Beanie & Mr. T

Be well and love each other

2011-12-24T09:32:00.000-06:00

Will he ever learn?

2011-12-21T19:39:00.002-06:00

Here's an interesting tidbit

2011-11-26T14:58:00.001-06:00

Women menstruate.

Just an FYI.

Mr. T and I got a babysitter for Kiwi and spent the morning test driving cars. At one dealership our salesman was really inexperienced.

And when I say inexperienced, I mean that I'm pretty sure I saw a piece of his mother's placenta peeking out of his sweater vest.

After our test drive, the manager came over to "say hello". And when I say Say Hello, I mean that he came over to ooze his particular brand of douche our way.

Here's our exchange:

Car Dealership Manager: Blah blah blah. Car payments suck, huh?

Mr. T: Um yes. They can get pretty painful.

Manager: Painful is right! Once a month, it's painful. ::turns to me and says:: You know all about pain once a month, huh?

Me: We're leaving.

Me (the rest of the day): No fucking way he said that, I can't have heard him correctly. I must have misunderstood. No way he said that.

Mr. T: Are you ever going to stop talking about this?

Me: Probably not.

From my family to yours

2011-11-24T15:20:00.001-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving.

She means well

2011-11-22T13:35:00.001-06:00

The following is an actual text conversation I had with my mother.

~~~

Her: Does Kiwi have any toys in his crib? Ones that attach? U no what omega?

Me: He has something called a crib soother but he never uses it. Why? Also, omega?

Her: Omega dinner? I dunno. Toys for Kiwi's crib so he will play and U can sleep longer. (Kiwi has recently decided that 5 AM is a good time to start the day) What's a good website for learning toys?

Me: I'm not sure you'll find a toy that's both crib appropriate and educational. It probably wouldn't keep his attention for very long but thanks for thinking of me!

Her: Maybe I'll get a toy iPad and put a retractable cord on it for him. Yes?

Me: For real?

Her: Or a cellphone he can sleep with.

Me: haha?

Her: Ok, gotta work now. I'll email you what I get for Christmas.

~~~

I'm almost certain she was kidding.

Almost.

Rookie Mistake

2011-11-18T15:01:00.001-06:00

I would have bet Mr. T's entire collection of Twilight collectible dolls and beloved Team Jacob hoodie that Kiwi hadn't napped for eleven days, but no - it had only been a few hours since his last nap.

Painful - exhausting - whining - WHY AREN'T YOU HOLDING ME WOMAN hours.

I should have listened to him, telling me he was ready for bed but instead, I pushed him. Just a few minutes, because I didn't want the day to start at 5 AM.

Again.

So I put on a DVR'ed episode of Sesame Street, handed him a Ritz cracker and let him play with things he's not normally allowed to play with. Like the fireplace. Or recently sharpened knives. However, when he flipped his shit over Token licking his cracker, I realized I had waited too long.

I went upstairs and got my screaming, trilled r'ing, shoulder collapsing son undressed.

The mood was instantly lightened.

Finally.

So as he ran around his room, naked and giggling, I drew his bath. I breathed a sigh of relief that the evening was almost over and wondered to myself if Leslie and Ben would get back together this week on Parks and Rec.

Oh, speaking of relief:

Yep, still kicking

2011-10-30T20:52:00.001-05:00

Have you ever accidentally given your dog two Ambien instead of his normal doggie allergy pills and then had to spend an obscene amount of money having the contents of said dog's stomach forcefully emptied at the emergency vet because it's a Sunday afternoon?

No? Me neither.

I wish I had a cool excuse for not posting for eighty seven years but I don't. It's just me and my increasing number of black yoga pants being lazy and watching tivo'ed episodes of Happy Endings.

(it's the funniest show you aren't watching, trust me)

Things are just busy here at casa de Beanie!

Mr. T is a traveling fool - going to places that he really should take along compression socks and a broad spectrum antibiotic. Instead he takes some power bars and his ~~porn~~ iPad because really, does anyone actually get off on Asian ass porn?

Token is, well...I think we've covered him.

Kiwi is awesome. He totally understands what we say and actually does it! (most times)

If I tell him to put his blue truck into his wagon, he will. If I tell him to put the pink block on top of the red block, he will. If I tell him to stop touching the dog's penis, he will.

He loves water, my kid. He loves to put his whole face in the bathwater and take big swig. And then choke for five minutes. He has a toy in there, we call him Scuba Steve, who spits out water in a stream and Kiwi loves it.

In fact, if he hears water running anywhere in the house, he's on a freaking mission...his little feet slapping the hardwood trying to find it.

Which, as it turns out, may not have been the best behavior to encourage.

Mr. T was using the facilities yesterday morning and didn't quite have the door closed all the way.

This is what I heard:

tinkle tinkle tinkle

Slap slap slap slap slap

"Oh, shit...Kiwi. No."

tinkle tin....

"NO!"

flush

the sink turning on

squealing

slap slap slap slap slap

"I don't want to talk about it."

I guess when your hands are full, trying to prevent an excited toddler from sticking his hands in your pee stream is kinda hard.

Welcome to my world.

ten years

2011-09-14T14:30:00.000-05:00

Ten years ago, I started dating him.

Five years ago, I married him.

Last year I was getting ready to have his baby.

pre-epidural.

Aside from The Apple Store, of course - he's been right by my side.

mostly

I'm pretty sure the next ten will be even better than the last.

But this....

2011-09-13T14:26:00.000-05:00

This, my friends, is why I married him.

Go green! I am: Recycled from October 2009

2011-09-07T09:42:00.003-05:00

I had the most fucked up dream last night.

I was coming home from a trip that required a plane ride and Mr. T was picking me up. Although, when I landed I wasn't at O'Hare, I was in a parking lot and they were setting up a festival around my car. I was running late and they were building the "set" around my vehicle. Actually, for you Cape girls, the festival was Cranberry Harvest but with a Christmas theme.

Anyway. For whatever reason, I was meeting Mr. T in the parking lot and he was on the phone wearing clothes that are only appropriate for Vegas. I was wearing the dress I wore to my brother's wedding and peep toe heels.

Perfect attire for flying, wouldn't you agree?

I don't remember how I found out he went to Vegas, but I was bullshit. Like screaming mad.

And there was one carnie who kept interrupting our argument (which was taking place on a black leather couch in the middle of the parking lot) saying shit like, "why you gotta keep a brutha down?" and other racially stereotypical comments. Hey - I was sleeping, you can't blame me for it.

But did I need to put it out here publicly for everyone to see, you ask? Yes, because I'm not a racially insensitive person.

And also because Carnies aren't normally black.

They are fat, toothless and scary and have names like Cotton.

So, the next thing I know, I'm riding home in a restaurant high chair. But it's a motorized high chair, almost like a scooter and I remember thinking, "This thing is pretty comfortable for being a child's chair, I can't believe I fit."

I also was smoking cigarettes as I rode / drove along the New England back roads.

Needless to say, when Mr. T said goodbye this morning for a trip East, I told him I was mad at him for going to Vegas without telling me.

He laughed, said: I love you honey, have a great day. Or maybe it was, "It's too early for the crazies. See you at 8."

I can't be certain.

But just to be sure, he sent me an email this morning that said: I didn't go to Vegas, it was a dream. Stop drinking so much before bed. Love, Mr. T

Reason #4,386,130 I love my husband

2011-09-01T19:41:00.001-05:00

It's my birthday this weekend and we have dinner plans with some friends for some non-birthday fun.

So we decided to celebrate tonight with some sushi take out. While I put Kiwi to bed, Mr. T ran out and placed the order and kept sending me pics of his beverages with dirty words scribbled into the frost.

I adore him.

The Jackalope

2011-08-23T20:54:00.003-05:00

Until 2009 I didn't realize that the jackalope was a mythical animal.

I'm just going to let that sink in for a minute.

When Mr. T found out, I thought he was going to have an aneurysm he was laughing so hard. For months, he called me Jackalope whenever I did something less than brilliant.

Like the time when we were at a wine tasting and the distributor was shitting on the quality of schools on Cape Cod and I defensively said, "Well, it's not like the goal of every student is to be a brain scientist."

Jackalope!

In my defense, my North Maine Woods dwelling father had one of these hanging in his garage.

I just assumed he had caught it.

Over the weekend, I was having lunch sans Kiwi at a great little Middle Eastern restaurant. It was a beautiful day, so I chose a table outside.

As I enjoyed my hummus with chicken shwarma, I see a woman in the parking lot literally putting together a modular, monster double stroller.

After she plucks both of her kids from the car and puts them into the stroller, she swings by my table and asks, "Is the food good here?"

It's delicious, I reply, thinking to myself: what kind of idiot would lug both kids to a restaurant she's never been to and build a stroller in the parking lot?

She leans in, eyeing my hummus and says, "Tell me they have Baba Ganoush."

I just smiled and said, "I'm not sure, sorry."

I've heard of Baba Ganoush before. I really have.

I just thought he was this guy:

You know...a bad guy.

From Aladdin.

Jackalope, indeed.

Nom Nom Nom

2011-08-15T10:34:00.000-05:00

Kiwi is somewhat of a picky eater.

He eats weird stuff, like tofu dusted in Cheerios and meatballs and pork fried rice. But toss him a slice of orange or a green bean and you think his neck is going to snap he's shaking his head NO so hard.

Previously, I was able to sneak in different fruits and veggies as we played. I'd pop the bite into his mouth and he'd eat it. It wasn't in his high chair but at least he was eating a balanced diet, right?

Unfortunately, he's learned that he has the ability to spit food out that he doesn't want to eat.

Like kiwi for example. Kind of ironic, no?

Anyway - it happened a few weeks ago. We were in the den and I was popping bits of his namesake into his mouth as he zoomed past me on his walker.

About half way through his snack, he stopped short, grimaced and spit the kiwi on the ground.

And then never taking his eyes off me, he lifted his foot and smooshed the fruit into the carpet.

Apparently someone also learned how to say, "Fuck off, Mom. Who runs Bartertown? I run Bartertown. Now get me a twinkie before I pull my diaper off and pee on the dog again."

So now it's a battle - what will the kid eat today?

Lately it's been blueberries and french toast.

This weekend he ate almost half the cardboard bucket full of blueberries before we even left the farmers market.

Note to self: If you feed your child an obscene amount of blueberries it will make for an interesting diaper the next morning.

Side note to the note to self: do you know how hard it is to clean blueberry poop from a ball sac? No?? Well, let me tell you - it's freaking impossible.

My kid is tall and skinny and always on the move, just like his dad.

Yeah, when Kiwi starts school it will be awesome. At least the kids won't pick on him for being the fatty that gets winded just sitting there.

But for now, his weight is a challenge. I try really hard to give him as much natural food as possible. He doesn't eat puffs or cereal and I try to be as organic as possible in my food choices.

He's been walking for the past month and he's burning even more calories than he was before and dudes - I can't stuff this kid any more than I already am.

We're seeing a pediatric nutritionist next week but in the meanwhile, tell me - how do you keep your kiddos healthy and what are some of their favorite foods?

Please comment. I'm almost out of twinkies.

Goaaaal!

2011-08-04T13:59:00.001-05:00

Mr. T had another brush with celebrity last night and once again has decided to let the celebrity enjoy the peace and quiet of a hotel bar.

Sheesh...

Mr. T: I'm sitting at the bar next to David Beckham.

Me: Dude, that's awesome! Can you sneak a picture?

Mr. T: Absolutely not.

Me: Why? Is it because he is intimidatingly good looking?

Mr. T: Um no.

Me: Is he as hunky in person as he is in those black and white tighty whitey ads?

Mr. T: No.

Me: Tell me what he's doing. Tell me everything. Sloooowly.

Mr. T: Have you been drinking?

Me: Yes, but that's beside the point. Take a picture!

Mr. T: I'm taller than him. He's also wiry.

Me: Wiry? Like hot like an electric fence?

Mr. T: No. Lanky.

Me: Is Posh with him? OMG, you should totally start up a conversation about kids with him. He has kids! You have kids! Instant BFFs. And then you can take his picture for me to post on the internet.

Mr. T: He has a protection detail.

Me: Then talk your way into it. We met Toby Keith that one time I lied to the 16 year old hostess, remember?

Mr. T: We never met Toby Keith, you talked your way into the VIP section so you could pee.

Me: Oh, right. Anyway. Take a picture! It's not real unless there is evidence.

Mr T: I cannot take a picture. I shouldn't even have told you.

Me: By the way, I really love you.

Mr T: I'm not taking a picture.

Me: Fine.

I'm gonna trade this life for fortune and fame

2011-08-03T21:16:00.001-05:00

Check out Kiwi's passport photo.

We had his picture taken at the post office and I didn't get a chance to see it before the lady stuffed the envelope with half of Kiwi's college fund, enough paperwork to kill off an acre of rain forest and DNA samples from both me and Mr. T.

When his passport arrived a week or so later, Mr. T and I laughed our asses off. Not only because of his awesome catching flies facial expression but because of the shirt he has on.

Mr. T swears he didn't do it on purpose.

Yessir

2011-07-13T11:21:00.001-05:00

Mr. T has been in Asia since late last week.

Kiwi has been cutting his top two teeth.

Token has been whining at the chipmunk that lives under my patio for the past three days.

I have been seriously considering having wine for breakfast.

I'm not over exaggerating when I say we are going a bit crazy and I'm certainly not embarrassed to admit we've been watching a lot of Baby Einstein videos.

Speaking of which, what the fudge is this:

Maybe that's how I'll explain the birds and the bees to Kiwi:

"Well, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much, they lock their bedroom door and they wrestle. And then a few months later, mommy will roll into the living room and poop out a little brother or sister."

That should work, right?

When Mr. T is out of town, I do a lot of reading. Days will go by and I won't turn the TV on. It's embarrassing to admit but unless Perez Hilton is blogging about it or my mother happens to catch it on Good Morning America, I know nothing about it.

And the worst part? I don't even care!

Mr. T: Have you been following the financial crisis in Greece?

Me: No, why?

Mr. T: Well, apparently one in five residents works for the....are you even listening?

Me: Not really.

Text from my mom:

Her: did u hear about the flash bomb that happened in Orleans?

Me: What? No! A bomb went off?

Her: Yeah, one of those dance, sing things. They did it at the grocery store.

Me: Mom, that's a flash MOB, not a bomb.

Her: o well I can't keep up with all your lingo, jesus christ, sue me already. lol

Since quitting my job to stay home with Kiwi has severely effected my ability to partake in intelligent conversations surrounding current events, I downloaded the Trib and the WSJ apps for my phone and I promised myself I would read them daily.

Instead I've been reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett. It's a fantastic book, about Mississippi in 1962 told from a number of character's perspectives, specifically black maids.

From the very first chapter, I couldn't put it down.

You should read it. Or if you're lazy wait, because they are making it into a movie. With Emma Stone.

Love her.

I tend to get lost in books. After I finish them, I think about it for days. A character's line, the way they reacted to a certain situation.

It's a problem, apparently.

When I prepped my coffee this morning, I actually thought to myself, "I done used up all my splenda."

OMG.

Send help.

Or at least more splenda.

Bird bird bird - the bird is the word

2011-07-09T13:42:00.001-05:00

You're welcome for the ear worm, by the way.

A couple of years ago, a momma robin decided to make her nest in the eaves of our pergola. It was really cool - I could peek at the nest from inside the house if I stood on Token's couch.

I watched her build the nest, poop out three blue eggs and then got to see the babies hatch and grow. I even dragged out the ladder so that I could get a few pictures of her little babies.

Mr. T kept telling me I was going to catch the avian flu if I wasn't careful.

I was and I didn't get bird mono.

Since our back patio is stamped concrete, I bought some moss to lay down underneath the nest in the event that one of them took a spill. A bit much to be sure but I was invested people. Emotinally invested!

And then one day they were gone. All of them.

We left the nest up for a while until Mr. T insisted it would bring a plague of epic proportions if it stayed there.

He had to take it down with a broom. And gloves. And a mask.

A few weeks ago, I was with Kiwi out in the front yard. He's really into cause and effect lately, so I was letting him yank on a branch and then giggle at how it moved. After a while I realized there was a really loud bird - peeping and chirping and fluttering around in the tree.

And I looked up and there was a nest. On the very branch that Kiwi was tugging on.

We stopped obviously, and went around to the side of the tree that would give us a better view.

Momma bird was not happy. She chirped and gave me the stink eye, and I can't say that I blame her. My kid probably gave her kid shaken bird syndrome - so I can see how she'd be a little pissy.

We've tried to catch a glimpse of her babies - but this is one protective Momma. In fact, she's so protective that if anyone gets too close to the tree - she swoops in and plops herself in front of the nest and flutters her feathers and screams at you until you leave.

Which is sweet and kind and normal, you'd think.

Except for us, the issue lies in that we have to walk by the tree every time we use the front door.

Instead of bird mono, I'm going to get scurvy because we can't leave the damn house.

It's been super hot here with very little rain so last night I needed to give my flowers a drink of water. I had Kiwi in his stroller and was hosing down the beds.

Which are in the front yard.

Next to the tree.

I was careful not to move too much, to spray anywhere near her or even think about making eye contact with her and I thought I was in the clear.

Until the bitch came at me.

Momma started peeping and before I knew it, she was flying at me! At my head, at my back and in my frantic screaming, bird swatting, she got STUCK IN MY HAIR.

My first instinct was to run - but I couldn't since my baby was there and this bird was clearly out for vengeance. I swear she wanted blood.

I was freaking the fuck out and realized that in my panic - I had accidentally sprayed Kiwi with the hose. He was sitting there like, what the FUCK mom!

So I ripped Kiwi out of his stroller and ran to the other side of the yard.

This freaking bird came after me AGAIN!

But I was prepared this time. I had the hose in one hand, Kiwi in the other and sprayed her when she came at me. Ducking and weaving.

She wasn't happy but after a few more attempts at gouging my eyeballs out, she gave up and flew back to her nest.

Hah. I did it! I won!!

Now who's boss, bitch?

And that's when I realized that I had left Kiwi's stroller next to the tree.

In retrospect, taking Kiwi out of the stroller thereby opening up my baby's precious flesh for the psycho bird to eat probably wasn't the best idea, but we can just chalk it up to the fog of war and not poor crisis decision making skills.

Like that time I slapped one of my girlfriends in the face ~~multiple times~~ while screaming her name as she was fainting.

In a Hooters restaurant.

Anyway, back to my superior parenting.

I made an executive decision to leave the stroller where it was and pick it up after Kiwi had gone to bed.

The second I opened up the front door, she plopped up from her nest - came to the edge of the tree and stared me down.

She's scary.

Imma cookin

2011-06-28T21:51:00.001-05:00

Apparently, if a recipe calls for a greased cookie sheet - a piece of tin foil won't cut it.

Just an FYI.

Also, if you accidentally don't wash your cookie sheet for months and leave remnants of crescent rolls on it, it will rust and be generally nasty when you need it most. You will search all the logical places for it but then you'll find it stuffed it in the bottom oven that is used for storing items like the metal rack that came with the microwave and the wolf emblazoned chaffing dish that your ex-sister in law regifted to you at your bridal shower.

Let me give you a little backstory.

Kiwi decided some time last week that pureed food is for chumps and if he eats one more bite of mushed up food from a spoon, the world is going to end. In fact, unless said food is in the shape and color of a pancake, he refuses to eat it while he's in his high chair.

Unimpressed with non-pancake food.

He knows how to shake his head no and he understands the meaning behind it, which means that I spend a good portion of our days at the high chair trying to fake out a 9 month old.

I think I'd be more successful if I tried to marry Hugh Heffner and pass off my post-pregnancy gunt as a shy twin.

Kiwi is open to feeding himself when he's not in his high chair - or he's on the take from the rug cleaner guy - either way, his new favorite food is corn on the cob. I know this because when I pick up Token's poop, it's there.

So I decided to look up some finger food recipes that are a bit more poop friendly and found a couple that I thought he would like.

Specifically, the Broccoli and Cheese Nuggets from Wholesome Baby Food.

It looked super easy, I had all of the ingredients and Kiwi loves broccoli (but only at the Chinese food restaurant) so I figured I'd give it a shot.

My regular cookie sheet was in the dishwasher and I was too lazy to wash it so I found the other one - buried in the depths of the storage stove. I tried to wash it, I even tried to scrub it with the ouchie side of the sponge - but nothing was taking that shit off.

Crescent rolls are the new Twinkie, apparently.

So I went ghetto. I covered the nasty cookie sheet with tin foil and hoped for the best.

Baked for 15 at 375, just like the instructions said.

Turns out? Tin foil is better used as a make shift screen for your bowl at a Pearl Jam concert.

Note to self: DVR'ing Next Food Network Star and talking shit about Bobby Flay during a throwdown does not increase your cooking abilities.

At all.

With that said, my dinner - while not as pretty as I had hoped - was delish.

For those of you who really care, I did wash my nice cookie sheet and cooked the next batch as instructed. I'd lower the temp from 375 down to 350 and use non-stick cooking spray instead of olive oil.

Oh, and I got my china here.

Someone in my family is pregnant

2011-06-24T19:59:00.000-05:00

No, no...it's not me. I wouldn't introduce a pregnancy the same way twice.

It's my beautiful sister, Moon!

She's just shy of her second trimester and she looks absolutely adorable. Granted, I've only seen her via skype and it was before her morning poop, but her little bloat belly is super cute.

Moon is tall and skinny and if I didn't adore her I would totally hate her because she is going to be the pregnant woman that we all wanted to be. The one who has the actual pregnancy glow and not just the sheen of sweat and desperation that the rest of us had.

So in taking my big sister responsibilities seriously, I wanted to make sure that Moon knew what she was in for as her pregnancy progresses.

Anyone who has squeezed a human being out of their body knows, some nasty stuff goes down as you bake your little chicken nugget.

Friends are often too embarrassed to talk about it and doctors skip over it because they aren't real health concerns. As if my purple vagina wasn't disconcerting enough - I had to be embarrassed to talk about it??

So first things first: snissing. As you get further along in your pregnancy, the ability to hold the pee inside your body will become increasingly difficult. You'll find that if you sneeze, cough too hard, laugh a little too loudly or even think about going to the bathroom, a little bit will squirt out. The bigger the baby gets, the more pee comes out of your lady business. It's physics, really. Gross, wet, urine smelling physics.

Solution: panty liners.

Another troublesome symptom (but mostly for those in your general vicinity): farting. These are not your average fart. In fact, they aren't even hangover farts. They'll rival the I went to a college party then ate a large sausage pizza and a box of mac and cheese by myself last night - farts.

You will fart more in the next 30 weeks than you ever have in your entire life. I always blamed my noxious, you better not light that stove fumes on my prenatal vitamins. Turns out? Pregnant women are just flammable bunches of swamp ass.

Solution: Start a rumor that a coworker has an intestinal issue that he really should get looked at. If you start the rumor now, it will spread to enough people so that when the time comes and you need to pass the buck, no one will question the secretive finger pointing and directive head nods.

Let's talk about D word. That's right. Discharge.

::cue all my male readers leaving::

You know that feeling you get about 45 minutes after you've had sex where all the sperm comes dribbling out of your vag? Yeah...better get used to it.

Issue #49: increased saliva production. This isn't a super common symptom but since you and I share some DNA, chances are you'll have it too. My accidental drooling was so bad that I was like the retarded guy from Something About Mary but instead of yelling franks and beans, I just spit on everyone.

Solution: Act like nothing happened, it's so ridiculously awkward that no one will say anything.

The biggest one: Constipation. Pooping is a big deal when you're pregnant. If it happens for you on any regular sort of basis, celebrate it. Seriously - take a picture of the poop log, photo shop a party hat on it and tape it to the fridge. You might even want to name it.

All kidding aside, I am so very happy for my sister. She and Alphabet are about to embark on the most incredible, amazing, frustrating, terrifying, awe inspiring experience. The prize at the end of the pregnancy is an amazing little human that changes who you are, fundamentally.

My pediatrician said once, "Kiwi is addicted to you." Well you know what Doc? The feeling is mutual.

It's so worth it, Moon. Every single minute.

My sister is going to be an amazing mother, I just know it.

*For those of you who know Moon in real life, please congratulate her privately. There are family members who haven't been told - so please don't ruin her surprise by posting on her facebook wall or mentioning it to others.

This thing

2011-06-20T09:29:00.000-05:00

Is worth every penny.

We got ours at the local kid's consignment store for $25. A score, I know.

But had I known just how much Kiwi would play with it, I would have paid full retail for it. I'm debating having my mother pick one up for when we go for a visit.

If you have a kid that must pull up and crawl on everything he can get his grubby little hands on or the world may end, then this is absolutely the toy for you.

We've had it for about a month now and he still plays with it non stop.

Totally, 100% worth the Amazon price.

So there I was

2011-06-14T16:45:00.003-05:00

On the back patio, clipping Kiwi's nails this morning.

You don't clip your kids nails outside? Just me? Oh.

As I pushed him in the swing, I heard a gaggle of tweener boys coming my way and they were running, yogging if you will, clearly some kind of sports practice.

The inappropriately-muscular-for-their-age ones go by, followed by the average looking ones. Then a few minutes later the scrawny ones go by.

Then I hear an adult male, saying things like, "When did it start?" and "Where do you feel it?" and "Do you like it when I touch you there?"

Oh wait, I think I may have made up that last one.

Anyway, there was one kid who just couldn't keep up. After the last of the so-tiny-I-think-they-are-still-on-the-boob kids ran by, the coach said, "Tell me wha..." and he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence because the fatty who couldn't keep up totally hurled on my boxwood bushes.

The coach said, "There you go! Let it all come out."

And I thought, "No - don't let it all come out. Hold it in and puke somewhere else!"

hurl

barf

heave

gag

It went on and on and on.

I could see the coach, he couldn't see me. And it was obvious that he was uncomfortable with how long this was taking.

Trust me, we all were.

Token, smelling a tasty snack, was chomping at the bit to head back there and Kiwi kept raising his eyebrows whenever a splash would hit the bushes.

It was so gross.

Games we play

2011-06-12T20:37:00.001-05:00

Being a stay at home mom is a privilege, in my opinion. Sure, there are moms out there who need to work outside the home to keep themselves sane but for the most part, the majority of new(ish) mothers I know would prefer to stay home with their kids if they can.

It often feels like I'm on vacation and I'm thankful that I have the opportunity.

(insert Mr. T's obligatory, "If you were really thankful you'd let me stick it in your ass." comment)

There are days though - oh my god, there are days - when redirecting a baby hell bent on getting into the fireplace 87,492 times makes me want to go bananas.

Or at the very least beat up Gwen Steffani because 1) the banana song gets stuck in my head for days 2) she has a weird face and 3) I hate red lipstick.

And while I'm at it? I also hate Christina Aguilera. She is ridiculous and her outifts are meant for a much skinnier human being.

Anywhore.

If it's dangerous, forbidden or generally lethal my kid can sniff it out. Like Lindsey Lohan to an 8 ball, he's ON it. For example, last week I was brushing my teeth and Kiwi was on the floor of the bathroom playing with the fringe on the rug. I wasn't paying attention and he pulled the hair dryer off the counter and it fell on his head.

HIS HEAD.

I swear, our pediatrician is going to call the cops on me.

Trying to keep my child from killing himself (and me) is how we spend a good part of our day. But we also sing songs and play games. We talk all day, Kiwi and I. Some of my favorite conversations are:

Tails Are Not For Pulling

Cords Are Not For Biting

Food Is Not For Spitting At Your Momma

Cell Phones Are Not For Babies

Dog Penises Are Not Handles By Which You Gain Your Balance

and my personal favorite: Toilets Are Not For Licking

Someone hold me

We had a lovely time

2011-05-21T21:08:00.000-05:00

Milestones

2011-05-10T11:43:00.002-05:00

We all measure our kids against what the books say they should be doing, right? Milestones, they call them. Like stereotypes, they are there for a reason.

We reached a pretty significant milestone today, here at casa de Beanie.

A blowout.

An EPIC blowout.

The blowout to beat all blowouts.

It started yesterday when he didn't poop all day.

And it happened during yogurt time this morning.

I heard a fart.

Then I saw him make the frowny poopy face.

And then I heard it.

The dirtiest, longest, wettest noise I've ever heard in my entire life. His face actually started to turn blue he was pushing it out for so long.

So I sat in shock for a minute and weighed my options. Do I finish up breakfast or do I deal with this head on?

I decided that since he had crapped himself with such force that it propelled him out of his chair and onto the ceiling that I best not wait.

I gingerly removed him from his high chair and gently placed him on the ground.

I was instantly afraid.

I spent the next minute or two gathering all of the necessary gear: an old receiving blanket we stole from the hospital, a wet washcloth, the wipe bucket, a fresh diaper and a toy to keep the boy distracted.

Then I went to work peeling his off his clothes.

Sweet baby Jesus in his tiny, tiny manger doesn't even begin to cover it.

Holy freaking shit is more appropriate but doesn't quite convey the absolute horror.

What you can't see in the above picture is the ridiculous amount of poo still clinging to his outfit.

It was heavy.

So I started with his back, and worked my way down to the diaper.

It was disgusting. It was beyond disgusting.

In fact, I can think of eleventy billion other things I'd rather do.

Like clean up dog puke or let the creepy guy from the grocery store lick pudding off of my neck while Pee Wee Herman watches from the corner.

Enough about my college days.

Anyway. Once I got his back clean enough to lay him down, I took off his diaper.

Whoa.

And as you can expect, it was awesome.

But not in an, "Oh Em Gee, look at baby panda!" kind of awesome. More like, "OMFG look at the scud missle damage."

I used almost half a bucket of wipes to manage this. Also, I got poop on my feet since I had to use them as vice grips to ensure he didn't grab his junk and put his shitty fingers in his mouth ~~again~~.

Once I had him clean, I wrapped everything, the outfit, the diaper, the 700 shitty wipes, into the blanket and brought them outside.

Thankfully, today is garbage day in my neighborhood and the truck hadn't come yet, so the bin was still on the corner. I brought my crappy little burrito package outside and dumped it in the bin.

DONE!

And a few minutes later, I realized my phone was missing.

I searched and searched and searched.
The only place it could be was in the dumpster.

I had to dig, people. I had to open my shit burrito and find my iPhone.

It was there, and thankfully not covered in Kiwi shit but you can bet your ass I wiped it down with bleach.

Since Mr. T is on the road, I figured I'd let him know that I do actually live a rock and roll lifestyle when he's gone.

Take a peek at timestamps.

I started the process at 8:53 and ended at 9:15.

Twenty-two minutes.

TWENTY TWO MINUTES.

Milestones? I'd rather have gallstones.

At least then you get something awesome.

Like a morphine drip.

I received information about Clorox’s Bleach It Away campaign and am sharing my messy moment (again) for the chance to win prizes from The SITS Girls. To learn more about the messy moment program, check out www.BleachItAway.com. Sharing your story on the Clorox fan page gets you entered for the chance to win $25,000 and daily prizes, and you can grab a coupon for Clorox® Regular Bleach.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2011-05-05T09:46:00.002-05:00

So we are going on vacation. We're headed back to the OBX and dudes, I can't wait. This is one Momma who needs a bit of the ocean to regain some of the sanity I've lost over the past seven and a half months.

I need to hang out with my girlfriends, to have sex with Mr.T in the hot tub and to drink so many margaritas that my head hurts for days.

Okay, maybe not the last one.

I grew up on Cape Cod. Which means I've had sex in the dunes and gotten hammered by the shore more times than I can count. Summers were spent working your ass off at night and sunning away your hangover the next day - until you had to go into work. It's a good gig if you can get it.

I can deal with being away from the beach for the majority of the year, it isn't a huge issue for me. That is, until whatever trip we have planned gets closer and closer and I start to get antsy.

However, in planning for this particular trip I've come to realize that there isn't one area of my life that hasn't been completely changed by having Kiwi.

Gone are the days when packing for this type of trip included a few books, two pairs of shorts, a bathing suit, a bunch of t-shirts and a few joints.

In a bag I didn't have to check.

But now? Now my packing list is longer than Lady Gaga's girl penis.

There is so much shit I need to bring that it's actually overwhelming. And a lot of it is stuff that I can't pack until the very last minute. I feel like I'll need a sherpa to help us carry it all.

Or at the very least a donkey.

Yes, a donkey. Because then we get dinner and a show.

We'll get there. We may need a drink or two to keep us from killing someone, but hey - at least we're drinking, right?

Maybe this vacation won't be the shitshow of previous years but I'm looking forward to watching Kiwi in the sand for the first time. And taking pictures of Mr. T boogie boarding. And seeing my girlfriends. And not having to clean or cook or walk the dog.

And maybe, just maybe getting a few minutes to myself. To sit in the sun and think about nothing.

Well, nothing except for these two.

I should probably bookmark Poison Control

2011-05-03T09:48:00.001-05:00

Doesn't every mother want a photo of their baby sitting on the soft grass in the sunshine, ~~gently smelling~~ ravenously eating a freshly bloomed tulip?

Germopalooza 2011

2011-04-25T21:00:00.006-05:00

It's been a rough few weeks here at casa de Beanie.

In early March, Kiwi got his first cold. I had gone to visit one of my girlfriends and after a few minutes, I realized that two of her monsters were sick.

Like bubbles of snot out the nose when they tried to eat, sick.

Also a fun part of the day: one of the kids kept throwing things at Kiwi. You name it, balls, dump trucks, trampolines...if it was within his reach, he was tossing it at my kid. Now that I think about it, I probably transferred the germs over to Kiwi since I pinched the little bastard when his mom wasn't watching.

Kidding.

I just kicked him.

We weathered that cold fairly well, lots of googling and a late night trip to Target for a new cool mist humidifier - the munchkin was on the mend.

Just in time for my mother to come visit and give him his second cold.

That bit of sickness resulted in Kiwi's first ear infection which required a round of antibiotics.

Thanks, Mom.

After that one, I thought we had turned the corner, since I had my happy boy back.

And then this happened:

Yep - a tooth.

It took my sweet, content baby and turned him into a demon child.

My days were measured in how many more minutes until ~~I could drink heavily~~ bedtime.

I want to nurse, GET THAT NIPPLE OUT OF MY FACE

Hold me, PUT ME DOWN WOMAN

I love Token, OH MY GOD HE LICKED ME

It was exhausting.

So when your baby is teething, they will eat anything. And when I say anything I mean that the back of the booth at Arby's is the most delicious thing ever.

Apparently?

It's also covered in the virus that causes croup.

Fantastic.

Important to note: when your contagious baby drools into your mouth on a regular basis, you get sick.

Also important to note: when you're a nursing mom, they will give you amoxicillian to treat your sickness.

Which has the same healing power as a cherry jolly rancher.

Mr. T got the good stuff, an antibiotic you have to take with food, cough syrup with some awesome drug and some pain pills for his ear ache.

The lucky bastard. Cherry is his favorite flavor, not mine.

My favorite? Well, that rhymes with dercocet and gabernet.

Happy freaking Easter

2011-04-24T12:42:00.002-05:00

Vitamin C for the momma

2011-04-17T03:32:00.001-05:00

We are on night three of croup and steroids here at Casa de Beanie. And if you've ever been in this situation, you know that I have a snotty, gaggy, vomiting, exhausted child who can't sleep.

The vomiting part is his own fault though, he sticks his hands so far down his throat that he gags and eventually pukes. Kinda like I used to after a night where Hornitos was a strong front runner.

At least I had the decency to make it to the toilet.

Most times.

Kiwi, on the other hand, is a big fan of turning his head to nuzzle my neck and then puking down my shirt.

I don't know how many nursing bras this kid thinks I have, but trust me when I tell you it's not enough.

There's always a sense of helplessness when it comes to your sick child. A desire to do everything in your power to make them as comfortable as possible.

And then you get to Day 3, on quite literally minutes of sleep.

Its almost 4:00 am and you've been up since midnight.

And your kid just pooped AGAIN but since he's *finally* not whining, you're debating letting this one ride.

But you don't. Because no matter how annoyingly grabby or pinchy or downright gross your kid is, it's not his fault.

It's times like tonight when I could use a shot or two. Just make sure I've got a grapefruit back.

Growing Pains

2011-04-14T21:18:00.001-05:00

So yeah.

It's been a while.

I could tell you about how my kid wouldn't sleep anywhere but physically on me or that I got such a bad haircut that I've been hiding inside for two weeks or that Mr. T finally got a prince albert and needed some help with the salve.

But I wouldn't embarrass him that way.

The haircut though? Well, it's freaking epic.

Kiwi had been practicing his yanking skills and using my long lovely locks mostly to mop up his drool, so instead of wanting to throw him out the window every time he snagged a handful, I decided to go take a chance. I was thinking something along these lines:

Fun, hip and a little bit flirty, right?

In retrospect, the universe told me ~~three times~~ that I shouldn't get the Mom Cut. First, my babysitter never showed up, second: my long time stylist quit without notice and finally: the replacement girl called in sick and had to reschedule.

But I went.

I explained that I wanted to keep it fairly long on top, that I needed it to be a wash and go cut and most of all, that I didn't want to look like a 50 year old woman.

Apparently the stylist I went to hasn't quite kicked that meth habit because oh my GOD you guys...this is what I look like now:

I wish I was kidding.

It's so bad that Mr. T gets a crazy fixed smile on his face when he's ~~talking me off the ledge~~ telling me that I look nice and of course I can wear a baseball cap out to dinner.

It's gonna be a long summer.

At least my neck will be cool.

So, how's your week going?

2011-04-06T11:10:00.001-05:00

UPSuck it

2011-03-28T15:09:00.001-05:00

The other day, I was hanging out with the little man when the doorbell rang. I peeked outside and it was UPS with a package so I grabbed Kiwi and opened the door.

It wasn't my usual tall, dark and kinda greasy but sort of cute delivery guy (who my neighbor totally had a one night stand with), it was some old dude.

I juggled the baby and the storm door as I signed for the package, and Mr. UPS man commented, "Looks like you've got your hands full."

I wanted to gently explain that if he pulled his head out of his ass and held the damn door for me, I'd have one less thing to manage.

But I just smiled as Token squeezed by us on to the front porch.

And then Mr. UPS man yelled, "HEY!".

I looked up, startled, thinking Token had gone off the porch or was pissing on this guy's truck but nope, Token was just standing there, as confused as I was.

And that's when he said, "Huh. Usually they cry when I yell at them."

I stood there for a second totally confused. But then I realized what just happened.

The UPS man yelled at my baby.

On purpose.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Things I know to be true

2011-03-18T15:42:00.001-05:00

My kid only likes bananas and sweet potatoes. Unfortunately, my dog doesn't like either of those things.

Sometimes you don't even try to salvage the onesie.

Relocating a living room chair to the basement to make room for another jumperoo makes taking a crap a lot more enjoyable. For everyone.

Speaking of poop (as if we weren't already) why is it that as soon as you strap the kid into his car seat he decides to take a crap that rivals that one time you drank fifteen red bull and vodkas after eleventy billion beers and six bong hits at the House of Blues?

Motherhood is often really, really disgusting.

I'm too old to understand why people add unnecessary letters to words on Facebook. Whateverrrr.

Because TAMPON was taken

2011-03-09T11:46:00.000-06:00

The Devil's in the details

2011-03-03T21:23:00.002-06:00

I had my first fuck up this week.

Mr. T was away at a conference and Token was at the boarder, so it was just me and Kiwi rocking out.

The cleaning lady had come (yes, I have a cleaning lady - don't judge me) and I had a sitter come for a couple hours so I could do a bit of shopping without totally screwing up Kiwi's sleep schedule.

You see....0ver the past week, I'd been doing a light Ferber Method with Kiwi to see if he was ready for sleep training.

Turns out? Kiwi likes falling asleep on his own almost as much as he likes peas:

Anyway.

We did our normal bedtime routine: Nurse, cry, nurse a bit more, gently place him in the crib, accidentally kick the crib on the way out, pick up crying baby, nurse, creep stealthily out of the room, slam door accidentally, pick up crying baby, nurse, take seventeen minutes to move from recliner to crib so that sleeping baby stays sleeping, place baby in crib, high five yourself for not stepping on the glow worm you left on the floor, gingerly close the door and creep down the stairs.

Rinse and repeat.

Last night was no different. He went down for a few hours, was up at 1:55 AM - hungry. I nursed him and he stayed asleep.

Praise baby Jesus.

I did the one-eyed waddle to the bathroom, peed and crawled back into my bed.

The next thing I know, it's morning. 6:25 to be precise. And I think, NO SHIT....he slept!!

I listened to the silence.

Glorious silence.

And then I pressed the video button on the monitor.

Nothing.

NOTHING.

I'm scrambling out of bed, legs stuck in the damn flannel sheets, I start panicking.

As I run down the hallway, I hear it.

Crying - sad, hoarse, I've-been-abandoned crying.

I scooped him up and brought him to my bed and nursed him there. He calmed down quickly and fell asleep - hard and fast - for almost three hours.

I can't say the same for me...I laid there, wide eyed - trying to keep my shit together.

Apparently the cleaning lady had turned off the main light switch that controls a number of outlets in the room. When I went to bed last night (or at 2 AM) I didn't notice the monitor wasn't charging.

Mom = FAIL

It absolutely sucked. I couldn't stop thinking about his sad little face and his panicked eyes begging me to pick him up. Truth be told, I still can't.

Kiwi, on the other hand, has moved on.

Naughty

2011-02-10T20:21:00.001-06:00

Mr. T turned 40 last week and is in Vegas, Hangover style, with twelve of his buddies as I write this. I had to oversee his packing though since he’s tried twice to pair black socks with flip flops and now refers to jeans as dungarees but hey, fixodent and forget it, as they say.

I’m kidding…he’s in great shape, on the top of his game both career wise and here at home, and I’m thankful every day he’s my man.

Since his bromance weekend is sans ladies, I wanted to celebrate with him before he left so I secretly booked the Naughty Hotel for an afternoon getaway.

On the Cape, they called it Cuddles and Bubbles and everyone I know mocked it mercilessly. But now that I have a kid and have been - ahem - negligent as of late, I thought an Afternoon Getaway was just what the doctor ordered.

I hadn’t seen it in person, but dudes - it looked freaking awesome online. It had a giant heated pool, a hot tub, a steam room, a king sized bed that vibrated, mirrors everywhere, a light box above the bed that looked like stars. Every corner of the suite was custom made for getting it ON.

And getting it on was on the menu.

That morning, I groomed, I primped, I plucked…and I pumped enough boob juice so that the little man would be good to go. When Mr. T ran out to do an errand, I packed a little bag with some sexy lingerie, a 2001 Insignia and some flip flops for both of us.

I don’t walk barefoot in a regular hotel, let alone one where sperming on the rug is a regular occurrence.

I was ready. Baby was ready to roll, I was clean and packed and then I got a text from my sitter.

“Sorry, I’ve been on antibiotics for two days and I’m still coughing and sneezing all over the place.”

Well, wouldn’t that have been nice to know YESTERDAY WHEN I CONFIRMED WITH YOU.

So I hop online to see if I can rebook for another weekend. Nope - 5 day cancellation policy.

Shit. Damn. Fuck.

At this point, I was pretty upset because not only had the day been about Mr. T’s birthday, I desperately needed a break. A day filled with love and wine and sex and….anything not having to do with diapers.

Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

The good thing about a hotel whose guests require a bit of discretion is that you can totally sneak a baby into your giant pool suite and spend the afternoon frolicking about as a family.

While we didn’t take advantage of the perfectly slanted sides of the pool or the padded handle bars in the steam room, you can bet your ass we blew bubbles for a delighted Kiwi in the pool and drank the wine on the bed while the boy napped between us.

And we both wore flip flops.

Without socks.

Cleanliness is next to what?

2011-01-21T11:11:00.000-06:00

I've been a stay at home mom for a week now and guess how many times I've showered?

Twice.

Yep...two times.

In a week.

In fact, my personal hygiene has taken such a hit that, after a particularly necessary 20 minutes scrubbing and shaving everything, Mr. T said, "Wow... I forgot how nice you smell when you're clean. We need to get you in the shower more often."

Keeping the sex hot after baby = FAIL

It's not that I don't want to shower, it's just that there are so many other things that need to get done. For example: pooping.

When I was pregnant with Kiwi, pooping was a celebratory occurrence. I think I pooped twice the entire time. Now? ~~Reading US Weekly~~ it's still a luxury, but only because my kid refuses to sit in a bouncie seat propped up against the bathroom door so I can have thirty seconds to do my biz.

It's probably the smell.

I don't blame him.

However, when I told you guys that I was planning on staying home, many of you offered some sound advice: put jeans on, get out of the house, get drunk every once in a while.

I'm embarrassed to admit I've done none of these things.

Except in my own defense, I only have one pair of jeans that fit and they were totally in the wash.

Okay, I'm lying. They were clean but somewhere in the piles and piles of laundry that currently live on my bedroom dresser.

Sheesh, don't judge me - everything was folded.

Mostly.

Foiled

2011-01-14T17:16:00.001-06:00

Again, and again and again.

Kiwi's newly acquired desire to have his feet in his mouth every freakiing second or OMG THE WORLD MIGHT END makes taking self portraits nearly impossible.

It also makes diaper changes even more of a crap shoot then they were.
Pun intended.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Crossroads

2011-01-06T11:37:00.000-06:00

I resigned from my job this week.

It wasn't a decision I made lightly but I'll be honest with you, it was pretty freaking easy.

I mean really, look at these faces:

Who wouldn't want to spend every day at home with them?

With that said, the changes that are coming my way are daunting. I have no flipping idea how to be a stay at home mom, since when I'm not working now I sit on the couch and eat M&M trail mix with Kiwi and occasionally toss Token his toy.

It will be an adjustment.

For everyone.

Mostly for my black, Jehovah's Witness nanny since we have to let her go.

We signed a contract that said I'd pay her a ridiculous amount of money if we broke it for reasons other than inappropriate behavior on her part, so she'll be okay for a little while.

But I figure if I start leaving illicit drugs and Klan propaganda around the house while working Evolution into the conversation, she'll quit on her own.

Or I'll go to jail.

Whatever works, right?

Retrospective 2010

2011-01-05T11:34:00.000-06:00

Exactly one year ago today, I found out that I was pregnant with Kiwi. Of course, it was our little secret for a few more months until the little guy stuck.

So since I barely remember where the time has gone, I figured I'd recap what when down at casa de Beanie in 2010.

January brought some crappy weather and writers block, which wasn't really writers block it was just that I spent my days googling pregnancy related search terms like: how to prevent hemorrhoids. Also, nostalgia.

In February I wanted to throat punch a cashier and I opened up about my dislike of male figure skaters.

March brought news of my munchkin.

Mr. T protected our home in April, and I got schooled by my IT team.

In May, I started having pregnancy dreams.

June brought me back to days gone by.

July was hot...and I calmly explained how excited I was to be pregnant.

August brought some unnecessary honesty to my marriage.

September. Well, September brought me Kiwi.

October had some baby blues and a realization of the 30 lbs I gained during pregnancy.

Conversations in November.

And in December, the idiocy continued.

Happy new year everyone - Cheers! To a year of health and happiness.

Bullseye? Not so much.

2011-01-04T08:24:00.000-06:00

Ring Ring

Me: Hi, my name is Beanie and I think I may have left my purse in the cart last night. Can you check to see if it's there?

Target lady: Vhat?

Me: I was shopping last night and I think I forgot my purse in the cart outside. My wallet is inside.

Target lady: Oh no!

....silence....

Me: Are you the right person for me to speak with?

Target lady: Yes.

....silence....

Me: Um....okay. Can you help?

Target lady: Vhat does it look like?

Me: It's actually a diaper bag, it's navy blue with little flowers on it.

Target lady: It looks like what?

Me: It is blue with flowers.

Target lady: Oh no!

Me: Oh no?

Target lady: I'll check for white flower purse.

Me: It's blue.

Target lady: One minute.

SEVEN minutes later...

Target lady: It is here.

Me: Fantastic. I'll be in this afternoon.

Target lady: You bring something with your name and face on it so we know.

Me: Uhhhh...My wallet is inside of the purse - every identification I have is in the wallet.

Target lady: Oh no!

Me: Can't you just verify who I am by my license picture?

Target lady: Oh sure.

...silence....

...click.

Happy new year!

2011-01-01T09:47:00.001-06:00

Happy Holidays...

2010-12-22T11:30:00.000-06:00

...is what terrorists say.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Microbes

2010-12-14T10:16:00.000-06:00

I went back to work yesterday.

Just half days from now until the end of the year. Truth be told, it was a nice break. Couple of tears on the way out the door, but once I got to my office and back into the swing of things, it was actually okay.

Until I went into my first meeting.

I learned almost a year ago that people who are the least qualified to offer advice are the ones who offer the most of it.

Like that woman who told me that I needed to get rid of my cats because once they smelled my milk on the baby, they'd attack his face.

Or the woman who kept using the word "homo" during our parenting discussions.

As I sat down in a large conference room Monday morning, it was just an Eastern European woman and me. Elana is single, no kids, difficult to understand and a giant pain in the ass to work with.

Probably owns a cat or ten if you catch my drift.

Anyway.

We exchange pleasantries: Thanks - the baby is great. No - he's not sleeping through the night yet. Yes - we have a nanny. And then she says, "You are all done breastfeeding now that you've returned to work?"

Me: Oh no, I'm still breastfeeding. I will pump here at the office and give it to the nanny when I get home so she can feed him tomorrow.

Her: But what about the milk?

Me: I will put it in the refrigerator here and bring it home every day.

Her: No, not in this fridge.

Me: (thinking she might be offended seeing breastmilk in the shared kitchen) I have a fabric cooler bag that I'll keep it in, don't worry. You wont see anything out of the ordinary.

Her: No, you can't refrigerate breast milk.

Me: Uh....

Her: My friend is doing this procedure now. There are bacteria when you refrigerate milk from your breasts. You should not keep in fridge.

Me: (recognizing that this has moved from chit chat to unsolicited advice) Actually, there's less bacteria in breast milk after a couple of days in the fridge than after you initially pump.

Her: No, that is incorrect.

Me: Trust me. I'm kind of a pro.

Her: Tsk (she TSK'ed me!!) There are still microbes, Beanie. Microbes.

Me: I'll risk it.

Whatever lady.

The life of Kiwi

2010-12-07T10:14:00.002-06:00

What is that smell?

Oh wait, it was totally me.

My bad.

Later, dude.

Tricking the sperm

2010-11-29T14:32:00.000-06:00

There are a lot of positives about having a baby that is in the 90th percentile for height and weight, most notably the wiggle room we have in the event that he get sick and not want to eat as much.

The downside is that the boy grows out of outfits and gear faster than Paris Hilton can snort a line off a hooker's ass.

In Kiwi's closet, there is a giant container of clothes that he's either outgrown or never fit into to begin with. We call it the God-Forbid Bucket. As in, God forbid I get pregnant again and have to outfit another munchkin. For real, the bucket has gone from just a couple of newborn outfits to a full fledged fashion show. And now, we're adding in actual hardware.

They say that your babies get bigger, the more you have. Kiwi was 9 pounds, 3 ounces and needed the hoover to get him out - can you imagine the vag carnage if I kept having babies?

I'm going to do Mr. T a solid and get my ass back on birth control ASAP.

Anyway, since my kid is destined to be the next Larry Bird, he's going to outgrow his infant car seat in the next couple of months and I've begun researching convertible seats.

And I've narrowed it down to one make and model based solely on safety features and crash test ratings. Unfortunately, it's freaking expensive. Too expensive for me to simply order online without seeing the damn thing first.

So off I go to the baby store to talk to someone who knows more than Dr. Google and can either validate my decision or give me a better option.

Nope - no better option, it's the safest one on the market.

$hit.

And in my discussions with Car Seat Guy, I realize that convertible seats aren't exactly portable and if you are a two car family, you need two seats.

Double $hit.

So you know what Car Seat Guy said? "What I would do is get Model A (the safest one) for the car the baby is in most often and then get a lower quality, cheaper model for the second car."

((( Insert blank stare here )))

As in, "I wear a condom with girls I have sex with all the time, but for the girls I only screw occasionally, I go bareback."

Makes complete sense.

We're gonna need a bigger bin.

thankful

2010-11-23T15:02:00.003-06:00

So it appears that everyone is jumping on the facebook "I'm thankful for...." bandwagon. So here is mine: I'm thankful that my kid isn't ugly. Because dudes...we all know that there are some fugly little monsters running around out there.

My kid though? He's pretty damn adorable.

A couple of weeks ago, we introduced the Tummy Tub I received at my baby shower. Kiwi went nuts for it. He freaking loves it! He kicks and splashes and laughs. It's the most hilarious and adorable twenty minutes of our day.

Oh shit.

It's happening.

I'm becoming one of them.

You know - those people who only want to talk about the insignificant little things their children do? Every poop, coo and nose pick.

Send wine - fast!

Oh, did I tell you Kiwi's newest thing? He says, "Woooooo".

Yeah - in retrospect, I'm going to change my Thankful post. While I'm grateful my kid is cute, I'm thankful for my readers.

You who indulge me. Who have allowed me to stop blogging (momentarily) about anal sex and recreational ambien use and have allowed me to soften the content for a bit and to be one of those women.

So thank you. Thank you for coming back day after day and listening to what I have to say.

However insignificant.

The saddest thing ever

2010-11-21T19:38:00.001-06:00

He was actually in a pretty good mood here, I was trying to capture a smile.

The winds of time

2010-11-19T09:25:00.000-06:00

I knew things would change when we brought a baby into the mix but it turns out that my expectations were only partially correct.

I knew I'd be exhausted and that our social life would take a big hit. I knew that vacations were going to be put on hold and that by choosing to breastfeed, I'd saddled myself to a solo gig for a while.

However.

Back in the day, I showered regularly and took the time to do my hair and make myself presentable. Now I consider it a win if I leave the house without regurgitated breastmilk on my shirt.

Back in the day when I reached under the pillow after an all nighter, I'd find a sex toy.

Now, I find a pacifier and a random sock. The sad part?

I'm really excited about the sock.

Back in the day an all nighter meant that someone was sleeping on the wet spot.

Now, it's always me.

Speaking of getting naked. Mr. T has been such a good sport about the lack of sex. And when I say being a good sport I mean his wording was, "I'm not coming near you until you're back on the pill."

It's a good thing I'm okay with porn, because that poor guy's balls would explode otherwise.

Kinda like my boobs when Kiwi sleeps through the night. Exploding boobs = giant wetspot. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

Back in the day when we decided to go out for breakfast on a Sunday morning, we'd be out of the house in less than fifteen minutes.

Now we might as well start the night before.

Back in the day I lived my life via my outlook calendar. Now? I track things based on the number of poopy diapers we've had.

Speaking of Kiwi - he hates Christmas.

Grinch.

Conversations

2010-11-11T16:10:00.001-06:00

Me (as we arrive at the house after picking him up at the airport): Dad - remember, our nanny is super religious so don't say anything to offend her, okay?

Dad: Of course not.

20 minutes later

Dad (to the nanny): Have you heard the one about the guy who bought a motorcycle from a fag?

oh-my-god

###

Me (to Kiwi as he squeaks his discomfort at being in the car seat in the Target produce department): Hush little guy, do you want your binky?

Random lady: You know, pacifiers are for lazy parents.

###

Neighbor: Is Kiwi letting you get any sleep?

Me: He is, actually. I've been getting consistent four hour stretches and just last night he slept for six hours so I feel great!

Neighbor: You know it's okay to let him cry, right?

Me (unwilling to disclose that Kiwi doesn't cry): Yep, sure do but he's sleeping pretty well for a seven week old so when he wakes up, he's pretty hungry.

Neighbor: If you don't let him cry, he's going to be a spoiled brat and I don't need another one of them in the neighborhood.

###

Scene: Babies R Us mother's room. I'm in there nursing Kiwi when the door opens and a 4 year old comes in, followed by his haggard mom and a two week old premie who is SCREAMING to eat.

4 year old to me: That's your baby?

Me: Yep, it sure is. Is that your little brother?

Him: Did that baby come from your bagina?

Me: Yep, he did.

Him: You have a big baby. Our baby is little.

Me: Yes, he's pretty big.

Him: How did he get so big?

Me: I'm not sure, he was born that way.

Him: Maybe it's because your bweasts are so big.

###

Karma

2010-11-04T07:57:00.001-05:00

I need to get something off my chest.

And it's not my giant, lactating tittays. Well, if we're being honest - I would get rid of them because they are freaking huge. I got professionally fitted for a nursing bra and lets just say that I didn't realize they made cup sizes that high up in the alphabet.

But I diGress.

(o)(o)

I haven't wanted to talk about this publicly for a couple of reasons. First, because I'm superstitious and secondly because I have a couple of girlfriends who were dealing with some things and it would have been insensitive of me to say what I'm going to say.

But now that everyone has resolved their issues or is on the mend, I'm going to say it:

Kiwi doesn't cry.

Ever.

Sure, he vocalizes his discomfort or unhappiness but doesn't cry. At our two week well baby check up, the pediatrician gave us a handout that said the average newborn will cry for about two hours for no real reason.

Kiwi is seven weeks old today and he hasn't cried for more than two minutes in his whole life.

He's such a good baby that I ended up calling our pediatrician and saying something to the effect of, "I'm either the luckiest human being on the face of the planet or something is wrong."

Turns out?

I'm playing the lottery every day for the rest of my life.

I used to believe in karma - that what you put out there and what you got back were directly related.

And now I know it's a load of crap because there is no way I've been a good enough human being to deserve what I'm getting.

Case in point: My original post for this week was how we hired a black nanny and only just found out she's super religious. Like knocking on doors and spreading the word of the Lord, religious.
I haven't told her yet.

In fact, there may have been a "jesus tap dancing christ" comment in there somewhere and a "look how awesomely diverse I am" proclamation...

I make fun of people, I judge them, I dress my kid up in outfits he will regret later in life.

Mr. T and I are fortunate to live a life that doesn't require much skimping. We travel around the world and have the luxury of mocking the foreign places we wouldn't ever go back to.

So how the hell did I end up with an angel baby?

My point is that my kid makes me want to be a better human being. He makes me want to donate my time and money and things to those who aren't as fortunate as we are. He makes me want to give more people the benefit of the doubt and not judge them so quickly. He makes me want to stop calling random people assholes.

That doesn't mean I'm going to stop dressing him up though.

That kid is screwed.

Everyone loves a nice warm bath

2010-10-25T16:45:00.001-05:00

It's all in the numbers

2010-10-22T12:15:00.000-05:00

Number of times Kiwi has shit while getting a bath: 3
Number of times Kiwi has shit on his mom during the bath: 2
Number of times Kiwi has shit while in the process of getting his diaper changed: 8,976,348
Number of times Kiwi has shit right into Mr. T's hand at 3 o'clock in the morning: 1
Number of diaper blow out's we've had: 1

Awesome.

Things are getting better by the minute. We are almost on a routine, which is not to say we are anywhere close to sleeping through the night, but as long as he goes back to sleep after a feeding, I don't care how many times I have to get up.

I'm breaking all the rules - my own, my pediatricians, Dr. Google's and letting Kiwi sleep with me in the bed for a few hours every morning. Lately, he's been up at 5 am for a feeding and afterwards, we snuggle in the big bed until about 8 when it's time to get up and dressed for the day. The funniest part is that when Kiwi is starting to wake up, he farts.

A lot.

It's so freaking hilarious.

But then again, farting is always pretty funny.

On a totally unrealted note - why is it that I'm forced to watch the same damn episode of Man vs Wild every time the remote is out of reach? I swear to God, if I see that guy pee on his shirt and then drink it one more time, I'm going postal.

Even Kiwi is grossed out.

Oh - in other Mother of the Year news, I found a nugget of melted chocolate in Kiwi's neck folds last night. I may or may not have licked it off.

Things are good here, at casa de Beanie. Things are very, very good.

El jefe

2010-10-15T17:17:00.001-05:00

The dark side

2010-10-14T11:59:00.000-05:00

They don't prep you for the isolation that comes with newborn territory.

Sure, breast is best for the baby but what about for the mom? Breastfeeding is a solo gig, no one can help - no matter how much they want to. Mr. T can take a feeding using expressed breastmilk, but Kiwi and his needs aren't the only contributing factor. My body tells me when it's time to nurse and if I don't, I leak milk everywhere. If I'm overdue for a feeding and catch a glimpse of my kid, I leak. If I'm engorged and I hear him squeak during a dream, I leak.

I'm like one of those chocolate fountains you see at weddings, but only with breastmilk that squirts out at an alarming rate (really, it's a fountain).

I spend the majority of my day sitting on the couch in the living room, with the remote and my glass of water just out of reach, nursing Kiwi.

The nights are spent in my darkened bedroom with a drowsy baby, longingly staring at Mr. T warm and comfy in our bed.

When friends come over, we don't talk about the things we used to, we mostly stare at the baby.

Every conversation you have, whether it's with a neighbor at the mailbox or whispered with your husband in the wee hours of the morning as you both stare at the video monitor silently begging your child to sleep, is centered around the baby.

It's a difficult thing to emotionally reconcile, the hierarchical reorganization of your family. However ready you think you are, however much you've prepped and researched and think you've changed - you're still unprepared.

Kiwi has changed my life irrevocably. I need him in order to be a whole human being, I have a difficult time being further than 10 feet away from him. I wasn't prepared for how different I would be, my life would be, my family would be.

And on the nights that last waaaay too long, all I have to do is look at his sweet face and realize that it's totally worth it. I'd spend a lifetime alone for one smell, one glance, one fart smile.

Wouldn't you?

Spooked

2010-10-13T11:49:00.000-05:00

There's something to be said about statistics. And that something is that they are totally inaccurate most of the time.

Take Kiwi for example. According to my This Is What Your Baby Should Be Doing Every Week And If He's Not, He's Probably Got Some Disease You've Never Heard And Will Probably Be Mentally Retarded book, he should weigh 8.5 lbs and be 20 inches long.

Right.

Kiwi weighs in at 10 and a half pounds and is almost 22 inches long. According to The Book, he's the physical equivalent of a 9 week old.

And you know what that means, right?

He's gifted.

On another Mother of the Year note, we originally thought that Kiwi had dark hair. Turns out? When you give infants a bath more than once a week, their real hair color shines through.

Blonde.

The pediatrician said to give him a bath "when he stinks" which is what we do with Token, so we figured the redneck baths we've been doing are sufficient. Turns out? Not so much.

Woops.

On to more pressing issues: my fatness.

We all know that I've never had a six pack. We also know how ridiculously large I was at the end of my pregnancy.

This was literally hours before I went into labor. Please note my super skinny arms and coiffed hair

At my last prenatal appointment I had gained thirty pounds. As of today, I have lost 23.

You would think that only having 7 lbs to go would be nothing right? Seven pounds used to be the booze weight from a weekend in Napa and lost by simply cutting out fettuccine alfredo. But now? It's a belly that is more like Jello than flan and thighs that could give Oprah a run for her money.

My maternity clothes are way too big but my pre-pregnancy jeans, while zippable, if worn in public would invoke a reaction like this:

I'll stick with yoga pants for now.

Phew - two second to myself!

2010-10-08T11:49:00.001-05:00

Holy crap does learning how to be a mom take up a lot of time!

One second it's 8:30 in the morning and I'm scarfing down a bagel before Kiwi starts squawking and the next it's time to get the boy washed, fed and swaddled for bed. It's crazy how the day gets away from you.

It's been a crazy few weeks. The first week was an absolute blur. Mr. T and I remember very little about that time...except one interesting experience.

Almost immediately after giving birth to Kiwi, I had a number of serious complications. I'm not going to get into the details because it's scary to think about how close I came to not being around anymore - so you'll just have to trust me.

Anyway...

On the third or fourth day home, Mr. T was holding the baby in our bedroom and I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed when I started gushing fluid from my lady bits.

I freaked out, started yelling for Mr. T saying, "Oh my god, I'm hemorrhaging again...oh god, oh god."

Mr. T ran into the bathroom ready to dial 911 as I hopped into the shower to prevent getting blood everywhere.

"Oh my god, its happening again", I cried to Mr. T.

"Okay....um...yeah. Beanie, that's not blood." He tells me.

"It's not?"

"Nope. I'm pretty sure that's pee."

"Pee?!"

"Yes. Pee."

Awesome.

So I stood in the shower and let nature take it's course (I really couldn't stop it), took my pants off and showered the pee off my body.

There really isn't any dignity in labor, delivery and being a post partum woman is there?

And we are slowly realizing that parenting isn't going to be any different.

When we gave Kiwi his first bath, he actually enjoyed it. There was no crying, no squirming - he was really relaxed. So relaxed that when Mr. T went to rinse his hair from the kitchen faucet, he shit in the sink.

It was awesome.

All joking aside, this has been an incredible time for us. We can't love this little guy any more than we do and we stare at him for hours. We laugh at his old man facial expressions, analyze the sleep patterns and dream about his future. He's breastfeeding like a champ (and farting accordingly) and produces more laundry than a group of college freshmen.

There are nights that I don't think will ever end but when I see the clock read 3:38 am, I try to remember that he's only going to be this little for such a short period of time and I try to cherish these moments. I try to cherish every late night feeding, every three diaper diaper change and every funny experience we have. I try to laugh when I catch Token licking the dried breastmilk off of his face and not cry when Mr. T leaves to go to work.

I am humbled every day.

Infants have a way of making it less about you and more about them. Mostly because they pee on you, themselves, the couch, the cat.

Like mother, like son I guess.

Laboring was hard

2010-10-02T12:13:00.001-05:00

On everyone.

Good lord people

2010-09-30T09:42:00.001-05:00

Yet another dumb ass neighbor: Congrats, Beanie. How much did he weigh?

Me: He was 9 pounds, 3 ounces.

Neighbor: Big boy, huh?

Me: That's what they tell me.

Neighbor: Is he sleeping through the night?

Me: Yes, he's also fluent in Russian and will be accepting the Nobel peace prize in Norway next month. He's really looking forward to it.

You know what they say about assumptions

2010-09-27T20:19:00.000-05:00

I figured that once I delivered Kiwi and was no longer pregnant, the ridiculous comments would end.

I was wrong.

Remember when I had a neighbor tell me that I only got really, really fat in my stomach?

Yeah - that same neighbor YESTERDAY came to the driveway as I was letting Token out.

Her: Hi Beanie...I was just coming over to see how you were doing.

Me: Thanks! We're doing really well, tired - but great. Thanks so much for asking.

Her: Good. Well, make sure to keep us posted when the baby comes.

Me: Neighbor lady, I had the baby.

Her: You did?

Me: Yes. You can't tell the difference between my 40 week pregnant belly and now?

Her: Well, you never got really fat anyway.

Me: Right, well have a good day.

Her: Okay - bye.

Really!?!

You can't make this up....

2010-09-26T09:33:00.000-05:00

My husband has what I like to call a Passion for Exactness.

Which means he's almost militant in his precision of....well, everything.

Normally, this is a very good thing. Our house is always immaculate, the patio is swept and the coffee maker is always cleaned out. If left to my own devices, we'd be living a much more cluttered lifestyle.

However.

Remember when those three savages broke into our home?

Yeah.

We were at the hospital and I had already had my epidural, so I was napping the day away. Mr. T started swearing under his breath when he realized he packed the wrong phone charger and his iPhone was rapidly losing it's juice.

When Awesome Nurse came in for a cervical check, Mr. T asked if he had time to get to the store and pick up a new charger and since I was only at 5 cm, we still had hours and so off he went.

About thirty minutes later, he came back laughing his ass off, with a swollen finger and was having difficulty forming a complete sentence.

Apparently the Apple store is a pretty busy place on Friday afternoon and when you've been awake for 24 hours, the wall of accessories can be a bit overwhelming. And when there are 87 Apple employees walking around helping no one in particular, it can send one's patience over the edge.

So Mr. T did what any rational person would do.

He stood next to the accessory wall and yelled at the top of his voice, "MY WIFE IS IN LABOR AND I NEED A PHONE CHARGER."

Everyone, everyone in the store stopped short to stare at the unshaven, disheveled 39 year old in the center of the room.

One of the Blue Shirts said, "Dude, are you serious?"

Crazy Eyed Mr. T: Do I look like I'm kidding?

Blue Shirt Dude: Awesome! Let me run out back and I'll get you one for free.

Mr. T: Oh man, thank you so much. That would be great, thanks.

When Blue Shirt Dude came back with the appropriate nub, Mr. T was so thankful and excited that he finally had his charger and said he felt a bit of adrenaline surge.

So off he went, my husband. With a renewed purpose, a skip in his step and a sense of urgency to get back to the hospital and his laboring wife. When....

BANG!

Mr. T ran full force into the wall of the Apple Store's glass storefront.

For the second time in ten minutes, everyone in the store stopped to stare at my now concussed husband.

He said that he took a step back, realized he had tunnel vision so he shook his head and moved two steps to the right, opened the door handle and walked out the door.

I shit you not.

Through the Eyes of a Toddler*

2010-09-25T12:21:00.006-05:00

My niece is the coolest kid I know. She never cries. She rarely fusses. She just laughs and plays and "talks" all day long.

Everything she sees is awe-inspiring. The dog lazing around the yard incites shrieks of excitement. A scrap of brownie from the pan brings ear-to-ear grins. The sound of Selena Gomez emanating from an iPod makes her dance all over the living room. She is joy incarnate to everyone she meets.

And she's the undisputed love of my life.

Sometimes, in the craziness of this life, my sense of joy gets lost. I spend hours a week at a computer toiling over work projects, balancing the checkbook and looking at more stuff to buy online. Stuff I don't need. Stuff I don't really want. But stuff that I seem to think will inspire that sense of joy my one-year-old niece can find in the ordinary and the everyday.

Whatever happened to that childlike innocence? When did I lose my sense of wonder at the beauty of a sunset or the sweetness of a puppy? Why do I need labels and dollar signs to make me excited?

I want to be 14 months old again. I want to break into unabashed dancing anytime music is played. And I want to quit making to-do lists and feeling like a hamster on a wheel.

I'm making a late-year resolution instead of a New Year's resolution. I want to find my joy. Whether it's reading more for fun, baking brownies and gorging myself on True Blood dvds or learning to knit like I've been meaning to do since college.

Right now, my joy is beeping at me from the microwave. Kettle corn and M&Ms. Pure joy in all of its sugary greatness.

*To all of Beanie's loyal readership, this is a guest post. I'm the blogger over at Twentysomething Transitions and a friend of Beanie's. I write about my life as a twentysomething and all the fun, drama and craziness this life stage entails. I lack Beanie's humor, but still, I persist in writing once in awhile. :-) I enjoy shoes, margaritas and long walks on the beach. In keeping with the recent arrival of the adorable little Kiwi, I thought I'd share a post about my beloved niece and goddaughter. She reminds me every day to smile and remember that life is too short to worry about the small stuff. Congratulations to Beanie & Mr. T. He's a little doll and you're going to be the coolest parents ever!

Kiwi

2010-09-22T22:36:00.001-05:00

Wow. Where to begin.

With the most important thing, I guess.

Introducing my son, Kiwi.

I can't stop staring at him

My water broke on our anniversary, four days before my due date. Mr. T and I went out to dinner to celebrate and then to Dairy Queen on the way home. I know - shocker.

As Mr. T and I settled into the couch to enjoy our blizzards, I felt it. Gush. Of course my first reaction was to assume it was a sniss, but it was different somehow. Long story (and lots of googling) short, it was evident that my water had in fact broken and that it was time to call the doctor.

She called back almost immediately and said the magic words, "Come on in and have your baby."

We packed up the final elements of the hospital bags and got the house in order. HJ stayed behind with Token and off we went.

Yeah, so a note to everyone who is currently pregnant and or is thinking of getting pregnant: when and if your water breaks, a pad isn't gonna cut it for the ride to the hospital. Lets just say that we had the car detailed yesterday.

We arrived at Labor and Delivery and were given a room. Unfortunately, when your water breaks you are bed-bound and aren't able to walk around.

Which means you labor in bed.

Without an epidural.

For eight and a half hours.

Our first nurse (who was a total loser) came in at 2 AM and said, "Okay - we'll see you at 7 for a cervical check."

Oh - I'm sorry - did you say that you were leaving us here, alone, for the next five hours? Maybe we haven't conveyed that we HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING HERE, LADY!

And she left us.

The only time she came back in was when Mr. T rang the bell because I was puking, having a contracting and crying at the same time. Absolutely, hands down, the worst moment of my life.

Speaking of the most incredible man on the face of the planet - Mr. T was....

There are no words.

He was my supporter, my angel, my coach, my partner, my comedian, my everything. I could not have done any of this without him. And to see him with our son? Heartbreakingly tender.

I will forever be indebeted to him for this experience. Forever.

So let's see....oh yeah, 8 and a half hours in: Shift change.

My new nurse came in and it was like someone flipped a switch. She pushed away loser nurse and took charge like a drill sergeant. She assessed my situation (incredible pain), called the most glorious doctor in the entire world to get my epidural in, shifted my body, opened the shades, gave me pillows, gave me ice chips (which loser nurse "forgot"), gave Mr. T some blankets and pillows and then stopped to get to know us.

Once I got the epidural, I couldn't feel a thing. They say that you'll feel pressure, but I didn't. My legs went numb which was a bit uncomfortable but compared to labor it was like a fairy came down from the land of goodness and spread her lovely dust all around.

Both Mr. T and I napped for the next few hours, in between checks from Awesome Nurse.

Just over 20 hours in, I was ready.

Awesome Nurse came in, assembled the room and said, "Okay - tell me when you have to push and we'll push."

I always wondered how I would know when it was time to push, but let me tell you - you know.

I pushed for a few contractions when Awesome Nurse asked if I wanted the mirror. I told her I did.

Even then, in that moment, I was still in denial about what was about to happen. When she brought the mirror out and I watched my body have a contraction and Kiwi's head appear and then skooch back in was incredibly surreal.

My OB came in the room and with every contraction, I would focus on Mr. T's face and his perfect words of encouragement.

Four or five minutes later, Kiwi was born.

He was 9 pounds, 3 ounces and was totally rocking a cone head. After his head came out, Awesome Nurse said, "Jeez, Beanie - you're delivering a moose!"

And I did. I delivered my little guy vaginally and I couldn't be happier.

There are so many stories and so many memories from this experience that I don't know if I'll ever be able to effectively convey how altered my life became in that very moment. One minute I was just a girl and the next I was a mother.

Humbling.

There is lots more to tell about this experience, but for now - I'm going to focus on my son and my husband.

And the dozens and dozens of poopy diapers that we've changed since bringing Kiwi home.

Thanks to everyone for all the well wishes. I've read every comment and email and text.

I love you all.

A sneak peek by Mr. T

2010-09-20T13:18:00.000-05:00

Sneak peek

2010-09-18T16:12:00.001-05:00

9 lbs 3 oz

This about sums it up

2010-09-14T09:10:00.003-05:00

I've officially reached the point in my pregnancy where I hate everyone.

Except Mr. T. I still love him.

Most minutes.

Everyone else though? Let's just say it's a good thing I don't live in Texas and have a license to carry a concealed weapon.

My irritability has reached such epic proportions that I can barely leave the house.

My well wishing but annoying neighbors who stop their car to ask, "No baby yet?" makes me want to throw Token's poop bag at them.

My brother in law sending me text after text that say the same thing every single time: "When are you gonna pop" make me want to get on a plane, fly to New England and shove his phone....well, you know.

The receptionist at my OB who oh-so-helpfully explained that the soonest she could schedule me for a Non Stress Test was October 7th (at 43 weeks pregnant) made Mr. T physically back up two steps when he saw my reaction.

And the people at Dunkin Donuts? Oh my god...that ridiculousness makes steam come out of my ears. How hard is it to understand EXTRA CREAM people?!

According to my girlfriends this is all normal at this stage of pregnancy. However, I'm a pretty patient person in general so I'm not used to having such little control over my anger fuse.

It's a strange and yet freeing feeling. To shoot a thinly veiled insult at someone whose actions or comments clearly deserve it makes me feel better. It makes me feel good.

It also makes me a bitch.

I'm pretty sure I'll go back to normal when I deliver my little guy, but until then? We should probably stick to Lady Gaga's meat outfit and why regular Oreo's are superior than double stuffed.

It's safer this way.

If he wasn't already witholding....

2010-09-11T14:28:00.004-05:00

I adore my husband.

Even when he calls me Big Girl.

But I might need to have a "that was your outloud voice" intervention with him.

As I walked into our bedroom last night to go to bed, he came around the side of the bed, imitating my waddle. As he gave me a hug he said, "You alright there, Slim?"

Slim. With a waddle mock.

Sigh.

okay, fine then.

2010-09-10T13:11:00.001-05:00

Getting our stroller has been a bit of a challenge. It finally arrived and we picked it up today.

We love it.

However, someone in the house is not nearly as excited as we are.

Hee hee hee whhooooooo

2010-09-09T13:19:00.002-05:00

So yeah, remember when I was being snarky and said that I wasn't freaking out or a bundle of nerves?

I lied.

Rather, that statement is now incorrect.

I have been putting off packing my hospital bag for a few weeks now. I'm not really sure why. Initially I blamed it on not having the right nursing clothes and then it was because they discontinued my face wash and I couldn't find it anywhere. But at this stage of the game - there are no more excuses.

Also, Mr. T has been casually suggesting that I get my shit together for almost a month.

And when I say casually suggesting, I mean he's riding my ass on a daily - no hourly basis. He even moved his packed bag to the mudroom a couple of weeks ago and now insists on saying things like, "Do you really want me to pack your bag for you?" and "Oh, so the plan is to be in labor and pack your bag in between contractions?"

Mr. T and his, his....his logic can suck it. I do what I want.

Anyway...I realized he was right. While I think I could get a reasonably well equipped bag together while I am in labor, why would I? I'm kind of high maintenance when it comes to my own "stuff". I want the brand of toothpaste I use and my own facial moisturizer and my own deodorant.

On a completely side topic: did you know that baby will be able to recognize my scent within 48 hours of being born? How cool is that?!

So I tell myself that I will pack my bag today. Mr. T has a meeting he has to go to, it's not raining out so Token won't be begging to go outside and well, there's just no more time left.

So I got up (at 9!!)

I went to get some coffee and a bagel. (PS: Pumpkin is back at Dunkies)

I took Token to the park.

I did a few hours of work.

I checked in with my message board.

I called my mom.

I emailed with my friend Linds.

I put the seventeen loads of clean laundry that have been piled up in our bedroom away.

I did a load of laundry for Kiwi (his little socks and hats - too cute!).

And then I realized I had nothing else to do.

So I gathered my things and also a few things for Kiwi like his outfits and a couple of receiving blankets.

And as I stood in my bedroom looking at the pile of clothes, I realized something.

I am bringing home a baby from the hospital.

Not just any baby. OUR baby. The one that is currently inside me.

We are leaving the house well adjusted DINKs with a cushy little life and coming home parents who have no idea what the hell we are doing.

Oh my god.

We are going to be okay.

Right?

An open letter to my friends and family

2010-09-07T18:28:00.000-05:00

Dear ~~parents~~ loved ones, friends and random strangers at the grocery store:

Just a quick note of thanks.

A great big Thank You.

Thank you for your emails and texts and calls and facebook messages and texts and emails and calls and comments and emails asking if I've had the baby yet. The answer is a resounding no. No, I haven't.

And yes, I think the exaggerated waddle and breathless conversations indicate that "I'm ready."

However obvious my intentions are, there seems to be some confusion in that you think I might sneak off to have the baby and Mr. T might somehow forget to let you know.

That will not happen. Really. ~~You gave birth to us~~, we aren't going to forget to call you.

So in order to simplify things for the next couple of weeks, I thought I'd let you know where my head is at so that you don't think my snarky comments and or lack of response is all about us not loving you enough.

First, I probably won't be returning your attempts at communication if they only ask me about the baby and make assumptions about my mental and or physical state. No, I'm not a bundle of nerves and no, I'm not having contractions, and um no...I will not tell you what hospital I'm delivering at. Unless you are my OB, my husband or my insurance company - you do not need this information.

Secondly, it's completely unnecessary to call my cell phone and then (when I don't answer) call the house phone "just to check in". Chances are if I don't answer my cell, I don't want to talk to you. If you do the double dutch, I think something might be wrong therefore I answer the phone. And then I'm annoyed and probably ruder to you than I should be. Just leave me a message saying hello. It's really that easy.

I'd also prefer if you stop providing me with unsolicited induction techniques. I don't need to hear about how nipple stimulation worked for you or how I'll know when I'm in labor because I will have pooped twice in an hour.

Oh, and finally - please, please, please stop answering the phone with "Are congratulations in order?".

That's just annoying.

I love you guys. All of you. I love your concern about me and my husband and my son. I appreciate your thoughts and prayers and everything else you're throwing my way. I really, really do. I'm blessed to have these kinds of problems.

But for now? You're gonna need to zip it.

For real.

Hugs and kisses,
Beanie, Mr. T and Kiwi

You know you're pregnant when...

2010-09-05T17:02:00.001-05:00

Your husband refuses to let you lift a finger since the baby "might squirt out".

You didn't realize how mind blowingly adorable and then ridiculously annoying someone else's hiccups could be.

You have to lube up your belly in order to shave your legs.

You give up shaving your legs.

Your husband is willing to go sexless since he doesn't want the first interaction with his son to be dodging his penis.

You are so irritable that the cat rubbing against your legs too many times sends you over the edge.

When you leave the house, you make sure you have a supply of Tums before you see if you have your cell phone.

The very thought of showering is exhausting because you know drying yourself off is going to be a challenge.

You and your husband high five each other when you announce that you pooped because both of you are genuinely excited.

Your dog is more excited to lick your shirt after dinner than the floor.

You stare at the contents of the fridge and pantry for thirty minutes in the hopes that a Morton's Wedge salad will magically appear.

You can't move without grunting or sighing.

It gets harder and harder to keep the pee inside your body and when your husband goes over a speed bump just a hair too fast, the look you give him makes the ride to Dairy Queen really, really uncomfortable.

It's like that episode of Home Improvement

2010-09-02T10:13:00.001-05:00

It's a crazy day here at Casa de Beanie and Mr. T.

I not sure if I have mentioned that my god daughter, HJ, will be moving from the Cape to Chicago to help us with Kiwi and Token for the winter. She turned 21 yesterday (I KNOW!) and a few drunken voice mails later, it's evident that she is pretty damn excited to come out here.

Since we are adding baby and an adult roommate to the mix, Mr. T and I decided that it was time to finish the Man Cave.

<< Insert male grunting here >>

Unfortunately for Mr. T the plans went from something like this:

To something more along these lines:

Okay - maybe it's not that extreme, but it's certainly not the Man Cave a certain someone had in mind.

The homeowners who originally "finished" the basement went the cheapest route possible on absolutely everything, so needless to say nothing is to code, nothing is standard in size and everything needs to be fixed.

Oh - and did I mention that we needed to replace fifteen (FIFTEEN) windows unexpectedly?

Now I know how the stars of Ass Masters IV feel.

So what does all of this ridiculousness mean for me and Mr. T?

Well, it means delay after delay and woops, I lied - you better add another zero to that quote I gave you last week.

Which means we probably shouldn't have waited until I was actually pregnant to get things started.

Because today, at 38 weeks gestation, the work is starting.

Mr. T has been ousted from his office (which is in the basement and part of the remodel), and because of that, I have been ousted from my "office" at the kitchen table.

And the rug guy is coming to measure.

And the electrician is coming to fix the ceiling fan he installed incorrectly two weeks ago.

And our cleaning lady is coming.

And doggie day camp was booked.

And, and, and....holy crap I'm too pregnant for all this shit. Don't they know the only piece of clothing that fits me is a tank top that highlights my saucer sized nipples?! And that most days I don't have any pants on?

At least the contractor likes dogs, because someone in the house is thrilled with all the action.

Waiting for the contractor to come back in

I hope everyone is okay with nipples and overgrown 70's bush.

Can't argue with physics...or donuts

2010-09-01T12:05:00.000-05:00

Scene: 6 AM - our bed - Mr. T trying to sleep through Token's insistent whines to get up and let him out to pee.

~~

Me: I'm not on pelvic rest anymore.

Mr. T: Grunt

Me: So...do you want to have sex?

Mr. T: Laughs hysterically.

Me: What's so funny?

Mr. T: No, I don't want to have sex with you.

Me: Why not?

Mr. T: Because yesterday I watched the doctor stick "two lubricated fingers" up there and feel Kiwi's head. I know I don't have the biggest wang in town, but it's a lot longer than her fingers.

Me: expectant stare

Mr. T: I do not want to mushroom stamp my son.

Me: Good point. Will you go get me munchkins then?

Mr. T: Yes, baby.

Huh?

2010-08-31T14:08:00.003-05:00

They say when you're pregnant, that you suffer from "pregnancy brain".

Which apparently includes making fun of the freaky (anatomically correct) dolls at childbirth class.

PS: uncircumcised.

Can you guess which one is ours?

2010-08-30T08:07:00.002-05:00

37 weeks

2010-08-29T16:05:00.004-05:00

Mr. T and I have managed to stay largely and blissfully unaware of the fact that we are actually going to have a child.

So unaware in fact that we probably should get ourselves together fairly soon since we're having a baby in less than three weeks.

We have everything physically ready to go. The nursery is done, the mini-nursery in our bedroom is done, the car seats are installed (oh my god, that's a story for a different day) and Kiwi's clothes and bedding are washed and ready to use.

Needless to say, reality has begun to set in.

Reality for Mr. T is that he's going to be a father - completely responsible for another human being's needs.

Reality for me is that I somehow have to get this child out of my body.

And the scariest part of my reality? I'm actually hoping he makes his entrance via my vagina.

Va-gy-nuh.

There is something wrong with this situation, people.

Seriously wrong.

Have you ever seen a baby being born vaginally? Even worse - have you seen a placenta being delivered?

Oh my gross, it's traumatic. At best.

In summary: We are freaking out.

For realz.

The Pelt

2010-08-23T09:57:00.000-05:00

One of the things they don't tell you in the books about having a giant pregnant belly is that somewhere along the line, you lose the ability to see your feet.

And your cooch.

Feet, for me, hasn't really been a big deal since I haven't given up my pedicures like I said I would and I wear flip flops every single day.

The lady business, however?

A challenge.

I was put on pelvic rest at 27 weeks. Which means that Mr. T was also put on pelvic rest. Which means that my personal grooming took a backseat to other more important things.

Like going to Best Buy for a laptop power cord and coming home with a new TV for the bedroom so we can watch season six of Entourage as ~~I tell Mr. T to stop breathing on me~~ we cuddle.

Pre-pregnancy, I was a waxer. I paid an extraordinary amount of money to have an Eastern European woman chit chat with me while she rubbed hot wax on my labia and ripped the hairs out from the roots.

Gloriously smooth and ready for action....if you know what I mean.

(I can see Mr. T now saying, "Uh, no...I don't know what you mean, BEANIE.")

Anywang.

Apparently, weeks of inactivity have led to weeks of hair growth (who knew?) and as I was getting out of the shower the other day, Mr. T said: Jesus Christ, Beanie. You've got a pelt.

Me: A pelt?

Him: Yeah, it's like you're an Alaskan fur trader trying to lure in your prey.

Me: I can't see anything down there and the last time I tried to trim up, I ended up looking like Opie from Family Guy.

Him: Okay, I'm just sayin'.

I see.

So, before I hopped back in the shower I grabbed a mirror, a new bar of soap and Mr. T's razor.

Gloriously smooth.

Pot meet kettle

2010-08-20T10:47:00.004-05:00

You guys know that I don't get all political up in here, mostly because of the time I spend between US Weekly and CNN carries a statistically significant differential. But whatever. You can't name all the Duggar kids, can you?

However, this pisses me off. Laura Schlessinger gets to do whatever the fuck she wants and no one ever does anything about it! I had planned on a post over the weekend - mostly to talk about how I can't wait for our country to just be about marrige, regardless of sex - but then Jax posted hers and well, she's been kind enough to let me spread the rant.

She's also - like - a real writer and trust me, her post is a fuckload more grammatically correct then mine would be.

You can visit Jax here and you can follow her on Twitter here.

Also - she is also an accomplished violin player. We were even in a talent show once in high school and we totally won. Plaid shirts and all.

Yee-haw!

From The Jump:

How 'bout a Puppy-fur carrying case for your double standard, Talk Radio?

I rarely touch on heated topics on this blog, but I'm perplexed by what seems to be a lack of outrage against ~~Mommy Dearest~~ long-time talk-radio host Laura Schlessinger.

Why is she still on the air? Why is she departing on her own terms? Why is someone allowed by their employer to basically swear on the air in hearing distance of millions, blatantly tossing around a highly-charged racial term for five minutes, only to be invited on Larry King days later? (Here's the Huff Post story if you need the details.)

Perhaps some of the quiet is caused by Schlessinger's vow to quit radio so she can continue to 'say what is on [her] mind and in [her] heart ... without people getting angry' and to 'regain her First Amendment rights.' (Oh, GAG ME.) Perhaps some are thinking since she's seemingly off the air at the end of the year, we'll just let her toil out her final months and fade into obscurity.

I disagree with this stance. First, I don't buy for a second that she's done berating people in the public eye. As soon as a book deal/column offer/satellite radio gig comes her way, she'll be back.

In this recent CNN article, TALKERS magazine publisher Michael Harrison (I subscribe to his magazine) bolsters this notion, objectively. She's part of the elite of talk radio, he says, correctly. She has an audience of 8 million and ranks just behind Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity in the TALKERS ratings.

"I don't think she needs radio economically, and I don't think she even needs it to get her message out," he said.

That's what scares me. Censorship is one thing I don't abide, but responsible broadcasting should not take a back seat to half-baked political dictums, including leaning on one's First Amendment Rights to defend saying the N-word 11 times in five minutes - especially with an audience as large as hers. Has she ever heard of responsibility, ethics, and tact? I can say whatever I want on this blog of six years, in front of my 400-or-so daily readers. I know that. I appreciate that. But I appreciate my readers and my upbringing more, and I practice something called personal responsibility.

Here's my other problem with this: she'll be back with fewer repercussions that other hosts who have come before her. So much for evolving standards of conduct.

To be clear, in no way do I condone the comments made, say, in 2007 on Imus in the Morning regarding the Rutgers Women's Basketball team. Don Imus and his producer made poor decisions and said off-color, anachronistic, rude things. And subsequently, Imus was suspended after four days. Four. Days.

Conversely, here we are three years later, at the start of a new decade and perhaps on the cusp of great social change as technology, politics, and culture bubble with excitement, and Schlessinger thinks it's her constitution-given right to spew statements like 'Don't NAACP me?'

It's not about censorship. It's not about rights. It's about doing the right thing. It's about leading with integrity. This leader of talk radio has embarrassed us all -- journalists, broadcasters, free-thinkers, and Americans alike.
Shame on you, Ms. Schlessinger.

Additional Reading

The FCC's responsibility is to enforce federal obscenity laws....Material must meet three requirements to be considered obscene:
•Applying community standards, an average person must find that the material appeals to the prurient interest.
•The material shows or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by law.
•The material, as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.
Here is a full audio version of the broadcast at Media Matters.

To be fair, here is a compilation of news stories and blog posts from Atlantic Wire in defense of 'Dr. Laura'.

Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments.

-Jax

Progression

2010-08-17T15:39:00.001-05:00

I was like two seconds pregnant here. And yes, I have the flattest ass in the history of asses.

###

10 weeks here. Everyone who has had a baby knows that the first bump is bloat.

###

I remember when I sent this to my mom, she wrote back: Look at that BUMP! Ha. Right. 15 weeks.

###

19 weeks here. I especially like how I'm stuffing my ass into my non-maternity shorts and how it's giving me an awesome love handle line. WTF Mr. T, you can't say something?

###

25 weeks here. It was during that week where being pregnant is actually fun and cute.

###

27 weeks. Obligatory bathroom bump shot. Triangle belly.

###

30 weeks. I look like I swallowed Humpty Dumpty.

###

35 weeks - How the fuck am I still standing?
More importantly, how much bigger can I possibly get?!

Denial or delusion?

2010-08-11T19:01:00.000-05:00

My grandmother always said that most babies are born looking like Winston Churchill.

She also called gay women "damn lezzies" and didn't realize Tiger Woods was black or believe me, she never would have liked him.

She was right though, in a sense. Most newborns who are born vaginally are red and squished and have oddly shaped heads but most of them grow out of it fairly fast.

Or so I thought.

I was perusing facebook the other day, I realized that a lot of my facebook friends have really ugly children. Ugly as in there is album after album of photos and not one of the 7,951 pictures is what I would consider even remotely cute.

I get it. Some people just aren't photogenic.

Some people don't use teeth whitening products before a drunken weekend with friends and others really, really need lip injections.

Normally, if the picture is bad - people don't post it, right?

So I ask you, readers: do parents of ugly kids KNOW they have ugly kids?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking about kids with real issues like ridiculously large foreheads or parents who dress them in sailor boy outfits, I'm talking about kids who just aren't fucking cute.

If Kiwi comes and he's fugly, will I realize that he's not adorable and say, "Fuck you world!" or will I be clueless, ala my facebook and twitter friends and post every ridiculous picture I can take?

Because denial is only fun if there isn't photographic evidence.

Reuse Reduce Recycle

2010-08-11T11:19:00.002-05:00

I get a lot of email forwards. Mostly the, "if you don't forward this dancing frog in a princess outfit to eight hundred of your closest friends, a little girl in Guatemala will die a horrible death and then Bill Gates will charge $0.05 per email".

But enough about my mother in law.

I'm not a reforwarder unless it's a video that hasn't been making the rounds for five years or one of those demotivational poster pics. However, I received one one a while back that was actually forward-worthy. Here's a taste:

Whenever I'm Facebook stalking someone and I find out that their profile is public I feel like a kid on Christmas morning who just got the Red Ryder BB gun that I always wanted. 546 pictures? Don't mind if I do!

How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear what they said?

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent one dick from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers!

After Mr. T read through the list of 63 (full list is in my notes page on facebook) he decided to execute a social experiment.

Every day for the last few weeks, he's posted one of the email thoughts as a status update on facebook. This - coming from the guy who didn't realize he had a personal wall for three months - made me very proud. Some people got it, they laughed - they cried. One guy even emailed him and said something like, Dude...you're killing me with these updates.

For the record - that guy is still alive. He was joking about dying.

One of Mr. T's updates was: How the hell do you fold a fitted sheet?
One guy was so fucking hilarious commenting, "Hand it to your wife and say, 'Here, fold this'."

I love that guy. He really gets me.

Another woman wrote out STEP BY STEP instructions and then because she's probably married, went and found a YouTube instructional video and posted it.

Yesterday's update was: Do you remember when you were a kid, playing Nintendo and it wouldn't work? You take the cartridge out, blow in it and that would magically fix the problem. Every kid in America did that, but how did we all know how to fix the problem? There was no internet or message boards or FAQ's. We just figured it out. Today's kids are soft.

Funny. Accurate and totally true, right?

I swear on my mother's grave (and I like my mom) that I have cut and pasted what is below.

This is ~~someone who needs to get laid~~ one woman's response:

"Our kids are required to learn a hell of a lot more than we did. By virtue of learning about a world that didn't exist when we were growing up...they have to figure out how to fix a lot of things. The technology they HAVE to learn about helps them figure things out. Blowing on a freakin' cartridge does not make one brilliant. Do not underestimate the knowledge of children who care about learning. Just because we didn't learn the same things they do does not mean it isn't valuable. My kids, and the kids of anyone you care about are not soft...and those you don't care about are not soft."

Oh em effing gee.

I think my favorite part is where she called my husband a dumbass. You're so learn-ed, Pepsi.

I bet her kid plays the harp and wears ruby red slippers to church.

To quote Mr. T:
People are so self absorbed that they can’t bring themselves to believe that what I post might be a joke because they are so busy pontificating about life’s deep mysteries on facebook (little Johnny scored a goal in soccer, yay!) that they think everyone else must be equally as real.

My message to this lady: Get a clue. Read a book. Go volunteer at a women's shelter. Live a life outside of your children for a fucking nanosecond. Also, you're a moron.

And, since no one really knows, here.

I thought I just had to poop

2010-08-08T15:42:00.001-05:00

"She wants me to go in." I emailed Mr. T.

Really? he said.

Yes, so I'm going to drive home and then we can go together.

Okay.

PSA: probably not a good idea to drive yourself anywhere when you're in pre-term labor.

I started having Braxton Hicks contractions in the shower on Friday morning. Between 11 am and noon, I had seven of them.

Dr. Google told me to call Dr. OB.

Dr. OB told me to go to Labor and Delivery.

Balls.

On the way there, I kept thinking that they would put me on some kind of monitor, pat me on the head and then tell me to go on my merry way.

Maybe even with a lollipop shaped like a large percocet.

I dreamed a dream in time gone by.......

Alas, it was the real deal, with bonafide contractions coming every eight minutes. They didn't really hurt, it was just uncomfortable.

And I really, really had to pee.

The nurse gave me three shots of medicine to relax my uterus, a bag of fluids, an ultrasound and a bunch of other things Mr. T really wishes he hadn't seen.

Apparently, my eyebrows aren't the only thing that need to get waxed.

Also not awesome? Having the world's shittiest veins for IV insertion and a nurse whose hands shake worse than Amy Winehouse on a Sunday afternoon.

Thankfully, the medicine did it's job, I was hydrated and calm and was able to go home, on modified bed rest.

During the whole experience, I was not very brave. I cried when they put the IV in and couldn't stop. I was shaking and afraid.

Mr. T was incredible. He was supportive and funny and honest and I am thankful that he's my husband.

We totally should have gotten a puppy.

That's what she said.

2010-08-04T15:03:00.003-05:00

From a guy who was on the phone with a customer:

We really need to talk about the fluffing. It's getting out of control.

From the same guy three minutes later, still on the phone:

Well, did you see anything when you were looking down the pole?

From Mr. T:

I could eat a whole box of that.

Holy shit

2010-07-30T14:15:00.000-05:00

My parents divorced when I was about five years old and afterwards my father moved back to northern Maine, where he grew up.

My father has a sister who lives down south and has two adult children of her own.

I never see them.

Ever.

Since everyone who has an Internet connection also has a facebook page, my cousins and I have linked up on facebook. We shared the initial pleasantries and then never spoke again.

One of my cousins is heavily involved with her church. She and her husband have dedicated their lives to mission work and travel extensively as often as they can to spread the word.

You know, The Word.

Anyway - she apparently just found out that I'm pregnant so she sent me a note on facebook asking how I am feeling.

I send a nice note back telling her that I'm great, that baby is great and make a joke about how everyone told me I'd be miserable in the summer heat and that they were right.

I shit you not, this was her response: You think it's hot this summer? Can you even begin to imagine what eternity in Hell will be like. Think about it. Choose Jesus.

Right.

Um.......

Right.

Just so we're clear, we aren't having Kiwi baptized and I let my husband put his wiener in my ass one time. But honest, I felt really bad afterwards.

Not because I think Jesus would be upset or anything like that but because it hurt to shit for like three days.

But dude, lesson learned. Trust me.

Kiwi

2010-07-29T13:03:00.000-05:00

Many of you have emailed, facebooked, tweeted, texted, called me about how Kiwi and I are doing.

And have been gracious when I haven't returned your calls for weeks at a time and are happy with a simple three word text letting you know everyone is healthy.

Thank you.

In short, we are both great. Kiwi (still a boy) is measuring right on track with ten fingers, ten toes and a chin like his daddy.

I have had a couple of minor complications which will require me to have a c-section, but aside from those concerns (which are being monitored by a perinatologist - stop freaking out MOM), I'm great. Feeling just about as good as someone who is almost full term can feel.

I've stopped gaining weight, which is a bit of a worry for my OB, but Kiwi continues to grow appropriately, so I'm not overly concerned. He moves constantly, which is both reassuring and annoying since the boy clearly favors right hooks to my rib cage.

We're having a ton (a SHITTON) of work done to the house in preparation for the little guy's arrival and are busy making sure we have everything ready for him.

Both Mr. T and Token's protectiveness of me has reached epic proportions. I'm not naming names, but someone has been freaking the fuck out if someone gets too close to me or the house or the yard or the street. That someone also french kissed me last night when I wasn't paying attention.

It's also the same individual who is afraid of Christmas wreaths and barks incessantly at the blue garbage bins we put out every-freaking-week.

We're working on it.

Douchebaggery

2010-07-27T15:41:00.001-05:00

I hate most people.

Have I mentioned that before? Well, regardless of whether or not you were paying attention, you know now.

When people annoy me, I’m not filled with rage as some people who live in my house and go by the name of Mr. T get but I have my moments of complete and utter "OMG I am going to fucking strangle you".

Lately, I hate European people the most. European men to be precise.

I work with three of them. Four if you count my stinky ass borderline retarded temp. I seriously hate that guy.

One would be enough to send the average human over the edge, but three and a temp? Karma is paying me back for all those times I said the word retarded. SHIT.

This is how the average email conversation goes:

British Moron 1: Here is a logo for the XYZ Conference in London. It’s in an esp file, can you open it?
Me: No, I can’t open the esp file.
British Moron 1: What is an esp file? I don’t know what you are talking about.
Me: You sent me this email and then asked me if I could open an attachment that I assume you attached. I can’t.
British Moron 1: It came from the Conference in the UK.
Me: It doesn’t matter where it came from, I can’t open it.
British Moron 1: Open what? The email?

I really, really wish I didn’t cut and paste that particular nugget of intelligence.

When you add in the fact that I’m visibly pregnant to the conversational mix, I tend to get a bit...stabby.

German Moron (upon noticing my pregnant belly): Oh, look! Look at you! I did not know.
Me: Oh yes, I’m pregnant. I’m due in September.
German Moron: I was just here in April and you were not, how do you say, fat then?
Me: Um, no – I wasn’t very far along in April.
German Moron: But now? Now you are very, very fat.
Me: Yes. Yes I am.

If I had self esteem issues, I’d be fucked.

And then. And then there is the good old “I must discuss pregnancy with the woman who is going through it” mentality that a lot of people share.

Here is a conversation I had just this week with my khaki wearing, popped collar sporting, winking British sales guy.

Random dude I work with: Beanie, are you going to do a med free birth?
Me: Fuuuuuck no. I’d like the epidural put in now actually.
British Moron 2 interjecting himself: You know, you’re going to hate the Epidural. HATE IT.
Me: Oh really? From what I've heard, it's pretty much awesome.
British Moron 2: Oh yeah. Hate it.
Me: Have you had one?
British Moron 2: Nah, not me. But my wife did.
Me: Did she have a bad experience or something?
British Moron 2: Oh yeah. Horrible. All she did for eighteen hours was breathe heavily and make awful noises (proceeds to reenact wife’s labor vocalizations). You’re going to HATE it, trust me.

Oh – thanks, male who has never given birth, for confusing the words epidural and labor.

Are you British or retarded?

SHIT.

Things I need to remember

2010-07-27T14:30:00.000-05:00

Too much bitching about this....

Remembering what's on the way...

Zooks doesn't give a shit how long Lindsey Lohan will be in jail

2010-07-24T22:57:00.001-05:00

Of course I'm not excited, you silly idiot

2010-07-22T11:55:00.002-05:00

I've ~~bitched~~ written before about how pregnant women are forced to answer the same questions from everyone they come into contact with.

Just once, I'd love to respond with something so ridiculously offensive that the person asking the question never speaks to me again.

Here's how I'm going to handle it next time:

Stupid douche: Soooooo, are you getting super excited?

Me: Not at all, actually. My husband says that my vagina is the tightest he's ever stuck his giant cock in, so I really don't want to screw that part of our relationship up. Also, I've never understood why anyone would be (inserting air quotes here) "excited" to push another human being out of their pee hole.

I mean, don't get me wrong, my nannies are excited. They're from some third world county where the whole tribe wet nurses the kid, so I'm not worried about having to spend the money on Costco's formula.

And really, since our little mistake here decided to stick – and I couldn’t bring myself to have another abortion – we just decided to just go ahead with it. I mean, it’s not like our lives are going to change or anything.

Can you pass the gravity bong, please?

Moral of the story: If you ask a stupid question, you're a douchebag.

Random Picture Monday

2010-07-19T11:16:00.002-05:00

This weekend, I had to take a few photos of the nursery for an Etsy designer we are working with and I realized that we hadn't uploaded the one-off pics from our point and shoot camera in...oh, a year. Here are some funny ones:

Miss Liv helping us with the baby budget....

After the incident:

Somewhere in New Zealand...and sometime after noon. Clearly.

This place had the best schnitzel we've ever had. Even in Germany.

oh, also - have you seen my feet?

Um, thanks?

2010-07-12T14:25:00.000-05:00

Actual comments I've received:

Dentist receptionist: When are you due again?
Me: September
Receptionist: eyes widen Wow, you must have a really big baby in there.

~~~

My mom's BFF: Beanie, you really look fantastic. I mean, really, really fantastic.
Me: Thanks so much, I feel great.
BFF: Yeah, because I was expecting you to look like Jabba the Hut by now. proceeds to do a Jabba the Hut dance in my mother's front yard

~~~

Random neighborhood lady I've never spoken to before: Do you have news for me?
Me: News? Oh, yes - I'm pregnant. Almost 30 weeks.
Random lady: I thought so, but you only got really fat in one place so I wasn't sure.

~~~
Candy's Boyfriend: Hey Beanie, how you doing?
Me: Good, thanks for coming over.
Boyfriend: giving me a once over You're coming along nicely.
Me: Kind of like a roast?
Boyfriend: Kinda, yeah.

~~~
Mr. T: How ya doing, big girl?

~~~

Kids do the darndest things

2010-07-08T13:30:00.000-05:00

Flash used to poop on Token all the time when he was a puppy. It wasn't really purposeful, Token would be so interested in what she was doing, that he would inevitably stick his head right in the drop zone and she'd shit on him.

It happens to the best of us, right?

Flash was like the majority of men in the world: She took her sweet ass time dropping a deuce.

We called it the turtle shit, because she'd poop a little then waddle a couple steps, drop a nugget and then waddle. This would continue for minutes.

And every time Token would be too nosey, I'd have to find a big enough leaf to wipe the shit off his head or ears or nose. And of course, I'd always pick the one freaking leaf that had a teeny hole in it and gag the whole way home.

Now that Flash is in heaven, I focus most of my daily cognitive energy on Token's bathroom habits. Did he pee when you took him out, Mr. T? Did he poop? Was the poop solid or soft because I think that the petsitter is giving him too many greenies and you know how tender his belly is. And Jesus Christ, did he just eat that pile of rabbit shit?

Doesn't everyone do that?

Liars. I know you do.

Anyway. Whereas Flash was a shitter, Token is a pee'er. If it's outside and it's there, he takes a quick wizz on it.

It's mostly on himself, but whatever. I don't have to lick it up, what do I care?

Last year we bought a cute little lawn sign to kindly remind our neighbors that peeing in our yard was inappropriate.

Token took one look at it, turned his body around so that he was facing me and lifted his leg - staring at me the whole time.

At our 4th of July cookout, I stuck handheld American Flags into the ground to liven up the yard.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure the KKK will be coming shortly to take our little terrorist away.

Side note: is it gross that I left the flag in the ground the rest of the day?

And this morning, as we were on our walk I happened to notice a dead bird in the grass.

He actually smiled at me when he did it.

So not only does my dog have a shit fetish, he's willing to openly defy parental orders, quite literally defile the American flag and now he's taken to seeking out dead animals in order to piss on their corpse.

I'm hopeful that we can do a better job with Kiwi, but at this rate, it's not looking good.

Mmmmmm beer.

2010-07-04T11:35:00.001-05:00

We have a 4th of July cookout every year and per usual, there were a ton of people there. It's a neighborhood thing, so everyone invites their own friends and family members and there are always a ton of kiddos running around.

This was the first year that I haven't been able to partake in all of the festivities.

Oh, wait....

I'll be accepting this year's Mother of the Year award next weekend. Please dress accordingly.

I know it might be difficult for everyone to believe, but when we have a party - we have a party.

Don't worry, we have a "No Kids on the Concrete" rule.

Until we get sick of pumping the keg, and then they're allowed to come in the garage. But other than that, they are forced to stand outside in the ~~blazing~~ sunshine throwing pop snaps at each other.

Unfortunately, I'm not kidding.

Well, unfortunately if you're a kid. It works great for the adults.

Speaking of adults....

Why is it that the people who are the least qualified to give parenting advice are the people who do it the most?

Seriously.

There was a woman yesterday who ignored her four year old trying to light a stick on fire and then attempt to impale another child with a stick flag but somehow still found the time to tell me that it's "vitally important to be consistent with your children".

Projection, anyone?

Another woman (as she blew cigarette smoke my way) told me to forget breastfeeding because if she couldn't hack it, neither could I.

Because we had to reintroduce ourselves, she was more than qualified to pass judgement on both my ability to produce enough breast milk as well as my ability to "hack it".

And yet another woman (who used the word homo multiple times throughout the day) told me that wanting to deliver vaginally was unnatural and that a c-section was the "way to go".

Oh yes - major abdominal surgery is always option number one in my book.

Here's a thought: THERAPY, all around.

Oh and another thought: Fuck off people, I'm going to do what ever the hell I want with my kid and the only other person on the face of the planet who gets to judge me on it is my husband.

And he's....well, it's probably time for him to go to bed.

Happy 4th of July!

2010-07-01T17:19:00.000-05:00

Bow chicka wow wow

2010-06-25T09:37:00.002-05:00

Know how when you and your husband are totally getting it on and the passion of the moment brings a bit of over-zealousness and his ~~wiener~~ giant penis bonks your cervix?

Yeah.

Kiwi is apparently going to be either the next Ron Jeremy (but not crazy and gross) or the president of his fraternity because holy crap, this kid has been kicking the crap out of mine for the past two days.

I tried moving him around. Squishing him, poking him, jumping up and down...nothing is working.

He's rocking a nice little spot and he ain't moving.

Kind of like my bowels, but that's another post entirely.

I need help. But you already knew that.

I need some advice, guidance, some drugs.

Scratch that last one - unless you think it will help.

How the hell do I get this kid back to kicking me in the ribs?

Because something has to give. And I'd prefer it's not my cervix.

Rain drops keep falling on my head....

2010-06-24T10:13:00.003-05:00

So there I was.

Racing home to beat this:

Mr. T was on the road and I really prefer to walk the dog in relative comfort.

I almost made it.

Flash was terrified of the rain. If it was even thinking about clouding over, she'd be in a corner ~~peeing on the floor~~ shaking. So when we brought Token home, we made it a point to make the rain fun.

When it would thunder, we'd play. When it was sprinkling, we'd go outside. When the lightening was super bright in the house, we'd sing a song.

We were so smug.

Now, if it's even thinking of clouding over, Token is ringing the bell like he's going to shit on the rug.

If it's pouring? Forget it. That fucker will stand at the bay window and cry and cry until one of us gets up and takes him outside so he can sniff the driveway for ten minutes.

But last night?

He was spooked.

Which spooked me.

It wasn't the torrential downpour or the cracks of thunder so loud the house actually shook.

It was this:

On every fucking channel.

Yeah - that red star? That's my house.

And that little orange circle? Those are tornadoes.

Fanfuckingtastic.

I grew up on Cape Cod, people. The worst weather we have is a hurricane once every twenty-five years. I'm ill-equipped to deal with tornadoes.

Also, we don't have the "family plan" that the stupid weather forecaster told me to start executing.

So I did what every rational, pregnant, alone in the house save for the pets, woman would do.

I decided to watch the Simpson's on DVR.

Token relaxed, I relaxed, Kiwi started kicking around.

Did you know that when you are watching something on DVR the cable company can interrupt it and prevent you from changing the channel?

I didn't.

I do now.

Also, they prevent you from being able to find the mute button on the remote with some kind of mind-body control.

In retrospect, that could have been my ridiculously pregnant body trying to lunge off the couch and over to the coffee table in an attempt to silence the ridiculously loud EEEEH EEEEEH EEEEEH of the computerized warning that had my cats taking cover and Token under foot, shaking .

So I turn the news back on (after the EAS released me, of course).

80 mile and hour winds.

Funnel clouds.

Take cover in your pre-arranged spot.

BUT I DON'T HAVE A PRE-ARRANGED SPOT, AMY FREEZE!!

Awesomesauce.

My prearranged spot is in the kitchen, pouring a bowl of cereal.

Totally the right thing to do, no?

The moral of the story is this: don't live in the Midwest. Except for the summer corn, it pretty much blows.

Ha. Get it? Blows? like the wind....ah, fuck it. Nevermind.

Happy Thursday!

Great, lots, we aren't sure, I haven't decided

2010-06-21T08:49:00.003-05:00

Those were the answers to the same four questions I answered all-weekend-long.

How are you feeling: Great

Is the baby moving: Lots

What's his name: We aren't sure

Are you going to get an epidural: I haven't decided.

I had a weekend of faking it. No, no...Mr. T and I weren't on a romantic getaway, we were at our baby shower. My mother hosted at a little restaurant on the Cape and then an informal BBQ for everyone back at her house. And it was absolutely perfect. Simple, elegant and classy. Just like my mom.

It was a lovely day.

With that said - enough was enough.

I get that people are excited. I get that people want to touch my belly. I get that people want to talk about how big my boobs are (or aren't, surprisingly). I get that I was the one they wanted to talk to about how awful their labor was thirty years ago.

I am absolutely blessed to have people in my life who love me and who want to celebrate the special occasion with me, I really am.

Celebrating a little bundle of joy in the eyes of family and friends.....what can be better?

I'll tell you what could be better. Being able to play flip cup with all my non-pregnant friends and being able to drink seventeen beers and then pass out in the air conditioned guest room at my Mom's like Mr. T got to do.

Or at least that's what I wanted to do last Saturday.

Towards the end of the party I wanted to scream, "If one more person tries to rub my belly, I'm going to kick you in the vagina, push you on the ground and then ask if you want an epidural."

What is it about pregnancy that obliterates the personal space boundaries that I've spent years putting up?

No, really...what the fuck, people?

I know some of my friends and family who read this blog are going to be all, "Oh my god, I touched her belly a lot - maybe she's talking about me!" So here is my promise to you: if you have this URL, then you're in the trust tree. You can touch me all you want.

Rowr.

What's interesting about my annoyance is that I'm actually a touchy-feely person. I like to hug hello and will probably touch your arm or leg multiple times during a conversation. I don't mind if you do the same.

But in the course of normal chit chat, I typically don't reach over and massage your abs or rub your shoulders or comment on your breast size.

Okay, that last one is a lie. I'll totally talk to you about your boobs. We're a boob family at casa de Beanie and Mr. T.

Anyway - my point is this: if you are not pregnant, and feel a compulsion to touch a pregnant woman's belly, simply ask first. Chances are she'll tell you it's okay. But really, give her the option to tell you to go fuck yourself. You never know - we aren't known for being rational.

To end on a happy note, my cake! How gorgeous is this?!

There's no place like home

2010-06-17T11:11:00.000-05:00

Mr. T and I are headed East for the weekend to spend some time with friends and family.

Most of whom I'm excited to see.

Most, not all.

Dear Beanie:

2010-06-15T09:04:00.000-05:00

Just because you're pregnant, it doesn't mean you can suddenly start wearing colors you don't normally wear.
It is really not flattering.

In fact, you should probably not wear anything that isn't black until after you squirt out the kid.

Scratch that - until forever.

And wow. What can we say about this one?

Aside from: Holy Mother Effing Backfat Aging Batman, that is.

So yeah.

Even though you've only gained about 20 pounds, it looks like you've gained forty, so it's time to chill out. It's time to take Token for a walk longer than down the block so he'll poop. It's time to stop justifying your nightly bowl of ice cream with the fact that it's slow churned, therefore has fewer calories.

It's time to spend more time fooling around with your husband.

Oh wait, that's how we got here in the first place.

Whatever. Enjoy your pregnancy.

love,

Beanie

Bitches, blizzards and becoming the adult

2010-06-13T09:43:00.000-05:00

On our way home from dinner last night, Mr. T begged me to stop at Dairy Queen and since I'm the designated driver these days, I reluctantly agreed.

Oh, and speaking of how big my ass is, I've only gained 18 lbs, which I'm super excited about. My OB? Not so much.

She only wanted me to gain 25 since I "started out a bit high".

Woops.

Anyway.

As we were walking into DQ, there was a group of four high school kids who walked in ahead of us. Three chicks who clearly have their own following and an emo boy who was wearing skinny jeans and untied Run DMC type sneakers.

The emo kid didn't hold the door for me.

Probably because Daddy didn't hug him enough.

As we were standing in line, one of the chicks kept shooting looks my way. Like, really nasty looks. Like, turning around in line, flipping her flat ironed hair and moving her overly made up eyes up and down my pregnant body.

So naturally, I glared at her.

Mr. T pointed out that I was almost growling at her.

And I pointed out that she's probably a giant bitch to everyone she comes into contact with and all of those people kiss her ass.

And since I'm not intimidated by sixteen year old slutty girls, I did what I could to make her wildly uncomfortable.

It worked.

The line was fairly long, about six people head of us and when the group of high school kids came up, they all ordered their food except the bitchy girl. She couldn't get her shit together and for whatever reason she ended up awkwardly stepping aside.

I smiled a condescending smile and ordered my ice cream.

Mr. T rolled his eyes.

Then as we were waiting for our orders, Mr. T noticed that the bitchy girl was holding on to the counter.

And then he heard her say to one of her friends, "Oh my god, I am so high."

The other chick responded, "That's okay - my parents are stupid."

And that's when I realized, she wan't shooting me dirty looks because I'm pregnant.

She was simply looking my way because she was stoned off her ass and was paranoid that I somehow knew.

We've all been there, right?

Stoned in public and worried that a random adult was staring at you, that they knew you were high and that they would somehow find out your name, address and phone number and call your parents and tell them everything.

And then I realized, that I had become the scary adult.

What these kids don't realize is that strange adults don't give a shit if you're high.

In fact, if they are anything like me and Mr. T, they'll spend the whole ride home strategizing on the best way to have scammed you out of your weed.

Adultdom has it's privledges.