#NakedMoms: Motherhood & Reinvention

When I was a freshman in high school, my parents went away on a week-long cruise. They left my grandma in charge of my brother and me, and sailed on their merry way. Gram wasn’t about to climb the steps to our second story where my bedroom was, so I knew that any, uh, frowned upon activities could take place up there and with generally no recourse. And what did my 15-year-old self want to do that she wasn’t allowed to do? Dye her own hair. Like, a different color each day my parents were gone.

Sure, there were moments when Gram would yell from the bottom of the steps, “Stephanie! What is that smell?” and I would have to feign ignorance: “I don’t know, Gram. Maybe the neighbors are burning their trash again?” She never did seem to notice when I reappeared a few hours later with blonde highlights or dark tips or, my personal favorite, the Carrot Top orange hue that just would not wash out in time for school pictures.

By the end of the week, my hair was fried. So was my ass when my parents got home.

All this to say, I like change. Also I possibly like doing things I’m not supposed to do, but mostly? It’s about change.

I’ve rarely been intimidated by change; rather, I look forward to it like it is a personal challenge or a new adventure. When I started working from home after having my son in 2009, I wanted to keep climbing the proverbial ladder. I applied and was accepted for various promotions and positions within the company, and while I did try a few of them out, they didn’t jive with my I’m a Mom First Schedule. Never one to be shy about how I’m feeling, I shared my concerns with my supervisors and was able to move back into my original assignment. The willingness to work for a change, but the good sense to know when it isn’t beneficial, has served me well in my career.

Like a shark, I’ve got to keep moving. Or a not so intimidating image: I’m like Finding Nemo‘s Dory; I just keep swimming.

This is my philosophy in parenting, too: reinvention. The moment I thought I had a handle on my newborns’ schedules, they flipped the script on me and changed something significant like their sleep or eating habits. It was no different with two toddlers; one day they loved peas, and the next they made them into a lovely paste and painted my beautiful wooden table with them. As my son approaches the age of 5, he has become more predictable, which I love, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate the random change of scenery or surprise. Despite his affinity for a strict schedule (imagine a pint-size Sheldon Cooper from The Bang Theory), he does get excited for a little spontaneity.

Breakfast for dinner.

Surprise trips to see friends.

Unannounced visitors.

That’s how we keep the magic alive, friends.

As for motherhood, I welcome the opportunity to switch it up. Being flexible isn’t always easy because, you know, life can get in the way, but as a general rule, I anticipate and implement change with a happy heart. When something new begins, often something old ends, and while that can be sad (think weaning a babe or a kiddo heading off to kindergarten), the promise of a fresh start usually trumps that moment of separation remorse.

My children will get older, as will I, but the skill of rolling with the punches will remain as important as it is today. Reinventing myself, our home, our goals, whatever is necessary to provide for and support our family, will always be one of my top priorities. Acceptance and change don’t always go hand-in-hand, but the roller coaster of life is so much more fun if we don’t always hang on so tightly and, every once in a while, throw our hands in the air and just enjoy the ride.

Acceptance and change don't always go (2)

 

 

On the 14th of every month, I reveal the truth about motherhood with 12 other writers. Follow the hashtag #NakedMoms and check out the links below from the other moms and find out which stories resonate with you the most! (Links to come!) 

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What Does One Billion Look Like?

We used to be tight. Close-knit. We understood one another. And then I got to high school and everything changed. There was a distance between us, unspoken but obvious. I tried to pretend like nothing was wrong, but night after night, I cried to my dad that I just didn’t understand why things had to change. [Read more...]




Oversharing: I Peed My Pants At Wal-Mart and Other Tales of Mommy Incontinence

“If peeing your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis.”

–Old Farm Lady on Billy Madison

I heart Sarah because she regularly Overshares on her blog The Sadder But Wiser Girl, which is where today’s post was first published. Sarah’s inability to control her bladder and her willingness to then write about it make her tops in my book. Here for your amusement, please welcome:

OversharingPresents.SadderButWiserGirl

 

We’re avoiding Target as much as possible these days because it’s just too darn fun.  Target just goes from 0 to $100 in no time flat.  It’s those dang end aisles, the clearance, and stuff that is just really cool!  Any list you bring in there somehow disintegrates or gets extra items added to it.  Therefore we’re forced to go to my least my favorite place in the world, Wal-Mart.  On the list today is the biggest bag of dog food for the smallest price and pasta that helps us poop. Sounds like a fun trip, doesn’t it?

Upon inspection of the dog food prices, it looked like the 50 pound bag of Ol’Roy was going to be the best deal.  Less than $20 for 50 pounds of dog food?  That’s, um, less than 50 cents a pound (don’t ask me to break it down more than that).  We’re used to buying the 17 pound bags of Puppy Chow with a coupon.  But this is MUCH cheaper.  I don’t know why we even bother, the dog would rather eat trash or steal our food than actually eat dog food.  I sat and watched him eat a stick today.  Really?

Of course now that I have made the decision that yes indeedy this is what we are going to buy, I realize that it may be difficult to get it into the cart.  How do other people buy that stuff anyway?  Do you go find someone and ask for them to haul it up front?  Oh wait, that’s Target.  Repeat after me, Target is BAD.  It has the hypnotic eye.

I study the bag carefully.  It’s only 50 pounds.  I’m not a professional weightlifter, I just say it like that because I have kids that weigh not much less than that who still insist on being carried.  But this bag is just so, BIG.  I figure I can probably slide it onto the bottom part of the cart.  I pulled on the bag, it slid towards me pretty easily.  I grabbed hold of it with all of my might and pulled it off the top of the pile.

And as the bag came off and into my waiting arms, I peed my pants.  That’s right, I dribbled right into my own undies.  I was now at Wal-Mart with a wet crotch, staggering around with a bag of dog food that weighed more than my seven year old son.  I really hope the “People of Wal-Mart” cam didn’t happen to be following me right at that moment.  If so, I can assure you that I am wearing adequate clothing and no children were buried under things in my cart.

I admit it, I’ve dribbled in more places than a leaky garden hose.  Thanks kids.

Ah the joys of motherhood.  It’s amazing how a body that can hold another human being inside of it can’t contain it’s own pee.  It’s not a new problem for me, I’ve had it since I gave birth to my son.  It’s not like I just pee my pants randomly though, there’s always some sort of force involved.

Have you ever walked down a hallway, stopped and crossed your legs because you knew a sneeze was coming?  I call it the “Antipee Maneuver”, because when you have those issues you have to make some adjustments to anything that involves moving around and muscle contractions.  Take the gym.  I used to go to exercise classes religiously at 5:30 in the morning two or three days a week (yeah I don’t know how I ever did that either).  It was ok except for anything that involved jumping.  I am unable to do jumping jacks without wetting myself.  So I do a sort of half  jack where I don’t actually spread my legs.  It’s more like just jumping while I wave my hands in the air. I also can’t jump rope.  When we would do jump roping, I would have to do it one leg at a time.  Fortunately no one else caught on that I was struggling.

It doesn’t stop there.  My husband knows darn well that he can make me pee my pants.  He knows because he’s seen me do it.  He’s been known to pick me up and shake me, tickle me, or sneak up and scare me, all with the same result-a little bit of tinkle in the nether regions.  This evening he thought it would be EXTREMELY funny to sit on me and tickle me.  I warned him about the consequences of said tickling-in other words I shrieked, “I HAVE ALREADY PEED MY PANTS ONCE TODAY, DON’T MAKE ME DO IT AGAIN!!!!”  He quit, but more because I wasn’t being any fun than it was from my threatening voice.

At thirty eight years old, I know by now that it pays to be prepared for most situations.  But since I am ADD, I tend to NOT be prepared unless it’s that time of the month.  I just forget until it’s too late.  I’ve been known to have to buy new underwear when out and about for the day.  I’ve also been known to go home and change my pants and come back.  You’d think I’d learn to have either pantiliners or emergency underwear handy, much like I have extra underwear for my kids just in case.  Nope.

Hey I bet you’re wondering what happened to the bag of dog food.  Oh I got in on the cart.  I had to pretty much lay on the floor of the aisle and shove the bag on to the little part underneath the cart.  I also managed to somehow get it out of the cart and into my trunk.  It’s still in my trunk.  My husband can bring it in, because I bet he won’t pee his pants doing it.  Guys have it so easy.

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Sarah Almond is the mom of two kids and the wife of one evil genius.  She roams the earth in search of dark chocolate and caffeinated beverages, but can also be found tap tap tapping at her keyboard writing the wildly unpopular blog The Sadder But Wiser Girl. Read all about her adventures in motherhood and ADD on her blog
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 * Sarah first shared this tale with us on May 27, 2013 and it remains among the most popular Oversharing posts! *




Preparing the “Big” Kids for D-Day

When my daughter was born, my son wasn’t yet 2-years-old. He was basically clueless when it came to my big belly, and as far as he was concerned, his special sleepover at Grandma and Pap’s the night I gave birth to his sister, was just that: a sleepover. The first few months were a bit challenging for my husband and I, but the kids were blissfully unaware. The upside of having kiddos in such close succession: they only know life as together.

100_2344-3

But I’m not gonna lie: I’m sweating a little over D-Day; Baby #3′s ETA is April 10th. My son is almost five, my daughter on the brink of turning 3, and they have a groove, man. They have their routine and their games and their “thing.” Baby is going to be a physical and emotional monkey wrench diapered into their plans. How will they receive him/her? Will they want to help or will my requests to grab Mommy one more wipe be met with irritation? Will they welcome our little poop machine or wish him/her away? Sure, we’ll have days where they fluctuate between the two, but I’m trying to make the initial homecoming as exciting (and stress-free) as possible. That’s why my obsessive personality compelled me to put together what I’ve dubbed The Sibling Box.

 

Here’s the method behind my madness:

Title Image

 

My attempt at being cute and crafty; please note I am neither.

My attempt at being cute and crafty; please note I am neither.

 

 

My kids loves to make “art crafts,” as the girl calls them, so I thought they could create something they’re proud of and give it to the baby when they meet in the hospital. I figured that when everyone comes home, we can hang the kids’ art work in the nursery, and each time they see it, they’ll remember their contribution to the big day. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

sibling_arts

 

 

A few weeks ago, the fam and I attended the first-ever Pittsburgh Parenting Expo, and my husband snagged these adorable coloring books. There are pages for the kids to personalize with their names, their age, their “role” (i.e. big brother), and, of course, the baby’s stats: name, birth date and time, etc. It’s like they’re making their own baby book, so we can compare notes. You know, when I get around to that third baby book…

Sibling_coloringbook

 

 

 

Western Pennsylvania weather has been a real wench lately, so even though it’s spring, it’s not really spring. In the event that the day the baby is born is one of those rare, fair-weathered days, I’ve included two of my kids’ favorite outdoor activities: bubbles and “poppers.” More than likely, though, we’ll have snow flurries and whipping winds, so when they’re done being artsy, the dominoes will keep my son occupied for hours, and my daughter can remind everyone that SHE IS THE PRINCESS with her new wand.

Sibling_outdoor

 

 

Clothes make the man. And, in this case, the children. These adorable t-shirts will be featured in the first of our family of five photos, and everyone in the hospital will recognize the big bro and sis as they saunter down the halls, which they will LOVE. I’ve included a few books that we’ve read before, but may make more sense once D-Day is here. Stylish bookworms? Be still, my beating heart.

Sibling_shirts

 

 

Sibing_allcontents

 

When my husband and I are at the hospital, the kids will (hopefully) be relishing in their new stuff while soaking up some quality Grandma and Pap time. It all sounds great in theory, and I’m excited for the big unveiling of the Sibling Box, but let’s be realistic: I could go into labor in the middle of the night, the kids sleep through the whole thing, and come to the hospital with bed head and wearing PJs. My grand scheme may be the most epic of Pinterest fails. Meh. Whatever. Martha Stewart I am not, but at least I tried.

Tell me: what did you do (if anything!) to help ease the transition of bringing home a new bundle?

 

 

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Other resources to help introduce older siblings to the new baby:

University of Michigan Health System

Kids’ Health

What To Expect




The Walk of Shame

Yesterday around 11am, I started to feel…funny. Lower back pains, cramping in my belly–you know, in labor kind of funny. I put my husband on alert at work and went about the rest of my day as normal: dropped the boy off at pre-school, got the girl down for her nap, and settled in at my computer to get some work done. But the cramping and the aches continued, so I did what the professionals suggest and changed positions. I readily took to the couch (like I needed an excuse to nap), and lay there for about a half an hour. The aches increased, which were reminiscent of the back labor I had with my son in 2009. Not a fan, but I recognized the signs. Or so I thought.

Called the doctor’s office and just my luck, my favorite doc was in! She wanted to see me, so I put the “we might be in labor wheels in motion.” Contacted all involved parties, arranged for my mom to stay at the house while my gal slept, the husband came home from work, and we left for my appointment.

In retrospect, it’s worth mentioning that I spoke the words, “I don’t feel like this is IT,” before we left, and Zach seconded that emotion. Didn’t know how right we were…

Anyhoo, the non-stress test and excruciating exam (seriously, can we get some doctors with longer fingers?) proved that I was, in fact, contracting and dilated. For those of you familiar with and/or interested in the specifics: less than a week ago, I was barely dilated; at today’s appointment, I was two centimeters. So, progress! That, coupled with the fact that we live about an hour from where I deliver, my doc suggested we head to the hospital in the event that my labor would just take off, as is common in subsequent pregnancies. She called ahead and even managed to let us bypass triage and hooked us up with a labor and delivery suite. Whoo hoo!

Or not.

I won’t lie: we weren’t necessarily rushing to the hospital. In fact, when we got there, my handsome hubby and I walked down the street to Panera. Hey, labor is hard work and Mama wanted a bagel. We laughed as we sat munching on our carbs; had that been our first baby, there is no way we would have dilly-dallied like that. #ExperiencedParents

By the time we meandered back to the hospital, all of the L&D rooms were full, of course. There were so many laboring Mamas that many of them were laboring (and possibly delivering) in triage rooms, which, if you aren’t familiar with those rooms, are basically closets with uncomfortable beds. By the time we finished the paperwork and the same Q/A session with three different nurses, we were taken back to our closet and all the formalities began: urine sample, blood pressure check, hooked up to monitors, etc. We seemed to be making progress.

Or not.

We sat around for a few hours before a nurse came to actually read the results from the non-stress test. She never did anything with the pee I had so proudly produced on demand. What a waste. She offered to get me some water and then disappeared forever and ever into the hospital abyss, never to return with said water. When the monitors started acting crazy a few minutes later, I rang the nurse’s desk for help. I was told someone would be right down.

An hour later and no one to be found, and I started to get pissed. We turned on the Pirates game to pass the time (Go Bucs), and finally, a little after 7 (over 2 hours since we had arrived), a doctor came by to examine me. I was incredibly discouraged to learn that I had only made a half a centimeter’s worth of progress AND to hear that the baby’s head was “pretty high,” which is the exact opposite of what my OBGYN said at my appointment only a few hours before. She remarked how low the baby was…

Is it possible to regress while in labor?

Because I did. The back ache was still there, but faint. Any signs of contractions were so far and few between that I barely noticed them. And no other symptoms had surfaced. No bueno.

Finally, around 9pm, my doctor stopped in and started throwing around words like “augmenting” and “admitting for a c-section.”

No.

Because I had a c-section with my son in 2009, I have a scar on my uterus. (Duh). Despite a successful vaginal delivery with my daughter in 2011, there are still concerns of uterine rupture. I’m not a candidate for induction, and the only way the doctors will help the labor along is if I make more progress on my own. Basically, my options were to let my body do its thing all in due time (either at home or in all of triage’s frustrating discomfort) OR wait for a L&D room whereupon I would be “enticed” into another c-section. I asked to go home.

And so we gathered our belongings and my pride, and made the walk of shame out of the hospital. I am home now, typing this at 4am because STILL PREGNANT.

Part of me is frustrated because HELLOOOO this is my third pregnancy. How do I NOT know what labor feels like? I never jumped the gun with the first two; why start now?! Another part of me is embarrassed for the same reasons. When we were told to head to the hospital, I contacted work, friends and family, and my pals on Facebook to let them know it was “go time.” And now I’m all, “Just kidding. I’m a moron.” So, blah.

Babies come when they’re good and ready. I know this. I just thought this baby was good and ready. I felt like a little kid on Christmas Eve; the anticipation and excitement were building and building and now…nothing. Though it was nice to have time with Zach, and be able to give one another our full attention. That’s hard to do with kids and life. Oh, well. Good things come to those who wait and more clichés and whatnot.

And now we wait.




I Got a Spray Tan. With My Mother.

Did you know that spray tans are now done one-on-one? Like, the days of you being alone in a shower-esque room with nozzles squirting you are gone. In their place is a perky, 20-something blonde who strips you down to your glory and asks you to rearrange your thigh fat for optimal spraying.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say one-on-one? I totally meant two-on-one. Because my mother came with me to rearrange thigh fat…

SprayTan

 

 

“Let’s get a spray tan for vacation!”

She was so excited. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had ZERO interest in looking like one of Willy Wonka’s Oompa Loompas on the beach.

 

But then she said the magic words:

“I’ll pay!”

Sold.

My mom has always been something of a sun worshiper. Despite the undisputed evidence that overexposure to UV rays is harmful, the woman insists time spent in the sun is healthy. Let me rephrase that: the woman insists hours spent in the noonday sun sans sunblock is healthy.

The idea to get a spray tan seemed a better option than frying her skin to a nice crispy, cancerous brown. So sprayed we were…

We arrive early and wait. And wait some more. We wait so long that I inevitably have to pee, and of course that’s exactly when we’re called back. A lovely young lady instructs us to strip and then promises she’ll be back in “just a sec.”

“Why would you come back?” I ask, crossing my legs to avoid accidental piddle.

“To spray ya!” she answers a little too enthusiastically.

She closes the door behind her and I just stare at my mom.

“What. The. Eff. MOOOOOMMMMMMM?! I thought we were, like, in a shower by ourselves?!”

Along with my mother’s affinity for sunbathing, she takes great pleasure in watching me muddle through uncomfortable situations. She says it’s when I’m at my best. Which is code for, “you broke my vagina in 1980 and this is payback.”

When the perky spray tanner returns, I’m still fully clothed. I start rambling: “I was under the impression this was a booth, like on the episode of Friends where Ross forgets to spin, ohmygod that was hilarious!, do you REMEMBER that?!, and…”

The poor girl’s eyes beg me to stop talking. Her only response: “We don’t do the booth anymore.”

She tosses me a pair of mesh thong underwear like they’re going to make a difference and I fight the urge to attack her. And then I give myself a pep talk.

Calm Stephanie says: You have given birth to two human beings, and many a stranger has seen your lady bits. Why do you care what this bouncy blonde with her flawless complexion and stretch mark-free body thinks of you?!

Nutjob Stephanie counters: Well, for one, she ain’t catching any of my babies and I see her wrist tattoo that says “Laugh.” That’s exactly what she’s going to do once I disrobe.

Spray tanner: “Ready when you are!”

Whatever. I get nekkid. And then, as I tend to do when I’m nervous, say a lot of inappropriate stuff:

“You don’t mind spending so much face-time with strange women’s cha-chas?”

“Have you ever sprayed a dude?! Was his junk just, like, OUT THERE?!”

“I wish I would have known booths are a thing of the past. I would have ladyscaped a bit better, knowwhatI’msayin?!”

She smiled politely, once again silently willing me to shut up.

Between the spray, the fans, and the roaring air conditioning, my “girls” were standing at attention, and at one point (no pun intended), the lovely sprayer lady accidentally brushed up against them. If I were a more mature person, I would have ignored the mishap. But I think we’ve established that I have the sense of humor of a sixth grade boy. So I said something like, “If you break’em, you buy’em!”

The entire time I’m making an absolute ass out of myself, my mother is standing stark naked in the corner laughing so hard that everything on her is shaking. Everything. I will carry that image with me always.

Finally, we’re both sprayed and standing, still in a state of undress, in “drying position:” with our hands on our heads like the next order of business is a good frisking. I may have done a little dance in front of the fans, but you can’t prove anything.

We’re informed that we can’t wear our bras home because they will smear the tan, so we free-fall out to the car. I admit my skin looks good, healthier, because I have a penchant for pleasing my parents. But when I get home, I really inspect myself: the tan has seeped into every crease, crevice, and stretch mark on my body. Like a highlighter, the tan calls attention to every imperfection as though it’s yelling, “Look at this a-hole! She thought she was going to look like a Victoria’s Secret model, but she’s lookin’ more like a cross between  There’s Something About Mary’s Magda and Bob Barker! WHAT A FOOL!”

Source

 

Shut up, spray tan. Never again.

Unless my mom pays.

This story was originally published on August 13, 2013 over at Jenn’s place, Something Clever 2.0

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Oversharing: And That Was All.

It has been a loooong time since I’ve written something just for fun, and today is the day we get back to our roots. Back to our dysfunctionally fun Oversharing roots. Granted, I didn’t write today’s post, Jen from Real Life Parenting did, but it’s a story that could have just as easily happened to me. Or you. Or anyone with a colon.

OversharingPresents.RealLifeParenting

 

It was New Year’s Eve and I was lying on a gurney in the emergency room discussing the likely next step in my night’s celebration: an emergency appendectomy. That was NOT how I anticipated the night would go.

Hubbinator and I had invited my college roommate and her husband over for our own intimate party. We’d have drinks and snacks while we played games and watched Dick Clark count down to the New Year. Smart planning, we thought, so we could drink champagne all night!!

Instead, I was doubled over in pain like I never felt before. It started out as a nagging ache in my stomach but became more persistent and sharp as it traveled down my side. As I described what felt like a searing knife stabbing into my abdomen, the ER nurse continued to ask questions.

“Have you had a fever?” I was a twenty-two-year-old recent college graduate. I didn’t have a thermometer. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She continued, “Any nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation?” Oh, yay! My least favorite topic–my pooping habits. ”Um, yes to the nausea. No to the vomiting. Yes to the (mumbling) diarrrrr… and no to the other one.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and shot me a glance that said Seriously, sister, I don’t do “embarrassed.” This is only the beginning. 

My alter-ego, Shitbrick.

My alter-ego: Shitbreak.

Earlier that afternoon, an hour or two before Angela and Bob arrived, I had a pretty boisterous bout in the bathroom. Years later when I watched the scene in American Pie with Shitbreak after Stiffler had given him a PentaLax Macchiato, I was sure they had modeled it after my New Year’s Eve Poopapalooza. So, to be clear, Ms. Nightingale, I definitely had experienced some diarrhea.

 

She said the doctor would be in to check me over, but since it seemed like textbook appendicitis, she was ordering blood work, an X-ray, and wanted a urine sample. “There’s a bathroom right there. Here’s a cup. Have you ever given a urine sample before?” Grimacing with another surge of pain, I grunted out, “Yes. I can pee in a cup.” Hunched over like a bell tower attendant in Notre Dame, I shuffled to the bathroom in the center of the triage area.

As much as I tried, I was too tense from the pain to be able to pee. I couldn’t relax enough to get even a drip. Nothing.

Feeling defeated and not wanting to have to tell my no-nonsense nurse that I actually could NOT pee in a cup, I limped back to the bed with my empty vessel. Feeling sorry for myself and the fact that this was not how I imagined the evening going, I wondered for a few seconds if I should have just toughed it out and not ruined everyone’s New Year’s Eve. Then another wave of pain came over me. Nope. Definitely worth the trip to the ER.

I was writhing and moaning on the bed as the cute, young doctor walked through the curtain. Wanting to seem polite although I thought I was dying, I wheezed out a “Hhhrrrrghghghhhiiiiii.” He made quick work of his exam and was impressed by my vocal strength when he pushed on the side of my abdomen. He wanted to get all the test results back before scheduling surgery–and he mentioned one other exam. Just then Nurse Nightingale was back carrying a long tube. “Since you weren’t able to pee in the cup, I brought a catheter.” Catheter? … Oh, yes, catheter. Also known as Tube Up The Hooha. Fantastic.

After that fun, I commented that I had to go to the bathroom. She said I shouldn’t since she just emptied my bladder. Sigh. ”No, not THAT kind of bathroom. The other kind.” You know? Wink, wink. She gave me that same exasperated look from before. “You’re saying you need to have a bowel movement?” GeezLouise! Maybe you could say that a little louder so that everyone out in the waiting room will know I hafta poop!! “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I need to go to the bathroom.”

Hobbling my way back, I realized it was right in the middle of everything. People were bustling by the door, stopping to talk and review charts right outside. I was beginning to panic. If this anything like my earlier round of the ‘rrhea, everyone will hear meIt made me think back to earlier that night. Although I needed to, there was No Way In Hell I was pooping with Ang and Bob just outside the bathroom door. Our apartment was small. You could practically hear someone breathing from the other room, never mind dropping bombs in the john. But I didn’t really have a choice this time. The issue was imminent.

To my complete surprise and total embarrassment when I opened the door after I was done, Cute Doctor was there.  Areyoufreakingkiddingme??!!

This won't hurt a bit...

This won’t hurt a bit…

 

In a room more private than the curtain-walled receiving area from before, he explained he needed to do a rectal exam. Rectal? … In the BUTT??! Oh God! I was concentrating on a happy little place in my mind when CutiePatootie said, “How is that?” What??! You’ve got your finger up my arse and I want to die, but otherwise… “Um, I can’t say it’s my favorite.” He stifled a chuckle and said, “I mean, is it painful?” No, not painful, just uncomfortable.

 

He explained that with appendicitis, a rectal exam would have made me want to jump off the table in pain. Since that wasn’t the case, he wanted to review the results of my other tests to see what they indicated.

As it turns out, everything came back normal except the X-ray. It showed that I had an “inordinate amount of gas” that was probably causing my pain. Just after Cuteness delivered the diagnosis, the nurse brought my husband, Ang, and Bob back to see me. If I thought it was embarrassing to have my friends hear me drop a deuce, that paled in comparison to the fact that I had to tell them that our festive-night-turned-lame was because I was a pretentious pooper. I gave them a wimpy smile and said, “As it turns out, it was just a fart. And that was all.”

*********************************

Resident pooper, I mean Jen, blogs over at Real Life Parenting:

Mom. Wife. Writer. Dork. I love my kids all the time. I like them most of the time. Some days I’m surprised I still have any hair on my head. I’m sassy and spunky. I speak Sarcasm fluently. I like to laugh and try not to take things too seriously. I’m not always successful. Usually funny, sometimes passionate, always real.” 

Jen is also one of the fabulous contributors to the anthology The HerStories Project, and she just happens to be my carpool partner; we’re hiking it to Baltimore for the BlogU Conference in June (you bought your ticket, right?!). This Mama takes selfies motivated entirely by the desire to embarrass her kid, which I appreciate. See those pics and keep up with her antics on Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter, @RealLifeParent2

This post first appeared in the Blogger Idol Finale. The assignment: Choose a prompt from this list of 40 Really Awful Writing Prompts




Explaining Fire Safety To Your Sensitive Kid

Reddish orange tongues licked the black sky. The smoke, a thick blanket of suffocation. Sirens and lights, people gathering, the news report the following day.

It happened so quickly. It could have been our house, but it wasn’t. This time.

Fire safety

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Freckles & Curse Words

In my current very pregnant state, one could accurately describe my emotional well-being as fragile. Iffy. Psychotic. I don’t pretend to be stable right now; the tears fall when I repeatedly drop my razor in the shower, and the curse words fly when the dogs lick the sliding glass door I just friggin’ cleaned. I have accepted this as the norm and wear my scarlet C for CRAZY proudly.

There is one thing that can send me right over the proverbial edge, though…

My husband, who is already lean and fit, started complaining that he is losing too much weight. In the past month, he has lost almost ten pounds because he has been so busy with coaching AND because he gave up desserts for Lent. Here’s the thing about my man: his meal portions rival that of a small country’s daily intake, and my carbtastic family just watches him chow down with envy in our eyes and intentions to force feed him lard in our hearts. Normally, I just smile and revel in the fact that one day, he, too, will know what it’s like to have a ginormous gut resting on aching hips, but this year, it’s different. I’m already anticipating the difficulty with which I will lose this baby weight, especially because I only like to run if a rabid dog is chasing me. And here he is, upset that he’s shedding the pounds so easily.

Thankfully, my new pal, Shauna Lynn of Freckles and Curse Words, gets it. In a few months, when I begin my weight loss journey, I will remember her post “Men Dieting vs. Women Dieting” and fight the urge to smack my husband upside his skinny head. Shauna has been busting her butt just like her husband, but the results aren’t exactly…fair:

 

The guy just decides to lose weight and its practically falling off him? Seriously peeps, he has dropped 2 pant sizes…Here I am, working out just as hard, eating just as healthy, and a measly 6 pounds have fallen off my frame?

 

How do you do it, men? How do you, time and time again, ensure that we women will be eaten first if the world freezes over and we have to resort to cannibalism to survive?

I love me some Shauna and not just because she is also (unwillingly) maintaining the junk in her trunk; we actually have a lot in common. Mostly the pizza thing:

Shauna is…

a thirty something mother/wife/sister/daughter/friend. She’s a bookkeeper by day, blogger in my free time. She likes pizza, smoothies, yoga and using exclamation points too much. (seriously, its a problem!!)

Her blog is pretty new, it turned a year old on March 8th! It started off as a hobby while she was home on maternity leave, but she loves it so much, she is trying to turn it into more!

So what is Freckles and Curse Words, besides a super clever blog title? Shauna explains:

 

My blog is a lifestyle blog.  I want it to feel like if you stopped by for coffee, or a glass (bottle, whatever) of wine, this is how I would chat with ya.  It’s honestly me, and honestly I swear a lot. Plus I have a shit load of freckles…….hence the name Freckles and Curse words.  I’m a girls’ girl, so I blog about everything from motherhood, to gossip, to my favourite products, to whatever crosses my mind, past, present, future.

 

 

Shauna has two pages on her blog that make my heart so happy. The first is “Motherhood,” where she shares her (honest) reflections on motherhood. Breastfeeding, the need for time to herself, and a few sentimental moments thrown in for good measure, Shauna is not one of those humble brags you want to set on fire after reading. The second, “Girlfriend Shit,” just makes me laugh. That’s all I’m saying about that page because I fully intend on begging Shauna to submit some of that goodness to my Oversharing Series.

 

Until you meet her again, here on this blog in the Oversharing Series PLEASE, you can find Shauna on Twitter @frecklecursword and on Google+

 

One of my favorite parts of blogging is meeting new writing pals, so I decided to offer an advertising option that included a dedicated shout-out. A personal pimpage, if you will. The “Whole Shebang” advertising option allows me to put in my gold teeth, secure my feathered hat, and introduce new bloggers to my fabulous readers. If you’re interested in a proper pimping, check out the advertising page HERE

Facebook is trying to keep us apart. That ain’t cool. Subscribe by email below, and I promise to never send you pictures of feet (gross) or boast about how my kids are perfect and I’m SuperMom because Bwahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

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Potty Training’s Got Nothin’ On Us…

…except maybe that whole consistency thing.

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