It’s the Jolliest Motherfucking Time of the Year

Raise your hand if you think I am the quintessential upper middle class mother who keeps my baby on a tight schedule, enrolls her in activities to simulate her physical and mental development, feeds her purely organic, balanced meals that do not come with a toy and overall sets the expectation of “perfect or nothing”.

 Put your goddamn hand down.  I have found a successful approach to mothering in the following meme:

 While Marlowe and I have been to a grand total of zero Mommy and Me classes, naps may or may not happen on any given day at any given time, I have placed popsicles within her reach inside of the freezer so that she can help herself to her little heart’s desire, and I’m slightly negligent in her supervision (she rolled off the bed last week and got her first shiner), I am obsessed with the idea of getting perfect pictures of her on holidays.  If you made it all the way through that sentence, congratulations.  It was a long one. 

I realized this on Halloween when Jeff asked my mom to make her a little old lady costume.  I wanted her to be a chicken.  Pick your battles, people.  Anyway, because my momma bear is fucking awesome at everything, she sewed a perfect costume.  Jeff engineered an awesome little old lady walker.  The whole setup was a 10.

Marlowe, ever the brat, could not get her shit together on Halloween to allow me even one decent picture.  She totally sucked.  Organic M&Ms couldn't even pacify her.  I was beyond annoyed and grumpy for the next two days over the failed execution of Little Old Lady and her inability to tolerate a costume.  So basically she was a totally normal kid that day and I was a bitch about it.  I feel like she is old enough to take some of the blame, but I'll let this one go. The point was, I didn’t get what I wanted, all of social media was sure to be disappointed and I was pissed.

Here is a picture of the inspiration, and here is a picture of the execution.  I like the other baby better.

Cute.

Jerk.

Moving on down the line of holidays, Thanksgiving I didn’t give a shit about because we flew into Orlando that morning, nobody served me breakfast vodka on the flight, it was not my Momma Bear's recipes and I was exhausted.  Just trust me when I say she was cute all weekend, which makes sense, because I have no pictures to prove it.  But, I don’t lie.

Until last Christmas (i.e. our first one with Marlowe) we never sent out a holiday card or anything like that.  But I’ll be damned if I was going to receive a bunch of them from friends and family and not try to trump them all with a picture of my nearly perfect family.  So, I strung my kid up in a bunch of lights , Marlowe cooed and batted her eyelashes the whole time, and Kellie fucking nailed it with her iPhone camera photo shoot.  Mission fucking accomplished, people.  It took like, 13 minutes and I giggled all the way through my Vistaprint checkout process.

This year I was certain we’d have another good outcome.  Obviously I had blacked out the horror of the Halloween Evening Debacle   Obviously I’m stupid.  Obviously it didn’t go well.

Jeff, eager to have me shut the fuck up about our Christmas card making process, sent me two possibilities while I went to a Celtics game.  Because Kyrie Irving is, in fact, more important than spending the evening with my family.  Go Celtics.  Anyway, the point here is that Jeff spent the evening on Goole and Pinterest and I spent the evening drinking beer and our collective effort led us to try the following two scenarios:

Adorable, right?

Here’s how our little angel executed the looks.

No Mommy.  Don't make me smell the pretty tree smells. 

No Mommy, I hate this farm with these cider donuts, hayride, Christmas love and my friends.

Oh you don't like the taste of your organic chemicals? Maybe you should stop eating them, let me make you a bubble beard and shut the fuck up about it.  

Nope.

I’m pessimistic that her modeling career will ever launch.  The 2016 holiday card was obviously where she peaked. 

So again I was all pissed off and ornery and sure that people would start to think less of me and my perfect family*.  I had no control over my less than cooperative subject and it wasn't my favorite experience.  

And let's be honest...this holiday bullshit is stressful.  What happened to the days when I came down the stairs to a mountain of presents, an elaborate breakfast and my parents’ annual poem that sent us on a scavenger hunt for whatever present they were most excited to give us.  Being the parent and coordinating all of this madness sucks.  I’d like more bacon, dad. Pass the Diet Pepsi, mom.  Also, we found our snowboards. Horrible hiding spot that year. 

*Sidebar: For those of you morons that don’t read sarcasm well, these references are a fucking joke.  One time I emptied our closet of all of Jeff’s clothes and explained to him that he didn’t live in our home anymore.  On another, he called me an absent wife.  On a third, we went 8 days without speaking. We argue our fair share, but he’s cute and handy so I keep him around.  I have no idea why he keeps me… probably my purely delightful personality.

This post is over now.  can you end on a sidebar?  Let me check the rules.  Yep. You can. 

You're welcome.  Interpret that however you'd like. 

Everyone In My House Walks

Marlowe decided around 14 months of age that her feet are not purely ornamental and started walking!

My niece Charlie began walking around 10 months and because everything is comparable, justified or not, I was fucking pissed that my kid was making me look like a loser parent.  So when my dingbat baby finally got her shit together, I rejoiced.  

Anyway, our daycare provider (Ms. Joan) politely (ehhhhhhh, not really) pointed out that baby Einstein would benefit from wearing shoes now, if she wanted to walk while at the park.  I saw the logic in this suggestion and promised to drop shoes off that afternoon.  Fast forward to the end of that day where my child remained barefoot. Fuck. 

At pickup, Ms. Joan guilt tripped me and was all "Marlowe wanted to get out of the stroller SO BAD at the park but she had no shoes so I just couldn't let her."  

I love that bitch. Also, I wish that park was a country club and the risk of my baby stepping on a heroin needle laced with Hep C wasn't legit. 

Side bar.  I recently made allegations against a methadone clinic. My clients had to keep reminding me that "heroin" and "heroine" are two materially different nouns. 

So, we got the fucking kid some shoes. Specifically we went to the Nike store and Jeff absconded with her to the shoe section. I meandered my way through the Patriots section because all of my Pats gear is now unlucky (Marlowe's too) and we needed new duds.   When I caught up with the cuter portion of my family, Jeff had multiple pairs of sneaks pulled out and was trying them on her feet.  Let me explain how this was the cutest fucking thing I have ever seen, including when I first saw him hold her, when I first saw him make her laugh and when that mother fucking giraffe nobody could shut up about on social media was finally born. 

Anyway it was cute.

We / Jeff picked out a pair of baby Air Max Nikes and then Jeff insisted I pick out a pair because he was taking his girls shoe shopping (again, swoon) and then we were off to lunch. 

Marlowe, all bottom heavy from dragging her new kicks around, stumbled easily 728463 times that day.  It led me to believe we should baby proof the house now that she's walking, opening cupboards and basically only wants to play with knives and chemicals.  That was two weeks ago and so far all we've done is some laundry.

Here are the new kicks!

Marlowe Aged 1 Year, Suzie Aged 100 Years

We celebrated Marlowe's first birthday in July.  Meaning, we celebrated the fact that we kept her alive and (mostly) safe and sound for 365 days.

In those 365 days, I have aged exponentially.  Here are some notable stories related to things that have stressed me out over the year.  Simply having these things to be concerned with makes me want to jump out a window. 

1.   I lied to the pediatrician.  When we took Marlowe for her 9 month check up, she had sprouted a few teeth and we were told to start brushing them.  Not a real shocker there.  However, between her 9 month appointment and her 1 year appointment, we brushed her teeth a total of... wait for it... wait for it... zero times.  At her 12 month appointment I was asked, "How does she like having her teeth brushed" to which I IMMEDIATELY stated, "Ehhh, doesn't love it but she's getting used to it."  Total. Fucking. Untruth.  Now, I am worried that she has 17 cavities dispersed between her 5.5 teeth but, more importantly, I am concerned that I have to brush her teeth.  I don't wanna.

2.  About 6 months ago this super fucking awesome thought popped into my head: "I can always throw together a load of laundry!"  Between Marlowe and Jeff dirtying clothes at breakneck speed and all of the other regular household linens and blankets, plus Vinnie's mere existence in our household,  I could make a part-time job out of doing laundry.  OCD Suzie has realized that she does not like to wash just a half a load of laundry (what a waste of water and electricity!) but she hates when there is any laundry accumulated.   (Seriously, just...ugh.) So on that particular day wherein I had my Very Important Laundry Revelation, I decided I would wash the bath mat. Adulating just sucks so hard.  But here is a fun fact: I have a white bath mat.  This color choice is incredibly regrettable and is the second stupidest thing I have ever done, coming in right behind my decision to forgo the use of birth control.

3. Places I find blissful:  Target and Starbucks.  Places I used to find blissful: basically any restaurant; the casino; new travel destinations; my bed at noon on a Sunday; not Target; not Starbucks.

4.  I get anxious when we do not have fruit and the ingredients for peanut butter and jelly in my house, because when all else fails, my kid will eat fruit and peanut butter and jelly.  Last year there would be a 0% chance there would be any fruit in my house, a 37% chance we'd have jelly, a 50% chance we'd have bread that was not stale or moldy and a 100% chance we'd have peanut butter, because Vinnie really likes it.

Other super fucking cool things I have learned about Marlowe in her year on planet Earth.

-when she is officially done choking on something, she sneezes.

-her most favorite toys are forks and knives.

-having her diaper changed is akin to waterboarding.

To sum up this fabulous read: a year does a lot to a person.  I am now the mom I said I would never become (although poop jokes are still not funny, and I truly believe there is a special place in Hell for people that make them) and as I say to Jeff all of the time: we are just actively living out the rest of our lives, traveling around the sun with our little bundle of joy.

 just another day in paradise.

 that hair, though.

birthday outfit. found this dress and this bow in her closet about 10 minutes before it was party time.  nailed it!

 goofy bunny waiting to be diagnosed with her third ear infection. #genetics

sleeping beauty... at the end of our flight...after she insisted that she try to sit underneath the seat for 3 hours.

Top 5 Reasons Traveling Without Marlowe Is Awesome

We all know that Jeff and I love to travel.  We all know that in order for me to get on an airplane, both alcohol and prescription drugs are usually involved.  So when we travel with Marlowe, it sucks for Jeff because I am a useless piece of shit.   And when I travel with Marlowe without Jeff, it sucks for everyone because I am just mostly sober and fucking annoyed at everyone. Except for this time, where a little angel from Delta took my child and gave me a free glass of wine.  This picture just makes me smile.

So. We had been planning a trip to Paris since Christmas, knowing all along that we would be leaving her with my mother in law for the week.   Prior to our rip to Paris, we also knew we were going to a wedding in Texas.   Blissful, ignorant little me thought Marlowe was coming to Texas, mostly because Jeff told me she was invited and left it at that. Then, 3ish days before the wedding Jeff told me that he “thought” it would be better if Marlowe didn’t come because, “oh by the way babe, I forgot to tell you that at the bachelor party in New Orleans while at a strip club and totally fucking hammered me and all the guys decided we aren’t bringing kids, hahahahaa awesome, right?!” 

Fuck you Jeff.

So we flew my mother in law up for a trial run while we went to Texas. I rationalized my way through this and agreed that it would be good for his mom to get used to caring for her, and because it is certainly easier to fly home from Houston if I was wildly uncomfortable with the separation.  I was training myself for Paris, right?  But nobody actually believes I was going to have such bad separation anxiety that I'd fly home from anywhere.  Like, lets call a spade a spade here.  As I write this, I am desperate to be in Siberia with only a cell phone, a box of pop-tarts and a case of wine. Favorite pop-tart flavor?... blueberry frosted.  And anyone who likes the s'mores flavored pop-tarts should be shot.

So anyway, leaving Marlowe was sad.  I planted at least 64,000 kisses on her before we left.  Once in the uber I was a little more sad.  But then…. FUCKING FREEDOM BABY!  I didn’t give a shit about how much she ate for dinner, if she drank enough milk, bath time, bedtime BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.  I figured my mother in law raised two (mostly) competent kids* and Marlowe is a pretty easy baby.  In the back of my head I knew she probably wan’t going to be eating organic fruits and vegetables and one of her primary food sources for the weekend would be whatever the FDA allows WalMart to label as edible but… whatever…I recently gave her a happy meal, so who am I to judge? (Happy Meal side note: I didn't want to take the liberty of deciding for her if she's a chicken nugget lady or a cheeseburger lady, so I bought both.  Spoiler alert: she's a cheeseburger lady, in case that unknown might keep you up at night.)

*see strip club story, supra

(On another somewhat related note, it makes me giggle to think that the opposite of organic food is not “inorganic food”.  The presence of carbon is still very much in whatever Tyson dinosaur shape, rainbow colored chicken nuggets Marlowe probably ate all week.  Have I mentioned how grateful I am to have such a great mother in law?)

OK so back to the fucking point here. 

Top 5 reasons traveling without your baby is glorious:

1. You are not traveling with a baby.  Do I seriously need to fucking elaborate for you guys here?

2. Hotel sex.  Like, why is it just so much better?

3.  Naps.  We can both a nap at the same time?!! We don’t have to debate and make deals and/or bets to see which lucky soul gets to take a nap that day?  Just the thought brings a smile to my face because I am starting to feel mild guilt about how few naps Jeff takes. 

4.  Bedtime and mealtimes are irrelevant.  Jeff and I ALWAYS ate at the bar before Marlowe train wrecked our lives.  To this day, whenever we walk into a restaurant with said train wreck, we look at each other and say, “bar?” and then a little piece of each of us shrivels up and dies while he hauls the baby and I haul her bag full of, seriously, everything to a table in the depressing dining room.  Time elapses by 6 minutes and then we are finally fucking situated and simultaneously ready to leave.  I am not going to represent to you loyal readers that I don't longingly stare at the people at the bar who had the good sense not to procreate, because I don't believe in lying to my fan base.  However, when traveling without The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Us, Jeff and I ate at the bar for every meal and EVEN stayed out partying until 1a.m.  Holy. Fucking. Shit.  We rejoined the human population for the weekend.  

5.  You are not traveling with a baby. I think this point is strong enough to write twice, and since its my blog, if you don’t like it… see you never.

When we retuned from Houston, the first thing we did was take Jeff’s mom and Marlowe out to dinner.  Here we are… back in dining room / highchair purgatory.

cutest pain in the ass mashed potato face I ever did see!

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.

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.

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.