Saturday, May 16, 2015

LauraBelle in Motherhood....Take 2.

So remember when Dilly was born and like 2.5 days later I decided to take her and the dog to the vet? Well, not taking her to the vet, but the dog. You get it. Anyways, taking the dog.......with a newborn. Because i'm badass. And being so badass, I ran out of the house right after I breastfed and apparently forgot to hook up one of the lady saddles. So there I was, flying free. As the 65 year old male vet looked over Wyatt.
Good day for him.
Good day for everyone.

So, anyways, fast forward to today.

I got about negative 8 hours of sleep last night and in an effort to live up to my 'badass' mom status, I decided to take Dilly to the pool today. Normal. Do it all the time. Supersauce.

There we were, just hanging out. You know, sliding down the slide. Splashing around. Trying to get as much energy exerted as freaking possible so that Mama could go home and pass the hell out.....as baby napped too, of course.

And then it happened.

Flashbacks to a time so unhinged that one couldn't possibly repeat it.....let alone top it like a cherry on a sundae.

Damn. Now I want ice cream.

Moving on.

So, I'm getting ready to help Dillyn down the slide for like the 27 THOUSANDTH time.....And right when she gets to the bottom............

..............

......

...

The back clip to my top came unhooked.

WHY DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN TO ME?!?!

So I grab my top, hoping and praying that no one had the misfortune of seeing 'the girls' fly free.

I mean, seriously, no one needs to see that. Bless their hearts, they're like two little golf balls at the end of a toddler's tube sock. And all these poor people at the YMCA just don't need that in their lives.

Oh wait.....TODDLER!!! Holy Mother of Free Tits, MY daughter just went down the slide!

Yup, there she is, face down, nearly drowning with her little puddle jumper floaty as 'the tube socks' fly free.

SHIT!

So I grab her, and try to grab the girls. And we all try to shield ourselves from any poor civilians that may be of witness.

Unfortunately, there were witnesses. I mean, at least, I only saw one girl directly that watched the entire episode.  You just wait my high school bumpkin.....you just wait.....you will be a mom one day and this shit will DEFINITELY happen to you. But I'm sure there were more witnesses. I may have even flashed a right nipple again as I was trying to pull Dilly to the slide stairs so I could get at least both hands to hook my shit back up.

Is it just me, or do other mothers have this much trouble with their boobs? I mean, really. What.The.Hell.

Bottom line is I didn't drown my daughter.
Points for me.
And I might or might not have given the worst boob show to a bunch of stay at home moms, young college kids, and other random boys/men/whothefuckcares. Not to mention all the 'children'.

This is my life.

And it's only fitting I share.

I write once in a year now. And it's all about boobs.

You're welcome. And this is why we're friends.


Friday, April 10, 2015

Dear Dilly...

I've decided to do some letters to my little DillyBean. Someone, I can't remember who, may Jordan? Lindsey? Anyways, someone sent me this link to this blog (that I also can't remember, because this is what happens when you birth a child.....your brain just disappears) that was written to their child in the sense that they were 'Sorry' for all the crap that they 'parented' upon them. Like, Sorry Dorothy, I don't know what the crap I was thinking naming you Dorothy and living in Kansas. You get it right? Right. Cause y'all be smartypants. So anyways, there's been too many times I've thought 'Dear Dilly, I can't believe you're still alive and actually growing', so I decided I need to record these thoughts forever and ever and ever. So that she has the privilege of looking back when she has a daughter some day and know that sometimes shit happens, like banging your daughter's head against the door jam in the middle of the night by accident, but life still goes on.

So here we go:

Dear Dilly,

I realized yesterday, that while you are almost 2 years old and walking around and able to pretty much 'be ok' without me hovering ever single millisecond of the day over you, that I was lying to myself. I know multiple people tell you to WATCH EVERY MOVE your toddler makes and DO NOT ADVERT YOUR EYES FROM THEM for one instant, I just figured that was like, you know, when you were in the bath, or near the stairs when there isn't a gate, or when the fireplace is going. You know. Important stuff. But when you're just hanging out in the living room while I'm trying to make dinner, change for the gym, fill my water bottle, clean up your dinner, turn the stove off because the water's boiling over on dinner, try to get my sock on while standing on one foot and answering the phone when Daddy calls, that you'd be fine. You know, just playing with your toys. In the 'safe' zone.

Ohhhhh, how quickly I was wrong. See, you were eating a fabulously and labor intensive meal of sliced deli meat and tomatoes when you decided that you wanted 'Dow, Dow, DOWWWWW!!!!' Meaning 'down'. Right that freaking second. You were done with your nutritious and gloriously prepared meal and wanted whatever a toddler wants at that instant. Well, you didn't really eat much, and being the person that was raised by my mother, that was raised by her mother, who was raised in the middle of a depression.....you DO NOT throw shit away. At.All. So, bonus for the '1st Child', Wyatt, he gets your left overs and thinks he's King Shit. So there I go, scraping your din-din in the dog's empty food dish and promptly go about continuing the 4700 things I'm doing at one time.

Much to my surprise, Miss Dilly, when I turned around (in what felt like literally 2 seconds), you had just popped something in your mouth and swallowed.

This is what I thought, 'Oh shittlebits, she just ate a crayon again. Christ on a freaking crutch this girl is going to forever poop colored wax!!!'

And let me just stop to say, yes, yes you read that right. You have eaten crayons before. Shit happens. You survived. But that is not the point of this story.

Moving on. I immediately ran over to you and said, 'WHAT DID YOU EAT?! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?!' And, being that you're only 20ish months old, you just looked at me with your big blue eyes and then smiled the sweetest smile. You might have even shrugged. Not that you know how to shrug, and it could have been my imagination. But whatever. Then, by some twist of fate, I just happened to look behind you and notice the dog dish.

The EMPTY dog dish.

Oh.My.Holy.Effing.Hell.

My child just ate her food out of the dogs dish. The slobber-covered, small dry dog food remnants covered, dirty as all hell, DOG DISH.

Winning at parenthood right here.

The lesson you can learn Dilly, is that the only thing your mother is worried about when you eat crayons is colored poop, but when you eat food out of the dog dish it almost sends her into a coma-induced state of panic. Not that I could do anything about it anyway, because it's already been ingested, but still. Things like this make me feel like I should be a parent to ALL kids, because clearly I'm doing it right.

I can't wait until someday your child eats out of your dog's dish, so you know the wonderful feeling that it gives you. And when you call and tell me about it, I will laugh. I will laugh so hard.

But for now, DON'T EAT OUT OF THE FREAKING DOG'S BOWL!!! Good God.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Another Epic Tale of the Shittasticness that is My Life.

So you know how I was going to take The Toddler out for a 'jog' on Monday afternoon? Ya, well that didn't happen.
Shocker I know.

BUT! I did get an ambitious hair up my chubby pooper and dug out the stroller last night.......before the Torture Session (aka Bootcamp). I totally get extra points for that or something, right?! Right.  Now, mind you, the stroller probably hasn't been used in like months. Mainly because its been a frozen tundra here lately, and there's no need to expose the babe's sensitive skin to that chilly jazz (and I'm not talking about my child here. Me. It's all about Me.)

After I strap her little butt in and I finally get the damn Nike Running app to synchronize it's shit to the satellite and we head off. stupid satellites.

The loop around my neighborhood is about .5 to .6 miles long, so my goal was to do 2 laps. I mean, I know I can be a badass and power through 3 miles on the conveyor belt of death, but pushing a stroller......on a sandy, gravel, craptasticness road, with a nearly 30lb toddler attached, is a WHOLE other story. (Yes, THIRTY pounds. Child weighs as much as a 3 year old. And she's only 18 months. And still demands to be carried everywhere. Which I'm happily doing because that'll help with the Batwings. Totes Awesomesauce. **I was being sarcastic about it being awesomesauce, in case you didn't pick up on that**)

So away we go. I race.....and I use that term lightly....down the driveway and head around the loop. All the while The Toddler is leaning so far forward (to see the tire spin fast), that I'm pretty sure she's going to topple over and take me with her. So I'm reaching around the front trying to reign her back in, I'm still running of course, along with trying to jump over dog shit, beer cans, and other paraphernalia littered along our glorious road. Finally, I just give up. If Miss Sassypants is going to fall out of the stroller, then fine. I'll just deal with it then. mother.of.the.year.

We get about 1/4 of the way around and man, I'm hurting. I mean, my legs are on fire. They feel like the stumps of elephant legs that are stuck in quicksand.
Basically..............I'm dying.



Preach it Sista.

But I push through, like the semi-psychotic fool that I am. And I make it about .4 miles before I'm pretty sure I'm going faceplant the concrete and leave my child motherless in the big scary wilderness. I slow to a walk and actually catch up with some neighbors that I haven't met yet. Praise Baby Jesus for a distraction!!!!! Since I spent about 10 minutes being a little Chatty Cathy.....maybe or maybe not on purpose.....I didn't have enough time to go back around. So sad.

To make a long story short, I plow up the drive way and drop Dillybean in her high chair and zoom off to get my ass kicked by the Queen of Hades.

Good, grand, and wonderful. I'm a rockstar. Three cheers for me.

Fast forward to later that night. I'm sitting on the couch and my dear, sweet, loving husband pipes up and says, 'Hey, was it difficult pushing that stroller around?'

Ummmmm, YEAHHHHHhhhhhhhhhUUUUggggghhhhhhh. Duh. Jeezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

'Well, did you realize that all the tires were flat?'

**blink, blink**

'You mean you ran around all that way with flat tires?!?!'

Ohhhh, MuthaF&*ckingCr@pSh!tG$dDa#mnITStupidF&*ckingStroller!!!!!!!!!!

Never would have occurred to me to look at the tires.


Monday, March 9, 2015

At first I was a Marathoner. But now I'm just lazy with a busted pair of jeans.

You know how there are some days when you're all:

I'M GOING TO RUN A MOTHER EFFING MARATHON!!!!



And then like 2.I'mALazyAss seconds later, you're all:



Ya. That's me.
Anyone else with me?!
Thought so.
Procrastinating Pretend Over-Achievers UNITE!

I am, however, still attending Bootcamp 3(ish) times a week. We're into our 5th week. Yippe Skippy for me. Apparently, since I'm working out like a gladiator, my body has decided that I need to eat ALL the foods. Seriously. ALL of it. I can NOT stop shoving junk in my mouth! Oh, there's cupcakes....ok, I'll have 6. Glazed donuts......baker's dozen please. Stuffed Green Peppers......oh, I'll forcefully shovel two large ones in my pie hole. While my 6'5" husband only has 1.5. Yeah. Just ONE would have been enough. Jesus, Mary, and Saggy Asses. GAHHHH!

It's just soooo hard. *enter whiny pitiful voice*

In other news is I'm getting off the juice.

No not the 'roids.

Soda Pop.

Yup. I've gone 2 weeks. Well, I relapsed a little last weekend and had a can of the go-go nectar of the Gods. But I'm still winning in my mind.

Back to Bootcamp.
Otherwise known as Satan's Mistress's Attempt At Torturing The Little People.

You know, some people think it's all:



But it's totally not.
I mean, we work our ASSES off. The little Demon Princess (aka Morgan, Personal Trainer to the Minions) makes us actually sweat! Can you believe that shit?! I know, me either.

Surprisingly, even though I've gained weight and I haven't lost any inches. I do see my pitiful muscles forming. Like, I know that I have some shoulder muscles. And I'm starting to see my Ben & Jerry's (thunder thighs) take shape. And not look like two gigantic watermelons attached to my hips.

Oh, quick note about my Ben & Jerry's. Jerry tried to make a break for it last week. Little bastard. Yup, there I was, about 9:54 in the morning, enjoying a mouthwatering sugar-loaded glazed donut, when I feel a little 'draft'. Or at least I feel like something is not quite right.....down there. Hoping that I just left my fly down, I tentatively glance down.

Farts. (not literally, this is just an expression.)

Yup, Jerry busted a hole in my FAVORITE pair a jeans. Basically going from upper inside thigh to back below my bubble ass. It was about 4 inches. Gives a whole new meaning to 'busted can of biscuits'.

Double Farts.

It's the middle of the morning. I couldn't exactly go home and change because, well, that's just not possible at my lovely place of employment. It's like The Labyrinth here, once you enter, you can't find your way back out. It's a miracle I actually get to leave at the end of my shift......oh wait, no I don't. Because sometimes someone schedules an interview at 4pm. My shift ends at 4pm. Fuck you very much. And it just so happened that the day Jerry tried for a flight of freedom, was my first interview that week. Holy balls, could my day not get any worse.

So there I was, my right thigh just flapping in the wind, and I have to talk to someone about professionalism at my place of work. And to 'join my team', because we're just a special kind of quality. And not actually just a few crayons short of a full box.

Needless to say, I made it through without anyone noticing. Or if they did notice, they didn't say anything. And if it would have been a bigger rip, i would have totally Bonnie-fied it by stapling that shit back together. But, sadly, it wasn't big enough.

I also had a stern talking-to to Mr. Jerry, and enthusiastically stated that any future attempted jail breaks were strictly prohibited, I didn't care if he's feeling 'more muscular' or not. Shit's just not right.

So that's what happened to me last week.
This week I'm going to try and not eat an entire Little Debbie factory.
And I might even run tonight. Since The Weather Gods are feeling generous and are blessing us with highs in the upper 60s. Don't worry tho, I'm sure they'll be little assholes and it'll snow next week. Might as well get out while I can, right?!
Cheers to me trying to push the stroller through sand/gravel!!! Can't wait to see how this goes.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Death by Bootcamp, brought to you by The Princess of Darkness. Kill me now.

Here it is. The day after my Torture Class, and I want donuts.

Christ on a maple glazed crutch!!!

Oh, wait, let me back up. I haven't told y'all about Death by Bootcamp Torture Class have I?! Well. Just hang on to your ill-fitting sports bras for this jazz.

So my bitch of a friend Tamra, bless her little heart, talked me into working out with a trainer once a week. And this was about 4 or so months ago. This is how I met The Princess of Darkness.....aka Morgan. She is The Evil One. Satan's Mistress. The Chief of Demontorture. The Enemy of Fat Righteousness. The Destroyer of Flabtasticness. Ohhhhh how I love that petite, little, shredded, uber-fit Princess.

And after about 3 months, little Miss Tormentor mentioned that she was starting a 3-day a week bootcamp.....for 12 weeks. Why? Why do you do this to me?!

Of course my little exercise pal Tamra was ALL about it. And of course, she pestered me and bullied me, and finally FORCED me to do it with her.

We're now in Week 2.
I have reached new levels of muscle soreness. Like I can't pee without using the hand-rails so sometimes I hold it so long I contemplate just letting it go in my office chair, but then realize that eventually I'll have to get up and everyone will see that I peed my pants, and I won't have pants to change into. But even if I did have extra pants I couldn't get into them anyway because I can't bent over or move my legs like that anymore because THAT pain is way worse than using the hand rails to squat over the porcelain throne. So, I get up and pee. And save myself once again from embarrassment.

What was I talking about before the peeing?
Oh ya, Week 2.

So, last night, I'm feeling all superpower like and jump my flabby ass on Conveyor Belt of Death (otherwise known as the Treadmill) and decide to warm up by doing a little mile.
I'm feeling good. I'm owning this shit. I'm rocking out.
Mile up!
Sweet! That wasn't so hard!
Let's do this bitches!!

So I stroll all badass-like over to the Personal Training Area and the Queen of Suffering says, 'Why are you all sweaty?'

To which I reply, with a big ol' shit eaten grin, 'I just warmed up! I ran a mile!'

Hippy Skippy and Dolphin Claps for me.

She glances at me, with almost this look of pity, and says, 'Oh, well, then you're not going to like what we're doing today.'

Mother of all things EVIL! She's making us run MORE!!!

I was not prepared for this. I thought my running was done. Whyyyyyyyyyy!?!?!

Oh, and get this! My little partner in crime, Miss Tamra wasn't even there!!! (not that it was her fault, her daughter was sick, but STILL!)  There was only 3 of our 7 ladies there last night. But we three ROCKED IT! We're the A Team! Forshizzle.

The workout started off all 'I can do this!' But that wimpy enthusiasm quickly took a hike. It was four stations, with four exercises each. You did each exercise for 40 seconds then rest for 20. Then you took a quick break and moseyed on down to the track to do a 1/4 of a mile (2 laps).

First rotation.....eh, not bad.
2nd....kinda felt like my lungs were a twinge warm and I had a funny tingling in my legs.
3rd.....pretty sure I was going to die.
4th.....couldn't breathe, seriously contemplated crawling the 20 feet back to our area, and absolutely positive I lost my legs on lap 1.shitmypants.

SEE!!!!!
Morgan's just sooooo mean!

But, I do really love her. Because she's going to destroy my batwings. I just know it.
Right?

RIGHT?!?!

Ok. I don't want donuts now.
I want a freaking ice cream truck.
And a Hostess Factory.

75 more minutes until almost lunch time.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I can do this.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Did you know carrots are great Makeup Tools?!

Someone has decided that EVERYTHING is a makeup brush...or lip gloss....or something that you rub on your lips or face.

Yes. Everything.

Oh, there's bottle of sunscreen on the floor???? Lets use it like it's a blush brush and rub it all over our face.

Oh, there's a small bottle of (sealed) Essential Oil sitting on the counter, Lets use that as lip gloss and rub it all over our lips. And Mama's lips. And the dog's lips.

Seriously! It's Everything! Dillyn will pick up the most random thing and start rubbing it all over her face! lol. It's hilarious, but super strangepants at the same time.

Once, she grabbed a baby carrot and started rubbing it on her cheeks and forehead!

And, just yesterday, we were outside playing (because the Weather Gods pulled their heads out for a quick second and gave us a brilliant weekend full of 70 degree weather. However it is short lived, because it's supposed to get down to 40 on Thursday. But no fear! It goes back up to 60 this weekend. Jesus, Mary, and El Nino, can they just make up their freaking minds already?!?! It's like the Weather Gods took an IV of Red Bull, then popped a few Speed pills, as they hang out in their purple straightjackets because they're Schizos). Moving on. We were playing outside and little Miss Beauty Queen in the Making was drawing with sidewalk chalk, and I was being the good mother that I am, and sitting in a lawn chair, reading a book, and drinking a beer. All the sudden I look up to see what she's drawing...........and OH.MY.GAWD. She's taken the black....BLACK.....chalk and is drawing all over her lips. Like she's putting lip gloss on.

Ohhhhh child of mine......

I quickly jumped up and said, 'No No!!'
To which, she replied with, 'NO! NO!' (freaking sassypants) And then turned 90 degrees and took off at a full run in the other direction. Laughing & squealing like a hysterical person the whole time. Continuing to rub the black chalk all over her face.

She's 18 months people. And it's already starting.

Is this why most mothers have sippy cups of Mommy's Special Drink with them at all times?!?!

It's nice to know that Dilly's a little girly. But even more nice that her favorite word right now is DEER, and that she has no problems digging her little fingers in the mud and wiping them all over herself. (Because that's what she did when she dropped the black chalk. *shakes head*)

Here's a cute little video of her using the proper tools to put on 'make up'!

Friday, January 23, 2015

I'm a complete and utter (hehe, I said utter) Math-Challenged MORON.

Nothing is more gratifying than when you realize you are a total freaking moron. Especially when you put your moronicness (totally a word) out for all the internets to see.

I'd just like to clarify that I am in fact 33 years old. Years young. What the hell ever. I'm FUCKING THIRTY-THREE. Not 32. Not 34. Not 23, which is what I pretend sometimes when I do stupid shit, that's not related to trying to figure out my age.

I believe however, that this is the most epic of stupid shit that I've done in quite a while.

If you read my post yesterday, then you know I mildly freaked out and thought I was 33 (soon to be *gasp* 34), but somehow missed normal second grade subtraction and thought I was 32. Like, seriously spend 48 hours thinking I was 32. Told my trainer I was 32. POSTED ON THE BLOGGY I WAS 32. Told ALL the people I was 32.

When clearly, it's not only gloriously posted right under my picture to the right here----------
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |
                                                                                                                                                                  |----->
BUT anyone that has a grade school education can figure out that I'm actually 33. Not 32.

I think my math teacher of a mother (who taught me all though high school) is extremely proud of me right now.

Actually, Mother, I blame you. Yup. That's what's going to happen here. I not only inherited your side of the family's classy ditziness, but you neglected to teach your OWN daughter basic math skills. Yes, this is all your fault. (Again, I might be acting like I'm 15 at the moment, but let's not dwell on that, mmmkay?!)

And since I'm going to redirect my ignorance here, and continue on the Mom-Blame-Game, I'd like to share with you all EXACTLY where I come from.
This was Mother's comment on a post I put on FB the other day:

SEE PEOPLE?!?! SEE!!!!

All Heifer Free.

I'd like to be all heifer free as well Mother. But I'm referring to my heifer sized ass.



In other news: Day 2 of my Sugar Overload Diet commenced with my employee bringing in fresh, straight from the oven, still radiating warmth, Krispy Kreme Donuts this morning.
I've had 2.
I'm thinking about having another.
FML