Y’all remember Y2K? If you don’t, congratulations, you are incredibly and luckily young. I was in 7th grade when I was first warned. My science teacher, an older gentleman, made it very clear that we were to be prepared. The computers. ALL THE COMPUTERS. Like….Errrrrwhere….were going to shut down. For some reason, this meant the world was pretty much going to stop working. Because the computers…um…I don’t know….didn’t know what year it was or something. Like I said, I was in 7th grade. Continue reading
I have serious anxiety with certain TV shows and movies. Two types annoy me in particular. First, horror movies where the only reason anyone gets murdered is because they did exactly what NO REAL PERSON would actually do and stupidly get themselves killed. The other is any sort of medical show where a doctor is giving nursing care to a patient. AS IF. After an intense Facebook conversation with a girl I went to highschool with (Shout out Angel) about how stupid Grey’s Anatomy and other such shows are at portraying real life, I’ve been inspired to share some of my most frustrating television moments. Before I list them, you should know that I actually like some of these shows. There is a place in television for moments that probably wouldn’t happen in real life. However, they only work if they’re executed in that perfectly difficult to pull off comedic way, and most of the time, they just make my skin crawl. Continue reading
The first three months of Jack’s life were the worst three of mine. Because I was the one with the boobs and without a job, I had to wake up every 2 hours of my life. I didn’t have postpartum depression. I had postpartum exhaustion. When the nurse left me alone in my hospital room with Jack, I had a total panic attack. I didn’t know how to breastfeed, soothe, or even hold my baby. I didn’t know I was supposed to be changing him (I assumed they were doing that). I didn’t know ANYTHING. In that moment, with my husband passed out on the couch, I felt so alone. It was seriously terrifying. A week later, my mom left and it was just me and Jack, every two hours, non-stop. I remember thinking my life was over. What had we done? This was my life now. It didn’t help that every day from four to seven, Jack would scream. He just screamed his little heart out for no apparent reason. The only thing that calmed him was being swaddled so tight he couldn’t budge and walked around the house briskly. So, when I wasn’t sleeping, I was either nursing or bouncing around the house singing “You Are My Sunshine” in the happiest voice a walking dead person could muster. Continue reading
I cry all the time. I’m not depressed. I’m actually a pretty happy person. Life hands me some lemons, but usually it’s all lemonade and smiles around here. Show me a commercial with the perfect soundtrack and a well developed story line and I’ll show you an admiring consumer attempting to hold back the tears. You know that really awkward scene in American Beauty? Where weird guy next door describes the movement of a plastic bag floating around in the wind (pre-Katy Perry, thank you very much) and he starts crying at the beauty of it? I was right there with him. Yes, emo-stoner-guy! Yes! There is beauty in trash! Normal isn’t beautiful! Pain is in beauty and beauty is in PAIN! Continue reading
You think you know poop? You might-but I. Know. Poop. I was even a poop expert pre-baby. As a nurse, I can tell alot by your poop. What medications you take, whether you drink enough water, and-any nurse will agree-whether or not you have C-diff. I’m not kidding. I can seriously smell C-diff. NURSES CAN TELL YOU IF YOU HAVE C-DIFF. They won’t, though. Because they aren’t supposed to-but they totally know.
I know what you’re thinking. “THIS IS DISGUSTING WHY IS SHE TELLING ME THIS?!” Because I want to warn you. The story I’m about to share with you is all about poop. Duh.
At home, I am in charge of the cat’s litter box (on weekdays) and of course, my son’s glorious little diaper gifts. I take the dogs out once or twice a day. **I feel like my husband will want you to know that he takes the dogs to the park every day-and that I never take them to the park. Ever. And that usually, the dogs are with him when they poop.** Still, they poop sometimes with me. I am often the one (due to my husband’s weird sleeping schedule) to clean up animal vomit and what-not.
So, here is what went down yesterday. I brought my one year old son home from a very long car trip to a restaurant (50 miles away) and then to another restaurant (20 miles away) because the former was closed. I got the pot roast and for the first time EVER it was awful. I sent it back for some fried chicken that wasn’t ready until we were about to leave. The point is, it had been a long day.
I get home and put my son down to get things in the house. I’ve already given him a bath before dinner in hopes that he would be asleep when we get home. Nope. He starts to play and then suddenly stops. Completely frozen in his familiar “I’m taking a giant dump” pose. I wait. As I am changing him, I notice his cute little tushy is a bit red. I decide to let it air out a little before I put some cream on it and get him ready for bed.
This is when I notice that in the other room, the litter box has been removed 15 feet from its original location. It is overturned, lid off, and the carpet is covered in poop-filled litter. There is literally NO litter in the damned box. We have wooden floors, but of course, as is my dog’s want, all of the litter and its contents are directly on top of the only rug in the entire stupid room. Instead of getting insanely agitated, I decide to just go in there and clean it up before I even have a chance to feel sorry for myself. Sometimes, when I have to clean up a mess like this, I get angry with the entire world. Like God told the dog to go dump out the litter box because I deserve punishment for cursing at the lady who wouldn’t get out of the fast lane yesterday.
So, I clean it up. Scoop the poop. Throw it out. Sweep the room. Vacuum the rug. Return the litter box. Then, I go back to the den to get my baby ready for bed so I can CHILL THE HELL OUT.
As I walk into the den, I notice a familiar smell. I wonder, “Is that just because I just scooped poop? Nope. That is definitely toddler poop. Perhaps, it is from the diaper I changed when we got home.” (Yes. I really do wonder to myself like that.) NOPE. My sweet little angel has just had diarrhea in two separate locations of the room. The fully carpeted room. The child, who JUST took a dump and usually doesn’t take another dump immediately after, has pooped ALL OVER THE CARPET. Oh, well. This one is totally on me. I’ll just throw a diaper on him, put his PJs on and off to bed he goes while I clean this up. Right? NOPE.
First, I wipe his precious little behind, then I slap a diaper on him, and as I pick him up to put his pajamas on him, I notice the bottom of his feet. Both of them. You’ll never guess what it was. Kidding. You will. It was poop. MORE POOP. At this point, it is on baby AND mommy. To the bath we go.
Thirty minutes later, we are both clean and ready for bed. I put him in his crib and thank you JESUS he immediately lays down like “Thanks, Mom. Today was exhausting. Holla.”
I’m feeling a little better. Calmer. Cleaner. I walk back into the den ready to relax when something mushy and wet on the bottom of my foot quietly reminded me that “UM. DUH. THE WHOLE REASON YOU JUST TOOK A BATH WITH YOUR BABY IS BECAUSE HE DROPPED A MAJOR DEUCE ON YOUR DEN FLOOR .” I wash my feet. I clean the carpet. I am done for the day. I finally give up on life and go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day-and hey-shit happens.