Monday, March 5, 2018


For some reason pregnant people ask me for advice on newborns. I don't know why because I hate newborns (I mean--I love my children more than life itself ...they know this and exploit my weakness and try to kill me with sleep deprivation torture and boob infections.)

My advice is this and it sucks because it's not advice:

The weirdest thing about having a baby is not that a human lives in your house who didn't exist last year, it's BOOBS. Boobs rule your life.

NOW LET ME BE CLEAR: Your baby needs food to live and if that food is formula, PLEASE FEED YOUR BABY AND DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT IT omg staaaaaaaap with the mom-shaming, boob tyrants (I'm looking at you, Le Leche League).

Either way, the first week at LEAST, your boobs rule your life.

You will feel your feelings in your boobs.

You will feel your baby's feelings in your boobs.

You will feel the fucking weather in your boobs.

Your boobs own you.

My boobs took ownership on March 22, 2014 at about 1 am when a nurse put the girl baby on me and she bit me so hard my nipple folded in half (bad pronoun. The baby, not the nurse. Nurses don't bite). It bruised that way, in a straight line, and then cracked and developed mastitis which tried to kill me a little bit. MOTHERHOOD IS A BEAUTIFUL FUCKING MIRACLE lol auuugggggh.

Then everything got easier. I made enough milk, she drank enough milk. Breastfeeding became easy and convenient and I loved it. Not everyone feels this way, including Queen Victoria.

And she was the QUEEN! But I liked it. It went well.

The girl was easy to wean. At 17 months, she stopped asking and I stopped offering. She was a Le Leche League poster child. My body didn't even go back to "normal" yet when my boobs (not my brain. Most definitely not my brain) made me say to my husband, "I wouldn't mind being pregnant."

Here we are. 2018. My second child, the boy, is almost 20 months old. And it's happening. He's weaning.

On Monday night he nursed.

On Tuesday morning he asked for a waffle instead of Gaga.

Gaga is his name for my boobs. I don't know why or how he came up with that name but everyone knows because, every time I picked him up from daycare in the last six months, he would jab his cute, stubby finger into my breast bone and yell, "Gaga!" until I either whipped it out or forced him, hysterical, into the car seat so we could Gaga in the privacy of our own home.

On Tuesday night my husband put him to bed and I tried to work up some emotion about the end of the era but I felt nothing but glee. I would be free! I could take ALL THE DRUGS (jk hugs not drugs)! I could drink all the alchomahalz (jk I can't drink more than one unit or I fall asleep)! I can get a tattoo (maybe)! I can buy REAL BRAS (DEFINITELY)!

On Wednesday, at naptime, the boy remembered Gaga. "GAGA GAGA GAGA!" He screamed. But it was too late! Wasn't it? My boobs began to question, threatening to break free from their sports-bra enclosure. I left him to scream and put the girl down for nap. When I came back in he reached for me. I picked him up, feeling like I was going to crumble. I was going to do whatever he asked of me. And he just let me hold him. He didn't ask for anything at all. I put him down and he went right to sleep.

I sobbed. I blubbered. I was breathless, unable to utter a sentence. My husband insisted on video chatting me. He praised me for being strong (he has selfish motives, of course, but also pure ones). I cried and cried and cried and ate chocolate to chase away the Dementors and read some articles online that made me feel bad (LLL....I SEEEEE YOU) and some that made me feel better (Kelly Mom, way to go), and did some work, and...

It's over. No more Gaga.

It was my boobs that were sad, not me. Lady Gaga was crying, not me. She was gonna miss being of use. She was going to miss being gloriously resplendent, unable to be contained by a simple underwire. She was going to miss spending time with that sweet little baby, who always held my hand as he fed. She didn't want to deflate into withered old hag bags. It wasn't me! IT WAS GAGA!

I was gripped by a crashing wave of loneliness. My husband told me I'd feel better soon. He agreed it was the hormones making me hysterical, not me. I'm FINE. I'm HAPPY.

Nearly as long as a one-term presidency (here's hoping), Gaga was commander in chief. And it's over. I'm in charge now.

Thank you, Gaga.

Thursday, March 1, 2018

The Symbolism of the House aka I HATE POTTERY BARN

Is your home a symbol of your mindset? In a dream, yes, maybe. In real life?

My house is a complicated thing. It's large, unwieldy even. It is always a little messy and a little disorganized. It is hard to arrange furniture in it so that the children will not murder themselves. It is full of unfinished projects.

My house is a constant domino effect of broken appliances.

First and biggest was the furnace. The first time we went to turn it on for the season, we realized it wasn't turning on. I had someone come down and look at the old guy. He opened it up and said, "Well that's not good." I texted my husband, "Prepare to buy a new furnace today." Turns out my 1964 furnace had finally, quietly died in the springtime, alone and unnoticed in a (very fortunately not deadly to the whole household) blaze of internal fire. Basically it fried itself and all its wires and was unfix-able. Bring in the estimates. We ended up getting a new furnace and putting in AC and giving them allllllll our money.

Then went the fridge. It stopped working during a heat wave this summer and right before we were having ten people over for dinner. The guys fixed it and we went on our way. Two more calls and we got a new one.

Next the stove. This one turned out to be a quick ($80) reset because it was not actually broken, just flooded.

And the washer and drier decided to take turns three or four times this year, too. A baby sock was stuck in the washer and caused the water to fill but not drain, which is catastrophic when you're trying to wash out your son's blankie that he puked on. The dryer had a potpourri of fixable ($80 each) problems but has been mercifully soldiering on without need of replacement.

The appliance guy must think I have a crush on him with how often I call.

Oh and let's not forget the window. My husband tripped on a kid toy and put his head/shoulder through the kitchen window. He's fine. It looked like he mostly pushed the glass out of the frame with his body and then it shattered on the way down.

For some unknown reason though this, my husband decided we should update our lighting fixtures and have an electrician see to the lights that randomly don't work. So we hired a guy and bought fixtures from several stores including Pottery Barn. Now I'm in lighting limbo because we started the project but the damn Pottery Barn fixture refuses to ship. Every time I track it it has a NEW date two-weeks into the future for shipping and customer service is straight-up lying to me about it. I'm being ghosted by a lamp!


I bought another lamp and now have to wait for the electrician to come back to finish/take my money.

Cost of all of this: infinity.

Is it symbolic? Is there something cosmically wrong here? Or is it just the price of home ownership (reminder: the price is infinity)? Does everything break around me as a test? What are they testing? My sanity? Aren't we testing that enough with the whole two toddlers thing?

Someday I dream (and pinterest) of a home with all functional appliances and lamps, where there is never a random pile of cheerio dust and where you don't find one million toy cars littering the hallways, just asking to be ridden upon like runaway roller skates. I dream of a house where the cats and children will allow an undisturbed house plant to thrive, where photos are on the walls, straight, well-spaced.

No...I don't. Doesn't that sound so boring? Like a fucking Pottery Barn catalog from hell? The chaos is lovable, in its way. I will look back on this phase of insanity with fondness.

I see you out there, trying to be perfect. You might be better dressed. You might have that infinity money to have a perfectly functional house straight from FUCKING POTTERY BARN. You have professional photos of your family done every year and they actually look good and your children actually smile in them (the one time we did professional photos the girl glowered in every. single. one). Your body does all the normal things without incident. You and your children eat spinach on the reg. Do you exist? Or are you a facebook facade? I don't care. I'm not perfect and I don't care so much if you are.

This is it. My messy house. My messy rooms. My messy me. Also fuck you Pottery Barn.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Good Bad Day

I had a good day and I had a bad day. Some days are just like that. Even in Australia.

On paper, it seemed really good. There was chocolate. Fresh air. Sunshine.

But my morning started out early and rough. The boy either loves me so much it hurts or hates me so much it hurts. It's one of those. Nothing in between. When I said it was time to go to school, he began a full body scream tantrum, rendering him impossible to get out the door. The girl was holding it together but we all have sensory processing disorder and hate loud noises so it began to wear on us and finally, I asked her to carry the lunch boxes and she SCREAMED at me that she could not and I yelled at her and then we both apologized and I could tell this was going to be a terrible, no good,  very bad daycare drop off.

We survived the load in with only one dropping of a bag and made it the whole five minutes in the car listening to the baby sing the song of his people. The boy did not seem to know whether or not he wanted to walk into daycare himself or be carried so we took a good three minutes getting from the car to the door. Somehow, and I really can't figure out how, my daughter got her foot caught UNDER the door at this point and started screaming bloody murder. I think she was scared more than hurt. SO, that's right. I'm the mom with TWO screaming children, taking up the whole hallway at daycare.

I abandon my hysterical offspring with the daycare teachers aka saints and hand the valentines for tomorrow to one teacher as I flee. I hope no one notices I did all 25 of them BACKWARDS.

I go to work for a couple hours, tutoring. It is juuuuust fine.

I go to PT--go me. I tell her about how I did sixty minutes of Barre and how my butt hurts and she tells me I really should only do 30 minutes of any exercise at this point and I feel a bit deflated but she helps me with things and works on my stupid hip and then I leave, out into the glorious sunshine where two women on crutches talk about crutches things while they wait for their cars.

What happened next was ridiculous. I wish I could say I was enjoying the sunshine. I can't even say I was on my phone. I WALKED INTO A STREET SIGN. It was a construction "detour" sign and it was placed HEAD LEVEL on the side walk, which seems silly, but more silly is that I walked face first into it!

A very stylish older lady wearing red lipstick (#olderladygoals) witnessed this and was VERY CONCERNED for my health. I got a "sweetie!" And I yelled, "DID YOU SEE HOW STUPID I WAS TO WALK INTO THAT? I'M TOTALLY FINE!" It was super dumb. I'm fine. It actually might bruise.

At this point I decided I deserved ice cream. I know that's counter-productive to the whole go to PT so you can exercise but until then don't really exercise shebang, but I was very near Salt-n-Straw and it is a good month for the special flavors because they are all chocolate themed so I fucking got a scoop of goddamned fancy and amazing fucking ice cream. And I enjoyed it.

And then I bought a dress! I am attending a wedding and need a suitable dress. Shopping is supposed to be a fun activity but it is NOT fun for the poor mom bod because women's clothes shopping is insane. I went to Nordstrom Rack and picked out more dresses than I should have been feasibly carrying and I tried on every single one.

One woman can try on one million dresses and they can all be the same freaking numbered size on the inside and she will find a vast array of horrible fit problems: too big in the boobs, too tight in the boobs, doesn't fit over hips, doesn't zip, zips but with a gap, too long, too short, too low cut, too prudish, what the fuck is this slip thing, how am I supposed to get into this dress, too pink, too black, too too too too tooooooooooooo

I found two. I will do a fashion show at home and pick one.

And then I picked up the children and they alternated screaming at me and being really, really cute and playing nicely together and crying because one or the other was wronged.

Bedtime. Tutor another kid. His "cat" gave me a valentine. Because they are the best family ever.

Here I am. So tired. Still awake.

On paper, so good: worked. sunny day, chocolate, dress.

In real much in between.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

The Follow-Through

This post is full of sports metaphors because I am an athlete now.

(I'm not.)


I did see a Sports Therapy Doctor.

Who referred me to a FANCY Sports Care Center.

Which is IN:


OK maybe adjacent? Attached?  Either way...It's basically a windowed office that looks out onto the field. And the parking lot was under construction so it had FREE VALET today. I am the fanciest. Well okay it didn't feel that fancy dropping off my filthy minivan but OH WELL.

Most importantly, I liked my PT and she seems to understand the human body and how I f-ed mine up royally and what to do to fix it.


I got a GIANT SHOT in my HIP!

It was not that giant. I told my (pregnant) doctor that it was not as bad as the epidural and also that the epidural was not that bad. And then my hip got numb for four hours and I went to go do my Barre DVD but it broke inside my DVD player and so I improvised.

FYI: Barre3 is my FAAAAVORITE mom exercise and I love it so much and recommend it and, no, they don't pay me to say this stuff, but, Sadie Lincoln, call me and you can pay me to say stuff!

When I was done pretending to be a ballerina, I mopped my floor because that is really the true test of the shot's potential effectiveness.

Maybe the shot worked? Hard to tell because there's so much other BS going on in my lower limb region. Anyway, I'm gonna keep on keeping on.

This didn't have enough sports metaphors. Um. Touchdown.


Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Take Care of Yourself: Part 3

In Part 1 we learned about how I'm an old lady and my hip hurts. In Part 2 we learned that I'm an old lady with grey hair except now I have fulfilled my haircut destiny and look like Rapunzel at the end of the movie:

Except older.

Welcome to Part 3 in which we learn HOW TO EXERCISE!

Turns out exercise is important. If we don't exercise we can't lift stuff like three year olds. And we get winded carrying a 26 lb 18 month old up a flight of stairs. And generally we just feel like Cogsworth:

Flabby, fat, and lazy.

Can you tell we watch a lot of Disney around here?

SO! I'm gonna EXERCISE!

STEP 1: Make time

1. Turns out in 2014 I bought 20 hours of daycare at the community center and didn't use it because: A) certain individuals didn't love the daycare
B) certain other individuals read the schedule wrong and could never figure out when to drop her off when a class she wanted to take was also happening
C) certain same individuals forgot completely.
So I put an event in my google calendar to use up the remaining 8 hours of daycare over the next few weeks and the children will have to DEAL! Also I'll take them to the indoor park after.

2. Put a note in my calendar to try that class on Thursday afternoons I've been wanting to try for three years and to do an online workout on Tuesday afternoons.

STEP 2: Move that body!

1. Due to all the missed connections in Parts 1 and 2, I have yet to make it to the gym in person but I DID purchase four barre DVDs on cyber Monday and have been trying them out during "free time."

2. Because of my broken hip (disclaimer: not broken), I SUCK at exercise. And because of my broken abs (also not broken) my core is super mega weak. Turns out having two 9+ lb infants surgically removed in quick succession can mess up your body. So I quickly had to step it waaaaaay back from my fitness plan post baby #1: baby boot camp.

SIDE NOTE ON BABY BOOT CAMP: Some people LOOOOOVE IT. Some people find it to be a fantastic community of like-minded moms and great opportunity to have their children learn how important fitness is.

I did not.

I found it to be...let's just say not my people. The particular class I took was in a wealthy suburb and was during the weekday so it was full of SAHM (learn your acronyms) and we just didn't have much in common though they were totally nice.  Mostly though, my daughter HATED being stuck in a stroller while I did squats IN VIEW OF THE PLAYGROUND. I have to hand it to her, that one makes sense. The other main reason that class didn't work for me is it broke my foot. Ok it didn't DIRECTLY break my foot. And it didn't ACTUALLY break my foot. But I did get a stress fracture from trying to keep up with the other moms. So I quit. And got pregnant again. Not related events.

Back to the present.

STEP 3: Move that body! Slowly! In a way that's safe for YOU!

1. Still working on this one. It's hard to do PT exercises and feel my limits and see that they are significant. I'm not the young, spry 20 something of yesteryear. I'm THIRTY SOMETHING. (32). Also I ignored myself so long and so hard that now I have to start over.

2. So I'm going to TRY to go easy on myself. But not so easy I do nothing.


Take Care of Yourself! Part 2

Ok so the stunning details of PART 1 chronicled my attempts to be a grown-up through medical care.


Ok don't get too excited.

Let's just dye my hair. And cut it. That's easy, right?


STEP 1: Schedule that shit!

1. I scheduled my hair cut weeks in advance.


1. It is the day of my haircut.
2. I showed up to my appointment after telling everyone and their mom I was GETTING A HAIRCUT TODAY!
3. My stylist didn't SHOW!
4. Turns out she'd written the wrong date down and wasn't even at the salon.
5. In a rage, I schedule another appointment with a new stylist.
6. I show up to the new appointment and sit down and start telling her all I want to do when she interrupts me to tell me she only scheduled me for a cut, not a cut and color and that she only has time to do the cut. I spin in my head! How dare she mess this up! I am pretty FUCKING SURE I TOLD HER! But also, shouldn't she confirm that because I'm a woman scheduling an appointment in the middle of the weekday. Chances are I have grey hair!
7. I leave the appointment because I don't want half a haircut. Later that day is when my doctor no-showed me and I feel as if I have upset my karma somehow or perhaps was cursed by someone...I burn some sage (I do not.)
8. I feel super mega guilty and also embarrassed because I'm sure I came off in not my best light by nearly crying and then skulking out of the salon.
9. My original stylist has been texting me, feeling really bad about messing up so I give her another shot.
10. The night before my new appointment, my daughter seems like maybe she's getting sick. I put her to bed and bemoan how I'm probably not going to get a haircut.
11. In the morning, she's fine. Back to normal (kinda...she's very...unique)
12. Send her to school! Go to work! GO TO MY HAIRCUT!
14. As I pay for my haircut, a text comes in. My daughter spiked a fever at school and I need to go fetch her.


Was that so hard? Yeah. Kinda was.

Take Care of Yourself! Part 1

Self- care. Seems so easy. Be selfish. Take care! It's our biological imperative to protect our bodies from harm.


I keep hurting myself because I'm keeping the boy from leaping to his death from arms. Or he's insisting on being held but also not holding on. Or the girl wants to forgot where she exists in space and decides to become a mass of flailing legs.


I keep doing chores instead of exercise.


I keep eating toddler leftovers instead of real food.


I still don't get to sleep through the night.


I wear active wear always.


I am a mess.


A big ole slobby, gray haired, scraggly, poorly nourished, bags under my eyes, walking funny because of injury, out of shape, MESS.

So I made a plan. I am going to TAKE CARE OF MYSELF, damnit! It's the least I can do!

STEP ONE: Make time.

OK done. I freed up my afternoons on the days the kids go to daycare and I'm gonna TAKE CARE OF MYSELF (Tuesdays and Thursdays for three hours. When the chores are done. If I don't have something else to do. If school is in session).

STEP TWO: Schedule some shit!

1. Go to the fucking doctor and figure out why my hip hurts all the time,
2. Doctor sends me to PT
3. Go to PT for two months.
4. At the end of two months, the PT says, "We don't know what's wrong with you but it's getting worse. Go to your doctor."
5. Go to the fucking doctor except now I have to get a new doctor because my old doctor doesn't work during my three hours of alone time.
6. Get new doctor who refers me to a Sports Therapy Doctor.
7. Go to fucking sports therapy appointment.
8. Doctor runs so late I have to leave to pick up my kids.
9.  Get a new sports therapy doctor.
10. Office calls to tell me this doctor is not in my insurance network.
12. Go to doctor. I KID YOU NOT. On the way to the appointment I GET HIT BY A CAR! But it was very minor and left no damage and it was fine and I was still on time. But it seemed symbolically significant.
13. Doctor pokes me in the hip and says, "Yeah there's a couple of things going on here."
14. X-rays hip
15. Doctor says, "Your X-ray looks good. Which means I don't know what it is yet. Let's INJECT YOU WITH STEROIDS!"

Ok this is as far as I've gotten so far because I'm exhausted and waiting to schedule my injection. I could have gone today but then I'd have to bring my whole "team" and I think doctor's offices are traumatic enough for them without them having to witness this: