Category — Things That Piss Me Off

Dear Bitch at the Outlet Mall,

Yesterday, when you and your mouth-breathing husband approached me and my twins at the outlet mall, I prepared myself for the onslaught of dim-witted questions that people like you usually ask:

“Are they twins? I’m a twin/my neighbor’s a twin/my husband’s cousin is a twin/my dogs are twins.”

“How old are they?”

“What are their names?”

“Are they identical? Really? Well, they don’t look it.”

You, in all your out-of-state largeness, managed to ask exactly all of those questions. And I managed to smile my way through them because I’ve developed a touch of patience and a lovely sense of humor toward folks like you.

But then, dear woman, you just had to show that you’re not like everyone else, didn’t you?

“Well, thank god it’s not me. I feel sorry for you.”

Sigh.

I’m not sure what hayloft in Omaha you were conceived in (no offense to my intelligent and awesome Nebraskan readers), but out here in Florida we don’t say things like that.

Out here, we say things like, “Well bless your heart!” Which basically translates into the same thing, but it sounds a lot nicer than “You and your shitty kids deserve each other.”

It’s a good thing you were significantly larger than me. Otherwise, it would have been my fist hitting your face, and your face hitting the floor, and my comparatively scrawny ass collecting my stroller and running for my life because holy shit, your husband looked like he ate fried bologna balls for breakfast and I’m pretty sure he would’ve come after me if I’d actually punched you in the face.

I hope you enjoyed the rest of your shopping experience at the Dress Barn and Giant Underwear Outlet. May your husband frequently forget to put the toilet seat down, you mindless potato head of a woman.

I’m sick.

In the head, sure. But, like, sick sick.

It started with a sore throat last Saturday. I figured it was from shouting all night at the noisy bar we went to in California. But the sore throat lingered. It turned into a nasty, dry cough. I almost threw up a few times from coughing (in my CAR, GROSS). Now, the plague has turned into a cold.

Oh, and Elise has had, shall we say, stomach issues all week — so bad that I’ve had to throw out a pair of pajamas (you don’t want to know) and give her several baths a day. And she won’t eat ANYTHING except breastmilk and yogurt.

Meanwhile, Althea has discovered the “tantrum.”

There’s a collection agency harassing me about  a medical bill from the girls’ birth (over a year ago!) and no one seems to know what the bill is for or what to do with it.

I bought a turkey and all the extras to cook a Christmas dinner on Friday — with no one here to eat it, because I had to cancel our guests due to my apparent bought with SARS.

All this while I’m on my period. I know, TMI! But it adds dramatic emphasis!!!

This week has been SO RAD!!!!!!

I’m drinking tonight, needless to say. Drinking and hitting the exclamation mark more than usual.

!!!!!!!!!

1. Aside from a few words that get me beer and food, I don’t know any German so I looked this post title up on Google Translate. According to a subsequent Google search, “Verdammt noch mal” means something in the vein of “Damn it!” “Damnation!” or “Dadgummit!” Close enough.
2. This post contains TMI for most men, every coworker past and present, and all family members. No, seriously. Proceed with caution.

Still with me? Okay.

***

For those of you unfamiliar with ovarian activities, mittelschmerz is a lower-abdominal pain that occurs with ovulation. I’d never heard of it until I was 29, when I tossed out my birth control pills and let my body do its thing.

Since going off the pill, I’ve discovered that my hormones and lady parts are certifiably WHACK. My uterus tilts to the right. My BO changes almost daily, with breastfeeding and according to where I’m at in my cycle. Pregnancy hormones make me incredibly euphoric.

And, with a menstrual cycle sans synthetic hormones, I get mittelschmerz.

I’ve since met other ladies who get mittelschmerz too. I don’t know to what degree they feel the pain, but Holy Mother . . . For me, the pain is un-fucking-real.

It begins with a noticeable cramp in my uterus. This lasts for a day or two. Then, I start getting what feels like a stitch in my side, just under my ribs. Depending on which side I feel it, I can tell if I’ll be ovulating from my right or left ovary.

***

Are you still there? I know, I told you. TMI.

Moving on.

***

The stitch grows into an awful stabbing pain extending from my lowest rib to what I assume is my ovary. No exaggeration, it feels like a scorching knife being plunged at a diagonal angle into my side, 24/7. The pain is always there. This is the worst part. And, unfortunately, it lasts from two to four days.

It gets so intense that it hurts to walk, breathe and sit. So I’m pretty much screwed. Sometimes, I just have to curl up into a fetal position and moan.

On the one hand, mittelschmerz is super convenient for family planning. Who needs an ovulation predictor when you’re fucking INCAPACITATED on the couch because a microscopic ova is being released from a walnut-sized ovary?

On the other hand . . . Well, the “other hand” feels like having my reproductive organs sawed into with an electric turkey carver.

***

La-di-dah. You’re more than welcome to click away now if you’re freaking out.

***

It’s hard to get people to truly understand or even believe how serious this is. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Mega doses of ibuprofen, pain pills, rest, ice, heat — this stuff doesn’t even begin to touch the pain. I just have to suffer through it every month.

Between the breakouts, the BO, the ovary pain, the PMS-y mood swings, the weight gain and the actual Monthly Visitor, I feel like I’m constantly in one state of menstruation or another.

***

Hey, I warned you. Don’t bitch at me now.

I was raised mostly in Southern California. Where I lived, there were vast fields of strawberries and thick orange groves that would perfume the whole city during orange blossom season. We would throw open the windows at night to inhale the sweet balm of nascent citrus. The smell was intoxicating.

Then it was all bulldozed and replaced with a few hundred strip malls, gas stations, freeway overpasses and overpriced cookie-cutter homes. Because that’s how people in the O.C. roll, bitches.

Anything nature-y or farm-y or down-home-y is very foreign to me. I was pretty shocked when I moved to Florida. There’s, like, green stuff here. Endless stretches of flat, verdant land, thick swamps, Spanish moss swaying from ancient cypress trees.

What struck me as much as the landscape was the people. Let me tell you, anyone who thinks Florida isn’t part of the American South is very, very wrong. I thought big-wheeled Chevys with Confederate flags and gun racks were the things of an Alabama or a Texas. Now I know.

Anyway. To the subject of this blog post: The Effing Pumpkin Patch.

The Effing Pumpkin Patch was my idea. I figured, now that we have kids, we need to do things like go to The Effing Pumpkin Patch and take some effing pictures. I found out about a popular one out in BFE (and believe it or not, no matter where you are in Florida, you can get to a local BFE in an hour or less). So we went.

The directions to get to BFE were simple enough. But with me driving, we did no fewer than 1,800 u-turns before we finally got on track down a two-lane rural road — and promptly screeched to a halt. There was a bloody accident, followed by a slow-moving line of cars filing into a giant field to park. It took half an hour before we got to the farm.

The Effing Pumpkin Patch was, in a word, PACKED. Like, nutso, OMFG claustrophobia, 40-minute line for a pulled pork sandwich, I hate this fucking stroller, will-you-please-get-the-fuck-out-of-my-WAY packed.

I love parties, but I hate giant, overwhelming crowds. I get incredibly impatient and grumble obscenities at old people. It’s just not pretty.

So yeah. I hated every second of it, from the moment we entered BFE to the glorious second we finally pulled away from the burning armpit of hell.

If you’re not feeling me yet, take a look at the line to exit the farm.

You can’t see the end, can you? That’s because it it goes allllllll the way to the edge of the field, then wraps allllllll the way back to the front to dump you out onto the two-lane country road.

Kinda makes you want to run someone over, doesn’t it?

Oh, and about the whole Florida-is-the-South thing?

Dude on a tall unicycle made to look like he’s riding a horse? Check.

Scarecrow family sitting on a barn? Check.

Emaciated donkey ass? Check.

Confederate flag on a Dodge? Ding ding ding!

For as long as I live, I will never go to another pumpkin patch. Ever.

Then again, I guess there were a few highlights.

I’ve written before about things that piss me off with having twins. I know, I shouldn’t be so bitter. Twins are awesome and people are naturally curious. Hell, I’ve been guilty of saying to another twin mom on the street, “Oh, twins! How old are they?”

BUT.

There is one question that is simply idiotic. Unnecessary. Crazy, even.

The question to which I refer?

“Are they twins?”

The first time someone asked me this, I was so caught off guard that I stammered a polite, “Y-y-yes, they are.” But when it happened again and again — almost every time we go out now, actually — I got a little snarky. “No, they’re not.” “Nope, I found one on the street.”

And that’s only because I don’t have the guts to say what I really want to say: “Funny thing, actually. They look exactly alike, they both emerged from my vagina on the same day — but I have no idea who they are or what they’re doing in my stroller!”

Or maybe: “No, they’re three years apart, but they sure look like twins, don’t they?”

Or: “Eh, not sure. We’re still waiting to get on the Maury show to find out.”

What’s even more astonishing is that I’ve actually had this conversation:

Lady at the grocery store: “They’re twins, aren’t they.”

Me: “Yes.”

Lady at the grocery store: “Yup, I knew it.”

Me: “Um . . . Hm.”

What I really wanted to say: “Can I get your name? Because the next time the clue on Jeopardy is ‘The biggest fucking moron in the world’, I can answer, ‘Who is . . . YOU!’”

And this conversation:

Chick at the post office: “Twins?”

Me: “Yep.”

Chick at the post office: “I can tell. I’m an identical twin.”

Me: “Ah . . . ”

What I really wanted to say: “Well hell’s bells! We’ve been wondering this whole time. We should have asked you first because darned if the doctor couldn’t tell!”

I could understand this question if my girls looked different from each other — one had red hair and one had no hair. One was fair and one was tan. One was small and one was large. But my girls look very much alike to the average (or below average?) stranger on the street.

So.

This is me, trying to keep a smile on my face. This is me, trying to feel proud of how cool my twins are. This is me, trying not to throttle the next douche nozzle that asks if two babies who are clearly the same age and who look almost exactly alike are twins.

The girls had their (late) nine-month appointment on Friday. Elise is at 17lb 1oz and Althea is at 17lb 2oz. (For the first time ever, Althea outweighed her sister!) Elise was twisting around during her measurements and measured about 26 3/8 inches long (pretty sure that’s wrong), while Althea measured 27 inches long. Both had 17″ heads.

The pediatrician was the “partner” pediatrician of the practice, the same guy that kinda sorta pissed me off at their four-month checkup. I didn’t like him much the first time we met him and definitely didn’t like him much this time.

Both times, he’s questioned my ability to successfully breastfeed the girls.

“Well, they’re in the 25th percentile  blah blah blah. At this age, babies need at least 16 ounces of milk a day blah blah blah. So the question is, are you producing four cups of a milk a day?”

I exhaled so that my flapjack, B-cup boobies would disappear. Because I knew he was looking.

(BY THE WAY. Breast size has basically zero to do with milk output.)

The babies aren’t gaining weight as rapidly anymore. The doctor therefore  gave me a sideways warning about “needing to do something” if the girls don’t gain weight more quickly by their 12-month appointment.

First, isn’t it super common to slow down weight gain as the babies increase movement? Both of the girls are crawling like crazy and standing all the time. They’re burning more calories than I am. They haven’t lost weight. They’ve gained since the last appointment. They just aren’t gaining like crazy anymore.

Second, I thought the growth charts were CHARTS, not CONTESTS. It isn’t a race to the 100th percentile, right? Aside from my post-baby muffin top, I’m not a large or tall woman by any means, and Chris is a natural stringbean.

Third, I fucking HATE that the human body’s ability to naturally care for itself is so constantly questioned by modern medicine. Advances in medicine are awesome — hell, lifesaving – for countless people/babies/moms, but why does that have to mean that other folks have to undergo or face the threat of unnecessary intervention? For what? To fund pharmaceutical statistics so that Glaxo can make another overnight vaccine?

Can you tell I get a wee bit defensive and suspicious of “modern” medicine every now and again?

Like any 21st-century mother, I posted about my hatred of the AAP on my Facebook status. (Unlike a 21st-century mother, I did not post to Twitter because, frankly, I’m too lazy to keep up with anything that requires a character count without paying me by the word.)

Anyhow.

I plan to start checking out other semi-crunchy pediatricians before the girls turn one.

Um and holy shit the girls are going to turn one.  Suck on that, doctor.

One of my bestest friends on the planet had a gorgeous baby boy a couple of months ago. Of course, we had to visit the happy new family. We actually bought plane tickets months ago, before my friend’s baby was even born.

At the time, I thought, “Wow, the girls are going to be eight months old when we go visit them!” Back then, the girls were portable and easy and just starting to be able to see their hands. What I didn’t realize was that, at eight months old, a baby can be a little complicated. She’s eating solid foods. She’s teething. She’s undergoing major developmental milestones. She has separation anxiety. She really likes routine and mama and boobies and familiarity in a way that she wasn’t aware of even a couple of weeks — hell, a couple of days – ago.

I had everything prepared. Seriously prepared. Like, an itemized list of shit to bring for the babies. I was extremely conservative with everyone’s luggage. I checked TSA guidelines. I called the airline to ask them to please not destroy our stroller. We pre-packed the car to make sure everything would fit.

This trip was going to go perfectly.

Do I really need to tell you what happened next?

For most of the 3.5-hour flight out, they screamed — and I’m talking not just cried, but SCREAMED — for probably 65% of the flight.  Oh yes, it was as bad as you can imagine.

For the flight home, I thought, fuck this, I’m doing “it.” By “it,” I mean, I’m taking Benadryl and nursing the babies so that they’re knocked the fuck out subdued.

Oh, come on. Don’t judge. You know you’ve heard of it.

Problem is, it didn’t work. Like, not. at. ALL.  We ended up with a drowsy-yet-terrified mama and two babies who screamed at the very threat of sitting down in a seat. That meant that Chris and I had to stand up with the girls in the Baby Bjorns the entire flight home. When we had to sit down for landing, Elise screamed so hard that she fell asleep in the Bjorn the second the plane touched down. We were quite a sight.

Our beautiful, angelic, perfect, well-adjusted little babies. WTF.

Anyhow. It sucked and I highly advise against flying with infants when they’re undergoing any sort of major developmental milestone whatsoever, such as learning to breathe.

Elise’s off-kilter behavior led me to schedule an appointment with the pediatrician. After talking with some friends and reading yesterday’s comment on my post, it seemed possible that she had an ear infection.

The appointment was for 4 p.m. I should have known to not bother showing up on time. A same-day, late-afternoon appointment with a doctor? Yeah, don’t bother.

Anyway.

We waited for an hour and a half. AN HOUR AND A HALF. Not only did the girls not get a full afternoon nap due to Mommy Group earlier in the day, but I had to wake them up early from the short nap they did get in order to nurse them and get to the doctor’s office on time.

Are you trembling with fear yet?

Well wait, there’s more. We missed our “dinner” of solid food in order to do all of this because I’ve never fed them solids outside of the house so of course it didn’t occur to me to bring the stupid jar of food with me to feed them on the road.

An hour and a half. I only brought two lame toys. They were strapped in carseats in the Double Snap n Go.

I was PISSED. Well, that and SCARED. Because two crying babies for 1.5 hours is just unpleasant for everyone.

However, because I have the most amazing babies on the face of the planet (no offense to your own amazing baby, of course), they didn’t cry or fuss one single time during the entire ordeal.

Well, until Elise was finally examined. An hour and a half of waiting and a three-minute exam later, the pediatrician pronounced that her ears looked great.

The problem?

Teething.

Teething??? Son of a bitch. Didn’t think to look at her gums. But the doctor pulled back her upper lip and we saw a white bump on the right side, swelling up her gums and threatening to poke through.

Freakin’ teething.

“Welcome to first-time mommyhood!” chuckled a friend.

It’s a bit of a shock since Elise didn’t flinch while teething with her two bottom teeth, but hey, those top chompers are a real bitch, eh?

I’m having a tough time, guys.

I’m stressed, sad and tired. The latest events with our cats is wearing on me. Kramer developed a fever and I took him in to the vet. The way he has his jaw wired in place makes him drool and backwash everywhere, including into his food bowl. He drips and sprays slobbery cat food EVERYWHERE, including the walls, my hair and all over the floor. I spend a good portion of the day cleaning up fish stink and shielding myself from flying cat food.

I feed him meds through a tube in his neck. I’m pretty sure he’s blind in his right eye. The vets have all assured us we did the right thing, his quality of life will be great. They assure us. And the bills pile up. And the guilt, the guilt, the guilt of what I’ve done . . .

I picked up Vincent’s ashes. I sobbed like a child. Seeing his urn meant he was really dead. Really, really dead. Killed. We miss you, man.

(I felt a very strange and very unmistakable presence in the house today. Twice. Like someone walking by, behind me. Definitely a person. Kramer started meowing like Vincent. I wasn’t even drunk.)

We missed a mortgage payment and we’ll never make it up. We just won’t. We’ve never been late on a payment. I have perfect credit. Not so much anymore. Talking to the bank today didn’t help.

We still plan to buy a better camera and somehow, I only feel slightly guilty.

I’ve barely left the house in almost two weeks. I’m so tired that I don’t want to deal with anyone. I have a million things to do around the house and zero motivation or money to do them.

I’ve only exercised a couple of times in two weeks and I’m terrified to step on the scale. I just wanted to lose six lousy pounds by August and I can’t even do that.

I spent a good five hours in the kitchen today, cleaning and cooking and cooking and cleaning. Dishes. Making baby food. Cleaning cat food syringes. Cleaning stinky cat food bowls. Dishes. Cleaning up cat slobber. Spilling an entire can of Coke. Entertaining babies. Feeding. Cooking. Feeding.

Now that I’m staying home with the girls, I’ll never be able to go back to work. Being a SAHM is not legitimate. You don’t get a line for that on your resume. Just because it’s a 24/7 job, constantly on, never rest, only work work work. At this point, I couldn’t act smart enough to get a job anyway.

I wonder if my years-long battle with depression is finally creeping back after my pregnancy euphoria. Dammit. My old shrink doesn’t take our new insurance.

Not that I’ve checked.

I have bags under my eyes. The bags have bags. I feel like shit. I’m lonely. I’m a failure. I want to hide.

I need, need, need. I need help.

I have begun way too many sentences with “I” in this post. <–Stated with complete self-awareness.

Lesson of the evening: Don’t blog and bitch. Because man, that publish button is a bitch . . .

Please consider donating to this extremely worthwhile cause. In Florida, freestanding birth centers aren’t allowed to do VBACs (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean). In other words, the state is telling ladies how and where they can have their babies!

Through midnight tonight, donations are being matched.

True-and-only-somewhat-related story: I went to a Mom’s Night Out with a bunch of other ladies last month. Out of the seven of us at the table, only two of us had vaginal deliveries, one of them being, of course, me — with twins! WTF!