Little Sisters in Shittiness

Monday Blessings from a younger version of Jenny!

That's right.  I am a trickster who is writing this post-for-the-future on Friday.  Woah.

Remember Friday?  When the weekend was still right in front of you? Before you had seen the Opening ceremonies?  (Have I mentioned that if someone told me to stick my tongue in a light socket in a British accent, I probably would?)  They were simpler times.

I am doing this mainly because on Monday I will more than likely be running around my house trying to hurl piles of laundry from unacceptable spots to acceptable ones, and then heading to the ninth-circle-of-hell otherwise known as LAX airport.  All in preparations for the fabulous 16 year old sister in law who I will be spending the second half of Monday strangling with love.  We will be referring to her as Bubella (thank you, EmHart).  I feel like that name both captures that she is Bubba's little sister, and also makes you think "wait.. didn't I get vaccinated for that once?"

So today (Friday - keep up, damnit) the best friend Mr. T and I stopped into a Barnes & Nobles.  On a note completely unrelated to what I'm about to talk about, check out some brilliant asshole's idea on book arrangement -

No words.

ANYHOO.

Mr. T is on a strange quest to find all the Bernstein Bear books and so before I knew what was happening I found myself in the children's book section.  As I ran screeching out of it, I thought "oh, looky that, another strange habit thanks to Infertility".


I am, undeniably, a different Jenny than I was a few years ago. I retain my goofy core, but I am full of habits, reactions and strange information I could have happily lived without.

Wouldn't it be nice if when you started trying to have a baby, you'd just get a letter in the mail telling you that you're infertile?  Some lovely letter from people who are longstanding members of the Infertility Club, welcoming you, giving you perhaps a few nuggets of solid gold advice? A sort of "Little Sisters in Shittiness" program.

Okay so it wouldn't be the best letter you ever got (maybe we could also throw in a muffin basket?) but you'd have a better idea of what you were getting into instead of slowly watching it happen to yourself.  Rip the damn Bandaid, I say.

With that in mind, I started thinking about what possible advice I could give to someone who has just realized that they are not going to be in the 'whoops!  I'm pregnant!' category.

I reserve the right to revisit this subject, add and subtract - but here's what I have so far.

On Smug Fertiles:
When every mother fucking mother your age is working on their third child and asking you why you don't have one, I find it best to have an arsenal of responses prepared to suit your mood.

 If you're feeling snarky and mysterious, I would go with something like "I have no kids, just free time and money".  If you're feeling shocking, something along the lines of "I'm barren, jackass".

Or if, like me, you've just reached the point where you want to make people as uncomfortable as they make you, launch into a ten minute explanation (make sure not to pause, an interruption will ruin it) of your infertility woes, and try to work the phrase "cervical mucus" into your speech as much as humanly possible.


On Progesterone:
Speaking of cervical mucus... If anyone in a lab coat ever utters the phrase "progesterone suppositories" to you, as soon as you can get your pants on, I want you to go to Target.  Buy two packs of grandma underpants that you will not get attached to - for you will be throwing them out at the end of your visit to Progesteland, if not burning them in your back yard.

"Progesterone Suppository" is Infertile speak for "This will be the grossest thing that has happened to you ever in the history of ever.  Giant clumps of hideousness will be falling out of you all day, every day.  Excellent practice for the sensation of giving birth only instead of a baby, it will just be a giant lump of awful".



On HSGs, Saline Sonograms and Trial transfers:
Doctors can be funny.  When they tell you they're going to do a test to have a 'look see' at your uterus, they will probably also smile, and tell you to perhaps take a Tylenol beforehand.  I want you to smile back, leave quietly, and then blow every drug dealer in town if necessary to get a Vicodin.

All of these tests mean that you will be spending an afternoon with your legs in the air, with 3-5 people inserting crazy things into your vajajay (a wand?  A teapot?  A small collection of toy trucks?  You won't know after awhile) looking and feeling like an advertisement for gang rape.


On Side Effects:
Also on the subject of Doctor hilarity, when they write you a script for something and say the side effects "aren't that bad", you are to interpret that to mean that much like Godzilla you will be blowing up to 10 times your usual size and terrorizing your entire city.


On Laughing:
Do it.  Do it a lot.

I am a woman always trying to find the funny in things.  Always and forever, in my life, there are going to be people who find this off-putting - particularly when it comes to the subject of infertility some people (understandably) have a hard time finding the silly in it. I laugh - this means I will never be a 'for everybody' person and this is certainly not going to be a blog to point the super-serious in the direction of .

I like to think that in order to stay human, we have to laugh x many of times a year.  Say, 10 million.  Otherwise you turn into a goblin.

There have been days during this long strange trip through infertility, where I cannot find the funny or goofy in anything - and I can promise you with absolute certainty there will be days like that for you as well.  So my best little nugget of advice, keeping the goblin rule in mind, is that when you can find the silly in something - laugh. Laugh twice.



(Sidenote - can we not all agree to collectively burn all copies of "Love You Forever"?   Honestly.  Yes it's wonderful but that book only makes people cry.  Just seeing the cover I burst into flames). 



Alright my darling sisters in shittiness, what are your golden nuggets?

Secret Sunday: The Trilogy

Happy Sunday, my fellow ovarian gimps!

It is Saturday as I write this and I have just survived a surprise visit from my Grandma - the cleanliest woman in the world.

So many visits in the house of Stork.  Today sneaky Grandma, tomorrow or Monday step-father in law (is that a thing?  He is an awesome stepfather-in-law, not of the evil variety) and Monday the sister-in-law (also of the awesome variety).

Enough with silly visits.

Strap on your very best Easter Mary-Janes and hide your boner in a Holy Book, it's Secret Sunday.

Having spent the day being gassed by fumes coming out of my fridge, I was admittedly stumped for what my secret today would be.  I asked the soon-to-be-west sister in lawlessness what the weirdest thing I had ever told her was - and she said "didn't you throw dirty tampons at a girl?"

Oh yesssss I did.

Okay, well I didn't throw them at her but I did put them in her backpack.

And before you go picturing me as one of the girls in the opening scene of Carrie, let me assure you she deserved it.

Of all the bad things you can say about Stupid Stork (I'm chubby, I am incapable of a tan, my eyes are ginormous and my left boob is noticeably bigger than the right) you cannot accuse me of being uncreative.

So, I had what you could I guess call a "high school sweetheart" -  the guy I dated from 8th grade to 10th grade, my first love.


I met him as I started 8th grade as the 'new kid'.  I had lived in this east-coast town from kindergarten to 5th grade, then lived in Mexico City, Mexico for two years, and returned for 8th grade.  So there were definitely some kids I knew from Elementary School, but to most of them I was 'new'.


I had never met - let's call him Kevin - before, so I was unaware that he was a big deal.  He was cute, pretty funny and asked me out.  So I said yes.  There were a gaggle of girls in junior high who I didn't know, but who instantly disliked me because of this.


One of them was so bent out of shape over it, that a month into my 'relationship' with Kevin she did three things:

1. She grabbed his crotch in P.E. and licked his earlobe. Repeatedly.
2. She told people I probably had some weird Mexican STD.
3. When confronted about this by one of my friends, she said "what's that bugeyed freak going to do about it?"

I was told about this by multiple reliable sources.  I attempted to brush it off, but the last straw came when  she body checked me in the hallway.  As we established in a previous secret, I do not enjoy pushing.  My creativity was lit aflame when I noted during said body check that she had a hideously bright turquoise backpack with keychains hanging off the zipper.

My friend Ro and I were both on our periods.  (Come to think of it - Ro was also the one who, after finding out I had gotten my first period, went home and drew in her underpants.  We are connected by menstruation).  

We decided to be late to our class during the offending girl's gym period.  We went into the locker room after they were clearly already in the gym (she, probably off somewhere hitting on my boyfriend), and used the toilets.  We both removed our own tampons, and for good measure emptied out the special lady-boxes in the stalls of any tampons or pads we could find.  We then stuffed them into the small pocket of her stupid backpack.

I was later told that she went to media studies class, retrieved a pencil and they all fell out onto the ground. Word spread, and when people passed her in the hallway they dramatically plugged their noses. 

When a girl asked me if I had anything to do with it, I said "what's that fish-stinking freak going to do about it?"

This week's are amazing.  

From B:

I was a preschool teacher for 8 years.  I worked with infants to six year-old children but for the most part, I was in the two & three year-old room.  I've had many, many bad children over those years pass through my room due to not-so-great parenting.  One of them really sticks out.  It was a little boy who terrorized all the other children, threw fits every hour he was there, and made me want to pull my hair out.  There was one day he stood next to our mini toilet & pooped next to it while looking at me the whole time.  One day when I had enough, I waited until he fell asleep on the little cot, hovered my bum in the air over him, & farted on his head.  

From AnonyMom:

I pick my daughter's nose...yes thats right. If I see a bat in that cave, I'll go spelunking to get it out...no child of mine is going to have a boog prairie dogging with each breath. So yes, I pick my daughter's nose. And as I do it, I always say, "you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose....HA WATCH ME! Don't ever tell me I can't do something." And then I dig in...and no I don't pick and flick or anything gross like that...I wipe on a baby wipe or on a tissue....or my husband's sleeve which ever is closer.

From The House Elf:

I have this thing where I like to think I have a magic food cupboard. When I’m making a snack (and I’m home alone….) I like to prepare whatever it is I’m going to eat, let’s say toast, and then I put it on the plate I’m going to eat it off- while the plate is still in the cupboard- and close the door. I pretend I didn’t put the snack in the cupboard and I go and get a drink or cutlery or whatever…………….. then I go back to the cupboard and “poof!” there’s my snack already prepared. I have been doing this for years, I know it is totally weird and I am fully aware I should probably get some sort of therapy for it but for some reason I think it’s awesome

From the Little Lover:

I've been reading and watching A Game of Thrones recently. A couple weeks ago, I had a sexy dream about Tyrion Lannister. He's the last person I would expect to have that kind of dream about. There are quite a few sexy men on that show that are more my type. However, the sex was really mind-blowing!!! Ever since then, I have been thinking about what it would be like to be with a Little Person. Particularly Tyrion Lannister. I have nothing against Little People (although my mind used to revert to Umpa Lumpas). I have never fantasized about one - until now (not Umpa Lumpas, just Little People)!

From Arwen Rose at mrkhmusings :

On our recent trip to D.C. - a trip down memory lane to where we met and first became friends - hubs and I got pretty tipsy, aka horny, and had sex on the Mall, right by the reflecting pool! It was dark and I was discreetly sitting on his lap skirted but oopsie totally illegal but incredibly hot!!

From K at LaughingwithIF:

So the husband is a mechanic, and we were going to a Hockey game right after work, but were feeling a little randy (and the Stick God told me we were prime baby making time) so we decided to act like we were 16 again. We drove over to his companies "overflow" lot - basically where they put all the extra cars for sale they can't fit on their main lot. This lot is normally DEAD.

So we get to doing our business and I'm a little weirded out but what the Stick God says is LAW in our house. So literally 2 second after we finish and begin putting our clothes back on, a car pulls up in the spot BESIDE us and i'm like OH SHIT!

It was a salesman and he proceeded to roll his window down and ask if we needed any help.

I was going to explain to him about Stick God but decided to just say, "No we're fine "and roll the window back up.

I don't think my face has ever been more red.

From EmHart:

I went to the beach on Wednesday with my mum and sister. We had been there all day and eaten a rather large lunch and had several ice creams. Suddenly I was overcome with the urge to evacuate the old system, so I headed off across the beach to the loo's. Once there I took a look in all of the stalls. No paper. No paper in a single on. I peeked outside, could I see an attendant? No, no I could not. Could I make it back to my sister and mum for tissues? No, no it was becoming more urgent by the moment. Once I gotta go, I gotta go. So turtle head appearing I had to head into a stall and do my business. Ah crap, what now? Sad to say my friends, a rather lovely pair of duck egg blue panties, with little red cherries on them made the ultimate sacrifice. And I loved those knickers too. Thank goodness I was wearing shorts and not a skirt hey? 

From Lisa:

When I was about 8yo, I was in an arcade as I'm sure most 80's children were back in the day.

I had just put a token in to a game when suddenly, I felt the urge to pee. 

What to do?? Do I stop everything, lose that token I just spent and walk across the mall to the bathroom? 

Do I try to hold it and play my game?

Nah, none of those will do!

My 8yo brain just said 'screw it!' So I played my game while peeing all over myself. 

Now if that's not bad enough, I had the brilliant idea that swishing my foot around in the pee puddle would somehow hide the evidence.

So not only did I pee on myself.. on purpose, I was also essentially playing in it afterwards too.

Good times....

Right about now you should be having visions of doing it with little people in a public place, hopefully in a pool of your own pee pee.

Hot damn I love this Church.

Silly Saturday. Oh, and I'm the Kerri Strug of Infertility.

Here's to the weekend, my Uterine Princesses!

If you're visiting from ICLW, read this one.  It's an online slumber party gone mental.

I have been blogging a month today.  No idea what the hell I was doing with my life beforehand.

Everyone watch the opening ceremonies?

I was reading some 'best moments in olympic history' article yesterday and somehow ended up on You Tube watching Kerri Strug do her amazing vault.

Remember that little bit of awesomeness? Gymnastics seems to be the only thing I can kind of get into some years, and I was totally into it in 1996.  Long story short - but do watch the video and sob - that girl done fucked up her ankle on her first vault, went ahead and did the second one anyway, nailed it, and USA won the gold.

That funny little girl with her lesbian hair cut is enough to make my grinchy heart grow three times in size 16 years later.

I will be the Kerri Strug of infertility, damnit.  Sure there isn't the baited breath of millions watching me (unless we put all the people who have seen my vajajay in the last few months in one room).  And sure there's not going to be some mysteriously European man carrying me around for my victory lap should I succeed (unless it's my German husband).  And sure I have tried and failed miserably, but I'm going to get back on that horse, broken uterus and all, and Cesar Millan that pony's ass into submission.

Or my name isn't Stupid.

And now for a bit of random silly.

I swear I will get off my Billy Eichner kick, eventually.  But the man makes me pee.  Pee, I tell you!

Honestly, if sex wouldn't horrify both him and me, he would be at the tippity top of my do-him list.  Well, under Bill Murray.

So you there in a dark ovarian moment - watch thisssssss.

I die.

You have so little time to send me a secret!

And That's how Jenny Died...

Good Thursday, my delicious scrambled eggs.

(See what I did there?  Works on so many levels).

If you haven't been here in a few days or are just arriving from ICLW - I must insist that you go back and participate in our do-him game from Tuesday.

I have had so... much... fun.. reading the comments.  To briefly catch you up - ask a group of women the top 5 people they would do, and shit gets crazy.  There's drooling, specific instructions to google so-and-so shirtless, weaves being pulled off and earrings being taken out in preparation for a fight... Amazing.

I am seriously going to tally all of this up.  It feels like there should be some Olympic Finality to this.

Important life lesson:  Ryan Gosling vs. Ryan Reynolds is the do-him equivalent to The Rolling Stones vs. The Beatles, or Elvis vs. The Beatles.  Yes you can like them both but you cannot like them equally.

And on that note, clearly some of you have been roofied (no idea how to spell that and I'm not looking it up in case I'm ever falsely accused of a crime and someone has to look up my google searches - thank you, Dateline) by Ryan Reynolds.

I fully intend on writing to congress on your clearly confused behalves.

No.

So yesterday I had three - yes, 3! - near death experiences in the span of 30 minutes.  

Near Death Experience 1:

I arrive at Chipotle at 10:29 for my usual take-home brunch which is actually making me lose weight (and yes, I am fully available, Chipotle, for some Jared-a-la-Subway commercials) one minute before they open.  As per usual, it's me and about 5 other Mexican-food loving psychos pawing at the front door.

On this occasion, however, there is a lovely homeless man singing to himself and emptying nearby trash bins of recyclables.  He walks by our group, and says "hey, how is everybody doing today!"

Crickets chirp, everyone pretends they're looking at their phones.  I think to myself 'what a bunch of assholes' and so I reply:

Stupid Stork:  Pretty good, how about yourself?

Homeless man:  Sober!  ::dramatic gesture of disgust::

Stupid:  Well, that sucks!

HM:  Exactly!  What's so good about it?  Have a good day, love.

So as I'm having this riveting discussion, there's another homeless man (to be fair, not quite sure if he's homeless or is just a backpacking hitchhiker which we tend to get in our neighborhood) about 20 feet away.  He yells.. Something.

I think I catch the tail end of it which I believe was "what did he say?" (did I mention I'm not so good with hearing?).  But it was one of those situations where you're not exactly sure what this person is saying, or that they're even talking to you. So rather than shout 20 feet away to a hitchhiker who may not have been talking to me and reveal my insanity to 5 people who are clearly so riveted by their phones they have no idea what's going on I'm sure, I stay silent.

Cue meltdown.

He starts shouting.. Something.   He is red faced, foaming at the mouth, and even with my shotty eyes I can see spit bubbles.  All I can catch is the very few words that have managed to travel the 20 feet via spit bubble - "fucking!"  "Shitty!"  "Assholes!".  He looks like a cartoon bull that is about to charge me.

I didn't catch the jist of of his rant on me, but I caught the end of the last sentence before he stomped off which was:

"Oh well, I guess I'll just have to go and jerk off about you later!"

Hmm.

Mind you, my fellow food lovers apparently didn't hear any of that, but once the door to Chipotle softly squeaked open they all jumped up.  Bastards.

One of them was kind enough to open the door and cursed me by saying "Well, you're having a morning."

Near Death Experience 2:

I am waiting to turn left into a Starbucks drive-thru, and the oncoming traffic is backed up.  Some lovely person decides to let me in, I see no one coming in the furthest lane I have to cross through, so I go.  Fancy man listening to loud rap music comes speeding along, doesn't see me until the last minute, and by screeching on his brakes narrowly missed me by a few inches.

The lovely best friend Mr. T likes to say something a-la-Mean-Girls (and yes, he can basically perform the entire movie for you) when someone trips or does something clumsy.  "And that's how so and so died..."

It is a testimony to what a good mood a nooky-related debate puts me in that one of my first thoughts was not "oh sweet Jesus I'm going to get hit" but was instead "And that's how Jenny died..."

Near Death Experience 3:

I turn out of Starbucks having collected myself and improved my mood with the acquisition of coffee (and by 'coffee' I basically mean milkshake), and two intersections over discover I have missed a giant accident (a regular car vs. one of those giant trucks carrying cars) by about five minutes.

In other news, my ovaries have decided to become very painful for absolutely no reason.  I am, theoretically 8dpo (but who knows - I'm thinking 0dpo is more accurate) and it. hurts.  It reminds me of Clomid or when I was full of eggs for IVF - you know that feeling like you did some ridiculously intense work out yesterday, but for some reason all of the soreness has decided to be centrally located in your uterus?  No me gusta.

And no, there's not one part of me - not one tiny bit! - that thinks this is a pregnancy symptom.  Not even convinced I ovulated.  I am fully anticipating a period of death.

The sister-in-law arrives on Monday.  I must clean house.  I am handling this as I normally would, by staring at the mess from my couch and thinking "shit I should probably do something about this soon".  

So I predict a weekend full of everyone's favorite game, "What's that smell coming from the fridge?"

I'm also hurling my husband on the roof.  Not for any domestic purpose other than to figure out what the fuck that damn neighbor is still digging for.  Koi pond my ass!  And yes, this is a brilliant plan that will in no way result in my husband breaking something.

And last but not least - I am low on secrets for Secret Sunday.  Send me some!  C'mon.  Pretty please? Isn't it enough that I've narrowly escaped death?

The Do-Him List. Also, Go Cheer Someone Up.

Happy Tuesday, my lovely lady lumps.

So Monday was a bit shit.

I spent most of the day going through and paying all the bills from IVF in June.  Millions of trees had to die so that I could get countless copies of essentially the same message:

Dear Jenny,
We are sorry that your month long journey into a uterine abyss did not result in a baby, however we sincerely hope that someone is breastfeeding you, as you will never be able to afford store bought food ever again ever.  You owe eleventy million dollars. It's due yesterday.
Kisses!
-The Medical Community

And then, kids, and THEN, I'm on the phone with my Mom complaining about said bills, when the doorbell rang.  Could it be my neighbor who is clearly digging graves in his backyard? (Who is, by the way, still...digging...)!  No. Worse.

Strange Lady: Hi
Stork: Hi....
Strange Lady: I talked to your husband earlier about coming to pick up your crib?
Stupid: No.  You really didn't.  You must have the wrong house.
Spawn of Lucifer:  Whoops.

Also, though I got a positive digital opk last.. Wednesday?  I never had the O pains that I usually do, so I'm thinking it must have been a bust.  Oh well, gratuitous sex.


So let's cheer ourselves up with a game, shall we?

Five people, dead or alive, that are at the top of your "do him/her" list.  Go.  Don't think.  Trust your instincts.

Mine:

1.  Bill Murray
Shut your filthy whorish mouth.  I don't care if he's approaching 500 years old, this man has literally never said anything that didn't make me laugh out loud.  If he had been the one to call me and tell me that only one of my eggs fertilized, I may have fallen off my couch laughing.

2.  River Phoenix
He was my first love.  Never have I ever seen a man so pretty and yet miraculously heterosexual in my life.  When I was 11 and learned he had died I would've been less upset if someone told me Santa Claus had been castrated and shot.

3.  Angelina Jolie
Don't pretend she's not on your list.  And I'm not talking about do-gooder, Mom to a small tribe Angelina, I'm talking old school wearing blood around her neck and talking about knives Angelina.  Gimme.

4.  Ryan Gosling
Okay, it's a little boring and obvious but who are we kidding.  My hairdresser and I on Friday had a heated debate about Gosling vs Reynolds, who I find hideous.  Can you not tell just by looking at him that he's a smug asshole?  Seriously.  So beige.  Gosling, I feel, before any love making would improvise some poetry about your eyes, feed you some sort of exotic fruit hybrid whilst simultaneously greasing his own abs.

5.  Eric from True Blood
No, not the actor, just Eric.  I want him pissy, mean and wanting to eat me (interpret that as you will).  One of my biggest irrational fears, living here, is that I run into him somewhere in the daylight and discover that he's a delightful human being.  No thank you.



Alright.  Gimme.  Let's hear yours.


******This just in.

This is lo.  She is wonderfully funny and one of my favorite sisters in shittiness.

She is 13 days into her post-IVF 2ww and hasn't had a positive pee stick.. Yet.  As someone who recently traveled to CooCooVille post-IVF, I support any and all activities that involve going to her blog and cheering her on.  Nude tribal dances on behalf of her ovaries are encouraged.  (And yes, when you are having a particularly rough moment I may shamelessly point people in your direction without your permission.  Bite me.)

Also, this is Doping For Baby.  Also full of awesome-sauce, also a shitty-day.  I encourage good vibes.

For you, lovely lo, as you have revealed below what can only be described as an extremely odd fancy for Patrick Stewart.  My cat judges you.

Dear Baby... Also, I put out for Steak.

Monday is upon us yet again, my little rays of light.

As we speak I am in my backyard being attacked by flies like a giant piece of dooky. I hope your Monday is fairing better.

If you are here from ICLW - hidy ho from your new dooky-like blog friend!  By all means just keep reading along, but if you by chance would prefer a little direction, I made this super fancy tab for you over here.

Thank you for all the happy anniversary wishes!  The house of Stupid feels loved.  We celebrated yesterday by eating a meal so delicious, to acquire it I may or may not have made a deal with the devil  and have since been magicked into not remembering.  It's the one day a year I can demand a steak before I put out.

If you are in, around or ever plan on visiting L.A., you have to eat at Inn of the Seventh Ray.  I inhaled this little number is less than five minutes:

According to the menu, it is:"Charcoal Crust Filet Mignon, Creekstone Farms Natural Angus Beef. Watercress, Baby Leeks and Carrots, Balsamic Onion, Black Garlic, Potato Foam".  In short, amazeballs.


Anyhoo.


As infertiles, I'm sure we all have our favorite running loop of infertile thoughts that goes round & round in our heads whether we like them to or not.  Lately, for some reason, I've been thinking about things that I won't do once I'm a Mom.  (I already talked about what I won't do to other Moms). My Mom was fantastico - all that is screwed up about me came from outside sources - but in watching what some other people have had to go through/are putting their kids through... Holy bejeeze.  So in the spirit of unloading some of my will's and won'ts:

Dear Future Baby,
I've heard that it's not such a good idea to bribe children, or babies, or really anybody for that matter.  It has occurred to me, however, that maybe you're out there in the ether having trouble taking the big leap into humanity because you're wondering "alright, but what are they going to do once they have me?  I mean really?"


So I'm going to list out some promises I can make upfront for your review.  Oh, and please try and check your mail every once in awhile because there are a lot more than what I'm about to list, but I don't want to turn you off by making you think you'll have an overly verbose Mother.

1. Given the obstacle course of flaming hoops and hurdles your Dad and I are going through to get you (clearly you are gifted in the pain in the ass department, already I can see us in you) I can say with total confidence that of all the ways we can screw you up, making you feel unloved - for even a second of your life - will not be one of them.
2. I'm going to try my best to give you little to no ammo to unleash on your therapist as an adult.  I will not make you feel guilty for my own pleasure, I'll keep showing off your baby pictures to your teenage friends to a bare minimum, and I will never yell at you in a public bathroom about why you're taking so long.
3. I will have to insist on please and thank you's.  I will never make you think that your words don't mean anything because you're a child, but I'm afraid treating people with kindness and respect until they give you a reason to treat them otherwise is a big thing in this house. Though we are all for judging them silently and/or behind their backs.
4. Chances are, given your genetics, you're going to be a little weird. If you grow up and decide that you want to photograph road kill for a living, I will tell you to go out and be the best road kill photographer there is (and maybe think about getting a part time job just to support yourself while the road kill field is waiting for the respect it deserves).
5. Should you end up with some dormant 'normal' or 'practical' genes of ours or just decide it's your way to rebel,  I will be wildly supportive if you grow up longing to be an accountant.  Work those khakis.
6. Also under the heading of dormant genetics - if you are really into sports, your Dad and I will go to your games, and be loud when you're young and try to blend in when you're a teenager.  We will, I'm afraid, need you to explain games to us and have to designate someone in the crowd who's cheering for the same team to follow along with, but we will be there.  Be patient with us, it will be awhile before you can throw a ball at us and have us do anything other than duck.
7. If what you love is music, dance, writing, theatre, film, art - we'll try to give our opinions only when you ask for them.
8. If you one day tell me that you're gay, my response will be "I don't give a shit".  I'm sure we will have had suspicions before you tell us, and therefor I'll have time to buy some book that will give me a more motherly way of saying it - but the jist will be "I don't give a shit".  If you are my lovely lesbian daughter I'll let you build us an extra room and if you're my lovely gay son I'll let you decorate it.  The only worry you'll have in this regard is being embarrassed by your middle aged mother bedazzled in glitter and feathers, loudly marching in the parade behind you.
9. That being said, don't marry anyone that is going to drive me crazy.  Not that you have to get married (I will never pressure you about that or having babies) but if you're in a long term relationship with someone.. I don't care if they're male, female, or a ridiculously well dressed tranny, as long as they're super loving with you and will spend their lives continuing the then longstanding tradition of rule number 1 - never letting you go a second without feeling loved.
10. I will try every day to make your life fun.  Sure, sometimes there is shit that we have to do that kind of sucks (did I forget to mention I also won't lie to you?) but I'm going to do my very best to instill humor in you.  There are very few situations you can't find the ridiculous or funny in, and that makes the occasionally shitty things you have to do so much easier.  I promise I will try to keep you laughing.

So that's part of my opening offer for your review.  And while I will ban this phrase from any bathroom behavior, in this particular instance, please hurry up.


Love,
Mom.  Jenny.  Mom.

In other news:


A reader pointed me in the direction of this here facebook page.  It's for "Still Project" a documentary about pregnancy and infant loss.  Go check it out.  (And PS, if there's ever something you want me to mention in here that may be of interest to our sisters in shittiness, shoot me an email).


Just found out yesterday my super-duper-fantastico 16 year old sister in law is coming out for 3 weeks on Monday.  I am thrilled.  This will be an awesome ovarian distraction.

We have an oddly grown up relationship, and at this point even though she lives in D.C. and I in L.A., we talk every few days at least.  I met her when she was 8, and thought 'if this relationship with Bub goes as planned, most of my relationship with her is going to be as two adults'.  And so (and she would attest to this) I skipped the whole talking to her like she was a kid thing and was generally my inappropriate self around her, and let her divulge secrets to me without taking any sort of "I am an adult" stance.  So, now we're friends.  My evil plan worked.  Now it's just a matter of thinking up an alias for her in here... Thought "Lady Bubba" but then figured maybe it would come across as Bub in drag.

Secret Sunday: Episode 2

Good Day, my little Humpty Dumpties.

If you have wandered here from ICLW - you have arrived in time for a virtual share fest of disgusting secrets.  By all means, read on (and join us next week!) but in the event you would like to kick off our friendship with something other than who I've shown my boobs to or my bloggy friends' brilliant solution to anal sex, I have made this tab over here just for you to point you in the direction of different posts.

I am approaching Day 2 of ICLW and I don't think I have gotten a related comment. Why, ICLW? I am delightful, damnit!

Enough.

It is a tad early this week as I am putting this together Saturday night (if you missed Silly Saturday - it is here.)  Nonetheless, line up for the confessional and pray for an impotent priest, it's Secret Sunday.

I'll start us off.

My husband let a family of five see my boobs.

We were married 6 years ago, this very Secret Sunday.  Two days after the wedding, we went on our honeymoon to beautiful Kauai, Hawaii.  We stayed at a lovely condo-like resort and did it every which way you can imagine (and on a beach in the rain, no less).

Weeks before we had bought a book about all the things to see on Kauai.  We rented a banana yellow jeep to navigate the island, and a few days into our trip we headed for one of the go-to places, Secret Beach.

To get to Secret Beach, you take some windy roads to a very small parking lot.  Obviously since it's being written about in books, it's not so secret...But to get there you have to hike a good 15-20 minutes downhill on a fairly unmarked path through a forest, and since you're unable to see the actual beach before you arrive there, you have to have faith it'll be worth the hike back up.  Considering this is a small island we're talking about and therefor surrounded in beaches, you have to be seriously jonesing for some privacy to commit.

When we arrived in the parking lot I was wearing just a sundress - not exactly hiking clothes and definitely not a swimsuit.  I did, however, have a change of clothes.  We also had a ton of towels in the car, and since we were so secluded, I just used them to improvise a changing room.  Our car was pulled up right against the forest - front bumper to woods.  I had just enough towels to cover the back and side windows, and figured the front window would be safe.  Bubba would stand guard outside to alert me to intruders.

Something to know about Bub:  he does not speak up.

A family of five - two parents, two teenage boys and a kid, came hiking up out of the forest.  Then for some G-dforsaken reason, instead of walking in the spacious enough parking lot behind me, they tripped through the awkward space in front of my car practically leaning on the hood.  Bub, apparently, just stood and watched unsure of what to say.

As they do this, I am topless.  We all freeze.  Time loses all meaning.  I have enough time to not only make eye contact with each of them, but to see fully into their souls.  If they had immediately met a sketch artist, they could have described all freckles and moles in their precise measurements and color.

Yes, folks, on my honeymoon five people aside from my husband saw me naked.  And he didn't even have the sense to charge.

And now, the delicious secrets of others:

From an Anonymouse:

When I was in high school, I had a Latin teacher that seemed to like putting hands on or arms around girls while walking around the class. No one ever seemed too concerned until one day I found out he had an affair with one of my friends. To this day everyone still wonders while I grunt every time his name is mentioned.

From an Anonymoose:

I had a friend in college who used to have a thing for masturbating with strange things.  She only told me about it because she had tried masturbating with an old fashioned coke bottle, and it didn't have it's cap on, so somehow from suction it got stuck.  I had to take her to the er so they could carefully break it/get it out.

From Kate at Infertile Firstmom:

When I was 14 and my dear sister (now my best friend) was 18, in a

moment of sheer angsty teenaged jealousy (I guess, I don't really

remember my motives), I threw a FULLY LOADED hotdog at her 2 minutes

before she was to leave the house for her Baccalaureate service.

For those not familiar with this particular milestone in the parochial

school system, the Baccalaureate is a religious service held on the

Sunday before high school commencement day... a pretty big day for

graduating seniors.

Oh, and (fancy new) white dresses are required for all the girls.

So yeah. It was messy. She still brings it up to this day.

From Erinvns:

I dressed my beagle as a dragon last Halloween and it was a Martha stewart costume and im not ashamed! She went trick or treating with my 2 year old nephew (also a dragon) and I thought she was cuter.

From an Anonysquirrel:

I learned about cervical mucus not because of TTC but because of the shot.  I was on it in my early twenties, and it was supposed to stop bleeding altogether but instead I just bled with no warning, whenever.  And when balls of mucus started coming out sometimes, I asked my doctor about it and she explained that it was cervical mucus.  So the first time I slept with a new guy, I was rolling over to get on top of him, and a GIANT bloody ball of cervical mucus came out and fell on his stomach.  Needless to say, he flipped out.  A few weeks later he stopped calling and I always wondered if it was because of CM.

From the Anal Hooker:

I am somewhat of an anal sex hooker. Purely for my husband of course. Allow me to explain. I hate anal sex, he loves it. I have since realized that I can barter rear-loving to get things I want. It started with a half hour foot massage as payment for any anal action and has since progressed to much bigger and better things. I’ve had him clean out our “junk room”, re-organise the garage, come to parties and family functions I know he will hate and much much more. I continue to whinge and carry on about how much I hate it because I know he will keep doing more stuff to get it. Sometimes if I want something really bad I will even think “I know how I can get this…….”

From EmHart:

The naughtiest place I ever had *whisper it* S. E. X. was in the props warehouse when I was at drama school. I was having a wild fling with my leading man, as you do, and we just snuck off there one day because we couldn't contain ourselves any longer. We had just rehearsed a particularly emotionally charged scene from 'Measure for Measure' and I think we were supposed to be going on to a jazz class or some other arty farty drivel. Sod that, we thought, and instead we went and made, to quote the bard, 'the beast with two backs' on a dusty old chaise long behind a collection of six foot lolly-pops and a fake fireplace, with a large donkey mask from 'the Dream' looking down on us. Man, drama school was fun. Do you ever wish you could go on holiday to a moment from your past? I would go there. I am still friends with him actually and he came to my wedding, so not all mad flings end in disaster. 

From lo:

I shave my face sometimes.

(I am a fuzzy person.)

Oh so many important lessons to be learned in the Church of Secrets.  Oh. So. Many.

If you are instantly regretting chickening out this week or you have stumbled across this for the first time, I have made a lovely little tab just for Secret Sunday.

Do we have a favorite?

Saturday Silliness, Sinister Neighbors and Nude Golden Girls

It's the weekend, mofo's!

Woot woot.

In the event you have arrived here from ICLW - howdy!  Totally just read on, but if by chance you don't want to start out our relationship by reading about my love of the nude elderly, I've made a handy dandy page here.

So one of my neighbors might be digging holes for dead bodies during the day.

Let's back up.

We've lived in this house for 3 years.  In the last six months - both sets of neighbors on either side left (one couple to go live on a yacht for a few years, one family to get a bigger house) and rented their places out to new families.  (Can I tell you how much fun it is to introduce yourself to new neighbors, have them ask you if you have kids, and see the second of disappointment in their eyes when you say "nope!").

Anyhoo, the yacht people rented their house to a ridiculously gorgeous couple with a young son.  The girl seems pretty cool.  I have a lemon tree in my backyard that produces lemons like the apocalypse came and went, and lemons have inherited the Earth - so when they moved in, I left them a giant bag of lemons on their doorstep.  Not really to be nice, just to unload some freak lemons.  (Buying a house did not make me a Mom, but it did make me a lemon pusher).

A few days later, well dressed gorgeous young woman comes unexpectedly to my door to thank me.  I am wearing PJ pants, a tank top with a hole close to the nipple and a giant 1980s hair band.  I try my best to win her over with my personality in case the nipple doesn't work.

This is my lemon tree which is now dormant for two months - I'm telling you, when it gets going you can't see the tree -

A few days later, Luna the Giant Puppy is in the backyard, on her long cord pegged into the ground.  She sees gorgeous neighbors in backyard, somehow completely removes her own collar, jumps over the fence and starts running around them.  Again, as testimony to this girl probably being cool, she doesn't freak out though it must have looked like a rabid werewolf had arrived for a play date with her toddler.  She calls me and tells me this has happened, and as I'm on the phone, Luna jumps over their 6 foot fence and is now in the street.

So I have to immediately leave the house without hesitation.  Again I am wearing a 1980s hairband, one of my hippie skirts, and worst of all... a t-shirt I purchased at the opening of an all nude Golden Girls art show called "Golden Gals Gone Wild".

Yes.  True.  And it was just as amazing as it is in your mind, plus a DJ wearing nothing but a diaper.

To make a long story short, I ended up in gorgeous neighbors front yard, in front of not only her but her toddler and two equally gorgeous lady friends, chasing Luna in circles, tripping over myself, flashing my underpants and silently expressing my adoration for naked Golden Girls.

And yet, somehow they have yet to invite us over for a dinner party.

Which brings us to our other neighbors - they of the dingaling incident.  Short of seeing my husband's pecker and occasionally bringing us our mail, I have had surprisingly little contact with them.  The guy seems nice - haven't really seen his wife.

However - the guy has been digging in the backyard, everyday, all day, just him and a shovel, for two weeks straight. I can assure you - having been in the house which is much smaller than ours - that there is no room for a swimming pool or even a hot tub.  Bub says maybe they're looking for a gopher (we have a very caddyshack like situation going on with our neighborhood). Would you stay home for two weeks, shoveling for a gopher in 100+ degree heat, when the woman you were renting from was a judge?

So please, oh please, someone tell me what a person could be digging (with a shovel) for, for two weeks, that is not sinister?

Given my track record with new neighbors I would really like to avoid having to go all The 'Burbs on their asses.

And on that note - some silliness for your Saturday..  Yes, it involves a baby but she's drunk, so it's okay.

I die.

You have less than 24 hours to send me a secret!

G-d is a Cat

Happy Thursday, Internet Infertiles!

This Sunday, the 22nd, I will have been married to Bubba the Magnificent for 6 years.

Six years ago Sunday, it was 20 bajillion degrees in southern CA, and our initially planned outdoor hippie-esque wedding was moved inside so as to not kill any old people. The air conditioning broke down.  He sweatily promised to bring me coffee when I wanted it, and I moistly told him I wouldn't bring any animals home without his consent.  Twas a very happy day full of love and overactive glands.

Perhaps I'll introduce him further in a future post, but to give you a taste - Bub is gorgeous ( I understand everyone's required to say this of their husband - but he is. Let's be facebook friends and you tell me you wouldn't do him).  He is a freakishly smart professional computer nerd who spends far too much time with his metal whore.  He puts up with me buzzing around him like a fly with ADD beautifully.  Nothing makes me happier than to make him smirk.


How am I going to celebrate?


I believe I will sport matching underwear, and for a day put away the ginormous cotton panties which have been gently hugging my uterus through this dark time.

I will also be eating at my favorite restaurant.  If you live in or plan on visiting L.A. - let's play! - you must eat at inn of the seventh ray.  It's amazeballs, USA.  It's deep in a canyon - you will drive in loopity loops in the middle of nowhere, thinking that the dark day has finally come where the internet has gained consciousness, turned against us, and Google Maps is in fact leading you to your death, possibly by a mountain lion, and then voila... Out emerges a beautiful restaurant with the best food I have ever eaten.  And I'm chubby, so my vote counts for two women.

I am also contemplating getting a hair cut.  My hair has been up for a month - I have naturally curly hair.  Not the "oh, what an amazing earth goddess - I bet the tides get their cue from her menstrual cycle" sort of curls, but the "oh good G-d that is some afro for a pale person" sort of curls.  Think Bellatrix Lestrange.

So yes folks, the Justin Timberlake Prophecy is coming to fruition - with the aid of a corset and a set of scissors, I will single-handedly bring sexy back.

So it's been six years, and minus this whole shitty reproductive stuff they've been happy years.

Did I imagine that we would have kids by now?  Yes.  Am I pissed about this?  Yes.  On the other hand, had someone said to me "you can marry Bubba and not have kids, or you can marry anyone else and have as many kids as you like" I would've picked Bub.  Wouldn't have blinked.

Plus, when I'm super pissed off about our baby woes, despite being a snarky agnostic I have a hard time fully believing that G-d/Mother nature, whatever, is some sort of great big giant cat.  You know, some days their love/awareness comes in the form of sitting in your lap and purring, others from gleefully digging their claws into your thigh.  Sometimes they're with you constantly, sometimes you don't see them for days.   Sometimes just to celebrate a Tuesday or because they've found a particularly good sunbeam they'll sleep for a week straight happily unconcerned with your activities.  Like there's no rhyme or reason, just a great big disappearing cheshire in charge of my uterus.

Sure shit seems to mostly be just totally random.  But there has to be some sort of... plan.  Right?  Right?!  Because my cat theory is starting to gain traction.  In the middle of trying to resolve my fertility issues G-d got distracted by a butterfly or ball of yarn and has since forgotten what He/She was supposed to be doing in the first place.

I regard religion in much the same way that I do marriage - if you have one, and you're happy about it, great.  For others it would be a fucking disaster.  I am happily married - it is psychotic how much I love my husband.  Sometimes just looking at him I want to gnaw his cheeks and drink his blood like he was my own personal juice box.  My love is hardcore. This does not mean everyone on the planet will be happily married simply because I am.

So I don't think marriage is for everyone, I just think it's healthy for people to have some kind of love in their life... even if it's just with music, a creepy doll collection or a snazzy kitten.

I don't think religion is for everyone, I just think it's healthy to have faith in something - Maybe it's G-d.  If you're an atheist, maybe it's yourself..  Maybe it's Santa Claus, a creepy doll collection or a creepy collection of Santa figurines.  Or if you're me, an agnostic gleefully without religion, maybe it's a non-committal "let's just hope shit works out", which hopefully isn't too naive providing that G-d/Mother Nature/Zeus is not, in fact, a giant cat.

People who tell me they know all about G-d, they know everything about love, they know everything about why my reproductive life is working out the way that it is, I consider it to be tabloid fodder.  Someone really excited about an idea, and hoping that you agreeing with them will help solidify their own beliefs. I don't trust anyone who says "I know everything".  The only appropriate answer, in my opinion, to any of the big questions including G-d, love, or the all-encompassing "why?" is "I'm figuring shit out".

For the record, I also don't trust people without freckles or moles.  I find them instantly suspicious.

Yes that is a picture of my cat wearing a bird hat.

You know what would be an excellent anniversary present, interwebs?

Sending me your secrets.  Secret Sunday is almost upon us.

So easy.

1. Think of a secret of yours (something you once did, wanted to say, something gross, something you know about someone else, etc. etc.)
2. Email it to me.
3. Include how you want it to be signed (you can be anonymous)
4. It all goes into Sunday's post, a virtual slumber party.

Give them to me.  Mokey, the obese cat in a bird hat, judges you.

Peeing on Kristen Stewart

Happy Wednesday, preciosas.

I'm ovulating!  Woot woot! Strike up the gland!

I do not ovulate on my own, but when I was on Clomid and then stopped, I always got an extra month of ovulation for free (hooray!  Something for free!). So with the IVF hormones (which make Clomid seem... precious) I was hoping that I would get a bonus month even though Dr. Kickass said that early miscarriages can screw up the following cycle.

So I bit the bullet, spent $55 on one of those 20 packs of digital OPKs (I cannot read lines).  Started peeing on one every afternoon starting a week ago.  I got super excited yesterday because I got cramps that turned out to be diarrhea (you do not want to know how many attempts I had before that was spelled correctly).  Just another day in the life of an infertile, where you become full of glee and promise over diarrhea cramps... and as a reward for optimism, you get to come within inches of pooping yourself. Stupid crap cramps.

So after said cramping incident, I figured I was literally peeing on $60, and to say to my ovaries 'look you little shits, I don't even care' I held off on testing all day.  A standoff at the OPK Corral.  Eventually I caved and got a smiley.

No one should be excited about this, least of all me, however it will give me the illusion that I'm doing something instead of just sitting around waiting.  It's a chance in the same way that handing me, she with no athletic abilities, a basketball and saying "you get one shot to get the ball in that hoop over there in Nevada... fingers crossed! Basketball dust!" is a chance. So, worst case (and most probable) scenario is that I have purely recreational sex.


In other news, I detest Kristen Stewart.

I can't prove it, but I'm convinced that Kristen Stewart is somehow responsible for my diarrhea.  I am so sorry if lines are going to be drawn in the sand over this, but flipping your hair, whining and standing with your mouth agape does not an actress make.

Yesterday Mr. T and I went to see "Snow White and the Huntsman" at a ghetto fabulous $3 theatre (still mysteriously referred to as a dollar theatre).  Pretty special effects.  Charlize Theron is so beautiful that I believe the whole 'sucking the souls out of young girls to retain youth' storyline is probably true to life.  I am sad to report that Kristen Stewart lives.

In addition to participating in Snow White and fucking up my bowels with her 'emoting', she also, of course, took part in making the Twilight books into movies.  I have so many reasons for hating those books in the first place that it's an entire entry to itself, primarily because it's just such poor/lazy writing,  but in short:

• They forgot to write Edward any kind of personality other than "handsome" and "rich".
• I don't understand why the entire world of ancient vampires would be so concerned with one girl who was given absolutely no defining characteristics other than "whiney" and "clumsy".
• Fantastico message for teens 1:  give up your entire family, and people who are trying to be your friends for a guy.  Oh, and if he leaves for a few months, you should cease to function as a human being.
•  Fantastico message for teens 2: you should hold off on sex before getting married because test driving a car is a terrible idea.  Oh, and the loophole to this is to get married as a teenager.  That always works out well, much like getting a tattoo of your boyfriend's name on your face works out well.

I hated Bella throughout the books - the only way they would have somehow rectified the situation for me was if in the end, vampires and werewolves alike got to rip her to shreds and eat her still beating heart.

And somehow, Kristen Stewart, somehow, with your own particular brand of magic you managed to make me hate her even more on screen.

Remember, fellow infertiles, as we are going through life pretending to be anything other than dead inside, the Kristen Stewart method to acting.  Leave part of hair in face, flip hair around with hands, leave mouth just open enough to reveal two large chiclets, and pout.  That will apparently suffice for any required emotion.

And it goes without saying that the biggest crime of Twilight is that the girl gets knocked up by a vampire.

That's right, a dead man - who therefor has no heartbeat to circulate his blood or get an erection in the first place - not only gets an erection, but creates healthy sperm, and impregnates a girl who is technically 60 some odd years his junior.

When I once asked Bub about this, he said "clearly he uses Vampagra".

Moms on Moms. (And not in the porn way).

Happy Monday, Goddesses of Infertility.

Did you miss the secrets?  If so, they're here.  Go check them out.  Don't be such a chicken next time.  My obese cat judges you.

So, I was sitting here sifting through the bajillions of things I want to write about in here, and  I started thinking about stuff I don't want to do once this child out there in the ether (who I am considering naming Pita for Pain In The Ass) decides to grace us with their presence.

You know, stuff I won't do to the baby, to Bubba the Magnificent, to the people of Infertile (my homeland) and to other Moms.

Mom on Mom bitchiness is rampant, my friends.

I  use Fertilebook to occasionally say something ridiculous, make myself jealous of other people's travels,  to make sure the guy I lost my virginity to is still making himself look like an asshole, and to occasionally partake in some emotional-cutting by looking at people's family/pregnancy photos.

Before I discovered the glorious unsubscribe button, I got to silently witness a lot of Mom behaviors as a fairly impartial, childless observer.

And they can be some real assholes.

Everyone is trying to out-Mom the next woman, every question, comment and answer has a hint (or a giant billboard) of competition in it.

Do you breastfeed?  Well how long are you going to breastfeed?  I would never use drugs during birth.  Oh, I didn't have any postpartum depression, I just rid myself of it with exercise. You really don't have to gain more than 10 lbs with a pregnancy, did you know that? 

And does everyone remember this little number when it came out a few months ago?

The people now banished from my newsfeed went apeshit.  "That is disgusting!"  "I will breastfeed my son until he is 50!"  etc. etc. etc. (Honestly, the only way this photo would have made me that hysterical is if they had photoshopped out the chair).

Admittedly, a few years ago I harbored different ideas about birth/breastfeeding than I do now, and G-d only knows what I'll think about it when the time comes.

When I wasn't deep in the trenches of TTC, I watched this movie about birth that Ricky Lake produced called "The Business of Being Born". (I'd prefer watching Ricky Lake in Hairspray any day of the week, but it's a good documentary - go check it out, but warning: lots of stuff coming out of people's vaginas.  And Ricky Lake's nipples).

I watched it and was instantly suspicious of hospital births. I would give birth at home, in a tub, with Enya playing in the background and perhaps a few ethereal braids in my hair.  Ricky Lake had shone a light on my vagina.

Now that a baby is closer to reality (not a whole lot, but closer),  I am over the tub and on dried land.  I'm over the idea of going in determined not to have drugs.  I have a high pain tolerance, but you know what - I've had kidney stones before and in the middle of said kidney stones had they told me that drugs would've resulted in me possibly growing a third arm, I would've taken the drugs.  In the "painful shit my Mom is willing to do for me" department, my kid is already rich. And let's face it, after 9 months in my uterus the kid could probably use a tranquilizer.

In short, as of this moment, my feelings on birth and drugs can best be described by Amy Poehler:

The idea of breastfeeding used to gross me out.  I'm adopted and therefor wasn't breastfed, and I thoroughly enjoy not having to think about my Mom having breastfed me.  And I turned out fine (okay a little weird, but overall, fine. I do enjoy looking at women's boobs, but it's completely unrelated, I swear.)

And now I think I'll do it.  Breast milk apparently has the good shit in there, after all.

But am I going to go shouting at people that choose not to do it?  No.  Am I going to make people who can't do it feel guilty?  No.  Am I going to yank my kid out of algebra class to continue doing it, and perhaps chew up my food & spit it into his mouth A-la-Alicia Silverstone to bring us closer together?  No.  Am I going to judge people who do?  N... Okay well I will at least oggle.

My point is, I reserve the right to change my mind about what I'm going to do or what I won't do at any time, and the whole "I'm a bigger and better Mom than you are" thing is getting.. silly.  It's funny to watch, but it's also sort of.. sad.

If you're on your 1st kid, there's stuff about parenting you don't know.  If you're on your 3rd kid, there's stuff you don't know.  If you're on your 17th, there's shit you don't know (because let's face it, just figuring out how to work a condom was clearly a challenge for you).

If a kid's breastfed, not breastfed, born with a happily sober or slightly stoned Mom, I'm not really worried about them.  I am worried about the kids who have Mom's that think they know everything, are uninterested in learning about or considering any other way, and are taking the time to shout about it on the internet.

Anyhoo.

Anyone watch American Ninja Warrior?

In my defense, I have been a woman desperate to watch anything unrelated to family.  And watching people attempt to run across a crazy-ass obstacle course is about as emotionally vapid as it gets.  PLUS it's hosted by this guy who has exactly one facial expression.  What is the facial expression?  It is "I am the love product of Tom Cruise and a Beaver, I was born with brain damage as a result of this taboo procreation, and yet I'm really quite happy about it".

I'm told he's an olympic skier.  Now, since we know beavers can be quite aquatic, do we think his Mom had a water birth?