Momma turns to the bottle

You know things are bad when you call your pediatrician and ask numbly "Why will my child not nap? She is crying. Please help." Before I placed the call, I knew deep in the depths of my denial, they wouldn't be able to help. They gave me the spiel of "set a routine" done. "read her stories" done. "maybe she is testing you" hmmmm my daughter? nahhhhhh. And so on and so on until I wanted to scream "What are you a witch doctor? Why can't you solve my problems? "
This issue seems to be going on for weeks but in reality it has probably only been a day or 2. Most people who know Karrington would say I am blessed (ie spoiled and in for a rotten bit of luck with the next one, or so they hope) with a easy going child who never fusses in restaurants, loves going to the daycare at my gym, and never EVER cries. And with this nap time issue she still does not cry. She screams. Not a little shriek but full on top of the lung, never ending screams. she lets out a silent scream where her body just shakes. Sometimes she gasps for air. Whatever she decides to let out though she can turn it off in a second. Until that is you piss her off again. Which in the last few days means laying her down for a nap.
I have to believe it has to do with teething. Which, as my loving husband points out, is why it feels to be going on for weeks. She seems to get a new tooth every 2 1/2 or 3 weeks. I feel bad for her really I do. I'm not a heartless mommy. I would gladly grant her wish to remain toothless for life. If we never take her to the dentist she can have that wish eventually. Until then however she is stuck w/ shards of bone cutting through her gum and me sending her on a Tylenol binge.
Yesterday was really bad though. I tried unsuccessfully for 2 1/2 hours to put her down. She completely missed her afternoon nap. I took her to daycare while I went to Weight Watchers (where I had a breakdown) and warned them that she might be possessed by the devil. When I returned they said gleefully "Look how happy she is! We never heard one scream"I suppose they thought this would make me feel good. Instead I wanted to shove my daughter's bottle up their loving butt holes. My husband knows I am a selfish troll and nothing makes me feel better then others experiencing my pain. This time though I just felt like a failure. I was glad though she wasn't unhappy. Until she got home that is.
My husband rescued me with a bottle of Wine and Roses. Never before has wine tasted so good. Instead of leaving the hospital with diapers and manuals they should just give you a case of booze and say "good luck" In fact, Similac would make millions of mothers happy if along with the sample
Today (knock on wood) the first nap appears to be successful. We will see about the next one. For those that are saying "Gee and you think you want another one?" I say that I think I handled this very well. I remained calm and loving through it all. I didn't throw her out the window. Though I did want to kick the termite lady that rang our doorbell during her nap in the boob. You can only take so many hours of screaming however, before you hit your own breaking point. There is nothing wrong with crying in front of your Weight Watchers leader and 5 other ladies because they have all been there. Granted they probably all thinking "Sucker!" as I imagine most mom's with grown children do. But that is their right as woman who have survived. Once you get over any certain hump you are allowed to silently gloat over those who are currently going through it.
We all have our breaking points. Sometimes it's once a week, maybe once a month. In these hard times remember this. We are blessed to live in America. Where there is a liquor store on every corner.

So what your saying is most parents don't refer to their children as aids tested monkeys?

Pet names are a big thing in this family. The sillier they are the more love there is behind them. My husband fondly calls me crackhead, hot pants, sexy llama butt and so on. In return I refer to him as little lumpkin butt, my lamal (love of my life but with my spelling errors), cocky locky, my chocolate love torpedo etc. It only made sense that as soon as our daughter was born that we should shower her with our terms of love. Which is why I called her my little aids tested monkey.

No one seems to understand how we could call our little cherry blossom such a thing. Children should be called precious (which we do call her but we say it in the lord of the rings voice 'my precccciiooous), handsome, little man, princess etc. Occasionally we will call her a generic term. This typically occurs when we are sleep deprived and calling her "it" doesn't seem quite right.

I think our loving pet names fail to settle with some people. My one girlfriend's baby became cursed with the pet name Yoda. I don't think she was terribly pleased with this. I however think her child is the most adorable thing and I just want to shake him like a magic eight ball until he tells me my future (see this is the weird stuff I'm talking about). I haven't even seen Star Wars so I'm not quite sure who Yoda is. But I think he's some wise person, yes? Sensing that she did not seem quite at ease with the nickname I changed it to peanut brain. This is the exact opposite of Yoda and really doesn't sit well on my tongue. So I made up another one a few weeks later. That didn't work either. I suppose I could call him by his birth name but where is the fun in that? Mentally I will always call him Yoda and sing the Weird Al song in my head Ya-ya-ya-Yoda!

So in conclusion, since this post has gone no where, I like to express my love in weird ways. I'm usually a very serious individual and goofy nicknames make me smile. And nothing makes me happier then changing a horrible leaky, stinky diaper then calling my daughter (in the same baby ga ga ga voice you guys use) a little shit. She looks up at me with her big blue eyes, pees on my carpet and smiles. She smiles because she knows that is exactly what she is and we love her for it!

I'm sorry we can not have sex in our bed. I spent 3 hours making it.

I had a roommate in college who made her bed every morning. She even placed her pillows and stuffed animals just so. My bed was lucky to have a sheet on it and if it did it hadn't been washed since Freshman year (It was only my own funk. Like I actually ever had sex in my college bed. Have you ever seen a dorm bed? I was lucky to fit into it. My criteria for being a booty call was that you had your own place, with a big bed. But I digress). I have to admit that her bed making skills did make her side of the room look more neat. I often would climb over everything on my floor,just to sit on her neatly made bed. I felt a sense of calm wash over me when I was there. It was akin to being in Tahiti.My side of the room was akin to New Orleans. After Katrina. Unfortunately for my roomie I would undoubtedly bring souvenirs from my side of the room. This led to the first of many rules my roommate laid out for me.
1. Do not eat in my bed (crumbs)
2. Do not read in my bed (waking up to being jabbed in the side with a text book)
3. Do not sit on my bed (your fat ass makes an imprint on my perfectly made bed)
4. Do not masturbate in my bed.

This last one I never did, nor would I ever do. However, if you have never been to college (or are about to go) I can assure you that this is a universal law of etiquette. It is also one that must be laid out because yes you could live with someone that might consider doing this (you can assure this will never happen by keeping your bed a disaster like mine).
I kept wishing that I could have an peaceful room like my friend. She tried to convince me that I could indeed do it. Making my bed would be a wonderful start.Ten years later I am finally getting around to it. This week's journey is about how the undercover housewife learns to make the bed.
First let me state that I see no purpose in making the bed. You sleep in it later that night. Plus I sleep like a tornado. Between my twitching, flipping and flailing, I also have night terrors. This involves me sitting up screaming in the middle of the night about people being in my room, smacking my poor husband, etc etc. In the morning the bed looks like some of Michael Vick's pitbulls had a cage match on it .

Exhibit A






However, I want to teach my daughter how to make a bed so I'm determined to figure out this domestic art. My first attempts were not successful.

Exhibit B

Yes much like my first attempt at college this was indeed a half-ass effort. So I tried again.
Now this might not look much better but I can explain. The design on our quilt must fit just so on our bed. Otherwise it looks strange. So I end up running from one side to the next tugging the one side, checking it and then running back to the other side to correct it again. Apparently I don't know my own strength because the above is what happens. It actually takes me about 5 tries to get it right. It makes me want our queen bed back instead of the king.

The other obstacle I face is hospital corners. Everyone I speak to says, "Don't worry about them!" but if I am going to do this I am going to do it right dammit! The problem I having though is that the sheets don't appear to be long enough. Perhaps someone can explain. Shouldn't all king sheets fit each mattress? Or are their special king size sheets for tall beds? In any case I spent about 3 days trying to wrestle the sheets to the perfect length and failed each time. It appears that hospital corners are not in my future.

Decorative pillows. I bought them because they look pretty but they always seem to lay scrumped up in the corner. I put them on my bed but because our regular pillows are so huge they float about with no purpose. I think what I need to do is buy more decorative pillows so it balances the other two out. My husband (and others that know me) are thinking "this will only lead to more pillows on the floor" but I have faith that purchasing more of the worthless item and not throwing out the ones I have is the best course of action. Why? Because decorative pillows are pretty.
I made my bed every day this week. Once you get into the routine of making the bed it becomes fairly simple. I actually feel lazy if I don't do it. The other amazing thing about making the bed? When I walk up our stairs it is the first thing I see. It distracts the eye from the piles of clothes all over the bedroom floor quite nicely. I will have to work on that another week.

The Undercover Mother first blog.

Before

AFTER

It seems that everyone has a blog these days. Even my husband has one, except he receives payment for his. I, on the other hand, only receive the pleasure of heaping my emotional vomit upon you from time to time. I have buried my creative streak for the last year and I have now decided that perhaps this would be a new venue to pursue. That is, before blogging is replaced with twittering, twattering, or whatever new craze passes me by as I wipe poopie butts.

The purpose of this blog is to journal my process of finding my place in the land of playdates, classes, and diaper changes; all while being the undercover mother. What does it mean to be an undercover mother? To me it is a mom trying to find where she belongs in this subgroup of species known as mothers. Let me tell you, there are so many types of moms it's intimidating. There are moms that never venture out of the home, stuck in a no man's land of sweat pants and ponytails (trust me we've all been there. Why do you think moms chop off all their hair?) There are moms that strive to look like they stepped out of Vogue magazine and expect their husbands, children, homes, cars and animals to follow suit. There are the moms that set the bar so high for their children. I am convinced they are making up for their own short comings (You know the type—the ones that have tutors for their children to make sure they are prepared for pre-school). The list goes on and on.

Then there are the undercover mothers like me, stuck in the middle, not sure where they belong, or even where they want to belong. If you are like me and you are the queen of constant thoughts, you might even lie awake twice a month pondering whether you should buy Leave it to Beaver on DVD to learn how to run a household. So that is what this blog is about. Discovering what kind of mom I want to be, what kind of wife I want to be, and what kind of household I want to run. It may not be a feminist's wet dream and it certainly won't be free of vulgarity but hopefully it will make me a good mommy.

Let me give you a brief rundown of myself. I am a 29 year old first time mother, and yes, despite the fact that my fingers are still fat and bloated, so I can't wear rings, I do have a husband—somewhere. I am an only child and I had absolutely no experience with little ones. When I babysat in my neighborhood, my mother had to come with me to help (I kept the money). My mother and I had an extremely close relationship growing up and she raised me to be a "free spirit" (more on that later). My husband and I find this highly amusing because my mother and father are glued to Fox News and are devout Republicans. I'm assuming she is secretly dying to break free from Glen Beck's tight squeeze on her brain. Why else would she have raised me to be a tattooed weirdo?

I grew up as a quasi spoiled child. I never had any interest in wearing designer clothes or material possessions; in fact, most of my shopping was done at Good Will. I was however, waited on hand and foot. I refused to make my bed, clean my room, wash dishes, fold clothes, wash clothes or do anything that had to do with work. My mother did it all. I had to call someone to tell me how to work a dishwasher once. These are things I am not exactly proud of but I do find amusing. I know how sad and pathetic it sounds. My days were spent at a small liberal private school (yet again, why did my conservative parents send me here??) and my nights were spent dining with my parents friends at local restaurants or at the country club.

You see this is why I am such a confused human being in need of much therapy. My conservative parents sent me to hippie high (we learned about social nihilism in 7th grade), yet they wanted me to take golf lessons and learn to play classical piano. In addition I was constantly associating with my parents' peers rather then children my own age. I was supposed to be a free spirit that used a 9 iron??????? I started to color my white blonde hair in with magic markers at age 9. When my mom took me to her hair salon at age 6 I told them I wanted purple hair. My entire life consisted of trying to raise me with one sent of fantastical ideals, yet prepare me to marry one of the heirs to the koosh ball industry. I currently take .75 milligrams of Efexor XR if anyone would like to send me some.


When I hit my late teens/early 20's I ran further from the country club straight into the gutter and formed a punk band. Yet another place I never fully fit in. I was just as happy listening to Brittney Spears as I was to Fear. I didn't have the "street cred" to be accepted by the crusties, or street punks (though I suspect their upbringings were similar to mine, they were just better liars), I wasn't mean enough to be a skin chick, and I didn't have the discipline to be straightedge (lest you forget, rich white girls drink to forget their problems). So I hung out with the other mismatched nice, yet musically snobby, pop punk kids. I really hated pop punk music. I formed a band and lived the lie of someone who loved being on stage and drank my way across the country and back. Have you seen the movie The Rose? I'm sure that would have been me if I hadn't quit when I did, except minus the talent. Please keep in mind that this is the short sarcastic version of my life. There was actually quite a bit of happiness and fun times, but I'm sure you don't want to hear about that. Here is an interesting story. You would think a touring punk band would spend their down time trashing hotel rooms. We went to Wal-Mart and bought a puzzle with Kitty Cats on it. We went back to the hotel room, turned on CSI and put it together.
After 10 years of being in a band, watching fights (which I hate), kids drinking underage in alleys (lame), and trying to mother everyone in sight I was wiped out. Having a golf caddy didn't sound too bad. So I quit. Luckily my amazing husband (who was in the band with me) supported me and agreed it was time to have a normal life that didn't involve living out of a van.

So to bring you up to speed, we packed up, moved to Florida and had our amazing baby. I am now a stay at home mom who does not know how to make a bed. I want to learn though. I also want to join the PTA, organize bake sales, and take my daughter to dance/cheerleading/touch football/debate practice. Oh and I want another baby. Then another. I love being a SAHM. I just need to figure out how to do it. I also need to do it with 20 + tattoos, occasionally fake hair color (of the purple variety), and a big sarcastic mouth. So where will I fit in? At almost 30 I'm done trying to fake it to make it. I suspect the people I fit in with are going to be like my mom. Very kind, loving and conservative with just that tiny flicker of wild child that they think I may be able to bring out. They will be disappointed in the end to find that I'm just a boring homebody with a penchant for letting big hairy men draw all over me in permanent ink.