Last night my 2-year-old reached over, poked my breast and said "Bo bo's booboob." I turned to him and said "before those were Beau's, those were daddy's, and before that, they were mine." Just to clarify for those of you who are freaked out thinking that I've run off with a clown named Bo Bo, you should know that my son calls his new little brother Bo Bo--short for Beaumont.

Back to the subject of my breasts because we all know that's why you're really reading this post. I would like you all to know that long before I was a milk cow, long before any man could call these things his "fun bags," they belonged to me. They were nice and firm and perky...and then I had babies. Everyone tells you about the joys of breastfeeding: the closeness you feel to your infant, the essential nutrients and antibodies that you are passing to your newborn, the money you are saving, yadayadayada. La Leche League will probably kill me for this one, but I don't think that they post the downfalls to breastfeeding in any of their fancy pamphlets, so here are the things they won't tell you about breast feeding.

Number 1

Your breasts have two settings: Porn star and deflated balloon. Sure they look awesome when they're all full and perky--but when they get to that point, all you can think of is where's the kid, where's the kid, where's the kid? When you finally relieve some of the pressure, it's like someone just let the air out of your tires. They hang like two sad little balloons that have been long forgotten days after someone's birthday party. Which leads me to point number two--

Number 2

You should see these things when they're unbridled and set free; they sag so low they could permanently settle with your belly button--that is if the skin from your stretch-marked stomach wasn't currently residing around your knees. On the plus side, you can officially join the mom club--you know the one in which the bottom of your breasts and the top of your pants meet at your waist to discuss politics.

Number 3

The sweat, oh the sweat. Who knew that you could have permanent swoob (sweaty boob)? I mean it is the Sahara desert inside of my bra. You would think that with all of the sweating, when the watermelons met, they would slide right off of each other. Wrong. All of that sweating means they stick together and then...bring on the chaffing. It's like the inside of a fat girl's thighs inside my bra (I know this because I've been the fat girl with the thigh chaffing so I have earned the right to poke fun). Try having a normal conversation when all you can think about is how fast you can sneak off to the bathroom, seperate the sisters and blow some cool air down your shirt.

Number 4

You are a cow. There is no denying it, no hiding from it. You are a human milk machine. Now imagine that you are pumping as well as breast feeding. You've become a special about farming on the Discovery Channel. You are herded into a stall, hooked up to a large machine that extracts your milk and then you're put back out to pasture for the next three hours until you've produced more milk. Your milk is then bottled, bagged, and sent to a freezer facility where it will be saved for a rainy day when you decide it's finally safe enough to venture away from your pasture and take a break from your calfling.

So...there you have it. Good luck with your breasts, boobies, tatas, funbags, or whatever else you choose to call them.

If you think that you're sick of staring at my pee jug...you have no idea how tired I am of peeing in them.

However, I am up and posting again, on my personal blog. I've been trying to think of all the witty things I could post and all I really keep thinking about is how Percocet makes the computer screen really fuzzy and all of the interesting and funny things I want to post are really inappropriate. So here's a little post/shout out to the hospital. For those of you who have had a hospital stay, especially one in Labor and Delivery, I think you should appreciate this.

Dearest hospital I've loved all my stays

I've loved that every doctor appt has turned into days

I've loved the mesh panties, the one size fits all

and the maxi pads so long they could carpet the hall

I love the urine catch I must empty myself

into the orange container that rests on the shelf.

I love when you tell me I'm here on bed rest

and then awake me each hour, yes that is the best.

I love eating my breakfast, my lunch and my dinner

all food that would be better flavored with paint thinner

Those 2000 calories of pork, chicken, or pork

and eggs so soggy you don't need a fork.

But at least you can have all the water you want

just know on your bill that that water will taunt

$4 a refill, $12 a pill

who doesn't love a 10 page hospital bill?

I love to detach from all of the wires and tubes

To go to the bathroom, to notice my boobs

now droop to my knees without the suppport

of a bra or a shirt when I'm wearing this fort

of a hospital gown that flaps open in back

and shows off my behind, guys cut me some slack.

I love being violated by five different nurses

that pull up my gown while I'm screaming some curses.

That root around down there until they find what they need

Oh sure sweetheart, you're still pregnant indeed.

But just to be sure some more blood we will draw

and stab you six times as your veins all have flaws

You'll wait for the doctor from 10 until 7

only to find out he's bringing down babies from heaven

so you'll sit in your bed and wait and just wait

and wonder why you were given a luxury egg crate

that smells like old people, death rotting, and urine

all the while you sit there waiting and worrying

that the smell that you're smelling might really be you

because you haven't showered since what feels like 02.

So the doc finally comes to tell you the news

you're going home today, with a list of strange do's

You do stay in bed, drink plenty of water

and have someone else watch your young son or daughter

and make an appointment for three days from now

When you'll be readmitted to the hospital, still a big preggo cow

I PEED ON MYSELF

Thanks to the child within, I have had to do many fun medical experiments. The most fun one was collecting 24 hours worth of urine in this:

Now if you're looking at this picture thinking, what's the big deal, then you're a man and you have a hose. Unfortunately due to a lack of proper equipment, filling this jug was a bit tricky for me. At first I thought that I could simply hold it over the toilet and empty my canteen into the big orange canteen. Wrong! The jug is so big and the opening so small that it can't be held inside the toilet so it must be held above it. Now ladies, I don't know how good your aim is, but I ended up peeing on everything--the jug, my pants, the floor, toilet seat....you get the picture. So then I ended up standing there with this jug dripping in urine thinking where the heck do I put this thing now??? So I set it in the sink, rinsed it off, put it back in the brown paper bag, and headed towards the fridge. I understand now why liquor is kept in brown paper bags...although I figured anyone in my house trying to get liquored up would surely get a kick out of the surprise lemonade I'd been bootlegging in the bathroom.
I tried several different techniques to fill the jug over the next day. I started off by completely taking off my pants to pee--this only saved my clothes from urine stains, I still had to mop the bathroom floor. I tried holding the jug in different positions for better aim and spray, but finally I stripped down to nothing and stood in the shower, squatted over the jug, and prayed that my aim was on. All this just to fill a pee jar.
Part of me hopes my kidneys are failing, just so this experience wasn't in vain...
I hope you never have to do this...
And if you're a man, I hope that medical technology enables you to experience pregnancy one day, so that instead of your part in this whole process lasting 15 minutes, you get 9 whole months of squatting over ugly orange hospital jars and wetting on yourself.

Ahhhh SPANDEX

For those of you who don't know, I have moved.

I now live in my dad's basement...thank you dad for putting up with me for the who knows how long we will be here. There are actually quite a few exciting and fun things about moving out of your own home, downsizing to a basement, and putting all of your stuff in storage.

Here is my favorite:

Every few years Peter runs across something fun from his past and I get to share in the memories. One year it was his speedo, another year it was his high school prom picture (which I told him to throw out but instead it magically appeared on my nightstand FRAMED!!!), but this move brought out something new...his SINGLET.

Now for those of you that think a singlet is a type of chewing gum or some sort of kinky lingerie (it actually could be...on the right person), you obviously have not been following high school wrestling. So Saturday I walked into my new bedroom to find my two hundred and fill in the blank pound husband squeezing into this black piece of spandex. When he weighed a measly 140 during his freshman year in high school, the sexy little outfit showed every curvature of his body. You can't imagine how his current curves look in the disgusting thing...well thanks to the miracle of modern photography, you don't have to imagine it, you can see it. If you have never met the miracle of spandex, check out the picture. They, and by they I mean I, don't call it miracle material for nothing. He's probably going to be upset with me for posting this picture, but you tell me what kind of a man squeezes his buns into a tight black piece of shiny spandex, poses like this for the camera, and doesn't want it posted on the Internet? He along with a whole slew of transgender men now have pictures of themselves posing like this, in tight spandex, on the Internet.

I AM A LIAR

Today I lied...
It wasn't a big lie in the grand scheme of things, but it was a lie.
So for those of you who have seen me this week, you know just by looking at me that I am pregnant. I can attribute the huge pooch in front to the nice layer of fat that has accumulated since baby number one. Well that and the fact that there is a thing growing inside of me which, as I learned this week, is causing my bowels to push out and give me that pretty baby bulge.

So, on to my lie. I was in Rite Aid for the third time this morning (NEVER EVER get a prescription filled there by the way). My child was running around the store screaming like a wild pack of savage cannibals were chasing after him threatening to eat him alive. His only rescue was to pull all of the eyeglasses off the rack and throw them. After chasing him through the store for what felt like hours on end, I decided to set him on my lap while I used the blood pressure machine. Somewhat to my surprise my BP was rocketing off the charts. After sitting for a minute, I checked it again, and sure enough it was back to normal. I guess all that chasing had me completely frazzled...So to keep my child content, I left him pushing the buttons on the blood pressure machine.

This whole time a woman sat quietly watching me. She turned to me after several minutes and struck up some polite conversation. After talking about what a handful my son was, she asked me when my baby was due.

Now, I'm not actually far enough along that I should be showing, but I AM. Like I said before layer of fat + bulging bowels + second pregnancy + midget status = she looks like that kid is about to rear his ugly head... aka start pushing.... aka Congratulations! It's a healthy baby....You get my drift. I'M HUGE.

So I groan at her and then respond "February."
Liar liar liar. I'm not due until May.
And then my mind starts racing. I can't figure out the math. If I'm due in February how far along am I? When do you start counting??? From conception? From the first day of your last period or the last day of your first period??? What if she asks me more questions??? Dangit, I wish I had a calculator with me!
And then she does. "Well at least you're over the hump." Am I? In my lie am I really over the hump? What is the hump? 4 or 5 months? Aren't you technically pregnant for 10 months??? AHHHH...She keeps talking, "Do you know what you're having?"

OMG--Oh My Gosh...If I'm due in February am I 20 weeks yet? Should I know the gender of my child. Is this stranger going to know that I just lied to her for no good reason other than to save myself the shame of having to admit that I'm a ginormous chunk of baby bakery!

And so, to save face, and only make things worse, I lie again. "Nope, this one is going to be a surprise." I figure this lie covers me in case I should know what I'm having or if I'm not quite far enough along to have found out.

And then, Saved by the Bell, the pharmasist calls my name and I am out. I figured that the Lord just saved me from having to lie anymore. He'd already erased my brownie points from feeding that homeless man, and the ones for apologizing to my husband when I knew I wasn't wrong. I don't think He lets your points go into the negative without being thrust straight to the underworld, so right now I'm back at zero. Although, I think that right now Satan is sitting on his burning hot throne in the pits of hell laughing about how I just lied for no good reason.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME

Today I have been married 4 glorious, long years. I've noticed that a lot of people tell all the reasons that they love their spouse on his/her actually just his birthday or anniversary. (because let's be real, most bloggers are mommies-and how many men actually express their love for the entire cyberworld to read?) So instead of telling you all of the reasons I love by big hunka hunka burning love, I thought I'd tell you our oh so funny engagement story. I apologize to those of you who have heard this story so if you don't want to read it, then stop wasting your time, hehe yeah right like you have anything better to do...I win...read on!


It was only 3 weeks until the big day and I was pretty sure that Peter finally had my ring! I'd been wearing a dollar store one because the decision to get married wasn't exactly a true proposal. Here's how it went.

Him: "So when are your mission papers going in?"

Me: "Well the mission doctor said I'm cleared, so tomorrow."

Him: "I don't think you should go. Girls shouldn't go on missions."

Me: "Well I'm not going to stay here just to hang out and see what happens."

Him: "Well I think if you stayed things could work out between us."


And that's it folks...things could work out between us. Not the most romantic proposal, but hey it worked, and I was hooked.


So here's what had preceded the week to his proposal. One night he told me he needed to go home early to "take care of some stuff." This meant to me: proposal prep. Then he told me he had a special date planned Friday night. Well folks, Friday night came and went with no "special date." So Saturday he promised he'd take me out to make up for not taking me out the night before. The day came and the day went and that night we had to head up to Salt Lake to pick up a birthday present for his dad. In the car, I was fuming! So what's a girl to do? I let him have it.

Me: "I thought you were going to propose tonight!"

Him: "Sorry."

Me: "Well you told me you had a special date planned and the other night you went home to take care of some stuff."

Him: "Um...well, I lied. I actually went home to play Playstation with my brother but I didn't want you to be mad."
At this point I was PISSED! "You lied to me so you could go play video games with your brother???" Little did I know that this was just the beginning of the lies and video games, but that's another blog.


So I sat there fuming and he suggested we go to dinner because I was so upset, to which I responded I was not hungry and did not want to go to dinner. Besides it was a good thing he wasn't proposing because then it would be one of those cheesy Temple Square proposals....


DUN DUN DUN--here's the foreshadowing where you can see what's coming.


So the entire way up to Salt Lake he tries to convince me to go to dinner. We park in the mall parking lot and walk around trying to find a place to eat. At every restaurant I tell him I'm not hungry. So finally we end back at the mall in the food court and eat Chick-fil-A...how romantic.


We buy his dad a present and then walk around the mall for a while. Then the sweetheart suggests we walk over to the Temple. NO...I have had it. I thought I was getting proposed to and I'm not and I'm tired. We can go to the Temple anytime...Just take me home! After he pleads with me...it's his favorite place in the whole world, I crumble. We sat at the temple grounds and talked for a long time--you know those cheesy romantic talks you have before you get married--when you fantasize about how perfect your life together is going to be.

As we were leaving he said he wanted to walk AROUND the temple. To which the crank in me came out again, but again I lost.


Him: "Hey there's something in the bushes!"

Me: "Who cares?"

To which he pulls out 6 count em 6 dozen roses and exclaims, "Where's the ring!"


He whips out his cell phone and calls his brother. His brother and VERY pregnant wife come wobbling out from behind a tree exclaiming "did you do it?" To which my dear soon to be spouse screams "Where's the ring?" Oh, it was on the roses, which were in the 8x8x8 foot bushes.

So we all get down on our hands and knees and search...and search...and search. After 30 minutes we give up. And then a messenger from God (who slightly resembles a vagabond) comes over and asks if he can help. Within seconds he has found my ring. Hallelujah!!!


So in a total fluster, Peter gets down on his knee and says "Will you marry me?" That was it, no I've been searching for you all my life and I can't imagine anyone more perfect to spend the rest of eternity with, to bear my children, to grow old and play with our grandchildren on our porch with." Nope, it was short and to the point. So of course I said yes and he put the ring on the wrong finger.


We went and got boba's (delicious) and got pulled over on the way home.


If you think this is bad, picture the tragedy that would have occurred if his original idea had worked. There was a duck pond that we used to frequent, and he had planned on tying my ring to a wild goose and releasing it at me during a romantic picnic. Thank goodness he couldn't catch the goose!

BABY SHOWER BLUES

Baby Showers bring out the worst in people.

Here's what I've decided...baby showers which are crucial for every first mother (how else would we get all the crap we're going to need for the pooping, screaming, puking bundle of joy?) bring out the very worst in every woman in attendance. Whether it is stooping to sniff diapers to decide what kind of crap look-a-like candy bar has been melted in it, tasting unlabeled baby food to guess the unbearable unsalted, unfatted, unflavored flavor of the pea green colored slime, or simply ooing and ahhing at the outfits, the baby wash, the tub, the burp cloths, the nipple rash cream and breast pads, the.......you get the picture, the whole scene would make an outsider think they'd stepped into an alternate universe of homeless twenty something year olds digging through garbage to win a baby bottle filled with Jelly Bellys.

Ok so the games and fake chit chat aren't that bad when you consider you are celebrating a woman that is about to go through the most unbearable and indescribable 24-36 hours of her life, all to welcome a child that won't truly appreciate her until she and I reiterate SHE gives birth herself. Why SHE? Because a man child grown into an actual man can NEVER fully appreciate what we go through to bring children into this world. They spend a few minutes huffing puffing and grunting and call the job done, but we're left with 9 months of alien baby playing kickball on our ribs and using our bladder for a trampoline...and that's just the beginning of the job....

WHEEWH...that was a tangent that has been pent up for quite some time...back to the baby shower.


So here is the worst part of these blessed parties. Every woman in the room has either had a child, or knows a million people that have had children, and they are willing to share or rather force all of their knowledge on you. This one LOVES Pampers, that one would NEVER give her child a bottle, and the granola girl in the corner wearing the polygamist dress-jeans-beehive-and unibrow combo swears that if you get an epidural you're not a real woman.


And there I sit. I hate Pampers, I breast fed for a whole week before my child refused me and I GLADLY gave him a bottle and reclaimed the dairy farm that I'd become, and without an epidural neither I nor my child, and let's throw in my husband, would have made it out of the hospital alive. I would have died with the kid still inside me and probably taken my poor husband along with me.

I don't like know- it-all moms, and I apologize for the times that I've been one. Every child, every pregnancy, heck every conception is different. So unless a pregnant person asks for advice, don't give it. You are only the authority of your own experience.


So when I tell you that my C-section was awesome and recovery time was a week, you think, "good for her," not, "well my neighbor's sister's surrogate aunt took three months to recover and she still waddles like a duck." Just be happy that I say Huggies and you say Pampers.


And while we're on the subject of diapers. Costco diapers are NOT cheaper than Huggies, look at the unit price people. Huggies wins! (and I will never bring this up again unless you specifically ask me which is cheaper!)