Word Vomit Wednesday

Because I only have five seconds and I’m covered in vomit. Actual vomit.

1) How do children instinctively know when their mother has plans?

I mean any level of plans. I make a plan to get housework done. They completely destroy every inch of our home. I make plans to take them out in public. They get every last bodily fluid on their clothes, faces and hair. I make plans to go to the bathroom. They storm the gates like the bathroom is their hill to conquer. I make plans to sit down and write. They all lose every single, solitary last fiber of their minds and all domestic hell breaks loose the very second my butt hits the chair.

They know. And their goal is destruction. Every time. Oh. And that last one? Yeah. It’s happening right now but I am 100% just looking the other way.

With kids, ever.

With kids, ever.

2) What’s up with delicious food being the devil’s handiwork?

I just had a baby and my body’s like, “Wtf, lady?!” So, I was looking up foods that boost estrogen. The site I was looking at listed some estrogen-y food and then basically said, “Hey. Everything you love is killing you slowly from the inside out. So, have fun with that.” So, I guess that giant pan of caramel apple cheesecake bars I just made was a bad choice. I feel like the internet (and probably, like, health and science and my body)  just wants me to eat grass and tree bark forever. That totally sucks.

3) Every time a newborn screams in a car, an angel rips off it’s wings.

And then beats me with them. I was just telling friends the other day that, whenever Princess Lady cries in the car (and by “cries” I mean weeps and wails bitterly like I personally killed Bambi and Lassie AND Old Yeller right in front of her), I die on the inside. I want to rip off my skin and release my soul into a black hole forever. It’s the absolute worst. You can’t do anything to help in the moment and you’re sad for them but also, like, reeeeeaaaaalllll sad for yourself. And angels everywhere are ripping their wings off. #thanksbabies #thanksobama

4) I legitimately almost pooped my pants this week.

Like, out of nowhere. It wasn’t even an emergency. It was just a straight up regular poop but, like, one that couldn’t be contained because my children saw fit to ruin every square inch of my body. Once again, #thanksbabies. (Not thanking Obama on that one because, well, that would be weird.)

5) So, I’m selling Jamberry, now.

I mean, I’ve signed up to sell Jamberry. We’ll see about the whole “actually selling it” part. I really need to get my life together. The thought of having to speak to real humans IN PERSON alone is terrifying. Then, I have to ask them buy something from me?! Jesus. Hallelujah.

Help me, Tom Cruise. stephmessa.jamberrynails.net

Help me, Tom Cruise. stephmessa.jamberrynails.net

 

Well, I think I’ve looked the other way as long as I possibly can. We’re right at that threshold where playful wrestling turns into full on riot street beatings. I think that’s my cue to go. Say 75 prayers for me.

I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.

 

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I Am Not All About That Bass

If you have functioning ears, you have no doubt heard Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass”. If you have functioning general human emotions, you can no doubt resist that beat. Or that chorus (if that’s what you want to call it). I’ll admit it. I turn up the volume when that song comes on. I stop scanning through stations when I hear it. Then, I spend the rest of the day singing “I’m bringing booty baaaaaaack” (which is funny because I have zero butt but that’s a story for another time…). It’s catchy. I can’t deny that.

Here’s the thing, though. It’s a terrible song message-wise that thinks it’s a girl power anthem. But, you’re like, “Why, MIB?! She’s encouraging America’s youth to embrace their looks and feel good about themselves!” Wrong. You are wrong. I love you but you are wrong. And I will tell you why you’re wrong in an in-your-face line-by-line fashion.

The song begins with the “chorus” where it repeats “I’m all about that bass, no treble” a billion times. I have nothing to say regarding the “chorus” because I have no idea what it means. Is it just a straight up musical shout out to the bass line? Why is she hating on treble? I don’t know the answer to these questions so moving along…

The first verse:

Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size two
But I can shake it, shake it
Like I’m supposed to do
‘Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
And all the right junk in all the right places

First, it’s not really that clear that she’s not a size two. When I first heard the song, I pictured an Adele sized lady but, upon watching the video, she’s not tiny but she’s not huge which makes my issues with the song even more uh, issue-y. Then, she says she can “shake it, shake” like she’s “supposed to do” which, aside from weird sentence structure, is a problem for me because, as women, we are not “supposed” to shake anything. We shake if we want to. Not because we’re “supposed to do”. #illshakeifiwantto

Oh, also, personal preference here but I hate referring to body mass as “junk”. Yuuuuuccckkk.

I see the magazine workin’ that Photoshop
We know that sh:t ain’t real
C’mon now, make it stop
If you got beauty, beauty, just raise ‘em up
‘Cause every inch of you is perfect
From the bottom to the top

I have no problems with this. Carry on.

Take it to the bridge:

Yeah, my mama she told me don’t worry about your size
She says, “Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.”
You know I won’t be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll
So if that’s what you’re into then go ahead and move along

No. Nooooooooooo. I actually will tell Princess Lady Baby not to worry about her numerical clothing size. Bodies are different. Some people naturally have hips, some do not. I’ll even tell her not to worry about her numerical weight. People hold and carry weight differently and it’s fine and wonderful and great. What I will tell my sweet perfect angel princess is that as long as you are active, healthy and eating well, your exact weight and clothing size shouldn’t and won’t be an issue. Health is the priority. And I’d like to think that’s what Meghan Trainor’s mother was trying to communicate but the next line betrays her. Apparently, booty is the priority. Boys like a little more booty?! ARE YOU JOKING?! Yeah. Here’s me and my daughter:

“Hey, precious innocent rainbow sunshine angel girl. Don’t worry about your body. Boys want a little more butt to grab onto anyway. And that’s what’s important to me. How much boys like grabbing your butt.”

“Thanks, mom. You always have my best interest in mind. You’re a great mom.”

“I know, honey. Now, go shake it like you’re supposed to do.”

Also, what about the girls that are naturally super slim? Do boys not like them? Should all the skinny girls go on cheeseburger binges (mmm, cheeseburgers…)? Again, the priority is health. Not size. Or booty for night-holding.

Even Grumpy Cat knows.

Even Grumpy Cat knows.

*Insert more repetitive unrelated weirdo chorus here*

 And now, the second verse:

I’m bringing booty back
Go ahead and tell them skinny b:tches that
No I’m just playing. I know you think you’re fat
But I’m here to tell ya
Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top

Look. I realize there are relatively thin and healthy women that want to be thinner and think they’re fat. Totally. I look back at pictures of me a few years ago when I was working out 4 times a week yet thought I was fat and I want to punch myself. But, there are many women that are just naturally super skinny and know it. And just because they are very thin and do not want to be any thinner doesn’t mean they don’t have body image issues. Though we mostly hear about women wanting to be thinner, there are many women that wish they could put on a little weight. It’s a real thing. Referring to them as “skinny b:tches” and saying you “know” they think they’re fat is demeaning and rude.

But, thanks for ending that misinformation party with the last line. Nice effort.

For all the "skinny b:tches". Just kidding. That's mine.

For all the “skinny b:tches”. Just kidding. That’s mine.

End with more bridge and chorus.

In conclusion, you suck at encouraging women, Meghan Trainor, but I fully intend on searching for your song when we get in the car this afternoon. But, I’ll have you know I’ll be disagreeing with you in my heart the whole time!

See the video here!

I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.

NewAir Wine Cooler Review (UPC: 854001004167)

Whatchu know about some 18 bottle wine coolers, y’all?!

Probably more than I do. I know about one. The NewAir AW-180E to be exact. My friend at Luma Comfort contacted me asking if I’d review one of their products. She gave me a list of some excellent machinery. A humidifier, an air purifier, a space heater. Lovely. Clean and comfortable air is wonderful and benefits the whole family. But, you know what else benefits the whole family? A wine cooler.

Allow me to explain. An 18 bottle wine cooler means there can be 18 perfectly chilled (to a crisp 56 degrees) at any given time. That means that at any given time, mama has 18 choices that are 18 times better than crying from within a locked closet or hiding under the bed with a tub of cookie dough (although, I’ll probably do that, too).

NewAir AW-180E

NewAir AW-180E

The 180E comes with these stats/features:

  • Keep up to 18 bottles of wine at their perfect serving temperature
  • Vibration-free cooling system protects against sediment build up
  • Digital control panel and display let you maintain perfect storage conditions
  • 5 slide out racks with chrome finish cradle your collection
  • Interior LED light provides soft illumination
  • Always ready at a moment’s notice to console stressed out moms
  • Mom’s best friend!

The NewAir AW180E 18 Bottle Wine Cooler. Because it’s cooler than crying in a closet.

Find it at NewAir!

That Awkward Mom Stage

I met my two best friends at a local coffee shop recently for a GLAO (Girls Late Afternoon Out-the bedtime process is a little too Threat Level Midnight in our house for a GNO) and it was awesome. I feel like a new woman when I get time with these ladies. And it’s easy. It’s very easy to sit in a coffee shop or the mall play place or a park or the city dump and just be. That’s understandable, though. We’ve been friends for a long time, group text all day every day and the two of them just so happen to be sisters. Conversation is naturally just easy. However, in the course of our conversation at the coffee shop, it came out that they are just as awkward with other moms and humans in general as I am.

The fullness of my mom-awkwardness became apparent earlier that day at a mom group meeting. I was talking to another mom about something I’m very passionate about and should have had no problem conversing at great length over this topic. But, each sentence took a good several minutes to exit my mouth. It was like each word was a slow rhythmic bang on a drum. “So…I…just…uh…wanted…to…tell…you…that…um…” Once I hit that last “um”, I was ready to pack up my socially awkward mom-shame and walk out. I wanted to say, “You know what? Let me save us both a few hours and just go because, apparently, I can’t make even mildly intelligent or even coherent conversation with anyone over the age of three.” But, instead of making a dignified exit, I stuck it out like an idiot a champ and spent the next five hours wrestling out the rest of that sentence out. It hurt but I won (did I, though? Because I’m pretty sure I looked like a big ol’ dummy).

Maybe it’s because 98% of my speech is just a long, slurred strand of commands and desperate pleas on the days my husband works. And then when the poor man gets home, I’m a frenzied chatsplosion of useless facts, internet articles and random thoughts of the day. (Please read this super fast and without taking a breath): “Hey! Guess what the boys did! And, oh my gosh, did you hear that Carrie Underwood’s pregnant?! Oh! Listen to what this article on Huffington Post said. Can you believe that?! But, seriously, why does Monkey keep spitting? And I cannot wait until Bear’s teeth come in. Did you see the 10 day forecast? What do you want to do on your days off? Do you like my hair this length? I’m thinking of cutting it. Listen to this dream I had last night! I really want wings. Let’s get some wings on Wednesday!”

Mmmm. Wings. (www.delightsofculinaria.com)

Mmmm. Wings.
(www.delightsofculinaria.com)

Maybe it’s because all I really want is to chatsplode on other moms like I do my husband but unlike my husband, I’m afraid other moms won’t oblige and (at least pretend to) listen intently. So, instead of word vomiting all over them, my brain Rolodex’es through the many thoughts held captive by the simple nature of my life right now and tries to choose one to pass along to my mouth. Unfortunately, that 1990’s Rolodex sucks and my mouth is just sitting there looking dumber and dumber as it thrashes wildly in the sea of basic English speech grasping for any distinguishable word pairing.

This is your brain. This is your brain Rolodex'ed.  (www.bluewaterbrand.com)

This is your brain. This is your brain Rolodex’ed.
(www.bluewaterbrand.com)

So, whose fault is it? My brain? My mouth? My children for sucking up my daily word quota with “Don’t put your finger in your butthole” and “No, we don’t kill people, son”? WHOSE FAULT?! I NEED TO PLACE THE BLAME SOMEWHERE!

I also need to know that you’re just as awkward as me. Even if you’re not, I’m gonna need you to go ahead and lie to me. Thanks in advance.

I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.

 

Dear Adair

Even in the first weeks of life, having a daughter is so very different than mothering sons. Honestly, I didn’t expect to experience any differences so early. I figured there’d be more pink, more flowers, more bows. Aside from the physical differences, like her dainty features and kitten-like baby sounds, there’s a striking emotional shift in loving a girl. I wish for all of my children to be kind and loving, bright and funny, fun and full of joy. My hope is that each one will know their true worth and, maybe it’s because I’m a woman, I feel a different kind of responsibility to help my daughter realize this.

So, these are some of the things I hope to teach my daughter as she grows.

You need people.

You’re probably going to hear something along the lines of “You don’t need them/him!” at various times in your life and that’s fair. Some people are yuck and it’s totally fine to limit your interaction with people like that. People will absolutely hurt you and probably multiple times. It’s the worst and I’m going to try real hard as your mother to not kill them on your behalf. But, the thing is, humans need humans. It’s a real life need. Love people, dust your shoulders off when you meet the sucky ones and keep trucking. Don’t isolate yourself. It’s never as fun as it sounds.

Don’t cut your own hair (until I give you the green light).

When I was about five, I cut my bangs. Holy. Crap. So ugly. I had the middle-of-the-forehead/hide-until-they-grow-out kind of bangs. Then, about a year ago, I thought I could save myself some time and trim my layers. I cut a huge chunk off and then decided I didn’t know what the freak I was doing and should stop. Unless you grow up to be a hair stylist, don’t cut your own hair, please. However, I will advise you to learn how to cut your own bangs, should you have them (and you probably will because you come from the land of massive foreheads). Ain’t nobody trying to go in to see (and PAY) a stylist to trim your bangs.

Make an appointment just for a bang trim? Take it away, Sweet Brown!

Make an appointment just for a bang trim? Take it away, Sweet Brown!

Sunscreen not optional.

I get it. You want to work on your tan (fingers crossed you have your dad’s complexion). But, unless you want to look like Pop Pop with permalobster coloring and multiple scars from questionable skin cell removal, be liberal with the sunscreen. And, I’m reasonable! I’ll even let you get away with an SPF 30! Also, pay special attention to your hands and face. They age like a mofo. Good sun protection with go a long way in those areas.

Poor, poor Pop Pop.

Poor, poor Pop Pop.

Nobody likes a raging b@#$%.

That would explain why I have no friends.

Jk jk. But, seriously, don’t be one. I’m not asking that you wear a headdress of flowers, gown of glitter with a rainbow train and sprinkle pixie dust wherever you go. All I’m saying is try to be a decent human being. If you happen to receive the curse of grouchiness, learn your triggers and maybe find a way to reign in your inevitable inherited powers of sarcasm. We all have bad days and that’s totally fine. We don’t all have the ability to slice others with our straight razor tongues like certain members of this family, however, and it’s really not a weapon we should use frequently. Or maybe ever (except for in the occasional internet forum because internet people are really asking for it sometimes).  Shoot for kindness and when you just can’t, shoot for silence.

You are awesome because you’re a woman.

Look. It’s not easy being a lady. Hormones, periods, pregnancy, feelings (so many feelings) and that’s just the internal! Then, you’ve got your external battle to right the societal wrong thinking toward and about women (and you will indeed be a big player in that war, my little crusader). Suffice it to say, because you are a woman, you already have your hands full before you even get out of bed. And that, sweet girl, is awesome. You get the distinct privilege of feeling deeply which brings passion and compassion. Women can carry and sustain the life of another in their own bodies. You are sensitive and strong. Gentle and powerful. Emotional and practical. And you get to witness that look of shock when, upon seeing you achieve greatness, onlookers say, “A girl did that?!” Yes. And she will do so much more.

"She is clothed in strength and dignity and she laughs without feat of the future." Proverbs 31:25

“She is clothed in strength and dignity and she laughs without fear of the future.” Proverbs 31:25

Please click this. I'm on like, page 9,000 or something.

Please click this. I’m on like, page 9,000 or something.

You Had One Job, Epidural!

Seriously. One job. I was supposed to kick back with my feet up while a baby gingerly tap danced her way through the baby canal. One. Job.

Yes. That’s right. Baby Princess Lady is here! And, yes. That’s also right. My stupid, lazy, failure epidural couldn’t do the one thing it was designed to do; relieve the bone and soul crushing pain of childbirth.

I went in on a Thursday morning for my induction. A few days earlier, I had decided that I was tired and just not interested in the trauma of birthing a child. I was all epiduraled up for the birth of my first but experienced the full horror glory of labor and delivery with the birth of our second and largest baby. There were aspects of both experiences that I appreciated but, having decided that I was tired, mentally prepared for birth with the epidural. Like, the minute I walked into the hospital.

Me, upon walking into the hospital: “Hey! I’m here for my epidural! I mean, to check in. But, seriously. Get my epidural ready.”

Honestly, I really do have a high pain tolerance. In fact, “labor” feels like nothing more than the last 8-10 weeks of my pregnancies right up until the transition period. Then, it’s not about pain tolerance anymore. It’s about me going ape $h:t crazy. I’m afraid of me. I am overcome with a Bravo reality show level of panic and drama and that is what I was not willing to deal with the third time around.

So, I waltzed in that Thursday morning fully prepared to sleep, text and paint my nails through the birth of our third child.

Nope.

First of all, the process of getting an epidural is horrendous. I truly have no problems with needles. In fact, I’ve never even seen the epidural needle. I’ve heard it’s as long as Chris Brown’s arrest record but, like I said, that doesn’t bother me (best of luck, Chris Brown!). What does bother me is the fact that I’m supposed to arch out only the tiniest dot of my middle back and somehow tuck myself into a little ball all while contracting so this anesthesiologist-in-training can drill into my spine multiple times until she finds an avenue that doesn’t create the little lightning rod seizure things down my legs. No, thanks. Like, look. I know you need to practice on real humans but, here’s an idea. Why don’t you guys go practice on each other?! I’m in labor and, quite frankly, I don’t trust you one bit with your lack of experience and Godzilla needle. I want an epidural but not from you, dollface.

And, before you go nuts on me, let me just present you with the fruits of the newbie’s labor. SHE DID IT WRONG. The epidural didn’t even take. They do that first shot of numbing medicine before they start the epidural iv and I felt the slightest bit of tingle from that. Then, I just kept waiting and contracting and waiting and contracting until I thought, “Hmmm. This is kind of starting to hurt like a mofo. I should say something. Wait. Maybe they’ll want to run another epi line. Nope. Suffer in silence.” But, of course I am physically unable to keep any feelings to myself so I told Mr. Black. He then took it upon himself to advocate for me (always loving me and stuff, geez!) and my nurse brought a new and slightly more confidence-giving anesthesiologist to test some things.

“Here we go. Does that help?”

“Um, no.”

“Okay. This should do it. Better?”

“Not really.”

“Alright. Last try. How about now?”

“Ugh. Nope.”

But, at this point, my water had broken and I had gone from hours at 4cm to having a serious case of the poops (meaning, a baby head was coming) in a very short amount of time. The pain was bad but not nearly as terrible as with the Bear so my main issue was the raging anger stew that was coming to a boil in my chest over the audacity of that stupid, stupid epidural. By the time the new anesthesiologist told me he’d need to tap another line, I was calling the nurse to catch my womb fruit. (Oh, good Lord. But, they couldn’t find my doctor for a minute and the only other doctor available was the OB of my nightmares, one I had transferred away from with our first child. Thankfully, my angel doctor miraculously appeared at the last second.)

Princess Lady was born after a solid two minutes of pushing and ten hours of Pitocin before that.

adair    adair2        adair3

But, seriously. I hate you, epidural.

I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.

 

Dear Last Weeks of Pregnancy

Dear Last Weeks of Pregnancy,

I’m not a particularly chatty person. A woman of few words, I guess. So, I’m gonna go ahead and get right to the point.

I hate you.

My dad has always said, “Don’t say hate. Hate is such a strong word.” But, what about those times when the word “hate” just can’t get no righter (get off my back, grammar nazis)? I don’t like carrots. I dislike Richard Dreyfus as an actor (and probably as a human-his face, his voice, his overall persona, GROSS). But, I hate bees (you can get off my back, too, you weirdo bee lovers). I hate the sound of our beagle mutt barking at “dangerous predators” like butterflies and falling leaves. And I HATE the last weeks of pregnancy.

H-A-T-E. Hatey-hate-HATE.

Oh, late third trimester. How do loathe thee? Let me count the ways…

1) Your “Braxton Hicks” are “evil” and “painful” and “going to be the death of me.” I truly cannot abide another piece of fiction that suggests Braxton Hicks contractions are more “uncomfortable” than “painful”. Because, guess what. You are a “liar” and your shizz “hurts”. And, hey. You physically assault me all day and night from week 28, or so, on. Have you not met your quota? Is it not possible for me to get a small break from your onslaught say, I don’t know, when I pee? It’s bad enough I have to pee every five seconds but have you ever tried to empty your bladder in the middle of a contraction?! IMPOSSIBLE. AND EVIL. I HATE YOU.

2) I’m in an ice bath and I’m sweating. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get that it’s July and this area is essentially hell’s sweaty underwear but who else is sweating sitting mostly naked directly in front of a fan in an air conditioned house (set at SEVENTY-TWO) not moving or doing anything remotely physical at all?! Me and the other women due this summer. That’s who. And listen close. We hate you.

3) You are full of lies, tricks and deceit.

“Hey! You’re totally in labor! Freak yourself out and call your mom and pack your bags!

Jk, jk. Sit down. You’re totally not in labor.” LIES.

“Uh oh. Have you felt the baby move? You don’t remember? Well, aside from being a negligent mother for not counting kicks, your baby is in grave danger.

Sike.

She’s huge and has no room and is sleeping. And sorry about the heart attack I just gave you. (But, not really.)” EVIL.

“No, totally! You can absolutely handle taking your other kids to the mall! Your body and mind are more than equipped to deal with the extreme heat, large crowds, screaming children and excessive walking!

Hahahahaha.

Your pelvic floor feels like shattered glass, now, huh? Hahahaha.” I HATE YOU.

And I will cut you.  (sarahlcomics.tumblr.com)

And I will cut you.
(sarahlcomics.tumblr.com)

There is a well of other reasons why I hate you, last weeks of pregnancy, but allow me this opportunity to use what little filter I have left and keep those gems to myself. But, don’t worry. You’ll get an earful in the bleak hours of the night/morning when I can’t sleep because my hips are broken, hands are numb and I’m drowning in a pool of my own sweat. I’ll just let those truths stay between me and you.

Until then,

The Mom in Black (hates you)