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Mud and Spit and Sexiness (Week 7)

Mud and Spit and Sexiness (Week 7)


Getting mud in  your socks, branches in your hair, having your shoe eaten, and plucking ticks off you like you used to do to your arm hair when you were a kid (or was that just me?) is freaking cleansing. Purifying. Just what the doctor ordered. So are the shin splints and no longer functioning gluteus maximus.

Besides every moment spent loving you, the highlight of the past few days was sticking you in a onesie and green momsplashing through the mud and the muck on the land Daddy and Mommy bought after they started earning a couple pennies after they earned a handful of useless degrees. (But, son, go to college: it’s good for you and oh-so necessary. Cough cou—ThorCat hairball hack.)

The four dogs that have four legs were jumping out of their fur, they were so excited, so Mommy ran down the hill nearest our house to direct them toward the lake, not Daddy’s face, as he was holding you. I like winning and that be why I sometimes ran in middle and high school (and often dropped out when I was in second, even if it was 100 yards from the finish. Except the time Grandma, who was the coach, yell-cussed me out toward the finish. Then we won districts. I don’t know what lessons I just tried to bestow upon you right there; I don’t think they were good ones.). It’s beyond me where the winning comes into play with those people who run halfway across the state each night for fun. Let me see here: Would I rather procure an early onset of arthritis in the knees and wear down my ticker while battling the elements and potential Wrong Turners or would I rather crack open a breastfeeding friendly drink and watch some Louis and Clark and listen to your PRECIOUS baby sounds in the comfort of my temperature-regulated, padlocked home?


But I gotta admit that it felt a little good to go all gazelle down a hill without (1) feeling as if the weight of my innards would land me a free mud facial and (2) as if my uterus about to divide into two new continents. The dogs were grouping around my feet, so I had to windmill my arms all spastically and tell them to GO, GO, GO, that YES, YES, YES this lady was actually getting OUT, OUT, OUT of the HOUSE, HOUSE, HOUSE, YAY, YAY, YAY to that, mm-hmm!

I heard Daddy yell behind me something about am I having a seizure, do I need medical attention.

*Thank you to my biggest dog who regularly forgoes the kibbles and bits in favor or rubber and laces (and dead stuff). This means I get to buy new tennis shoes! Car ride coming up, Little Man!

daddy and boy

daddy and baby boy

happy happy baby

Hand up if you love Daddy and nature walks and pooping!


Mommy did something amazing. Truly unbelievable, and it’s because of you, Little Man. Somebody polish me a trophy for this one pronto.

Firstly, let me highlight the fact that your parents are untamable rebels, absolute REBELS.

But before the firstly, let me tell you about Daddy’s schedule:

So firstly firstly, Daddy sometimes takes Thursdays off and always has Sundays off; since you popped out he’s almost spent all his Thursdays at home, bouncing you around and talking about birds: The Cardinals in St. Louis, the chickens in the chicken hotel he built. You guys also bond over the dogs, our land, poop, and my boobs.

For the part of the day Daddy wasn’t holding you, he was singing Tim McGraw songs way off key and using tools that would remove my appendages in a millisecond if I even looked at them wrong, I have a feeling. The chicken coop is pretty exquisite and really confusing, because if you drive by, you see this humble little blue cottagey house that looks pretty normal, five dogs being put in headlocks by a cat, which is normal to every family, too, right?, this gal walking around without a shirt, which is also a norm (or should be, right, gents?), and a structure built on wheels that’s fit to house the Hiltons.

I’m going to name our chickens, the ones that survive the three-legged Chihuahua, after socialites. Paris, Nicky, that one relative of mine . . .

It’s I’mGettingPOed:30 because I, like, really have to milk my boobs, pee, take a shower, eat, fill some orders, milk my boobs, pee, milk my boobs, and Daddy’s “I’ll be just two hours” was about four times understated. So when he came in and took your cuteness, I did all the aforementioned plus milked my boobs once more and whined about everything I could think of, which is something I won’t do heron out*. Then Daddy was like, “Do you want to run to town?” probably by hopeful way of shutting me up.

Which doesn’t entail actual running because the town nearest to us without the Amish or without drive-bys every night (separate towns, believe it or not) is, like, 35 miles away. “But it’s already 7:04. Everything closes at 8,” I said. “It wouldn’t make sense to go. It’d be crazy—crazy.”

Daddy’s eyebrow hitched up a millimeter and his mouth crooked to the side. It was the same look he wore when I snuck out to watch the stars (ha) in the field behind my parents’ house when I was 14, when we climbed the water tower despite the dew, when—never mind, just never mind. “So?”

I hesitated, bit my lip.

“C’mon . . .”


He stepped closer, the festering diaper in his hand caught between us. “Say yes.”

My heart raced. “I—I . . . “



“Okay? You mean it?”

“Okay. Okay!” I smiled, took his hand, and we ran out of the house, into the sunset.

Or something close or not really to that.

We went to our favorite hippie food store and bought up the produce and frozen dessert section. “Have you seen our Little Man?” Daddy, rays of golden glitter beaming out of his eyes at you, asked one of the store’s employees, whom he knows by name, of course.

“Yes, he has,” I said from a smile. “Last time we were here together. And the time before that.”

The nice guy (name?) smiled. “He’s adorable. So little!”

We gleamed a lot and meandered into the unhealthiest healthy section to buy up some starches and fried things. It’s always healthy when it’s got that little non-GMO project seal thingy, right? Right?

We almost rammed into a gal Daddy recognized, a polite “Hi, how are you?” ready for her, whereas I did the stare-at-the-person-as-if-she’s-a-skirt-wearing-turtle thing. Why does public mean seeing people?

Then it dawned on me. Placentas, ice therapy, the Biggest Pain of Our Lives. She’d been a part of the natural childbirth classes we’d attended. We did the small talk thing, she talked about how she’s really looking forward to nursing**, let the elephant about whether we were able to give birth at home or not hang out in the cereal section, and, oodling your swaddled pea pod self, she said, “He’s adorable. So big!”

Then I went to Marshalls, which is usually an uncharacteristically dangerous place for this miserly broad to go in, and, because you’d started to whimper and root and kick the crap out of your swaddle, a sight that does not look unlike an angry green 12-pound caterpillar, I found a pair of shoes, tried them on, face-planted in them, paid for them because the face-planting was more my anxiety at your crying, less their potential lack of comfort, and had myself in the back of the car asking, “Want a boob?” within six minutes.

Six minutes.

To buy a pair of new shoes.

Which is probably how long it took Tucker to consume them.

Give that dog the freaking trophy.

calm baby

Minute I

baby spit up

Minute II. Decorated decorative pillows.

*It’s cold out. Really freaking cold. “Spring will be here soon,” Daddy said. Uh-huh.

**I’m all for the feed-Baby-naturally thing: After all, we x chromosomes were born with two utters and still have two utters, so Darwin tell me why those two utters haven’t morphed into plastic bottles dangling from our chest or powdered preservatives puffing through our shirts if that’s truly The Way. Boobfeeding is a whole lot more normal feeling than I could have imagined, although it did take practice to get the hang of this being-a-mammal thing. I suppose I don’t mind being a mammal; I wouldn’t want to be a fire hydrant or Dennis Rodman or some non-mammal. However. I don’t necessarily think that with any future pregnancies I’ll say to a new mom before anything else, “Don’t you love nursing? I’m most excited about nursing.” I mean sure I’m excited about the advent of keeping my spawn alive with my body, as one of my favorite fellow writerly hippies (who doesn’ t know me but I feel inexplicably bonded with because she mentions The Bachelor/ette as much as I do) puts it, but ultimately I’m excited about YOU, Little Man!

And my milkshakes.


Today is easily defined in one photo

baby and cat

tired baby

So that was two pictures, fine, I’m tired, now I’m going back to sleep, which is where you are, where you’ve been most of the day, hallelujah, God is good, what’s my name again


I had a revelation this weekend. Nobody had told me it before. It goes a little like this:

Babies cry.

They do, really. They cry.

And cry.

And cry.

And that’s okay.

It’s normal, everyone says.

“Nothing you’re doing wrong as a mom.”

Nothing to slightly over-analyze or question: Babies cry.

“He’s so well-tempered,” I tell everyone and their sister about you. Which is true, you’re amazingly tempered, Little Man, and I’m oh-so super humble about that one. Seriously: Humble. So hear this, everybody, eat up how AMAZINGLY TEMPERED MY PRECIOUS LITTLE MAN IS:

Example I: This AM I was trimming your baby nails (trying, anyway), Little Man, and I freaking FAILED MISERABLY and pinched a bit of your precious baby finger skin. I cried more than you did, which is to say . . . I cried. Bawled. You? You looked at me with a little lip quiver and furrowed brow, all, “What the crudola, woman? Somebody forget to change your diaper or what?”

Example II: Most of the time when Daddy or I change your diaper, even when your Moro-I’m-Falling reflex makes you look I cast a spell on you, you don’t cry. Nope. No cry. I think it’s because of what we talked about earlier—you’re pulling one over on us, definitely getting us good with that well-played let-me-fill-my-diaper-with-excretion-for-ye-big-aliens-who-should-bow-to-my-omniscient-intelligence-but-won’t-because-I’m-not-about-to-let-on-that-I-have-omnsiscient-intelligence-because-I’m-laughing-BIG-TIME-at-your-frantically-wiping-my-butt, further-reinforcing-my-omniscient-intelligence.

Example III: Your amazing temperament is exemplified in the fact that, despite Mommy’s dance moves, dying rodent sounds, and faces redolent of one who is constipated with overflowing joy and pride and mint chocolate chip anything, you haven’t run away from me or posted embarrassing pics of me on Facebook. Yet.

“On average he cries less than five minutes a day,” I tell everyone and their sister through a face-splitting grin.

Which is right after I tell everyone and their sister, “He sleeps about ninety percent of the day!”

And then the next day you

Sleep about ten percent of the day

And cry for ninety.

So was my foot officially so far in my mouth I was about to give birth a second time? Close. Close indeed. You were all precious, albeit red in the face with 700 pertinent needs I clearly wasn’t identifying let alone filling. And I was–

  • Do you want a boob, Little Man?!

Boob is attacked.

Crying reconvenes, this time two octaves higher.

  • Wow, you’re pooping again, Little Man? It has been a long 3.4 minutes since your last Exorcism from the rear. Can I please change your diaper now?

Pooping is an understatement. Spouting, spraying, vomiting out the bum is an understatement.

Diaper is changed. 

Crying is entirely deafening now. Mommy forgets she can be so loud.

  • I just changed your diaper, yayness; is that pee leaking through it?

Mommy swears Baby smiles between shrieks.

  • Do you want a boob, Little Man?!

Boob is attacked.

Crying reconvenes, this time three octaves higher.

  • Are you cold, Little Man? I’ll go turn the heat up.
  • Are you hot, Little Man? Let’s go stand outside.

    family pup

    Hobble, instantly smart

makes you wail.

  • Since you’re over-stimulated, let’s go sit in the bathroom and listen to the sink, shower, and vent blast. Oh, don’t forget the Happy Baby white noise on iTunes and the sheep. Lord, don’t forget the sheep.

Officially hypnotized. And still crying.

Mommy re-swaddlesMommy puts Little Man on his side, Mommy sways, Mommy shushes . . . Mommy repeats the 5 s’s . . . Mommy re-repeates the 5 s’s . . .

Mommy milks her boobs, Mommy feeds Little Man,

Mommy re-swaddles, Mommy puts Little Man on his side, Mommy sways, Mommy shushes . . . Mommy repeats the 5 s’s . . . Mommy re-repeates the 5 s’s . . .

Mommy does a headstand and squawks like a parakeet, Mommy does a tribal dance and sings an Elton John song at the top of her gravely lungs . . .

Final word? Little Man must not like Mommy. Little Man detests Mommy. Mommy can’t sing and Mommy smells. Mommy can’t dance. Mommy can’t calm. The only thing Mommy wins at? Is not winning.

Mommy is not one to overanalyze or self-pity.

Here’s one for the textbooks, people:

Mommies cry.

baby bath

Bath? Waaah.

family pet

TuckerDog who got a buzz to help with tick a-holes? Uhh . . .

mommy baby

Mommy? Ehh.

daddy son love


mom parenting

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