Tag Archives: babies

Who said you could grow up so fast?

1 Jun

So sometime in the next few days, we will be celebrating some birthdays around here. Diva & Intuitive will be turning 7 years old.

 

Seven.

 

If I had broken a mirror on the day they were born, I’d be free of the bad luck.

 

Looking back, 7 years doesn’t seem like such a long time. Some days felt long, sure, but all thrown together, it’s just a clusterfuck of days and moments and minutes and seconds and memories. There were highs, there were lows. There were diapers. Oh, were there diapers. Sorry, landfills. I contributed quite a bit to the world being full of trash.

 

When I think back to the early days, it kind of feels like it was someone else in a whole different life. Are these two KIDS the same premature babies that couldn’t breathe or eat when they were born? Seriously? They were two mini little baby type things, and now they are, like, human-pseudo-grownups.

 

For real, who let that happen? Who said it was ok for them to sit up, crawl, walk, talk, THINK? I don’t recall giving them the ok to do all this shit. They are self sufficient, free thinkers.. With likes and dislikes, ideas and theories, strengths and weaknesses. I don’t know when these things happened. They are honor roll students, their teachers love them, they have oodles and oodles of friends.. It’s a crazy trip to see them interacting like miniature grown up humans.

 

I find something new to be proud of every single day, and I know I always will.

 

Diva, my brainy little princess, you came into the world squealing, making your presence known. I’m proud to be your mommy, and I can’t wait to see you grow up. Keep writing and reading and imagining things. Keep thinking up crazy “scenes” that you think would make great movies or tv shows. You can do it all.

Intuitive, my sweet little giggling princess, your laugh is impossible to ignore, and one of my favorite sounds. You do things your way, and you are one of the most stubborn people I know – don’t ever lose that. You are amazing and strong-willed, and I can’t wait to see where that takes you in life. I’m always here.

 

With that, I’m gonna go cry in my coffee. Happy tears, because my babies are growing and becoming amazing people… but there will be some sad tears, too.. I’ll never get those days back, and sometimes, I just wish I could.

 

 

To the holier than thou. Love, Daisy.

24 May

Dear Holier Than Thou Mothers…

 

I concede. I am obviously not worthy of the title of “Mother.” I fully accept this, and am moving on. (can you feel me rolling my eyes? I am.)

 

In a minute.

 

First, I shall lay out some fresh beats and bust a quick rhyme. (Or I’ll just explain myself. What-the-fuck-ever.)

 

1. Stretch Marks: If I say I have stretch marks, it doesn’t mean I hate my children, and wish I would have adopted so I could keep my svelte 18-year-old body. It means I have stretch marks. Did they appear during my pregnancy? Yes. Do I resent my children for “giving” them to me? No, I resent my genealogy, since that shit is genetic. Following up a comment (or just making a comment) about *YOUR* stretch marks by saying something along the lines of

“My stretch marks are SO worth it, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, because they show me EVERYDAY that I brought an amazing, spectacular, gorgeous, fantastic, BRILLIANT angel into the world, and saying I don’t like them would be like SACRIFICING MY PERFECT CHILD TO “The Others” on Lost. I LOVE MY STRETCH MARKS.”

Yeah. Soooooooo. I get it. The big ol’ cross on your back is super bright and shiny. I get it. You are MOTHER, hear you roar.

I still think MY stretch marks suck, but, uh, more power to you. You must be a better mother than me.

 

2. The “When I have Children…” People: Do I even NEED to address you crazy asses? I will never meet the imaginary standard you have set. In the imaginary world that you and your imaginary children live in, I’m sure that everything is rainbows and unicorns and skipping through fields of wildflowers, with the scent of fresh jasmine filling the air. There are playdates with other imaginary friends, and children that don’t wet themselves, poop themselves, talk back, refuse to eat, cry incessantly for no reason.. They sleep through the night, from 8pm to 9am. You do everything right.

 

How can I compete with that?

Pop out a few, and then tell me if all your imaginary plans came true. I implore you. Do it.

 

3. The Ones Who Do It All.. and Then Some: Now, these.. Sometimes (most of the time) I just don’t believe them.

No, I don’t think that you can take care of 5 children, home-school them, milk the goats out back, make homemade yogurt, clean your house, take care of the pets, manage a business, do 4 loads of laundry, (in all natural, homemade laundry soap, naturally) sprout your quinoa, read 8 stories to your children, take them to the neighborhood park, then to the YMCA for swimming lessons, then to the library…… ALL BEFORE LUNCH.

Screw you. You’re lying, this doesn’t happen. Your attempts to make us “lesser mothers” feel like shit might work for a while… but eventually, we’ll all realize that you don’t really have your shit together, and you actually throw some Gerber Puffs on the floor in the living room and turn on Spongebob, and then go watch your “stories” on your laptop.

Why lie? Fess up, homegirls.

 

 

4. The Exaggerators: You know the one. That one woman who you see at your Gymboree Music class. The one who tells you about all the advanced shit her brilliant diaper dweller does.

“Sooo.. Is your son walking yet? No? Hmm. That’s weird. Perfectly normal, I’m sure. My little prince is just really advanced for his age. His doctor has even said so. He started walking at 4 months old, canyoubelieveit?! Yeah, so now at 8 months, it’s just amazing, but, well, I don’t normally tell people this, but.. We had his IQ tested. He scored pretty well. I don’t like to brag, but his IQ is 865. Yeah. So, he’s SMART. He started reciting Shakespeare last night. It was amaaaaazing.”

Listen, bitch. Your kid craps his diaper, just like mine did. He isn’t a fucking genius. He didn’t start walking at 4 months old. His IQ isn’t 865. He’s a normal baby. Enjoy him as such, because one, he will wise up and not want to hang out with you, because you suck.

 

 

And with that, I will bid you farewell.

 

For now.

 

I’m going to go wallow in the fact that I’m just not as good as all of you Holier Than Thou moms out there.

Fondly, Daisy.

 

Where did my “Give a Fuck” go?

31 Mar

Fuck. My brain hurts from all this homework.

I’m finishing up my Master’s degree in Administration. Literally, finishing up. I graduate in six weeks, and you bet your ass I’m counting down every second, every class session, every assignment until the end.

Why the fuck am I doing this? I don’t even want to be an administrator one day! That job sucks. How did I get here?

A few years ago, my dear friend and mentor, Super Teacher, encouraged me to apply for a Master’s program. At the time, I was a fledgling first-year teacher. I had no kids. I rented a home, didn’t own. I really had nothing else going on in my life aside from my easy, carefree marriage. I thought, “Why the hell not? I can do this. I’ll sure as fuck take the pay raise!” I researched different graduate programs, and determined that a) I’d make a kick-ass administrator, as I’m a Take-No-Shit kind of gal, and b)  the Administration degree looked easiest; it has a final portfolio in lieu of a Master’s Thesis. So I applied for the program (even though the requirements stipulated that I had to be IN my third year of teaching), and I was accepted.

I charged ahead. I took a heavier-than-average load. I rocked straight A’s for the first time in my life. I was kicking grad school’s ass and making it my bitch.

And then I got pregnant.

We weren’t deliberately trying to have a baby, but it happened none-the-less. My trimesters and semesters aligned a little too perfectly. My first trimester, which was a fall semester, I was useless. I was tired and cranky and über hormonal. Staying awake through evening classes after teaching a full day was nearly impossible. I received my first A- that semester; bye bye, 4.0 GPA!

My second and third trimesters were during the following Spring. I was large, I was hungry, and I was still a cranky bitch. I was finding it impossible to schedule my ever-increasing OB appointments around work and school. My blood pressure was skyrocketing from the stresses of teaching and being a grad student. And let’s be honest: even as a pregnant mother, my priorities were shifting. My “Give a Fuck” was almost nil. I earned my first “B” that semester. Bye bye, Magna Cum Laude.

After the baby was born, I took the summer semester off to be with her and recuperate. Once the next fall arrived, I was back in the swing of things: teacher by day, student by night, and Mommy whenever the hell I found a spare moment. With my “Give a Fuck” completely gone, I wondered why the hell I was still working toward my Master’s. I definitely didn’t want to be an administrator now. I barely even wanted to work. I just wanted to stay at home with my Pterodactyl and be a full-time Mommy.

Then Daisy reminded me of something: I had spent an ass-load of money on tuition and books, not to mention thousands of hours studying and in class. I had dedicated too much of my life to this program to back out now. I looked objectively at what I had accomplished and what I had left to do. I was one semester away from graduating. I decided right then, come Hell or high water, that I was going to finish this fucking degree and graduate.

So here we are. I’m six weeks away from graduation. My internship is almost over. I have two classes left to attend. There are about 5 or 6 assignments, collectively, left to submit. My cap, gown, and hood have been ordered. Shit, I even got to order an honors medallion, something that undergraduate Violet only dreamed of. (That’s right, Friends: I’m graduating Summa Cum Laude!) I’m writing this post as a way to procrastinate from doing some research for a paper I’m writing, and guess what? I don’t Give a Fuck. What I’d rather be doing is visiting the local pool with my little one, taking her swimming in the infant pool, which is only 6 inches deep. THAT’S how I want to spend my Saturday; not cooped up in front of my computer, but experiencing life with my kid. Every instinct in me is telling me to close the laptop and play with Pterodactyl, but then I have Daisy’s nagging voice in my head: “You’re so close! Buck up and finish, already!”

Thank you, Daisy, for keeping my lazy ass on track.

Thank you, Super Teacher, for inspiring me to start my Master’s degree in the first place.

And fuck you both for not letting me quit.

Celebrity Parents

30 Mar

Celebrity culture has always been somewhat of a twatwaffle to me. I don’t get into the drama; I don’t understand the hysteria. I don’t follow Perez Hilton’s blog. For all intents and purposes, I think celebrities are a bunch of middle class morons who happened to fall upon fame and wealth because they were either a) favored with big tits or b) can make themselves cry on cue. (Daisy and I are blessed with both of these attributes. Where are our millions?) At some point in their journey from mediocrity to internationally irrelevant, someone issued them all (collectively) a license for weirdness.

I didn’t used to mind the weirdness. Tom Cruise wants to put his money in a tax shelter and call it religion? Fine. Follow that up with a critique of psychology as a legitimate medicine practice? He’s an asshole, but I didn’t give him enough credit to care. Fergie wants to pee-pee in her pants without a Huggies, then shower in champagne to cover it up? Have fun! But then these weird-ass movie stars decided to tell the world how to parent. That’s when I became annoyed.

First, we had Mayim Bialik telling us that we need to breastfeed our kids until they’re five. (Anyone else think of the movie Grown Ups when you hear that?!)  January Jones, of Mad Men fame, wants you to eat your own placenta after you deliver your afterbirth. (And I know that in some less civilized cultures, that’s acceptable, but I’m a middle class American. We don’t cannibalize our extraneous organs.) Now, Alicia Silverstone wants us to feed our children like we’re pigeons by chewing our food and spitting it into the waiting infant’s mouth. Oh, hell no.

Here’s my problem: for one, parenting is a completely individualistic practice. No two mothers are alike, and no two children are alike. Prescribing any parenting practice is risky business (haha, Tom Cruise joke!) because methods that worked in one family may fail in another, and who will the failing family blame? The person who offered the advice in the first place. Not a wise idea if your income is based on your likability. My other problem with this celeb-mommy-culture is that too many people put these assholes on a pedestal. For these people, anything a favorite celebrity spews from her mouth is scripture. Cameron Diaz wants me to exfoliate with llama fetus eyeballs? Sounds great! Jack Black suggests I huff Dorito Cheese dust to make my hair grow longer? Yum! So when the Hollywood-types tell you that you should cover your kid in olive juice every day to prevent AIDS, some ignorant imbecile will take that to heart and buy a Costco-sized jar of olives.

Weirdo celebrity parents: keep your strange-as-shit thoughts to yourself. If you want to name your kid Pilot Inspektor or Jermajesty, be my fucking guest. No skin off my back. But to promote your strange (and possibly harmful) parenting tactics to your unassuming, impressionable fan base is wrong. You’re fucking with a child’s well-being when you tell his parent to eat a lock of his hair every year on his birthday, or whatever unusual shit you do with your children. Just like with politics, Hollywood Freaks, keep your nose out of shit you don’t understand, and stick to acting/singing/slutting.

A picture isn’t worth a thousand words. Sometimes.

29 Mar

Before Violet and I began this blog, we spent many hours discussing it and what it would consist of. We discussed having a cute “getting to know us” page, (About Daisy & Violet) as well as a “Mission Statement“. We thought those would be fun ways for ourselves to set the tone for our blog before we even wrote a post.

We also discussed privacy. We decided to not use our real names, or our spouse’s names, or our children’s names. We gleefully discussed our blog pseudonyms, which are our nicknames from high school, and concocted names for our family. Along with our name discussions, we discussed the issue of photographs of our children.

I read many, many mommy blogs. I enjoy seeing how other families work, and how other mom’s balance life. I read a pretty nice variety of blogs, from Super-Christian Mommy bloggers, to Gay Dad’s and their adventures. What can I say? I enjoy reading and learning about different people. One common denominator in all of these blogs is the pictures. Pictures of their children doing silly things. Pictures of family excursions and vacations.

Now look at our blog. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Yeah, no pictures of ourselves and families. Text messages and occasional random shit that we see, but no precious snapshots.

Why?

We decided that we wanted a sense of anonymity. Not so much for ourselves, but for our children. We think that our children are quite possibly the cutest in the world. We would love to heavily season our blog with photos of our collective brood, but alas, the internet is a fucking scary place. People search for (and find) all kinds of crazy shit. Personally, I don’t want an innocent photo of my kids turning into something naughty, and I can say with certainty that Violet doesn’t either. I’m not looking down upon anyone who posts photos of their children on their blog. I love looking at other people’s photos. Kids are cute. They do cute shit.

Perhaps I’m just a crazy lady, and I shouldn’t over think things, but “not-nice” things have happened. I’ve read that a blogger posted photos of her infant that passed away, and it was discovered that someone stole those photos and used them in.. less than admirable ways. There is a very popular mommy blogger that often posts photos of her children in various states of undress and occasionally some questionable positions and tags them with “pedophilic key words”. That is just asking for trouble. Why do that to your children? (Granted, this mommy blogger is “two pieces of bread short of a sandwich”, and I enjoy reading her “naysayer” blog more than hers. Anyone wanna guess who I’m talking about?)

Maybe we’ll post a picture of ourselves, with a little facial blurring. We did it on twitter.

Maybe one day we’ll post a photo of our kids. Maybe we won’t.

What WILL we do? Continue writing and sharing funny photos of other stuff, and hopefully, you’ll continue reading and commenting.

Do you think I’m crazy? What are your views?

 

-Daisy

Cloth Diapering by Guest-Blogger Frenchie

29 Mar
I’m Frenchie, guest blogger for Daisy and Violet, most likely chosen because I’m a bit opinionated, sarcastic and cynical. I’ve been married for 6 years to a great guy (we’ll call him Gamer Boy) and we now have a little ankle biter of our very own who we’ve dubbed Raptor Baby. We waited a while to jump into the family end of the swimming pool, and honestly if I had the choice we’d have had a baby long ago, but as we all know, sometimes men are a little slow to jump on the baby train, or at least Gamer Boy was. Now that we’ve had one, Gamer Boy is wondering why we didn’t sooner. *face palm*
So I’ve been thinking ever since Violet asked me to guest blog about when I turned into a crunchy, granola, tree-hugging mom. You’d never know it by looking at me – I dress professionally daily, like great shoes and purses, not much of an outdoorsy type at all. I’ve never particularly been the Berkeley type – never once have I owned a pair of Birkenstocks, have not shaved or gotten waxed (there is a place for hair, but IMO not on the female body – but that’s my own weirdness)  protested about anything, or truly been politically active beyond voting in general elections. I don’t even know that I would have considered myself crunchy/granola until she actually pointed it out, maybe I was only slightly west of crunchy by my own admission at the time. To tell the truth, it’s been driving me nuts ever since she told me because I’m obsessive like that. I went through all the typical phases: Shock and denial (What? ! I’m not fucking crunchy!), Anger (Who are you fucking calling crunchy?) then Reflection (Am I crunchy? Holy shit!) , then Acceptance (Yeah, that’s right I’m fucking crunchy. Damn it). However, I think I’ve finally come to terms with it – kind of like in high school when, if you were a nerd (which I was), and you realize your place on the social hierarchy of popularity and you try to fight it, doing everything you can to be more popular to just finally embrace the nerd within and realize all the popular kids are douches anyway. I’ve decided to embrace the crunchy for my own sake, because I just don’t have the will to fight it, and in the end it’s not so bad.
So what makes me crunchy? Well, a variety of things really – we grow our own veggies when we can, I’m a Bradley mom (we’ll that one for another post if I’m invited back), I’m still breast feeding my kidlet and she’s almost 11 months old,  but I guess my choice of cloth diapering and making my own wipes is what pushed Violet over the edge. Yeah, that’s right – judge me – I cloth diaper and it’s 2012. Am I doing it because I’m some tree-hugging environmentalist not wanting to leave my kid’s carbon footprint and turd filled diapers in landfills? No, I’m honestly not that altruistic. It was more the fact that I didn’t want to put all kinds of chemicals I can’t pronounce on my kid’s butt and I wanted to save some money.
What brought this on? I think when I was pregnant (or as Gamer Boy would say – pregnant and nuts) I was trying to figure out ways that I could stay home longer with Raptor Baby, because, unfortunately I’m not a stay at home mom, but I wish that I was. Much like Violet, I torture teenagers on a daily basis and get paid for it – I do love what I do, but I digress…where was I? Ah yes, cloth diapers. So I’m only slightly granola in the fact that I do in fact pay for a diaper service – I don’t wash shit-filled diapers myself – though I was open to the idea until I started dealing with the day to day reality of 3-4 poops , dodged that bullet didn’t I? Anyhow, how did we as parents get to this place? The discussion with Gamer Boy originally went something like this:
Frenchie: (reading Baby Bargains) Hey, do you even realize the amount of money we could save if we used cloth diapers and wipes?
Gamer Boy: (playing a video game) No, how much?
Frenchie: A lot, especially if we buy them and wash them ourselves. The wipes alone would save us a night or two out minimum.
Gamer Boy: (Actually stops playing game for a moment) Wait a second, you want to put shitty diapers in our washing machine? I’m not washing shit in our washing machine, our clothes go in there! I don’t even want to touch shitty diapers anyhow, much less wash them. Are you out of your damn mind?
Frenchie: You don’t even do the laundry, how do you get a vote as to what goes in the machine?
Gamer Boy: I am going to be changing diapers and I don’t want turd stains on my work pants or shirts.
Frenchie: You are? Oh that’s good, if not I was going to put them in your lunch or leave them under your pillow. It’s good that you’ve decided to participate – for your sake. How about a diaper service instead?
Gamer Boy: (Back at game again) Is it expensive?
Frenchie: No more than disposables every month.
Gamer Boy: (Playing game) Sure, if you want.
Frenchie: What about the wipes?
Gamer Boy: That’s all you, babe.
So, in the end I ended up getting what I had originally asked for without having to wash poop-filled diapers myself. Kind of a win-win if you ask me. Am I glad that it’s better for the environment? Yes, actually I am. To be honest, the wipes quite honestly don’t take that much time out of my day and I know what is being put on my kid’s skin. I’ve also realized that I’m kind of lucky because I’ve not experienced the poop blow outs that some of my other mom friends have experienced with disposables. As a matter of fact, the only time my kid has ever exploded into an outfit is when she’s been wearing disposables. (We do keep a small amount for emergencies). Have people thought we are nuts for doing it? Probably, but I’m a bit of a bitch – and usually ignore what people say when they are criticizing me anyhow. There’s not much of a learning curve once you figure it out. We had some fun at the start, but now it’s gravy. So cloth diapering, is it easy? Totally. Especially when someone else is washing the poop out.

To C-section or not to C-section

21 Mar

What the hell is with all these people saying that elective c-sections are sooooo much easier. Seriously? Easier?

It’s major fucking surgery. What is easy about that? Sure, shooting a kid out your baby maker is tough. I’m not saying it’s rainbows and butterflies, just ask Violet.

But major surgery being a simple alternative? No, dude. It’s not. I’m not huge on statistics, but I know without a doubt that 100% of c-sections involve MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY.

My c-section experiences were fairly easy. No complications, no bumps in the road, and at the end, healthy babies. Does that mean it would be my first choice for myself?

NO.

I had two pretty normal c-section experiences. If I could time travel back 7 years, I’d probably do things a bit differently. When you are 19 years old and in a high risk pregnancy expecting twins, often times if the doctor you trust says jump, you’ll jump. (Well, unless you’re 34 weeks pregnant with twins and have been in the throes of pre-term labor for like 7 weeks. Then you’ll probably just sit.) My doc said a c-section would be better, safer, quicker, so, figuratively, I jumped. Looking back, I wish I would have tried to go natural. Sure, it would have taken longer, sure it would have been uncomfortable, but those babies were in the perfect position to coast out of the womb smoothly. In fact, they had to work harder to get Diva out because she was in such a great natural birth position. That means that Diva had a huge bruise on her head for a week thanks to the vacuum. After the “easy” c-section came a short trip to hell. All expenses paid!

Diva & Intuitive were in the NICU. I was in recovery, scratching myself silly and shaking because I was freezing. They finally take me to my room, where I proceed to be almost overdosed on morphine because some nice nurses wanted to make me feel good, but forgot to record how much they gave me. That made for a nice day and a half. The girls were born at around 1 am. On the trip from recovery to my room, I was taken by the NICU to see them for about 2 minutes. I don’t remember much of that. By 8 am I just wanted to see my kids. At this point, I’m informed by the nurse that in order to go see my babies, I must show them that I can walk one loop around the maternity floor. Then, and only then, will I be allowed to go see them.

At this point, I’m thinking “What the fuck. The NICU is like 7 miles away from Maternity. Are they going to make me WALK all the way there 7 hours after major surgery? Fuck it, let’s do this”

With minimal help, I threw myself out of the hospital bed, thinking, “I’ll show them. Let’s go!” Perhaps it was a good thing there was so much morphine in me? They got me a wheel chair to push around the hall for support, and off I went. Cursing in my head, and feeling like my innards were all about to fall out on the hospital hallway floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I seem to have dropped a fallopian tube. Would you be so kind as to pick it up? I can’t quite bend yet. Oh, I have to pick it up? Hmm. I can do without a fallopian tube. I have another. Shit, there’s my bladder. I DO need that.”

We make our journey around the Maternity ward. I get asked once when I’m due. When I looked up with a scowl on my face and say “Yesterday at 1 am”, she looks confused. I keep walking. I’m pretty sure that my family apologized for me. We arrive back at my room, and the nurse smiles and says,

“Alright, hop in the wheelchair, and head over and see your babies! Enjoy”

Hop. In. The. Wheelchair. ?!?! I don’t have to walk there? You made me walk for NOTHING? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. In my morphine induced stupor I begin to have a panic attack on the way to the NICU. Upon our approach, I see 87 of my ex-husbands family members, including his video camera obsessed grandmother. Full panic attack NOW. The First Husband takes me down another hallway, as I start the waterworks and the “PLEASE LET ME JUMP OUT THE WINDOW”, which quickly turned into “PLEASE LET ME THROW HER FUCKING VIDEO CAMERA OUT THE WINDOW”. My mother ran some damage control, got the video camera put away, and the large numbers of family into a waiting room so that I could see my babies for the first time.

I got to spend lots of quality time walking back and forth in the NICU to each baby. Then, back to my room, because my nurse and doctor needed to check me out. I thought that meant they would take my vitals.

No. This bitch lifted up my overhanging ex-baby belly to examine my incision. Just lifted it up like it was a curtain. Then she poked around. What. The. Fuck. (She redeemed herself by letting me know that she was recommending I stay in the hospital for a few extra days because she thought it might be damaging to my mental health to kick me out while my babies were still there. Thanks, doc.) We talked about the morphine issues, and at that point, I told her that I didn’t want anything except for Tylenol for pain relief. She looked at me like I was insane. I don’t think it was insanity, I think it was more of a deisire to be PRESENT and not HIGH for these early days with small, sick babies.

You know how when you have a c-section, they tell you to rest and not do much? Yeah, well, having a couple of preemies in the NICU kinda overrides that. My 5 days IN the hospital were mostly spent in the NICU, unless my nurses called down in a tizzy wondering where the hell I was. Sorry guys, more important shit to worry about than having my temperature taken. Laying low wasn’t really an option. I was walking the halls of that hospital on the regular. Once I got discharged, it meant LESS time to rest. The hospital was about 45 minutes away from home, so we’d leave at around 7 so I could be there by 8 and spent the day there, leaving around 10:30 or 11pm. I popped a stitch at one point, and had no idea. I didn’t really care either, I just wanted to be with my babies.

When they finally got released, at 8 days old, I FINALLY got a chance to rest a little. Well, as much as someone who had their guts split open and now has two high maintenance premature babies to take care of CAN rest.

While it was painful and uncomfortable, I feel that mind over matter is helpful. I didn’t GIVE myself the option to sit around and deal with the pain. I had things to do, and babies to take care of.

When I was pregnant with Handsome, I was hellbent on a VBAC (vaginal birth after c-section). I just didn’t want to deal with the unknowns of major surgery again. I wanted to run into the hospital hollering “MY WATER BROKE!” not walk in at a scheduled time. Mostly though, I was just scared of ANOTHER major abdominal surgery. They move a lot of shit around during a c-section. They take shit out and put it back in, and do the hokey pokey while they’re at it. I really didn’t want to have my organs moved around AGAIN if it wasn’t necessary.

So my doctor and I discussed the VBAC. She was on board. I was happy. Then, friends, I did the very thing I proclaim to dislike. I scheduled a c-section. My ex-husband was in the Army at the time. He was set to leave for 4-6 weeks ON Handsome’s due date. I couldn’t handle the thought of him not being there for the birth and the first few days. Now, while I’m all for letting shit happen naturally, it was kinda nice to be able to call my parents and get travel plans all set up. They would be coming up (we lived about 6 hours away from them at this point) two days before the birth, helping with final junk we needed to do, and of course, taking care of Diva & Intuitive. Scheduling sure turned out to be convenient in that respect.

Scheduling also turned out to be a major stressor. I had days to think about everything that could easily go wrong. Days to worry about spinal blocks and anesthesia and complications. Oh, and the MAJOR SUCK of the day after.

Finally, it was time to go. I kissed my baby girls, hugged my mommy and daddy, and off we went. Sat and waited for about 3 hours. (Thanks emergency twin c-section. Been there, done that!) Finally, time to go. Smooth sailing. So smooth, in fact, that my ex-husband was able to cut Handsome’s cord. Like, the real first cut, placenta still inside and attached. That doesn’t often happen in c-sections, apparently.

After this c-section, I felt a bit better than the first. Maybe it’s the fact that my kid was healthy and off to do normal after-birth activities. I was itchy, again, but in great spirits, trying to sit up in recovery. Nurse chewed me a new one for that. I got on the phone in recovery and called the Mayor.

Me- Hey mom!

The Mayor- Hey!

Me- What’s going on?

The Mayor- Nothing much, girls are asleep. You still waiting?

Me- Nope.

The Mayor- WHAT?!

Me- Yeah, he’s here. 6lbs 15oz of awesome.

The Mayor- I’ll be there in a bit. I can’t wait until tomorrow

Or something like that. Headed off to my room and surprise of surprises, they BROUGHT MY KID TO ME. In a huge flip from my first birth experience, my kid got to stay in the room with me. I didn’t have to walk ANYWHERE to see him. He was right there.

I decided that we would get out of that hospital as soon as humanly possible, and less than 48 hours after Handsome was born, we blew that popsicle stand.

Recovery from my second c-section was much more difficult. I knew what to expect, but I also had 2 18 month olds at home PLUS a newborn. Even with my ex-husband and my parents being there for a few days, I still had shit to do. I didn’t allow myself to rest, EVER, and I know that prolonged things.

I fully believe that if I would have had a vaginal birth, even a difficult one, my recovery would have been quicker and easier. Running to and from the NICU would have been much easier. Running after two 18 month olds would have been much easier. I hate the fact that I’ve pretty much guaranteed myself another c-section should I ever decide to have another child. Honestly, the fact that I would have to have another c-section is one of the biggest reasons that I don’t want another child. I really don’t want to tempt fate. I had two relatively simple c-sections, and I’m just worried that the 3rd time would be catastrophic.

C-sections are NOT an easy way out. C-sections should not be part of a “celebrity” birth plan. They suck, and should only be used when necessary. I don’t understand why so many people say that people are taking “the easy way out” in regards to a c-section. It boggles my mind. How is MAJOR surgery, with a laundry list of MASSIVE possible complications and outcomes, EASY? Since when is shooting a kid out the way nature intended harder than involving tons of doctors, anesthesiologists, machines, SCALPELS, and tons of beeping shit? I am in no way a crunchy granola all natural mom. I fully believe in medical intervention when needed, including c-sections.

But don’t tell me it’s easier. It’s not.

-Daisy

 

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

ramblings that once had a purpose.

19 Mar

“Daisy, you need to write something”

“Daisy, are you writing?”

“Daisy, GO WRITE NOW”

Violet has been going crazy on me for the past, oh, few days. I have excuses, though!

I mean, reasons. Or something.

We started off Diva, Intuitive, & Handsome’s Spring Break in a great way. A surprise trip to Disney World. Well, a surprise trip for THEM. For Terry and me, it was around 3 weeks of watching what we said and trying not to spill the beans. I was successful. Terry was not.

They knew that a “big surprise” was coming. In anticipation of the surprise, we emptied the kids’ piggy bank, rolled all the coins, and told them they had spending money for something special. Then Terry said

“Maybe you can find something fun to buy in Disney”

Then I stopped breathing for a minute or 2, hoping they hadn’t heard.

“THE SURPRISE IS DISNEY WORLD!!!!!!????”

They yelled in unison. They high fived, started hooting and hollering.  Then I went outside to punch a tree. Terry followed me. All I said was

“You better fix that”

He went in and tried to lie to them, telling him that he meant they could save their money, because surely we’d go to Disney over the summer.

They. Did. Not. Buy. It.

So in went Mommy to do some more damage control.

“Alright guys, I want you to know that we are NOT going to Disney for the big surprise. Terry meant that maybe we’d take a Disney trip over the summer, and maybe you could save your money for that. I don’t want you guys getting all excited and thinking that the surprise is Disney, because you will be SO LET DOWN when you find out that it’s not. I repeat, we are NOT going to Disney for the big surprise.”

The response was equal parts refreshing and frightening.

Diva:

“Mommy, Terry said the same thing to us, but when he said it, he sounded like he was lying, so we didn’t believe him. When you say it, you sound like you’re telling the truth.”

So, lesson learned. Mommy is a KICK ASS liar, Terry.. not so much. SWEET.

After that snafu, it was pretty much smooth sailing. The Mayor almost caused another situation, but luckily, the kids had JUST slipped out of earshot.

Diva, Intuitive, & Handsome had a daily countdown. Everyday on the way to school, I’d ask Intuitive how many days were left, and she’d tell me, growing more and more excited as the numbers got smaller.

Finally it was BIG SURPRISE DAY.

We decided to have them go to school, but pick them up early. They were a bit confused as to why the countdown was at zero, yet we were in the car to go to school. No luck though, Mommy wasn’t spilling any beans. Dropped them off, wished them happy, productive days, and raced home to clean up, and pack.

I spent about 3 hours in a neurotic twister of disorganized organization. 5 people going on an overnight trip requires more shit than you think.

  • Bathing suits (the resort we stayed at has a magnificent pool! we’re taking advantage!)
  • Clothes for dinner (a Disney Luau)
  • Pajamas
  • Extra underwear (The Mayor instilled in me a need to always take extra “foundations” on any trip, just in case)
  • Clothes for our day of park hopping
  • Socks, sandals, sneakers
  • 3 Pillow pets
  • Phone chargers, camera, camera charger.
  • Snacks

(Ended up with one suitcase, one large Vera Bradley duffel bag, 2 large tote-type bags, and a Publix bag full of shoes. For an overnight trip. It looked a bit excessive, but oh well. We ended up using just about everything that I brought.)

After all of Mommy & Terry’s “chores” were done, we decided to go break the kids out of school… and off we went.

All three were throwing ideas out on the drive, until we got to the special back way I always take. Then they started recognizing things. Once the “Welcome to Disney” sign started coming into view, there were gasps and sighs and squeals. Dive launched into a 14 minute long monologue about how we lied to her, but it was ok, because we were in Disney World, but WE LIED TO HER!

She promptly got over the lies when they all realized that unlike many of our other Disney day-trips, we were going to be staying overnight, in a hotel.. and what a hotel it was. Toy Story characters everywhere. Magic and Disney-ness at every turn.

I could surely bore you with cute anecdotes and moments from the rest of our trip, but I’ll just leave you with something Handsome said to me after we returned home…

“Mommy, that was the trip of a lifetime”

It was, kiddo. It definitely was.

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Mommy Message Boards

15 Mar

After the sixth pregnancy test, I did what most twenty-first century Moms do: I went online and joined a pregnancy message board. It’s not something I would have normally done, but a close friend, who also happened to be pregnant, suggested it. Turns out, it was pretty fun. I enjoyed having a place to anonymously complain about the ins-and-outs of pregnancy. I liked hearing that other women were as constipated as I was. It made me feel better to learn that other couples were arguing over baby names, too. And yes, the catty little bitch-fits of “breast-feeders vs. formula feeders” kept me entertained while my fat ass was holed up on the couch.

After Pterodactyl was born, I continued to visit the site. Every mommy seemed to be on there at 3am. Like me, they were doing the mid-night zombie thing while feeding a colicky newborn. We shared our labor and delivery stories, and “oohed” and “aahed” at the lengths to which the others went to push a baby out.  When my breastfeeding attempts ended, I received plenty e-reassurances to make me feel like less of a failure. I’ve even made two “real” friends off the site, although due to the several thousand mile distances, we’ve only ever talked on the phone. These two mommies actually transitioned to my Facebook friends. (And I’m not one of those people who has all sorts of random strangers on her Facebook; I have fewer than 150 friends total, from high school, college, grad school, and work.)

I highly recommend joining one of these sites, for the aforementioned reasons. But take heed: some of these sites are just breeding grounds for stupidity, judgment, and internet trolls. While I was fortunate that my group of April 2011 mommies on What to Expect were some bad-ass chicks, other boards were not so blessed. I peeked in on the other boards, and some of those women are just bitchy bullies looking for victims. Think about it: if you’re on a pregnancy or new-mommy message board, the entire patronage of the website is women with an abundance of hormones. That’s a brew for evil, under normal circumstances.  I got lucky with my group of gals. You may not.

I’ll tell you who these sites are not for. They’re not for:

  • The overly-judgmental. By definition, you’re going to meet a slew of people from different backgrounds, socio-economic statuses, religions, political affiliations, and cultures. They’re going to do shit differently from you. If you can’t deal with that, or if you’re quick to condemn different lifestyles, stay away.
  • The easily-offended. If you plan to ask for advice or offer opinions, you’re likely to encounter someone who’ll say something you disagree with. The comment may be outright hurtful. I told you, there are catty bitches on these sites! If you’re inclined toward hurt feelings, don’t join a mommy blog.
  • Preachers. No, not people of the cloth; people with loud opinions. If you’re on a crusade to make everyone a vegetarian like you, or to convince people of the evils of disposable diapers, then you’re going to be met with aggression on Mommy forums.
  • Friend-Hunters. You mustn’t join a Mommy-board to make 196332 BFF’s. You’re just setting yourself up for disappointment if you join up thinking you’re going to walk away with sisters. This ain’t a sorority house. Most of these women want a place to anonymously vent, then go about their days. I was lucky to meet the two cool chicks that I met. Were they in my state, or vice versa, we’d probably have gotten together. I’m not buying a plane ticket to meet them or anything, but I do consider them “friends.” Do NOT expect that to happen for you, but if it does, cool shit.
  • Bullies. Nobody wants to deal with your shit. If you have aggression problems, go to therapy. Don’t bring your meanness to the mommy boards.

The unity of a collective due date brought us together. Almost a year later, the message board has died out some. Most of us are extremely busy with our almost-toddlers and life in general. But it’s nice to have an e-Cheers to go where everybody knows my name. When my kid enters a new and annoying phase, I can poll other women with 11 month olds to see if they’ve experienced the same headaches I am dealing with, and how they handled it. I’m sure that a year from now, save for another pregnancy, I’ll rarely visit www.whattoexpect.com, but the past 18 months of posts and e-friendships made it all worthwhile.

(Daisy Edit – As soon as I found out I was pregnant with Diva & Intuitive, (before I knew there were two of them!) I joined the now defunct AOL message boards. I am still great friends with many of those ladies, and that was 7.5 years ago! That message board was a great support system! We had our share of highs and lows.. from healthy babies to stillborn babies. Those relationships were amazing, and I am so happy I joined.)

What mommy message boards have you joined? Did they suck ass? Were they awesome? Tell us about them!

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Shit you shouldn’t say to a mom with more than one child.

12 Mar

As you may be aware, I’ve never had one child. I started off the whole shebang with Diva & Intuitive. Because of that, I don’t KNOW what it’s like to have ONE child. That may seem painfully obvious to many of you. (I hope it is, anyways.)

Diva & Intuitive were about 5 weeks early. They stayed in the hospital for a little over a week before being healthy enough to go home. After taking them home, I went into super-insane-overprotective-mamabear mode. Save for doctor appointments, we didn’t take them out of the house very much until they were about 6-7 weeks old. When we did start taking them out, they were always in their carseat, snapped into their double stroller, (THE BUS) with the sun shade pulled up and a blanket covering the majority of the open space that was left. I never imagined that going out with them could be more stressful than it already was.

Then it happened.

Apparently I failed to recieve the memo that having twins automatically makes you a three ring fucking circus. I also didn’t know that tickets were free for one and all.

Perhaps I was very sheltered. Perhaps The Mayor & First Husband raised me with manners. Maybe I just didn’t pay attention to anything other than my little world. I had no idea that there were people, LOTS of people, who could be very.. forward.

On our very first mall outing, the comments started. I tried to be nice, I really did. After the 87th time hearing the SAME comment/questions/concerns I lost the polite filter.

These are some of the comments that I repeatedly recieved.. While I “only” had twins. The comments that came after Handsome came along will be another section.

  • ARE THEY TWINS?! – Two small infants. One double stroller. Matching car seats. No, they’re not twins. I stole this other one. Is that bad?
  • Two boys? A boy and a girl? Two girls? – One squirrel and one spider monkey, actually.
  • Is it harder than one baby? – Well I would sure fucking assume so, since, you know, there ARE TWO OF THEM.
  • Are they natural? – Nope, silicone! Don’t they look real? (The balls on people to ask if I had in-vitro. There is obviously nothing wrong with in-vitro, but what business is it of theirs? Market research?!)
  • Vaginal or c-section?! – Uh. Go away please. I don’t want my babies to catch “rude”. (This one always floored me. Why on God’s green earth would a stranger want to imagine my hoohaa expelling children OR my guts being removed to extract them?!)
  • My sister’s cousin’s husband’s friend’s daughter has twins! – OMG no way! We are practically family, in that case.
  • How did you have twins? – Like, literally? How were they conceived? Uh, google it, please. (There was a time I said something a BIT more crass than that, but, uh, my dad reads this. It had something to do with doing something twice in one night..)
  • You’re such a great nanny! – Listen, bitch. I will SHOW YOU MY STRETCH MARKS, k? Thanks.
  • It will get easier, I promise! – Uh, how? All they do is eat, sleep, and lay there. I assume that they will eventually MOVE and voice opinions.

By the time Diva & Intuitive were about 11 months old, I was pregnant with Handsome. I had no idea that the comments were about to get even better.

  • Were you TRYING for another one? – What’s the difference? My uterus, not yours!
  • What if it’s ANOTHER girl?! – Uh, well.. If the bun in the oven is another girl.. Then we’ll have 3 girls. Simple math, methinks.
  • Do you really want a 3rd baby?? – Baby?! This one isn’t going to be a puppy? Shit. I really wanted a chihuahua.
  • You need a TV. Do you know what causes “that”? – Uh… We have a TV. Cable, too. I’ll have to google what causes “that”, though. Thanks for the heads up.
  • I really hope that one is a boy! – Hmm. Interesting. I hope it’s healthy & full term. Anything else is a bonus.

One of the first times I went out with the 3 kids by myself, Diva & Intuitive were about 19 months old, Handsome was about 3 weeks old. We ventured out to Target. The girls were in the double stroller, the baby in the sling. As we were strolling through the household goods, Diva & Intuitive were chatting with each other and pointing things out to me and Handsome was snoozing in the sling. We come across a woman in the same aisle as us, and I do my usual “share the aisle” dance, trying to move the stroller enough to give her room to move by us. She stops. She looks at the girls, looks at the sling, looks at me.

“Are they triplets?”

I was not expecting that. At all. I mean, sure, Diva & Intuitive were a LITTLE small for their age.. but… uh…

As time went on, I got used to being asked if they were triplets, they looked alike and were close in size soon after Hadsome turned 1. That first time, though, had me speechless. Here are some more good ones.

  • Are they all yours? – Nope! Gave birth to this one. Got this one at a garage sale. This one, I found at Target.
  • You’re DONE now, right? – I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I want to beat the Duggars. Can we remember that I’ve ONLY been pregnant twice? That’s not unheard of. The fact that I got a BOGO with my first pregnancy is just a bonus.
  • Do they all have the same dad?! – Ok, really, what fucking business is it of yours?! I would mess with people sometimes, and tell them that the twin girls had different fathers. That confused them. Job well done.
  •  Lucky you had that boy so you can stop! – Yup, this whole process was just to have a boy. Lucky us! Thank goodness for a penis!
  • Did you always want a HUGE family? – Personally, I don’t think that 3 kids is a HUGE family. So uh, that question is now invalid. Thanks.
  • *pointing at sling* What’s THAT one? – A rabbit.
  • WOW! Trying to singlehandedly over populate the world? – Why, yes! I am!

And one of my favorites, usually said to me while I have all three kids in tow at the grocery store…

Gee, you must have your hands full 

I do. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, if you see a Mommy out with her brood of small people, please, give her a smile. She’ll appreciate that.

Don’t ask her about the inner workings of her uterus. She’ll also appreciate that.

Has anyone asked you something crazy or made a crazy comment?

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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