Just buy a new mommy

This morning, in the rush of getting the 4-year-old ready for school and finishing packing lunches, I was explaining that I needed to eat breakfast first before feeding the baby. While said baby whimpered in her bouncy-plaything, I told her, "Sweetheart, I know you're hungry. But Mommy needs to eat first and then I will feed you." Or else Mommy will be a cranky mommy, and that's no fun for anyone, I said under my breath.

"Yeah, and if Mommy is cranky, then we'll have to buy a new one," my son interjected.

HA! I never knew I was so disposable!

Melty pants

I pledge my allegiance to these ugly pants.

Do you own an article of clothing that you simply cannot part with? Perhaps an old college sweatshirt, a favorite baseball cap, or a concert tee you got in the early 90s?

For me, it's a pair of black, cotton, wide-leg pajama pants I purchased from Old Navy. I must have bought the pants 12 years ago. Yes, that's right. It's been over a decade and I can't let them go.

In the beginning, they were used for weekly visits to the gym. My faithful workout pants got sweaty and grimy and did a lot of time in the laundry-- which is how they started getting super soft. Pretty soon I realized they were way too comfy to waste on 24 Hour Fitness, thus the pants got promoted to wear-around-the-house status.

The first thing I used to do when I got home from work was change into those pants. It's was much like Mister Rogers' daily ritual. Fred took off that stuffy jacket and those stiff leather Oxfords and slipped on a soft sweater and broken-in sneakers. All the while singing and smiling and looking so darned content. It's exactly how I felt when I wore my favorite pants.

I watched TV in them. I lounged around my apartment in them. Sometimes, on weekends, I would wear the pants for 48 hours straight. Wake up in them, eat breakfast, bum around the house, go out for coffee and lunch (thank God I wasn't being stalked by the paparazzi), make dinner, sleep, wake up, etc.

Then one day, I got a bright idea and decided to cut them. Who knows why I made them capri-length. They looked horrible. I was crushed. I demoted the pants to doing-work-around-the-house status. I cleaned the bathroom in them. I painted my son's nursery in them. They were my "crap pants"-- but still as comfortable as ever.

About six months ago, I was changing into my pants and noticed a chilly, breezy sensation near my bum. No...could it be? My worst nightmare come true: I had holes in my beloved pants! It was a minor crisis. Do I keep them? Do I dare throw them out?

"Dear Pants: We've been through so much together. Marriage, career ups and downs, two kids... how can I kick you to the curb?"

So I decided to repair the holes. Seventh grade home-economics class came in handy, and within five minutes-- voila! No more holes. Granted, the material is gathered and bunched up now, and when I wear them it kind of looks like I have a permanent wedgie. But I don't care. I love my melty pants. Some day they might spontaneously combust.

Until then, only death can pull us apart.

Drive-thru bliss

Sleep-deprived mom + Starbucks drive-thru = hallelujah moment.
(Illustration by Leann E. Johnson) 

When Starbucks started opening drive-thru cafes in my neighborhood, I scoffed. "Who the heck would be lazy enough to stay in their car for a latte?" I said to myself as I drove past one. "It's tantamount to fast-food culture. So uncouth."

Of course, I was very judgmental before I had kids. Now, as a parent of two young children, I get it. I love it. Heck, I will say praises about Starbucks' drive-thru 'til I'm blue in the face. When you're an on-the-go mom, sleep-deprived and in a I-must-have-caffeine-or-I-feel-like-I'm-gonna-die kind of mood, then the drive-thru is your Hallelujah moment. Add to that sleeping kids in car seats and drive-thrus become imperative.

Now, if they only had drive-thru boba...

Bring 'em home

President Obama says "it's time to turn the page," marking the end of the U.S. combat mission in Iraq. Although tonight's address from the Oval Office left me with many questions, I was still relieved. Let's bring our troops home and start re-building here on the home front...

Holy sh*t!

How could something so huge and so stinky and so disgustingly gross come out of something so petite, so precious and so wonderfully sweet?

These were my thoughts when my 6-month-old daughter laid this gargantuan (well, gargantuan for an infant) Number Two. This one puts South Park's Christmas Poo to shame. I mean, look at the shape, the sheer size and the multi-colored awesomeness of this poop. "Holy shit!" I said as I opened up Isobel's diaper. Holy shit, indeed.

As you examine the above photo, I know you're cringing in horror, yet strangely intrigued and fascinated at the same time. It's like slowing down on the 405 and rubber-necking the eleven-car pile-up in front of you. You just have to look.

Before we became parents, my husband and I never really gave poop a second thought. But after two kids, you'd be surprised how preoccupied we have become with the subject:

Me: "Wow hon, did you know Izzy pooped three times today?"

Husband: "That's amazing! Were they pretty healthy-sized poops?"

Me: "Yeah, substantial and really smelly."

Husband: "Must be the solids she's eating."

Me: "Uh huh. Our little girl's growing up!"

And we're not the only parents who are poop-obsessed. In fact, if you Google "parent websites about poop" you'll get more than 1.9 million results. You can find information about your child's pooping problems, read about tips for potty training, instant chat about what to do if your toddler is playing with his poop, and read blogs about the kid who pooped on dad's foot or how embarrassing it was for mom to poop on the delivery table (yes, there are sites about this).

So why is the topic of poop so engrossing? For parents, it's hard evidence (sorry, a lame pun) that you're doing your job. It's proof that your child is either being fed well (soft poops) or needs a change in his/her diet (hard poops). Good poops = happy child. (If you've ever witnessed a constipated baby, you know what I'm talking about. So heartbreaking.)

Whatever you call it-- poop, crap, shit, caca, dookie, dump, doo doo, brown trout, brick, baked potato, nugget, lump, loaf, nuclear meltdown, one-wiper, Captain's log, chocolate shark, patty, torpedo, Chalupa, steamer, grumpy (the list goes on and on)-- you have to admit, it's a must-discuss topic.


Illustration via Pinterest.