There's something in the water

My family is growing.

No, no, not me. The factory is closed, thank you very much. But nieces are a'brewing, and I have one shiny new lurker.That would be Ms. Q, born on Wednesday, happy and healthy and still tired after the big move. Q, your momma is my #1 lurker. You have some big shoes to fill, my dear.

Also, my littlest sister, my step-sister T, is 20 weeks pregnant. She found out yesterday that she's having a baby girl. Of course she is; there hasn't been a boy born on her side of the family for two generations. Little Gracie Lynn is due to make a grand appearance on 2of3's birthday, the day of Relativity, the birthday of the great Albert Einstein.

There's one more, and this one is the one I am the mostest excitedest about. Of course, I can't talk about it just yet. Soon, though.....soon....

Bluer than Bleu?

I almost forgot about this weeks' dinner....they loved it. They love it every single time I make it. And why do they love it? Because they have absolutely no clue what goes in it. If I ever actually showed them a chunk of bleu cheese, I have no doubt that they would hop on the internet and find 5 different languages in which to tell me where I could shove that dinner. . Yes, that would be an empty plate that did not, at any point, contain chicken on frwaunch fweyes. (I feel like this is a great place to mention that my computer's screen saver is a slideshow of all of the pictures saved on it. Why would I bring that up? Because my husband has never once read this blog and the other day he looked at me and asked why the hell I would have taken a picture of pasta. My reply? "It's a long story.")

In case you're playing along, you have 5 days left to enter the recipe contest. FIVE days, people. Looking for more thrills and chills? The Retropolitan has way too much time on his hands a whole slew of creepy, cookey contests for Halloween. And better prizes. Check it out, if you dare.

Second verse, same as the first

So, yes; we had a bad go at the store last week. That little incident, however, seems like a nap in a field of lilies compared to the very next day at Ikea. See, I eventually figured it wasn't so dreadfully important to get baskets right then, in the middle of a temper tantrum, and I did take her home and list her on eBay give her a bottle and put her to bed. I thought that we could try again, the next day, after a good nights' sleep and a yummanummy breakfast.

Wanna guess how well that went?

We tried Ikea. What kid doesn't like Ikea? My kid, that's who. If you haven't been to an Ikea, how is works is that you find the thing you want and then you go pick it up at the stock area right by the checkout. 3of3 found this: It's cute and she really could use something like that to lug around her permanent markers and dead insects. And she had a blast pushing it around while I looked for something to get the boys to put their bags and mittens and hats in, because I LIKE the floor in my front entry way and I would like to see it again sometime this century. I was totally going to buy it for her.

Have you ever tried explaining to a toddler that they have put a toy away and go get another one, in a box, somewhere else?

Um, that doesn't work. She screamed for 30 minutes straight.

The difference between Walmart* and Ikea is that no matter where you are in Walmart, you can find a straight line out in 5 seconds or less. Ikea, however, is a labyrinth. You cannot take a straight line anywhere in Ikea. A full grown adult comes out of Ikea looking like this: Try getting out of Ikea with a demon-possessed kid flung over your shoulder (because that's the only way to protect your face from punches and kicking and stuff). It's not the funnest fun ever. It took me 30 minutes to get out, but at least this time I started for the door immediately. At one point, we passed a mom with a small baby and, I'd guess, a 4 year old. The 4 year old pointed at my ape of a child and said, "Mommy, look at that baby!" The mom did the embarrassed-shush-her-kid thing and I looked at the little girl, smiled, and said, "See, honey, this is how not to act at the store." She nodded a very serious nod to me and that was that.

We made it out basket-less, toy-less, and almost in tears.

I tell you that all to tell you this; you won't be seeing me in public for a while. This kid is officially grounded until college.

*Shut up; I know. But I'm in Canada. We don't have Target.

Wait....Do I have to actually write? Something meaningful?

PSI: Blog Day for the Mothers Act
Stay tuned for something profound....

Ok, here goes....

I think the theme of this is Post Partum Depression. I could be wrong, but I'm running with it. I, like most of North America, dabble in the depression. I have a good dose of the PTSD, and whewey does it ever mess with me. I talked to a doctor once about it and let's just say that I didn't much agree with the end result of that conversation. I have never really discussed it with anyone since. I take the very stupid 'tough it out' approach, and someday it's going to bite me square in the ass, I know.

Needless to say, when the parasites moved out I crashed hard. The birth of each child, in some way, coincided with a truly horrible turn of events in my life. It was tough; I, but for the grace of some very good friends, barely got through all of it.

I'm no doctor, and certainly no expert, but I'd be willing to wager that most women (and men, too) experience some degree of PPD after the kid comes home, whether or not you gave birth to the child or adopted it. Is is the one common link between most moms, and the one we least discuss. Almost a decade after I had my first child, here's the prescription that I have come up with for it:

  • Exercise. Not necessarily gym exercise, because, well, fuck that. I didn't have time to do laundry, let alone hit a gym. But walking is exercise, too. Buy yourself a jogger stroller and get outside. Walk anywhere. Just walk. Forget the dishes and the phone calls and the groceries and go stroll around the neighborhood. Shoot for 2 hours. Why? Because A) babies LOVE it and won't cry if you're walking them and B) it helps. No matter how sleep deprived you are, you will feel better after a walk. Mr. Lady promises, you will.
  • Buy yourself something pretty. Often. On my walks with 3of3, I passed a shop on the corner called Wild Flowers. It was chocked full of exquisite little pretties. At least once a week I went in after my walk and picked up a little something for me. Why? Because I was a hotel for 9 months and then I was a full-service restaurant, and I thought someone ought to do something for me occasionally. It helped.
  • Do it. I know, I know, yuckyuckyuck. The last thing on Earth you want to do after what just happened to your hoo-haa is the sex. Do it anyway. Why? Two reasons: 1. Your husband is freaking the fuck out. His whole world just fell apart, too. He is the person you're going to see the most of for a while, and you want him to be in a good mood. 2. It's funny. Pregnant sex is funny enough, but now your boobies have a new trick they want to show off. There is not one thing on the planet funnier than trying to be all serious and sexy and then suddenly squirting your husband in the face with milk. Nike was right, Just DO it. (Helpful note: unless you have a laundry service or a maid or a fetish for Tide, do it in the shower. Trust me.)
  • Do not read parenting books. DO NOT READ PARENTING BOOKS. Read mommy blogs if you must, but read the funny ones where the moms can laugh at themselves. No one can tell you how to raise that kid but you. You have a pediatrician; he will tell you everything you need to know about birth and growth and development. Call him 15 times a night if you must....DO NOT READ PARENTING BOOKS. That includes websites, you cheaters. Why? Nothing will make you feel more inadequate. Nothing will make you worry more. Oh, and that chick at the mall/church/your playgroup/the bar who is always going on and on about how advanced her kid is and how smart and pretty her kid is? Yeah, don't be friends with her anymore. She's just bringing you down. (Personal admission: I have never read one stinking parenting book, and I manged to keep all 3 of mine alive, and actually grow them a little. Many of my friends did read them, though, and I stopped being friends with every single one of them really fast.)
  • If your mother-in-law comes over to play with the baby...LEAVE. That's right, leave her there with your kid. I don't care if that kid is 3 days old and still a bit damp; this is your golden opportunity. They stop coming over once the kid learns how to curse. Take full advantage while you can. Why? Because you need to get out already. You're starting to look pale. And do you really want to listen to your mother in law tell you about how she gave her babies evaporated milk and used cloth diapers and how she didn't have the internet or plumbing or language or oil or fire? No, you don't. If you are lucky enough to know she's coming before she gets there, leave your dirty laundry out, too. She'll do it. She's secretly cool like that. Don't worry about leaving the baby with her; she's done this a few times already, and she will do the most amazing job ever caring for your child, if no no other reason than to show your ass up.
  • Watch TV. Find a show, get hooked. Like, crack hooked. The catch is; the show has to air only between 2-5 am. Why? Because you will be up between 2-5 am and if you don't have something to look forward to, you will go batshit crazy and start singing inappropriate songs to your baby and wander all the way to the grocery store in a nightgown and one slipper because you are too delirious to remember what clothes are. I personally went with Law and Order re-runs. Law and Order (back then there was just the one) has 9,241 3/4 episodes. Every channel this side of Ursa Minor airs them in syndication. I saw every single one, in order. I loved the 1:30 am feeding because I got to see my show. And every time 1of3 heard that DaDum Da Da DadaDum, he'd try to nurse. It was gorgeous.
  • Drink. Yes, drink. Red wine and Guinness are totally good for you and if anyone tells you otherwise they are not your friend. Drink a glass of wine or a Guinness about an hour and a half before you'd theoretically, in a perfect world, like your kid to go down so you can do it/watch Law and Order/take a nap/shop. You'll see. Nurse that baby after the 1 1/2 hours and someone will go ni-night. And maybe a taller someone will, too.

And that's all I've got. Oh, except call your freaking doctor already. Don't be embarrased or ashamed and certainly don't convince yourself that there's nothing at all wrong with you that a good nap won't cure. Call your doctor. That's what they're there for. Or call me. I'll totally walk you through it.

Just hear me out

You know what I hate? I hate it when people let there kids scream and scream and scream at the store and don't do a damn thing about it. Like the other day; I ran out to the store to grab one quick thing and as I walked through the store I got to listen someone's screaming child. Kids cry; I get it. But seriously, this woman and her kid were making their way through the entire store while that kid was rolling around on the floor in her designer shoes and her Hanna Andersson coat and her little pigtails that supposedly made her cute, screaming bloody freaking murder and the woman with her, decked out in all of a hoodie and yoga pants, did absolutely nothing about it. She kept handing her toys and candy and then, oh, and then...she started rationalizing. With a toddler. Come on now, that child barely speaks english. This woman clearly thought it wasn't really bothering anyone. Lady, just because your kid looks good, that doesn't make her cute. It just makes her outfit cute. And if I know anything, it's that if your kid looks that much better than you, something's gone wrong on your priority list. The woman didn't do a lot of things, but the worst thing she didn't do was dropping what she was doing and taking that freaking kid out of the store, even though I bet it was past that kids' bedtime and they really shouldn't have been there to begin with. That child obviously didn't want to be there, and that woman obviously had no control at all over what was going on.

But you know what I hate the very very most? I absolutely flippin' HATE it when that woman is me.