Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up.

Or become ugly country singers like this one.

The other day my BFF mentioned through sniffles that her younger daughter had just celebrated her 20th birthday, which signified the “no more children in her household” era. I know exactly why she pines because my younger offspring will turn 20 in April. Sigh. How could 20 freaking years have slipped right through my fingers? 

I clearly remember the night before my second daughter was brutally sliced from my tender abdomen. I lay down for a nap around Wheel of Fortune time, and when I stirred about 9 P.M., mild contractions were threatening the rest of my Tuesday night t.v. schedule. I timed the contractions and casually waddled into the den to alert my husband that we might want to head to the hospital. The birth pangs were two minutes apart, and we were 90 minutes from my doctor. Because the C-section was scheduled for two weeks later, I was unprepared. 

This was, incidentally, the very last time that child was fucking early for anything. 

I packed, made all kinds of arrangements, and called my parents so that they could meet us and plan to take care of my older daughter during my recovery; and we were off.  Once we arrived at the medical center, the fun began. First, I had an epidural—my favorite. The epidural is better than no pain meds at all, especially when you are having a massive opening cut in most of the layers of your guts. BUT.  I don’t care what anyone says. Nothing can prepare you for a drinking straw of steel being rammed into your spinal column or the violence that follows. The first time I had a spinal block, the nurse said, “You will feel a mild electric shock down one side.” I still dream of finding that lying bitch and beating her mildly with a crowbar. 

After the block successfully kicked in, the night duty nurse came by to explain that my doctor hadn’t arrived, so I’d have to hold on. Apparently all nurses who have assisted in my children’s births are liars. It wasn’t that my doctor hadn’t arrived. He was out of the freaking country and wouldn’t be back for days. Still, the nurse kept poking her perky little head in with my doctor’s ETA. After she went off duty hours later, I began to get suspicious. When a doctor I’d never seen before sauntered in about 7:30 Wednesday morning, I knew I’d been duped. I don’t even remember the guy’s name, but a little over 2 hours later, he was sawing open my flesh. 

Aside from the fact that I almost died on the delivery table and actually left my body, which I could see from a freaky aerial perspective, the birth went well. My teeny-tiny precious was screeching mere moments after being slurped out of my midsection. 

And now. Twenty years have disappeared. I can live without ever again having to hold my breath through green-goop-smeared diaper changes or that time I accidentally put a disposable diaper into the washer. Unless you’ve done it, you can’t fathom the destruction that the gel beads inside Pampers ® can cause when they are already full of shit and then quadrupled by 40 gallons of washer water.

I can live without the crying and shrieking and tantrums of yore when my children didn’t get their way or had to wait more than 36 hours for food. Jesus. Some of us had to sleep. How hard was it for them to drag a stool to the counter and operate a microwave anyway? Fucking whiners. 

I can live without the icy grip on my heart every time my daughters suffered or hurt although that will never change. 

But what I would give anything— anything— to have again are their soft, tiny fingers in my hands as we crossed the street. Or their warm, plump, summer-bronzed arms hugging my neck before there was more than one chin. Or their saucer-eyes that gazed at me with more love than the universe can hold. Or the sight of my daughters sleeping, their smallness and vulnerability so apparent under fleece blankets. Or their precious voices saying, “I love you, Mama!” Or the infectious laughter that bubbled up from the bottoms of their pink feet when I played the “five more minutes” game or the “wilting flower who needed water” game. I cherished being their clown, their font of knowledge, their support, their pupil, their greatest love. 

Sometimes I look at my daughters, all grown up, and I wish for just a second that I could have one day with them at each of their most adorable phases when they saw the world with wonder and awe and saw me as invincible and infallible. But they’ve learned that I am not their God, that the world isn’t always kind, that they can’t have everything that they want. How I wish I could’ve prevented those lessons. The truth is, I want my babies back. And I’m not talking about ribs.

What IS It with Me and P?

This post brought to you by my bladder.

Day before yesterday, I was minding my own business when out of nowhere, I was bombarded by pee. First, before I could mute the t.v., that stupid Tena Twist ® commercial came on. You know what I’m talking about. Tena ® is a product for bladder control issues, and the embarrassing commercial features several average women (read: NOT thin) dancing with abandon to the twist, made popular by Chubby Checker in 1960. 

On a side note, Chubby was recently in the news because he strongly (and legally) objected to a new phone app called the "chubby checker" with which men can check the thickness or their...yeah. You get it. The problem with the app is that any guy who uses his phone for that purpose is a dick all over. But I digress.

Tena Twist ®. That's where I was. The point of Tena Twist ®, I guess, is that while you are dancing, and pee is just squirting out, the bladder control pads or briefs (gaaaaaccckkkkkk) will sop it up so you can continue looking like you are having spasms more-or-less to the beat of a 50-year-old tune. Because there is nothing more mortifying than visiting your doctor to learn the physical reason behind your leakage except maybe enduring a price check over the intercom in Wal Mart after you plop down a package of pee-leaky pads in front of guy buying a pack of Marlboros and a foreign couple who consistently ignore the "20 items or less" sign and haul up two buggies of supplies for their restaurant.

Not that I've had that experience. Yet.

My second urine run-in happened just seconds after I saw the Tena ® ad. I got up from the couch because I'd had to pee for, like, an hour, and now could no longer hold it because people on t.v. were all excited about having to pee. It must be noted that due to my recent knee injury, it takes a few moments for me to adjust to standing. So before I could quite get into fully erect mode (i.e., in which I can clamp together my gargantuan thighs in order to "hold it" when I have to go), my bladder went on the offensive. 

I didn't have that regular sensation that occurs when I pee with permission. This was more like an imaginary imp pouring a 2-liter of warm something down my legs. There were no tissues nearby--which seems impossible since I keep Kleenex ® in business with my allergies--so I had no choice but to wad up the bottom of my nightgown to stanch the golden gift. Class-saaaaaaaay. Needless to say, I will be burning that garment.

So then, in my effort to make it to the potty before the coming deluge, I was stumbling down the hall clutching my peeful crotch when I stepped in a huge, cold, wet patch of carpet. My extra-thick sock wicked so much liquid that some ground water came up. I snapped my head back to glare at my poodle, and she slinked her 14-year-old bladder out of view. Bitch.

I can't tell you how much fun I had hopping on a damaged leg while trying to hold a gallon of urinary juice inside a sack with no cut-off valve. I was like a palsy victim trying to run while carrying a giant mixing bowl of sloshing water. Pee everywhere!

I finally made it to the bathroom, but it was academic. In the end, I could not get the pee to go in the one place it was acceptable. Screw incontinence! If you need me, I'm sure you can find me cleaning something. But at least I won't have to pee.

It May Be Time for a Diet...

See? This is what happens when you  have a fat ass.  Men in ugly coats try to shoot you with rifles.

I was waddling around Boston this week when I realized…I was waddling. I’m afraid that I may have gone a little too far with that New Year’s resolution about getting sloppy fat just because I knew it was one I could keep. The truth is that if you put a couple of sticks between my thighs, I could make it in the wilderness because the friction would start a nice fire. But then, the goddamned duck hunters would find me.

So. Before I end up with an ass full of buckshot, I’m thinking it’s time to get serious about losing some of my ass. Now, it isn’t that I haven’t been thinner before or that I don’t know all about dieting. I admit that the past year’s expansion has been due to my inactivity. BUT. Said inactivity isn’t completely my fault as I am not the fucktard who spilled water in the drink aisle at the big box store I shall call Fall Mart. Nevertheless, it is now I who must take charge of the mess otherwise known as my body.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people say that if you want to lose weight, “Just watch what you eat.” So I decided to try it. I huffed all the way down to Dunkin’ Donuts, and I watched the bagels. I watched the croissants. I watched the pastries. And I did not lose a freaking ounce. In fact, I’m pretty sure I gained poundage because I got bored watching the crullers, so I ended up buying 3 chocolate cake, 2 Irish crème, and a jelly-filled. Obviously watching what you eat does not work. Fucking liars.  

I’ve also tried that brilliant advice about “burning more calories than you consume.” First, I calculated the number of calories I take in during a typical day. Then, I looked up the number of calories burned per hour of doing my favorite exercise. So at 86 calories per hour, I would have to cook, like, 50 hours in a day to lose weight. Obvs, someone didn’t think this shit through.

And another thing is that the more you weigh, the more calories you burn per hour. A 100-pound person burns 114 calories per hour of housecleaning. But a 250-pound person burns 284 calories for the same damned thing. That is not fair. By my figuring, I’ve got to weigh, like, 750 pounds and clean house for 5 hours a day to get thin. I just don’t see that happening because I can barely vacuum now.

I don’t know. It’s getting critical since I have to buy my clothes in the camping section now. The color selection in pup tents is butt-ugly. I know this because I was just at the sporting goods store looking for an official Duck Dynasty Duck Commander Duck Call. Hell, while I’m trying to surround myself with a paddling of ducks for protective cover, I might as well be trendy.