I Just Want to Pee Alone

by Some Kick Ass Mom Bloggers

He tickled her some more, making her laugh and making me want to punch him, and said, "Yes...it's a little weird. But, she's fine." Then he assured me that her body just must be processing the breast milk a little more slowly than usual, and unless it went beyond ten days or she became uncomfortable, I shouldn't worry.

  Don't worry. Yes. Brilliant advice for a first-time mother.

  Shouldn't we run tests? What about Irritable Bowel Syndrome? Tumors in her intestines? Food allergies? I waved my print-outs in his face and demanded he do more than tickle her stomach. I read it on the internet. It must be the truth!

  Sometimes, I wish I had become a parent before the dawn of the internet. It must have been so much simpler then. You had to take your doctor's word for whatever it was that was wrong with your child. He was the expert. Who else were you going to ask? Your neighbor? Parenting in the age of the internet brings on its own psychosis, for which the sole symptom is Googling every cough, sneeze and bit of mucous that exits your child's body, and believing every single article you read, written by nameless, faceless contributors who no more have medical licenses than the kid who thinks you didn't see him pick his nose before he scoops out your popcorn at the movie theater.

  After nodding at my "research," in his extra calm way, which I am sure is a psychological trick they teach in med school to make us non-medical types feel stupid, he told me she was fine, again, and sent me on my way.

  A few weeks after her three month check-up, I didn't need my chart to tell me that we were on day twelve with no poop production, and my baby was starting to complain and twitch her legs around. So, I called the doctor who prescribed a suppository enema.

  My horror was evident, and the doctor said "As parents, we often have to do things we don't want to do, but I promise you...this will help."

  I begged him to do it himself at the office, but he didn't have time. He said it was something I needed to learn to do, and that it was perfectly natural and I shouldn't worry.

  "It's not natural," I responded. "If things were progressing naturally, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  "Sometimes the body needs a little help moving things along," the doctor replied.

  "But, I don't know how!" I whined, and then cringed at the sound of my voice actually reaching a pitch that made my dogs ears twitch.

  "They have directions printed on the box, Amy."

  And with that, he said goodbye and hung up.

  Hung. Up.

  So, I did what any strong, empowered, capable woman would do.

  I called my husband.

  "You have to come home," I said. "I can't do this."

  "I can't come home. I have meetings all day. You can do this," he told me.

  I sobbed, I cried, I yelled. He did not come home.

  So, I went to the pharmacy, brought home the package and immediately called my mother, who, blessedly, lived five minutes from my house, and was always happy to come over. I didn't exactly tell her what I needed her for, but as a new Grandma, she was on her way before she even hung up.

  My Mom arrived and we read the directions. She appeared to be unfazed.

  "People do this all the time, honey," my mother said, but I just cried and cried and cried, not wanting to hurt my daughter, yet wanting to take care of the issue. And, let's be honest, being more than a little grossed out by it all.

  "She'll hate me forever!" I wailed.

  "She'll never remember," my mother countered.

  "So it's okay to do awful things to people if they won't remember it?" I responded. "Remind me of that when you develop Alzheimer's!"

  She was not amused.

  Eventually, I calmed down, realized that I really had no choice in the matter, and we went up to the nursery, followed the directions and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, I thought that maybe a little movement would do the trick, so I picked her up off of the changing table and started dancing around the room with her. She giggled and laughed and my Mom clapped her hands and we were having a great time. My Mom wanted to hold her, so I passed her off and the fun continued.

  Until we heard the first gurgle.

  With that sound, my mother's calm instantly disappeared. In her haste not to get pooped on, she literally tossed the baby at me and put her hands up in the air. I barely caught her and raced back to the changing table and plopped her down onto the waiting, open diaper.

  Like a Dairy Queen soft serve machine gone wild, that little body emptied itself and my mother and I began the process of legs up, old diaper out, 1, 2, 3 . . . shift, new diaper under, until we had filled and disposed of five, full diapers.

  We kept her on that changing table for another thirty minutes . . . waiting for aftershocks and rumbles that never came. Eventually, we dressed her back up, ventured out of the room, and life went back to normal. She continued to poop, only on the seventh day, but she outgrew it by the time she was six months old. She was kind to her mother and never required another medical intervention to keep things regular, and I've always been very grateful to her for that.

  My baby is now twelve and the oldest of four. These days, the only insight I have into anyone's bathroom habits is the daily call of "Mom! The toilet is clogged!" and I kind of like it that way. I'd still do anything that needed to be done in order to ensure the health and safety of my children, but if faced with a similar situation, these days, I think I'd just feed her some prunes.

  * * *

  Amy Bozza, author of the blog, My Real Life, lives in Morristown, NJ with her husband and four children. Amy is a middle school educator, and in her free time, between teaching, changing diapers, writing a blog, and writing an (as yet, unpublished) novel, she can be found developing blueprints for a remodel of the Sistine Chapel, preparing for a double-triathalon, and ice sculpting in the backyard . . . just for fun.

  So She Thought She Could Cut Off My Stroller

  by Keesha Beckford

  Mom's New Stage

  We had a bad first encounter - one of those pedestrian collisions that could have led to lifelong friendship or a lifelong prison sentence.

  I saw her incoming - approaching the corner northbound as I approached it from the west. I was chatting on the phone, one-hand maneuvering a mid-weight stroller containing my 20-month old and the required toddler accoutreshit, striving to get to an indoor playspace at least a half-hour before closing. She looked well put-together for a Friday morning, rocking high-heeled boots and a short skirt. Where was she going? Or coming from? I wondered, not with judgment, but with fascination and a little bit of envy.

  Any speculation about her romantic activity past or present was quickly funneled into this one question:

  Is this chick going to step her ass in front of my STROLLER?

  She sped up and did just that.

  "Wow! Some woman just stepped right in front of my stroller!" I said into the phone, loud enough to be overheard.

  Tossing her mane of shiny black hair, she turned around and snapped, "Why should I stop for your stroller? And you're on the phone!"

  Oh no she di'int?! And what did being on the phone have to do with it? Had I been stirring risotto while performing open-heart surgery, I could have understood. And when else besides while driving or strolling was I supposed to make phone calls with my kids around - unless I wanted to tie them up and tape their mouths?

  I stared after her, my head desperately searching for a knockout reply. Nothing. So, resisting the urge to tackle her and slap her face back and forth in a manner that would be studied by fighting coaches and pimps alike, I slunk off and bitched about my slight to my mom pal on the other line.

  Long afterward I stewed. I seethed. And then it hit me. Of course! She was a cute 20-something, presumably without kids.

  She genuinely didn't know.

  She saw me and waved me off like a dog fart. Which is exactly what I would have done to some mom when I was 20-something. Because when I was younger I wanted a life like the Fa
b Four on the early seasons of Sex and the City. But now I was 40.

  Like my formerly perky boobs, my priorities had shifted.

  Unlike 15 years ago, my wardrobe is now for practical purposes. I am the proud owner of a dresser full of Garanimals for women. Some may see my closet as a fashion cemetery, but so be it - I can get dressed in under 60 seconds flat. This is a key when you have young children who need you for everything - who if left alone might maim each other, or transform your home into a NYC subway station circa 1978. Once upon a time, I had enviably groomed hands and feet. Now there are truffle-seeking pigs with better nails. And as for the body hair situation, I look like the love child of Burt Reynolds and a Geico caveman. But with the help of the few great outfits I hold in reserve, and the handiwork of a few aestheticians skilled enough to transform me from Bearded Lady to Halle Berry's third cousin once removed, I do look pretty fierce when I get dolled up.

  In my youth, all this spiffing up was for my own satisfaction, but it was also for sex. In my 20s, I was busy cultivating a rich sex life, one that I thought would be mine for ever, maturing like a fine wine, instead of rotting like an egg salad sandwich left in the sun. These days my level of chastity makes Abby Cadabby look like a muppet-chasing whore. What I want to cultivate now is some sleep. I'm no longer, "Girrrrrl, I need a disco nap so I can get my party on" tired, I'm "let me sleep until 2027" tired. Mattress gymnastics means flipping and tickling and making human burritos in the sheets. With my kids, that is.

  It has nothing to do with getting my freak on.

  To a cute 20-something, all this seems like throwing in the towel instead of a conscious choice. But it is. I choose to focus on being the best mom possible to the children who sit in that stroller. I am no longer all about mani-pedis and waxes, or fancy shoes and bags and coats. Sure, I still like those things, I really do, but they don't define me, or my life as they once did. I buy super cute clothes for my kids, and treat myself to new things on the birthday of President Rutherford B. Hayes. My priorities - my identity - right now are all about this stroller - this tricked out with Bundle Mes, cupholders, Mommy Hooks, and a colossal diaper bag stroller. If you offend it you offend me, which puts both of us in a bad situation. Your hormones after giving birth go batshit crazy. Mama Bear rage is potent and real. When I'm angry I make Maximus Decimus Meridius look like Barney.

  So, all you super cute 20-somethings out there, next time you have the opportunity to show even the most frumptastic mom some kindness, some compassion, some common decency, please, for the love of God, do so. This woman is not trying to wield her stroller like a Hummer on Earth Day - she's trying to get through 24 hours with a drop of sanity and dignity left.

  In the meantime, do what every blissfully ignorant woman does pre-kids. Go ahead and tell yourself that when you're a mom, you'll never let yourself go - you'll NEVER look like a refugee from the human race. Bow down and swear on a physio-ball that you'll exercise regularly, wear stylish clothes and maintain a sex-life worthy of the love montage in a romantic comedy, if not a soft porn flick. Vow to keep your passions, your hopes, your dreams - yourself in the foreground. Like Ms. Paltrow, believe fervently that taking care of yourself is taking care of your children.

  And even though I wish you all the luck in the world, I'm still going to tell you to go buy yourself a bunch of yoga pants. Size L. Just in case.

  * * *

  Formerly a professional dancer, and currently a modern dance teacher/choreographer, Keesha Beckford is the human cyclone behind the blog Mom's New Stage. A multi-tasker from head to toe, she shows mad skills at simultaneously writing, choreographing, perusing the Internet, playing the role of a mother named Joan "Kumbaya" Crawford, and overcooking food. Among her saviors in life are gummy bears and select cuts of pants from a store that rhymes with "rururemon." She thanks her wonderful husband and her two beautiful children for their love and support, and, of course, for their ever-present inspiration.

  The Treachery of Toys

  By Alicia

  Naps Happen

  "I is for IGLOO!" announces an overly enthusiastic man's voice from the coffee table, waking me from my precious 20 minute nap. I groan and bury my face in the couch pillow again.

  Then, just as I am drifting back to sleep, I hear "O is for OLIVE!"

  Putting the pieces back in my son's talking puzzle is of no use. There are a few that have been knocked into awkward places, such as under the china cabinet. One or two have been carried upstairs or thrown over the railing into the finished basement. I will never be able to replace every empty letter in the puzzle. It will continue taunting me as I desperately try to sleep.

  The puzzle is not the only nemesis I find in my own living room. Lurking forever in my path seems to be the musical drum, which seems to have only a "loud" switch and plays a variety of oddly Caribbean-influenced tunes. Then there is the equally noisy musical keyboard, which is partially broken and is constantly urging children to "pick up the microphone and sing along!" Never mind that the poor microphone is now incapable of emitting anything but static, ruining all the fun. But the worst . . . the toy that we finally stole away from our poor child and "disappeared" into the garage . . . is the V-tech phone. Populated by the most annoying callers in the history of amusement, this phone torments unsuspecting parents with a song so maniacal that it could well be from a Stephen King fun house.

  Press the buttons on the phone, call your friends, say hello.

  Press the buttons on the phone. Ring, ring, HELLOOOOO.

  I cannot think of anything that will entice me to readmit that phone to my dwelling.

  We didn't plan things this way, you understand. When our son was born, two years ago, we actively pushed back against well-meaning offers from friends and parents to loan or give this or that toy. From the beginning, my husband and I had agreed that houses filled with plastic toys utterly depressed us, and that we would valiantly fight to keep our own house in a civilized state. To be fair, we did a pretty good job of this until William's first birthday, resisting suggestions that we buy any number of huge, plastic pieces of baby equipment, such as Exersaucers and extra travel swings.

  On William's first birthday, however, we lost control. Well, we didn't, but those around us did. Seemingly unable to contain themselves any longer, friends and relatives bombarded William with plastic ride-on trucks, walkers, musical trains, and hard hats. Within days, it seemed our living room had become an outlet for Toys 'R Us. Each day, William would drag out the toys and leave them littered across the floor. Each night we would dutifully put them all away. We resisted the urge to get a toy box, committing instead to keeping the toys contained in two small canvas cubes we had bought at Target. When the toys overflowed the cubes, we made sure some were redistributed upstairs or packed away.

  "W is for WATERMELON! W . . . W . . . W. . . WATERMELON!" the stupid puzzle yells at me.

  One of his deceptively adorable toys is the all-wooden walker. It has a row of brightly-painted crocodiles over the wheels that energetically snap their mouths open and closed as he pushes it, getting faster as the walker picks up speed. This toy has become known in our house as "The Clacker," and William has a cruel habit of operating it starting the minute he realizes you have begun talking on the phone. You can walk anywhere you want and he will follow you at a good clip, bringing his deafening reptiles with him. However, the minute you hang up, he will abandon the toy and walk off to snooze with his blankie.

  "P is for PRETZEL!" Oh be quiet! I just want to sleep!

  These large toys were bad enough, but then came the Legos and the pop beads. Mind you, these were the most insidious of all the toys. Seemingly harmless in their clear, plastic containers, these classic friends of childhood became a jolly minefield when released into the open. William showed a particular talent for smacking these bits and pieces to every possible corner of the room in a matter of seconds. But they were not just in the corners - they covered every available spot on the floor and lurked evilly in our
paths wherever we went, giving us bruises with their sharp red and blue corners. Sometimes I would pack the beads and Legos away, but William would get into the closet and plaintively beg me to reopen them. There was no remedying the situation. I had to learn to live in harmony with these small invaders.

  At a certain point, I couldn't even pick up the toys each evening anymore. Every two days or so, my husband or I would have the energy to dump everything back in its container, put all the farm animals in their appointed slots, and even get the puzzle pieces back into their holes. But these efforts were instantly destroyed in the morning, when William would pick up the aforementioned containers, dump them out, and throw himself into the pile of toys, scattering them like he was making a snow angel. I had to steel myself against these moments. There just seemed to be no way I could keep my house clean anymore.

  Sometimes, when a service person or a delivery guy comes to the door, I am keenly aware of what my house must look like, with toys everywhere and a peanut-butter-besmeared toddler cackling in the background. I hope that other people don't find my house as depressing as I imagine it must be. As for me, I have become reluctantly accepting of the chaos. I make this sacrifice on the uncompromisingly cheery altar of childhood.

  "S is for SSSSSTAR!" the puzzle chortles with delight. I can almost see the actor who recorded the voice, doing jazz hands in my head. William claps his jam-covered paws happily and lumbers over to the puzzle to put the "S" back in. I may have lost control, but he is the all-powerful master of his own little universe.

  * * *

  Alicia is best known for her blog Naps Happen, where she curates an ever-expanding selection of hilarious children's nap photos. Proving the popularity of a good snooze, her blog has been featured online in publications such as The Huffington Post and Parade and on parenting websites, including Babble, Babycenter, and Nickmom and she also was voted into the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Mom Blogs in 2011 and 2012. When she's not blogging, Alicia spends her time wrangling two small boys and teaching college writing in the suburbs of Washington D.C.