Version 2.0

January 26th, 2006

As many of you already know, Sam was born on Tuesday, Jan. 24 at 9:50 p.m. Weighed 8 pounds, 6 ounces and was 20 inches long. Came EARLY at 38 weeks and boy I’m happy not to be pregnant anymore.

I just got home so I haven’t read any emails yet, but thanks for all the nice things I saw in the comments.

Richers…

January 23rd, 2006

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching TV and reading magazines, it is that rich people are so insightful.

Take The Oprah Magazine, for example. (Not that I read it, and if I do, well you can’t prove it.) There’s always a section where Oprah shares her fabulous wisdom with us little people. Each month, I, I mean, the reader, gets to read something like “You could be a poor slave living in a mud hut, eating worms for dinner, but as long as you have your self worth and a book, that’s all you need.”

I have a feeling said worm eating slave might differ.

Rich people are always giving out insights into their life like that, like my knowing that I could be truly happy if I saluted the sun every morning and acknowledged my own intricate powers, things would be okay and the world would be a better place.

It is so easy for the world to be a better place when you’re flying to your own private island, isn’t it?

Rich people also seem to forget that not everyone is rich. I read in a recent People magazine about “addictions.” The question for the “celebrities” was “What are you addicted to?” Unfortunately, none of them said “crack,” “whores” or “crack whores.” For watching video about celebrities you can using YouTube, for YouTube video download you can use MacX YouTube Downloader for Mac.

One of the “celebrities,” I can’t remember which one because they are all tan, thin and have very large lips, announced her addiction to TIVO and DVR.

“I don’t know how anyone can live without it,” she said.

See, when I make a comment like the one above, it is usually about things such as AIR or even a luxury such as RUNNING WATER. TIVO? Well, I live without it and I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m doing Great!

While you’re busy fast-forwarding through all the commercials, well, I’m busy watching and making an opinion on Everything. Applebees with Weight Watchers? Hate them. Gatorade? Boring. Anything with Catherine Zeta-Jones? Shoot me now.

Rich people also know that if you spend more money on something, it must be better. Normally, when I want some chocolate, I either drink some chocolate milk or find leftover chocolate chips in the pantry.

Rich people? No, they eat things like “truffles.” Not only truffles, but expensive truffles. I happened to see in Oprah Magazine a nameless magazine that definitely was not Oprah’s, a big spread on chocolate.

Did you know you can get 34 bonbons for $136? Isn’t that such a great deal? I couldn’t imagine spending my money on anything better than THAT. Well, except for spending $136 to give said bonbons to the worm-eating slave.

Because, really, nothing says “I respect you and your plight” more than overpriced chocolates.

You have ruined me and for that, I am thankful.

January 22nd, 2006

It is seven p.m., and The Hubs and I sit inside an empty pizza parlor. I’m wearing a “fancy” black top with a flowered skirt and he wears his new cords.

“Are you using those witch hazel pads when you go to the bathroom,” he asks as the rain pours down outside. It is a rare night out, Ellie is at my Mom’s house and we’re using the hour to eat dinner without anyone screaming at the table.

“Well, you know, you see, yeah, sometime.”

“You’re not using them?”

“I use them if I have hemorrhoids but not all the time. But– get this– today, I’m sitting on the bed and all of a sudden I think that I have The Rhoids again. So, you know, I go into the bathroom and I have to check and see if I do.”

He begins to smile.

“So, you know, I check in the mirror and there are the ‘rhoids,” I say as I hold up my fingers, “But also, it’s all red like a diaper rash. It really hurts. I mean, no, really, it is this huge area that’s red and itchy and hurting.”

“So what did you do?”

“I put that cream on that my Mom gave me.”

“Ha, you and your Mom use the same butt cream.”

When I met The Hubs, I refused to even admit that I went #2. I told him that I didn’t have to do #2 because girls don’t do that type of thing but finally admitted that perhaps, if I did, the little poops were more like Hershey’s Kisses.

I wouldn’t let him see me pee. No way would I let someone see me in that type of position.

Since then, he has seen me pee myself while vomiting, vomiting in every place possible, having an IUD inserted (and the screaming that came with it), give birth to a 9 pound child, and have two catheters inserted.

I think it should be expected that I’d grow more comfortable in front of my husband. But? Other people? I’ve gone from shy about my body to sharing way too much information with everyone I meet.

A week or two ago, we were at my Mom’s house, eating dinner. After dinner was finished, I stood up in the living room, hunched over the couch. “Sorry,” I said to my stepfather. “My ‘rhoids are acting up.”

He just looked at me, not sure what to say about the rhoids.

I blame it all on The Internet. I sit here, every day, and tell you what’s on my mind. In case you haven’t noticed, bodily functions, body parts and such are all on my mind. What can I say? It is in the gutter.

Even though, when I was a young girl, my Mom gave me “The Book on How Your Girly Parts Work,” I really didn’t believe that anyone else besides me had a downstairs hedge. I’m not sure why I thought that, but I guess it is a preteen/teenage thing to think that yes, you are in fact, a freak of nature.

Let’s just say that I felt a bit better after my first community shower experience. Not only did everyone else have downstairs hedges, they didn’t look like anything in one of those “Men’s Magazines” either.

So, imagine my surprise when, last week, I went to visit my Midwife and it was time for the dreaded “internal.” I had pretty much given up on any time of “grooming” because I just can’t see down there. So large is the belly that when I have to give my weekly pee in a cup, I just put the cup down and aim.

My aim without any line of sight is better than my aim with. Hmm, go figure.

So, the Midwife and the nurse on “Crotch Watch” come into the room and I saddle up. I don’t know what came over me, but I find myself apologizing for the state of things down there.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I kind of gave up on grooming. My husband offered to help but I’m just too lazy, even for that.”

The Sweetest Thing

January 21st, 2006

Tonight, while I waited for my Unisom to kick in, Ellie woke up from her sleep, screaming. After laying her in our bed, I quited her down by singing Elton John songs.

Soon, she fell asleep and I found myself laying there, my toddler’s head touching mine. Then, slowly, her little hand reached up and placed itself on my cheek.

That, my friends, is why I do this. For those moments when I find myself basking in her sweetness.

Oddly enough, the majority of those moments come while she is asleep, but I’ll take what I can get.

The Post You All Knew Was Coming But Hoped It Wouldn’t…

January 19th, 2006

I have a feeling that my husband has a few favorite parts of his day. The first part would be my phone call to him at work, usually somewhere between 11 and 2, where I update him on events as they happen.

Him: “How are you? What are you doing?”
Me: “Fine. Bored. Ellie is trying to kill me.”
Him: “Oh…”
Me: “Um, do you think you can leave and come home? Because I am tired and she’s being mean and she hates me.”
Him: “I can’t. I’ll be home later.”
Me: “Fine. You hate me. I see how it is. Have fun AT WORK. Where you talk to OTHER PEOPLE.”

Then, when he comes home at 5, and I act all Scarlett O’Hara like and demand that he take the little one and leave me alone to my TLC with the Mountain Dew he better had brought me.

The third time of the day, however, I know he has to love. It is called SJ Climbs Into Bed And Starts Whining For 30 Minutes About Everything on Her Mind. If he dares closes his eyes, he will get to listen to me rant about how “You don’t care and you don’t UNDERSTAND and don’t you see that the world is going to end?”

Most recently, the whining/complaining/crying has been about “Holy Crap we’re going to have two kids and WHAT WAS I THINKING?”

It really isn’t the birth that’s bothering me this time, even though it has pretty much been comfirmed that I will, in fact, have back labor. I just keep reminding myself that I can try to do things the way I want and well, if that doesn’t work, medicine can help.

All I keep thinking about is having two. How in the heck am I supposed to handle two when the one I have repeatedly kicks my butt on a daily basis? Did you know that newborns wake up a lot? And they like to poop in the middle of the night and you have to turn on the light and change the poop? Did you know they scream and cry and sometimes sleep, but not in this house because I’m sure a certain “Big Sister” (Oh gah, that’s so horrible, I’m turning her into a big sister.) will make sure to punch him in the face every time he closes his eyes.

And? Your boobies? They swell up and explode and you have to wear maxipads and actually USE the ‘rhoid cream and let’s talk about the stitches…the stiches from here to there. The stitches that make you scared to sit down to pee or poop.

My Mom is leaving for out of town tomorrow and will be gone until the 25th. Considering she was, well, the person we needed to use to watch Ellie, that is a Bad Thing. A lovely friend has agreed to join “the list” of people we would call if I go into labor. Poor thing, she doesn’t realize she is the list.

Since she is a sweetheart and bought my child a donut just so she could eat the sprinkles off of it, well, there’s no way I’d call her at 3am to pick up my baby. No, I’d at least wait until seven. Since I went into labor with Miss E in the middle of the night, that’s how I expect for things to go this time.

Picture it. Three a.m. Me, hobbling into the birthing part of the hospital, dragging my gimp leg behind me. The Hubs, holding bags of who knows what because we haven’t actually bothered to pack for the hospital yet. Ellie, pissed off because we woke her up, ready to climb things and stick fingers in sockets and hit people when they look at her funny.

All during the birthing process! I imagine myself, spread-legged on the birthing table, with my child trying to climb into the doctor’s lap to stick her hand up my crotch. She is already fascinated with The Beave, I can only guess that my displaying it like Southerners do “The Flag” would make her day.

By the way, The Hubs recently taught her to point “down there” at me and say “Beave.” (Short for beaver.)

I’m trying not to freak too much about this whole New Baby thing. I mean, hello, there are some people out there that have two under one! So what if Little Jizzy won’t understand what I mean when I say “Hey, Oprah’s on!” or “Let’s go find Barney!” He also won’t have the manual dexterity to take off his diaper and pee all over his bed during naptime.

I’m sure he’ll give me a couple of good blog posts, such as “The day my child first peed into my mouth” or “Look! Ellie’s finger painting with her brother’s poop!”

If anything, there will be more talk of The Penis, which is a good thing. I think a little penis talk could balance out all the vagina talk that’s been going on around here.

You Don’t Want No Drama

January 18th, 2006

We haven’t been exactly strict when it comes to filming Miss E’s childhood. You see, we bought a video camera before she was born so we could film all the happy moments of her childhood to show 20/20 when they came knocking on our door after our child’s tellall book about her horrible family.

Then, the night I went into labor, the camera broke. Then, the good people at Best Buy lost all the video inside the camera, which included nine months worth of me bitching and moaning about how I hated being pregnant.

Luckily, I still have all the archives on this site to remember that.

So basically, the filming of our child has been sporadic, at best. Luckily, she seems very cute and very happy in all the videos so ha, just go and try to sell that book saying how horrible we are.

The cute and happy videos are about to end, Internet. I’ve had it up to (holds hand above head) HERE.

Hello, my name is The Sarcastic Journalist and my 18-month-old daughter has morphed into a moody teenager overnight.

I can deal with her standing at the gate to the kitchen and screaming “Crackie! Crackie!” over and over again. For those of you that don’t speak Toddler, a crackie is the combination of a cookie and cracker. Crackies are fun to hide in couch cushions or in electrical outlets.

If I do not hobble to the kitchen fast enough, she throws herself on the ground, rolls around and moans like death is upon her. After I list a variety of things she may want “Milk? Apple? Butcher knife?” to which, she always screams, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I bring up the cracker.

“Crackie! Crackie!”

No one is allowed to go poop by themselves in our house, except for Miss E. While formerly content to roam around the house while said loaf was pinched (in two seconds or less), that is not the case anymore. Anyone that DARES shuts the door to the bathroom will be met by screaming, whining and the banging on the door.

If you place her in her crib for naptime? Wall banging will proceed for twenty minutes, followed by the throwing of the blankets across the room and, if you’re really feeling lucky, the disrobing of the Toddler, which includes the diaper.

Sometimes she deposits a special treat in the diaper before taking it off.

Today, while watching Oprah together, Miss E decided to learn over and bite me on the arm. Not just a little nip, but a bite that left imprints on my forearm. I had enough. I scooped her up, hobbled to her bedroom and placed her in her crib. She helped me take all the blankets and her bear out of her crib (because haha, time out is fun!) and then smiled at me.

“No biting,” I said. “We don’t bite mommy.”

Then? I shut the door.

I have never shut the door when I put her in time out because, well, I figured I didn’t need to. I had begun to realize that she didn’t exactly take my discipline measures very seriously, so drastic times called for drastic measures. I went into the living room to watch the clock. She had exactly one minute.

During that time, The Devil himself opened a hole from the bottom of the Earth and came into her room. My child went nutso. I would try to tell you how bad it was, but you wouldn’t believe me. Linda Blair in the Exorcist had nothing on my child.

Once I tried to get her out, well, it went from bad to worse. No, she was MAD at ME. How dare I PUT HER IN TIME OUT FOR BITING ME ON THE ARM? No, she would not have it. She screamed louder. Positioned herself so I couldn’t get her. Hit the wall and then, accidentally hit her head on the crib, twice.

All the while I’m trying to get her out because hello, my baby is upset and she hurt herself! Must. Make. It. Better.

Eventually, she laid down on her mattress and looked into the distance. The expression on her face? Priceless. She was sulking, moping because I had punished her for ONE MINUTE.

She wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t let me even cover her with a blanket.

Fifteen minutes later, she finally decided I was punished enough and allowed me to take her out of the crib. If she’s like this before she even hits two, boy, I can’t wait until she hits puberty and starts writing bad poetry about how I ruin her life because I won’t let her leave the house dressed like a slut.

Gah, now that I think about it, it’s a good thing Little Jizzy is a boy. I don’t think I could handle all those years of two girls, two periods and too much bad poetry.

I’ll just hope that he doesn’t knock anyone up or start fires. Fires? I can deal with. Bad poetry? No way.

They’re Just Not That Into You

January 17th, 2006

I met up with the fabulous Paige this past weekend for Pie. Somehow during the phone conversations leading up to the meeting, Miss Domestic herself mentioned how she planned on heading to the circle jerk known as BlogHer. She thought that maybe I wanted to go.

I’ll tell you what, it does sound kind of fun to meet up for a weekend with all the ladies that I read on the internet. We could drink, go out to eat and act silly. But, going to a conference? About BLOGGING?

Perhaps I’m just not that into it, but why would I want to confer on blogging? There’s nothing I really want to learn that much. I mean, if anything, I want to talk about Trolls and mean emails and gossip over who did what and where. I do not want to discuss stats or site meters or anything technical.

Does that make me just another stupid woman? Another dumb “mommy blogger” that enjoys talking of poop? Probably. I don’t know…I just don’t want to spend all that money to do Geek Speak.

Then there’s the High School aspect of all of it. I know there will be cliques and everyone is going to clambor to meet all the “popular” bloggers, whoever “they” are. I remember, last year, after reading all the accounts of BlogHer for a month straight where everyone went on and on and on and on and on and on about how wonderful it was…well, all I kept thinking was “They are just people.”

I’ve met many fabulous women and bloggers in real life and I don’t think any of us were ready to crap our pants during the meeting. If anything, it was like “Hey, I like your blog. Let’s eat!”

(I’m not saying everyone is like this, so please don’t send me 50 hate mails about how I’m just jealous that you met so and so and yes, she’s really cool and really tall and I’m just mad because I’m only 5′5. Bleh.)

While searching around on the BlogHer site to see who the speakers will be, I came across this question. “How will your blog change the world?”

Huh?

Um, okay. Well, my blog will change the world because I want more women to accept their hemorrhoids. I want them to know that raising babies isn’t exactly easy and that all mothers and fathers should have a lifetime supply of alcohol. I also want people to feel that they’re not alone while sitting on the couch watching Oprah.

I also want more talk of poop.

I want to create a legion of ‘rhoid-accepting, Oprah watching, poop talking hussies. There. I said it.

While we’re on the subject, I’m also up for “Best Overall Blog” at The Best of Blogs Awards. I’m not even sure how that happened and I kind of feel a little silly about it. But, since its up there and I want to secure my standing as Second Place is The First Loser, I figured I’d let you know. I can’t say I’ve never won anything because I won a fanny pack in the fourth grade in some drawing.

Yeah, that’s right. I said it. Fanny Pack. I wore a fanny pack and I bet you did, too.

So, if I happen to come across five zillion dollars in the next few months, I hope to go out with Paige and party mommy-blogger style. All I’ll say is this: There has been talk of t-shirts. I’m hoping at least one will use the phrase “circle jerk.”

Snip Snap To It

January 16th, 2006

While exiting the doctor’s office the other day, I heard the nurse trying to explain to a woman on the phone how to put “The Ring” in. I heard her saying that she’s never heard of “The Ring” falling out.

I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and say yes, “The Ring” can fall out and I’m proof. I do not know why I keep using quotations. I guess it is fun.

From the conversations I’ve had with other gals, they seem to think I enjoy throwing caution to the wind and not dealing with birth control. It is not that at all. The problem is that Birth Control Doesn’t Like Me.

I spent way too much time shoving my hand down my pants in public places when I had “The Ring” because it kept falling out.

The pill? My husband begged me to go off it because it turned me into a crazy woman. It is also a libido killer, in case you were wondering. That’s how it works: It makes you never want to do the deed so you never get pregnant!

The patch? Didn’t try that because ha, it’s just like The pill.

The IUD? Been there, done that, had a colonoscopy, CT scan and laparoscopic surgery to try and figure out what it caused me so much freaking pain.

If I believed in “The Universe,” I would believe that “The Universe” really wanted to see me get knocked up. There you go, “Universe.” You won. Twice.

But now…after I have this baby and we get through the next five months of “Get that thing away from me!” I will have to think of birth control.

Here’s what we came up with: A vasectomy!

I think a vasectomy is good for several reasons. First, it doesn’t have anything to do with my privates. Second, no condoms or pills or creams or things getting stuck up my cooter. Third? Well, I think it is time that The Hubs gets a little of the pain I’ve been going through.

Yes, I’m mean.

The problem, Internet, is that I’m stupid. I let The Hubs read The HILARIOUS Dad Gone Mad’s account of getting the old twig and giggle berries snipped.

I thought it was funny. I mean, hello! He could smell things! And he cried! What’s funnier than that?

Well, my husband and his nuts have differing opinions on what is funny. Turns out nut smoke isn’t funny in his book. Well neither is stitches going from my cooter to my bum hole, but well, I named an entire web domain after it.

(I know that some people think this site means “She Nuts” as in whoa, that girl is nuts. No. It comes from this entry where I describe what happened to my nether regions after the birth of my daughter.)

Now The Hubs is all “I’m not doing that! There is no way I’m going to let someone do that to my nuts!”

I already felt bad for him because they will make him Do His Thang in a cup. I’m sure he probably won’t care because he enjoys the talk of the whacking it, but, well, I felt embarrassed for him. But now, he’d have to Do His Thang In a Cup AND be scared of someone placing a tiny little slit into his nutsack.

Men, I swear. They act like their puppies are all “sensitive” and “delicate” and “important.” I totally think they’re exaggerating when they fall to the ground after getting kicked in the nuts.

“Oh, my nutsack. It is SOOO SENSITIVE. I mean, it just hangs there, all hairy and wrinkly and you should respect the nutsack.”

How can I respect the nutsack if he won’t even let me get close to it? I’m sorry, Internet, but I find the giggleberries very interesting. So interesting that I’d like to get up close and examine. But…nooooooo. He’s “ticklish.”

Well, I wanna know how ticklish he’ll be one he’s doing this*.

*Not Safe For Work.

Birth Control for the Masses

January 15th, 2006

When I was a little girl, I had the notion of having lots and lots of kids. Seven, to be exact. They’d all have names like “Tabitha” and “Candace” and we’d all live happily ever after, just like the family in The Sound of Music– minus the Nazis. iTunes its great for music but...

Then I saw “The Miracle of Life” video in 7th grade health class and started making plans to adopt a little herd of children because no way was that stuff going to come out my coochie.

I remember, very distinctly, a lot of green stuff coming out after the baby. I can only hope that I don’t have green stuff in there right now. What is the green stuff? Snot? Ectoplasm? Leftover baby batter?

I never expected to get pregnant. Not because I thought I was infertile, it was just that haha, The Sarcastic Journalist getting pregnant. Good one. But then? Well there is this magical thing called “Natural Family Planning” and let’s all say that we weren’t exactly following the “family planning” part down to a T.

Natural? Oh yeah, we were all that.

In fact, I think that everyone that we knew who knew of our “birth control” method made predictions on how fast I’d get pregnant. Not only were their predictions wrong, but they were also slow! I got pregnant much faster than anyone could ever imagine.

I never expected for pregnancy to turn me into a big, stretchy, raving lunatic, but it did. I know that some women rub their bellies and talk of the miracle of life, but all I could do was scratch my expanding butt and talk about how I wanted more chocolate cake.

I think it’s hard for me to believe that there are actually “glowing” pregnant women. Are you really telling me that some women sit around, smiling and humming while knitting some cute booties? Do these women not get heartburn? Or the ‘rhoids from all that sitting?

Heck, if I sit on the toilet for two extra seconds while I tie my shoes, I have to pull out the Preparation H for the next week.

I think one of the most common comments I get are from women who are either: A. Not pregnant but enjoy the having of the sex or B. Newly pregnant and eagerly buying their copies of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”

After said woman that enjoys sex or woman that had good ideas of pregnancy picks her jaw off the floor and stops crying, well, she asks me why I must scare her. Sadly, I always feel bad about scaring the women and then I try to email back with positives about babies: They’re little! They sometimes smell good! They’re fun to snuggle!

I do not mention my hatred of the baby socks.

After a very short self-assessment, I realize that I do not have many marketable skills. I can change a diaper on a wiggling toddler and I can stop said toddler from dropping her Fig Newton into the toilet. I can blog and well…I can also eat a lot.

But I’ve come up with a new marketable skill: Acting as a walking birth control method.

Are you a public school teacher? Sunday School teacher? Ice cream man that deals with large amounts of children? Do you want to scare the kids you come in contact with into abstinence?

Hire me!

Forget pictures of STDs. Forget telling those horney teens that they should wait until they’re older. Handing out condoms in the nurse’s office? HA! No, they need to meet their very own, very angry, very fat pregnant woman.

I’ll give them the real skinny on what it is like to be in the final month of pregnancy. First, grab the arm off an old Barbie. Shove said arm up your butt. Walk around for a month or two. If that isn’t enough, place about 570 odd-sized rocks under your mattress. Drink about 500 cups of coffee before trying to lie down on said rocks.

Whine, whine and then whine some more. Cry because that little baby on Oprah, the one that didn’t have a body at all, died during the operation because those mean doctors couldn’t figure out how to save a baby with no body at all.

Get emotional about the baby born without a face or the little girl covered in burn marks, both of which you can see on TLC.

Realize you shouldn’t watch so much TLC.

I know there are people out there that make reproducing look good. They get massages and manicures and make sure to wax before they go to the doctor.

They aren’t the people that secretly tweak their boobies when nobody is looking, hoping that all that tweaking might you know, do something down there.

Those women, the Happy Pregnant Women, do things like display pregnancy tickers. We all sit in awe as Little Peanut rides the Choo-Choo train down to Cooterville, all the while announcing “59 more days to go!”

Well, I’m not one of those people, so I’ve developed my own ticker. Sure it is, um a parody of another ticker, (which happens to be one of the better ones out there) but I think it describes my life perfectly.

A Million Pieces

January 12th, 2006

Children are innately curious beings. That’s why they put dog food in their mouths or have the need to stop at every pine cone on the ground and touch it.

I get it. I try to encourage curosity to an extent, well, to the point that she’s not going to choke on any rocks, because I hope it encourages creativity and learning. Also, curosity in rocks is a heck of a lot cheaper than anything they sell at Toys R Us.

We’re all about the learnin’ in this house, Internet.

I also know that when left to their own devices, that The Little People will come up with creative ways to entertain themselves. While I’m sure it is okay to finger paint with poop or let your child juggle knives in other houses, well, I try to keep it to a minimum because I’m lazy and don’t want to clean poop or blood up off my couch.

In order to pass the time (isn’t that what it is all about?) before naptime, I let Miss E get into the shower with me. You see, somehow we have convinced our toddler that brushing teeth and taking baths are, in fact, rewards.

“Eat your dinner and then you can BRUSH YOUR TEETH!” She falls for it every time. She’s like a little dog jumping for a T-bone steak except the T-bone steak is a Tasmanian Devil toothbrush with Spongebob toothpaste.

Even though sitting at my feet while I shower isn’t exactly quality bath time, my child still enjoys playing with her “duckies.”

I’m not shy about letting her see me naked. Sure she pokes me in the “boobie” and sometimes grabs me in places that the sun doesn’t shine, but I figure its okay. I mean, my doctor manhandles me more than she does. Besides, she doesn’t realize that she’s doing something taboo. She’s just grabbing at what she sees.

I’m sure I might be different with Little Jizzy. Sure, I’ll let him see me naked, but there will come a point where all of his naked time will be with Daddy and his “puppy.”

I’m all ready to give talks on periods and bras but he’s going to be the one that explains those boy parts. Penises are scary, yall. That’s all I have to say about that. Luckily, The Hubs has already announced that he will tell Little Jizzy that “whacking it is okay.”

That’s my husband, Internet. Sorry, he’s taken.

So I’m in the shower today, with my back to my child as I wash my face. Next thing I know, I feel something poking me in the butt crack and it wasn’t the hemorhoids from last night. Seems as if my child decided today would be a good day to try and shove a shampoo bottle up my butt.

After making a loud “Woah!” noise, I put the bottle down and went back to business. All I can say is this: I’m glad we don’t have any gerbils in the house.