I’m over here pouting. Lips twisted, arms crossed, eyes rolled. Pouting. So is my nearly 4-year-old. She is pouting too. We sit and pout for one reason. The same reason. She’s trying to give up her nap.

I want her to sleep the same time as her baby brother so I can tap away on the laptop or unload the dishwasher without anyone trying to grab a serrated knife. I just want to watch “South Park” on the iPad while I clean the kitchen. It’s a new season! I want Eric Cartman to fire away with all the “shits” and “damns” he wants to without it falling on my children’s ears. I want to sometimes take my own nap because I’m tired after waking up at 5:30am with the baby, I’m getting over a cold and it’s Friday and I just can. If she would go to sleep, I could.

Other mothers say “Just do quiet time in her room!” We do that. She is still restless and begs for my attention. They say, “Put on a movie and crash on the couch.” Yeah, I could do that, but I’m always taking TV and movie privileges away as punishment and I have to follow through. Damn my conscientious parenting! Really, I just want her to take a freakin’ nap because she acts like someone else’s menacing, naughty child when she doesn’t.

No one feels my pain. No one cares about this plight. This is the look Erin gave me when I told her Charlotte was giving up her nap. It says, “Really, Amy?! No one feels sorry for you.”

A dear sweet reader reminded me “You’ve had a good run.” after I was complaining on Instagram. ::sigh:: We HAVE had a good run. She’s almost 4. I hear horror stories of kids giving up naps at 2. I can’t, ya’ll. I can’t. That’s too early.

Never mind me. I’m just going to pout. I’m in good pouting company, after all.

When I was a TV news reporter and I needed a “man-on-the-street” interview, Starbucks was my go-to place. Not only could I get my latte fix, I could almost always find an Average Joe, enjoying some joe with an opinion on the national story/city council vote/election result I was covering. Weird things happen to me at Starbucks. I’m not sure if that shows I spend entirely too much time there, or if Starbucks is just a good sampling of the public, thus resulting in better odds of weirdness.

I’ll confess, I had a strange request of the barista. You see, I was helping with a playgroup outside of the Starbucks in the common area of the shopping center. It’s an outdoor shopping/dining location in our city with a grassy area for children where my workout group frequently hosts playgroups. This week’s theme was bubbles. As one of the hosts I went to the dollar store and got some bubbles. I got my daughter this bubble gun thing from Target on clearance for the playgroup. She was SO excited. As toys are, it was packaged so that no human adult could open it without performing surgery to the packaging. Of course, the bubbles were blowing and I had no scissors. The three-year-old was getting anxious. I told her to hang tight with the other moms.

I ducked into the Starbucks where they practically know my order. I asked if I could borrow some scissors to open the package. The barista had no scissors, but did have a box cutter to open all the pre-packaged goodies we enjoy. I thanked her and started cutting the thick plastic straps choking this cheap toy.

That’s when I heard, “Careful!” from a voice behind me. I was confused. Surely no stranger was scolding me!? I glanced over to see a man in his fifties waiting for his drink. His tone was patronizing, like I was his 10-year-old daughter and I needed to be aware of the dangers of Exacto-knife usage before my Girl Scout camp-out. I ignored him and kept cutting.

He tried again to get my attention and be clever, only it was pretty demeaning. He said, “Whoa! A woman with a knife! Look out!” He went on to chuckle at his own joke and look around to see if anyone else agreed. When I still paid him no mind he said, trying to be funny, “I’m just gonna get out of the way so I don’t get hurt.” I didn’t look up and said, “You’re fine.” He got his drink and walked out of the store, looking at me like I was the stankest bitch on the planet for not yukking it up at his brilliance.

Sir, did you think that you were the funniest, most clever man in Starbucks that day? Did you just have to hear your own voice and weigh in on what I was doing?  Did you want me to giggle at your condescending comments like a sweet little woman? I bet you never would have never spoken a word if it were my husband opening the toy or any man using a knife. You are not my dad. I’m a grown woman who knows how to open a package with a box cutter. Sure, It was kind of weird that I was doing it in Starbucks,  but understandable with the crowd outside and certainly not worth commenting on.

I got the toy open and the kids had a great time. This little encounter really wasn’t a huge deal and had little impact on my life except for writing this blog post. Maybe he was just trying to be funny. It didn’t really hurt my feelings, it just annoyed me. I could have done without, the “Oh, you’re a typical bitch.” look that he shot me. Maybe I’m making too much of it. Really, I feel sorry for him that patronizing women is a way that he gets a laugh. What do you think?

It was warm when we got to the pool Friday. The sun was shining on the faces of my smiling, sunscreened babes. All the stuff we have to carry suddenly felt light when we walked through the gates. I saw it! They finished construction on the swim-up bar in the center of our neighborhood pool! Finally! I couldn’t wait to wade up there for a cocktail. Some other moms waved at me, drinks in hand while their kids splashed happily nearby. They had extra lifeguards patrolling both the shallow and deep ends since alcohol was now on the pool menu. Pool management had instituted the new “Baby Cabana” complete with certified babysitters in a shaded nursery by the pool for my baby. I knew I had stepped into the paradise I’d always dreamed of.

I was sipping. My 3-year-old was splashing. My baby was napping in the cabana. It was perfect. That’s when it happened.

I saw the fin first. It was bobbing and sliding between children on rafts. I thought it was another toy. It got closer before swirling at my feet as I sat perched on the underwater bar stool. I looked at one of the other moms, “Wait! Is the pool now saltwater?” She confirmed that it was. I saw another one, and one more by the deep end. “They let sharks in the pool?!” The bartender/lifeguard said, “What?! Those are only for swim team practices. You know, to make the kids swim faster. They aren’t supposed to be out!”

The whistle blew. “SHARKS!” I heard screaming. There was splashing. Kids and moms were scrambling as they desperately tried to escape the water. Cocktails flew as mothers grabbed tots. I saw a shark pop a child’s inflatable arm swimmy things. I looked for my daughter in desperation. I saw her flailing and crying just feet from me. That’s when one shark burst through the water gnashing its jaws. It’s teeth were just inches from my first born’s precious face. My motherly instinct kicked in, I grabbed the shark by its fin and jerked it backwards into the water. I scooped her up and jumped out of the pool.

What happened next, happened so fast it felt like a dream. As I comforted my little girl poolside, I saw another shark swirling. I knew from watching “Shark Week” that spinning behavior meant the shark was about to attack. It was right next to the Baby Cabana. I saw my son snoozing in the shaded cradles provided for the babies. I knew it was going to leap out of the water.

Still clutching my daughter I jumped. I scooped up my baby with my other arm and grabbed a pool float to block the beast’s mighty jaws. The toy exploded. My children cried. The shark fell back in the pool. It swirled again. I knew what that meant.

It exploded out of the water with even more force heading right for me and my precious little ones. The mother instinct went to a whole new level. It was a Molly Weasley-style protective reflex. I screamed, “NOT MY BABIES YOU BITCH!” I jumped and did a roundhouse kick through the air, smashing the side of the shark and knocking it back in the water. The impact of my fierce kick snapped the bone in my foot. I held my children tight as the shark swam away in defeat. We cried and kissed each other, grateful to be alive. The other mothers and children cheered my bravery.

Okay, so not a bit of that is true, but it’s way better than the real story. I had to come up with something better than what really happened.

I was loading the car Friday morning to go work out. I missed the last step and my foot twisted just the right way, breaking my fifth metatarsal. Yes, I was wearing tennis shoes. I’m now  in a boot. I have leftover prescription Ibuprofen from the hospital after labor and delivery. I take that and ice it. I’ll see the orthopedic doctor later this week.

I’ve never broken a bone before. I always imagined a better story than what really happened, so that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. “I broke my foot in a pool side bar brawl while protecting my children from a shark attack. If you think my foot is bad, you should see the shark!”

Disclaimer: Our pool is not saltwater, has no swim up bar and no Baby Cabana. A girl can dream. The sharks are a rumor. 

To my neighbor lighting fireworks after July 4th:

Hello fellow American! I hope you had a happy Independence Day. Are you feeling rested after all your revelry this weekend? I’m not. Thanks for asking. I imagine you enjoyed sleeping in Saturday and Sunday mornings. Don’t mistake this letter for my jealousy, I want you to get the rest you need. You may need it.

First, let me say I appreciate your enthusiasm for our freedom, truly. I would never infringe on your right to blow off your own hand. I love the USA and our love for explosives. Explosives on the 4th. You see, I love a good fireworks show on the 4th of July. A quick history lesson for you, that is the day that we as a nation collectively decided we would use pyrotechnics to commemorate our founding fathers’ declaring our independence.

I understand I have young children and my celebrating has to go on early in the day. We’re part of the decorate-your-tricycle-eat-half-a-hot dog-get-home-before-naps crowd. Fireworks are out for us, but I did brace myself and my little family for some unwelcome booms on the holiday. The local community fireworks display caused a few tears Friday night, but we explained “It’s just for tonight on the 4th, sweetie!” My three-year-old understood and fell asleep after the show ended around 9:30pm. That’s the great thing about professional shows, they give us the oohs and ahhs we all need and it’s over with.

You can imagine my discontent when I heard your cracks and booms on the night of the 5th around 11:00pm. We were upstairs consoling our little one who had her hands over her ears laying in the bed, confused as to why you would frighten her with such noises in our peaceful bit of suburbia when the holiday was over.

I myself was trying to figure out what would compel you to put on your own little show a night later. Unlike our fellow Americans in western states, we don’t typically have to worry about dry weather and we’ve had lots of rain. Both professional fireworks displays in our city went on as planned under clear July 4th night skies. Praise Lady Liberty! So, the weather couldn’t have been the reason you were a day late.

Oh! I know, maybe you’re a dollar short!? Did you get your firecrackers half-priced on the 5th at the tent out in front of the grocery store? Good thinking! Between my child’s sobs I was trying to figure out if I was hearing a Roman Candle, a bottle rocket or a Flying Chinese Finger Severer. I’m sure those black cat-purple-airbomb-sparkler-whateverthehells at  60% off put on a great show for your drunk-ass friends at 1:00 am. Oh, and by 1:00am, it was July 6th. The 6th! So, it was the day after the day after Independence Day. It was over, you chump, OVER!

So, I’m sure you’re thinking, “What are you going to do about it? You’re a lame stay-at-home mommy blogger.” Yes, neighbor. I have my lame moments. I own one or more tankinis and have the theme songs to Disney Junior shows memorized. But, know this, if I ever figure out who you are, my revenge will come when you least expect it. It will come in a few years with a knock at your door bright and early one Saturday morning. My kids will wake you up to sell you something you don’t need as a fundraiser for their swim team or whatever. We will ring your bell first and loudest. I will stop you on the sidewalk on Halloween and get you to take a picture of my family. I’ll pretend to be unhappy with the outcome of the photo and have you take more of us in different poses, taking up your time and being insufferable. I’ll ask you to carry coolers at the neighborhood block party, be unhappy with their location and ask you to move them again. I will do it smiling and nice. You won’t know that it’s my revenge for your explosives. It will all be subtle and spread out over time.

Yeah, all this sounds terrible, and it is. But, I make no apology because I will remember the faces of my startled babies and my whining dog on that hot night in July. I’ll do it for all Americans who understand that fireworks on the 4th are sacred.

Signed,

Your Neighbor

P.S. Your friends don’t want to see your stupid fireworks on New Year’s Eve. It’s cold. They want to go back inside. Take a hint.

For the second time in my life the calendar has turned to November when I was supposed to have a baby in October. I’m not making this up. I wrote this three years ago TODAY. You’ll see. I didn’t publish it until later. This time I’m letting it out.

It’s back. The darkness. The up-and-down fury. All of it.

That old familiar madness.

You would think I would have been prepared this time. I worked through my due date, which is better than last time when I worked up until 2 days before my due date. This week we went to the doctor on the 30th. My due date. I was so happy. We had worked so hard to get through this last month. Work was handed off, we dutifully took bags and the car seat and left them at daycare, ready for Grandma. We had a plan. The doctor would likely schedule an induction for the next day, we’d be home by Saturday for Charlotte’s birthday. Not this time.

I’m a fool. Once again, I am a victim of my expectations. I am an eternal optimist who assumed, wrongly, that it would work out this time and I would be as lucky as my friends who have already had their babies. Nope. Instead I remain panicky, weepy and dissolving into sobs on my closet floor like a damned psycho.

I had a friend tell me that when his wife went in to have their baby earlier this year a woman stood in the OB’s office and continued to scream until they agreed to admit her. She refused to go another week. I totally understand. I don’t judge her. Keep it up girl. Have that baby. Good for you. Get what you need from your medical professionals.

I know. I’ve heard it all. “You have to let nature take it’s course!” “Your baby is not ready.” “You have to let your body do what it needs to do.” “Another week isn’t that bad.” “You’re only two days past your due date!”

Shut the hell up. All of you. You have no idea the hormonal exhaustion of this. You think I don’t know all of that?!

My favorite thing I heard this week was, “You know, in Europe they don’t even consider induction until after 42 weeks.  Over there they have great methods of helping with natural childbirth.” Well, great! When I decide to move to Sweden and have a litter of little ex-pats born naturally in artisian Swedish pools, I’ll keep that in mind. Oh! Just to remind you, most European women have a year of paid maternity leave. I’m a working American mother and do not have that luxury. I chose a modern OB/GYN practice for a reason. This is about time. Time with my baby and money for my family.

Granted, I have been very blessed with great employers offering benefits far better than some other women get. I understand this. I’m very appreciative. But, the time I will actually get home with my newborn is very fleeting.

Wednesday the doctor informed me that a push in obstetrics is to not induce unless medically necessary. Okay, was anyone going to tell me that? I have done everything I was supposed to. Last week at 39 weeks the doctor said, “Okay, well, if you’re still pregnant next week, we’ll talk induction.” Great. I assumed that meant I’d be scheduled for the next day. She knew that is what we did last time. I lost my shit about 40 weeks and they agreed to induce me at 40 weeks 5 days. That alone, was maddening.  Waiting until 41 weeks, ridiculous. Two additional days is a lifetime. I know that’s crazy, but it is. Trust me.

People then say, “But, being induced can mean complications for your baby and a very hard labor!” Bull shit. Pitocin is a miracle drug and a blessing. Three years ago this week they started that stuff and I had my baby in about 4 hours and 35 minutes. I only pushed for the 35 minutes. Minimal tearing. Done. Easy. It was far preferable to another week of sobbing and counting vacation hours.

Due dates are the biggest crock of shit in the world. Obstetrics and meteorology are the two professions where you can predict what’s going to happen, be wrong most of the time  and still keep your job. News flash! The rest of the working world is on tight deadlines and demand accuracy. This was all fine 100 years ago. It is unacceptable in 2013. Maybe obstetrics should consider giving a “due range” instead of a “due date” if not for employers, but for the mental health of mothers.

I busted my ass this month to make it happen, to get it all done on time. I did. Now, I sit here like a damned fool with a laid out maternity leave plan and a packed bag that remains by the door. And for what?!

I asked to be checked today and the doctor explained it’s part of the hospital’s “Quality Matters” initiative not to induce until 41 weeks unless medically necessary to lower their c-section rate. Oh, you mean the c-section rate that I IN NO WAY CONTRIBUTED TO WITH MY SAFE, MEDICALLY INDUCED VAGINAL DELIVERY!? Yep, that one.

I was home yesterday and again today because I feel like crap and I can’t bring myself to show this crazy to the awesome people I work with. I’ll figure out over the weekend whether I’ll go back into the office.

This is the nitty-gritty stuff no one tells you about before you have a baby. If this psychotic rant helps another mother, maybe it will be worth it. I was praying wouldn’t be an issue this go-around. I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

I’m here, once again relying on obstetrics and meteorology to decide my fate. There is a storm/low pressure system coming in that I can only hope will induce labor. I heard it might. But again, I’m a hormonal fool and clearly know nothing. I feel very sorry for my family and friends because I’m so awful. If I were them, I wouldn’t call or text me. Sorry. I’m just crazy.  I’d be seriously afraid of me and my madness right now. That old familiar 40 week madness.