FBW: The One Word You Can't Yell in a Crowded Park

Flogger Blogger Wednesday has been on ice for a while, my friends. Spending time each week writing stories about why I feel guilty had an odd effect on me: it made me feel worse. And this blog isn't about making me feel worse; it's about taking time away from my family so that I can become marginally Internet famous. However, the little ditty that follows had to be shared. Let's make a triumphant return to self-flagellation, shall we?

My son is a talker. At 18 months old, he can already string together a few sentences -- helpful turns of phrase like "It goes roar!" or "That's a star!" Apparently, "I'm hungry!" or "I'm so tired I'm about speak in tongues!" are just too pedestrian for my kid.

He's also quite the parrot, repeating whatever word catches his fancy. As any mom or dad with a potty mouth knows, the threat of toddler repetition puts a real kink in your swearing style. About a week ago, while stuck in a traffic jam with my kid in the backseat, I caught myself shouting, "I dare you to get one inch closer to my bumper, hineyhole! I M.F.-ing dare you!" Ah yes. Nothing strikes fear into the heart of aggressive motorists like a woman shaking her fist in the rear view mirror while yelling "hineyhole."

Notably, Pork Chop's pronunciation skills leave a lot to be desired. "Shirt" sounds surprisingly adult when uttered by my son. But "clock"? "Clock" sounds downright X-rated. Coincidentally, Pork Chop's daycare provider has a large clock hung just inside the entrance to her home. Three days per week, my son enthusiastically greets kindly Ms. F. with what sounds like a filthy proposition. I'm one proud mama.

Toddler swear words are a rite of passage for almost all parents. Sometimes it's just that your kid can't handle the "tr" sound in "truck." Sometimes it's just that you are a horrible person and swear in front of your sweet, innocent children. Of course it's embarrassing when your 3-year-old tells the cashier to "eat a bag of dicks," but what are ya gonna do? Beating yourself up about it won't make your kid un-say "eat a bag of dicks." And, frankly, some people deserve to eat a bag of dicks. If the situation merits it, you put on your horrified face, mumble an apology, and haul butt out the door before anyone notices that you're trying not to laugh.

If karma is real, then I have precious little time before Pork Chop says something that gets me investigated by Child Protective Services. Neither of my parents was particularly foul-mouthed. They might let slip with an occasional "shit" or "damn" in the heat of the moment, but to this day, I've never heard my dad drop an F-bomb. In fact, the word "fart" was nearly verboten in our home -- deemed too "unladylike."

But as a little kid, I loved learning new words. My grandmother bought me a dictionary, and I would spend time each day poring over the pages, jotting down unfamiliar vocabulary with my favorite magenta crayon. Suffice it to say that, at 6 years old, I was already a pretty big loser. By the time I was 8, I was walking myself the mile or so to the library, where I would sign myself up for various reading programs. Judy Blume's Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing really spoke to my terminally dorky heart.

1984 was a tough year. I had a bowl haircut, I read dictionaries for fun, and I lost my mom to cancer. I wanted so badly to feel normal. After school let out for the day, I'd hang back from the mass of kids swarming the parking lot of St. Dominic's Catholic school. I studied the crowd like I studied the dictionary, eager to learn something new, something that might make me just a little bit cool. And, to me, the 8th graders were a bottomless font of cool. I rolled the skirt of my uniform like they did. I let my socks slouch like they did. I doused myself in Love's Baby Soft cologne like they did. I tried to talk like they did, even though most of what they said was a complete mystery: Why were they always discussing the time of the month? And what made a kiss French, as opposed to American or, say, Mexican?

And that's where we come to the part of the story where I nearly get my dad arrested.

If 1984 was a tough year for me, it had to be downright unbearable for my dad. He was suddenly the single father of three little girls, ages 8, 6, and 2. But even through the grief and the fear and the exhaustion, my dad made time to play -- to toss a softball in the backyard, to hold impromptu Michael Jackson dance parties in our living room, to go to the park. Our favorite destination was Baltimore's Burdick Park, just a block from my grandparent's row home. It was a few bucolic acres of oak trees and wide grassy fields. There was a much beloved twisty sliding board, rows of swings, and enough 80s-era metal playground equipment to simultaneously break the bones of a hundred different kids. Paradise.

So on a warm, sun-drenched Saturday afternoon, my dad packed us into the Chevy Chevette and headed to Burdick Park. There was a line to get on the twisty sliding board and the swings were occupied, but we were unfazed. My dad challenged us to a game of tag. (At 2 years old, I can't imagine my youngest sister, Sarah, joining us in this game, but I don't recall what she was doing exactly. Now that I'm the mom of a toddler, my best guess is that she was calmly eating mulch.) Anyway, my middle sister and I rose to the challenge immediately. We rocketed around the see-saw, through the middle of a basketball game, and toward the small park maintenance building.

I'm about to make this super awkward, Dad.

"I'm gonna get you guys!" my dad shouted, sprinting after us.

"No way!" my sister Kim shouted back. Always the superior athlete, Kim shot between a group of kids and toward a stand of trees.

I was left out in the open, with my dad gaining on me.

My energy was flagging a bit, but I still had a lot of fight left. I reached the corner of the maintenance building, turned toward my dad, and called to mind a term I'd heard the 8th-grade girls casually lob at the boys from time to time.

"Get away from me, you pervert!" I yelled. Then I sprinted around the side of the building.

I remember a mom with a stroller stopping dead in her tracks to stare at me.

"Haha! You'll never catch me, you pervert!" I screamed as I rounded the back of the building.

"Pervert, pervert, pervert!" I chanted as I took off toward the merry-go-round, drunk on speed and my own coolness.

A group of kids near the monkey bars had gone strangely quiet.

My dad finally caught up with me as I reached the merry-go-round. His face was red. His mouth looked stiff. "Geez, he's taking this game pretty seriously," I thought, just as he grabbed me by the arm.

"Let go of me, you pervert," I laughed.

My dad looked like he had just been brutally goosed. With his eyes still wide, he leaned down and hissed, "Jeeeeesus Christ, Jessie. Shut the hell up!"

Suffice it to say that our day at the park ended right then and there. On the ride home, my dad wanted to know where exactly I'd picked up my fun new word, but I guess he was just too tapped out to explain what the word actually meant. I had to sleuth out the definition on my own during recess later that week. It was a gut-churning revelation.

Thirty years later, I still remember how my dad hustled us out of the park that day, his hand held gently at my back, urging me to walk a bit more quickly. I remember hearing him sigh and thinking to myself, "Boy, I really wore Dad out!" I remember feeling briefly and cluelessly cool.

So do I like that my son shouts "cock" at his daycare provider? No. Do I like using "hineyhole" when the situation merits something much stronger? No. But karmically speaking, I have bigger perverts to fry.

FBW: Baby Weight

I know damn well that it's Thursday and that Flogger Blogger Wednesday should be on a Wednesday, but I was busy being marginally Internet famous this week. Did you see me on Mamapedia or on Scary Mommy? No? Well, who feels guilty now, huh? Oh, not you? Okay, well, never mind. I'm sorry. Here's a new post. 

My husband and I hosted a cookout in honor of his upcoming birthday. Ribs on the grill, cold beer, and a few close friends -- that kind of thing. My husband is a true extrovert. He loves a crowd; he has a big, charismatic personality; and he holds court with ease. By comparison, I skirt the edges of a party, making drinks for the latecomers, herding the kids, chatting up a fellow closeted introvert.

When two friends, a young couple with their 5-week-old baby girl in tow, arrived at the peak of festivities, I swooped in. These two have warm smiles and a gracious, easy manner, somehow managing to be both polished and approachable. I hadn't seen them since before their daughter was born. They are old friends of Shelby's, but I feel a bit of a fan girl thrill to call them my friends now too. Although, at heart, I know they must make friends wherever they go. And they've gone everywhere. Inveterate travelers. Adventurers even. And it's good to have an adventurous spirit when it comes to kids, because parenthood is the kind of trip that defies preparation.

They looked lovely as usual, and their little girl was sweetly decked out in a white and pink cotton dress. I remember my first social outing after Pork Chop was born -- the colorful cardigan I bought to hide my soft belly, the makeup I applied for the first time in weeks, the tiny sweater I wrestled my newborn into. And I remember the exhaustion.

"How are you guys doing?" I asked.

"Good. Good!" said mom. "Good, just, well, tired."

"She's in this day-night reversal phase," explained dad, "ya know?"

I did know. When he was a couple of months old, Pork Chop began whiling away the hours from 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. by crying inconsolably. He could not be rocked or nursed to sleep. He righted himself after about 4 weeks, finally settling into a pattern of 2 hour snoozes throughout the night. But for those 4 weeks, Shelby and I wondered what would compel someone to ever have a second child. We felt guilty for saying it, for even thinking it, but as we paced the darkened rooms of our home with a crying baby in our aching arms, we started to doubt that we were cut out for even one.

"Do you mind if I hold her?" I said, leaning down, already scooping their little girl from her car seat.

"Sure," they chimed. And I didn't stop to ask whether they meant, "Sure, hold her," or "Sure, we mind."

Her small, tender body fit into the crook of my arm. I swayed gently. I patted her rump, and her eyes rolled in drowsy infant oblivion. It was so easy. She let out a cry, and I swayed, I patted, and the equation was solved. She closed her eyes. She quieted. So easy.

Where was that version of me when my son was 5 weeks old? The confident, competent version?

I hope you know what you're doing, lady.

Her mom and dad watched us with that very particular blend of new-parent pride and fear: Was their daughter comfortable? Was she afraid to be held by a stranger? Was she going to cry again? What if she cried at the party? What if she needed something? Would they know if she needed something? Would they be able to give her that something?

The little girl was perfect. Warm and soft and serene. I felt the party-day tension ease off of my shoulders.

"She's so heavy!" said mom. "I know she's so heavy. Just let me know if you get tired of holding her."

And without giving it a moment's thought, I glanced at my tank of a toddler, throwing blocks at the floor in the dining room, and blurted, "Heavy? She's nothin'! Try carrying a toddler and three bags of groceries."

Mom and dad lowered their eyes a bit and laughed.

"Yeah, I guess she must feel pretty light by comparison," said dad.

I am so sorry, friends.

Because, by comparison, your 5-week-old is heavier than my toddler. She is, in fact, heavier than anything else you will ever hold. She is 9 lbs of all of your love and all of your doubt and everything you ever hoped for yourself and the people you used to be and the people you are becoming.

When Pork Chop was about 2 weeks old, when my initial burst of adrenaline had given way to a terrifying exhaustion, I swaddled my son and slipped him into the bassinet beside our bed. I prayed, literally prayed, that he would sleep and that my anxiety would quiet itself just long enough to let me sleep too. And, wonder of wonders, he did sleep. I was stunned. So stunned that, instead of collapsing in a grateful heap on my mattress, I hovered over my son, making sure his belly rose and fell. I held a finger below his nose, feeling for breath. Did his lips look a bit blue? His lips looked a bit blue. I stroked his pink cheek, and he didn't move. I plucked him from the bassinet and he didn't move. His belly rose and fell, his eyes were closed, his lips looked a bit blue. I rocked him, and he didn't wake. I rocked vigorously. Slowly, his mouth opened in a yawn, his eyes fluttered, and he let out a cry.

We rushed our son to the emergency room, certain there was something wrong with his heart. Certain that his lips were a bit blue and that he had taken too long to wake.

It's easy for me to make jokes, easier anyway than for me to own up to my struggles. And it feels better somehow to laugh at the silliness of my own new-mom anxiety, the insanity of the overzealous and the under-rested. But in that moment, it did not feel like a joke. It did not feel like anything. It was me, in a milk-stained shirt and a ratty brown parka, sobbing as the nurses prodded my child, trying to run an IV. It was my child, wailing in fear and pain. It was the merciless hospital lights, the beeping machines, and our son in a tiny, pink heap on the cold, white hospital bed. Hunched in a plastic chair, wadding up a clean diaper in my hands, I thought, "My child is dying." And it didn't feel like anything, least of all like a joke.

Reflux -- that's what the doctor told us. Perhaps a bad bout of reflux had turned his lips a bit blue, she said. It sounded far-fetched to us, but I clung to the murky diagnosis just the same, because I was too ashamed to admit that maybe, just maybe, I had panicked when my child had, at long last, fallen into a deep sleep.

Today, as I type, Pork Chop is shouting from the living room, "Book, book!" commanding his dad to read Mr. Brown Can Moo for the fourth or fifth time this afternoon. The kid eats anything in his path, including half of everything I'm trying to eat. Our little bruiser scales the stairs and the kitchen table and occasionally our dog. He is healthy, happy, and huge. He wears us out, but even in the throes of his worst toddler tantrum, he can't upend us. Not like he could when he still fit in the crook of my arm.

So when I held your tiny daughter, friends, it only seemed easy, because I have the luxury of knowing that, as new parents, we become a little more confident, a little more competent with each passing month. And that, even as our kids get bigger, somehow the load lightens.

I remember the heft of my son when they placed him on my chest for the very first time. It terrified me. And to think he is already so grown, that one day he'll be a boy, a teenager, a man. Someone who will have his own lessons to learn, who will strike out on his own. But it's hard for me to dwell on that. Because the weight of letting him go? I can't even imagine.

FBW: Getting Ripped at the Baby Gym

Flogger Blogger Wednesday returns! You can stop your damn crying about it. I feel bad enough already about my baby's lack of six-pack abs.

So, baby gyms are for real.

Having spent 37 years of my life without a baby, I never gave much thought to baby gyms.

But I get it.

After a long day at your baby job, spent hunched in your windowless baby cubicle, filling out pointless baby reports, it must feel good to blow off some steam at the baby gym. Maybe put in an hour on the baby elliptical. Maybe try out baby strip aerobics.

Okay, I don't get it.

When I moved to the 'burbs, Pork Chop was 8 months old. I didn't know a soul. I was still up to my droopy bellybutton in new mom anxiety. I mistook every diaper rash for a jungle disease. I ran out of baby wipes and didn't know my way to the grocery store. Or to the liquor store. I felt like the dumbest dummy who'd ever dumbed.

Then the neighborhood moms took me in. They calmed my fears, showed me around town, and became my friends. They lulled me into a sense of security. And then they told me about the baby gym.

"It's a gym just for the kids," they exclaimed. "You have to sign up!"

"But Pork Chop's a baby. He can't even crawl, let alone use the StairMaster."

<crickets>

"It's for kids and babies, Jess. There are classes!"

"Classes. Okay. So they, what? They're gonna teach my 8-month-old how to tighten his glutes?"

<impatient crickets>

"Jess, c'mon. They teach socialization, music appreciation, confidence. All that stuff. Just sign up already."

"Do I have to be there while he lies on the floor like a pink slug and appreciates music?"

"Well, yeah."

"And it will cost me how much to have someone play music at my slug while I sit nearby probably not appreciating music?"

"It's like 60 bucks for each 4-week class."

"So 60 bucks per month?"

"Yeah. Plus, ya know, the membership fee, which is like 75 bucks."

"Are you serious? Do you know how much baby Ambien I can buy with that kind of money?"

<very, very judge-y crickets>

"It was I joke," I explained helpfully. Then adding, "But for realsies, why has no one invented baby Ambien, right?"

<the sound of crickets unfriending me on Facebook>

Truth is, I trust these women. I like these women a lot even. But I still can't bring myself to drink the baby gym Kool Aid.

I do a lot of things with my son, I've rationalized; it's just that taking him to a baby gym is not one of those things. We read books. We go for walks. We eat things. We read books. We go for walks. We, uh, drink water. We point at trucks while we go for walks. Lots of things. Oh, and Patty Cake! We do Patty Cake. We sing the "EIEIO" part of "Old MacDonald." So, yeah, so much stuff.

And I teach him things too. I totally teach him things. I taught him that saying "uh oh" will never un-fling the spaghetti, rice, or oatmeal. I taught him that forcefully grabbing mommy's boob is hurtful. (But that gently caressing her boob isn't quite right either.) I taught him that, yes, there is such a thing as biting one's own toe too hard. I taught him that eating Oreos for breakfast is only for grown ups. See there? Education!

Yet, despite all the stuff-doing and the educationing, I've felt a little guilty for holding out on my kid. What if Pork Chop turns into an uncoordinated non-sharer because I didn't pony up for a Waddlers Independent Movement Class? What if he never develops self-control or strategic decision making skills because I barred him from the Jazzy Beasts Dance Group? How the hell will he ever reach developmental milestones like kicking, clapping, or enjoying age-appropriate puppet shows without the loving guidance of trained baby gym professionals?

I bet the baby gym would have helped my son (and his grandma)
feel more confident in his vertical descent achievement skills.

So I decided to allay my concerns by doing some research, which involved never going to any baby gym and instead making wild inferences from shit I dug up on the Internet. And, like any good investigative journalist, my research came to an end as soon as I found something that validated my opinion. I present to you people's exhibit number 1, which I found on the Little Gym website:

Early participation in structured group activities that allow children to cultivate skills such as initiative, teamwork, and emotional regulation, can help children more effectively take on leadership roles . . . [Murphy, S.E., & Johnson, S.K. (2011). The benefits of a long-lens approach to leader development: Understanding the seeds of leadership. The Leadership Quarterly, 22:459-470]

Did you catch that? LEADERSHIP ROLES! My kid already dictates when I wake up, when I sleep, when I eat, when I bathe, and when I drink. Why the hell would I want him to become a more effective leader? I'll pass on Supreme Leader Toddler Jong Un.

There is no people's exhibit number 2.

Baby gyms: communist. I rest my case.

Look, mom friends, you want your kids to have every advantage, to be happy and smart, to have a head start on a sweet ripped bod. I want that for my son too. But, honestly, I kind of like our boring old walks around the block. Pork Chop points at airplanes, at trees, at passersby. I name what he sees. He repeats what I say. He picks up a rock or a pine cone. He gets covered in dirt or in pine tar. We squint and sweat under the June sun. We wander. Frankly, half the time I don't know where we're going. But my kid? I think he's right on track.

FBW: A Face for Writing

I'm gonna cut to the chase: You're only getting one post this week, and this is it. And I'm going to fill this post with pictures of me. Note, however, that I am not trying to just weasel out of writing; I'm also incredibly self-absorbed. I'm going to a conference this weekend, so I'll be back to my normal schedule next week and, if I learn a thing or two at this conference, I might even write something that makes you say, "Wow. That post didn't feel like a total waste of my time at all!" 

Today's post is brought to you by 38 years of self-loathing. It's a pictorial of sorts.

I'm going to a blogging conference this weekend  (BlogU), and in preparation for said conference, I ordered business cards. From what I understand, the cards are a good way to introduce yourself to other bloggers who will make a snap judgement about your talent on the basis of your blog tagline and your head shot.

Here's the thing: I don't have a blog tagline. And I hate my face.

As for the tagline, I tried. Kind of. But "I write about my kid and I try to make it funny but sometimes it veers into heartwarming even though I'm uncomfortable expressing love, which is why I talk about poop and boobs a lot" was too long. And "Better living through chemistry!" was already taken.

Truth is, taglines don't really cream my Twinkie (Note to self: Use this sentence for possible ironic tagline. Very meta.). I can carry on without a tagline though. Comparatively, carrying on without my face is much more difficult. Nose holes are really handy for breathing. And where would I put the mascara if I didn't have eyes?

Look, I'm not about to fish for any compliments. "Oh, but you have a perfectly nice face! You're eyes point in the same direction and everything." It's okay. You don't have to console me or prop me up. I may not be smizing for Tyra Banks anytime soon, but I've smooched a few guys in my day, and they weren't all drunk.

The fact of the matter is that I am not photogenic. I am, in fact, the opposite of photogenic. Photoallergenic maybe? For one, I'm white. Not just your run-of-the-mill Caucasian white. I'm like the damn North Star. If you're ever lost in the woods, stumbling around in the dark, alone, afraid, and you suddenly see a soft glow on the horizon, walk toward it and you'll eventually end up in Northern Virginia. My light-emitting qualities are a fun little party trick, but they make for blindingly bad photos.

And for two, I panic every time someone whips out a camera. My smile ends up conveying gastrointestinal discomfort rather than warmth. My eyes squint accusatorially. It's like I'm saying, "You, behind the camera! You are to blame for my emotional constipation!"

Long story short: I had a teensy-weensy self-esteem core meltdown while trying to select a photo for my business cards. Let me walk you through my "process":

I started with the picture below. I actually like this picture. I look confident, sassy even. I've baked cookies, yes, but that hand on my hip suggests that I'm no June Cleaver. No, not this gal. Snatch one of those cookies and she's gonna throw hot coffee in your criming face!

And speaking of faces, you can only see half of mine, which is probably why I like the photo and also why it's not a good candidate for the business card.

No, you may not have a cookie. 

Next I opted for a motherly photo. This pic was snapped on Mother's Day of 2013, when Pork Chop was just shy of 3 months old. My hair is noticeably gray. I look 20% happy and 900% exhausted. Pork Chop did me the favor of hiding my still-jibbly gut, but, well, he was less than enthused about it.

Maybe not.

Thanks, son.

Oh, here's a nice recent photo. I was rehearsing for the Listen to Your Mother DC show. And, by the looks of it, actively shitting my pants while my waxen skin melted into my neck.

Next.

I think I'm gonna need a wardrobe change.

This one is fun. I think it gives me a tough girl vibe. Check out my sweet shiner and busted nose! The night before, I got a stomach bug, fainted in my bathroom, and smashed my face on the tile floor. This selfie was evidence of the damage. Which, now that I say it, doesn't sound all that tough. It actually just sounds sad and weird. Why did I take this picture? It looks like a mug shot. Or like a woman who wanted to document her boo-boo for sympathy.

Okay, pass on this one.

And that's how I broke my nose for a third time.

In an effort to get in touch with "the real me," I decided to consider the following photo (because "the real me" cannot control herself around baked goods). My darling husband snapped this while we were on our honeymoon in Costa Rica. I don't know what that delicious little powdered delight was called, but I do know that I rather pornographically ate it. Judging from my dopey, wall-eyed gaze, I may have been noshing on a kilo of coke. 

Soooo, not my most professional look.

Mmmmm, stimulants!

Here's another fine honeymoon snap. The margarita glass covers much of my nose, which is no small feat. The glass, however, fails to cover my ugly mumu. What the hell was I thinking? It was my honeymoon. Well, I guess I can pinpoint the exact moment I realized that Shelby was legally in too deep to ditch me. 

Good job at looking like an alcoholic retiree, self. 

Mmmm, sedatives!

This photo made it into the running because (1) bacon pajamas and (2) it looks like I'm cooking. Sadly, it's a bit too busy for a business card. But, seriously, how rad are my pajamas?! (If you are my husband, you do not get to answer that question.)

Sizzlin'! 

Now here is a lovely shot. Just not of my face. Those are some fantastic pre-baby boobs right there. I can't imagine why I look so pissed off. Oh, wait, it's because I have to be in the photo with my friend, Meredith, who looks like one of those lusty beauties carved onto the front of a pirate ship. (Stop winking at the camera, Meredith. It already loves you.) 

It's a good thing Mer is such a loyal cohort, because I look like the baboon end of the chain of evolution chart when I stand next to her. Thanks for ruining this one, "friend."

Can someone hideous please sit next to me?

And here we have the one photo of myself that I have ever liked. The one. It's not even photoshopped. My skin looks dewy and even a touch rosy. My hair is glossy. My eyes are bright. I look like I smell delicious! Not to get weird, but given the chance, I'd get myself pregnant. 

Problem is, this picture is too good. It feels dishonest. I can't give folks at the convention a business card with this picture on the back. A few weeks from now, when they find the card at the bottom of their purses or in the pocket of their favorite jeans, they'll wonder, "When did I meet her? I'd remember her. She looks so nice and so creamy and so delicious-smelling. And everyone at that convention looked exhausted and smelled like stress." 

I should note that this photo was taken in the mystical time before motherhood. A time of regular showering, of deodorant use, and of days on end spent not touching poo. Like I said, the photo just feels like a lie now. A clean, sweet-smelling lie.

Even I want to smell me.

At last, we come to the photo I ended up using. It's the same damn photo on my blogger bio page.  Shelby snapped this one at my birthday jamboree. I'm not usually enthusiastic when confronted with a camera, but there was beer involved. And French fries. For the record, I was demonstrating how to use a Shake Weight. I am also dislocating my jaw so that I can more easily consume your soul. And blogging is all about devouring the time and life essence of others, so this photo fit the bill. 

And that's it. That's the end of this post. Were you waiting for me to share some moral wherein I explain that we should love ourselves just as we are and that our imperfections are what make us beautiful?

Haha. No.

FBW: Type A-Ness

Since I fired up this blog a little over 3 months ago, I've tried with all of my might to follow a twice-weekly posting schedule. And thus far, I've been pretty successful. In fact, considering my utter lack of self-control around corn chips and hoarder-themed reality TV shows, I would say I've performed nothing short of a miracle by posting on the regular. But last week, I fell short of walking on water. I managed to doggy paddle, but doggy paddling doesn't exactly generate devout followers. And if I didn't feel bad enough for only posting once last week, I think I just compared myself to Jesus. When it comes to the missing post, I do have an excuse. When it comes to comparing myself to Jesus, that may be a reach. Damn it. Guess I'll have to flog extra vigorously today. This intro is really long. Too long. I'm stalling. Gotta write the post now. Going to write it now. Now. Now. Writing now.

Normally, I spend Wednesday evening and much of Thursday composing the finest of blog posts. And, yes, "composing" sometimes means "writing a sentence and then scrolling through Facebook and then starting a new sentence and then looking up a synonym for 'butt' on Thesaurus.com and then eating candy." But last week, there was no time for composing. No time for "butt" synonyms. (There was, however, time for candy, because there is always time for candy.)

Instead, I had to pack. For a road trip. With my husband. And my child. And my dog. A 2-day road trip with my husband and my child and my dog. To my in-laws'.

There are Type A people and there are Type B people. I don't think I am overstating matters when I say that I am a solid Type A-Plus. There is nothing I cannot plan. Nothing I cannot list. Nothing I cannot iron, starch, fold, and place on a tidy square of shelf. Nothing beyond the scope of my anxiety. And on a scale of 1 to 10 of anxiety, a lengthy family road trip ranks a conservative one-billion-million with a side of trichotillomania. In planning for this trip, I entered the fabled, deep, and murkiest waters of Type A-ness.

For the record, I should state that I actually like my in-laws, like them a lot in fact, and not just because they might read this post. (Hi, Mary Jane!) But being a guest in anyone's home can be stressful: What if I want an extra serving of food? What if I don't want an extra serving of food? What if I run out of toilet paper? What if I clog the toilet? The opportunities to humiliate yourself and estrange family are endless.

And did I mention the 2-days in a car with my husband, child, and dog?

In the spirt of Type A-ness, I have created a numbered list that details how this little family vacation played out in my head:

1. Pack for the baby: size 4 diapers, overnight diapers, swim diapers, diaper wipes, diaper cream, diaper bag, portable changing pad, baby powder, V-Tech toys (because I hate myself), books, onesies, blankies, footy pajamas, a stroller, a portable crib, a baby monitor, baby sunblock, a sunhat, Mum Mums, apple puffs, Cheerios, sippy cups, snack cups, and, of course, Pork Chop's beloved and besnotted stuffed elephant
2. Pack for the dog: dog food, dog treats, dog bowls, a dog leash, and a dog collar
3. Pack for me: maxi pads, bras, migraine prescriptions
4. Watch as Shelby packs all of his vacation gear into a carry-on-sized bag in under 30 minutes. Try not to set Shelby on fire.
5. Jam all of our luggage into the SUV. Realize it won't fit. Decide to leave maxi pads and bras at home.
6. Wake up 2 hours early, but still succeed in leaving 3 hours late.
7. Get exactly 5 miles from home before Pork Chop blows out a diaper.
8. Pull into a gas station. Change baby. Hose down car seat.
9. Where is the dog?
10. Go home and get dog.
11. Decide that a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McMuffin and a large McCoffee are in order. Profoundly regret this decision somewhere in the Virginia hinterland, where the taxidermy shops far outnumber the rest stops.
12. Get stuck driving behind a flat bed truck hauling a load of metal beams, lumber, buckets of dangerous chemicals, and chickens.
13. Listen to too much talk radio. Have a panic attack about global warming and cost of limes.
14. Blow a tire.
15. Help Shelby change the tire -- in the pouring rain -- which leads to a lively discussion about divorce.
16. Where is stuffed elephant? Sweet Mother of God, where is stuffed elephant?
17. Retrieve stuffed elephant at the McDonald's where I bought the McMuffin of my undoing.
18. Order Chicken McNuggets with a side of apple slices for Pork Chop. Feel like a good mom for getting those apple slices.
19. Realize that after a full day of driving, we are 10 miles from home.
20. Call the in-laws. Tell them that we will be visiting via Skype instead.

But Type A-ness, for all of its orderly, list-making power, tends to skew reality. We did not, in fact, blow a tire. Pork Chop didn't even blow out a diaper. This is how it really went:

1. Pack all the things and load up the car. 
2. Leave 30 minutes behind schedule.
3. Blue skies and open roads!
4. Okay, #11 actually happened.
5. Arrive at destination 2 days later and 30 minutes behind schedule.

Thirty minutes behind schedule! What a nightmare. But it wasn't talk-radio-lost-elephant horrible. And life at the in-laws' has been lovely. No clogged toilets to speak of (yet)! Although, one pulled pork sandwich was viciously maimed in the making of this vacation:

The horror! The horror!

FBW: Pumps and Dumps and Baby Bumps

Fifteen minutes ago, my child crawled over to where I was sitting cross-legged on the basement carpet, sucking down lukewarm coffee, and working on a blog post. He smiled up at me. He clapped his hands to signal, "Time for Patty Cake!" He tilted his head and sweetly said, "Mama?" Then he shut my laptop. So he's in his crib right now, taking a nap and/or thinking about what he did. Naturally, I feel bad that my 15-month-old has to compete for attention with you, lovely reader(s), but Pork Chop can't hit the Like button on Facebook yet. So you win!

I'm a little late to the whole mothering gig. Not that I'm pushing retirement, but I had my son a few week's shy of my 37th birthday. During my first ultrasound, the obstetrician, whilst checking my lady credentials, if you will, mentioned my "advanced maternal age." Actually, the term he first used was "elderly primigravida." I didn't know what the hell "primigravida" meant, but it's not like I heard anything past "elderly."

"What the hell is going on down there?" I wondered. Was my uterus sprouting chin hairs? Had the doc found an AARP card in my fallopian tubes? Did my vagine mail him a five-dollar bill for Christmas?

Sensing my concern, the OB explained that "elderly primigravida" simply referred to a pregnant woman over the age of 34.

Okay then. So the fetus wasn't wearing compression hose. Good news.

The bad news? My crotchal region is one chip short of BINGO! One low-pressure system shy of "Oww, my knees."

"Elderly primigravida." "Advanced maternal age." Those were the terms that welcomed me into the world of motherhood. And ever since, I've had particularly strong feelings about, what I'll call, "mom lingo."

Many of my friends and family members use mom lingo. So I feel terrible about silently judging them. Frankly, I prefer that my judgements be loud and public. If you're wondering whether I've been judging you, wonder no more. Here is a short list of terms and phrases that I find objectionable:

Baby Bump

A "baby bump" is the term folks have imposed on the bellies of pregnant ladies. I'm not really sure what was wrong with "belly" or "stomach," but someone somewhere decided that pregnancy didn't sound close enough to a jungle disease. 

"Aww, look at your baby bump! You should probably treat that with a little benzoyl peroxide or something."

"Her baby bump is totes the cutest. But I'd stand back before it hatches. [whispers] Tiny spiders, y'all!"

Please. Just. Stop it.

Baby bump? You'd better wash your hands.

Pump and Dump

I am actually guilty of using this phrase, but I was strongly influenced by a fishbowl-sized mojito. Look, I get that this term isn't just cutesy; it's also accurate. Had a few drinks? Pump your breast milk and then toss that White Russian down the drain. The problem is that every time I hear "pump and dump"I imagine some poor mom hooked up to a breast pump as she squats on a toilet. And now you do too. Let's come up with some other phrase, shall we? Maybe "saving the baby's liver" or "absolving myself of guilt about drinking a fishbowl-sized mojito"?

I drank all of this. And then I ate Mexican food. You do the math.

Push Present

Okay, first, when did this become a thing? A gift for having a baby? I agree that labor and delivery are, well, laborious, but it's not like moms are doing dads a favor. Once pregnant, that baby's gotta come out. True fact, ladies.

But beyond my beef with the very idea of giving a woman a necklace or a fancy handbag to say, "Thanks for birthing," I take issue with the the term. Like "pump and dump," a very particular image comes to mind when I hear "push present."

Picture it: A woman in stirrups, seized by contractions. She howls. She grunts. She bears down. "I can see it!" shouts the doctor. A cheery burst of confetti shoots from the woman's hooha. And then, joy of joys, out pops a neatly wrapped box containing a blouse from Ann Taylor LOFT and a comfy pair of linen capris. Congratulations! It's a new outfit. Sorry, no returns.

This is so stupid that I can't even . . .

DD, DS, and DH

Are you kidding me with this? Dear son, dear daughter, and dear husband? How about "son," "daughter," and "husband"? Too many letters? How about "kids" and "spouse"? How about "family"? How about we not make our loved ones sound like government agencies? How about you don't force me to refer to my family members as "dear"? I always love my family. However, I do not always like my family. In all fairness, my family does not always like me. Sure, sometimes I'm Shelby's DW, but a lot of the time I'm his "OMGJR?" (Oh my god, Jess, really?) or even just his long, defeated sigh, which kind of defies an acronym.

No more. This is dumb.

Mucus Plug

Not slang, I know. But this is just way, way, way too accurate. I'm actually lobbying to come up with some euphemism to replace this one. "Baby stopper" has a certain appeal. "Stork cork" maybe? I'm open to suggestions.

Effaced

Again, this is not really slang, but this term is misleading. Effacement is when your cervix thins or, eww, "ripens" before delivery. Until I took an actual birthing class, I thought being effaced meant that the baby was, well, see the picture below? Then you get the idea.

Where's mommmmy?

I'm not sure why we can't just say "thinning" instead of "effacement." When you're 9 months pregnant, it would be really nice to hear that something is getting thinner, even if that something is a delicate little pad of skin that's about to be massacred by your precious miracle.

Fur Baby

Look, folks, I know you love your pets. I love my pet too. She's a member of our family. We feed her better than we feed ourselves; we let her musk up all the couches and beds; we make peace with the tumbleweed-sized fur balls blowing through our home. But a "fur baby" she is not. 

Yes, the dog is in the shower.
Because there wasn't enough hair in the drain.

First of all, unlike my actual baby, Sarah the dog has the decency to crap outside in the grass. And unlike my actual baby, Sarah the dog is content to sleep most of the day and night. And unlike my actual baby, Sarah the dog did not suckle from my bosom and thus turn that bosom into a deflated heap of chest flesh. However, both my Pork Chop and Sarah enjoy chewing on a good stick. But really, the similarities end there.

Unless you're nursing an Ewok, no more "fur baby," okay?

And that's it. That's my list. If you've used one of the above terms, I've thought less of you. But, for what it's worth, I just ate a slice of American cheese and a handful of Tostitos for breakfast.

FBW: Dear Boobs

The sun has set on Mother's Day, dear reader(s), and I can now resume my normal schedule of thinking it's high time I come up with some sort of schedule. Seriously, I get nothing done. Most days of the week, it's all a panicked blur of diaper paste and toothpaste, sippy cups and coffee cups, Old MacDonald and Old Grand Dad. Ugh. The guilt! The guilt! Let's just talk about boobs instead.

Dear Boobs,

Where did we go wrong?

Twenty-five years together is a lot of years, and I'm not ready to throw it all away. But maybe it's too late to fight for us. Maybe you're gone, and gone for good. That satin, leopard print push-up - the really slutty one we love so much - I tucked it into a bin along with my winter sweaters and those wide-leg raver jeans from college. I put it in storage, boobs. Because it doesn't fit us any more. And, boobs, I'm afraid of what that means.

For so long, everything felt perfect between us. It felt full and feminine, sexy even. But in the last few months, I can tell you're . . . how do I put this? I can tell you're depressed. The long face gave you away.

It used to be that when I looked in the mirror, you were looking right back, like you were proud of us. Not anymore. Now when I look in the mirror, you just stare at my feet or, worse, slump into my armpits. In desperation, I pulled that low-cut blouse from the back of my closet. The clingy black one we haven't worn since we were single. It seemed like a good idea at the time - to remind us of how we used to be. But it was a disaster. You weren't up for it, and that made me angry and confused. I guess it's true what they say - you can never go home again. Yet I miss home, even if home was sometimes pretty trampy.

Remember when we dressed up as Babe-raham Lincoln for Halloween? Sure, it took a Miracle bra, some bra cutlets, and a total lack of self-respect, but DA-DAMN. We looked presidential as hell!

 34 score and C cups ago. 

We haven't dressed up on Halloween for a few years now. Certainly not since the baby.

Can we talk about the baby? We need to talk about the baby.

When Pork Chop came along 15 months ago, we put you to work. And it was hard work. Really hard. Like sometimes, I'd wake up after my two hours of nightly sleep, and you'd feel like cinder blocks. You'd kind of look like cinder blocks. I had no idea, boobs, that you were capable of becoming rectangular. 

And let's just admit that the kid wasn't exactly a benevolent overlord. He gnawed. He swatted and scratched. He used you as a pacifier for hours on end. He made you bleed. But you stayed at it. You fed my son. You comforted him when he was tired or sick. You knew his cry, and you sprang to action when you heard it, even while we were at the grocery store. Even when I was wearing a thin white tee shirt.

Then there was the pump. When I went back to work, I had to use the breast pump three, sometimes four times per day. How did I ever bring myself to strap you into that nightmare spawn of a taffy puller and a meat grinder? After each 20-minute session, I half-expected to look down and find you hanging in a neat row of links from my chest. But again, you stayed at it. You fed my son.

As the months rolled on, Pork Chop's lust for milk mellowed. Pumping became less frequent. Nursing sessions were no longer painful; rather, they were welcome quiet time. Quiet time for me, anyway. Between long pulls, Pork Chop would sometimes look at you inquisitively. Sometimes he'd talk into you like a microphone. "Mimi?" he'd ask. And I'd say, "Yup. Milk." Then he'd flash a terrifyingly toothy grin and get back to it.

As of a few weeks ago, Pork Chop only nursed in the morning and just before bed. We had a little more time to ourselves, you and I. Yet when we were left alone together again, despite all of our history, it was awkward. There I was, finally feeling like the old me. But you? You just looked old. 

Shelby picked up on the tension. For Mother's Day, he took us to Nordstrom so that we could be fitted for a proper bra. It was a revelation. A 32? Really? A 32! I was wearing a 36. Sometimes a 38. No wonder you've been hanging out in my armpits. My god, boobs, did I ever really know you?

That same evening, I prepared for a dinner out with Shelby - another Mother's Day treat. I slipped into one of our new underthings; it felt just right. I pulled on a silky pink shirt. We looked pretty good. Not Babe-raham Lincoln good, but not bad for a woman with both a toddler and snack chip codependency issues. 

Before handing the reins over to the babysitter, I settled into the glider in Pork Chop's nursery. He was wearing footy pajamas and holding his trusty stuffed elephant to his cheek. I curled his warm little body around my own. I brought his head to my chest, preparing to nurse. And . . . nothing. Not a drop.

My son howled. 

Nothing.

He howled and howled.

Still nothing. Fifteen minutes of nothing but the sound of my son crying himself to sleep in my arms.

Needless to say, I drank most of my dinner that night. By the time I was a few glasses deep, I figured it was a fluke, that the morning would be different. And it was different, because by morning Pork Chop didn't even want to nurse. He wouldn't even look at you. He was done too.

Had I even paid attention that last time? Had I noticed how soft his head felt, propped in the crook of my arm? Or had I been flipping through my tablet, reading "The 100 Most Important Cat Photos in History" when it all came to an end?

As a kid, I loved Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. I understood, even when I was young, that the story wasn't really about a tree, but about something much bigger. Now I know. It was about boobs. 

When you were magnificent and full of life, I treated you like some silly object. And when I became a mom, I made you my baby's bitch. And now that you've been reduced to stumps? I want to know why you don't fill out my shirts like you used to. 

I wasn't prepared for you to be so sad. I wasn't prepared for you to give up. Maybe, though, you have nothing left to give. 

I don't know what the road ahead looks like for us. I can't promise there won't be another kid, more time spent strapped to the brutal hot dog machine. So I guess I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I didn't know the good thing I had when I had it. And I guess I just wanted to say thank you. Without you, Pork Chop just wouldn't have been porky. And Babe-raham Lincoln would have looked ridiculous

Yours,
Jess

FBW: Listen to Your Mother (on Drugs)

Hot damn, people, Flogger Blogger Wednesday is about put on all kinds of airs. It's still chockfull of the guilt, but today it's a major theatrical debut of guilt! It's guilt under hot stage lights. It's guilt behind a podium, sweating through its Spanx. It's Listen to Your Mother DC guilt. It's guilt on ROIDS!

Okay, so before I get to the part of this story where I tell you how wonderful and life-affirming my LTYM experience was, lemme first say a few things about the 24 hours leading up to my reading. A few drug things.

Remember how I was all worried that I'd give everyone in the audience the literary equivalent of botulism or salmonella poisoning? Well, that may have happened. I don't know yet. No one in attendance mentioned cramping or fever, but deadly toxins can take a few days to percolate.

What I do know is that, thanks to a miserable and horribly timed spell of migraines, my doc put me on a heavy dose of steroids 1 day before I had to take to the stage. And steroids, my friends, are awesome . . . if you're into having unlimited ambition coupled with very, very limited intellect.

Being on the roids feels like, how do I put this? Like:

Go! Go! GO FASTER! No sleeping! Get that thing done! DONE NOW! Wait. Wait a minute. What thing? Here's a thing! Do that! How do I do it? So sweaty! Need CHEESEBURGERS! Wanna exercise! Time to walk the dog! Just try and keep up with me, dog! WHY ARE YOU SO SLOW, DOG? Let's go home, dog, and eat cheeseburgers and do CHORES and exercise and write a poem and feel nervous and HUG THE BABY. Energy! Cheeseburgers! Did I pay my credit card bill? NOTHING CAN GO WRONG! Where are my pants? I feel like LIGHTNING! Sweat. Sweat. Sweat. I'm a CHEETAH! I'm a sleek and mighty tower of CHEESEBURGERS! Let's buy shoes! Gotta go potty.

Obviously, this is exactly how I had hoped to feel as I prepared for show day. But given the choice between wanting to Hulk smash and feeling like I'd been Hulk smashed, I opted for the steroids rather than for the migraines. And, yes, the drugs made for a physically pain-free experience. But psychically pain-free? Well, I know at least one husband, one child, and one dog who may have some trust issues to work out with me.

I had wanted Saturday to be a day of rehearsing, of ironing and polishing and moisturizing, of giving in to the excitement and joy. Instead, I bought and returned 3 pairs of shoes, bought and returned 2 sets of jewelry, and asked my husband 5 times, "Why is it so damn hot in this damn house, damn it?"

Shelby, bless his heart, was beyond patient. He opened windows and turned on fans. He occupied our son as I jetted off to yet another store in search of the magical accessory that would make me both talented and pretty. He nodded and nervously eyed our dog when I declared, "I'm taking the old girl for a romp!"

I had wanted to thank them -- my little family -- because, without them, there would have been no show to prepare for. There would have been no story to tell.

Instead, as my brain detonated like Jiffy Pop above a camp fire, I stomped around the house, fretting and sweating and never once saying, "You are the loves of my life. Thank you for loving me back." No. What I said, come Sunday morning, was, "I gotta go! I need to hit a McDonald's before I drive to the theater. I'm so hungry for a damn cheeseburger!"

And that's what I did. I sped away, hit the drive-through, and arrived at Synetic loaded down with a duffle bag containing: extra-strength deodorant, 38 pounds of makeup, a bottle of water, a tin of breath mints, Advil, Tylenol, Pepto, an extra pair of underpants, an extra dress, champagne, red Solo cups, hairspray, hair gel, hair pomade, hair brushes, and a double-cheeseburger meal.

That's me in the blue dress, front row, third from the left. Use one of those
solar eclipse boxes if you plan to stare directly at my calves.

There was much hugging and primping as my cast mates gathered backstage. Everyone was brimming with anticipation. And, as I watched them apply lipstick, borrow safety pins, and pass around homemade cookies, I wanted to thank them -- my new friends -- because they are kind and funny and nurturing. Because, without them, I could not have told my story.

Instead, juiced to the hilt, I experienced some kind of mild Rachel Zoe stroke. I heard myself say, "Bananas!" I heard myself say, "Shut the front door!" I shouted, "Does someone have shiny white eyeshadow? I really need shiny white eyeshadow!" I gobbled up the chocolates supplied by our producer and reassured everyone that I had brought an extra pair of underpants in case of an underwear-ruining emergency.

Then it was go time. Of 14 readers, I was lucky #13. As we took our places on the stage, my Hulk heart thudded and then, miraculously, it slowed.

The stories poured over me like a salve. The audience gasped and laughed and cried, and it was soothing music. When it was my turn to stand in front of the microphone, I wanted to say, "I don't know how I got here, but I know I have you to thank."

Instead, I told a story about a runaway baby turd. (You're welcome.)

FBW: Not So Great Expectations

Followers, friends, relatives (mostly relatives), welcome back to Flogger Blogger Wednesday. As I type, my son is clacking two wooden balls together and staring at me mournfully; he wants me to pay attention to him. But I am way behind on blogging this week (sorry!). And playing with wooden balls sounds super boring (sorry I'm not sorry!). Let's flog, shall we?

As I've mentioned before, I have a thing for order, for organization. You know: a place for everything and everything in its place. Unfortunately, motherhood is a place for everything and everything in a filthy pile. To make matters worse, "everything" includes, well, everything: food, toys, laundry, dishes, hopes, dreams, etc.

And so it goes that my fetish for order extends beyond the confines of my home. I am a list maker. I am a calendar keeper. I am a planner. I have expectations. And expectations, my friends, are dangerous company to keep when you're a parent. Expectations are always moping about during holidays and on family vacations, drinking all the good liquor, eating the last piece of cake, smoking in your house, not flushing.

To further compound this problem, I enjoy a good story. And when expectation meets a juicy plot line, there is bound to be trouble or heartache. Yesterday, for example, Pork Chop and I had plans to picnic in the park with a gaggle of moms and kids from MOMS Club. The weather was warm, but not too warm. The sun was shining, but there was a tint of green to the clouds, promising a sprinkle of cool rain later in the afternoon. I had slept well. My kid had slept well. Our collective hearts were bursting with the promise of a few hours spent in communion with both nature and nurture. We would arrive at the park in our sun hats, roll out our blanket, enjoy fresh fruit, laugh, play, and make all of the other families stare in slack-jawed wonder at the togetherness of our shit. Instead, expectation got wasted and pissed in our basket of snacks.

We were a full hour out from picnic go-time when my dreamy little yarn began to unravel. We needed to arrive at the park -- just over a mile from home -- by 10 a.m. So, at 9, I plopped Pork Chop in his crib for a nap. Nothing unusual. He conks out for 30 or 40 minutes most mornings. I figured that I would use that time to apply sunblock to my fluorescent white face, pack a bag of supplies, and slug one more cup of coffee. Instead, Pork Chop stood in his crib and screamed bloody murder for 15 minutes. In the haze of noise, I applied a full face of makeup, including brow pencil and frosty lipstick. It must have been some kind of panic autopilot, and the autopilot in question was apparently on course for ladies' night circa 1995.

When I came to while applying cheek shimmer, I trudged into the nursery, plucked Pork Chop from his crib and set about prepping him for our outing. I dutifully rubbed sunblock on his arms and neck and face. Then, just like in my story, I placed a sun hat on his beautiful, massive head. This was the result:

Foolishly thinking I could still salvage my son's skin and his will to live, I donned a hat of my own. "Look, buddy! Mama's wearing a sun hat too!"

Witness expectation moving in just a little too close, laughing in my face with its hot, stank breath:

Needless to say, the hat came off, but not before Pork Chop had cried himself into a sweat, a sweat that melted the sunblock, sunblock that ran into his eyes, eyes that began to sting, stinging that triggered a new bout of sobbing. By the time we arrived at the park, 30 minutes late, Pork Chop's face was red and puffy, his eyelashes still wet. I waved gamely at the other moms as I spread our blanket on the ground.

"Aww, does he have allergies?" one of the moms asked.

I looked down at my son, sitting slumped on the ground, dragging a tiny fist back and forth across his eyes, across his nose, smearing snot from ear to ear. He clutched his stuffed elephant in his free hand. The giggling, energetic toddler of my picnic fantasy was instead a crusty heap of defeat. For a second, I thought to say, "He's just waking up from a nap!" Then, Pork Chop literally toppled face first onto the blanket, pulled elephant to his nose, gave a great sigh of anguish, and lay there, eyes open but fixed in the distance.

"Yeah, it's allergies," I said.

For an hour I chased after expectation: I unloaded toys from my bag, hoping that something loud and blinky might bring my son around. No dice. I hauled out his favorite foods -- bananas and puffs. He ate all of them, but it was a quiet joyless meal; he plucked one puff after another from the blanket, placing each on his tongue as though he were taking bitter medicine.

One family brought a friendly young pup to the park. Pork Chop loves dogs, but most dogs do not love toddlers and their slappy-grabby toddler ways. Not this pup. This pup sniffed and yipped and bounced happily about Pork Chop. For a moment, I thought, "This is it! This dog is going to save my picnic!" And sure enough, the dog gave Pork Chop a sweet lick on the hand, but Pork Chop glared up at him with a look that said, "Listen, doggy, you can never understand the depth of my sadness. Go peddle your cheap affections elsewhere."

All the while, babies cooed, toddlers toddled, and kids raced and tumbled about the playground. But not my child. My child stole someone's graham cracker, tried to eat a stick, cried when I wouldn't let him eat a stick, and then laid his head on my knee and closed his sore little eyes. That's when I finally showed expectation the door.

I packed up my blanket and bag and mournful boy. As we trudged off to the car, we passed a mom snapping photos of her son and daughter. The two kids sat cross-legged in a bed of red and yellow tulips; they were smiling, hugging, posing beautifully. The mom beamed at her twosome with the strawberry blonde hair and rosy cheeks. She paused briefly to wave goodbye to Pork Chop and me. "They really have their shit together," I thought to myself. "Cocky assholes."

FBW: Hosting a Play Group or Running a Fight Club in 10 Easy Steps

Now that I live in the honest-to-gosh 'burbs, I joined my local chapter of MOMS Club International. For a $25-per-year membership fee, other mamas in my neighborhood are obligated to invite my kid and me to picnics and story time and holiday parties and weekly play groups. It's the only club I know of where whipping out a boob mid-conversation is considered normal. Except for strip clubs maybe. At least at MOMS Club no one is expected to pick up money with her butt cheeks. Then again, strippers aren't expected to sing "Yankee Doodle Dandy" in an endless loop while tiny lunatics bounce in their laps. (Unless they're working the VIP room. In which case, someone's for sure sticking a feather in her cap and calling it "macaroni.")

For me, the best part of MOMS Club is the weekly play groups, which are organized by birth year. My son is part of the 2013 play group. Most weeks, there is a respectable turnout of about 6 or 7 moms and at least as many kids. That's a dozen or more people per play group. Usually in one room. And not just regular people -- toddlers!

And until this past Tuesday, I had weaseled out of hosting a play group. Despite my naturally luxurious guilt, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. What if someone got hurt? What if someone was allergic to our dog? What if no one came? What if everyone came? What if all the kids started screaming and crying at once and I accidentally yelled, "I hate you. I hate you. I hate every single one of you!"?

But guilt did, eventually, prevail. I signed up to host a play group and, lo, I lived to tell about it. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say I nailed it. Blood loss was minor and the carpet is free of diarrhea. So, as a public service to those moms wondering what it takes, I give to you:

Hosting a Play Group or Running a Fight Club in Ten Easy Steps

1. Buy snacks. If their mouths are crammed with store-bought sandwich cookies, the moms can't tell you that your house looks like the Barbie Hoarder Dream Hovel.
2. Enlist your husband to help erase all evidence of your child from the home: Scrub oatmeal from the highchair, milk from the floor, pee from the walls, boogers from the carpet, whiskey from the mugs.
3. Brew a pot of coffee to mask the smell of the Diaper Genie's corpse.
4. Hide all of the stuffed animals, or, as they're called in our house, "the Kleenex." 
5. Stick a note on the door, reading, "Moms, join us in the basement for play group. Don't mind the barking dog; she's been corralled in the bedroom." Another option might read: "Want to burgle my home? Act now!"
6. Welcome your visitors. Offer them cookies right away. Jokingly offer them whiskey in a mug. "Jokingly." Wink-wink. But seriously, offer them whiskey in a mug. Jokingly.
7. Watch as the children swarm the VTech activity table. Watch as the children bash the VTech activity table with a xylophone hammer. Watch as the children bash each other with a xylophone hammer. Watch as hair is pulled. Watch as a cheek is scratched. Watch as Cheerios are stolen. Watch as baby gates are scaled. Watch as tears are shed. Watch as snot flows like a deep, slow-moving river of toddler grief. Simply watch. Because this is the natural order of things. Because this is the jungle.
8. Kick everyone the hell out.
9. Pluck your dazed child from a heap of alphabet blocks. Settle him into his crib for nap, even as you wonder -- Why is he sticky? Why is he missing a clump of hair? And whose tooth is he clutching in his sweaty fist? 
10. Pile all of the toys in the backyard. Douse the pile liberally with Lysol. Burn it to the ground.

Hooray! If you followed the above steps, then you just hosted fight club and/or play group! Enjoy having the flu, pink eye, or fleas within the next 2 days.

FBW: Florence Nightinfail

Flogger Blogger Wednesday (henceforth "FBW" in blog titles, because I say so) makes its triumphant return after a 1-week hiatus -- that is, if Flogger Blogger can ever really be considered triumphant. So, yeah, enjoy the schadenfreude, you jerks.

Last week, I wrote a post called "It Got Better" (check out Part 1 and Part 2). Granted, I was talking about mothering newborns when I wrote that post, but my timing was poor at best, because this month has (if you'll pardon my technical jargon) sucked a big fat one.

Between my son, my husband, and I, we have been to the doctor's office six times in the last 4 weeks. Here's the tally: torrents of diarrhea, pink eye, bronchitis, more pink eye, an ear infection, and a throat infection. For the record, Pork Chop did not get pink eye because I farted into his eye, as my sister, a nurse, suspects. However, I can say with absolute certainty that Pork Chop gave me pink eye because he likes to use my face as his personal Kleenex. Frankly, if the kid wipes snot on my cheek one more time, I will definitely be farting into his eye and also possible into an ear. I'm pretty sure this is how you get the bubonic plague or maybe dropsy. But I'm willing to let CPS sort that out.

Every time I put my hand in a pocket, I discover an impossibly damp wad of tissues. There are antibiotic drops, pills, and liquid suspensions fighting for space in our medicine cabinet next to the mentholated cough drops and economy-sized Tylenol PM. I had to wash my favorite sweat shirt three times in a week thanks to three different bodily fluids -- two of which weren't even my fluids. If it doesn't smell like poop, puke, or bleach, then don't worry, you're not at my house.

I don't care that spring has finally arrived and that the tree in our front yard is bustling with pink blooms and bumble bees. I don't care that the breeze is warm and carries the scent of rich, teeming earth. I don't care about the giddy kids on bikes or the dads loping after them. I do, however, care about the cardinal in the tree outside of Pork Chop's nursery; if that little asshole starts chirping at 5 a.m. one more time, if it wakes my sick kid up one more time, I will grab it by it's cheery red neck and I will fart in both of its stupid bird eyes.

I cannot deal. The dog cannot deal.

Just bring us our hot toddies and go away.

I am over it. All of it. Mostly.

Being sick on and off for a month would make the best of us cranky. But toddlers, as we all know, are not the best of us. And, as such, my son has been a screaming, whining, tantrum-throwing mess. He's 14 months old. He feels terrible. We have to pour medicine down his throat or drop medicine into his eyes several times per day. I can't blame him for flinging his oatmeal at the wall or for trying to throw himself from the changing table. I can't blame him, but I don't like it either.

Except, there's this thing that he does when he's really miserable, when he's so sick that the fight has just gone out of him -- he wants me to hold him. Just hold him. He curls into my lap, drops his hot little head against my chest, and sighs like the enormous weight of his toddler life has been lifted. And I like that. A lot.

My boy is already so independent. He's assertive. He's adventurous. He'd sooner scream than laugh when he's happy. He rarely sits still. He hasn't quite mastered "gentle touch." He smacks what he loves. He smacks what he doesn't love. Today he smacked a kitchen cabinet because, I don't know, maybe it was spreading rumors about him. He also smacked me when I stopped singing "You Are My Sunshine." My mama friends have assured me that this is a typical toddler phase, but that's hard to explain to the infant my son nearly (nearly) walloped upside the fontanelle. In short: Pork Chop is not what you'd call a "cuddler." He's a bruiser and a tiny beastie and force of nature and more fearless than I have ever been in my whole life. He awes me. But he won't hug me.

So here I am, on the Internet, confessing that I take a small pleasure in my son's misery. If I could wave my magic Lysol wand and make his stuffy nose and aching ear and itchy eyes go away, I would. Lord knows I've tried. And it's not as though I enjoy waking to the sound of Pork Chop's hoarse cries at midnight. And I don't like lifting him from the crib to find that he's spiked a fever again. And I hate feeling him shiver against me as we settle into the rocker. And I'm no fan of the humidifier, humming and burbling, making it impossible for me to nod off, even as my son settles into the crook of my arm, petting my fuzzy robe, relaxing into a snore.  I hate this whole month. I hate all of this sickness and discomfort. But, I'll be damned if my boy, cradled in my lap, isn't some of the best medicine I've ever had.

Flogger Blogger "Wednesday": Party of One

Yeah, it's Thursday, not Wednesday. I've been sick. Let's just flog already, m'kay?

As I type, I am penned up in The Octagon, which is what my husband and I dubbed Pork Chop's gated play area. The Octagon is crammed with books and with blocks and with VTech toys that blink and sing, "It's great to see you. I'm glad to see you too!" It's a funny little song, in that the only time I was ever glad to see a VTech toy was when its battery ran out: "It's great to see you . . . finally die."

Both Pork Chop and I have been battling a nasty cold that's left us feverish, congested, and with a hacking cough. We are two very disgusting, very unhappy campers.

Before I had my son, I confess that I sometimes relished a bad cold: they aren't terminal; they are made significantly less unpleasant with a little Tylenol and hot tea; and they present an opportunity to spend the day in pajamas, napping, catching up on Judge Judy, and garnering sympathy. When you only have to care for yourself, a cold can feel like a Get Out of Work Free card. But when you have kids, having a cold can feel like a Suck It Up Because That Diaper Won't Hold for Much Longer card. Or a Sorry About Your Chills But the Groceries Aren't Going to Shop for Themselves card. Or a Just Put Some Vaseline on Your Nose and Make Lunch Already card.

Early this morning, as I lay shivering atop a heating pad, I had a fever dream in which I was hospitalized. It was an awesome dream: Clean sheets. Trays of food that I didn't prepare. Strict visiting hours. Maybe a sponge bath. And the sweet lullaby of beeping machines pumping me full of medicine. But even as I reveled in my sanitized fantasyland, I could hear my son begin to stir in the next room. It was time to put on the coffee, do a shot of Robitussin, and stuff my pockets with Kleenex.

Mmmmmedication

The truth is (and here's where the guilt gets legit), if pressed to describe my perfect day -- not my perfect sick day, but my perfect day -- I'd be alone. Not just without my son, but without anyone I love or like or am related to or work with or would wish a happy birthday to on Facebook when prompted. To most of my friends and family, I seem like a raving extrovert, but my inability to ever shut up or to ever slow down is hella tiring.

My husband is keenly aware that, come the weekend, I need at least 2 hours on my own to be frivolous -- to get a powder blue pedicure, to try on slutty high heels for a night out at the clubs I don't go to, etc. But 2 hours is, according to my calculations, 22 hours short of a day. And that's all I want -- a day.

But this dream of a perfect, lonely day comes with a latticework of conditions: The house must be clean from top to bottom. No deadlines must loom. All of my family must be out of town, doing something so fun that they never once think to call me and ask if I want to come over for meatballs. My husband must decide that he needs some father-son time with Pork Chop, and thus must speed away with our son in tow to watch the airplanes. Or to sit at a pub and wait for the kid's cheeky grin to make the panties drop. Whatever. As long as I know I'm free of people and obligations.

What? I love my kid! I love my husband! My family! My friends! But, damn, sometimes I want to sleep in. Sometimes I want to, well, here is how it would go:

• Drink coffee while it's hot
• Eat Somoas for breakfast, because no one's there to give me the stink eye about it
• Take a shower so long and so steamy that I look like a boiled hot dog
• Put on makeup. Not zit cream and lip balm. Makeup. To look pretty. Just because
• Wear dangly earrings, because no one's going to try to rip them through my lobes
• Wear a white shirt
• Wear shoes that aren't slippers or sneakers
• Go to a coffee shop to drink more coffee, even though I could have made more coffee at home
• Read a book at the coffee shop. A paperback book. None of that cardboard crap
• Write for an uninterrupted hour at the coffee shop
• Go to some kind of market (Union Market? Eastern Market? the supermarket?) and wander around like a bohemian douche, buying bread and artisan cheese and flowers like I'm going on a picnic date with myself
• Take my loot and go to Wendy's for a Dave's Hot and Juicy and a Frosty
• Go home and take a nap for 3 hours
• Wake up and eat bread and cheese for dinner
• Decide that bread and cheese for dinner is not enough. Crack open some wine
• Sprawl on the couch, spooning a bag of Tostitos
• Watch every episode of The Wire that stars Idris Elba
• Wash my face
• Go to bed
• Sleep through the night
• Miss my family

And I would -- miss my family, that is. The minute my husband leaves for a business trip, I begin to miss him. When I get my nails done on the weekend, I miss my kid while I'm at the salon for Pete's sake. But I also miss myself sometimes. So my perfect day isn't about great adventures or exotic indulgences (unless you count the Somoas). It's about spending time with someone I used to know. Someone I took for granted, but who, it turns out, was pretty good company.