Stuff I Wouldn't Give 2 Sh*ts About Last Year

I know, I know. The only thing more boring than a baby, is a blog about a baby. In fact, I always thought I'd have a hard time blogging about motherhood due to the snoozefest it can be, and therefore decided I just simply wouldn't reproduce. Because it makes your blog boring.

Well JOKE'S ON YOU, because I'm totally talking about my spawn. Sorry.

Except I'm not, because Radimus is pretty fricking cool. Oh shit, she's pissed, hold on. I don't dare let her cry for long...I'm mildly terrified of her.

Also, you know who should be mildly terrified? TurboTax. I've been on hold with them for like eight days and their hold music is the butthole of elevator tunes. Don't they know I'm hormonal?

Anyway, Rozzie is happily napping again. So I give you: The Misfortunes of Being Roz

or: Sh*t my baby does.

or: Momfails - the Regirlfriend edition

The other day, I forgot to feed my baby on schedule. I got running errands and being productive, something very special and rare. I was so disoriented by this phenomenon, that R pretty much went five hours between meals. By the time I realized this, I was driving home from Target (that's part of my problem) squinting at the clock, and becoming terrified she would wake up and realize how effing empty her stomach was. Which is exactly what happened.

Radimus: Yawn....
[3 seconds of foreboding silence]
Me: OhShitOhShitOhShit
Scrappy, my Car: Vrrooooommm, meeeennnnnhhhhhhhhh. (you know, cuz it's only a 4-cylinder)
R: NNNYYYAAAAA! (Translation: AW HELLL NO. This is ridicu--  wait, oh you shut right up...is that a TARGET sign I see rapidly disappearing from my rear-facing view of everything? Did you really starve me for Target time?)
Me: Huh? Oh hey there you are Roz, whatup dawg.
Scrappy: VVRRRRMMMMMMM!
R: A-LAH! A-LAH! (Translation: Yeah, I hope you forgot nursing pads and ruined your shirt.)
Me: GEEZ I couldn't wake you up all day! You little snoozer you! Oh, hey are you hungry?
R: Wrehh! [appalled quiver with giant extended bottom lip]. Wrehh! (Translation: Like it would have been so hard to feed me. My stomach is the size of a walnut. You're an unfit hack of a mother).

I took her home, left everything in the trunk, lugged her up to the 3rd floor disaster I call a home, and whipped out a DDD sized feed bag. She went cross-eyed and slammed her head enthusiastically into it. Her head bounced off. Undeterred and only a couple of weeks into her neck muscle developement, she quickly thrust it violently back forward into my boob. It slammed into the breast, then bounced back with equal force.

This head-boob pinball exchange happened a few more times until I stopped the insanity and helped direct things. She embraced my jug with both hands, arms wide, palms flat against my skin, fingers webbed wide. I think she does this for dramatic effect (as if to demostrate, hey porky, YOUR HOOTERS COULD NOT BE HUGER, FOR THE LOVE). Since my boobie is 2-3 times the size of her newborn head, it looked like she was trying to blow up a huge beach ball.

Oh, mind you, this is the same day I went to get her out of her carseat in the middle of the [at-capacity] City Creek food court [during RSV season], and realized I had only completed the first buckle in the legally required series of harnesses in her infant carrier. I had made it through the chest buckle, then obviously noticed my friend the ADD Hippopotamus (obnoxious roommate of the formidable Ambien Walrus) and just flat out failed to finish buckling her in.

This past four weeks have been a parade of charm. I was picking something up off the floor the other day and noticed a clear, hard, goldenrod tinted glaze spattered down the side of the nice, new black dresser. It was baby crap. Because our little Radley delights in shooting her newborn mustard dumps at us while we change her. Like we hear of so many babies doing, she waits until her teeny tiny diaper is peeled off her pointy, harmless, bare butt, and then aims and launches us a live one. This is somehow less disturbing to me than the solid cylinder of blinding-white projectile vomit that looks like a skywalk between R's mouth [and nostrils] and her dad's chest. The effort I take to pump/nurse that into her is mind-boggling, so I get mad about these upchucks for extremely selfish reasons. Milking my udders in sub-flattering ways for hours? Wasted. My formerly elegant brown velvet chaise sectional I used to call a couch? Encrusted.

OK, yes, above all, it is heartbreaking to watch my daughter get sick. She didn't ask to be here. She didn't choose the bottles or their rapid release drip technology that might as well be a beer bong dropping milk straight into her little tummy with zero forgiveness. She didn't do anything to deserve it. God just looked down at His clipboard and saw there was a conception in my household 10 months ago and had to figure something out. He had sent 60% of babies to regular homes, with more than one bedroom, where their parents feed them on schedules and have no 3rd-world adventure piercings or spooky tattoos. Then 5% get sent to really horrible situations I'm not going to think about. Another 34.99999% get sent to the Jolie-Pitts and live in a French chateau and have their own amusement park. The remainder, God sent to me.

Yep, Roz got sent to the house where she would be forced to eat in these crazy reclined positions, which I create to allow me to sleep while she feeds. I wake up from half-sleep with my boob draped over her face, nowhere near her mouth, her eyes wide and peering out at me, waiting quietly for me to wake up and save her. Where she drops her pacifier and I just suck it clean before giving it to her. Totally sanitary. Where her dad props her up in front of the TV and turns on Squidbillies - not to get rid of her, but to indoctrinate her. Where her mom gets so excited that her social security card came, she took a picture and almost posted it to Facebook, SS number and all. Where she'd spend nine hours in the Salt Lake City Courthouse because I called the cops on a drunk trucker two years ago, and had to testify about it cuz he couldn't own his actions. And it was an 8-6 ordeal. She was six days old, meaning she had spent 15% of her life there by the time we left. Yep, that's her life.

So she kinda got a raw deal, but she rules the roost. It's a disaster. I told my mom it looked like a baby store threw up in my apartment. Then I decided that, no, it actually looked like a baby store went Two Girls One Cup in my apartment. My mom didn't know what Two Girls One Cup was, so I explained. She kind of gagged. Then my brother felt it was necessary to google it and show her. She gagged harder. But I feel she really needed to understand the ENORMITY of the baby storm that had invaded and commandeered my small abode. I think this explanation really helped her.

PS: 45 minutes on hold with TurboTax...just saying. Eff those guys.

I'm tired, so I'm quitting. And most of this was written with one hand, in hunt-and-peck fashion, while my other arm held the Glow Worm. So please excuse any typos.

Pictures to come. xoxoxo