I know that on Tuesday I promised you that I wouldn’t torture you with all the cute things my kid says because it makes you want to punch kittens and I wouldn’t want you to do that because kittens are just. adorable. but I lied Internet!

Liar, Liar pants on fire!

Sue me.

Just promise me you won’t punch any kittens after this because I would hate that.

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She’s never even had fried chicken! And how does she know about addictions? Ahem, I don’t have any

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Already a procrastinator like her daddy. We still have not resolved the windows issue, just so you know. If she catches The Retardation it’s all his fault Internet.

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I am not allowed to sing in my own home.

She actually said this next thing when I was getting out of the shower one day, but I don’t have a Barbie shower so I had to use the couch instead.

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My boobies are not silly. They’re spectacular. That must be what she meant.

We’re still working on her vocabulary.

And when she’s asked to do something she does not want to do, she dives under the nearest piece of furniture and does this instead:

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And then she spits on the floor which lands her a spot on the naughty step where she proceeds to spit on the floor some more and draw designs in it with the toe of her sneaker. When let off the naughty step she refuses to clean up the spit which lands her back on the naughty step where she resumes her spit drawing.

She’s quite good. I’ll take a picture of one for you sometime.

Girlfriend sometimes has trouble engaging her frontal lobe and says things to strangers that maybe she shouldn’t.

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And then she spits at them if she really feels strongly about it. She does this to random people in stores and whatnot. At least it’s not as bad as what I did to my mother. Apparently I hated men with beards when I was little and we were at the grocery store and I pointed to a man with a beard and loudly said “Hey mommy. Look at that fucking ass hole!”

God, I was cute.

Lately I’ve been trying to teach her proper terminology and to be comfortable with her body, and that nakedness is not a shameful thing, and that it’s okay to sort of get to know herself as long as she’s alone and all that hippy crap you’re supposed to say nowadays if you’re not a Jesus freak and she really never acknowledges her netherlands, but I don’t want her to feel weird about it and I guess I sort of overshot my goal in the vagi appreciation department.

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Ooops.

As long as she doesn’t do this in high school it’s all good.

And she seems to talk about boobies a lot.

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I don’t know why.

And she wants to be a fairy. A very special fairy.

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Don’t judge me Internets! She did not necessarily pick up the naughty words from me!

She. did. not.

Happy Thursday everybody.

HEY! You in the back!

I see you!

PUT DOWN THAT KITTEN!

Needless to say that our lives changed when the baby came. Having a newborn to take care of is a lot of work and it’s the reason why I don’t know if I want to have another baby or just get another dog instead.

You laugh, but I’m on the serious.

Besides, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go without the booze and the pills for another year and a half. (that’s pregnancy + nursing, people. My math skills aren’t that fucked.)

Not only did I have a destroyed vaginal (thanks Megkathleen) but I was sooo tired. Look at my eyes:

See? Tie-yid.

That’s what a baby does for you, but I was also blissed out. That’s what Oxytocin from breastfeeding does for you and you barely notice how different life has suddenly become. You’re just trying to keep the little sucker alive and for fuck’s sake how many diapers do these kids go through in a day!?!

And Mister and I weren’t the only ones whose lives changed drastically. You’re looking at a picture of two little dogs who should be holding on to their hats because shit is about to get interesting.

The cute little teddy bear dog on the left in the picture is Martha. She was my baby before the baby. I used to carry her around on my hip just like a baby and she’d put her arms around my neck and rest her head on my shoulder. She was a sweet dog, but also a crazy little vicious asshole. You don’t hear about her because about one year ago today-ish, Martha turned on Girlfriend and shredded her face with her teeth and claws and left her with a permanent scar on her cheek. We had to feed her to a pack of angry Rottwilers give her to a little old lady with no grandchildren.

But Alice is there standing sentinel like she always does because she’s a good egg.

Moments after this picture was taken, the following doggie conversation took place:
Martha: Have we determined what this thing is yet?
Alice: Maybe you should sniff its ass. Maybe there’s a clue there.
Martha: They won’t let me near the thing. What the hell is it?
Alice: I don’t know. It kind of freaks me out though. I might hide until it goes away.
M: I think we should pee on its stuff, you know, to send a message.
A: You do that. I think I’ll go hide under the bed.
M: Maybe I’ll try to eat it.
A: That’s a stupid idea. How do you even know it’s edible. You do what you want and let me know how it turns out.
M: Maybe I’ll just wait until it’s vulnerable and then I’ll kick its ass!
A: Ummmm, sure. Good luck.

See? Good egg.

She wanted no part in Martha’s evil scheming.

And now poor Alice takes a lot of punishment from the baby and if there’s anyone out there considering getting a dog or a cat for their little one I urge you DON’T DO IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL HER SMALL CREATURES! Alice gets her ass handed to her all day long, every day. But she puts up with it, god bless her, because she doesn’t want to go and live with Martha and also because Girlfriend usually leaves a trail of yummy treats behind her.

And I know Girlfriend adores her some Alice burger (that’s what I call her. Alice burger. shut up.) because when we drop Alice off at the groomer, Girlfriend goes coo-coo for coco puffs and hits and kicks and cries because she doesn’t want to leave her with strangers.

“Mommy! You’re disgusting, you’re A Disgusting! I want Alice! Aaaaallliiiccceee!”

So here, I leave you with this: a story of compromise, a story of love:

It’s going to be Girlfriend’s third birthday this weekend and I’ve been thinking a lot about her and about being her mom and so I figured I’d make this week all about motherhood.

Why the fuck not?

Plus I know how truly fascinating people’s kids are especially if you don’t have any yourself, and so I thought I’d just give the Internet what it wants and regale you with detailed stories of my daughter and all her happenings and cute things she says.

Psych!

I won’t do that to you because I know how it makes you want to punch kittens, but I will be writing about motherhood and some of my experiences thus far, so welcome to Crissy’s Motherhood Week!

Woo. Hoo.

So, yes, motherhood. We have to start from the beginning-ish.

It all started when I was helping my friend Valerie, who was pregnant with her second baby, pick out a stroller. We were pushing them around the store when I felt a strange pang, one I’ve never felt before. I wanted that stroller to have a baby in it. MY baby!

This was a shock to me because I’m not a kid or baby person. I don’t lose my shit when I see a baby like some people do. Show me a puppy on the other hand, and I’m all “wook at teh bebe puppy face!” But now I wanted a person baby and not a fur baby so I began negotiations with Mister and we figured what the hell, what are we doing that’s so interesting right now anyway?

Let’s have a baby.

I got pregnant almost right away and it was healthy and wonderful, yada, yada, yada (Can you yada, yada, yada a pregnancy, because I just did) and then 3 years ago this coming Friday and a full two weeks before my due date, I visited my midwife who told me that
a) I was dilated 1 cm already
b) there’s a storm system moving in
c) there’s a full moon
d) all those things combined meant that the baby was coming the next day or the day after.

She also said that if I call her and make her drive an hour to the hospital and I’m not 100% positive I was in labor that she’d kill me. Dead.

She was cool.

On the way out I bumped into Erin of Storytime fame who was pregnant with Girlfriend’s little playmate Mackenzie at the time and I told her the news and drove home and ran a few red lights and forced other cars off the road because I was a little distracted called my husband to fill him in. He was totally un-phased. I think he said something like “well, that’s very interesting. Thanks for calling.”

Asshole.

And I waited, and the next day while buying blankets at Babies R Us I felt my first contraction and decided I’d better spread my hustle and get home, and then by 5pm the following evening, I had my baby. And as Melissa Lion assures me I probably shit on the table even though my husband swears I didn’t. And I didn’t know if I was having a girl or a boy and I wanted a girl soooo badly that when she came out I thought everyone was kidding until I saw for myself.

And I am totally crying right now.

Anyway, here is a picture of my vagina before the baby.

Don’t get too excited. It’s really just an orchid. My vagina is actually prettier and cuter than a basket full of kittens, truth be told.

And this is what came out of it.

She weighed only 5lbs and she looked like ET but I didn’t notice that part until just now. Thank Jesus she grew out of that shit.

This is a picture of my vagina after she came out.

It took about a year for things to get back to normal again. A year!

And that’s it. That’s my story.

Notice how I gave you only the highlights instead of the War and Peace type history of my uterus and vagina like most people like to tell?

I do not understand why no matter how hard I try to steer the conversation away from it, people keep driving the bus right back into the labor and delivery room. It’s like you’re not a real mom or a real woman unless you prove it by re-telling your battle story to complete strangers at the playground.

My disinterest in these very special stories is reason 101 why I don’t fit into mom culture. And it’s not lost on me that I have just told you mine, but it’s different because, hello!, It’s me, duh.

I’m praying for the day someone shares her fruity vodka drink recipes with me while we push the kids on the swings.

She’s out there somewhere. I can’t be the only renegade misfit mommy.

And when I find her I’m going to pour her a martini and kiss her long and deep.

Last Sunday I woke up with a small bump under my right eye. I was mildly annoyed at its appearance but there’s not much I could do about it so I slapped a little spackle over it and moved on.

And then by Thursday this seemingly harmless bump turned into a raging red swollen Cyclopsian eye that threatened to eat the rest of my head. People at work kept looking at me, heads cocked to one side, saying “Do you have really bad allergies or something?”

“No. My eye’s fucked.”

And by Friday morn, the shit had gone viral for sure and there was no doubt it would require medical intervention.

Icky.

So I rushed through my morning to be the first one through the door at The Urgent Care facility. Girlfriend and I arrived ten minutes before the place was scheduled to open only to find the waiting room already full of people including a teenage girl with The Plague Mono Typhoid Fever which she undoubtedly caught while making out with and perhaps having anal sex with the entire baseball team this past weekend (but don’t worry because she’s still a virgin), chatting away on her cell phone about getting her nails done for Prom. When I was in high school “getting your nails done” meant going to the drugstore and buying yourself a pack of Lee Press On Nails that inevitably fell off approximately 32.5 seconds later. But whatever. Times change.

I went up to the window to register and the nurse, or whatever those people wearing Winnie the Pooh scrubs are, asked me why I was there.
“My eye is all gross”
She looked at me and said “which one?”
Pointing to my eye, “Uh. My right one. See it? It’s all gross.”
“Have a seat and I’ll call you.”

We sat down and Girlfriend was remarkably well behaved and showed concern for each and every patient in the waiting room by loudly saying things like “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man’s face?” and “Mommy that woman is too big for the chair. She needs a big, big one! Silly woman! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Shut. up. before they throw their foreign person monkey diseases at us Girlfriend!

It was finally our turn and I answered all sorts of uncomfortable questions about my period and now I’m thinking I should have asked the nurse what my proper functions had to do with my eye being gross. And Girlfriend was good while we waited patiently for Dr. GoodDrugs to come and remove my bum peeper with what I imagined would be a rusty spoon or something like that.

The Doctor at this Urgent Care is notoriously pleasant and upbeat and you just know he’s tapping into the sample closet like a vampire in a blood bank a little bit and he’s not sharing. I choose to go to this particular one because I’m hoping he’ll OD on the happy, happy, happy and accidentally give me a little.

So far he’s been a selfish prick.

He took one look at my Cyclopsian eye and diagnosed me with The Blepharitis. This is not to be confused with The Tracoma which only poor people get in underdeveloped countries where they wash their faces with shitwater. That’s not the case here. I apparently rubbed my eye after touching something I’m allergic to, probably something at work, and it got irritated and infected.

Fabulous.

So Dr. GoodDrugs gave me a prescription for some eye de-fucking serum and out and out refused to give me Oxycontin for the pain.

Such. terrible. pain. doctor.

He didn’t believe me, the wanker.

We went across the street to Target and dropped off the prescription and clearly the Target Pharmacist is brighter than the woman at The Urgent Care because he noticed my eye was fucked right away and promised to have the eye de-fucker ready ASAP. I appreciated that because being out in public looking like this

is not on my list of fun and sexy.

As it was I still had to do the groceries and you know Friday is my Italian Stallion day at the the deli counter right?

When I got home I began my treatments immediately. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be eaten alive by ravenous Alsatians than put stuff in my eyes. I have to use this stuff every 2-3 hours in both eyes, and it stings like a motherfucker and leaves things all blurry and so I about go into convulsions with every drop. My husband does it for me but I get in trouble because I blink so much in preparation for the stinging that he has to hold my eye open like this

to get the drops in.

Do you know what he did though? He spent the weekend carrying the eye de-fucking serum in his pocket so that it would stay warm and wouldn’t be so stingy.

I didn’t ask him to do it, he just did because he’s nice and because he knows I won’t do the drops unless he sits on my chest and holds my arms down with his knees helps me do them.

Anyway, my eye is feeling much better and the swelling and the itching and the burning have gone down considerably and maybe tomorrow I will look like a normal human and it will be time for some other minor, yet annoying malady to attack me.

Maybe it will even be the crotch rot.

We’ll see..

Welcome to Crissy had the same nonsensical exchange with her husband last night like she always does which leads her to think that perhaps last week should have included Crissy tries killing reasoning with her husband instead of engaging in ludicrous discussions about stupid things with him.

Last night we were surveying our yard and all the hard work we’ve been doing and still have to do to make it look pretty-ful instead of god-awful like it is now.

Our clumps of dirt and weeds grass leaves much to be desired and we still need more plantings I think and I said as much to Mister and mind you Mister had just consumed a totally different kind of grass one beer when the following conversation ensued.

Mister: I think we need a statue right there.
Me: What? A statue of what?
Mister: I don’t know. Something powerful. Something that makes a statement.
Me: Like what?
Mister: What about a statue of me?
Me: A statue of you.
Mister: Yeah! I think it would be GREAT! You never see that. I don’t understand why nobody ever puts a statue of themselves in the front yard.
Me: You want to put a statue of you in the yard.
Mister: Yeah. Why not? It’s cool, man.
Me: I don’t think so.
Mister: People need to know who lives here!
Me: No they don’t.
Mister: Why? You never let me do what I want.
Me: That’s because what you want is stupid. You want stupid all the time.
Mister: Come on! Just picture it. A statue of me right there.
Me: You draw me a sketch and I’ll consider it (knowing full well I’d do no such thing)
Mister: That’s fine. You’ll see. It’s a great idea.
Me: Uh huh.

And so he gave me this:

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What do you think Internets? Should we go for it?

Do you see what I have to put up with?

Do you see why the vodka and the klonopin?

Ps: Thank you to all the people who voted for me in the Hottest Mommy Blogger awards! Those of you who haven’t done it yet, please do. I hate to beg, but have you seen some of the people who are winning? NOT. HOT. Not that I think I’m anything great, but seriously it’s a fucking joke, and I refuse to lose to those dogs!

I’m running for President next and I’ll need your votes then too, so practice, practice, practice!