I want my epidural back, p.8

I Want My Epidural Back, page 8


I Want My Epidural Back

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  HER: He pooped, and then I pooped, and then he pooped, and then I pooped.

  Plop plop, fizz fizz, holy crap how F’ed up this is. I mean, I always wanted my rugrats to be close and do shit together. But AGGGHHHH, NOT LITERALLY!!!

  ME: Guys, that’s gross. Don’t do that again.

  THEM: Okay.

  And they went off giggling together and we shall never speak of this again.

  ZOEY: My tummy hurts.

  ME: Do you have to poop?

  ZOEY: I don’t want to go to school.

  ME: Do you have to poop?

  ZOEY: I’m not hungry.

  ME: Do you have to poop?

  Seriously, one day I think this kid is going to grow up to think that going poop is the solution to EVERYTHING.

  BOYFRIEND: I’m just not sure this relationship is working out.

  ZOEY: Maybe you have to poop.

  Sometimes the cat throws up on the carpet and I get really pissed off. But sometimes he throws up in the perfect place to teach my kids an important lesson about drinking too much and losing your dignity.

  Well, that was fun. Not.

  YAYYYYY, WE’RE GOING ON VACATION!!! Yippeeeee!!! And by yippee, what I really mean is would some scientific genius person pleeeease invent a teleporter machine already because getting on an airplane with kids sucks more ass than a porno about rim jobs. Oh shit, my grandma’s reading this. Sorry, Grandma, I’m sure you don’t know what a rim job is. It’s when a man or woman eats another person’s butt out. No, not like those people on that airplane that crashed into the mountains and had to literally eat each other’s butt flesh to survive. I’m referring to when people lick each other’s anuses (anae???). But I digress. Big time. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, how much traveling with kids sucks.

  Okay, so after clearing the TSA line with our kids, which is basically akin to winning an Olympic decathlon, my hubby and I high-five each other and head to the gate with the kiddos and hopefully all our bags, but who knows? Alls I know is that this time we weren’t stopped for any weapons the kids stealthily packed when I wasn’t looking and no one ran away while the hubby and I were putting our shoes back on. And after walking 2,000 miles to the last gate on earth, we finally get there.

  ANNOUNCER: Boarding will begin for unimportant people who don’t matter in a few minutes. If you are a member of our super-special elite exclusive club because you live out of a suitcase and our flight attendants know you by name, please feel free to glide across our red carpet that is really nothing more than an ugly red doormat we picked up at Home Depot.

  A shitload of business people with TUMI bags and blank stares step across the glamorous red doormat and onto the jet bridge.

  ANNOUNCER: In case you’re wondering, people with small children are not allowed to board early anymore because really everyone hates your guts for ruining our flight and because airlines no longer do things that make sense.

  ME: What group number are we?

  HUBBY: Seventeen.

  So we wait. And wait. And wait.

  ANNOUNCER: Group seventeen may board now.

  ZOEY: I have to go to the bathroom.

  Really? That’s interesting because I think I just asked you if you had to go to the bathroom like three minutes ago when we passed the ladies’ room. And three minutes before that when we passed another ladies’ room. And every ladies’ room before that on our 2,000-mile walk here.

  ME: You’re gonna have to hold it, sweetie.

  ZOEY: I can’t!!

  ME: You have to.

  So we wait in the lonnnng line to get on the plane and finally get to our seats and Zoey’s totally doing the pee-pee dance even though she claims she doesn’t have to go anymore so my hubby drags her to the stinky lavatory and then he has to fight the flow of traffic to get back to our seats, at which point the kids put on their boxing gloves to see who gets the window seat even though we decided who gets it four days ago by flipping a coin until Zoey changed her mind and decided that she wants to sit in the window seat on the return flight because “last is best” and then Holden believed her that “last is best” so he wanted the window seat on the way home too so they started fighting and we never came to a conclusion and now neither of them can remember what we decided and wheeeee vacations are so fun!!! The good news is my hubby agrees to sit with the rugrats on the way there so I can sit in the single seat all alone drinking those adorable little bottles of awesomeness since I spent the last fourteen days packing our suitcases and remembering shit like the sound machine and four tubes of toothpaste since no one in our family uses the same kind. And this is when my hubby decides to ask me if I remembered Holden’s blankie and I’m like yes, but are you F’ing kidding me? WTF could I do now if I didn’t? And by the way this is a genius discussion to have in front of Holden because what if I had forgotten it and he heard this right before we are about to be stuck for three hours in a metal capsule with lots of surly businesspeople at 10,000 feet above the earth?

  And finally the pilot says he’s closing the door so we can pull back from the gate and right as he says this Holden decides to have a shit-fit because he wants to sit near Mommy.

  ME: Awww, I’m sorry, buddy. Look, there aren’t any open seats next to me.

  PERSON IN MIDDLE SEAT NEXT TO ME: I’ll switch with him if he wants.

  ME: (through gritted teeth) I’ll stab you with a pen if you offer that again.

  But Holden’s annoying whines are escalating and if you are on an airplane with little kids, you are legally required to do whatever the hell it takes to keep them happy, so we end up rearranging seats and Zoey refuses to move to the aisle seat so now the arrangement is Holden in the window seat, Zoey in the middle seat, me in the torture seat, and Greg in his own seat all alone already sleeping, and I’m seriously considering pushing the flight attendant button to see if we can find out if there’s a divorce lawyer on board.

  And finally we’re up in the air and for the next two hours everyone is happy and quiet and not a pain in the ass at all and I take complete credit for this and think it is all due to my superb parenting skills and has nothing to do with the iPads that are loaded up with millions of PAW Patrols and Wild Kratts and Scooby-Doos and other shit that will rot their brains out but keep the friendly skies friendly.

  Okay, so have you ever noticed that airplanes are always too hot or too cold? Seriously, they are never just right. And this plane feels like the super-freezing refrigerator section in Costco, the one you grab shit from and run out of as fast as humanly possible before you lose appendages. So I put some sweatshirts on the kids and tuck my arms into my shirt because of course I remembered to pack everyone’s sweatshirt except for mine. Shit. Why can’t I ever remember mine and forget someone else’s? Not that it would really matter because then I would just give mine away.

  Anyways, the rest of the flight is actually awesome and peaceful and I have a shitload of candy to shovel into the kids’ faces between iPad episodes, because God forbid there’s a split second of possible freak-out time. And then suddenly I can feel the plane starting to descend. Yayyy, we’re almost there without any incidents.

  Until . . .

  HOLDEN: I don’t feel good.

  And I look over and sure enough he’s sweating bullets because the plane is now 9,000 degrees but I didn’t realize this because I wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt and Holden’s face looks kinda greenish and ruh-roh . . .

  HOLDEN: My tummy hurts.

  I grab a barf bag out of the seat pocket in front of me as fast as humanly possible and reach over Zoey just in time to catch the barf as it shoots out of his mouth at full force.



  Oh, I’m sorry, is my arm that’s catching the projectile throw-up blocking you from seeing this PAW Patrol episode you’ve probably seen a thousand times? But she continues to scream and he conti
nues to puke and I continue to reach my arm across her and my husband continues to sleep like a peaceful little jackass until the plane finally bumps down on the runway and my husband opens his eyes for the first time in three hours.

  HUBBY: Wha—what happened? Are we here?

  ME: Fuckface.

  FYI, I didn’t really say this out loud, but I can’t tell you how much I wanted to.

  I look over at Holden and he’s turned back into a normal shade of peach and someone has finally turned his mouth faucet off.

  ME: How ya doing, buddy?

  HOLDEN: I feel a little better.

  EVERYONE IN OUR SECTION OF THE PLANE: (clapping and cheering for him) Yayyyyyyy!!!

  Apparently they’d all been listening to the throw-up fest in row 27 and when we stand up I expect people to pat me on the back and high-five me for doing such an awesome job, but for some reason they just keep smiling at Holden and saying, “Good job, buddy.” Yes, by all means, good job at sitting there watching the iPad for three hours and projectile vomiting at 90 miles per hour. WTF?

  ME: Show me that cute tushy, Holden.

  HOLDEN: Look at my cute penis.

  Ummm, no. For all sorts of reasons.

  Shake it off, shake it off (and if that doesn’t work, get a sponge)

  PENIS, PECKER, PETER, SCHLONG, OR what I like to call it, the appendage I have no F’ing clue about. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen my fair share of penises (hubby, if you’re reading this, of course your gorgeous penis is the only one I’ve ever seen but I’m using literary license here). Anyways, what was I saying? Oh yeah, I’ve seen penises. But when I found out I was having a boy, one of my first thoughts was, nooooo, I don’t know anything about the penis!!!

  When Holden was a newborn, I quickly learned that when it comes to changing a diaper with a penis (OMG, my English teacher would KILL me for writing that because diapers do not have penises, but you know what I’m saying), there are really only three things you have to remember. (a) It doesn’t matter whether you wipe front to back or back to front like it does on a girl. (b) Don’t forget to lift the wrinkly elephant balls so you can clean under them. And (c) while you’re doing all this, make sure you cover that junk up or you could be gargling a mouthful of pee-pee.

  But then my little buddy got a little older and started using the potty and I started learning a whole lot more about how boys go to the bathroom. I mean my daughter was relatively simple. She climbed up there, went, wiped, and washed her hands just like me. My son, on the other hand . . . OMG, like a million things can go wrong when boys use the potty. So I present to you seven things that can go wrong when my son goes to the bathroom:

  1. Okay, here’s the dealio. Not to get too graphic, but if your kiddo is naked when he goes to the bathroom sitting down, everything is hunky dory because his legs straddle the potty and the penis automatically points down. Plinnnnk. Yes, that’s the sound of a penis pointing down. Well, a small one. As they get older the sound is more like PLUNNNNK. But let’s say he’s wearing clothes and you don’t want to spend ten minutes stripping your kiddo down before he slides up on that toilet seat. Well, then his pants are around his ankles and his legs are basically shackled together and his peeper is automatically in the up position and if you don’t push that sucker down, you’re looking at a rainbow of pee-pee straight onto your lap. And call me a prude, but I’m not really into golden showers. So whenever my son goes to the bathroom, I sound like a perverted broken record. “Push your penis down. Push your penis down. Push your penis down.” And then if he doesn’t push it down, I have to poke it down with my finger between his legs and ewwww, suddenly I feel like the pedophile who works in the back of the baseball card shop.

  2. Alrighty then. Maybe you’re like me and you didn’t even know that little boys pee sitting down because pretty much my whole life alls I ever saw was men standing up and peeing and I was all fifty shades of green with envy. Wahhhh, why do I have to squat over the porta-potty until my thighs burn like they’re on fire? I want a peeenis!! It’s not fair! But little boys are different than men. Some little boys pee-pee sitting down. And some little boys pee-pee standing up. And some little boys, like my guy, like to decide which way to do it every stupid time and it’s super annoying if you’re their mom because basically their bladder is like a ticking time bomb that’s going to explode and you have exactly three seconds to figure out whether they want to sit or stand before KABLOOOEY, there’s a giant urine explosion. Fun times.

  3. You know what’s really fun? When my son is peeing standing up and my daughter says, “Hey Holden, look at this!!” and I don’t know if his neck is broken or something but he decides to turn around with his whole body to look instead of just turning his head or looking with his eyes. Awesome. Yes, I do think this bathroom really does look nicer with a yellow drippy border.

  4. And let’s not forget about pooping.

  ME: Are you done, buddy? Bend over so I can wipe you.

  And then I have to throw the toilet paper in the potty off to the side so it doesn’t cover the poop up and I say:

  ME: Want to see it before I flush?

  Yes, this sounds all kinds of F’ed up, I know. But if he doesn’t get to see it, here’s what happens:

  HOLDEN: WAHHHHHH!!!! I wanted to seeee it!!!!!

  ME: You’ll see it next time, kiddo.


  ME: I can’t bring it back.


  ME: Sorry, kiddo, there is no unflush on a toilet. Thank God.

  I don’t know WTF it is with men, but they like to check out their poop. Sometimes he’s impressed that it’s big, sometimes he likes to count the pieces, and sometimes he says it looks like some kind of animal. I guess I should just be glad he has a passion.

  5. Ohhh yeah, the Taylor Swift effect. Yo Tay Tay (I can call her that because we’re best buds), I’ll bet you didn’t know that moms across America would be singing your tune to their boys after they take a leak. Well, maybe I’m the only one who does it, but every time my son’s done peeing, I sing “shake it off, shake it off,” because there’s always one drop of pee-pee still clinging to the tip of my son’s peeper and if he doesn’t shake, it ends up dripping onto the floor or onto the seat or onto me, and I know it’s just one tiny drop of urine but it’s the principle, ya know?

  6. Oh, here’s another phenomenon (holy crap was that a hard word to type) that only happens to boys. After a giant fight over whether to sit or stand, he’s finally sitting up on the potty, everything is looking good, and suddenly I’m like, are you kidding me? Why is there a little river of pee-pee going down the outside of the potty? Awww shit, my kid has such good aim, he manages to shoot it right out that one little crack between the toilet bowl and the toilet seat. Grrrr.

  7. Okay, I don’t know WTF my toddler is thinking about (Minnie Mouse naked and doing the hot dog dance???), but did you know that two-year-olds get woodies? And I’m not talking about the cool cowboy dude from Toy Story. Hellllllo, earth to God, do babies seriously need to get boners? Because I’ll tell you what sucks. When my son has to go pee-pee and he can’t because his wee-willy-winky is pointed at the ceiling and we have to wait for it to go down. Come on, kiddo, think of something gross. Think about Caillou’s mom naked.

  Anyways, that’s probably a good note to end on. If you are reading this before bed, I highly recommend looking at something else before you go to sleep so you don’t have nightmares about Mama Caillou’s naked floppy boobs and vajayjay. I mean no, I’ve never seen her vajayjay, but if I had to guess, it’s as doughy as the rest of her and ewwwwww.

  The difference between girls and boys:

  (Looking in toilet)

  HER: Ewwww!

  HIM: Corn!!

  HOLDEN: I pee-pee out of my penis.

  ME: Yes.

  HOLDEN: You pee-pee out of your penis.

  ME: I don
t have a penis. I have a vagina.

  HOLDEN: Daddy has a ’gina.

  ME: No, Daddy has a penis.

  HOLDEN: Zoey pee-pees out of her penis.

  ME: Zoey doesn’t have a penis. She has a vagina.

  HOLDEN: You have a penis and a ’gina.

  ME: No, I just have a vagina.

  HOLDEN: Zoey has a penis and a ’gina.

  ME: No, just a vagina.

  HOLDEN: I have a penis and Daddy has a penis.

  ME: Yup.

  HOLDEN: And you have a ’gina and Zoey has a ’gina.

  ME: That’s it, buddy. You’ve got it!

  HOLDEN: Can I see your penis?


  I Tried the Crying It Out Method

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