Category — Things That Piss Me Off

I smoked for 15 years. It’s crazy for me to even say it now, but for 15 years of my life, I was a smoker. And boy, was I good at it. I was dedicated to the practice, smoking frequently and with great pleasure. I loved smoking and everything about it — the taste, the smell, the habit, the instant friendships formed by simple virtue of being of a class of people who willingly set ablaze a paper tube of chopped up leaves and known carcinogens.

I quit in March of 2008 when I found out I was pregnant. I feel very grateful that I was forced to quit because I probably wouldn’t have otherwise. I’ve been smoke-free for over three-and-a-half years and don’t miss it at all.

When I quit, I vowed I would never be one of “those” ex-smokers who wrinkle their nose at the smell and chastise anyone who chooses to smoke.

At least, that’s what I told myself. In reality, I do wonder why people still smoke — not in a sanctimonious sort of way, but I so rarely see people smoking anymore that it really strikes me when I do see it.

That’s why I’m having a new and strange moral/parenting dilemma.

There’s a woman at the girls’ school who has twin boys, one of whom is in the girls’ class (she has her boys in separate classrooms). I never thought much of her. We were pretty much on a polite head nod and quick “hello” sort of basis.

Last week, the school did Dress-Up Day for Halloween. The teachers asked me to be the room mom for the day, so I stayed the whole time. This other mom also hung out in the class room for about an hour to take photos and watch the Halloween parade.

Anyhow, we got to talking, swapping twin pregnancy stories and such. (Actually, she did most of the talking, but anyway.) We found out we both have memberships to a local children’s garden-thing and she sort of halfway casually said we should all go together one day. Fun!

Then, on Tuesday, I happened to be behind her as we pulled out of the school parking lot after dropping the kids off. And what did I see in her rearview mirror?

Mommy lighting a cigarette!

She smokes! A mommy who smokes! Gasp!!

Thing is, I was also behind her on the way to drop off the kids one morning a couple of weeks ago and saw her smoking WITH THE KIDS IN THE CAR. But the thought seems so crazy to me that I figured I was just seeing things.

So what am I supposed to do with this? I feel like a total dick for even halfway criticizing Smoker Mom for smoking (with kids! in the car!!). And it makes me a complete jerk to kind of rather not hang out with someone who might potentially smoke in front of/around my kids, doesn’t it?

It’s just . . . shit, man. You don’t smoke around little kids. I’m sorry, but I don’t want my kids to be around smokers if I can help it. I grew up in a family of smokers and I know what it’s like. I took my first drag of a cigarette when I was SIX. I HATED that my mom and grandparents smoked. It disgusted me. Do you know what it’s like to be in the backseat of a smoker’s car? You’re constantly dodging hot ashes, flying sparks and clouds of toxic fumes.

What do you think? Am I an asshole for feeling this way? Does it make me a hypocrite? What would you do?

Throughout the years, I’ve documented my ups and downs with bipolar/depression here. (I always feel the need to temper the word “bipolar” with the word “depression” because the former generally invokes visions of a manic person staying awake for a week while they paint the corners of their closets and then cry for three days. [Or maybe that's crystal meth?] I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar II, a milder form of bipolar disorder that consists of euphoric highs cycled with very deep, dark lows.) Unfortunately, it’s a constant part of my life. I don’t deal with it well. It’s uncomfortable. And perhaps the worst part is that I can feel it coming on.

When I’m in my euphoria, life is AWESOME. I’m happy, bubbly, expressive, fun, maybe a little wild (okay, maybe pretty wild. I try to blur out most of my teens years and 20′s because some of the stuff I did makes me cringe.). I convince myself that everything is okay and that my depressive bouts must be a distant memory — that this time, things will be different.

It never is. It never, ever is.

Since having Amaia, I’ve been mostly stable. Even as recent as a few weeks ago, I felt pretty great. Life was fulfilling and I had a positive and generally even-tempered outlook on things. The regular exercise must be helping, I told myself. Having a break while the girls are in school is really doing wonders, I thought.

But I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling that the next depressive low was just around the corner. Like I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Of course, the shoe dropped. It’s dropping now. I’m not doing well. Again. It’s not as bad as it was when it hit after the twins, but it’s not good. Every day, every hour, feels harder than the last. I’m holding onto my sanity by ever-thinning threads. I feel like some days are getting too much for me to handle. I need more help than I can possibly bring myself to ask for — because of course, asking for help makes me a fucking HORRIBLE mother, which intensifies the feelings of worthlessness, failure, guilt, and anxiety.

Interestingly, I noticed that the downward turn coincides with the return of my period — just as it did last time when my period came back after the twins. The hormones probably have a big impact and it makes me wonder how things will look after I finish nursing.

And speaking of nursing, the onset of a depressive episode reminds me of how long this rollercoaster has been going on — the pregnant-nursing-weaning-woops-pregnant-again-nursing-again-need-to-wean-soon rollercoaster, that is. I had only weaned the twins because I needed to get back on my medication (Lamictal), only to immediately get pregnant with Amaia as soon as I weaned.

I do NOT want to stop breastfeeding because of this FUCKING disorder. BUT. I can’t go on like this. I’m not a good mom like this. I am NOT a good mom like this.

I know there’s more to me than what I feel now. I know that I can love and feel good again. I know because I’ve felt it.

So I will eventually wean Amaia because I love her that much. I love all my kids that much.

The baby is now 9.5 months old and I’m getting close to being able to do that. I just need to hang in there for a few more months.

After this weekend, I have three words for you:

Fuck potty training.

Fuck potty training and the horse it rode in on.

Fuck M&Ms. Fuck cookies. Fuck juice. Fuck potty training books, guides and advice. Fuck panties and training pants and pee-pee and poo-poo.

Fuck it all.

Nothing could have prepared Chris and me for what we experienced with our first attempts at potty training Althea and Elise.

We started out with the methods outlined in the book “Toilet Training in Less Than a Day.” (Oh yeah, fuck those guys, too.) We had the girls teach their little dollies how to “pee-pee” on the potty. They learned how to take the water-filled pot to the toilet, dump its contents, flush the toilet and take the pot back to the potty. Things were looking promising.

Interesting to note from the outset was that Althea, contrary to what I expected, was far more cooperative and interested than Elise was.

We put the girls in little character panties (Nemo! Toy Story! Snow White!) and started giving them whatever they wanted to drink. Every few minutes, we’d start in:

“Are your panties dry? Touch your panties. Are they dry? Good! Ama has dry panties. Daddy does too. Big girls have dry panties. Big girls do pee-pee in the potty, not their panties. Are your panties still dry? Check! Check if your panties are dry. Oh good, they’re dry! Have an M&M because you have dry –”

And that’s where things started to fall apart. Eight minutes into training, and things were already proving to be way more difficult than what the book led us to believe.

See, we really don’t give the girls junk food. Not that I’m adamantly against it, but I don’t want to start bad habits early on. Besides, it’s hard enough to get them to eat any food with any semblance of nutritional value as it is. I certainly don’t need to introduce them to Nabisco’s extended family.

So, at their first taste of the candy-coated chocolate treats at 9:08 on a Saturday morning, you’d better believe we ran into some issues. For Elise and Althea, nothing existed beyond the bite-sized cookies and little chocolates we were using to encourage their potty training. Chris and I stuck to our guns and emphasized that the treats were only for dry panties, but for some strange reason, our two-year-old twins wouldn’t stop asking for them . . .

Still, over the shrill cries of “CHOCOLAAAAAATE?!???? COOOOOKIIIEEEEEE??!????”, Chris and I persevered. We continued to ask about the state of panty dryness. We put them on the pot every 15 minutes. We doled out cookies, candies and juice when the panties were dry. We read new books on the toilet. We talked over and over about “Ama and Daddy go pee-pee and poo-poo on the potty. Grandpa and Grandma go pee-pee on the potty. Do you go pee-pee on the potty? You can learn how just like your friends do. Pee-pee goes in the potty. Does pee-pee go in the panties? No! Pee-pee goes in the potty! Very good! Look, your panties are dry! Only girls with dry panties get chocolate. Have an M&M!”

Within two-and-a-half hours, Elise and Althea had completely tuned us out.

Chris and I called a meeting to re-evaluate.

“I think they’re on to us,” I whispered.

“Definitely. Screw the treats. Not working. Let’s back off a little bit on the panty questions and turn on a movie,” he suggested.

So we put them in front of something Pixar-y and animated while they sat on their pots. Zoned out, Althea peed on the potty.

Mayhem erupted.

‘WOOOHOOO ALTHEA!!! YOU PEE-PEED ON YOUR POTTY!!! YOU’RE SUCH A GOOD GIRL!!! PEE-PEE GOES IN THE POTTY!!! YOU DID PEE-PEE IN THE POTTY LIKE AMA AND DADDY!!! YAAAAAYYYYYY!” we screamed as we jumped up and down with glee.

Oh, you bet she was happy. We were happy, she was happy, everyone was happy. She even took it over to the toilet, dumped the pee into the commode, and carried the plastic pot back to her own potty. Not too long afterward, Elise actually pooped in her potty, carried the pot to the toilet, dumped it, and replaced it on her potty.

YESSSSSS!!!

But these triumphs were overshadowed by the rest of the horror. The horror of potty training. The girls tantrumed, defied, ignored, and peed through it all.

I consulted the book. According to its authors, when faced with these sorts of situations, we were supposed to remain positive and “teach them to obey.”

That’s a quote.

And the first part of our day wasn’t even over. Naptime was a serious problem. Elise and Althea still pee a lot during naps and bedtime, but the book insisted that we not go back to diapers at this point. So we tried. And we proceeded to go through all six crib sheets and six more pairs of training pants as the girls peed through every cotton barrier we placed in their way.

After we realized we had run out of training pants, we once again re-evaluated. We needed to get them in diapers for sleeping or none of us would ever get any rest. After the kids finally fell asleep, Chris and I decided that this approach was definitely not for us or the girls. It was too intense, too militaristic, too overwhelming for everyone.  So we decided to completely back off on the panty-status question and just plop them nonchalantly on the pot every 30 minutes.

This approach lasted the rest of the day yesterday and through this afternoon. But all it did was make me consider becoming an alcoholic. Elise and Althea peed and peed and peed through every pair of panties we put on them. They tantrumed through every cleanup and panty change.

It actually got kind of creepy at one point when I got Elise to her room for yet another pair of clean underwear, and she stared me in the face and laughed maniacally over and over again. Determined not to waver, I pushed my way through the full 10 minutes it took to get her to stand up and help pull on her panties. This bizarre behavior repeated itself several times in the course of just a few hours.

Chris and I clung to each other for dear life. Our sweet, mild-mannered, beautiful little children had turned on us. “Who are these . . . these barbarians?!???” we beseeched an apparently unloving god.

The constant peeing turned from accidental to blatant. We would put them on the pot for 5 or 10 minutes. Nothing. They’d stand up and help pull up their pants, walk away, and pee on the carpet. We’d change their wet panties and they would pee in the new ones within 30 seconds. They finally stopped telling us they’d peed themselves and just kept playing through it, then deny they’d peed when we asked if they were wet. At one point, we caught Althea putting toys into the plastic piss pot while peeing her pants!

Within three hours this morning, they had peed through 12 pairs of panties. I broke down sobbing in a dark closet.

The book did not say anything about this part.

After what all of us have gone through the past two days, Chris and I have decided to hold off on potty training for a few months, or until the girls’ entrance into kindergarten four years from now forces us to do it.

Some of my friends who have up-and-coming potty training kids asked me to share any success tips. Obviously I don’t have any. I do, however, have a few lessons learned:

• Unless you’re in a situation where you’re forced to train the child, don’t potty train until everyone is seriously ready, parents included. As I mentioned in my last post, I was not — am not — ready to potty train the kids.
• Find a potty training approach that fits your parenting style, not just whatever seems fastest or most convenient. “Toilet Training in Less Than a Day” obviously works for some parents, some households, some kids. But it’s not for us. Trust me — I’m a special kind of lazy. I’m the type of person that will put in a ton of hard work now if it means I can relax later, so this approach seemed like a good fit. But Chris and I are pretty laid back folks overall. We have our own brand of parenting, like everyone else. We took away some very good concepts and guidelines from this book. But the intensity of the approach felt unnatural for us and our children.
• It is impossible to be totally upbeat and positive about toilet training 100% of the time. It’s impossible even 90% of the time. Everything I read made me feel that, as long as I stayed positive and encouraging and followed the rules, the method would work. Yeah . . . No.
• I honestly don’t know what to suggest for parents like me who have twins to train and a needy infant to care for. I think that, unless the girls come to me and request to use the potty, I’m just shelving the whole project until Amaia is more self-sufficient, or at least able to be watched by someone else for a few days. Even with intensive training over a weekend, I definitely know I can’t do it on my own once Chris goes back to work on a Monday. Picture this: By 10 a.m. on the first day, I found myself breastfeeding on the kitchen floor while the twins sat crying on their respective pots as a hungry infant screamed at a lost nipple while I tried to read and turn the pages of “The Little Mermaid” with my toes — all while remaining upbeat, encouraging and positive. (If you’re exhausted by reading that sentence, just imagine what I was feeling.)
• No matter how you choose to potty train your child, buy several bottles of your favorite alcohol before you get started.
• Also, OxiClean — for the carpet and clothes.

Dr. Fabulous is officially on my shit list and I am officially in a bad mood.

I had my 40-week appointment today. I went in feeling GREAT. 40 weeks! We made it! Full-term pregnancy. Healthy mom, healthy baby. My body’s doing its thing. We’re all in this together. Looking forward to seeing how and when my body will begin labor.

First,  he did the exam. There’s been no change in my cervix. Zero. Fine. He said let’s schedule an induction for next Tuesday. I reminded him I don’t want to be induced, but I’d be okay with scheduling for next Thursday, his last on-call day next week. It would put me at almost 42 weeks, giving me as much time as possible to let things happen naturally.

He said why do you want to be stuck in the hospital on Christmas? You’ve made it this far, you’d think you don’t want this baby to come out now. I told him I was okay with things, I wasn’t uncomfortable, I wanted to go into labor naturally. He said no problem, we’ll do whatever you want to do.

The plan was that I’ll do my scheduled non-stress test tomorrow at the hospital along with an AFI to make sure the amniotic fluid looks good. Then the hospital would schedule another round of testing at 41 weeks and we’d go from there.

Then when I went out to schedule next week’s appointment with the doctor, the nurse came and told me that I would not be going past 41 weeks. At next Tuesday’s NST at the hospital, I will be induced if I haven’t had the baby yet.

I’m pissed. I feel betrayed by Dr. Fabulous. I feel cornered and forced into something I don’t want. I feel desperate for something to happen on its own. I feel timed, on the clock, nervous.

I keep trying to talk myself down. Have faith that something will happen. Don’t stress until it’s time to. Go have a drink, have some sex. Relax.

Whatever. I’m going to hold onto the tiny thread that says I won’t have to worry about it at all because tonight’s full moon lunar eclipse is going to have some kind of gravitational pull on my uterus and the baby will come out on her own.

In my sleep. With no pain.

40 week photos (okay, technically taken last night) with the Christmas tree for scale. Is it just me, or does it look like someone stuck a giant ball to my abdomen while I wasn’t looking?

I’m starting to feel disgusting.

There’s really no other way of saying it. I feel gross. I have a layer of fluid that is accumulating under my skin. My face, my neck, my chest and shoulders, all feel puffy and fluid retention-y. My fingers look fat. My feet bones are becoming less defined, disappearing under a thickening layer of nastiness.

It’s just not pretty.

And you know what else? I’ve identified a new body part: the vulvagina. This is the area encompassing the vulva, vagina, pubic bone, ass crack, etc. You know, the nethers. And mine hurts. Between the separated pubic bone, the hemorhoids (did I spell that right?) and the vulva swollen to the size of a Nerf football, my vulvagina is a sad lady.

(I guess that little bit of info should have been preceded by a courtesy TMI Alert. Sorry ’bout that.)

Add to this some crazy mood swings and you’re looking at a woman in the latter stages of pregnancy for sure. Man, I’m really starting to get weepy and whiny. I couldn’t find my sunglasses. I burst into tears. I burned a hot dog bun. Wept like a child. Chris was breathing too loud. I punched him in the face.

All of this is going to become a problem in the coming weeks. You see, toward the end of this pregnancy, I’m going to want to do the dirty with my husband as much as possible to try and get the baby out. And at that point, I’m going to be such a huge, weepy, puffy, purple-vagina-ed mess that Chris will want nothing to do with me, even if I do offer him my warm and willing, if gigantic, vulvagina.

Sob!!

You have two-year-old kids and you have no clue how to fold up a single umbrella stroller. Because you’ve NEVER USED ONE.

Seriously, how do you do it?

This pregnancy is posing a lot of issues for me — issues I didn’t have or feel with the twins, so this is all a bit scary. To explain:

When I found out we were having twins back in April 2008, I felt like we’d been somehow “chosen.” Silly, I know. But I saw it as a gift, a great responsibility with which I’d been entrusted. I took it as my sole duty to nurture and grow those babies to the best of my ability.

Despite having battled serious body issues throughout my life, I felt little trepidation about the weight I purposely gained. It was all temporary, I thought. When the stretch marks appeared, I took them in stride. When I explored my post-partum body, I accepted its changes for what they were and promised myself I’d do the best I could to improve it.

At 16 months post-partum, all was beginning to feel fine and well. I was back in the gym, just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight. I’d finally pulled out my “skinny” clothes, even fitting into some of them. I had weaned the girls from breastfeeding so I could get back on Lamictal, a medication for bi-polar disorder that I’d had a ton of success with.

I finally felt like I was getting my body and life back.

In the back of my mind, I was dreaming of the surgery that would re-join my stomach muscles. In an even further recess of my mind, I thought maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t have more kids. Our girls were perfect and awesome. Why mess it up?

And then . . . Well, I got pregnant again. I really, really wasn’t ready for it. It’s not that I didn’t or don’t want or love the baby. It’s that it wasn’t planned and really caught me off guard.

So this time around, I’m having body issues. 21 weeks into the pregnancy and I’ve gained about five pounds. This is nothing compared to the twenty-ish I’d gained by this point with the twins, but every ounce of this new weight is filled with panic and self-loathing.

That nagging bitch of a voice in my head questions, Five pounds so far — so what does that mean for the rest of the pregnancy? How on earth am I going to keep my weight gain below 25 pounds? 20 pounds? 15? I don’t want to puff up, I don’t want a fat face, I don’t want melting thighs and a monster ass.

The bitch goes on. My stomach . . . Ugh, my god, my stomach. The silvery-white stretch marks circling the center of my abdomen, scarring the folds of loose skin left from my last pregnancy, are turning faintly purple. The weakened skin is going to give out. Again. And stretch even more. Again.

I panic. I self-pity. I don’t understand. I thought I paid my dues with my first pregnancy. I sacrificed and worked hard and did everything right. I let my body do what it wanted and needed. I grew two full-sized, healthy babies, delivered them vaginally, nursed them for almost a year and a half, stayed home with them to raise them in the best environment I could give.

And this is what I get? Anxiety about weight gain, depression, stress and more stretch marks?

I realize all of this is unhealthy thinking. Frankly, it’s shameful and embarrassing to feel any of this at all. It’s so superficial, so shallow, so silly.

I’m supposed to be jolly and maternal. I’m supposed to give motherly smiles to strangers. I’m supposed to be glowing, goddammit.

But that nagging voice, that belittling bitch that tells me how worthless and disgusting I am, is seeping in.

I thought I was too fucking old for this shit. I know better than this.

These are just feelings. They are temporary. I love this baby, her little punches and kicks, the weight of her growing body, the thought of her in our lives. I will grow her and adore her and do a good job with her, too.

But these damned feelings…

So I tell my little girl I’m sorry and I love you and This has nothing to do with you.

My only defense right now is not thinking about it too much. It hurts — hurts to feel it, hurts to admit I feel it.

I promise I’ll try to be sarcastic and funny again soon. Right now, I’m just working through this the best I can.

Maybe my expectations were too high.

A few days in a waterside cottage sounded perfect. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, pool, small beach. Close to a historic downtown area and a few minutes from other quaint beach towns. My girls. My man.

It should have been paradise.

Day One

We left on Saturday before noon. The girls had their swim lesson in the morning, then we all splurged on lunch at Five Guys. (Only the best burgers ever, in case you didn’t know.) The girls fell asleep in the car almost as soon as we hit the road. Everything was poised to be awesome.

The drive was pretty uneventful and we arrived at the Lovely Vacation Cottage several hours later. Exhausted, we decided to take it easy and stroll down to the small strip of beach on the Intracoastal.

Aside from a trashcan lid and miscellaneous beer cans and condoms littering the sand, it was pleasant, as evidence by the single photo we took the entire trip:

Then came dinner, which occurred to us 20 minutes too late. While we drove around frantically searching for something kid-friendly and semi-not-touristy, the girls mounted an ever-rising cacophony of hunger-induced screams, shrieks and wails. They threw their sippy cups and kicked the seats. They cursed our parents and damned us to hell.

Panicked, we ended up going to a fucking SMOOTHIE place NOT known for its food. The girls scoffed at our attempts to feed them, chucking bits of quesadilla on the floor and screaming for MORE SMOOTHIE MOTHER FUCKERS WAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Day Two

After our typical breakfast routine, we got the girls ready to go to the beach. Before we left the Lovely Vacation Cottage, I asked Chris where my camera was.

Him: “I don’t know where it is.”

Me: “Well, you packed it.”

Him: “I don’t know where I packed it.”

Me: “….YOU took it out of the drawer. YOU asked me if I wanted you to bring it. I said yes. YOU then PUT IT somewhere, supposedly IN something that would be coming with us on vacation. WHERE was that somewhere?”

Him: “I don’t know. It’s your camera.”

Me: “BUT I DIDN’T PACK THE FUCKING CAMERA.”

Him: “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Me: ‘TELL ME WHERE THE GODDAMN CAMERA IS, THAT’S WHAT YOU CAN TELL ME.”

He found the camera and off we went, seething and huffing, to the goddamned beach where we had a goddamned good time.

And didn’t take a single goddamned picture.

On the way back to the Lovely Fucking Vacation Cottage, Chris drove past some idiot doing an illegal three-point turn in the middle of downtown. Apparently, this pissed the guy off and he followed us down the road, cursing and spitting and shaking his fists at us, back to the cottages. I spent the rest of the vacation swearing there was someone outside the window plotting to shoot our family.

That night was also Father’s Day, so for dinner we headed to one of the nearby, so-called charming downtowns. Most everything was closed (Sunday), but one sports bar that was open was offering a free entree for dads. Obvious choice, right?

This was one of those situations where you get what you pay for.

The food? Awful. Service? Atrocious. Child behavior? Horrifying. The waitress left us waiting for so long that I had to, for the first time ever, extract a screaming child from a restaurant. And Chris, for probably the first time ever, told off the waitress.

And left her a $5 tip anyway.

He’s nice to a fault.

Day Three

Day Three was Pool Day.

Pool Day was Awful Day.

The pool at the cottages was NOT made for kids. The fact that it was small wasn’t a big deal. But the fact that its shallowest portion was four-feet deep WAS a big deal. And the fact that the concrete area around the pool was about eight inches wide and perfect for two toddlers to go streaking around, threatening to fall into the water and drown if we dared to blink, was definitely a big deal.

Oh, and the water was about 105 degrees. One hundred. And five. Degrees. Farenheit. It was 90 outside. We got OUT of the water to cool off.

After an hour and a half of sheer terror and panic, we took the girls back to the Son-of-a-Bitching Vacation Cottage and spent the rest of the morning letting them play in traffic. Seemed less dangerous than the pool.

When we went to the mall to waste some time that afternoon, I think Chris and I both knew our vacation had gone down the proverbial shitter.

That evening, after the girls went to bed, Chris looked at me and casually suggested, “Maybe we should leave a day early? You know, since the girls seem so exhausted and unhappy with the change in ….”

“GOOD GOD YES LET’S GO.”

Day Four

The morning of our early departure, we couldn’t get packed fast enough.

Of course, the girls had other plans.

They wanted to tear out of the cottage and play in piles of red ants. They wanted to throw the toys I JUST PACKED all over the floor. They wanted to trip and skin their knees and play with wasps.

Then there was the bar of soap.

After clearing out the bathroom, I let Chris know that I had packed all of our toiletries. Well, I guess I forgot to pack his beloved bar of soap because guess who comes stomping out of the bathroom with a bar of Lever 2000 held gingerly in his trembling hands?

That idiotic bar of soap launched a major standoff and several hours of clipped, terse, only-the-necessities conversation.

(Who travels with soap … and then takes it back home, anyway???)

Leaving before nap time also proved to be a mistake. I spent the first two-and-a-half hours of the drive wanting to jump out of the moving car with every scream and cry emanating from the backseat.

Instead, I climbed over the passenger seat to entertain my daughters.

Because I am a patient and loving mother, goddamn it.

I took a few days off of the Internet and lost all shreds of creative momentum I may or may not have had. I need to shake it off, get to writing again. Hence, the completely random post to follow.

South Beach, with Fetus

Before I got pregnant, I had a weekend to South Beach planned with some mom friends. (As opposed to non-mom friends, because boy is there a difference.) Then I found myself in a family way but couldn’t, in good conscience, back out. So I went.

South Beach when you’re pregnant and sober is just another overcrowded beach city. Let me tell you, I saved a shitload of money by not buying booze. On Saturday morning, my friends went to a pool and sipped mimosas in the water. I ventured off to the Wolfsonian Museum (by far my FAVORITE museum I’ve ever been in). My museum admission? $7.49. Their mimosas? $20. EACH. And they didn’t even come in a pitcher.

Also, nightclubs. We went to a club on Friday night. Yes, even I went. It was smoky, people were burning doobs on the dance floor and I saw no less than five bare vaginas at the strategically placed stripper pole in the middle of the club. There was house music. I left less than an hour after getting there.

I actually did have a good time, though. And side note of awesomeness? We stayed in the condo building where the chainsaw/drug-deal-gone-bad scene of “Scarface” was filmed. RAD.

Friends

Do you guys have friends? Like, real-life, in-the-flesh, live-near-you-and-see-on-a-regular-basis, call-whenever-you-need-them, spill-secrets-to friends? Specifically, if you’re a mom, do you have other mom friends that fit that bill?

I don’t think I do. I mean, I have some friends. I have some acquaintances. I have one or two mom friends that I hang out with on a semi-regular basis. Maybe I’ve even shared some secrets with them.

But I don’t have any near-me best friends. You know, like the best friend you can say “Your three o’clock!” to and they know that you’re talking trash on that skanky teenager wearing camel-toe booty shorts. The BFFs that I do have live far away and we talk so infrequently that I may even be unknowingly relegated to “good friend” status by virtue of that distance.

This seems to be a common issue with folks my age who have young kids. I get out quite a bit and mingle in all sorts of social/parent circles, so it’s not like I’m complaining without trying. Are there dating sites for people like me? You know, because being pregnant and a mom makes me totally desirable as a friend?

Emotionz

I don’t know where I’m at emotionally.

I’m down, that’s for certain. Part of it is “just me” as usual, but part is circumstance. We’re short selling the house and it sucks. Mentally, I’m so OVER this house and I just want to get the place sold and move on with my life.

I have a strong need to get the fuck out of Dodge, to travel, to live somewhere else, to meet new people. I’m antsy. I feel stuck. Lonely. Unfulfilled and unsatisfied. Mentally stagnant. Unchallenged.

Being pregnant is obviously tripping things up. It’s kind of stressful to be expecting a miracle when your financial/housing/emotional world smells like testicles.

And while the girls are just as awesome as ever, the whole twin toddlers thing can be pretty taxing. Oh, and I’m still nauseous 70% of the time, which means eating is spotty and exercise is currently non-existent.

I guess it’s a mish-mash of shit. A big, steaming pile of mish-mashed shit. Know what I mean?

Better things

I hate ending posts all pissy-pity, so here’s good stuff.

Some friends had a long-awaited and MUCH deserved adoption go through. I am in-tears-thrilled for them.

I think I out-drank my Starbucks cravings. (In case you haven’t, keep in mind that those frappes at McDonald’s are pretty comparable, seem to have more caffeine and cost half as much.)

Ironically…? I ended up passing my glucose tolerance test. Blood sugar was 111 after an hour, so I’m in the clear for at least the next 13 weeks.

The girls have learned to say “I know, I know,” arriba (up), Snow White (Elise’s favorite), thank you, bebida (drink), pee pee and caca. Obviously, we’re most proud of the last two.

Money be damned, we recently decided to book a family vacation — just the four of us, as it will be the only and last time we will ever go anywhere as “just the four of us.” We settled on renting a cottage at a relaxing fish camp on the Atlantic. It will be four days of beach, water, sun and hammocks.

And bathing suits.

Last year, I wore this horrific tankini. What, you don’t think it looks that bad? That’s because you don’t see the front of it. It was a last-minute purchase made under duress from Target — which, unless you have the body of a starving tween, is not the place to go bathing suit shopping under any circumstances.

At the time, I chalked it up to it being a mere 8 months post-partum that I had to purchase that thing. I called it The Year of the Tankini. You know, because the next year, I’d have my old body back and I could go back to wearing a sexy little two-piece.

So anyway. For this year’s tankini, I spent $100. This disgusts me. Because have you ever gone tankini shopping? It’s awful. It’s like the bathing suit manufacturers were blindfolded at a Kmart curtain clearance as part of a diabolical Project Runway challenge. You try on eight or nine of these things and you’re ready to throw your life savings at the first person who can hand you a tankini that doesn’t make you feel like your great grandmother vacationing in Boca.

For instance:

Seriously. The model can barely keep herself from laughing, this thing is so ugly.

Note to bathing suit manufacturers: Women who are shopping for tankinis are not buying two-piece bikinis for a reason. We need shape and support for our boobs and magical panels to flatten our bellies and flattering tops to avoid back tacos. Anything involving Hawaiian prints from the 1980s, tight elastic around the legs or ruffles around anything has no place on a tankini.

The suit I got isn’t too bad, all things considered. Aside from the fact that Chris said I looked like a shower curtain in it. And aside from the fact that the bottoms actually come up past what used to be my belly button and are about as comfortable as those scratchy underwear your grandma used to buy you from Pic N Save.

Oh yeah, and since I’ve apparently forgotten, I’m freaking pregnant. So by the time we go to the Awesome Fish Camp Vacation Cottage, I’ll have a baby bump with twin skin hanging off of it AND a diaper-esque tankini to really show it all off.

Yep, it’s Year Two of the Tankini and I’m embracing it with vigor.

Somebody. Help. Me.

P.S. Any unintentional insult to grandmas and great grandmas anywhere in this post is completely the fault of tankini makers.