Neno's Brain on Hormones

Hmm... People aren't commenting here very much. They must be busy. Or they hate me. Yeah, that's it, they totally hate me! God! Why do I always have to be so fucking annoying! I ruin everything! I'm such a loser! They're probably all like, "Who does she think she is having TWO blogs? Like I have time for that shit. Hello!? That's IT! I'm never commenting on her blog again but I will forward it to people so that the whole Internet can make fun of her! Let's see how she likes THAT! Stupid bitch."

Or... maybe they're just busy.

Falling Apart

On Saturday I was standing in line at Wal-Mart, which, is, you know, extra fun. And suddenly, I heard a loud "pop" coming from my knee region. And then: pain. Ouchy the pain. Seriously, something like popped in my knee from the extra and very vigorous task I was performing, what with the standing and the waiting and all. I do not know what happened to my knee, but it is now bruised all around and I can't put all of my weight on it. Some of my weight, but not all. For a moment, I thought maybe my knee water broke and I'd soon be having knee babies, but not so much. Also, I can tell how crazy that is, you don't need to tell me.

I do not plan to go to a doctor, and will be hoping that it heals itself the way that the body so miraculously does, unless the Internets comment on this blog and shout at me, "Your leg is going to fall off if you don't have this fixed immediately!" (See all the responsibility I have given you, Internets?) But I'm guessing it just has to do with me being a) old and b) lazy and, additionally, c) out of shape and that if I had just gotten up off of my ass and lost these last ten pregnancy pounds already my knee wouldn't explode at the forceful kicks of invisible Wal-Mart gremlins. (Which, can you call it pregnancy pounds when the baby is over a year old now.? It's more like just "I ate too much chocolate" pounds, but whatever.)

Dirts and Bwooms

E on gardening:
You go to the store and you tell them that you want seeds and you want dirts. And then you have a garden.

D saying "down":
downdowndowndowndowndowndown

D saying "up":
DOWN!!!!!!!! DOWN!!!!!!!!

D reads a book about a witch:
Bwoom! (Turns page, points) Bwoom! (Turns page, points) Bwoom!, etc.

NOT Down With OPP

I don't know if you've been watching Lost, but if you have and you're reading this, there's something you need to know about me. I will totally betray your ass for a toilet. Yes, you. I will become an Other and I will make secret recordings about your uterus and whatever else they want me to do. Because Neno? Doesn't like looking at other people's poop.

Because I don't want her to say "vagina" in the grocery store

Me: Sweetie, you have to wipe the front first then the back.

E: What does that mean?

Me: You don't want to get poo poo in the front. It will make you sick.

E: What's the front?

Me: Right there. The front.

E: What are you saying, Mama?

Me: Front first. THEN back.

E: What are you talkin' about?

Me: Let me wipe you, okay?

E: No! I can do it.

Me: Okay. Let's start over. Take this. Wipe your front. Right there. Okay. Now throw that in the toilet. Okay, good. Now take this. And wipe in the back. Back there. The butt part. Good. Now do that every time.

E: Um... what?

How do you get paid to blog?

I get this question a lot. And by a lot, I mean twice.

You get paid to blog by searching for, weeding out, and landing, a blogging job.

Real Moms Have Tattoos

Part of me didn't believe that the person I was deserved to be a mother. Someone who sometimes drank too much. And who often said the wrong thing. And who hadn't always made good choices in life.

All I had to do was change everything about who I was. Transform myself into a "mother" and everything would be just fine.

But after I actually became a mother, something kept poking at my heart. Wouldn't I love my babies no matter what? Didn't I want my babies to feel comfortable with who they are? To never feel as though something is wrong with them because they may be (or feel) different? To know that no matter what life throws at them, at least their mom will always be there, loving and accepting them? (As long as it doesn't hurt them or anyone else, of course.)

But, how could I expect my kids to be honest with who they are, and love all of their quirks, if they grew up with a mom who believed who she was wasn't good enough?

So I am learning to embrace my inner freak. That's why I started this blog. I got a tattoo. I took my kids to renaissance festivals, in costume. I drank Mountain Dew right there in front of them (and told them that when they are grown-ups they too can choose to introduce acidic sugar poison into their systems, or hopefully not). I listened to my Ani DiFranco albums as I drove them to Kindermusik. I let them rock out to Nirvana (and The Wiggles). I will continue to wear this shirt.

Because being myself and doing the best I can is more important than living up to society's version of a perfect mom. Besides, mom jeans make my ass look huge.

Thanks to Jennifer for the Real Moms tag. Tagging you, Jane, Dana, and Kristy (who may have to write "Real Moms Don't Have Time to Blog So Quit Tagging Me, Bitch").

So Mature

Do you ever go in the bathroom and lock the door and spend 30 seconds flipping off people that can't see you?

Um... yeah. Me neither.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Right Boob: Hi. I'd like to introduce myself. My name is Right Boob and I just want to take a small moment and share with you the fact that the human to which we are attached recently received her first actual paycheck for blogging.

Left Boob: WOO to the FUCKIN HOO, yo!!! I luuuuurves gin!

RB: Please stop. You're embarrassing both of us.

LB: What-ev. You're just jealous because I am so big and round.

RB: I have no need to display myself so ostentatiously. I understand that the world doesn't revolve around me, unlike some boobs I know.

LB: Wait! What the hell was that? Over there? Was that Brad Pitt? Oh, wait, no. It's just Neighbor. Ha. I'm so stupid. Hey, have you ever tried Beefeater gin with pomegranate juice? It is yummmmmmmmm-y.

RB: Pay attention! Jesus, you're like a child.

LB: I know you are but what am I?

RB: Sigh. Anyway. Check out "our" first blogging paycheck. And additionally the shirt husband made for "us" for Christmas. On the back it reads "evil blog."

LB: ROCK N ROLL!!!!

Isms

Eism:
Ladies and gentlemen!
Boys and girls!
Welcome to the parade of the girl who loves raisins!

Dism:
(Screeches LOUDLY in grocery store, while pointing at a watermelon) BALL!!!!!

Belly of the Beast

I walked in through Town's very first automatic revolving glass door. I climbed the giant and pointless set of stairs, tiled with slate, railed by a sheet of immaculate glass. I gave them my name, and pulled out my copy of Chris Bojalian's Midwives (not as good on second readthrough, post-kids, by the way). I felt like a traitor. This office is so nice, so beautiful because of all of the unnecessary c-sections and hysterectomies these doctors have performed over the years. By all of the women told they were going to induce. By all of the young mothers who were laughed at when they said they wanted to have a natural birth. Paid for by Pitocin and epidurals and episiotomies.

But I looked past that because I wanted what I wanted and I wanted it now. Birth control pills. For a $10 co-pay, 10 pounds in water weight, and occasional, non-migraine headaches, I'll be happily not having a baby next year. Yes, a baby is always a blessing. But sometimes, not having a baby is a blessing too.