Eh mang, wanna buy a tee shirt?

I'm realizing that these posts are now feeding into Facebook, meaning I should really be careful about how I start them or my young cousins are going to end up reading about Beast Infections.

Update: the yeast seems to be gone. I have been getting out of the shower and blo-drying my chooch to avoid moisture. It took me a few seconds to realize that the High/Hot setting I use for the hair on my head was a bit extreme.

The Beast Infection has been replaced with more weirdness. I'm having this weird tongue burning sensation. I've narrowed it down to tomato sauce. Holy frig this sucks! Cooked tomatoes are like one of my basic food groups. Between pizza, pasta, chili... I put tomatoes in everything! I'm a lycopene lover.

What. the. fike. is. next?

I want to start a Cafe Press store with my own line of tee shirts, like:



AND my personal fave (think Borat)



Whaddya think? Would you buy one? That's nice, but if you actually wore it in public I'd have to hunt you down, because the last thing a preggy needs is text requiring to be read (thereby inviting long stares) on her massive knocks.

Dancing with the Used-to-be-Stars

OK, does anyone else find it totally distracting when these cuties are dancing to live pop song covers? It feels wrong somehow. The rhumba to Gwen Stefani's "Cool"? What is up?

I must say that I've never really watched this show, but this season's two guilty pleasure b-grade crushes, Joey Fatone and Ian Ziering have me watching for a giggle. But holy fuck this show is cheez.

I do like how the other b-grade sidekicks show up for support though. Last week, Lance "takes it in the ass" Bass came to support fellow N'Sync-er, Joey Fatone. This week we have Norm in the audience, giving a kiss to Cliff. (I always thought those two had something going on...)

The only thing cheesier and better than this show on a Monday night is The "I'm not married yet because I'm gay" Bachelor.

***Edited to add: Holy frack! That crying cripple Bevin gets to go to Andy's room? That "poor me" shit actually works? I love how he has to get hammered just to lock lips with a woman.

Word of the Day

Via DailyCandy:

dressausage: A girl who has squeezed herself into a dress that is way too small for her.

Making bread in your vajuj and other pleasures of the pregnant woman

I cannot get over how different pregnancy is this time around. I do not feel precious, like some beaming beacon of life, like all should bask in my glow and rejoice that I am the chosen one. I just want to get this over with and start dealing with a cuddly new baby already. (Famous last words.)

It's not just that I've already put on more weight than last time, or that I look two months more pregnant than I am, it's just that I've done this already. The novelty of it has worn off. The reality of how gross it is to be the host organ for another living being is starting to set in. And though I've stopped yarfing, I am now blessed with gifts of pregnancy I did not get to experience the first time around.

The yeast infection from hell. The beast infection.

It started with an itch. Just a slight itch that grew worse over a few days. Then came the bumps. I thought I must have a hemorrhoid on my labia or something, because there was none of this "cottage cheese" I'd had the pleasure of experiencing once before. I kept having sex, a)because of the whoremones, and b)because frankly it literally scratched my itch. But then sex became painful, and then the Dog got some red bumps on his bone and I knew (thank you Google) that this was not some stupid herniated vein on my twat.

So I stopped sitting on makeup remover pads soaked in witch hazel and started taking acidophilus (the good bacteria found in yogurt that eats yeast) orally as well as shoving a few capsules up where it counts, as recommended by my homey. Anyone who has every shoved a treatment up there for this reason knows what happens to your panties the next day. Not pretty.

When I thought it was over, and when I ran out of capsules, I stopped treatment and thought that if I just kept eating yogurt, all would be fine. Nope. This was a resistant bastard. I saw my OB and he said that Monostat was safe to use during pregnancy, so go ahead and treat it, but it may take the 7 day one to really cure this because my immune system was compromised due to pregnancy. OK, I'm desperate, I'll do it. Anything for the itch and the goo to stop.

I had never done this Monostat business before. It comes in very eco-negative, individually wrapped packages, each with their own plastic applicator filled with the special cream. When you are done shooting the stuff into your vajuj, you feel not unlike a Boston cream donut or Jenna Jamieson after a film shoot. Fun!

The entire next day you spend feeling this junk ooze out of you. Nast. I get through 7 days of this torture and it still doesn't feel right. So I resort to the other trick the homey told me about: yogurt. on. my. vagina.

So how to do it. Do I just put it on and let it air dry? Do I smear it on a pantyliner? I decide to take a paper towel, fold it up like a pad and smear a generous coating of plain organic yogurt (You can't use fruit yogurt, because the sugar will only feed the yeast) onto it and then sit on it/place it on my pantyline. Uh-oh, it's spreading. I think I put too much. The yogurt feels weird and simultaneously cooling and soothing on my burning bush.

After a few days I felt better. But I wanted to make sure that it was really gone, so I've been sleeping completely nekkid from the waist down, you know, to "air it out." (Weird, I know, but I get cold up top) To top it off, we were holding off on sex until this nastiness cleared up. So I am not the only one suffering. The Dog has been rolling over and dry humping my bare ass at 3 am. Frustrating.

Anyway, it seems to be gone now. But I'm still not doing the goddess dance of pregnant joy. Although, this email from Crackcenter.com made me feel better again:
Your baby now weighs about three-quarters of a pound and is approximately 10 1/2 inches long. If you're having a girl, her vagina is formed now, though it will continue to develop until birth. Your baby is really on the move now. Fetal researchers say babies move about 50 times an hour even while sleeping. All that movement helps stimulate your baby's physical and mental development. You may not notice 50 kicks, punches, and twirls during the day, but as you're settling down at night, don't be surprised if your little guy seems ready to dance the night away.

My baby is larger than my husband's penis. Now that's exciting stuff.

Oh no he di-n't!

Oh yes he did! And I managed to write about it -- amazingly without a single curse word -- here. (Hey pedicure season is coming up and mama needs to have baby soft heels. And hell knows she can't reach them these days.)

I'll give you a minute to go an read it. OK, done?

So as usual, the formerly BloggingBaby, now ParentDish readers pointed me in the right direction. It's true, it's not like my husband is going to freakin' Iraq! He's just asking for a weekend. So with his b-day coming up this week, I have ordered some maps from Algonquin Park, picked a date that I think is suitable and am in cahoots with Crabby Kate to send our husbands off together into the wilderness, Brokeback Mountain styles. That's fair, no? Anyone else want to ship their husbands off? Maybe we can start a club.

Though I agree that I would have survived a weekend, (although my mother might have driven me to PPD) I think it was insensitive of him to even suggest this. He has since apologized, of his own accord, and bought me flowers and we're all lovey-dovey again. (Though we're not having sex because apparently I'm brewing beer in my underpants -- but that's another post.)

This brings me to another girlfriend of mine, who is having some issues with her husband about traveling without one's partner. According to my sister, my friend's former travel buddy, he has forbidden her to travel with anyone other than him or her mother. The issue? He doesn't like to travel, can't take the time off work, etc. He's never been to Europe, and doesn't get what all the fuss is about. My friend LOVES to travel, especially with girlfriends, and is caught between a rock and a hard place.

Now, I love my friend's husband (we'll call him the Rocket) to bits. I think he's awesome, but even though I told the Dog he can't go away a month after the baby is born, normally we take annual trips without one another. Last year I sent him to Vancouver for his birthday (on Air Miles, I'm not made of money), and in November I went to NYC alone with a girlfriend. It's part of what I think makes a healthy relationship.

The Rocket is feeling one of two things, and they both have to do with trust. (Again, just my opinion.) Either he doesn't trust what she would be up to on her own, or he doesn't trust himself when she's not around. These are the only two scenarios I can conceive of. Am I missing anything? What do you think my girlfriend should do?

**************************************************
Happy Easter to everyone who celebrates the death of a man with too much chocolate and too much food. Hey, Jesus loved to party. It's only fitting.

Most moving piece of television

I was up late one night this week, and I had the good fortune of catching author and activist June Callwood's final interview on The Hour. June Callwood is dying, at age 82, after 62 years of marriage and 4 children (1, Casey, died in an accident), and many years of public service. One of her biggest contributions to the city of Toronto was Casey House, a hospice for those suffering from HIV/AIDS (named after aforementioned son).

At Easter, I like to think of those who walk in the footsteps of someone like Jesus. June Callwood is one of these people. Someone who has given her life to helping others, those less fortunate, those who lack a voice. I am honoured to live in the same city as such an inspiration.

You can watch this interview, (Sorry Mac users, it's only PC friendly and not yet on YouTube -- I had to watch it at work) sure to bring a tear to your eye, as June faces death with humour and grace, enlightens us about a marriage that has matured like a fine wine, and muses about how we only get one life to live, therefore we should live it.

Sometimes, the idea of resurrection gives people an excuse to cop out on a mediocre life on Earth. The fact is, faith or no faith, we don't know if anything comes after, so why not squeeze every drop of juice out of what we have right now?

The most moving part of the interview for me, was when Callwood is asked if she has any regrets. "More babies," she says. More babies? She's had four children and a full life, yet on her death bed she wishes she'd had more. It makes me take a hard look at my desire to stop after number 2. Because this amazing woman seems to know things I do not yet comprehend.

God bless you June Callwood. May you go in peace.

Nateisms: Breast Obsessed

My son is breast obsessed. If you've been reading MFM awhile, this is not news. What is newsworthy is that now he is able to articulate his desire for breasts. And only one pair will do. Mine.

Let's not forget that this once-teeny A-cupper is pregs, and thus, growing. My tits are sore and swollen, but they look pretty great and I would kinda like to use them as toys again. At least before the milk comes in and I start squirting my husband in the eye every time he looks at me longingly.

I don't know how to get my son to stop feeling me up. It's a problem. His nipple replacement therapy is starting to get on my nips, I mean nerves. I AM trying. I am saying no. I am stressing privacy. But he wants comfort. This is revenge for every time I jokingly felt up one of my girlfriends with a Honk Honk. The boob gods are out to get me.

*************************************

I come home from work/daycare and Nate wants to snuggle. I'm all for that, but the instant I pick him up, he puts his left thumb in his mouth and his right hand down my top. "No," I say firmly pulling his hand out of my shirt.

"But I want my mommy's boobs."

"Feel up your own boobs," I reply, tucking his hand into his own shirt. Sometimes this works. Not today.

"NO! I want mommy's boobs."

"What about Daddy's boobs? They are firm and hairy. Fun!"

"No. Can I eat your boobs, mommy?"

WhatwhatwhatWHAT?!

"No, you are too big to eat my boobs. Only babies eat boobs."

"I wanna eat your boobs." (He's laughing, because he knows he's being a little shit.)

"No, we finished with that a long time ago. (Though clearly you're not over it.) It's inappropriate now."

Puts his head between my humps and makes a sound that can only be interpreted as "Mmmmm." This is because his father taught him about "Motorboat" after watching The Wedding Crashers.

Oh dear God.

Starts patting humps. "Mommy's boobs is BIG!"

In almost 33 years, he's the first guy to tell me that. I try not to act like I'm flattered.

I pry him off me and deposit him on my bed while I get out of my work clothes and into my comfies. I release the girls from captivity and toss my bra carelessly on the bed.

Nate picks it up.

"Mom, is this your boobs case?"

I think we might need to call SuperNanny. At least I'm not THIS woman. (Be sure to watch the video or it won't have the same effect.)

The Bachelor

Is it me, or does this intro episode feel like a Stepford Wives cocktail party?

Oh wait, they're hammered. This should be good.

Nevermind. None of these girls stand a chance. Any sailor with abs like that gives head.

Truths out of the mouths of babes

I got tagged for this meme on Real Mom Truths by SB a few days ago.

This blog is full of Real Mom Truths, and I can't seem to grasp the idea of the format, (aka, how do I limit it to a sentence, but here goes.

Real Moms are neurotic freaks.

Me, alone with Nate, yesterday:

Wow, I'm so on top of things for once. Dinner is on and it's 4:30 pm! I am awesome. There's enough leftover for lunch tomorrow. Woo hoo!

OK, we're done dinner. Well, not really, but Nate keeps repeating, "I wanna get up! I wanna get up!" OK, still got my shit together somewhat. Keep your cool girl. Must be bathtime by now, right? Almost bathtime? (Look at the clock) Holy crap it's only 4:50 pm! Oh my fuck, what am I going to do?

I need a drink.

I haven't been drinking during this pregnancy. My last pregnancy was a bender compared to this one. Mostly because I wasn't a mom yet the last time I was pregnant. I was the party girl who was trying to kick her social drinking habit, while still hanging out with a gaggle of social drinkers. Then I breastfed, then I got responsible, and basically, I don't drink like I used to. So I don't miss it so much this pregnancy. But sometimes, the thirst takes over.

I take Nate upstairs and try to occupy him with construction paper, stickers and markers. I go back downstairs and look up at the small cupboard above the fridge.

What should I have? Maybe the port. The port is in a smaller bottle than the wine so it's not as bad for me. Yes, I am OK with this rationale. I open the cupboard -- this I can reach. But the port is all the way in the back. I will need a chair. Should I take Nate's wee Ikea chair? But what if I break it and end up in a pregnant slump on the ground and kill my baby and then Nate tries to come downstairs to find me and falls down the stairs and dies?

All this thinking makes me tired. I grab an open bottle of red within my reach. I pour and head upstairs to play with my son. Three sips in, I feel buzzy and decide I should stop as I am pathetic. Plus getting a buzz while pregs is not on. I am feeling sorta calm when Nate makes the poo face. Frackity frack frack.

I have him on the change table when The Dog calls. I am giving him a mouthful of jokey complaints when Nate reaches for the phone. "Hi Daddy! What doin'?"

"Hi bud! I'm at work. What you doin' with Mommy?"

"Hmmmm...we're just hangin' on Daddy. We're just hangin' on."

By a thread baby. By a thread.

It wasn't what he meant to say, but it was what I needed to hear. Who needs wine when you've given birth to a comic genius?

Careers in the Reproductive Years: Dealing with one winter cold after another

I don't have the sense of humour this morning for an April Fool's. We've had a tough week. Nate got extremely ill -- AGAIN. This time? The fucking croup! Nothing makes you feel like a 1950s housewife like the croup. Except maybe the mumps. It just sounds so archaic. You find yourself sitting on the edge of the tub, filling the room with steam at 3 AM so your child will stop hacking, thinking, hmm... I have to call in sick for my child again?

Of course, this whole thing caused a battle royale in our house. Because it never even occurs to the Dog that he should take a day off work to stay home with our sick child. At best, he stays with him until he has to leave for his evening shift, meaning I have to be home by 3:30 so that his day is not affected. It's better than nothing, but on Wednesday I mentioned that he may have to be 30 minute late and this was met with, "Well, there's a hockey game on tonight, so it's going to be busy." WTF? As if it's not busy at my work?

I am equally to blame. I automatically offer to stay home when Nate is sick. After all, he wants his mommy. But this immediate giving in and casual, but necessary disregard for my career has trained my husband to think it will always be me to make that sacrifice.

On one hand, this might be because workplaces are not as accepting of men taking time off for family, so perhaps he hesitates to ask for fear of being seen as a slacker. On the other, the fact that I immediately offer to stay home makes him assume that this is just one of those things that fall under my responsibility, just like taking out the garbage is one of his. (I don't do trash, just trashy TV.)

The problem is that you can't win. If you choose your career over your sick child, you're a bad mommy. If you consistently call in sick to stay home with your kid, you're a crap employee. If you go into work on 3 hours sleep, you're a moron all day who stares blankly at the screen and has office ADD, moving from one task to another without getting anything done. (Let's not even get into the fact that I'm pregnant and brain dead to begin with.)

Now faced with a future with two children, I wonder if double the illnesses and double the sleepless nights will render me completely useless in an office environment.

What to do? I don't have the answer right now. Suggestions?

*********************************

PS: I finally caved and joined this Facebook shit. Like I need another social network I don't maintain. So um, if you want to be my friend, well I don't want to be a loser, so find me and add me.