Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Marlowe Got Sick - Suzie Got Mad At Everyone, Including Marlowe


72 hours ago (ish) Marlowe woke up at 9:30 p.m. screaming.  I assumed she was not experiencing an exorcism or dreaming about walking down that really creepy hallway in The Shining, but that's basically what it sounded like.  So I went in there to see what was up.

On a side note, another linguistic issue I'd like to bring to everyone's attention is the following: writing "a.m." or "p.m." 100% NEGATES the need to then specify "in the morning" or "in the evening".  

So, Jeff and I were both in her room troubleshooting the baby issue, which was easily solved by simply touching her.  She was a furnace. Quick forehead thermometer temp check confirmed a fever of 103.  I assigned the responsibility of Tylenol, milk and cuddles to Jeff and hoped it worked out for him.  He took her to bed with him and I went back to my super important hobbies of social media, texting and watching TV.  

Jeff and I typically do not let her sleep in bed with us.  But, there are exceptions to every rule and it turns out that her first ear infection is one of them.  The things I like about having her in bed with us are the following: She's cute and she smells like baby.  The things that I don't like about having her in bed with us: She likes to be inside of my armpit, and it tickles.  She likes to twirl my hair, and it's fucking annoying. She thrashes around so much its like trying to cuddle a deer with antlers. She peed on me.  And, although I am not constantly in her room checking on her, which saves me the trips, I worry about smothering her. 

By 3:30 a.m. in the morning she was screaming again.  I took mercy on Jeff and took her out to the living room, where we took a snooze on the couch together until I woke up to her urinating all over me.  Delightful.

I understand that everyone thinks their child has an amazing disposition.  My opinion is that your child does not have an amazing disposition.  Except mine actually DOES.  So, despite every molecule in my body urging me to make this Ms. Joan's problem, I kept her home because something wasn't right.  I expertly poked my finger in her mouth and discovered a second tooth.  Problemo fucking solved, guys!  I had an afternoon mediation that I couldn't (and did want to) postpone, so Jeff came home from work.  Here is where I began being an absolute asshole to everyone.

Enter mediation.

Counsel for Defendants: I have evidence that your client paid her witness to give an untrue statement.
Suzie: Is that supposed to be scary? It isn't. (It is.)
CFD: No. It's evidence I'm going to present at trial.
Suzie: Is this going to be a long story?

Enter home.

Jeff:  Hi! How was the mediation?
Suz: Fine. Settled.
Jeff: Great! Bunny has no temp!  We have been playing! She just ate some bananas and some puffys!
Suz: OK.
Jeff: Do you want to take a nap?
Suz: Are you STILL FUCKING TALKING?

That night, I was talking to my mom and mentioned the fever and that she had cut her ear rubbing it (because I never cut her fingernails and she missed manicure Monday at Ms. Joan's house).  My mom pleasantly suggested that I was a fucking dipshit and my kid likely has an ear infection.

The next morning.

Jeff: Good Morning Beautiful! (He texts me this exact same thing every morning.  Usually I'm not a total bitch and write back Good Morning Handsome!)
[Instead....]
Suz: How many fucking times should I ask you to move the stroller to my car before you actually do it.  (Note: since the stroller has been in his car, neither of my legs have been broken and I otherwise have been able to complete this three second task unassisted.)
Jeff: I'm sorry.  Why do you need the stroller?
[time elapses by hours]
Suz: I think Marlowe has an ear infection.  Thank God I'm looking out for her best interests and using my brain about this situation. (Actual diagnostic cred: my mom and the doctor.)
[Time Elapses]
Jeff: How is everything?
Suzie: I'm sweating from hauling our baby all over God's green Earth because I have no stroller. (We went to the doctor and back.  I parked directly outside of the front door of the office.)
Jeff: I mean, what did the doctor say?
Suzie: That she was surprised I didn't have a stroller.  (That was NOT what the doctor said. The doctor said she has an ear infection.)

Later that day:

Marlowe: [crying]
Marlowe: [crying]
Marlowe: [crying]
Suzie:  SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!

Later that day:

Jeff: All she wants to eat are Cheez Its. (I give her two every day as her after school snack.  Vinnie and I proceed to eat 300 each.)
Suz: OK.
Jeff: That isn't a great dinner.
Suz: Feed. Her. The. Mother. Fucking. Cheez. Its. 

The next day:

Client [on the phone]: I sent you an email, did you get it?
Suzie: Yep.  It's pretty solid technology.  You don't have to call every time you email me.
Client: Oh okay, because you never responded.
Suzie: ...........
Client: ..........

Other topics Jeff and I have argued about, my opinion and the outcome:

1. Whether after spitting up on herself, she needed new jams.  My opinion: Yes.  Jeff's opinion: Amount of vomit minimal - she'll survive.  Outcome: Jeff puts her in new jams.

2. Why Marlowe got kisses when Jeff came home from work and why I did not get any kisses.  My opinion: Jeff is a thoughtless asshole.  Jeff's opinion: he was distracted by the baby and her first ear infection, telling me about her prescription that I made him pick up (did you guys know I didn't have her stroller that day?) and unpacking the groceries and his work stuff.  Outcome: world's lamest kiss.  Can you blame him? God I am such an asshole.

3. Whether Marlowe could have a chocolate munchkin to ease her troubles.  My opinion: Dr. Oh said she can eat anything that we do, with the exception of cow's milk and honey, and given that I had eaten 4 of them already Marlowe was getting one, too.  Jeff's opinion: donut hole unnecessary.  The outcome:



Anyway, we are on day 2 of drugs and she is rebounding nicely.  I'm exhausted.  I have learned that I am still a selfish prick and hate to be inconvenienced, even by an adorable 9 month old with an ear ache.  I suck.  I get it.  But fuuuuuuuuck.  Sick babies suck. 

Here are some pictures of her trying to sleep and recover, despite me totally screwing her and chalking her issues up to teething for 2 days.  Sorry baby bunny.






Sunday, March 26, 2017

Reasons I Resent My Child - edited

How much time do y'all have to read this one?  Because the list of reasons why I fucking resent my child is seemingly endless.  I’ll limit it to four.  Okay?  If you want more, contact me offline and I’ll be happy to let you buy me lunch and discuss.

Let’s start with the most important issue.  This monster baby is completely destroying my social life.  Prior To Having A Child (hereinafter "PTHAC") Suzie naively said dumb shit like, “I’m not going to adjust my needs / wants / schedule for Marlowe.  She can exist alongside me or cry about it.  Those are her options.  I am not bowing down to this little asshole.  Not. Happening.”    Hahahahahaha PTHAC Suzie.  You are a dumb twat.

Before we were blessed with this little miracle, Jeff and I lived in the North End, and prior to that in Salem, where there are lots of great bars and restaurants.  Here was our typical week:

Monday – It’s going to be a long week.  We should go out.
Tuesday – Go out for tacos.
Wednesday – Hump Day!  We fucking made it!  Go out.
Thursday – Thirsty Thursday.  Go out.
Friday – Earliest night of the week (see above).  Go out and be in bed before midnight.
Saturday – Duh.
Sunday – F.U.N.D.A.Y.

8 months into this non-returnable item and here is our typical week:

Monday – roasted chicken, brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes. (Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!? But in all honesty, Jeff makes a mean brussel.)
Tuesday – tacos, either ordered in or cooked at home, while daydreaming of our favorite taco joint in Salem, their awesome artwork on the walls, great music, Joe the bartender, etc.
Wednesday – (Insert something boring.)
Thursday – On limited occasions we will go out for a drink and an appetizer, then rush home so we can do all of the things Marlowe wants to do, which is eat everything she sees, get a bath and some fresh jammies (she has never worn the same pair two nights in a row – I don’t know why, but I have a thing about it) and hit the crib.
Friday – Jeff and I usually check out of work early, have a late lunch and some wine, then argue about who has to go to Ms. Joan’s, collect the Bunny and do all of the things Marlowe wants to do.
Saturday – debate over who is getting up early with her versus who is taking a nap later in the day.
Sunday – see Saturday’s description, supra.

I’m sure you all have little to no sympathy for me because what I am describing inherently is exactly what I signed up for when I knowingly disregarded all forms of birth control, including abstinence. 

But...what I wouldn’t give for a dinner filled with good food, good conversation and good wine without my child slamming one of the 6 billion toys I now travel with into the table.  In fact, fuck the good food.  Just decent food will suffice. Or no food at all, and just the wine.  And the wine only needs to be airplane grade level or above.  The conversation though?  That’s a non-negotiable.  I want to talk about something other than diapers and drool for like, 2 hours.  120 minutes.  Is that too much to ask?

Reason Number Two that I resent my baby: I can't stop freaking worrying about her.

Didn't see that one coming, did you, loyal readers?  

Anyway PTHAC I worried about almost nothing: not really my job, not really my finances, not really my relationships.  I just existed in this blissful state of “things are pretty cool!” (with exceptions) but all in all, I wasn’t losing a shitload of sleep at night.

But motherhood is an all consuming bitch.  Is she developing right?  Is she getting enough sleep?  Is she getting too much sleep?  Is she drinking enough formula?  Is she eating enough solids?  Should she be crawling?  Doing long division?  Laughing at more of my jokes?

Her bedtime is a super mature 7:00 p.m., and mine falls somewhere between midnight and 1:00 a.m., so I check on her about 5 times before I fall asleep, and then 2-3 times overnight, and, because you are all math geniuses (carry the one!) you now understand that I never sleep and I always worry. This is the stuff dreams are made of. 

Sometimes it would be nice to go back to the days of just worrying about whether or not I have enough time to go to Chipotle for lunch.  (I always found the time.)

So basically I’m just like every other mom I know, except I say "fuck" more.  I thought I would somehow be different, but I’m not. I ruin her schedule all of the time and sometimes wish I didn’t.  I discuss her poop, her food intake and her sleep every day with Jeff and Ms. Joan. I have to do it.  I WANT to know except I also want to drive a knife through my eye because this is what I have been reduced to.

Ms. Joan and Big Mike have complimented us on our seemingly laid back parenting type.  Sometimes, I just don’t give a fuck if she has socks on.  Sometimes she eats mashed potatoes from KCF for dinner.  I let her stuff Vinnie’s ears in her mouth at every opportunity that he lets her, and when Jeff fucked up and she rolled off the couch my first reaction was “YESSSSSSSS NOT ON MY WATCH” followed closely by “Is she okay?”  I really hope the Department of Child and Family Services isn’t trolling this blog.

Reason 3:  I spent 99.9% of my life stuffing calories into face.  As I have previously mentioned, I hate feeding her.  While I love knowing that she is fed, and warm and loved, I really don't like the exercise of putting calories into her body.  (Actually, when she cries, I often soothe her by asking her if she has too many toys, or if her house is too warm, or if her clothes fit too perfectly, or if her bed is too comfortable.  Yes I know. In mere years she will hate me.)

So anyway, feeding her isn’t my favsies.  But obviously I do it, because I am not a total fucking asshole.  But I am not super picky about the shit we give her to see if she likes it.  For example, I know my 8 month old loves: mashed potatoes from KFC, Cheez-Its, refried beans, guacamole, marinara sauce, pizza crust, french fries and corned beef hash.  I know she does not like limes.  Hehehehe.

I was reading a blog the other day and the topic was: “How To Make Baby Food!” and I LOLed to myself and said: Step 1 – drive to Target.  Step 2 – buy baby food.  Step 3- give your kid part of what you’re eating and see what sticks.   I will NEVER made her baby food.  I’m too lazy and I just simply don’t care if everything she eats is organic or not.  (On a side note, I always make myself smile when I think of the term “organic food” because the opposite is not “inorganic food” – it all still has carbon in it.  I’ll shut up now.)

And finally, while Marlowe is the cutest baby ever, it really, really fucking pisses me off that she has a bald spot.  Like… just…no.  I can’t deal with it.  I dress her in shirts with hoods as often as possible. 


And that pretty much sums up why I am an asshole and people should have to apply and get the government’s permission to have a baby.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

My Baby Is In Daycare and I Never Miss Her

Daycare is the. best. thing. ever.

We had always planned to send Marlowe to daycare, because we always planned for both of us to be gainfully employed.  Then, I parted ways with my former law firm in the middle of my maternity leave and ended up opening my own law firm. As a result, we stupidly told the daycare lady that we didn’t need her.

On an unrelated but important note, I would like to ask my friends to go out and get sexually harassed by their bosses, including but not limited to: having their boobies touched and/or be the recipient of dick pics (preferably on a workplace computer or server!) and/or be propositioned for sex  and either 1). Have lots of friendly witnesses or 2). Get it all in writing.  Marlowe needs to go to college some day.  Go Michigan!

Let me tell you what a joyful period of time it was to have a premature newborn at home while opening a business, recruiting clients from my old firm, finding new clients and then finding the time to do all of the work.  Thank God / Spiderman / Harry Potter for Ativan. 

We quickly realized it would be impossible for me to be with Marlowe during the day and run a business.  Thankfully daycare still had room for us on all days but one, so about a month after Marlowe came home, we shipped her ass off to a stranger.

To be fair, Ms. Joan is not a total stranger.  Prior to Marlowe’s birth, when we went to her home to check it out, she pointed out that I looked awfully familiar.  I am not the all-American girl next door looking type of person, so I assumed she knew me from somewhere.  After about 5 seconds of discussion, we realized we knew her because she used to be the bartender at a bar in Chelsea we hung out at all the time.  Obviously we hired her on the spot. 

So anyway, on the first day of daycare I diligently packed Marlowe’s bag, dressed her in something totally fucking awesome and brought her to Ms. Joan.  (Most kids call her Joanie, but not in this house. We fancy.) 

Drop off took 10 seconds, give or take.  I threw her car seat on the table, unloaded bottles and formula, gave Ms. Joan very little instruction and hit the ground running.  I figured she’s raised 4 kids and the Commonwealth has allowed her to run her business for 7 years so she should be able to figure it out.  Or text me with questions.  Basically I couldn’t wait for Marlowe not to be my problem.  Jeff texted and asked me if I cried.  HAHAHA.  I sped home and took a nap. 

I fucking love Ms. Joan.  She loves my baby.  Seriously, she coddles her way too much.  Every day when I pick her up, she’s snuggling with her.  This actually works in my favor because I regularly sprawl myself out on her couch, drop my puse and whine to her about my day, all the while she holds the baby.  Did I mention she is also my therapist?  And, she seems to like Jeff and I.  Her own children are cool kids -  involved in our community and make an effort to play with Marlowe and speak to me when I see them.  But I seriously considered firing her when I found out she supports Trump.  Ummmmm, lady.  You run a SMALL BUSINESS that is SUBSIDIZED by the GOVERNMENT.  Trump is not your ideal candidate, you fucking idiot.  But, keep keeping my baby alive please.  Dummy.

She also has no tolerance for “new school” parenting.  I once gave her bags to steam Marlowe’s bottles in and told her they are good for 20 uses.  It’s been about 15 weeks, and she is with Marlowe four times per week, and feeds are at least twice a day…and she’s yet to ask me for another.  I let that one slide.  In my head I know I she is going to encounter a germ or two, especially given that the other kids in Ms. Joan’s daycare cough in her face all day long.  So not steaming the bottles seems fine, btu I feel better telling myself that if she gets sick, its not my fault.  Because clearly blame needs to be assigned when your child gets sick.

Here is another good example of Ms. Joan’s no bullshit approach to co-parenting my child.  When Marlowe started solids I explained that we were starting with oatmeal and then would move on to fruits and vegetables after waiting three days in between each to see if she develops an allergy.  That afternoon I got a text, “Marlowe loves pears!” and then next day “She loves squash!”.  Jesus lady, know your role.  Except I thought briefly about it, discussed it with Jeff and we were like, “Cool, now we don’t have to feed her pears and squash and monitor for allergies.” 


Plus, finding her a new daycare would be hard and I’m just not willing to commit to doing anything hard.  So, Marlowe goes to daycare and gets loved on by an opinionated, somewhat ignorant woman who seems to think Marlowe is half hers and it is the best thing ever.  I seriously don’t know what I would do without Ms. Joan.

Ramblings From Trimester 4

Given that all of my readers are smarter than I am, I’m sure that I don’t have to explain that the “Fourth Trimester” is considered the first three months after a baby is born.

Given that all of you can also do basic math, I’m sure that you guys are all like, “But Suzie, Marlowe is almost SIX MONTHS.  That’s WAY MORE than just the fourth trimester!”  Thanks, dick. Got it.  Feel free to go away and never visit this blog again.  I’m sure my sponsors, investors and advertisers will all be sad to see you go, but I certainly will not.

Alrighty.  Now that we’ve cleared up that I really don’t give a shit if anyone reads this blog, lets get to discussing my really important thoughts.  Shall we start with breastfeeding?  Is that okay with everyone?  Great.

Breastfeeding

As I have previously mentioned, I did not breast feed.  And not because I had no supply, or because my baby couldn’t latch or for some other “legitimate” reason.  I did not breast feed because I didn’t want to.  A large part of this was because I was really not interested in being the sole provider of nutrition for our kid.  “But Suzie… Breast is best….!” Yep.  Heard that a bunch.  Want to know what is best for Suzie Herold?  Having Jeff Herold feed Marlowe Herold half of the time.  It’s fucking glorious.  He looks super cute stumbling back into bed at 4am every other night.  And by every other night I mean that he fed her overnight the majority of the time, because he is truly, truly the most decent person I know and because I truly, truly am a selfish asshole.  Do I deserve him?  Certainly not.  Did I do anything to make his life easier while Marlowe was a total fucking monster for the first 3.5 months of her life?  Certainly not.  I actually repeatedly told him that I gestated her for the first 34.5 weeks of her life so her first 34.5 weeks on the outside were all his.  And to an extent, I let this happen.  I’m so fucking awesome.

Anyway, Marlowe is a really mellow baby.  I know this because of all of the other babies in my life that I have spent significant time with.  Meaning… zero.  But I do believe is she a pretty chill kid.  So, one night when it was my turn to get no sleep, she started to freak the fuck out about who knows what.  Maybe she doesn’t like the color of our living room walls.  After doing everything I could think of (short list), I decided that obviously what she needed was our first skin to skin experience.  So, she got naked, I got half naked, and we snuggled it out.  She did calm down pretty quickly, given that her sole focus was how to get one of my nipples into her mouth.  I almost felt violated.  Given that there was no milk in there for her, the session wrapped up pretty quickly, but it did lead me to think about what I had missed out on.  And then Jeff got up, pushed a button on our Baby Brezza and tagged me out for the rest of the night, and I haven’t really harped on it since.  And also, now that I think about it, I don't even think he even asked me what I was doing sitting in the middle of our living room in the early morning hours with my Ts hanging out.  It must have been the sleep deprivation.


Sleep Deprivation

Those of you that know me well understand that if I am tired, I am a raging fucking bitch, and that is putting it nicely.  When I was a little kid my family used to rotate who had to wake me up because it usually went something like this:

Unfortunate soul:      “Suz, wake up.  Mom made French toast!” [Or insert anything nice… “It’s time to leave for Aruba!” or “We are getting a puppy today!” etcetera.*]

Suz:     “I will seriously fucking kill you if you don’t get out of here in the next 8 seconds.”

U.S.:     “But,,, you need to eat.  It is noon and you need to take insulin, too.”

Suz:     “Did I fucking stutter? 7, 6, 5….”

U.S.:     “Fine. Don’t eat. Don’t take insulin.”

Suz:     “4,3,2…”

*On a side note, please understand that using etc. more than once is ridiculous. It means “and so on” so writing “etc. etc.” makes you look fucking stupid.  On second thought… keep doing it.

So anyway, I hate to leave this magical story behind but I have a point to make, and that is that sleep deprivation is real.

Now that Marlowe is sleeping through the night, our lives from just a few months ago seem like distant memories.  But while we were in it, we were absolute zombies.  At one point neither one of us could remember if either one of us had fed her overnight, let alone how much.  On multiple occasions we would wake up and point at each other like, “did you?”

So we had to start washing all of her bottles before we went to bed so that we could keep track of how often we were feeding her.  I don’t even think on my wildest night of partying did I black out whether I got out of bed for water.  Jeff keeps saying that there is a reason that we use sleep deprivation as an interrogation tactic in the military, and I believe him.

Birth Control

I assumed after Marlowe made her grand entrance, her mere existence would be all of the birth control we needed.  And, although I had a C-section, I also assumed that I was going to treat my vagina as if I had delivered naturally… i.e. a war zone.   Jeff assumed he was entering the world of gratuitous blow jobs.  Right. Either way, it didn’t occur to me that this was going to be a talking point in our household for awhile.

But, at nearly all of my many post-op / blood pressure checks / after the baby OB appointments (and even one or two while Marlowe was still living inside of me) everyone kept asking what I wanted to do for birth control.  I kept hearing things such as:

“Breastfeeding is not birth control”
“You can get pregnant before your cycle returns”
“You’d be surprised… it can happen”  (False. Almost nothing surprises me.)
“You don’t want to get pregnant again for awhile… you need to be careful”

And on. And on. And on.

So finally I said to my doctor what I say to people all the time.  I won’t tell you how to do your job if you don’t tell me how to do mine.  (This particularly perplexes my hairdressers, and also the lady that did the flowers for our wedding, because obviously I need to have some input, but in reality, I just really don’t really care. Like, you're the expert.  I will defer to you.  Please do a nice job.  Thank you and goodbye.) I assumed that my doctor would pick the best method for me, so I just threw all of her pamphlets into the trash and ignored her.

So, she settled on the Mirena for me.  On the day of the appointment, I hadn't given it much thought, other than I was told to take an Advil (which I decided to ignore).  I arrived at MGH where I was promptly told to piss in a cup so that they could give me a pregnancy test.  Holy fuckballs, did I have a panic attack in the 3 minutes it took to confirm that I was, thankfully, without child.

t cannot fathom having another child so quickly.  Marlowe is such a home wrecker as an only child… I just kept thinking about what in the fuck would I do with two babies?  Clearly pick one to love more than the other and make them both Jeff’s problem.  

So anyway, here I sit with an IUD (to be clear, not an IED, which is an entirely different device) in my whooha, free to practice making another as we see fit.  In order to get knocked up again I’d have to sneak this piece of plastic out of my uterus and lie to my husband about it.  The foundation for creating Marlowe was not exactly sound (“Let’s do it so people stop asking and we can just get it over with!”) so I’m not sure I should get pregnant with another based upon this scenario… but…

I would love to give her a sibling.  I mean, think bout how much less I will have to play with her if she has a sister or brother.

MIC DROP.

Well, not quite.

Miscellaneous Thoughts

1.     My house is full of kid accouterments and I fucking hate it.  It is all so colorful, and loud and takes up SO MUCH SPACE.  Christmas morning I unwrapped at least 324 presents for her and while inspecting each one thought, “how soon before I can throw this away?”  She definitely got a set of finger puppets that went directly into the garbage can.  But Kellie, thank you so much for those.

2.     I really don't like feeding her solid food.  It’s gross, it’s a pain in the ass process and given her coordination is that of a typical 5.5 month old, it’s fucking messy.  She is like dining next to a tornado. No thanks.

3.     Her doctor no longer considers her premature.  That part I love.


4.     Baby girl pajamas are the ugliest articles of clothing of all time.  Why does everything have to be an obnoxious pink / purple / ruffley / ballerina inspired cheap textile?  And then I’m like, “Yes, but it’s bedtime!” and immediately stop caring what she is wearing so I can throw her in her crib and pour a glass of wine.

Here are some pictures of my little bunny.  (Her nickname became Bunny really early on.  I always asked her if she was a hungry bunny, or a sleepy bunny etc.  It has now morphed into just calling her Buns or Bun Bun.  She is going to fucking love it when I'm screaming that to her on the lacrosse field in 10 years.)

Bunny is a bunny for Halloween! Handmade costume by her Grams!
Marlowe the teenager.
Bunny sleeps through Thanksgiving dinner. 
Bunny goes to California.  So far it doesn't seem like she has inherited her mama's debilitating fear of flying.


Bun Bun's Resting Bitch Face.  

Kid likes sweet potatoes!
Cutest picture ever.



The picture that did not make the Christmas card.  Kellie figuratively shit her pants when she saw me dress my child in a tutu.