Hillary Van Akin

2009-05-07T21:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-19T18:51:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-23T22:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-14T15:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-24T05:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-20T20:49:00.000-07:00

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!)

I GOT PROBED

2008-09-18T14:41:00.001-07:00

If you've ever watched the X-Files, there is a good chance that you know about alien probing. If you're a "believer" you may actually believe that you yourself have been abducted and probed. Let me tell you about my Tuesday--I wasn't exactly abducted but I was probed--all in thanks to the vaginal ultrasound.

I know, I know, first of all this begs the question, "Why in the world are you having an ultrasound?" Well my dear friends, despite my husband accusing me of having diabetic ovaries and me accusing him of having slow swimmers, both of us were proved wrong when the Dollar Store pregnancy test, which I happily released my bladder on, gave me two, count them, TWO pink lines. That's a positive folks; my eggo is preggo.

I screamed at my husband to get into the bathroom. "I'm pregnant."

"No you're not!" (I'm sort of the boy who cried wolf when it comes to "thinking" I'm pregnant so you can understand his response).

So what do you think I did to prove it? I shoved the dripping test at him...mind you I'm still sitting on the toilet with my pants around my ankles and.....

His big response: "SICK you're dripping pee on the floor!"

And that was it. I was pregnant with baby numero dos! The next few weeks and the previous one (the one in which I was blissfully clueless and popping Ibuprofen like they were candy) gave way to HEADaches, nausea, barfing, sleeplessness, backaches, cramping, not to mention bawling (thank you surging hormones). And why do you think I wanted to get pregnant again? You would have thought that pregnancy number one would have taught me my lesson, but ah let us all thank the Lord for making us completely forget the misery that is accompanied with bringing a child into this world, until the first wave of nausea hits with the second pregnancy, and then it all comes back.

So now that you know my secret, I'll let you know how and why I was probed (well not all of the details because of you male readers, or those of you who just don't want to picture me being probed).

To ensure an accurate due date, thank you irregular periods--you always come through when I need you, I was sent to get an ultrasound. If I had known what was to happen I probably would have shaved my legs, but I thought this was the regular, run-of-the-mill, pull up your shirt, squirt cold goop on your belly and check out the thing growing within kind of ultrasound.

Unfortunately my zygote was just a little smaller than everyone thought so to my horror, the ultrasound tech pulls out this long tube, straps a condom on it and tells me to drop my drawers. At this point I tell my husband to cover my son's eyes...this is one traumatizing event I'd like him not to remember (as if showering with his mother isn't bad enough).

So they do it, they probe me: me, my uterus, my fetus, and there it is (it-because its genitalia is yet to be formed--I'm hoping for a hole not a pole but I'll be happy as long as it isn't born with both--or neither.) It's a beautiful little bean only centimeters long, but absolutely perfect because the little black spot on the screen looks just like me (that is until I find out that what I think is the baby's head is actually the yolk sac). The only unfortunate discovery was that I was two weeks earlier than I thought I was and I may only have one ovary. Oh yes, after listening to the baby's heart beat, the ultrasound tech decided that while she was up there she was going to check all of my parts. Have you ever had your ovaries or in my case possible ovary (singular) pushed around with a long probing device? If so lucky you.

I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND

2008-09-10T17:18:00.000-07:00

There are several things that I will never understand about children, my child in particular.

The first thing that I don't understand is why he thought it was so funny that as I sat on the bathroom floor violently barfing the apple and bowl of Kix I'd just eaten, he thought it was funny to point at me and laugh. And then as if he didn't get his kicks (no pun intended) on laughing at me while I puked, he lifted my head which was rested on the bathroom rug, pointed to the toilet and laughed again.

Yesterday my child wanted to cook. It was my mistake to take a shower right after breakfast instead of cleaning up. I had left a huge pot of syrup on the stove (BIG MISTAKE). I'm sure you can see what's coming. After shoving several pots and pans on top of the stove, he decided he was done playing and was going to put them away. What do you think the first pot was that he grabbed? You got it, the one with the syrup. Not one part of his 19 months had taught him how to carefully remove a pot from the stove; no he was not careful. Not one part of his 19 months had his mother learned her lesson. So what happened next? I ran out of my bedroom, barely clothed in my towel to find him standing in a puddle of ooey, gooey, sticky syrup. He lifted one leg, pointed to his foot, and screamed "mom, mom, mom" and laughed. As I surveyed the damage I realized the sticky mess is everywhere! It's on ALL of my stainless steel appliances (and they don't just wipe off), my brand new base boards, my kitchen rug, the pantry doors, cupboards, and the syrup somehow managed to reach my dining room and everything in it. I scrubbed for an hour, and then I mopped...and mopped....and mopped to no avail. Something about the butter in my oh so fattening syrup and my wood floors didn't mix. At least my floors had a nice slick and shiny sheen to them. What I had neglected to do was clean the child first. So after scrubbing my entire kitchen I followed my child's sticky footprints into EVERY, read it EVERY room in my house. And that was how I spent the rest of my morning.

Here are just a few other things that I don't understand:

Why spraying Windex in his face is ALWAYS funny.

Why he thinks EVERYTHING goes in the garbage can or laundry hamper (imagine hearing ringing coming from the garbage can or finding your missing shoe mixed in with your dirty underwear).

Why grapes that he hid under the couch two weeks ago are still edible.

Why he thinks that if its in a sippy cup he should drink it (think sippy cup full of milk rolled under the car seat in 100 degree weather for a week). Please don't judge me I'm a really clean person.

Why mommy's breasts, which he rejected at birth, are now fun toys to poke because they jiggle.

Why he should be in the shower every time his mommy is. If he's not, then he will punish her by making her take a shower with the toilet paper, soap dispenser, garbage can + garbage.

And last but not least, I don't understand why everything needs to be washed in the toilet before bringing it out to share with company.

I DROVE HOME BAWLING

2008-08-19T14:18:00.000-07:00

If you were ever picked on in grade school, you may relate to this. I have broken down and bawled 3 times this week all in thanks to my 1 1/2 year old.

I was helping a friend move this week (and by help I mean allowing my child to destroy her old and new apartment). I thought it would be a good idea to stop by the gas station and pick up some drinks. This ended up being the worst idea ever, second to thinking that my child would behave while I hauled boxes to my car. During the next hour the little angel preceded to dump strawberry milk all over my friend's carpet, discover her icemaker and water dispenser and flood her kitchen, nearly trip a man carrying a tv, and stand at the top of the stairs on top of a box of shoes and scream bloody murder. I know you are pitying me right now, aren't you. Well save it for later because there's more. During this time his bowels let loose and I used the only clean diaper I had. When we got to my friend's new apartment everyone started complaining of the stench. Stench you ask? You just changed his diaper. HA! The poop bandit got me again. This time I left him in it. I had no choice. What, do you expect me to do: take it off and wrap a towel around the kid's butt? No, he did it, he could wait until we got home. Two poops in one hour is completely unacceptable. After unloading the boxes I thought it would be fun to hang out a bit longer. We went to Target where I purchased diapers and then we sat in Papa Murphy's for fifteen minutes while my child continued to set off my car alarm in erratic spurts, destroy yet another cell phone, lay on the floor and throw a tantrum, and pick up on strange unassuming older men. When we got back to the apartment my first task was to procure a clean bottom. I laid him on the tile floor thinking this was the safest place to ensure that the little defecater could not do more damage. Wrong again mommy dearest. He placed his little feet on the tile and shoved off just as I'd pulled the diaper off, leaving a huge brown skid mark on the middle of the floor. At least he felt at home...right?

After that fiasco I was ready to leave but pizza had just been pulled out of the oven. And who can say no to Papa Murphy's take and bake pizza? I should have said no, I should have known that my time was up and this kid was a ticking time bomb. Needless to say I had to run out after one piece of pizza, an entire glass of water down my pants, dragging my child and leaving all of my dignity in the garbage with that poopy diaper.

I drove home bawling.

Another unforgettable incident involved my attendance at a friend's baby shower. A mix up in communication with my husband left me taking my child with me. Big mistake! To make this short let's just say that he destroyed the adorable diaper cake, ripped several toys out of the hands of an unfortunate child, took their garbage can apart and strewed it across the kitchen, touched every single muffin on the table (after the garbage incident), knocked over a vcr and a dvd player, destroyed the party favors, screamed bloody murder through the games, and YES, you guess it, marked his territory with a poopy diaper. I walked out.

I drove home bawling.

We took him to dinner. No need to explain.

I drove home bawling.

Wrestle Mania

2008-08-07T13:44:00.000-07:00

When I got married I thought it would be nothing but roses, love notes, hot candle light massages, bubble baths, an occassional fight followed by hot make-up (fill in the blank). Sorry my blog is too PG-13 for people, so I'm going to let your own raunchy or not minds fill in the blanks.

Little did I know that I was marrying my older brother (not literally you perves) but that the next 50 years (unless I die early PLEASE) would be filled with wedgies, noogies, head locks, "say uncle's," boogers, flatuations...you get the idea. Think of your older brother and there you have it. That is marital bliss.

This morning our car wouldn't start so guess who spent four completely uneventful hours getting body slammed until I apologized for something I couldn't even remember doing. While I was wrapped under the stronghold of my formerly high school wrestling champion husband, I was told that he would loosen his grip as soon as I apologized. With each of my "I'm sorry you're such a retard" comment the grip got tighter. Even after I screamed that I couldn't breathe and he was breaking my ribs, he continued to hold me in an immobile state.

Out of nowhere it hit me. I screamed "I hate your mother right now!"

That stopped him long enough to laugh and ask me why.

"Because she stopped having children after you were born."

My husband is the youngest of 6, and has never had anyone to pick on. So instead of waiting for our own children to be old enough to terrorize them, he has decided to use me as his target.

Instead of "hi honey I'm home" I get a slap on the butt.

Instead of sweet kisses and hugs I get picked up and twirled around until I'm about to vomit.

Instead of text messages of I miss you, you beautiful creature, I get "cheer up buttmunch"

I thought I was alone in this, but after talking to my girlfriend Shana (not my girlfriend but girl friend), we discovered that this must be a youngest child syndrome. Her husband acts the same way and he is the baby of his family. We then compared our other friends. Those whom had husbands that were the youngest sibling in a large family tended to be the biggest bullies.

So Ladies if you are suffering, know that you are not alone. There probably isn't much you can do about this problem other than allowing your hubbie to take out his pre-pubescent youngest child angst on you and praying that this is just a phase, but you have friends. You can revel in the fact that while there are women out there getting roses and feet rubs, you are probably a whole lot stronger and have a much better sense of humor than they do. If nothing else, your home would make great reality television.

Body Beautiful

2008-07-23T09:19:00.001-07:00

Those of you who know me, know that my figure is somewhat Oompa Loompaish so it's okay for me to judge. If any of you stick skinny girls thought this way you would have the world's condescension on you. So I say HA to those of who who can't judge. Who knew that back fat and love handles would come in handy?

What am I getting at? This is what I'm getting at: all of the real life, body beautiful, big girls in the media. The feminists are going to send me through the wringer on this one because in my next few sentences I may be destroying years of their work, but here I go.

Why do we go to the movies? Why do we read a good book? Why do we buy certain products? We (and by we I mean I) do these things to escape reality. For 2 hours out of my dreary life I want to be taken to another place where I can be some coquettish little vixen who can woo men with her ample bosom and quick wit. I don't want to be reminded of my shortcomings. If I did, I'd save the $8.00, and the 2000 calories I'm inevitably going to eat in popcorn, stay home and

take my clothes off and go stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. My fantasies never include overweight, slightly obese women with skin problems. That's not who I want to be and that's certainly not who I want to see in the movies or in a book I'm reading.

Yesterday I opened my mailbox to find an advertisement for lotion and on the front was this attractive woman sitting in a position that made her pasty white stomach roll into three waves and hang over her flesh colored panties. Now tell me WHAT about this picture makes me think "heck yeah" I want to buy some lotion that's going to make me look like the Pillsbury dough mama. This company's advertising gimmick had backfired. By trying to feature "real women" they weren't selling me anything but my own misery. I thought to myself, "self, you already look like this woman--pretty face--extra padding" gee I guess I don't need to buy this product that is going to make me look just like myself. It's like selling dehydrated water. No one is going to buy something they already have. I'd rather be given a false sense of reality. Show me Charlize Theron with a beautiful tan and pearly whites and tell me that the product will make me look like her. Give me sexy, give me hot, give me everything I'm not (and by sexy and hot I mean in a completely modest and unraunchy way). Because that's what I want to see when I'm trying to escape.

Don't Eat at My House

2008-07-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

If you've ever eaten dinner at my house, you're not likely to do it again after reading this post.

All of my cooking utensils: measuring cups, spatula, mixing bowls, leather whip (whoaa sorry that's a bedroom toy--NOT-- I'm just checking to see if you're still reading) but you know the basics, are stored in my pantry thanks to a lack of cupboard space in my kitchen. My sweet son loves pretending like he's cooking. He gets out a bowl and the whire wisk and spends hours copying mommy. Like the good mother that I am, at the end of the day I chuck everything he's been playing with back in the box in the pantry. No you germaphobes, I don't wash them every time. I'm not rich like you fancy pants who can afford to flush the toilet after every use and wash a spoon every time your kid sticks it in his mouth. I've got bills to pay and I can't afford these luxuries...until now. It's time to cut out some of the necessities like cable and donut runs because something so disturbing has happened that I must find the means to run my dishwasher after every playdate with the pantry.

My son came walking into the kitchen with a spatula. Not unusual. I went to take it from him to take the cookies off the tray when my friend shouts at me that I might not want to use it! Why I ask? The dust from under the couch doesn't phase me. The saliva from an 18 month old won't stop me. But this did! My son had been stirring the toilet water with the spatula.

Suddenly it all made sense. The wet whire wisk, the slimy measuring cup, the cutting board lying in the bathroom. All this time, I'd been blaming the wet utensils on teething, but no, this was much worse, it was the toilet! Stop gagging for a minute and think back to the last time you cleaned your toilet. I couldn't remember. I usually waited until there was a yellow pee ring or someone had left skid marks in the toilet before I got out the ol' brush. My 2000 Flushes Blue had seen way more miles than the recommended 2,000 so it was no use.

So I did it. I swallowed my pride, loaded my dishwasher, and decided to blog about it so that the world can see my sin, scourge me, and rescind my invitation to dinner.

2008-07-16T21:37:00.000-07:00

I decided to create a family blog for those of you would like the pleasure to view pictures of my life/family. I must say this blog is a bit more boring, but I'm telling you my personal blog takes all of the funny out of me. So if you want to check it out, here it is: http://vanakin.blogspot.com/

Neighbors Neighbors Everywhere

2008-07-15T09:19:00.001-07:00

I won an award today. I know, you're thinking that I'm pretty darn lucky, well think again my friends, this is not an award you want to win. I have won the creepiest neighbor award. No, I'm not the creepiest neighbor (as you may think), but I have the creepiest neighbors. My neighborhood is a mixture of cute little starter homes with young families, and the exact opposite: dumpy broken down wt (if you don't know what WT stands for ask your mother) homes.

This morning I was on the phone to my sister when I yelled "What the h***!" My poor sister probably thought I was cursing at her, but no there was some woman in my backyard letting her dog crap on my lawn. Those of you who really know me, know that I'm all talk. Really I have no balls when it comes to confrontation, but for some reason I was on one. I opened my door and said in the snottiest voice that I could muster "Can I help you?" And get this, this is the strange woman's reply, "Sometimes my dog just wanders around." Now if I hadn't already been warned by my neighbor that this woman has been peeking in windows and letting her dog defecate in my lawn I probably would have let it go, but not this time. I'd caught her in the act and she wasn't going to get away with it. So I shout at her "Your dog is on a leash, YOU control his wandering and you being in my backyard is REALLY creeping me out!" At this point she has crossed my lawn and is standing on my back porch about to come in and kill me perhaps, but she just replies in her meth-addict completely unaware of her surroundings state "Really?" Yes REALLY. I walk around naked in my kitchen, I do the funky chicken dance in my kitchen, sometimes I do them simultaneously, so YES me thinking that you wandering around in my backyard where my huge window is like a Cinnaplex for your personal viewing pleasure is creepy. I yell at her to stay out of my yard and slam the door before she can come in, kill me and kidnap my child and raise him in KOA Campground. The creepy thing is that she sat on my back porch for several minutes before I saw her walk away.

So ask me if I want to move. Ask me if I want to sell my cute little renovated 1950's bungalow and move to a neighborhood where every lawn is perfectly manicured and the people have plastic smiles and all drive eco-friendly cars. Ask me if I want to live in a neighborhood where there are less than 200 sex offenders in a six block radius. I know, I know, you're probably thinking whoaaa sister. You don't have the kind of money that can afford those lavish tastes of yours. But ask me anyhow, the answer might surprise you.

I want to be able to sit in my front lawn in a kiddy pool in my bathing suit and not have a certain group of people (and no I'm not talking about the entire male species) stare at my tatas and shout "chichis grande" at me. Okay I know that bathing in my front yard is kind of my own fault but there's dog feces all over my backyard so what's a girl to do?

It's a lose lose world out there and I'm stuck right in between a former meth lab and a bunch of registered sex offenders. Ain't life grand?

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS

2008-07-08T12:05:00.000-07:00

Ive been thinking a lot about love lately. What does it mean to truly love someone. When you have a child you are automatically bonded to them, but is that what makes you love them? When do you know?

Well I thought I knew that I loved my child, that is until last night. No, I didn't decide that I no longer love the little monster that has been destroying my home and terrorizing my birds for the last 17 months. There have been times when my love has been put to the test (these times have usually occurred in Walmart around 3:30 pm on a long day and involve eggs being thrown out of the cart and packages of hot dogs being gnawed into). If I thought that having my cell phone drowned in the toilet or my makeup hidden for three days was bad, last night put them all to shame.

Last night my child woke up at midnight screaming. This is not usual so I decided to lay him in between my husband and myself on our bed. The next thing I remember I was being puked on again, and again, and again. Now this is going to gross you out, but have you ever seen milk that has spent all day in the sun curdling, fermenting, turning into a thick solid cottage cheese like substance. Now take it one step further have you ever smelled it? Has it ever been violently barfed on you repeatedly. If so, you know what love is. My husband who was convulsing because of the smell, grabbed the child and threw him in the tub leaving me to clean up the mess. I have no clue where all the vomit came from; he must have been packing some of it in his diaper, and hiding the rest in those adorable chubby cheeks of his, because he managed to cover 4 pillows, our coverlet, fitted sheet, flat sheet, down comforter, duvet, padded bedding thing (I know I sound like I'm selling bed sets at Bed Bath and Beyond) but really, he got the bed set and all the extra amenities. He got everything except the mattress and that's because despite everyone making bed wetting comments to me, I purchased plastic sheet covers for my mattress. Why you ask. Think so pregnant you can't get out of the bed in the middle of the night--now you understand the plastic sheets--and if you haven't had the joy of wetting yourself recently, just wait, you'll get yours soon enough sister.

So at 1am I drag all of my bedding to my laundry room and start the wash. At this point my son is sitting in the bathtub dipping his toothbrush into bath water and then chewing on it, because my husband thinks his breath stinks and the best thing to do is hand the one year old his toothbrush and let him clean up his own mess. My husband dresses the child and we try to figure out what to do now that we are bedless and our room needs fumigated for at least 24 hours before reentry can occur. I end up on the floor in my son's bedroom, but because mommy is laying on his floor he thinks he needs to be with me. So we both end up on the floor with a couch pillow and eggcrate pad. I sleep little and arise to find my face plastered to a dresser and someone doing "bouncies" on my pelvis, jabbing his finger in my nose, screaming mommy and laughing.

So do you think you love someone? I bet you do, but until you've wiped their poopy butt, changed their diaper, and wiped their vomit off your face, and I'm not talking just about babies, you probably don't realize the lengths to which you are humanly capable of loving something that is so disgusting and foul.
So Mazal Tov and good night!

I'M STARVING AND YET SOME PEOPLE CHOOSE TO STARVE

2008-06-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

I would like to give props to anorexics. People may think you're crazy but I think you have a whole lot more will power than most. These girls and a few homosexual men are able to do something that I in the past two days have been incapable of doing. Now I know you're thinking: What? Is she really recommending eating disorders? Who does she think she is...well here's who I think I am. I am a girl who is out of insulin and going crazy!
I love my insurance company (insert sarcasm). To make a long story short, unless I want to pay $200 for my insulin, I have to wait until July 1st to get any. So for the last few days I have been rationing my insulin. For those of you that don't that much about diabetes just know that I have to take insulin all day long and then take it every time I eat carbohydrates. So being the math genius that I am I figured that I have enough insulin to last me until Monday night if I don't eat anything. Well anything is a stretch, but I can't eat anything with carbs.
Those of you who have done the Atkins diet probably think I'm a wuss but I say whoa hold onto your condescension for just a second and realize that this is life or death here. I am going to DIE if I eat too many carbs while you will only be adding (insert favorite pastry here) onto your meat filled gadunkadunk.
Eating no carbs is not only humiliating (picture me last night at a family birthday party watching people load delicious sugary candy bar topped chocolate cake onto their plates and then salivating like Pavlov's dogs with each bite they take) but it is also close to impossible to avoid. They're everywhere. Carbohydrates are the plague of the earth and eventually they are going to get me too.
I keep going to my kitchen when the small and slowly dimming light bulb in my head goes off. Ahh peanut butter has no carbs I think. Wrong! I swear I can hear the buzzer go off each time I reach for something and realize nope, can't eat that either. BZZZZZ gotcha sucker it says! So what else, what else, I search through my pantry and find cereal, pasta, fruit, flour, bread, corn, the list goes on and still there is nothing that I can eat. I move on to my fridge, but alas it is an oasis of disappointment. There are hundreds of condiments, but really how good is a bowl full of ranch, salsa, ketchup, soy sauce and mayonnaise without some chips to dip it in?
So in case you're still wondering what I have been eating, here is a list of what I've had the last two days:
Breakfast: bacon and eggs (you're thinking I'm a whiner, that sounds good right? Keep reading.)
Lunch: Diet Mt. Dew and a Diet Dr. Pepper
Snack: Crystal Light
Dinner: a small piece of chicken and some lettuce
Dessert: water
Breakfast: nothing
Snack: I couldn't resist and stole a pretzel from my child during church (I'm sure I'm paying for it right now).
Lunch: 1 hot dog no bun and a Large gallon of Crystal Light
Dinner: who knows, but I'm going to my in-laws for dinner and I'm sure I'll be stuck standing around sniffing the food cursing the day my stupid auto-immune disease attacked my body and destroyed my freaking pancreas! Seriously you never realize how much you love something until it leaves or is destroyed by your own cells!
So I hope you're all having a lovely Sunday, spending time with the carbohydrates in your life and praising the Lord that your pancreas works and your husband works for a large company with great insurance or you are poor enough or old enough to qualify for government assistance!

LOVE SONG OR NOT?

2008-06-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

"I'm not going to write you a love song, cuz you asked for it..."

How many times have you heard that song? Why just the other day it was stuck in my head and vwala, I turned on the radio and there it was. It's EVERYWHERE! Overplayed, oversung, oversaturated. Do I blame Sarah Bareillis? No, no I don't. It's not like she follows me around singing at me. I blame it on the radio. The radio is like a cheap floozy and here's why.

Let's compare this song to a person. You meet this person (hear a song) that you really like. You develop a crush and want to find out more. This person pops in and out occasionally, just enough that you get excited every time you see her(hear the song). Then before you know it, all of your friends have a crush on your girl. They're all excited about her too. And then out of no where she becomes this obsessive girl that won't leave you alone. Every where you go, there she is. In your car, at the grocery store, the pool, your living room, on tv, even in your little sister's bedroom. This person that you were so into at first has oversaturated you with her presence. You can't get away. Now why would you marry this person and take her home to be yours (buy the cd). Why buy the cow when the milk is free. You get my drift? The radio is the whore of the earth. They turn a cute little song that you like into some street hussy turning tricks for ratings. It's sick and disgusting and I say we boycott it. We stop listening to radio stations that are destroying songs. If we don't we're just as bad as they are. They may be the song's pimp, but you're the one paying for the prostitute.

SIDENOTE--if you're slow and not catching on to my analogy just drop your Poptart, stop reading and go find a brain or find a fourth grader to explain what an analogy is.

"Hi Honey is your Daddy Home?"

2008-06-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

My last two blogs have been about getting old and looking preggo. Well here's a new one. Today we were having a dumpster delivered to our house (don't ask). I peered out the window when I saw the thing pull up and then waited a half an hour as the man sat in his truck doing St. Peter knows what. Finally I see this ancient two hundred year old man get out of his truck (this explains the long wait--his Depends may have been bunched up or he couldn't remember why in all of Charles Dickens was he sitting in a dump truck) and wobbles up to my doorstep. I answer the door and he says "Hi honey I'm supposed to deliver this dumpster, is your dad going to be home soon." I assumed he was talking to me not the child in the diaper, but by the tone in his voice I really couldn't tell. So to ease this poor man's confused mind I said "my husband ordered it." He looked at me in disbelief and then asks where I want the thing put. I see him walk away shaking his head in disbelief. That'll teach me not to answer the door without wearing makeup.So here is what I'm thinking. This man thought I was fifteen, the old woman from my last blog thought I was preggo....so what am I? A pregnant fifteen year old? Why don't you just call me Jamie Lynn Spears and make a day of it. So if I try to stay young looking and wear trendy clothes I look preggo. If I try to get away without makeup I look like a polygamist's bride. Where is the justice. I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. So from now on I'll be wearing tight clothes and tons of makeup. I may look like a two dollar street walker but at least I'll look my age and my size.