Category Archives for "humor"
Poop is a subject no one wants to talk about, yet it is something we all do. Stinky, nasty, poop.
Let’s take a minute and talk about the hardest poop of a new mother’s life. That first poop. The first poop after you finally push that giant bundle of joy out of your hoodie hoo (or have it cut out of your tummy.) If you have given birth, you know what I am talking about. Yeah, THAT poop. Before becoming pregnant, you hear all of the horror stories. “I tore and got 4,325 stitches” or “I was in labor for 40 days and 40 nights and ended up with an emergency c-section,” but they all end the same way. “As soon as I held that beautiful baby in my arms all of the pain disappeared.” That really is true. You don’t notice your guts hanging out, or your vag is tore to shreds. You just know you have that perfect little human in your arms, but that’s where the stories stop. They don’t tell you what happens once you are home.
You get home, you are sore, tired, and trying to figure out life with that new baby. It’s been a couple of days and you notice that ache in your tummy. You think to yourself “When was the last time I pooped? Have I been taking my stool softeners? I don’t even know what year it is anymore, let alone the last time I took my meds or took a massive poopie.” So, you pop a couple of stool softeners, what’s the worse that could happen?
Okay, it’s coming, poop time. Your baby starts to scream, and your husband is nowhere to be found. Alright, give the baby a boob then go poop. Nope, it’s coming now, you are prairie doggin’. Alright, the baby must come with to the toilet, he/she can nurse, you can poop, it has to happen. You know it’s gross but there is no other option. All you need to do now is just give a little push and all will be…OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THIS PAIN?! Holy crap, I feel like Darth Vader just jumped out of the toilet and cut my cooter open again with his lightsaber. I have to poop so bad, how do I do this?? I’m on the toilet, nursing my baby, crying from pain, trying to poop. I think to myself, I can do this, I am one tough biotch, ain’t no sore coochy gonna stop me from getting that sweet relief that I so deserve. Little push, ow, little push, oh, sweet baby Jesus it’s happening, Tears of joy, run down my face.
Fast forward to the middle of the night, when you are again, breastfeeding your baby. Then it really hits, your stomach growls so loud the neighbor’s dog started howling. You run into the bathroom, trying to pull down your pants. Explosion city starts to happen before you can even sit all of the way down. Lord almighty, those stitches are torn now. I probably should have only taken one stool softener. Lesson learned.
Two hours pass, and I am finally done. My poor bum. My poor va-jay-jay. My poor toilet.
So, if you are expecting a baby anytime soon, just keep this in the back of your mind. It’s going to happen. It’s probably going to hurt, but you just have to poo.
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Sweaty, dirty, crazy, fun sex.
Or so it used to be before children. Before having beautiful little snot monsters, before shredded vaginas, or cut open tummies, we used to enjoy sex. We used to enjoy getting wild in the spur of the moment. Now it’s an entirely different story.
Now, we need about a week to physically and mentally prepare ourselves. I mean, last time I shaved my legs? Judging by the length of the hair, I’ll say it was when my first was born. Two years ago. Okay, maybe not that bad, but it is pretty bad.
Not just the hair, I also don’t like my body anymore. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my tiger stripes and wouldn’t change them for the world.) I don’t like myself naked right now. My hairy, flabby, exhausted, sometimes smelly, self. The fact that I look like a real life version of Chewbacca doesn’t exactly make me feel desirable anymore.
Let’s just for a minute pretend that I do get to take a nice long shower all by myself (HA!), and I’m able to shave every hairy spot and scrub off all of the boogers and spit up that coat my body, that is one problem solved.
Great. Let’s go to the next problem.
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Kids. The kids that keep me up all night long. The kids that never sleep. How am I supposed to get myself in the mood for some hanky panky when I have two little poop machines constantly attaching themselves to me? After corralling them all day long, scrubbing poop out of the carpet, and just generally trying not to lose my mind, how am I supposed to say, “Ya, I’d love to have sex now, I’m so relaxed.” When was the last time my husband and I were alone? I can’t even tell you. Or even both children asleep at the same time? Call me crazy but sneaking into the other room while one or more of my children are awake is not exactly ideal. The thought that they could just walk in on us and scar their poor little brains for life is kind of a turn off.
Another problem, sore va jay jays and leaky boobs. I’ll group these into one problem. One massive problem. After pushing out babies who ripped you open from butthole to elbow, normally you aren’t thrilled to jump back into the sack anytime soon. For some of us it takes an entire YEAR before we are ready to even try to have sex; and when we do, it HURTS! I really don’t want to do the dirty when it feels like my hoo-ha is being stung by a hive of angry wasps. Then, if you are still nursing your baby, you have to worry about leaky, sore boobs. Nothing is sexier than having boob juice leaking between your bodies causing wet, warm, stickiness.
Basically what I’m saying is, sex is different after you become a mom. I am sure not everyone out there feels the same. Some of you probably have magical vaginas that shoot rainbows out and heal instantly, and some of you have the sex drive of a teenage boy. To you, I say, Good for you and your magic peaches. For the rest of us, just hang in there, sisters. It will probably get better, someday. I hope.
I want to hear from you, do you have a magical vagina? How long did you wait to have sex? How do you make it work? Tell me in the comments!
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Today, M had her 4 month check up. Lucky for me my mother-in-law works at the doctor’s office, so I get a little help. We arrive and it’s already going to be a shitty day. I hate shots. While we are waiting, I’m notified that the people who do dental/vision screening are here and they can screen my son, E, with my MIL while I take baby M to her appointment. PERFECT. WAIT. NO. Did I brush his teeth today? Oh well, it’s her problem now. She can be embarrassed when he opens his mouth and all of the flowers in the room wilt.
Finally, the appointment gets rolling. Everything is going great. Then my MIL comes in with E and some lady and tells me his teeth are perfect (thank God) but, he has astigmatism in one eye (son of a Biotch!) SERIOUSLY? He needs to see an eye doctor for an exam. What is it with this kid?! We were finally done with his cardiologist and now we have baby doctor appointments, dental appointments, and this? Don’t they know how hard it is to go anywhere with two kids? What am I made of money and endless amounts patience? I can promise you that I am not.
When I get home, I go into mom mode, checking insurance and calling doctors. I need to find out who, in our tiny town works best with toddlers who haven’t sat still in two weeks. The awesome lady at the office I chose gets us an appointment for the very next day, easy peasy. Then it hits me. I have to go to the eye doctor tomorrow with both kids by myself. Maybe my husband can go? No, he’s mentioned he’s crazy busy at work. Mom? Yes, mom always comes through. Crap! She’ll be out of town. MIL, please? Nope, busy at work.
I imagine myself sitting there tomorrow, sweating from hauling two kids inside, trying to fill out insurance papers as I single handedly try to corral E who is acting like a Tasmanian devil who snorted crack. Meanwhile, the baby is screaming and I’m trying to pop a boob in her mouth without all of these people noticing, I’m sure M will detach and I’ll just soak everyone in the waiting room with boob juice and then die of embarrassment.
“We are ready for E, do you have his paperwork?”
“Paperwork? Ya it’s almost done.” I noticed I only wrote the first four letters of his six letter name. That should be sufficient. Hells bells.
That’s just the beginning and I haven’t even started day dreaming (day nightmaring?) about actually seeing the doctor yet.
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