Somebody decided to "just see what would happen" if he stopped putting the daily dose of Miralax in M's morning milk.   Without telling me.

Without.  Telling.  Me.

So, I've been merrily allowing M her favorite binding foods - bananas, rice, milk, icecream, cheese because, well, I figured that she'd be fine.  After all, Miralax has never failed us before.  

The problem is, I never counted for paternal human error.  And "error" is my nice way of saying Giant Fuck Up Punishable by Being Torn A New One.

In other words, our nanny and I just spent the better part of an afternoon comforting a miserable, writhing two year old.

  It's funny how constipation and childbirth are similar:  The debilitating cramps come in waves, there's a lot of pushing and grunting involved, and even though the end results are a little different for the most part, the euphoric relief is undeniable.

After 45 minutes of pushing -- (which, I might add, was pretty much how long it took me to pop out both my babes)  -- M delivered a 3 pound 6 ounce log about half as long as Little Homie.

And sighing with a smile sublime -- her expression orgiastic with relief - she looked down at the recently delivered contents of her diaper.  "Hi poop!  Hi!"  she said, just as a mama croons over her newborn. 

And yes.  We all shouted "MAZEL TOV!"

Seriously. I'll be building a shrink's swimming pool some day.

VIOLET RIOT!

Mea culpa:  I tend to buy cheap when it comes to my kids clothes.  The deals at Target make me squee with joy.  And shopping at Ross usually requires a change of underwear.  But, lets face it -- there is a reason why these clothes are so inexpensive.  Mass-produced, factory-line assembly style stuff is not only... well... (sigh) mundane, but treads heavily on the environment.   And, given the way some countries play fast and loose with child labor laws, you sometimes have to wonder if the people making the cute little onesies are only a few years older than the babies wearing them.

So, I've decided to make a change.   Violet Riot  is a new clothing line for kids that offers chic and badass fashion statements. 


I offer the following pictorial evidence:

Not only are these shirts adorable, but each applique design is made from a recycled T-shirt -- essentially, almost all of their items are completely unique.  And, their clothes are gentle on the environment!  And since I'm so not ready to start composting, I feel like buying from Violet Riot is an important baby-step I can take to help the environment.

I hope you will all check out the Violet Riot clothing line!

Right now, my babies love me.  Their world revolves around Mama and I can do no wrong.

Yet.

But,  I know that it's only a matter of time before everything I do is wrong. 

I have a friend whose parents were hippies.  Like, tie-dyed in the wool-flowers in the hair-singing Kumbaya without a trace of irony-lets smoke a bowl-Jerry Garcia is God-hippies.   They spent a lot of time fighting the good fight against poverty, war, injustice,  and Richard Nixon....    Their stories usually started with some variation on the theme of "This one time when we were high in Mexico" or "Once, when we were protesting the Viet Nam War..."    They wore a lot of hemp.   They OD'd on Free Love.

So, naturally as soon as he grew up, my friend joined the NRA.  The only time he's been high was when he climbed the Rockies with his Militia buddies friends.  He thinks Sarah Palin is just super! 

Essentially, kids will rebel against their parents in one way or another. Sometimes they rage against the "old ways" with a lot of Sturm Und Drang -- loudly, vociforiously  "Look at me Mommy!  Look at me Daddy!  I'm Different!"  and other times they quietly go about their merry way and join a cult.  Or become investment bankers.

I'm a free-wielding mama.  I let M colour on the walls of her room with a crayon.  Little Homie's favorite toy is... well... um... himself and when he's bored, I take off his diaper and let him play.   Bedtime is a fluid concept in our house, and if M is having a hard day I've been known to break out the Haagen Dazs.  I don't censor myself, even though I know it means that one day the preschool director will call me because one of my kids said "shove it up your ass, Douche Bag."   But, I love loyally and loudly. Mess with my kids, and I'll kill you.  Yes, you.    But still, I understand that whatever I do -- whoever I am -- is wrong. 


The only right decision is to be true to myself.   Because one day -- God willing -- I will be the Gramma laughing my ass off while M and Little Homie struggle with their rebellious kids.

We're Still Hopeful

Hollah at the Po-Po, Yo

Ever since M got kicked the hell out of our cozy family bed  started sleeping on her own in her Big Girl Bed, she's stopped napping.  Just like that.  Bam.  Over.   It's like she's saying 'look, biotches, I'm holding naptime hostage until you let me back into bed with y'all where I can continue to destroy you're pitiful sex life muah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. No more siblings for me. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.  Ha.

But occasionally, M is so clearly beyond exhausted and miserable, and making us exhausted and miserable that we've resorted to  some of the old tricks from her babyhood.  When rocking and boob don't work, we get in the car for a drive.  Usually, within 10 minutes of quiet driving around LA, with a little white-noise courtesy of the AC, she's out.   And,  since Little Homie is down with the rhythm of the car as well, we sometimes manage to get both babies sleeping at the same! time.  This, my friends, is the Holy Grail of parenthood.  I kid you not.

So, yesterday, after an especially grueling afternoon of bitching whining from M -- which, inevitably means a lot of bitching whining from moi -- we got in the car for a night-night drive at noon.  Little Homie dozed while M sucked her thumb, her eyelids heavy and closing.  B and I gave each other looks of pure, unadulturated jubilation as M's head began to droop.  Both kids sleeping!  Hollah!

Alas, we live in LA.  And maybe someone was jacking up a 7-11 again  or maybe OJ got out and was hightailing it down the 405 again or maybe Britney was having some kind of wardrobe malfunction in public again, but whatever the reason, three squad cars squealed passed us, lights blinking, sirens blaring.

"Shit."  I whispered.

"Dammit."  B sighed.


And as visions of an Afternoon Delight vanished into the Ether, I turned around to see M open her eyes.  And with a refreshed and joyful smile, she stretched, looked out the window, saw the police cars, and said.

"Hey Po-Po!  Hey!" 

And you know what?  Totally worth it.  God Bless Gangsta Rap.

My New Writing Partner

The Too-Much-Information Age

Why should I be the only one risking future employment opportunities by oversharing in the blogosphere?

If you're down for a challenge, I dare you to post your most 'oh-no-s/he-didn't-just-post-that' post on your blog, and link back to me. Please make sure to let me know that you've posted your salacious tale of cringe-inducing mayhem, because I want to read it.  Badly.

If you don't have a blog, get one.  Or, feel free to (over)share in the comments section below. If you wish to wuss out and share anonymously, that's fine -- just make sure to email me and let me know which entry is yours.  I promise, I can keep a secret. 

Go on.  I dare you. 

Want extra incentive?

The writers of the three most humiliating and best-told anecdotes will  receive a $10 giftcard to Good Vibes.  Or Amazon.  You get to pick.

** If you've already humiliated yourself in a past blog post, feel free to post that entry. You do NOT have to write a new one, but you DO need to link back :) .

Blogging Out Of My Ass

DISCLAIMER:  Hi Dad. Instead of reading this post, why don't you check out www.funwithtrains.com.  
Love, Your Daughter.

You never forget your First Kiss.  Or your First Love.

Or your First Anal Probe.

Yes, you read that right.

As if pelvic examinations aren't humiliating enough, when I was pregnant with M, thanks to a bit of suspected intestinal bleeding during a bout of stomach flu, I was given a very thorough, very extensive examination in the ER at Kaiser.

And now you know.

(Seriously, Dad.  www.funwithtrains.com.) 

Anyway, I've tried to forget that night in the ER -- my ass hanging over the side of a gurney while Dr. Doesn't Feel Good told me to relax as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.  During the exam, I sobbed, scared shitless that I had a perforated ulcer or e-coli, and might lose the fragile life inside of me.  Meanwhile, Dr. Doesn't Feel Good made small talk while I gritted my teeth.  After a jovial monologue on the weather, he patted my leg, and said "all done."   Then, he handed me a Kleenix and I dried my tears.  "Umm, he said, giving me a meaningful look as he handed me another tissue.  Oh.  Shit. 

I should have at least made him buy me dinner.

Fastforward two and a half years.

A few weeks ago  the magical elves who trawl my friends list and the friends lists of my friends on Facebook, recommended a friend for me to add.  How special!  I love new friends!  So, I clicked over, and there he was, smiling directly at me from his facebook profile picture -- he who has boldly gone where no man's gone before:  Dr. Doesn't Feel Good.

Way to get all Big Brother on my ass, Facebook.


What? He didn't get to poke me enough?
 

Nancy Lamb

Nancy Lamb is an incredible author.  Witty, insightful, and fiercely funny, her writing is a tapestry of humor, poignancy, and intrigue.  She was also one of my mom's best friends.

On the afternoons when my mom didn't drive carpool, she would hunker down in her shed, banging away on her type writer, knocking out poetry and prose with power and precision.  As soon as I got dropped off, I'd scamper up the path to her make-shift office.  Pausing outside her door, I would smell the smoke that twirled through the open window.   Closing my eyes, I'd listen to the clackity clackity PING! -- her symphony in staccato.

Usually her only companion was Nebby, our geriatric black cat who would sit beside her on the metal desk, purring and purring and purring until he'd dodder into dreamland...  But sometimes, when I'd walk past her shed, I'd hear voices:  My mom's wheezy chuckle, and Nancy's throaty laugh would carry with the smoke out the window.

Some of my mom's best memories were made with Nancy.  Crammed into that tiny shed, they'd drink coffee, and argue over the nuance of a solitary sentence, or laugh over a cleverly crafted paragraph.  For hours and hours they'd work  until I'd come home, smelling like sneakers and melted crayons, clamouring for a snack.

(But since Nancy had started writing when she was a young mama with two young boys underfoot, she understood. )

And ever since my mom died, Nancy has become my close friend and confidant.  Her words are measured in the experience of life lived at full-tilt, and the spaces between the sounds are tempered with understanding.   She has helped me put my more scary feelings into words, which then makes them seem less insurmountable, and on more than one occasion, her sharp humor has needled me back from the edge of one or another nervous breakdown.

And, like my mom, I am lucky to know her.

I hope you will check out her website and blog .