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Kristen is a SAHM of five and a humorist blogger at Life On Peanut Layne. Her blog's tagline reads: "Providing laughter, entertainment, and permanent birth control to the entire neighborhood" and she's not kidding. Her goal is to make her readers laugh so hard they cry or possibly even lose bladder control. She isn't afraid to write about the embarrassing or uncomfortable things that many people are thinking, but would never actually say out loud.
Lumps, Hand Mirrors, and Elephants: My Nightmare Down There
By Anna Luther
My Life and Kids
My middle child was eight weeks old when I felt a lump.
Down there.
I felt it for days, in-between breastfeeding and trying to convince my toddler not to hit the baby.
I could feel it growing.
I begged my husband to take a peek, but he was terrified of what he might find. He finally agreed to feel it.
Four years later, and he still hasn't recovered.
I talked to my friends about it. I Googled it. I WebMD'd it.
At best, it was a cyst that would need to be lanced before an infection set in. At worst, it was cancer.
My babysitter cancelled less than an hour before my Ob/Gyn appointment, so I took my 17-month-old and my 2-month-old to the doctor's office with me.
I got undressed.
I sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
I passed out sippy cups and bottles.I tried not to cry as I waited for the doctor.
When it was time, I nervously scooted to the end of the table and put my legs in the stirrups.
The baby started crying, and I handed my toddler a sucker while the doctor felt the lump.
"Is this what you're feeling?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "That's it. It's gotten bigger. And it hurts."
"Do you think it's cancer?" I whispered.
I started shaking a little. Tears ran down my face.
"Well," he said, making sure I could hear him over the crying baby.
"That is a pimple."
The baby stopped crying.
I sat up in shock, and the room started spinning a little.
The toddler dropped his sucker.
I alternated feelings of total and utter relief and total and utter embarrassment.
I closed my legs, and the doctor stood up.
"You can always use a hand mirror and take a peek before you come in next time," he said.
Which is how I found myself in my bathroom with a hand mirror - looking at my mutilated vagina less than three months after giving birth to my second child.
What I saw still gives me nightmares.
There, in the mirror, was the largest, oldest, saddest looking elephant I have ever seen.
And right in the middle of his forehead, was a giant zit.
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Anna Luther is the mom behind the blog, My Life and Kids, where she strives to make you feel better about your messy, crazy, fabulous life. She was chosen by Parents Magazine as one of the top five blogs Most Likely to Make You Laugh. Anna is the mother of three little kids, the driver of a minivan, and the wife of Even Steven. She knows nearly 50 ways to make realistic farting noises.
The God's Honest Truth About Breastfeeding
By Dani Ryan
Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine
Prior to the time my husband and I decided to pull the goalie and start trying for kids, I never pegged myself as the type that would breastfeed. It's not that I had an issue with it. I just couldn't, for the life of me, envision myself turning into a baby-wearing, breastfeeding mama.
I thought such practices were reserved for hippies.
Like my sister-in-law.
Little did I know I would one day find myself (shamelessly) sitting topless on our living room floor with my boob in my daughter's mouth while arguing the ergonomic superiority of the Ergo Baby Carrier to my husband.
That's right, my friends. I drank the Kool-Aid. I became the mother I swore up and down I would never become. I breastfed my daughter for 11 months.
But here's the thing: I didn't enjoy it, and I hated how isolated I felt when other women told me how magical their breastfeeding "journey" was, and how sad they were when their child self-weaned at the age of four. It made me feel like an even shittier mother than I already felt when I silently cursed each time I had to drag myself out of bed in the middle of the night to nurse my child back to sleep.
The trouble is, I was so knee-deep in my postpartum misery that I didn't have the balls to admit I'm really not the baby-wearing, breastfeeding type. The good news is, my daughter obviously felt the same way and cut that shit off before someone had to take me away in a straitjacket.
And that was the magical moment when I looked into her eyes and thought, "It's you and me against the world, baby."
It's been over a year since my daughter tossed my breasts aside, and now that I've (mostly) regained my sanity, I feel like it's time to take a stand. It's time to hold up my middle finger and yell "Fuck you!" to the breastfeeding gods.
I think I've earned that right.
So here it is, my friends.
The god's honest truth about breastfeeding:
* It hurts. Anyone who's breastfed a child will tell you it hurts, but they'll claim it's "hard to describe" and keep it at that. I beg to differ. I think it's pretty easy to describe. Imagine filling one of your husband's testicles with water, stretching it to at least two times its size, taking a razor to the center of it, and then dropping it into a bucket of acid. That's pretty much how it feels to breastfeed your newborn for the first two weeks. And as an added bonus, you will be doing this every 45 to 90 minutes 'round the clock for weeks on end, making those contractions you were yelling about not so long ago seem like nothing but a distant memory.
* Nipple confusion, schnipple confusion. All the experts will tell you to exclusively breastfeed for the first 6 to 12 weeks to ensure you don't confuse your child and complicate your breastfeeding relationship. Looking back, I'm pretty sure this whole idea of nipple confusion was dreamed up by a man (I'm talking to you, Dr. Sears), because exclusive breastfeeding means that, regardless of
* how tired you are or how much pain you are feeling after pushing a baby out of your vagina, there will be no reason for your husband to get up in the middle of the night. Ever. If the baby's hungry, it's all you, my sweets.
* Not all bottles are created equal. Other experts (obviously of the female persuasion) will tell you how important it is to introduce a bottle somewhere between the 6 to 12 week mark to ensure your child will take milk from someone else if needed. What they don't tell you is that you need a PhD to decipher which bottle and nipple is best for which kind of baby. And if you're stupid enough to use the bottle that comes with your Medela breast pump like I was, you can expect to spend the next 24 hours pacing your living room while trying to help your precious baby pass gas.
* It's like show-and-tell. A lot of women are very blasé about breastfeeding. They do it at the mall, at the park, at a restaurant, even on their couch while visiting with their father-in-law. My hat goes off to them as I could never bring myself to do this. It's not that I think it's wrong. Quite the contrary, actually. It's just that I know from experience that the eye automatically gravitates towards the pink elephant in the room. It's like that woman at the gym who insists on talking to me while she's naked - no matter how hard I try to keep my eyes north, I cannot ignore the hip-to-hip mess she has going on down south (how does her husband know where to put it?). The same goes for breastfeeding. While I don't care if you're doing it in front of me, I cannot be trusted not to tell my husband you have nipples the size of dinner plates. Just sayin'.
* Hooter hiders are useless. For those who aren't in-the-know, a Hooter Hider is a makeshift apron that allows you to discreetly nurse in public. Turns out this is about as awesome an invention as the Snuggie - not only is it next to impossible to hold a squirming baby while gingerly unbuttoning your top underneath
the damn thing without employing the help of a stranger, it also annoys the shit out of most babies over the 10 week mark. Have you ever tried eating with a sheet over your head? I didn't think so.
* Nursing bras make granny panties look sexy. Unless your husband wants a shot of breast milk in his mouth every time he makes his O face, it's essential that you keep your nursing bra on while doing the deed. Sadly, nursing bras make my Grandmother's knickers look like something out of a Victoria's Secret catalog, so unless your husband is bordering on legal blindness, I'd keep the mood lighting to a minimum when engaging in adult games during your breastfeeding "journey."
* Sour milk is the nursing mother's fragrance of choice. Nursing bras are not only ugly, they're also expensive, so chances are you'll only own three or four of them to begin with. This isn't an issue as your washing machine runs non-stop anyway. But as personal hygiene is often the first thing to slip once sleep deprivation takes its hold, it's only a matter of time before you get used to the smell of sour milk and start wearing your nursing bras past their best before date. This doesn't bode well for you when you're trying to show the world you have your shit together . . . like at your baby's three-month check-up.
* Beware of the human pacifier. Many breastfeeding moms (myself included) fall into the nurse-to-sleep trap. This starts out sweet and cute - you nurse your child until she falls into a peaceful sleep in your arms, and then you gently place her in the bassinet before crawling into bed yourself. Fast-forward to the four-month sleep regression, and you are now performing Olympic acts trying to keep your nipple in her mouth while you try to transfer her to her crib without waking her up. Good luck with that.
Now, please don't get me wrong. Breastfeeding had its beautiful moments for me, too. I just didn't always feel the good outweighed the bad.
What's that, you ask? Would I breastfeed again if we ever work up the courage to have another?
Absolutely.
It's the only way I'll ever fit into a size six pair of jeans again.
* * *
Dani Ryan grew up in South East Asia and landed a part as a hooker in a Chinese soap opera when she was only 13. Sadly, that was the end of her acting career. Three years ago, she quit her job as an executive at a large insurance company so she could stay home with her beautiful daughter. She now spends her days reading Sandra Boynton books, acting as a short-order cook, and trying to guess what time her husband will make it home for dinner. In her spare time, she writes about parenting and general nothingness on her humor blog, Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine.
Because I'm the Vagina Boss, That's Why
by Brenna Jennings
Suburban Snapshots
When I found out I was pregnant - somewhere between peeling myself off the floor under my bathroom sink and shoving a still-dripping pee stick between my husband's nose and his coffee - I knew I really wanted a girl. Of course health trumps genitalia, but I trusted that a fetus with the ability to plant itself in my business despite my intention to forever remain strictly an aunt was going to turn out just fine.
My sister was in the delivery room and saw the baby first, the umbilical cord was strategically placed and I remember the dragging seconds between her announcement of, "It's a . . . " and "girl!" She dropped my numb right leg and took the first gory pictures of my slimy daughter. My cousin took a keepsake photo of the placenta and let's all be grateful she didn't yet have a Facebook account.
It started off pretty typically at first, my husband wasn't exactly enthused about having to gingerly wipe between all those little girl creases and folds, but he maintained. He put on his game face and transitioned pretty smoothly from his former perspective to his new reality in which vaginas were strictly poop-collectors and frankly, kind of a chore.
See, no one tells you specifically that when you become the boss of a new human, you also become the COO of their reproductive organs. And because I was the only other non-canine female in the house, the bulk of responsibility fell to me.
"My vagina itches!" - Go tell your mother.
"It burns when I pee!" - Go tell your mother.
"When you wipe me it tickles!" - I'm never changing you again. Go get your mother.
At almost five, our daughter is all about her privates; she has theme songs, dances, she has underwear preferences and irritation issues, and most exciting to her, she has the word "vagina" and she will not hesitate to use it.
So my husband exists somewhere between addressing his daughter's needs and deferring to a more qualified authority; enjoying her creativity with lyrics and explaining that the whole express checkout line doesn't need to hear the Vagina Song, encouraging her independence and getting her to just put on the damned underpants and deal with the scratchy cotton crotch so we can leave the house today.
He's doing the best he can with his layman's understanding, and I respect his comfort level and efforts.
But God help us all when she hits puberty.
* * *
Brenna is a mom to one daughter and three dogs, works full-time, and writes her blog, Suburban Snapshots, in the evening to avoid having to read Dr. Seuss books at bedtime.
Wanted
by Kim Forde
The Fordeville Diaries
I'm not a celebrity, but I sometimes play one in my own mind.
Not because I want to attend red carpet events.
Not because I want to exist strictly on kale and coconut water.
No. I just want a personal assistant.
What's that you say? I don't need one?
OK, that's fair. If you want to get technical. I don't need one — the way I need, say, an epidural very early in my upcoming childbirth process (I'm thinking around my 8th month).
I'm just saying that focusing more on my kids and less on my to-do list seems like a much better gig. Wouldn't it be nice to have someone take on all of the non-parenting household crap and make Operation Domestication hum like a well-oiled machine?
So just indulge me for a minute. It has been a long week. (Wait, it's Monday? WTF?)
* * *
WANTED: Personal Assistant for a busy mom flirting with insanity. Must be anal retentive, list-oriented and anticipatory. Mind reading helpful.
Key Responsibilities
* Serve as point person for daily interaction with contractors, repairmen and prospective vendors on various improvement and renovation projects for 100 year-old house. Conduct related due diligence and present findings/recommendations to employer. Alternatively, find employer new house.
* Pay household bills in timely fashion and assemble report of spending trends as they relate to family budget. Carve out employer's weekly Starbucks allowance. Liaise with financial planner to ensure employer's husband can, in fact, retire in this lifetime.
* Resolve ongoing showdown with public library on behalf of employer. Utilize stellar negotiation skills to remove proposed lifetime ban of family by producing at least 80% of overdue books.
* Handle all incoming mail management. Purge family name from unwanted lists — repeatedly — and discard all junk mail to avoid recycling pile that can be seen from space.
* Run various errands, including but not limited to: Dry cleaning, grocery shopping, filling prescriptions, library book returns (see above) and various returns of clothing items that don't look nearly as good in person as they did online. (Potential for increased year-end bonus if able to execute all returns within prohibitive 30-60 day windows.)
* Oversee all DVR management for household, ensuring that kids' programming never exceeds 65% of allowable storage. (Immediate termination may occur if employer's favorite shows are deleted.)
* Provide support as needed for all annual Christmas prep, including kick-ass cookie exchange baking, nightly placement of Elf on the Shelf and trips to Toys R Us as needed.
* Schedule, cancel and reschedule various family medical appointments as needed. Refrain from telling receptionist to remove the stick from her sizable ass.
* Research
and determine, once and for all, the key differences between the 68 settings on employer's new dryer.
* Serve as Back-Up Reader for employer's monthly book club assignment, providing necessary plot point information as needed, in the probable event that employer does not surpass second chapter.
* Undertake all outstanding home furnishing needs in consultation with employer to replace current minimalist Target catalog look with that of an actual lived-in house. This includes procuring window treatments that cost less than a mortgage so employer's family may cease Family Fishbowl lifestyle in full view of neighborhood.
* Strategically participate, as appropriate, in any neighborhood gossip sessions and report back full list of names with corresponding house numbers to employer.
* Stay abreast of any emerging research on the possibility of intravenous caffeine products approved for residential use.
* Advise employer of any and all available, affordable maternity wear that does not resemble the following: Breaking Amish Mother-to-Be Collection, Muumuu Revival Trend or Anything Kardashian-esque.
* Present various family vacation options to employer after thorough research and site visits. Act as sole point person for all Disney World planning logistics, securing all meals and character meetings in advance.
* Ensure that the red and white wine household reserves are kept at an appropriately stocked level at all times. Maintain emergency reserve for natural disasters and school closures.
* Sustain employer's real-life friendships (non-Facebook, blog or Twitter) by scheduling monthly girls' night out or related activity to preserve employer's sanity. Also, coordinate occasional babysitters so employer and spouse may have a civilized meal out of the house and away from all sippy cups.
* Conduct any and all household interaction with the New Jersey DMV. No exceptions.
Necessary Qualifications
Must have experience dealing with the following:
* A well-meaning Type A employer who has the unpredictability of pregnancy hormones raging through her system.
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