Taking back The Titties.

My daughter has always been The Perfect Sleeper.
I’ve not talked much about it, only because I have friends who have problems with their children sleeping and I didn’t want to come off as bragging or rubbing it in their faces. I’m sensitive like that.

She started sleeping through the night at around 4 weeks old. At 5 months old, I stopped rocking her to sleep and let her cry it out. It took exactly 2 days and after that? I could lay her down, kiss her goodnight and within 5 minutes she’d be out for at least 9 hours. (I know people like to get all “high and mighty” about letting a child cry it out, but the way I see it? I did my babies a favor, by letting them learn how to go to sleep on their own. End of discussion.) She’s been sleeping through the night ever since AND she still takes 3 naps a day (at least an hour each).
BUT THAT ALL OF THAT HAS CHANGED.
And I blame The Bobs.
When I lay her down now? She starts screaming for me.
“MOM. MOOOOOM. MOOOOOOOOM”
Followed by “One More. One More.”
Followed by “Please? BOBS. BOBSBOBS PLEEEEAAAASE.”
The first night it happened, I made the mistake of going back into her room. As soon as she saw me, she started LAUGHING! Like, “haha, sucker, it didn’t take much to make you cave, did it?” Then, she reached for my boobs.
“One more?”
I gave in because, well, I was tired of the screaming.
Big mistake.
Last night, she pulled that crap again. And this, I put my foot down (and The Bobs away) and refused to go in there to get her.
Man, was she pissed. She screamed at me for a good hour. Then, she started screaming for dad. Then, for brubers. At first, it was funny. I mean, my baby girl, screaming for “One more Bob.” But, as 11 approached and she was still screaming, it wasn’t funny anymore. I began to feel desperate and it became very clear to me that “It’s time to stop breastfeeding.”
I don’t like the way she is demanding that I give her more and then holding my sleep hostage if I do not meet her demands.
I admit a big reason that I’m still breastfeeding her is due to my emotional attachment and very little to do with her needs. Knowing this is my last baby, that this is the last time I’ll ever be a “nursing mother” is hard for me to accept and deal with, so, I continue to nurse her.
But three nights of very little sleep due to a child who thinks SHE OWNS MY BOOBS AND THE MILK THEY PRODUCE and I’m thinking I may be ready to quit and to let The Tittymilk dry up for good.
I’m just not sure I’m prepared for the HELL that Gabby is going to put me through once I make the “No more BOBS for you” decision.

Slapping Leather Belly Dancer

Guess where I went on Saturday night?
Let me give you a hint.

Give up?
Well, then let me tell you. I went dancing.
Line dancing.
Jealous?
It’s been years since I’ve gone line dancing, so, when my sister invited us to go in honor of her birthday, I was like “I’m SO there!”
I almost flaked out at the last minute for stupid reasons, such as “I have nothing to wear!” “I’m fat! Which means I can’t wear jeans! Which means I can not wear MY JUSTIN ROPER BOOTS, which, HAHA, yes, I own Justin Roper Boots!” But, I did not let the stupid voices in my head win and I got my ass in the shower, put on the same outfit I wore when we went to The Improv to see Jay Mohr, (which officially makes that my “going out” outfit) hopped in the van and drove myself to Da Club.
Da country western club.
Within the first 5 minutes of my arrival, I got asked to dance, which I do believe means that “I’VE STILL GOT IT”. Sure, the guy had a speech impediment, a limp, was wearing a belt buckle the size of God and a cowboy hat, BUT EVEN STILL.
I was amazed at how quickly I remembered all of the dances I had learned “back in the day”, but more amazed at the large number of grown men who live in southern california who honestly believe that they are “cowboys.”
Hey, if wearing a cowboy hat that you bought at the mall whilst walking around with a beer in your hand mouthing the words to the country song blasting from the speakers makes you a cowboy in your mind, more power to ya, partner.
During one of the dances, this short, older woman (and I only point out that she was short AND old to be catty) approached me with this nasty attitude and started yelling at me.
Yelling! At me! On the Line Dance Floor!
“Those are not the right kind of shoes for this kind of dancing. Those shoes are bad, not good, very bad.”
Part of me wanted to show her how wrong she was by KICKING HER IN THE STOMACH with my shoes and showing her how, sure, they may be bad for linedancing, but they are TOTALLY AWESOME for knocking the wind out of your “I’m the line dancing shoe police” ass. But, I took the high road. I made a face, put my hand up in the “Shutup and quit talking to me” position and shouted back “I KNOW THAT.”
Seriously, I hate people like her. I totally should have kicked her.
I was a little disappointed that we had to leave before they did the “Freestyle” dancing, because I was really looking forward to busting out some of my Aerobic Dance Class moves. Specifically, The Monkey. I did, however, get a chance to show them off in the parking lot on the way to the car.
That was a special moment, because one girl actually said “Wow, that was a cool move.”
We aerobic Dancers live for that kind of praise. It’s like “In saying that, you’re acknowledging that I have paid close attention in class and that I have, indeed, mastered That Move.”
Speaking of Aerobic Dancing.
Last night, we learned “Belly Dancing.”
Let me just tell you that when the word “Belly” followed by “dancing” came out of her mouth, the excitement that came over my body was almost too much to contain. Have you people seen my belly? I don’t have to do much to make it move. I mean, I sneeze, it dances! I cough, it dances!
I was tempted to grab that sack of fatty goodness and scream “I’VE GOT THIS ONE MASTERED, BITCHES. Y’all might as well just leave now!”
I don’t know why I’ve gotten all cocky about my aerobic dancing, but I have. When I come home, I talk nonstop shit about a few of the wimmins in the class and my husband, God love him, had to stop me the other night and said “Do you ever stop to think they probably feel the same way about you?” Which, HELLO? WHO’S SIDE ARE YOU ON ANYWAY, DEAR HUSBAND? But, he’s right. They’re probably all “That fat girl up front thinks she is THE SHIT, someone needs to tell her that she’s not. We should totally trip her on purpose next class!”
Which, if they did trip me on purpose? I’d be like “Bitch, let’s settle this with an Aerobic Dance Off. OR ARE YOU TOO SCARED?”
At this point, I have no idea where I’m going with this because, I do believe I started this post talking about my night out line dancing and somehow, it’s deteriorated into a fake fight with Aerobic Dancing WANNABES.

God wouldn’t have given you maracas if He didn’t want you to shake ’em

Thanks to Melly, I now know that Jada Pinkett is in a band.
I think “something inside of her is pissed.” But I’m not too sure because I was too busy laughing hysterically to understand the lyrics.
HAHA. She thinks she can sing.
And that she is “hard core.”
And that The Internet isn’t laughing at her.
Man, I love Celebrities.
But not as much as I love my Aerobic Dance class.
Last week, I had an appointment with a dermatolgist to see if he could figure out with the HELL is going on with my skin (Confession: Doc put me on antibiotics for the Bloody Rash, but, um, you know how G-Unit is still Partaking of The Bobs? Yeah, well, I’d rather deal with The Rash then with a Toddler crying for The Bobs.) and I cancelled that appointment because it was at 6:00, which happens to be the same time as my dance class.
I thought about skipping class and going to my appointment, but, then, I closed my eyes and could hear my instructor, in her beautiful russian accent shouting “MORE HEEEP, MOVE YOUR HEEEPS!” and I was like “There are hip thrusts and pelvic grinds to be learned tonight! Bloody rash can wait!!”
I do believe I am officially “obsessed” with my dance class. I think about it all of the time. I pratice the moves for my family (which, can an aspiring aerobic dancer GET A LITTLE RESPECT? All of the eye rolling and “Ok mom, we get it, you learned a new dance.” and the “HAHAHA, that’s a dumb move” comments aren’t necessary. Don’t hate me because I’m an aerobic dancer.)
My obsession with dance class may or may not have something to do with the instructors buttocks. They are perfect. They are bubbly and soft, completely Lump Free and just… mmmmmm…Perfect. I’ve been known to stare at them during the “floor exercise” portion of class. If her ‘Tocks could talk, I’m pretty sure they would tell me that I was making them uncomfortable and that if I didn’t stop looking at them as though I wanted smother them in BBQ sauce and throw them on the grill, they may very well have to get a restraining order.
Grilled Buttocks… it’s what’s for dinner!
This is the way the class works. Every Friday night, she teaches a new style of dance. Then, she continues that dance on the Monday and Wednesday night class. So far, we’ve done Riverdance (HELLOOO Bouncies Titties!), Salsa (Discovering your “White” is more more dominant than your “Mexican” in front of complete strangers is great fun!) Jazz (NAILED IT) Hip Hop (Nailed it. Because thrusting hips is My Thang) And this week? It’s Funky (There’s a move called “The Monkey.” HAHA. I laugh through most of this one. Which, also means, I Rip’Em too. Which, means, I laugh even more because HAHA I farted doing The Monkey.”)
Do you see why I LOVE this class. We do “The Monkey”! And I fart freely! Without fear of judgement! Because, how could anyone know it was me, what, with all of the fans blowing! Seriously. It’s like I’m at a bar and the bartender is all “FREE DRINKS FOR YOU!” Only, I’m at a gym, and there are no drinks and the only thing that’s free is the air that I just expelled from my ass. But, you know what I meant, right?
Oh my God, I’m so excited just talking about it that my mouth is watering excessively. I need to swallow.
I’ll end this by sharing something with you that has nothing to do with my dance class whatsoever.
The other day, I “happened” to come across a list of symptoms of “colon cancer”. (Don’t ask. I won’t tell.) One of the symptoms was “Your stool is thinner than usual”. I wish to GOD I had never read that because, well, let’s just say I’m obsessing over the “width” of my stool.
And let me just say, I’m convinced it’s “thinner than usual” and well, how do I bring THAT one up to The Doc?
I should have ended it with something dance class related, no?

Miss New Booty

If you notice, I rarely talk about my “Parenting Style” here on my blog because a) who gives a shit, really. b) I don’t really have a parenting style.
I take a “Whatever works” and “Hey! At least I tried” approach to parenting.
I don’t read “parenting” books, nor do I read parenting magazines. I secretly kind of hate people who preach a certain style of parenting as if that’s “The Right Way”. I’ve never allowed other women to make me feel inferior because I don’t make the same parenting choices as they do.
I’ve been doing this “Parent Thang” for 13 years, (since I was 22 years old) and judging by The Greatness of my children, whatever it is that I’m doing is right because, man, I have some AWESOME children.
There have been times where I’ve felt at a loss for an answer to problems my children were facing. like the time my son had a cold and one night, felt like he couldn’t breathe and from that night on was convince he was going to DIE IN HIS SLEEP and, therefore, REFUSED TO SLEEP.
But, most times, I feel completely in control and know exactly what to do in any given situation.
“Gum in your hair? SHAVED HEAD FOR YOU!”
However, right now I’m facing a problem with my daughter and I’m at a complete loss how to correct this problem.
While I’m a little scared to ask The Internet for advice, I’m more scared of having to clean poop off of walls, so, I’m going to take the risk and ask for suggestions.
The problem?

Girlfriend likes to take her diaper off. And not just at naptime anymore! I’m constantly worried that she’s going to take it off when she has poop. So far, I’ve been lucky and I’ve caught her before she’s ripped off poopie diapers, but the girl is FAST and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. It’s like, I turn my back for one second and “Helloooo Pachina!.”
My first brilliant solution to the problem was to put a onesie on her anytime I was going to lay her down for a nap. It worked, until she figured out how to unsnap the buttons.
Now? There is absolutely NO keeping a diaper on her.
I’m THIS CLOSE to whipping out the duct tape because, remember, WHATEVER WORKS.
However, if you have any other suggestions, or, any theories as to why my child is doing this (because, surely it can’t be as simple as “She hates the feeling of the diaper and feels more comfortable naked!”) I’d love to hear them. None of my children have ever “played with poop” and I’d like to keep it that way.

Infectious Cheese

From above
My daughter has another ear infection and a touch of the flu. It’s obvious she’s in pain and uncomfortable by the way she’s clinging to me and letting me hold her in my arms. Normally, being held is torture to her, for there are picture frames that need to be broken, furniture just waiting to be scratched, dented and spilled on, there are toys that must be scattered in every room of the house and little objects to be placed into her mouth.
Not today. Today she wants “mama” to hold her, to cuddle with her and um, to give her The Bobs.
Yes, I’m still breasfeeding my daughter. No, not as often as I used to, but yeah, still doing that whole “tittymilk distrubution” thingy up in here.
DO NOT JUDGE ME.
Let me rephrase that.
Do not judge me as I have judged others, because you may say to yourself “I will NEVER breastfeed a child that can ask for it, but until you become and old, lazy woman who JUST WANTS TO SLEEP IN and you learn the way to sleep in is to bring your child into bed with you and let them drink of The Bobs, well, you really have no business passing judgement on others.
Long live The Tittymilk!
I feel badly for my little girl, I truly hate for her to be in pain. I’ll do anything I can to cheer her up, even if that means drinking excessive amounts of diet coke to WOW her with my contest winning burping skills. There really isn’t anything I won’t do to make her smile, because seeing her sickly breaks my heart.
Lucky for me, it’s not hard to get the girl to smile.

She is such a good natured little girl.
Do not mistake “good natured” with “Always happy and sweet” because Girlfriend is a Drama Queen prone to The Dramatics. However, she’s also incredibly affection, deeply loving and ridiculously funny. She’s a joy to know and a pleasure to care for when sick.
Well, except for the part where I have to take off her puked up jammies. That is definitely not pleasurable. Nor is the writing of checks for “named brand” prescriptions (thank you jackass urgent care doctor, seriouly, ammoxicillan would have been just fine, thank you very much.) But every other aspect of caring for Her Sickness is my pleasure.
Inspite of her pain and illness, she still manages to giggle at my silliness, to lavish my cheeks with her sweet little kisses, to wrap her tiny little arms around my neck and squeeze me tightly whilst telling me she loves me. The girl is an angel.
An angel who says “Shit” when pissed, but still, an angel.

Opa

Last night my grandpa was rushed to the ER. His potassium level was dangerously high and his kidneys began to shut down.
He’s not doing well, but being carefully monitored at The Veteran’s hospital.
I can’t even begin to describe the fear and sadness I fell at this moment because my grandfather is more important to me than any words could ever express.
I can’t write about it right now because emotions are running too high. I took a 2 hour nap while my daughter slept, I’m grumpy and have cried about everything today.
I’ve tried to keep busy with Gabby to take my mind off of it. We spent the entire day playing, reading books, singing together and also, completely ignoring the incredible amount of housework that needs to be done.
I’m feeling regret for not visiting him more often and yet, I haven’t been able to make myself go see him in the hospital for fear of what I’ll see. I don’t want to see him weak or in pain and I realize that is so damn selfish because he wants to see me.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m being a selfish coward. I need to go see him.
And I will go see him, but I’m telling you, it’s not going to be easy for me at all.
Funny how the most important things in life are always the hardest.

It’s like my own little bakery, but not really.

There’s no delicate or pretty way of saying this, and yes, I realize there’s the option of NOT saying it at all, but, why should I only write about The Goodness of my Vagina?
Apparently, I’ve got a yeast infection. I was going to say that I am about 2 hours away from popping a loaf of bread out from down there, but that would just be gross, so I’ll refrain from actually saying it.
I was rather irritated (HA! HA!) by this sudden turn of events in my crotch, so, I decided to investigate what could have triggered the sudden onset of the yeast infection and came across The Greatest Yeast Infection Explanation Site in History. An informative, yet HILARIOUS site about yeasty crotches. BOOKMARKED!
Anyone still reading? Because now I get to the reason I actually felt I needed to write about my yeast infection.
I went to Target to get some medication for my condition. I found “the aisle” for vagina related medications and was SO HAPPY to see that they had “generic” brand medication for yeast infection. And it was $4 cheaper! SCORE! However, after I picked up the box, I was MORTIFIED at what I saw. Unlike the Monistat 7 box, which discreetly says “for yeast infections” or some crap like that, the box for the people who can’t afford the “named brand” shit because they are living on one very modest income had these words in NOT SO SMALL letters sprawled across the front of the box….
NITRAL VAGINAL CREAM
VAGINA ANTIFUNGAL
Oh HELL NAW.
I panicked because, while I really wanted to save four dollars, did I REALLY want the checker to know that I was currently sporting vaginal fungus?
I DID NOT.
But, damn. Four dollars is a trip to Chick Fil A, people.
So, I swallowed my pride and tried to pretend as if I didn’t care about the VAGINAL ANTIFUNGAL statement on the big blue box and threw that bitch on the conveyer belt.
I considered starting a conversation with the man in which I would casually lie and say “I’m just doing some shopping for my mom, because, she’s ‘sick’. down there. Hence the VAGINAL ANTIFUNGAL cream” and how “haha! you probably thought that was for me, huh?”
I was THAT embarassed. And trust me, people, it takes a LOT to embarass me.
That’s just wrong. Do the makers of the generic brand think people who can’t afford the name brand VAGINAL ANTIFUNGAL have no dignity? Seriously, folks, that in the wise words of Whitney Houston, “That shit aint right.”
(I wonder if anyone actually read through to the end of this post. And if so… WHY IN THE HELL?)
UPDATED TO TELL YOU OF FURTHER EMBARASSMENT
I have the box of ANTI VAGINAL FUNGUS cream next to my computer and my son just walked in from school, picked it up and said “HEY! What’s this mom?”
Me: Ummmm…(as I watched him read the words on the box. THE WORDS!)
Him: *reading* v-a-g-i-n-a-l-f-u-n-g-u-s…
Me: Ummmmmmm… it’s for ummmmmmm, an infection mom has.
Him: *placing the box down in a very quick manner* ah, oh.
I think he’s going to go throw up now.

The one where I go all “Tony Robbins” on The Internet.


Life is short. And I’ve wasted enough time in my life hating my body.
For the first time in many, many years, maybe even in my entire life, I am starting to feel comfortable in my skin.
It’s a choice I’ve made. It doesn’t come naturally to me to love this body, especially since it’s so torn up.
Saggy breasts, hanging skin, stretched out belly button, stretchmarks, cellulite, fat everywhere.
There’s not much to love about it and I’ve spent a great deal of time being horribly ashamed of it.
I have avoided people and places because of it, I’ve made excuses why I can’t go here or there because of this shame.
I’ve worked very hard to try to improve this body. I want it to be healthy, to be in shape and to last me a very long time. And that wasn’t going to happen by hating it and not taking care of it.
Enough is enough, I said to myself and I kicked things up a notch. I started going to the gym 5 nights a week. I would have much rather stayed home, sat on the couch and watched TV with my family. Infact? Sometimes? I cry when I have to leave. I cry and I cuss about how much I hate having to work out when there are skinny bitches out there who can eat whatever they want and not get fat like me! I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
I told myself I didn’t have to like it, that it was ok to hate it, but it had to get done. I had to go to the gym, even when I didn’t feel like it and that one day, it would pay off and that it would all be worth it.
Pounds started to fall off, clothes started to get bigger, inches were disappearing.
Then, the compliments started coming.
“You look great! What are you doing?”
“Are you losing weight?”
My Mother in law called me sexy. SEXY!
I can honestly say, the payoff has finally arrived and the payoff is this.
I no longer feel “Shame.”
Infact? I actually feel proud of myself.
Is my body where I want it to be? No. I’m still overweight. There are still things I hate about it, there are things I will always hate about it, but, I am not ashamed of it.
I’ve worked so damn hard to get where I am at and I am allowing myself to take pride in my accomplishments. I don’t usually allow myself to do that, because, I don’t feel I have much to be proud of. But, you know what? I could have very easily not done anything about my weight because DAMN IT, it is overwhelming and it’s hard to imagine ever getting to where you want to be when you’re over 200 pounds. I felt hopeless and unable to do it. I would find myself so envious of people who were losing weight. I didn’t think I had it in me to do what they had done.
If there is anyone out there who feels that way, let me tell you, I know how that feels. Oh my God, I know. I remember feeling like throwing up at the thought of going to the gym because I was so out of shape and Oh! How The Fit people would laugh at me. Then, I realized that it wasn’t ABOUT ANYONE ELSE BUT MYSELF.
I had to stop caring about what I loooked like at the gym. It didn’t matter, I was there for my health, and that wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.
I finally, FINALLY realized that I was worth the effort.
Now, I find myself taking dance class 3 times a week. Me! In dance class. I’ll never forget the first time I took it. It happened by accident that I ended up in that class, and when the instructor said “Tonight, I teach hip hop” I headed for the door. Hell to the no on THAT. But there was a lady there who convinced me to stay. “It’s fun! And who cares if you mess up? Just relax and enjoy it.”
“But! I have no rhythm! And my ass! It will shake! And my boobs, dear GOD, my boobs!”
Then, I took a deep breath and said to myself “You’re here to burn calories and lose weight, not to be a dancer. JUST DO IT.”
Now, I go every week, three times and just last week, the instructor pulled me and my cousin aside and said “You two are the best students I have. I can’t explain it, but having you in my class is a joy, you make me very happy.”
Yeah. I cried and let me tell you why. In the past, I wouldn’t have even tried it for fear of looking stupid, or messing up, or thinking I couldn’t do it because I was fat and I suck. But, I didn’t give into that negativity and I just freaking did it. Now, I love it and it shows, because my dance makes people happy.
Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaaa!
I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore, but I know I’m getting more excited as I type and I want to tell every person out there who wants to lose weight but is feeling hopeless to please, PLEASE, stop listening to the lies that you can’t do it, or that you’re not worth it, or that you can never reach your goal.
You can and you will, you just have to decide that you’re worth it.
Who do I think I am? A motivational speaker or something? God.
The Cheese. It lives.