To Poop or Not to Poop

If you had told me 12 months ago that in a year, one of my biggest worries in life would revolve around poop, I would have giggled, looked at you like you were a wee bit nuts, and politely moved on. But I would not have understood the seriousness of your prophecy, because poop indeed has become one of my major concerns each and every day.



It started when the Insomniac was born. The books and the doctors and the nurses all said we would be changing 4-5 poopy diapers a day. The Insomniac however, decided not to poop at all. Once every 2 or 3 days was sufficient for him and when he did poop, he would scream as if his body were being torn in half. In between the elusive poops, he would be continuously fussy. I actually yearned to change more poopy diapers. (Obviously, I was still overcome with pregnancy hormones at that point.)



I spent hours scouring the internet for facts on infant poop. (Why sleep when there is info about poop to be discovered?) and we visited the pediatrician's office fairly regularly trying to figure out how to get this kid to poop effortlessly. We switched his formula a few times per doctor's orders and were told to give him suppositories. Welcome to Motherhood.

My anxiety levels skyrocketed as I imagined raising a son who never pooped. Would we be administering suppositories to our 9 year old each day? Would we hear his screams from the bathroom as a 15 year old as he struggled to go? Who the h*ll doesn't poop and why did we have the one person in the world who didn't living in our house?

Time passed and the Insomniac soon figured out how to go and that it wouldn't kill him. Though we still never changed 4-5 messy diapers a day, he did go once or twice each day. Please don't be jealous and think we lucked out though. When he did go, he made us pay dearly for bestowing upon him bowels of destruction which I swear are from his father.

It's not that he would go and they would be massive. Oh, we had those, you know the ones that ruin outfits and require an immediate bath. But we had trickery involved too. One time he pooped and Al began changing him. Just as soon as the Insomniac was positioned perfectly, he squirted out a little more that flew straight up into Al's eyes. Thank God Al wears glasses. Or what about the time Al was again changing him, (I'm pretty good at getting out of changing dirty diapers, eh? HA!), and once again the Insomniac let more rip as soon as the diaper was off, this time sending it flying across the bedroom onto the lamp, floor, and wall.

At 8 months old, the Insomniac is much more regular and goes with much more ease, (and less trickery), but I still find myself at work worrying if he's gone at least once each day and cheering him on like an idiot when he does go. I never thought I would actually want to change dirty diapers and poop would be a priority in my life. I love motherhood. :)

Whatcha gonna do with all that Junk??

I have to say...I don’t get it but I am fully aware that men are completely obsessed with their junk. They are constantly adjusting, itching, and touching it (to make sure it’s still there??) like it’s their job. Heck, I even had a male coworker tell a bunch of us completely clueless girls that he was “fluffing” it. Yes, that’s right, fluffing it. The act of fluffing revolved around him picking his butt up off his chair and then gently coming back down so that his junk was in the right place. He then turned his chair around and continued working while the rest of us stared at him and then each other and then back at him. “Did that really just happen??” Apparently, it did.

As a member of the dating scene for way longer than I care to admit, I quickly learned that every thought and action revolves around it. It’s as if it rules their thoughts and actions and as a woman, you learn ways to, ummmmmm, dodge it when you have to. It’s something that, while, I never fully understood, I adjusted to.

What I was not at all prepared for is the fascination cubbie has shown for it. Oh boy, it starts young, doesn’t it? As soon as his diaper comes off, he is reaching for it. In the bath? Pulling on it. It becomes his most favorite toy until I try to put his diaper back on and he gets mad at me! He actually tries to get his diaper off so he can play again! I keep asking John if he’s sure he can’t actually pull it off. He laughs and shakes his head. What? I think it’s a very valid question!

So, now I must try to adjust...or, rather resign myself to the fact that the fascination starts young and that it’s normal. Ahhhhhh, the joys of raising a little man. Hey, maybe this fascination will lead to a booming career in the porn industry? Huh, now maybe it’s me who has lost her mind completely. Yep, one ticket to Crazytown, errrrrrr Momville, please!

Mornings Like These

If my legs are shaved and my teeth are brushed on the same day, it's a good day. Today was not that day. Not only do I have a furry mouth that tastes like rotten paste but I have leg hair that I could braid if I had the time and energy to do so.

I should have known it was going to be one of those mornings when the Insomniac woke up at 4:30 am. I spent the next hour trying to get him to go back to sleep to no avail. After finally giving in, we headed downstairs for what I thought was going to be a calm morning of playing until it was time to run some errands. Not so. He would not let me put him down. Each time that I tried, his screams ripped through the house and though I was exhausted and the thought of letting my neighbors wake up in the same pleasant way I did at this time on a Saturday morning was tempting, I decided to be nice and carry him around so he wouldn't freak out.

He finally took a nap. I had an important decision to make once he went down - brush my teeth or nap with him. I prayed that he would nap for longer than his typical 20 minutes, threw my toothbrush a side-eye glance as I passed the bathroom and sprinted for my bed. It turns out I made the smart choice - the Insomniac napped for 1 whole hour! I woke up refreshed and ready to go. But alas, my little monkey was still refusing to be put down.

My next dilemma was to figure out how to get this kid to let me put him without going nuts so that I could get a shower. (Usually, I don't even think about getting a shower until Al gets home but we had places to go and people to see so I thought that it was appropriate that I go out in public without looking like I'd just escaped a mental institution and kidnapped a baby while on the run.) After a few attempts, I finally got him to sit on the bathroom floor and distracted him with my slippers and the scale. (I knew that scale would come in handy someday!)

I'm smart enough to know that I probably had about 90 seconds to shower before he lost interest in my stinky slippers and the scale that lies. (Who needs toys when you have slippers and a scale?!) So once again my toothbrush went untouched and I jumped in the shower. (Look, I had to sacrifice something today and it turns out it was my dental hygiene. Tomorrow I'll put off peeing for 16 hours but make sure I brush!)

I felt pretty proud as I showered quickly and listened to the blissful coos of my baby boy gently tapping on the scale. Until the gentle tapping became louder. I knew something wasn't right but I honestly put off looking out from behind the shower curtain because it was one of those, "if I don't see it, it's not really happening" kind of moments for me. Finally, I gave in an peeked. And there was my little man throwing trash from the trashcan all over the place while sucking on the plastic bag that had been in the can. He looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back, thought to myself that at least he didn't have the bag over his head, and closed the shower curtain.

Don't worry, I promptly finished up, removed the bag from his mouth, and cleaned up the bathroom. And I didn't mind one bit, because although my teeth still weren't brushed, overall I was clean, slightly presentable, and somewhat prepared for another day in Momville.

Welcome to Momville: AKA Crazy Town!!

Hey, I am Jill. The other half of this crazy duo that brings forth the truth and honesty

about being a mom. The stuff they DON’T tell you in the hospital. The things

your “friends” keep from you as secretly laugh behind your back as you bring home your

new bundle of joy. And my little guy is just that…a bundle.

Cubbie is 7 months old and he amazes his dad, John and I on a daily basis. Mostly, it’s good stuff though sometimes he has caused us to raise our eyebrows, give each other the ole side eye and rumble in a very quiet voice, “oh please Lord, let this be normal 7 month old behavior”

as I curse the hospital for not sending us home with some sort of manual for this little

human.

As for Rosie and I, we met what feels like a million years ago (ok 2 years…2 years?

That’s it? Really?) and instantly bonded over our dreams of becoming rockstar mothers

and, ummm, dirty bananas. What? Drinking and bonding over our lofty goals of

motherhood don’t mix? Well, let me tell ya, in our world (aka Crazytown), it is not only

recommended, it is a downright necessity.

Since we met, the four (now 6) of us have been pretty much on the same path in life. I

got knocked up a month after Rosie and text messages immediately started going back

and forth at all hours of the day and night. You know, when those pesky pregnancy

hormones just streak through the veins (yeah, that’s it) and the text gets sent asking “will

you bail me out if I murder my husband because he is driving me bat sh*t crazy”? Yeah,

those texts only solidified our bond that much more. Now our midnight or 3am (there’s

apparently no clock in Crazytown) text messages revolve around those little creatures

that seem to run our houses so much more efficiently than we ever dreamed possible.

Control? It’s over-rated right??

Anyway, welcome to Momville. Crazytown, if you will. Enjoy the ride, won’t you?

Welcome to Momville!

Hi, I'm Rosie Wild. I've been a mom for 8 months now. I'm happy to be here, to be a part of Mothers Anonymous. Wait, this isn't Mothers Anonymous? What are you talking about? Where am I?

Welcome to Momville, where we are certainly taking a ride through Crazy Town. I knew motherhood wouldn't be a piece of cake, but I didn't expect this. All the books said he would sleep. They said he would sleep and they lied! I am the exhausted, uh, I mean proud mother of the Insomniac. An adorable, currently 8 month old little man who is the bright spot in my days as well as the driver of the car we are riding in as we pass through Crazy Town a.k.a. Momville.

Our backseat driver is the lovable Al, my husband of 2 and 1/2 years and a real, live saint. He cooks, he cleans, he's hilarious, and for some reason that I'm still trying to figure out, he married me.

Thanks for joining us on this trip as we honestly, (sometimes perhaps too honestly?), document our journey through Momville!