I was back at the doctor’s office this week. Fever, aches, exhaustion. Oh, and a red and swollen boob. It was mastitis for the second time since Henry was born. Needless to say I felt awful when I was in line to check out after the OB/GYN explained that you can get it when your baby is 6 months old, not just when they’re newborns. I was miffed because this bout of mastitis could be because my little biter has teeth now and it could be injuring my nipples enough to cause an infection. I didn’t want to complain about him sleeping through the night more often, but good Lord I’m getting backed up! Yeah, that could be a contributing factor as well.

My little biter with a booger in his nose. Cute, though.

So, you can imagine my mood as I stood with Henry in the stroller in this line, preparing to cough up a copay. In front of me a little girl of about four came darting between her pregnant mom and her dad. With unbridled enthusiasm and a sparkly Dora The Explorer shirt she squealed over Henry and reached into his stroller with her grubby little hands to poke him. Her parents pleaded with her to stop touching my baby. In my head I silently pleaded with Henry, “Bite her! I know you can do it. My nipples are proof!”

Henry did not bite her. He was darling and smiley like he most often is. The girl’s dad continued to tell her to keep her hands off Henry. The little girl explained she was getting a baby sister as she pointed at her mom’s belly. The dad soon became entranced with my child, as I assume everyone does. It’s what he said next that shocked me. He looked at my son and said in a baby voice, “I wish we could trade! Your mom probably wouldn’t like that, but I want to trade!”

What?!

I thought it might be the fever  messing with my hearing, but no. This jerk just said in front of his daughter that he wanted to trade children with me. In jest or not, that is totally wrong. I wanted to grab his sweet, well-meaning daughter, even with her grubby hands and tell her she is loved for who she is.

Maybe it was the boob infection, but I took a look at this idiot and decided it was okay to be wildly bitchy and judgmental. He had on sweat pants, socks with sandals and adult braces. This man’s saving grace has to be his pregnant wife/girlfriend/baby mama. She turned to him as he went on about my son and said, “You’re getting two girls. Get over it!”

Thank God. Good luck, lady. After you straighten his teeth out, get him out of those socks and straighten out his views on having daughters. Oh, and I hope your second baby is not a nipple biter.

It’s raining outside. Like, pouring. We have a storm front coming through. My babies are napping. It’s quiet in the house except for the sound of rain and CNN. (Whoa! Looks like they could use this rain in Southern California.) The skies were ominous when I went to Target and then to pick up Charlotte from preschool today. I snagged a Disney Princess and Sofia The First paint set from the $1 bin. Just $2 for rainy afternoon entertainment? I’ll take it!

I stripped her down and let her paint, explaining that “Paint is only for big kids!” She was delighted. I’m working on being more “in the moment” with my kids. I left her clothes on the floor and the bags and the door. I stopped everything and and painted with her for a bit. It lasted through painting Sofia’s purple dress when Henry piped up.

I went to change him to find an epic poop explosion. I’m talking liquid stool dripping down his leg. He needed a bath but, I remembered the storm. I heard my mother’s voice in my head, “You can’t take a bath during a thunderstorm! You’ll get electrocuted!” But, I couldn’t leave my baby like this. The crap was settling in between his leg rolls. Oh, and I left the wipes I had just bought at Target in the car. That’ll teach me to be “in the moment.”

I looked outside. It hadn’t actually thundered that I had heard, just rain. I said, “Charlotte, keep painting, I’ll be right back. I need to wash Henry.” I said anti-electrocution prayers as I shuffled my sticky little shit nugget upstairs. Okay, no lightning, no thunder. We’d be okay. I didn’t submerge him. I put him in his little bath seat and just poured water on him. I kept him away from the faucet as if lightning would shoot through it and kill us all. I think I saw that in a movie once. I prayed more as I quickly scrubbed him. It was a terrifying 2 or 3 minutes.

He was dry and clean. I took him down for his lunch. We have just started solids and he got to try squash today. I wanted to feed him right when we got home, but I was all “in the moment.” So, naturally this happened moments after I bathed him:

I went to the car and got the wipes. I wasn’t going to go to the trouble and risk death by electrified bath water for the second time in one afternoon. I still haven’t heard any thunder or seen any lightning, so I keep telling myself the threat was minimal and I’m not a careless  endangerment to my child. I look forward to the squash poop I’ll get to clean tomorrow, hopefully without shocking anyone.

Yesterday I got off to a great start for a Monday. We were out the door and had grabbed Starbucks for breakfast before my 9:30am Stroller Strides class. No groceries. It was the ‘Bucks or starve. That aside, we were doing alright with just one threenager tantrum and only a little pee through the baby’s diaper on his pajamas. I even pumped milk before we left so I didn’t have to do it while driving when pervy truckers can peer into my SUV. I had all my clothes on behind the wheel. Win!

I told the instructor we had to cut out of class a little early to get Charlotte to gymnastics class. We were making good time and I got half a workout in. I’ll take it. I downed water on the way to gymnastics. Water is my thing now. So. Much. Water. Now that I have time to exercise in my new #SAHM life, I’m gonna take advantage of it. I’m embarrassed to tell you how long it had been since I did actual exercise before leaving my full time job. We’ll just go with “more than a year.”

The water has a downside, no doubt. I wear my baby in the carrier when I have to pee. I wake up in the night when I’m not breastfeeding to pee. I hate even having to say “pee.” It’s so crass. Sorry, but bodily fluids are my life, ya’ll.

Our relatively blissful morning was cut short when after gymnastics I made the risky move to take my brood to Carter’s to round out their spring wardrobes. It was before lunch. We were prime for meltdowns. After my successful hunt for size 3T capri leggings, we headed home. Charlotte started losing it while we were still in the store. We had a bit of a “come to Jesus” discussion between racks of 30% off cargo shorts.

No worries. We got back in the car to head home. We were still hanging in there for a Monday. That is until my bladder was overwhelmed by my excessive hydration. I had to go. Bad.

That’s when they started up, both of them. Henry, the world’s happiest baby, turned on me in my time of discomfort. He wailed and screamed. No bottle that I awkwardly poked in his face by reaching in the back seat would soothe him. That’s when Charlotte decided this was too much for her. She whined and wailed. More bodily fluids. This time tears.

She hollered, “This is ruining my whole day!”

Really?! You ruined my junk for the better part of six weeks when I pushed you out and you want to tell me how this car ride is ruining your day?!

The more I pleaded with my children to calm down, the louder they screamed. We hit every red light. I was sure people in other cars could hear the wails of my discontented babes. I panicked and looked for somewhere to pull off the road, anywhere. Why did I drink so much damn water!? Why didn’t I do kegel exercises to strengthen my pelvic floor like my OB/GYN told me too?! Where is a bathroom!?

I pulled off the only place I could, a small, quiet side road. I threw on the hazards and jumped out of the car. I took Henry out of his seat to try to find out what on earth was wrong with him. I continued to do kegels so I wouldn’t wet my pants. He stopped when I rocked him a bit. I looked around. I couldn’t take it anymore. My sniffling 3-year-old stared at me with teary eyes. I looked around.

I was gonna do it, ya’ll. I was gonna do it. I was going to hold my baby, drop trow and pee on the side of this road because I couldn’t take it anymore. Just then a truck carrying a crew of construction workers came around the curve of my quiet side street. Thank God I still had my pants up.

I put Henry back in his car seat and thought about what I was about to do. I stood with the car door open and laughed until it hurt. My children looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I am. I’m a kegeling, milk pumping, full-bladdered mess who almost flashed a construction crew who could very well know the truck driver who may or may not have seen me pumping milk on another day.

Dear Henry,

I’m writing this as you lay sleeping on the floor in the living room on your belly. That’s right. You rolled over this month and decided you like it that way. While there is always a little lament of your milestones because your baby months are passing quickly, I love it because I know you are strong and growing.

You were five months-old on Sunday.

That morning I went to pick you up from Aunt Wanda and Uncle Mike’s house. You spent one night away from me and you were a champ! I knew you would be. You are a sweet child. Such a good baby. People love to hold you and tickle you. We’re all sort of addicted to making you giggle. Here is the evidence:

I’ve been giggling at the pink pacifier you’re sucking on tonight. While you have your own things, some of your big sister’s former belongings have found their way into your nursery or mouth.

Something else has found it’s way into your mouth, teeth! You got your first teeth at just four months-old. We couldn’t believe it, until you bit me! The two little front teeth on the bottom are sharp and it changed our nursing a bit. I have to pay attention to you, little stinker.

The movement hasn’t stopped with rolling. Once you got on your belly you started scooting to different toys you want to hold. You now love your baby toys that make noise. They go straight in your mouth. With all this rolling and scooting, I fully expect you to be sitting and crawling as your half-birthday approaches.

Henry, I look in the faces of you and your sister and I can’t believe that I have the privilege of being your mother everyday. Somewhere I must have done something right in my life to have you as a son. I’m so excited for all the months to come.

I love you, my sweet, sweet boy.

Love,

Mama

I want to thank my parents for my fine liberal arts education. My bachelor’s degree in Media Studies/Television Broadcasting was put to great use during my years in TV news and public relations. I only think of the Dance minor I completed when I look at my still calloused feet and reminisce about my 19-year-old figure. Why didn’t I appreciate that body?! And why did my parents let me minor in Dance?!

I couldn’t tell you much of what I learned in many of my undergraduate classes. Mythology, anyone? That knowledge only surfaces during the occasional Jeopardy round. There is one class that has stuck with me. Its lessons haunt me every time I pick up the obscene amount of princess toys my three-year-old daughter has.

Gender and Media Culture was some 300 level class I took as a senior elective in the Media Studies major. This course ruined everything for me. Every movie. Every fairy tale. Everything. Did you know that everything is a metaphor for deflowering a virgin girl? I didn’t either. Did you know that every story we were ever told or movie we ever enjoyed was subconsciously poisoning us as women into thinking we have to be saved by a man and that nothing is more important than physical attractiveness? Yeah. Now I know.

Everything was based on the “Cinderella Principle” or something.  Don’t quote me on this. Basically, you have to have the makeover and magical transformation of the woman/girl before she is deflowered. The movies we had to watch included “Boys Don’t Cry” and “The Accused,” complete with violent rape scenes. We also had to watch a film version of Little Red Riding Hood from the 80’s with some doe-eyed virgin who turns into a wolf. Naturally, a metaphor for virginity loss. (Found it! It’s 1984’s “The Company of Wolves.” Ugh.)

Like every 3-year-old girl I know, my daughter has been completely seduced by everything princess. Well played Disney marketers. Well played. She LOVES princesses and I’m left stomaching all the metaphors. I don’t want to pooh-pooh the princesses because that would be scoffing at something that she likes, and thus scoffing at her. Here is my visual representation of what goes through my mind when I look at her toys/movies/books:

These are a little better. My princess thoughts warranted another graphic. Here you go:

The new Disney movies are amazing! I love some of the newest princesses:

My daughter has seen and loves all of these movies except for Snow White. (I don’t know how to tap into the Disney vault. How do they keep that think “locked” in the Internet age? Granted, I haven’t tried that hard. ) I see her glowing face when she giggles at the mice in Cinderella and when she twirls in her Belle dress. I giggle when she sings the misheard lyrics of “When Will My Life Begin?” Plus, when Ariel does this…

…it is so freaking awesome, I can’t stand it. It was awesome in 1989. It’s awesome now.  That’s the thing. Even though I know all the metaphors and understand Disney princesses have extremely unrealistic hair, I love them. My daughter loves them too. So, I guess that’s why this weekend I grit will my teeth, bury my feminist fury and snuggle with my daughter on the couch to watch a princess movie. As a child I understood that these were fairy tales, why wouldn’t she? It’s up to me to make sure Cinderella is just a fun story and that I am the real female role model in her life.

So take THAT Gender and Media Culture professor! I will watch princess movies and I will love them! Well, before I start worrying about superhero cartoons and their unrealistic portrayal of masculinity and what it will mean for my infant son in a few years. Dammit liberal arts education strikes again!