Dear lady I just saw breastfeeding at a restaurant,
Really? Do you seriously have to pick the table right in front of me so I have to stare at you the whole time you do THAT? I mean yeah, I guess I could pick up and move to a different table, but F that, I was here first.
And now I have to sit here staring at you breastfeeding for God knows how long because you insist on doing it in public. And here’s why I think that is so wrong.
ME: I want another cookie.
WILLPOWER: You said you’d only have one.
ME: But I realllllly want one.
WILLPOWER: You’ll feel better if you don’t.
ME: I know, I know.
ME: I don’t feel better.
WILLPOWER: Stop thinking about it.
ME: Yeah, okay, I’ll do that.
So you know how we went to Boston a few weeks ago? Well, you are NOT going to believe how insane our ride back to the airport was. Seriously, it’s a miracle we made it back alive.
Wait, lemme back up a sec. So whenever we plan a trip, my husband and I stress out big time over which flights we should take. You gotta think about naps and bedtimes and having to wake up too early and dropping off rental cars and delayed flights and allllllllll kinds of annoying stuff.
Okay, so the other day I woke Zoey up and here’s the first thing she said. “Mom, can I make breakfast?” Part of me wanted to be like, “And make my kitchen look like Hiroshima? F**K no.” But somewhere inside my head a little voice was saying, “Let her try.” Now I don’t know about your little voices, but mine tell me to do some pretty awesome shit (that I can’t divulge here), so I like to listen to them.
ME: Sure, Zoey. Go potty first and then you can go do it.
So I want to say something. On Friday I posted a picture of my kiddo on Facebook getting his nails painted. No, that is not a typo. HIS nails.
And it got over 800 comments within a few hours, mostly from people shouting out tons of awesome support. So thank you.
So yesterday Holden forced me to watch Paw Patrol with him, and after watching it for about .2 seconds I did what I always do. I picked up my phone to check my emails. Pleeeeease let there be just one new email so I have something to read while I’m trapped on this couch watching F’ing Chase and Ryder and the rest of this stupid show. Ding ding ding, a new email!!! And it’s not just from Groupon or Gymboree! It’s from a real live person, and here’s what it said…
“I don’t know where to start with this. I’m not an ooey gooey sniffy wiffy kind of girl. At least I wasn’t until about 5 months ago. My husband & I have been married forever. We never got pregnant and we decided to adopt from foster care. We were blessed with getting a set of brothers, 4yrs & 6 months old. We were ecstatic. They seemed like great kids, no major baggage. Shortly after they came to stay with us, reality set in. I was finding myself bugged at all the feeding issues with the baby, tired of the endless questions from the 4yr old. I thought I was a horrible mother. I wasn’t bonding with these kids, I had been given the foster care lottery & was spitting in the face good fortune. Never mind the newfound tension between the hub & me.
Then I found your blog. And I bought your book. The relief I felt when I found all my frustration, and then some, in those pages was indescribable. I knew I wasn’t alone, and if a woman who carried her children felt that way, then I, an adoptive mom, was just a normal mom.“
ME: Zoey, what kind of birthday party do you want this year?
Please say an undernighter for a few friends. Please say an undernighter for a few friends.
ZOEY: I want a birthday party that no one else has had.
ME: Ummm, okayyyyy, like maybe an undernighter for just a few of your closest friends?
ZOEY: No, Elsa did that.
1. I don’t want to wipe a single ass all day. I think all kids should have to hold in their poop in on Mother’s Day. Now that would make it special.
2. I want brunch. But not with the whole frigging family. I want brunch with my other mommy friends. See ya, rug rats. Mommy’s coming back drunk on laughter and bloody marys.
3. I want to sleep in. But not with my hooligans shouting “MOMMYYYYYY!!!” at the top of their lungs and ramming one of those giant cannon thingies into the door to bust inside. To all the hubbies reading this: when the rugrats wake up, take them outside immediately. Not downstairs. OUTSIDE. That’s right, scoop them up in a football hold and rush them out the door. I’m F’ing serious. Change their diapers and their clothes on the front lawn if you have to. Just don’t let them wake my ass up.