Jenny McCarthy, I Bless You

So the web is on fire with Jenny's recent Tweet of her larger-than-normal pregnant self. In an age where pregnant celebs look at 38 weeks what I did at say, 9 weeks, it's so refreshing to see Jenny make no apologies for a ginormous belly and double chin.

But seriously, like anyone is ever attractive at 9 10 months pregnant? We don't see the celebs out and about at 40 weeks, waddling on cankles and farting with every step they take. No, we only get the occasional red-carpet frenzy ("Stilletos! She's in stilettos!) or the well-timed 'out and about' paparazzi shot of the glamamama in skin-tight skinny jeans and a belly-hugging tank. Sans armpit fat. Then it's presto, chango, she's gone until the unveiling of her oddly-named offspring in a huge People Magazine spread. With lots of heavy lighting, airbrushing, fans and nannies to corral the spit-up between takes.

So hats off to you, Jenny M. You are the real deal, and while I don't know you personally, ya done me proud.

Paris Hilton's Dog Mansion

Forget her walking out of the interview (seriously, who cares?). Catch the end, right around 4:59, where she talks about her dog mansion. Dog. Mansion.

Girlfriend needs to spend some time in a soup kitchen or a womens' shelter....sweet baby jane, this woman is unreal.

Pissing Off The Elderly

When I'm not chasing insanity, I work as a nursing assistant while I finish school. I realize that since I'm only going part-time as a 30-something mom in the midst of a total career change, I probably won't receive my coveted nursing pin for at least 20 more years (sigh). In any event, I'm working in memory care and with dementia/Alzheimer's patients to hone my skills and learn how take an accurate BP while being accosted by an entourage of walkers.

It's also incredibly rewarding. I adore the elderly, and there's something so phenomenal about working with patients who, in the midst of their decline, offer you a clear glimpse of who they were. Be it a smile, a joke, a hug or a smart-alek comment (and they have many), the bounty of my investment with them is innumerable. I'm also given the daily treat of laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Yesterday, I went in to take some vitals and administer meds to one of my favorite residents. At 90-something, with a coiffed wig and an eyebrow forever raised, she misses nothing and holds back even less. Typical conversations with her usually go something like:


"How's your dinner today?" 
"Horseshit! Get me a damned whiskey sour!"

Yesterday, as I sat down next to her she reached out for her daily squeeze. Sometimes she remembers my name, sometimes not, but she always knows she gets a hug and a smooch. As I pulled away, her face crumpled into tears and she started crying.

"What's wrong?" I asked her, hugging her again.

"My daughter! My poor daughter!" She wailed.

"What do you mean? She's fine! She's wonderful." I assured her.

Adamant head shake. "No. It's terrible. She never knew her dad."

Oh. I treaded lightly. "Were you a single mom?" I asked her kindly, nodding sympathetically.

She looked at me strangely. "What?" She snapped. I hurried on. "My own mom was a single mom, and I never really knew my biological father." I then proceeded to reassure her that she did a great job, and had nothing to be sad about.

She nodded slowly and her face un-crumpled. I kissed her forehead. "It's ok; lots of people don't know their dads." I said, putting on my stethoscope.

She glared at me. "What the hell are you talking about?" She shouted. "She knows her damned father! I said she never knew her DOG!"

Toddlers are Thugs

A few months ago, my BFF was pulling her hair out in frustration over her toddler...everything she described could be summed up in one word:  Thug.

The first time I had a toddler, I was wearier than this time around. My oldest son, while a really sweet-natured boy, was out of control as a toddler. He threw everything he could find, yelled at cashiers, broke four CD players and two shredders stuffing them full of change, dismantled a WW2 memorial...still, I would count to ten, huff my chest out and vow to be more patient with him. Now, with my second toddler? I'm just pissed off.

Yesterday, my kids and I had to leave the playground because my todd thugler wouldn't stop eating other people's food. It was embarrassing. Yes, we had snacks (which he threw on the ground). From crashing a family's picnic (literally digging inside of their cooler), to finding him with a strange soda (how disgusting is that)...and then there was his flirting with that nice lady, only to start picking through her Subway sandwich once eye contact was made. The child was the Red Fox of  sustenance. And like a sociopath, once he heard the word 'no', his long, batted lashes and sweet smile turned into a furious, menacing scream accompanied by some sort of physical assault on his mother.

See? Thug.

The other day at the library he threw such an humiliating temper tantrum that for a moment, just a fleeting second, I totally understood child abuse.

Then there was today at Walmart. Just when I thought I would fold to his glass-breaking screams, an angel-mama appeared, cheering me on to leave him in that time out! Don't let him get away with that nonsense! You go, girl! I acted tough, unwavering...but when thugler caught my eye I found myself making puppy eyes. They said, please, baby, please be a nice boy. Mommy loves you so much! His bottom lip trembled, he reached up for me. "Nyyyce, nyyyce", he apologized  and "Mama? Up, peese?" I melted, tired of the last 6 months of nonstop lunacy, and lifted him to me for a snuggle. He buried his warm little cheeks into my neck and I inhaled his little boy scent: bananas, baby shampoo, and honey nut cheerios. Ah, my boy.

Then he yanked my hair back so hard I think I got whiplash.

Thug.

Birth Amongst the Goldfish

No, it's not an independent film title. It's really a story I happened upon over at iVillage. I've met a lot of people who have some pretty interesting ideas of how home births should go. My own opinion is that if you're having someone assist you whose only medical training includes a kiddie pool, maybe you're asking for trouble.

Obviously, I'm not a proponent of home births. I have a multiply disabled brother because of birth trauma, and I worked in Special Ed in college. I know this is a hot, hot topic, and I'm probably setting off the internal alarms of countless mamas. So let's leave that arena and get back to the woman who wants her Koi to swim with her new baby. (Koi are just giant goldfish. Let's be honest here.)

Why? Why, why and why? I don't get it. If she has to have her baby at home, can't she just invest in a really nice inflatable pool? What is the deal with needing all those giant, bug-eyed brainless fish swarm around her hoo-ha? She blogs about it here. I don't get it. I understand the whole water-birth appeal, trying to stay organic with nature and easing the baby's transition into this world. But trying to push out a human being while lying in a tank of fish poop is about as anti-ethereal as it gets.

Is she kidding? Does anyone know anything else about this story?

I'm Here...and There

As I navigate this new territory, I'm trying to get used to lifestyle changes like visitation, shared holidays, mediation, and not wanting to revert back to my old self who would rather throw a toaster at his head than talk through things. That said, I invite all of my readers (and thank you to so many, I STILL get emails and comments after all these months of absence) to check me out at my new blog, Watchdog Mom. It's a little known fact that I also like dip my toes in the arena of parent activism, and I think I have some good stuff to say. Of course, I'm sure I'll offend lots of people as well, but it's the spice of life that keeps me ticking.

More later...