bends Camera in booty
Just a little pinch Then you’ll fall asleep WAIT I’M STILL AWAKE HEY DOC I’M STILL AWAKE Booty and the cheeks
Never just the same Ever a surprise Never as before And never just as pure At least I didn’t cry Oh Oh
I was going to stop there. Should I keep going? What else is there to do on a regular workday with kids at home??
Tale as old as time (ooh ooh) Poop so bright and loose Hemorrhoids and gas Shooting out my ass Leaving trails of juice
OK I’ll stop now. That is foul.
TALE AS OLD AS TIME POOP SO BRIGHT AND LOOSE BOOTY AND THE CHEEKS
I often forget that this shows up in some people’s email inboxes. You’re just going about your normal day when you hear a little ding and then suddenly THIS. I’m sorry.
Anyway, yes, I did somehow stay awake during the procedure despite the drugs. What a humbling experience, to lie down in a room with three other people and watch—on multiple screens!—as a camera approaches your own white, flaccid butt cheeks.
I didn’t mind though (I’m sure the fentanyl helped). I felt so light afterwards! In part because of the colonscopy prep—an entire bottle of Miralax and some liquid magnesium citrate will do that to anyone, I think—but also because I’d been stressing about bloody TP for years and I needed some reassurance that my bowels were cool. We’re just working with some hemorrhoids and fissures, y’all!
Health anxiety (née hypochondria) really is one of the dumbest mental illnesses around, ain’t it? They all suck, to be sure, but can you name another mental illness that can give you instant diarrhea because you remembered a raccoon *might have* brushed against your husband’s leg a year ago????
That’s right, y’all!! I once spiraled into diarrheal distress because I had an epiphany that the weird ass raccoon that was trying to break into Curtis’s grandfather’s memorial lunch walked too close to him and maybe gave him rabies.
Wait, what? You’re confused? What’s confusing about a weird ass raccoon crashing Curtis’s grandfather’s funeral? I don’t get it.
Just kidding. Let me explain. Two winters ago, we were at Curtis’s aunt’s house for a lunch after his grandfather’s funeral. We were all hanging out, enjoying our Maine Italian sandwiches—or as out-of-staters call them, “salads on hot dog buns”—when someone suddenly shouted, “THERE’S A RACCOON AT THE DOOR!” And um, yup, lo and behold there was a raccoon tap-tap-tappin’ away at the glass front door.
The thing about Curtis’s family is, they simply will not leave a raccoon to its own devices. Raccoon comes knocking on THEIR door? Oh hell yeah, they’re gonna go outside and see just what the fuck its problem is. So that’s what they did. They all sprinted outside in their Sunday best and started chasing down a goddamned raccoon.
And you know what its problem was? Well, folks, it was effed up. It for sure had rabies, plus several porcupine quills sticking out its butt. I’m not trying to make fun of the poor thing, it’s just, why mince words? It was totally effed up. Not in good shape, not long for this world.
Curtis and his family are people of the woods. When they see a clearly rabid, fatally injured raccoon trying to break down a front door, they’re gonna do what needs to be done—which is, of course, to euthanize it. A .22 rifle materialized out of thin air and they tried to put the raccoon out of its misery. And when I say “they,” I obviously mean “the men.” The gals and I were all inside, frantically dialing animal control and yelling at the dumbasses boys to get away from it.
Curtis in his natural habitat.
They didn’t listen. And in fact, the raccoon ran between Curtis’s legs at one point. Or maybe it just brushed against one of his legs. I’m not sure which, and I’m not even positive it actually made contact with his pants. Nevertheless, a year later, the puzzle pieces in my brain finally snapped together.
Rabid raccoon + Physical contact = Rabid man????
No, not rabid man. He did not have rabies. Does not have rabies, as far as I know. But tell that to a hypochondriac with access to the internet (“what is the incubation period for rabies?” “rabies symptoms” “can you get rabies even if you don’t get bitten?”).
Fortunately, after 24 hours of irrational stress and interrogations (“did it touch your pants? DID IT TOUCH YOUR PANTS? ANSWER ME, YES OR NO!!!!!!”), logic kicked in and I remembered Curtis wasn’t bitten, slobbered on, or scratched and couldn’t possibly have rabies.
So all’s well that end’s well. And as for the raccoon, one of Curtis’s cousins fired off a round at it. It stumbled, collapsed, then rolled over, GOT UP, and trudged off into the horizon, never to be seen again.
(At least by us. Hopefully animal control took care of it. I love animals too but shit, no one wants a rabid raccoon knocking at their door!)
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A few footnotes—
This was supposed to be a blog about my colonoscopy. I really was just going to casually mention the raccoon incident with a line or two and continue on my merry way until I realized that youse might need a bit more backstory.
I also go through waves of crippling fear that our adopted shelter cat, who bites the shit out of us—and in fact just did so to me about 30 seconds ago—could have rabies (he is vaccinated!!! and displays no symptoms! still a little scared though tbh).
WordPress has an AI tool that helps writers improve their blog titles. I am, in the depths of my core, vehemently opposed to using AI. But I’m also curious and just wanted to see what garbage they’d suggest for this one. The first and last one suck but, well, Confronting Hypochondira: When Fear Leads to Diarrhea might just win a Pulitzer.
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.
The penis was a surprise to me too.
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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.
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’pizzTM 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!!
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.
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!!!!!!
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.”
classygallie 