Tag Archives: parenting

I can’t go to Starbucks anymore

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.



What’s This: Round Two

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.”


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!

Confused with mountains

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.

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—


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)


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.


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.

Screen Shot 2019-04-07 at 8.13.09 PM

“…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.


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??)


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.


Take Your Mother to Work Day

I was looking forward to work an appearance at a club from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m. last Saturday. I’d be able to spend all day at the beach and then go out and get paid to ogle bruthas. It was perfect!

Perfect, at least, until I remembered two things: (1) I was the only street teamer scheduled, and (2) since I was the only one scheduled, I’d have to walk across a dark parking lot and into a deserted office building at 1:30 by myself.

That might not sound like much of a problem, but it’s important to know that I really hate the dark, and I really really hate being alone in buildings. If you don’t believe me, peep mah knees — they’re full of scars, permabruises, and dead spots from knocking into walls and careening through glass doors (while fleeing invisible monsters in empty buildings). Add that I just read The Shining ­– a story about an evil arsehole of a building – and my perfect workday turned to this real quick:

Horrifying, like me

By the time I thought about all this, around 8:30, it was too late to do anything except accept my fate. And be mean to my mom.

Mom: Almost ready for work, baby darling daughter?

Me: No.

Mom: You look so beautiful, my darling babiest of baby daughters.

Me: Quiet, you.

Mom: Those earrings look darling on your baby ears, don’t you think?

Me: NO TRICK MOMMA!! And you know my ears ain’t baby and they ain’t darling. They’re huge and dangling, just like yours.


When she stopped asking questions I knew I’d been a straight up C-unit, and I felt I needed to justify my sasshole behavior. So, I told her what was bothering me, my I-swear-to-lawd belief that I was going to get murdered that night.

I’m not sure if she heard the quaver in my voice, or thought I was actually being rational, or finally felt bad about the time she called me a “dirty piggy bitch,” but my mom said the sweetest words I’d ever heard:

“I’ll go with you!”

Even though my mother is 57-years-old, and was in her pajamas, and isn’t really into the Providence club scene, I took her up on her offer. Five minutes later, we were ready to go. She even let us take her car.

And, although super nice, taking her car caused an entirely new problem. The keys to get into the station are attached to my car keys; I didn’t have my car keys, so I couldn’t get into the building. Fortunately fellow street teamer Nick came to my rescue and let me borrow his.

While waiting a few minutes to get saved, I pulled out my phone to go over the e-mail my boss had sent about the appearance. In it were answers to every question I could’ve possibly had – from what prizes to give away to how to dress. I seemed to be doing everything I was supposeta, but just for fun asked my mom what she thought about my outfit.

Me: This says I should wear something “club appropriate.” I look club appropriate, right?

Mom: Of course not, you dirty, dirty piggy bitch.

I couldn’t believe she didn’t think I was dressed for da club — I was wearing what I’ve worn to every club I’ve ever been to! Flip flops, jeans, and a green scoop neck T-shirt. How was that wrong!? I WAS EVEN WEARING EARRINGS!

After a few minutes of debate on whether or not I was fancy enough, my mom came out victorious, and, for that second time that night, she also came to the rescue.

She said I could wear her clothes (as in the clothes she was wearing) and she’d find something in the trunk to change into. When Nick got there to lend me his keys, I ran inside to grab the prize bag and left my mom outside to do some clothes rearranging.

By the time I got back, she had the top she’d had on waiting for me, and was wearing a wrinkled red T-shirt from 2001 and a purple sweater. Still standing in the parking lot, I stuck my torso into the car and pulled on the black tank top. From Chico’s travelers line.

My hairs are turning black!

It had looked good on my mom – she had the sweater and the pants to make it work – but on me, it was short and shapeless and made my arms age about 20 years. Keep in mind that they look like this on a good day:

I like the way it wobbly wobbly when it wiggle

No matter, my mom was adamant I wear her shirt. She said a forest green T-shirt was not club appropriate. She was right, but the borrowed Chico’s shirt wasn’t club appropriate either. It might have been wrinkle free, but it wasn’t fa me. After yet another few minutes of debate, I was back in my fresh tee.

I still managed to get a bit clubbed up. I found a pair of heels a size too big, slapped on some red lipstick, and tightened my bra straps to hoist my sagboobs and squeeze as much class out of my shirt as possible.

When we finally got to the club, my mom and I mutually decided she might want to sit this one out in the car. It was a real fist pumpy place – lots of stiletto heels and Booty Pops and angry neck veins – and if I had the choice, I probably would’ve stayed in the car, too.

I went into the club and set up the prize table, feeling like a little girl playing dress up. Except I wasn’t a little girl playing dress up — I was a 22-year-old working at a swanky nightclub, hobbling around in ill-fitting heels, clenching my butt to keep from bombing the place with buffalo chicken pizza S.B.D.s, and occasionally checking on my mom to make sure she hadn’t become a victim of a gang crime. Oh, and when I went to the bathroom I saw I’d missed the target when I’d done the lipstick slapping. Cute!

I left two hours later with a sore back, a stained clown face, and a new appreciation for my mom. And the phrase “club appropriate.”