I generally try to run my life with the idea that Present Morag should do Future Morag a favor whenever she can - I set up Baba’s next dose of pepcid when I give him one, so I only have to grab the dispenser next time he’s due. I make bottles a day in advance so I have bottles for 24 hours ready to rock. I try to make things as easy for myself in advance as best I can.

One thing I did today: I made Present Morag really bummed out because I bought Future Morag’s bus pass for the month of December, so that when Future Morag goes back to work at the bright early hour of Ass o’Clock AM in a week from now, she just has to stumble, uncaffeinated, onto the bus without having to worry about buying a pass while the bus pulls away behind her.

Problem is, buying my bus pass made Present Morag really melancholy. Oh well. At least Future Morag won’t be standing out in the cold. 

Part of being pregnant means that people ask you ALL about your vagina, your gestation, all kinds of personal shit (literally) as part of small talk. No lie. Your cervix? Suddenly is suitable mealtime conversation for people, something that can be asked about while you get your morning coffee and aren’t properly caffeinated.

But unfortunately, that doesn’t end after you have a baby. I am going back to work soon, and the family giant party of much small talk for Hanukkah is soon, the weekend before I go back. And I know that everyone will ask me when I’m going back, oh it’s so soon, are you ok with that? Are you sad?

I see you once a year and this is your business? Not hardly! And if it were painful, which it is and I’m sad to be at the end of what my maternity leave and away from Baba, would I discuss it with a familial stranger at a party? Fuck no!

But I’ll get asked about it anyway, because just like my vagina and my cervix and my visible weight gain, my life as a mom and a parent is open for discussion and, oh yay, everyone else’s opinion. And while part of me wants to be rude, and ask why that would possibly be any of their business, I know that I’ll bite my lip and diffuse the question with humor and change the subject.

And think less of the person getting all up in my business, and vow to try to remember how I felt, so I refrain from asking other women hurtful and nebby ass questions. 

With Baba, I battle many common enemies. We battle his reflux, which is breathtaking. If it’s bad, he burps, he spits up, he hiccups, and he SCREAMS. And he doesn’t cry a lot as a rule. He grunts like crazy, but he doesn’t screech like that unless his stomach acid is trying to say hello to painful parts of his esophagus. We have infant pepcid, thank you to our pediatrician, and we have inclined surfaces for him to sleep and rest on, and we have bibs everywhere, to say nothing of spit up rags and flannel blankets to catch it all. But the battle wages on, Baba and I on one side, and acid reflux on the other.

But this is not the worst enemy he and I face down each day. The reflux is bad, but I can control it. I can use medication and frequent burping, and I can hold him upright as long as he needs. No problem. No, our most offensive enemy is simple.

The Booger.

Baba and I, we battle his boogers. Big honking sticky scratchy ones that started forming when we turned the heat on and it became dry as desert plains in our house. We have an older home with steam heated radiators, and we run humidifiers all over the place, but still, the boogers, they creep up on him. We can hear them, whistling and wheezing in his wee baby nose, and when they get really difficult for him to breathe through, he wakes up and grunts and cries. There’s even a “MOM! I have a BOOGER!” cry that means a big crusty snotwad is keeping my man from his peaceful nap.

How do I battle the booger? The humidifier is my first line of defense, but it doesn’t always do the job. There’s the nose sucker thing, but that isn’t always effective, though sometimes I can move a booger closer to the daylight so I can vanquish it once and for all. But the most sultry and crafty tool in my booger battle arsenal? My pinky nail.

As a rule I keep my fingernails short, because I type a lot and because they’re weak and split anyway if they grow even a little bit. But my pinky nail is nice and long, since my fingers are small, as are my nails, and it’s the perfect size to go after the deeply lodged whistle booger that keeps Baba from his nap. At this moment, I look like I have a cocaine habit, but no. It’s not coke. It’s boogers. I can wiggle the snot, sometimes drag it out to flush it to its doom, or I can irritate Baba’s nose enough that he makes a mighty sneeze and I can standby and intercept.

But either way, the battle wages on - usually one or two boogers a day face our tactical battle plans. And between Baba, me, and my pinky nail, we usually come out clean.

Morag: “I have something really lame to say.”

Morag: “REALLY lame.”

DBN: “Yeah?”

Morag: “I wanted Mel B. to win.”

DBN: YOU WATCHED DANCING WITH THE STARS?!!!?”

Morag: “No. But I have a secret deep love of the Spice Girls.”

DBN: *silence*

Morag: “Oh, God. I killed her.”

Good Things about Freebird that crack me up:

1. When we bring in the groceries, Freebird gets all excited about every bag. “Oooh! Look at that! Oooh! WOW! Look at that!” And when he sees the Lactaid, he says, “Oooh! Something for Freebird!”

2. After he’s done eating, which doesn’t take long because I think he’s cutting all his molars at once, he says, “Watch the ABC show with Mommy?” It’s not the request for tv that’s impossible to resist; it’s the request for me to join him. Smart boy.

3. When he’s in his crib and he doesn’t want to go to sleep, he begs to say goodnight again to “the Baby Baba.” Not just “Baba.” “The Baby Baba.” So we go say goodnight, and then, he wants to do it again. *sigh* It’s so cute and yet so crafty.

4. There is nothing better than Playdoh. Nothing. 

It’s been a week since I updated, which is rare for me, but in that week so much has changed. I feel like I turned some kind of huge corner and can’t see back behind me. Nothing bad happened, but I did light a huge fire under my own ass that is really toasty and kind of inspiring.

1. I have decided that I’m not putting up with migraines, irritability, anxiety, and breakthrough bleeding that comes with every freaking birth control pill I try. By some minor miracle (thank you!) I have an appointment with an endocrinologist on Thursday, and I’m going to figure out a solution that will control my hormonal imbalances and let me not have headaches and a desire to commit felonies.

2. I signed up for a Yahoo: Group, which is something that is VERY unlike me. I am signed into one for my town and it’s the most fractious and whiny group ever. Sometimes I set it for “no mail” just to get away from them for awhile. But the one I signed up for over Thanksgiving is for children of hoarders. My mom is a hoarder. You wouldn’t believe the shame and pressure to keep it a secret, but it’s true. My mother has severe mental issues and she refuses to get help. She used to read my old site and I don’t know if she’s found this one, but really, I’m tired of pretending like everything is ok.

My mother lives in 2 houses, both of which are filled with garbage. Newspapers, wrappers, papers, fliers, anything she thinks she can recycle or use for something else, or give away. My sister last sent me pictures about a year ago and the piles through the living room were higher than waist-deep, and there were paths to get through the house. The last time I was there, it was 5 or 6 years ago, and I couldn’t get up the stairs.

She doesn’t clean up after the dog so there’s dog feces in my old room; my bed was covered with things that I couldn’t identify. I can’t even begin to describe how bad it was, and I know it’s become worse since then.

When I joined the group, I was going to lurk for awhile, and not say anything, but having about 4 email messages a day (thank heaven for low volume groups) from people saying the exact things I’ve thought, or things that I never realized, is so comforting and shocking. I’m not the only one who grew up like this, who doesn’t know what to do to intervene with a parent who finds garbage and random stuff more important than being healthy or being with family. I’m loving this group of people who have the same problem I do, who are so happy just to be able to talk about it.

I’m still trying to figure out the proper path to do what I want to do with the situation, and when and how to do it, but just having a group of people saying, “OMG ME TOO” is such a profound relief. At least I’m not by myself dealing with the problem, even if I am on my own as pertains to my immediate family.

So I’m saving some quotes here in case I want to remind myself that talking about it, and trying to do something about it, is entirely appropriate, healthy, and about goddamn motherfucking time.

The Steelers just lost to the Jets?

What the crap was that?

Fuck.