The Mommy Wars…

I’ve never been one to be all judgy wudgy when it comes to parenting, or anything else for that matter. It just ain’t my bag, man. Unless it’s unfit parents. Now that infuriates me to no end. But that’s just being a decent human being. And that I’m all sortsa for.

The reason this popped into my head today is because I have a dear, sweet friend who recently had her first child. A beautiful baby girl that I simply cannot wait to get my hands on. She has the smoochiest little face I’ve ever seen. Outside of my own chirrens, natch. But a complete cutie patootey nonetheless. She posted the link to an article about Mommy Wars, and its various issues. Mainly concerning breast feeding vs. formula. And it just really made me stop and think. About my own issues with that taboo subject. And the rest of the things that we don’t talk about for fear of being judged, and found wanting.

I’m certainly not an expert, by any means. But I know what I know, ya know? I’ve been pregnant three times, and had three successful births. Three very, very different births. The first was all natural. I was scheduled for an induction on a Monday, but my water broke late Saturday night. We leisurely made our way to the hospital and settled in. The contractions weren’t really strong until around ten-ish the next morning. Because my mother didn’t have an epidural with either of her births I didn’t want one. Everything was moving right along until roughly about one. Then shit got real. And it hurt. A lot. Did it ever hurt. My poor dad was trying to comfort me and rub my legs when the contractions really started coming. All I remember is him saying ” Wow, Sis…here comes a big one!” and then I yelled something at him that involved “leave me the fuck alone and stop touching me”. Yep. Daughter of the Year, right here. My mom told me later that she didn’t think she had ever seen that look on his face before. Needless to say, she was also a little unhappy about the f-bomb. Dude. They call it labor for a reason. I should add that all throughout the day doctors and nurses kept coming into the room because they couldn’t believe I wasn’t having an epidural. Apparently, it’s quite shocking. Shortly after my potty mouth drama, my beautiful Nub was born. He was beautiful, y’all.

Fast forward almost two years. Pregnant with Dub. And he is showing no signs of wanting to come out. Ever. We joke about him still being in there if he’d had his way. So an induction is scheduled. We go in at the appropriate time. I get hooked up to pitocin and we wait. And wait some more. And some more after that. My BFF and half our family were there with us. Waiting and waiting and waiting. Still nothing. The nurse comes in with some sort of crazy talk about sending me home if nothing happens soon. At which point I tell her, rather emphatically, that I am not going anywhere until this baby is out. Period. The end. So she decides to go ahead and break my water. Yeah, good move. It slammed me into full-blown labor. Like immediately. At this point I am begging for drugs, because HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. This pain? Is unrelenting. There is no focusing. No breathing. It fucking hurts. I was told I would have to wait thirty minutes because I needed a saline solution first. Which I quickly agreed to. Everyone came up to me and asked me if I was sure, and I bit their heads off. I snapped that I was getting one whether they wanted me to or not and I didn’t give a fuck what they thought. Surprisingly? No one had anything to say about the subject after that! The epidural? It’s magic. And bliss. And possibly heaven all rolled into one. The relief was instantaneous. And so, so good. So I’m back to being funny and all chill. The nurse comes in because my monitor is all wonky and she says they will just check real quick. She flips up the sheet and yells for them to call the doctor because the baby is coming! They all rush in and ask if I’m okay. I’m numb from the waist down, y’all. Um, sure? They ask if I can push and I tell them if they don’t turn my epidural down I can do whatever they want! My beautiful Dub arrives post-haste.

Fast forward five years. My babies got bigger with each pregnancy, and Dub had a condition that made it potentially dangerous for me to have any more children unless it was a c-section. We had it all scheduled and made it to the day of. Only Dub decided the time wasn’t going to work for him. It was still awesome and beautiful in every possible way. There were serious drugs. Which make the first two days of his birth a bit hazy.

My point to these stories? You can plan all you want to. Babies are always born on their time. In their own way. All you can do is be prepared for them to change your world. For the better. There will come a time when you can no longer remember what your life was like without them. Breast feeding, formula…it doesn’t matter. IT’S YOUR CHOICE. YOU ARE THEIR MAMA. I support you one thousand percent. Either way. If you feel like talking about your choice to me, I will listen. I will absolutely support you. I had to use formula, for medical reasons,for the first two. I tried for Bub, but my milk never came in. I get the frustrations and the guilt. I’m here to assure you that you have nothing to be guilty for. It’s your choice. I support you. Either way. I’m not here to judge you and your choices.

Like I said…it ain’t my bag, man.


Acne, Aging and Hot Flashes…Oh My.

I turned 39 this year. And I’m completely fine with that. Truly. I’ve always been the kind of girl who loves her birthday. I start a countdown on May 26th. Seriously. And there might even be a song. Which, unless you are a member of my immediate family, you will not have the pleasure of hearing any time soon. It’s that good.

Anyhoozle, so the getting older thing really does not faze me. I’m not a sun worshipper, in fact I fry like a chicken at pretty much the mention of the word sun. True story, y’all. I don’t feel like I look 39. And I have been told, numerous times and by people who are not in fact related to me, that I easily pass for early 30’s. Not that I’m vain, or anything. Much. I just think it’s a good thing. I try really hard to take care of my skin. I moisturize fiendishly. I’m careful with what I use on it. I generally try to be as loving as I can, especially to my face. It’s delicate, y’all. You have to treat it as such. Stop laughing. I’m serious. Cow.

So imagine my horror upon awakening one day last week, only to discover the MUTHA of all breakouts. Over my entire face. Apparently, my face missed the memo about turning 39. I don’t think it was this bad when I was 13. I tried for several days to get rid of it without having to resort to the bad stuff. But it would not go away. So I broke down and bought a “Cleansing System”. Which dries my face out something fierce. I get that’s prolly the whole point. But good grief. The Sahara has more moisture in it than my face does. It is working though. And you have no idea how happy that makes me. A couple more days of it and I can go out in public again! Kidding. I’ve been out. I’ve not been thrilled about being out, but I have been out and about.

I think part of the reason my face went so cray cray would be the recent surge in hot flashes and hormones. I am a complete lunatic over here. Before you say it, no I am not too young for hot flashes. All the women in my family go through menopause early. Good freaking times. Fair skin, big boobs and early menopause. Helluva combo, right? I’m in the midst of researching natural remedies, etc. I’m taking an OTC pill my mother recommended, it’s still too early to tell if it’s really working. We shall see…

It’s a party over here every day, y’all. Who’s in charge of the dip?