Lies From Mommyland: The Baby Is Home- Now What?

12 Jan

Since I have been feeling like death, planning a wedding in 30 days, getting ready to open a store, working and then all of the HoneyBadgerPress business- I have been a slacker in the writing department and not taking proper care of myself. I know this cold will eventually go away but these roots will not – so I slugged my sick ass over to the salon to get my hair did so I can look sort of alive.  We were chatting about kids and how I hate them. Yeah, I said it. Not hate them like I want to set them on fire and leave them at a homeless shelter- but hate them like if I had known how hard they are to raise then maybe I would have settled for a puppy. Or fish. Perhaps a pet rock.

 We had a hard labor and we’re tired and grouchy but it was the best moment of our lives! We? Last thing you had to do with this entire shitastic ordeal was about nine months ago and you contributed a whopping three minutes of cardio. I , on the other hand, have endured nearly a year of barfing, swollen burning breasts, hemorrhoids, sleepless  nights, heart burn and swollen cankles. I haven’t seen my hoo-ha in 270 days I am terrified of looking down and being hit with the reality that it likely looks likes a drunk driver ran it over with a cement truck. So screw this “we” shit. I am tired. I am cranky. So someone better put down his gay-look at me- I’m a new Daddy- cigar and move his ass to the store because if “we” don’t get a pint  Ben & Jerry’s Pfish Pfood and some Preparation H in a hurry then “we” are gonna wake up dead tomorrow.  And get “us” some more super-jumbo-elephant – maxi pads because I just felt something slime down “our” leg.  Again.

Nursing will get easier. Damn straight it will get easier, like now. Because I quit.  If by “easier” you mean “swollen-cracked-bleeding-engorged-rock   hard  titties- that hurt when the wind blows”, then yes, it does get easier. Oh, and it is delightful when your sweet little newborn sucks on your chaffed nipples like a Hoover. Or better, when said baby won’t eat, then you get to actually use a Hoover to pump the milk out. The machine sucks your nipple within an inch of it’s useful life into a cup and then milks you like a dairy cow. I think dairy cows get to retain more dignity because they don’t have an asshat husband taking pictures and video of you and their boobs begging for mercy or death. Cows also don’t have that shit posted to FaceBook for all of their friends, family and co-workers to see. Here’s how you make it instantly easier and more comfortable: let Enfamil feed your kid. They have all of the science behind their formula. All you have to do is mix water and powder in the bottle for your baby and then mix your favorite booze and Coke together in your coffee cup. Instant happiness, quiet and a nap for you both.

You’ll ease right in to being a Mommy. Lying mother fuckers. No you won’t. You will constantly second guess if you are doing every thing right: will the baby be okay, will it need therapy, what if I drop it and so on. So will your mother in law. Good thing she’ll always be there to tell you how wrong you are doing every-freaking-thing and how she does it better.  Now is when you take full advantage of the postpartum hormone drain and tell her to go fuck a flying monkey and promptly announce to every one that you are exhausted, feel feverish and would like a sammich. She won’t know what to do when handed a bitch slap and the tired new mom excuse at the same time. She’ll have no choice but  to make your lunch and tuck you into bed so she doesn’t look bad in front of your relatives. You should be prepared for the times (which will be at least 12 times daily) that baby will be inconsolable and screaming , but alas, not a damned thing is wrong with it. It’s ok- just rub a little whiskey on it’s gums and start saving for its stint in The Betty Ford Clinic. At least you’ll get to sleep now.

 Just wash it with warm water and then it won’t hurt to pee. Warm water for my wrecked vagina. Sure- that’ll make it all better. I had a chat with my hair stylist today and she told me she had to have four…FOUR!…surgeries to correct her ripped vagina. Four. I can’t even imagine that. Most of us will not endure that degree of rippage but there will be some and it will hurt like a  semi drove out of it when you decide to pee, or worse, make a poop. Have you ever had a UTI and experienced the pain of pissing? That, my dear ladies, is a rainbow sparkle cake walk compared to peeing on your torn lady bits or pushing a poop out of your torn ass. Know what will sooth it? Birth control pills. If you take them regularly you will never have this problem.

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8 Responses to “Lies From Mommyland: The Baby Is Home- Now What?”

  1. Sherri January 23, 2012 at 2:09 PM #

    I have a 2 week old at home right now. I almost peed myself because this was so funny…and of course because I have no muscle control down there right now!!!

  2. Polly January 12, 2012 at 7:49 PM #

    Sent this lovely little bit to my friend who is 35 and having her 1st child. She said she nearly went into labor while laughing. (She’s due this month.) I told her you were the SHIT and not to worry about her HOO-HA. They can fix all that,,,,,,,eventually. When her ass stops looking like a Mack truck drove out of it!!!!

    • Honey Badger Press January 12, 2012 at 8:06 PM #

      Oh dear- did you send her the delivery room edition of Lies From Mommyland? That’ll scare the fetus right out of her!

  3. Anonymous January 12, 2012 at 2:04 AM #

    That was fuckin great! Hilarious, and true!

  4. AmandaAbsolutely January 12, 2012 at 1:02 AM #

    Ha! I did mine the easy way – found him when he was 15 and adopted him. My lady bits are as firm and tight as they always were! Nyah nyah! LOL

    • Honey Badger Press January 12, 2012 at 7:42 AM #

      D’oh! Cheater. Smart ass cheater.

      • Anonymous January 12, 2012 at 12:29 PM #

        OMG this needs to be shown to these girls that want to have babies…..no one warned me….all proud, happy mommies Grrrr lol! A pet rock sounds GREAT right about now.

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