Monthly Archives: February 2012

Attn Facebook Parents: Slow Your Roll

So I admit, it’s hard for me to get all high and mighty on this subject because I am probably a perpetrator of the exact annoying activity that I am about to call out, but I am going to get all high and mighty anyway because this is my blog and I can do whatever the hell I want.  Parents, for the sake of your Facebook friends and family, and the people you barely knew in high school but who inexplicably friended you anyway, and the people who you don’t know but friended you because they thought you were cute, but then realized that you were married/crazy/not as attractive as you look in your profile pic, for the sake of all these people… slow your roll on the kiddie pics.  We all know that your kids are adorable, cute, funny and better than everyone else’s, but we don’t need to see 8000 pictures of your child. Per week. Quite frankly, most of us stopped looking after commenting on your Facebook announcement of “It’s a boy!”  (What, no cigars?)

So, to make this easy on everyone (including myself) let’s break down acceptable Facebook posting habits for parents:

1)  Number of photos – Photos should be restricted to holidays, special events, extra cute moments and possibly vacation photos (as long as there are other photos included of said vacation, like the ones of you taking a body shot off a Mexican stripper while in Playa Del Carmen – while baby is napping of course.)  Photos should be limited to no more than 50 baby photos per year, and if you come even close to this limit, you give up the right to get angry when people stop looking.

2)  Graphic “fresh from the womb” baby photos –  Not allowed.  Ever.  Although you are probably doing the world a favor by drastically lowering the world’s population by scaring possible future parents into NOT having their unborn children, it’s still not acceptable to post a photo of your blue, screaming baby covered in blood and other unmentionable goo on your Facebook page.  (As I believe that I am guilty of this heinous crime, I wholeheartedly apologize to all the people I have scarred for life.)

3)  Baby’s photo as your profile picture – Only acceptable if YOU are IN the photo as well.  Otherwise it’s just confusing.  Plus, it’s harder for people to stock you on Facebook if they can’t tell whose profile it is.  Just stop it.

4)  Status updates –  These should be limited to very cute or very funny things your child said, did or projected from his or her body, and should be capped at no more than 1/wk.

5)  Diaper shots –   Nope.

6)  Funny photos of your baby doing inappropriate things –  As funny as it is to see your baby with a beer in her mouth, cigarette in his hand, or wearing a witty onesie that reads, “Future pole dancer” (true story), this activity should be limited to one time.  Ever.  Otherwise you are a bad parent.  And even if you are not… everyone thinks you are.

Alright, alright so I’ll get off my soap box. For now. If you are a perpetrator of these crimes, don’t feel bad, most parents are.  But let’s make a pact to stop the madness.  Now.

What Facebook posting crimes would you like to see come to an end?

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Quote of the Day: On Prayer

“Dear Lord, the gods have been good to me. As an offering, I present these milk and cookies. If you wish me to eat them instead, please give me no sign whatsoever … thy will be done. (munch munch munch)”

– Homer Simpson

ps.  There are now cookie crumbs all over my laptop keys from praying.  Anyone know a good way to get those out?


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Random Thought: If Adults Acted Like Babies

If adults acted like babies we would cry whenever we are hungry, tired, or constipated; throw a tantrum every time we don’t get our way; be easily distracted by bright and shiny objects; babble incoherently, sure that everyone understands what we are saying; insert dangerous objects into our mouths with no thought to the damage they might cause… oh my god, I AM A BABY!!!!

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Check me out…I got an Award. Go Me!

Here are the rules for this award:

1. Thank the person who nominated you.

Thank you to Real-Life Housewife for thinking enough of my little blog to nominate me!  Check out her blog for another honest take on motherhood and such. It’s wonderful!! It always surprises me that anyone cares what I have to say, and your comments and messages of support mean the world to me.  I get a lot of satisfaction in writing this blog and you all encourage me when I have those days that I want to pull my hair out… which, let’s face it, is pretty much every day at some point.

2. There are no limits for how many fellow bloggers you can nominate.
I would like to nominate the following bloggers, whose blogs inspire me in many different ways.

The Jenny Blog:  Beautiful person. Great writer. Just an honest and funny look at whatever is going on in her life or in her head at the moment.

Love-fed: Great recipes for healthy, delicious food and for life.

Holding Kairos:  She’s the perfect combo of sweet and salty…just how I like my snacks and my blogs.  This is a blog that I really relate to.

Moths to a Flame:  A very funny blog about her misadventures in dating.  Ahhh the single life…

I hope you too will give out this award. It’s such a great way to link people to new blogs!

3. Share some things about you but alphabetically just a word or two about you starting with each alphabet. (Or alternatively, just write the first word you think of)

A: is for Apples.  I have been reading waaaaaaay too many children’s books!

B:  Brain = quite foggy most days.

C:  Courtney.  Does that make me Conceited?

D: Dammit.  I think it Does!!

E:  Elephants.  I love elephants. My dream vacation is to go on a safari in South Africa and see elephants in their natural enviroment.

F: Friends.  Soooo important to have good friends to lean on sometimes.

G:  Gravity.  Doesn’t work to your body’s advantage, especially after you have a baby. = (

H: Husband.  I hate to brag but mine is the best.  Back off ladies!

I: I am…

J: Just…

K: Kidding.  I feel like I have to use this phrase a lot when people don’t get my jokes. (which is more often than I would like to admit)

L:  Lyla. The love of my life.

M: Me!  Again with the vanity (people who write blogs must be fairly vain if they think anyone cares what they have to say, right?  I’m just kidding. Sorta…

N:  Never say never.  I find myself doing things I never thought I would do. Daily.

O: Open.  I try to be open and honest.

P:  Poopie.  A word that I find myself saying since I’ve become a mom, and I am embarrassed in front of myself.

Q: A good letter to have in Words with Friends, which I am addicted to. (But only if you have a U)

R: Read.  Love to do it, but rarely get to indulge these days.

S:  Sleep.  Need more.

T: Time Machine.  I want one.  Not to go back in time but to create MORE of it!

U: See Q.

V:  Victorious.  How I feel when I finish a writing assignment or blog post.

W: Wine!

X: Xtra annoying.  Cutesy spelling of words is one of my pet peeves

Y:  Yawn.  A language I speak fluently.

Z:  Zassy.  How I would describe myself… if only Sassy started with a Z.  And I was the kind of person who used words like sassy.

As always, thanks for reading!

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Quote of the Day:

A baby will make love stronger, days shorter, nights longer, bankroll smaller, home happier, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, and the future worth living for.
– Unknown Author

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Little Heartbreaker

My daughter was only 9 months old when she broke her first heart. As is the case with most heartbreakers, she had no idea that she had left another’s heart in shambles… but she did.  The unwitting fool who let this happen?  Her mother.  AKA Me.

For the past 8 months I had gotten used to being pretty much the one and only in Lyla’s life.  I mean, she absolutely adores her daddy, her grandparents, and her many, many aunts and uncles – both blood related and not.  She has also had various love affairs with stuffed animals, puppets and, oddly, even a Tupperware lid.  But Mommy is Mommy, and for a small baby NO ONE can compete with that. Besides the fact that I spend almost every second of the day with her, I think that babies are hardwired to automatically and unquestionably love their mommas.  I read once that a baby can smell her mother’s scent up to 50 feet away.  Now, I know that motherhood has done me no favors in terms of how often I get to shower, but smelling me 50 feet away is pretty incredible.  Like superpower incredible.  What would her name be?  Super Schnoz?  Wonder Nostril?

Anyway, before I started rambling on and amazing you with my super interesting scientific facts, I was making the point that when my daughter was small she was almost exclusively a momma’s girl.  So imagine my distress when my husband was holding Lyla, and as I reached for her, she desperately clung to him and cried like I was some creepy Great-Aunt – you know the ones who wear too much drugstore perfume and kiss you on the mouth with their lipstick-caked lips that are somehow just a little too wet?   Yeah, that’s who my daughter was acting like I was.  A creepy, mouth-kissing aunt.  Not the mother who carried her in my womb, and who gave birth to her, and who has a mouth of normal wetness.  But regardless, she cried and refused to come to me, and totally broke my heart.

So what did I do? I am ashamed to admit this, and the only reason that I am admitting it is because I promised myself and my readers that I would be honest about everything.  So… what did I do?  I cried.  A lot.  I cried and I cried like a little baby.

Now intellectually I know that my daughter loves me.  I also know how much she loves her dad.  Who can blame her?  EVERYONE loves her dad.  He’s a much nicer person than I am.  Intellectually I know that she sees me nearly every minute of every day, so I am nothing new. Her dad, while very loving and involved, is at work all day so when he is home, it’s a bit more exciting.  I get it.  To my baby, I am like the sky… it’s nice and all, but you don’t really think about it too often.  You don’t even have to look outside to know that it is there.  It’s a constant.  But her dad? Her dad is the sun. When the sun is out, you can’t help but notice how beautiful it is.

So intellectually I know all of this to be true.  But emotionally? Emotionally, it killed me.  It felt like a rejection of the worst kind.  Worse than the boy who didn’t ask me to prom in high school.  Worse than the friend who betrayed me.  Worse even, than the guy I loved who didn’t love me back.  It felt much, much worse than any of these, or a million other rejections that I have faced in my life because, quite honestly, I have never loved anyone the way that I love my daughter.  And so, because in many ways I am still that fourteen-year-old girl without a prom date, and because rejection really fucking hurts, I cried.

So how does this tale of unrequited love end?  Well, like most fickle-hearted flames… by that afternoon she loved me again. She woke from her afternoon nap, and gazed up at me with her sleepy eyes and then broke into the most amazing smile.  And, like most forsaken lovers, a little attention was enough to make me forget the heartache she had caused. I giggled like a school girl and all was forgotten as swept her up into my arms.  Then she farted hugely and the magic was broken… but her spell over me was not.

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Random Thought: On Traveling

As I spend 48 hours packing and obsessing over a 24 hour trip… I realize that when you are a mom, you can take a lot of trips but you rarely take a VACATION. 

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Random Thought: Graphs & Charts

The comfort level of one’s bed is directly proportional to the volume of one’s baby’s screams.  Ie:  The louder and more urgent the cries, the more comfortable the bed… as in harder to get out of.  Unfortunately the inverse is also true.  Once the baby falls back asleep and volume level is low, the bed is somehow not nearly as comfortable, and therefore mommy is left tossing and turning for at least 1.5 hours, or as long as it takes for baby’s volume to again reach a dull roar.

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Quote of the Day: On Love

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive.
But the Skin Horse only smiled.

The Velveteen Rabbit was my favorite book when I was little, and it still is.  Even though it is a children’s story, it is so insightful about the meaning of love.  The Skin Horse is so wise! (Plus, he has the coolest name… kinda sounds like porn star, right?)

Quote of the Day: On Love…

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Random Thought: Literary reference

You know what book I wish was real (besides Charlie and the Chocolate Factory obviously?)  The Babysitters Club.  I wish that there was a club that I could call to find a gaggle of wise-beyond-their-years teenage babysitters/businesswomen (I mean they even had a President, Secretary and Treasurer!) who would be willing to babysit my daughter for $5/hour (because what did they have to pay for besides candy for Claudia’s stash?) and because there were many of them (each with a very distinct, yet stereotypical, personality) I was assured of finding a baby sitter no matter what.  Can someone please start a real Babysitter’s Club?  Except maybe you are a group of kind, middle-aged adults (high school hours don’t really mesh with my schedule.) And you all have CPR training. And a degree in Child Development and/or Child Psychology and/or Pediatrics and possibly Music.  And it would be helpful if you were also trained chef (my daughter is eating solid foods now)  And definitely had good references.  And will sign an NDA and let me run a background check plus fingerprints and most likely a credit report.  But you still charge $5 an hour, are available at any time day or night, even at the last minute, and have a fun and imaginative name such as… The Babysitters Club.  That would be great, thanks.

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