I’m out of the office today attending a funeral for a man who got his wings way too early. I’m going to pay my respects and hug his family tight, so my good friend Angela the Lesbian Lawyer is stepping in to make you laugh. I figured if anyone could turn my frown upside down, it was Angela.
Before you get to giggling, I have two major announcements. And by major I mean they’re less important than the “we’re out of milk” type of announcements. UNLESS you’re from my neck of the woods:
Announcement 1. Scary Mommy is having a contest to determine her last stop on the book tour. I’ve entered and I need you to vote, like, once every day until May 12th. PUH-LEAZE!!!!! If we win, she’ll come to my town (even my HOUSE!) and if you’re local, you’re invited! Book signings, readings, wine, goody bags–let’s make it happen! All you have to do is visit the Book Tour Contest tab on her Facebook page and click the vote button on the picture of the kid on the potty. Everything you need is right HERE. Tell your friends! Tell your family! Tell your co-workers! And remember, we can vote once a day! THANK YOU!
Announcement 2. I’m getting a face lift. My blog, that is. Next week, I’ll have a whole new look, so don’t be alarmed if you come back and think you’re in the wrong place. I’m super excited for it, and I hope you love it, too!
And now, in honor of a life cut short and my belief that laughter is the best medicine, I present you a never-before-done-double-shot of Oversharing:
I am an obsessive reader of preparatory/educational books. There is no inherent shame in this, I suppose, but, to the surprise of no one that actually knows me, I tend to take this to the next level.
When my ex-wife was pregnant with my son… scratch that, when we decided that we might possibly, maybe want to have kids, I began reading about the whole sordid process.
(As a side note, the process of catalogue sperm selection is less sexy than you might think. Contemplating some creepy our-kid-is-actually-our-nephew scenario was even less appealing, so we shipped the frozen goods while I read about every last fucking detail. This made for numerous ridiculous moments at the fertility clinic, but that is another post).
After it actually worked, I read about our son’s development from pea-size to birth, monitored the poor woman’s intake of mercury-laden seafood and stepped in the way of her “dangerous” blue cheese and/or lunchmeat intake. Thank God I was there, obviously.
So, when our oldest son was born, I felt totally – at least intellectually – prepared to handle whatever was in store. I had this, right? I read about it. I knew about it. I wasn’t 17 years old. We had help from our families (sort of), and I would be home from work for the first week or so to figure everything out.
So, after a few days in the hospital following a scheduled C-section, we brought the perfect little guy home. Because the Mrs. was not allowed to go up and down the steps yet, we all camped out in the living room. He slept in a pack and play (which I had researched on consumer reports and assembled painstakingly with my own two hands). We weighed him before and after feedings, counted poops and pees, massaged his cradle cap and put him in 27 perfect little pre-washed outfits per day.
On about his third or fourth day home from the hospital, I was changing his diaper, when I let out a gasp. His other mother leapt from the couch (in an unauthorized for recent C-section way) and ran over.
What is it??!?!?
Oh. Oh, Jesus.
Yep. There it was. To the total surprise of both of us, his balls could move. As in, his scrotum was not attached to his ass. Decidedly unfamiliar territory for two lesbians, but still… This was not in the baby books. This was not discussed by any of the over-bearing jackass “experienced” parents who had been inundating us with advice. How could we not know this? How could we not have CLEANED UNDER THERE???? That poor poor boy. George Bush and Dr. Laura had been right. We were unfit (but it was really fucking funny).
Now 6, he appears none the worse for wear. His brush with poo-caked ball sack seems to have left no impression on him as a person. Indeed, judging from his absolute inability/refusal to wipe his own ass consistently, I would say he may have even enjoyed the experience.
Here’s to you, son. Your mothers are sorry.