To My Husband & His Penis
Dear Husband (and penis, listen up, this affects you as well):
It has come to my attention that you are a huge bitch when it comes to sex. If you don’t get it every 3 days or so, you become increasingly impossible to deal with and the likelihood of me committing homicide increases as each hour after 3 days passes. You snark at me, you whine at me, and if it gets close to a week you sometimes even just lay your penis on random places of my body. Leg, knee, shoulder. Whatever. I guess you’re hoping that method is going to work? Like I’m going to be sitting here blogging and look on my shoulder and go, “OH MY GOD! THERE IS A FLACCID COCK ON MY SHOULDER! MUST PUT IT IN MY MOUTH NOW.”
Yeah, no.
So here are a few helpful hints for you and your meat stick.
Do:
- The dishes. With every plate you successfully wash, dry, and put away the chances of your dick getting attention increases.
- Give me backrubs. Unprompted. With no ulterior motive. Maybe I will put out, maybe I won’t. I birthed your spawn, which technically means I should get unlimited backrubs for life without you expecting anything in return. I TORE MY GODDAMNED VAGINA. YOU CAN GIVE ME A BACKRUB AND NOT POUT WHEN YOU DON’T GET SEX.
- Pick up after yourself and wipe down the sink after you shave. Sexy!
- Compliment me on the daily. I know I’m pretty but I like to hear you say it.
Do NOT:
- Turn everything into a sexual innuendo. Your balls are blue. I get it.
- Grab me on random places of my anatomy – specifically my tits – and expect that to turn me on to the point of frothing, vaginal frenzy. You grabbing my boobs does not equal foreplay.
- Corner me with a lusty look in your eye, thinking it’s dominating and sexy. You’re in my way goddamnit, I have shit to do. I WILL PINCH YOU ON THE BALLSACK IF YOU DON’T MOVE.
- This also rings true for humping my butt when I’m doing the dishes, cooking dinner, or washing my hands. GET YOUR BONER AWAY FROM ME AND LEARN SOME FUCKING MANNERS.
- Pull my pants and panties down when I’m bent over to get something. Seriously? Really? WHY WOULD YOU EVER THINK THIS WOULD WORK?!
- Whine, bitch, or complain about how long it’s been. I KNOW, MOTHERFUCKER, I WAS THERE LAST TIME. Every single time you bitch about your dick and the lack of sucking, I will make you wait one more day before I put out again. So if you’re making some kind of sarcastic crack or backhanded remark about how long it’s been once an hour? YOU DO THE MATH. YOU WILL BE APPROXIMATELY NINETY-SEVEN YEARS OLD UNTIL YOUR PECKER EVER SEES MY HOO-HA AGAIN.
I have an idea for you. How about you leave me alone and let me unwind when I need to, de-stress when I need to, and make it to where I don’t have to worry about taking care of laundry, dishes, the house, dinner, our child, AND YOUR FUCKING PENIS? Don’t smack me in the forehead with it, don’t shake it at me, don’t shove your hand down my pants for ONE WEEK and see what happens? MY VAGINA WILL BE SO GUSHY WITH GRATITUDE IT WILL BE LIKE MAKING LOVE TO A FUCKING SLIP N’ SLIDE. WHEEE!!!!!
That is all.
Dora the Explorer is a total cunt.
Sorry I’ve been totally MIA lately. But you know, I have 2 kids now, and by the time they are both asleep I barely have the energy to take my pants off let alone sit at the computer and come up with something witty and interesting to write about. We aren’t really a TV family… mainly because we canceled cable so I could stay at home with Boogs, and personally I don’t think Judge Judy is a good thing for him to watch… but lately that’s been changing.
I recently discovered realized (finally) that there are kid’s cartoons on Netflix instant streaming. So while I nurse Princess, I’ll flip on an episode of Dora the Explorer for Boogs. It makes the experience much more pleasant for all 3 of us. We’ve been working our way through each season and I’m starting to realize… Dora’s a real bitch. Swiper? He’s even worse.
Why I hate Dora
She’s been pissing me off for a long time. First of all, your backpack deserves more praise… as does the map. Backpack has every single thing you ever need. Stuck on a desert island? Don’t worry, backpack will have food, an umbrella, and probably an air conditioned hut or a raft to get you home. And map? That dude knows where EVERYTHING is, and can get you there in 3 easy steps. Seriously – he knows everything. Neither backpack or map get so much as a thank you. And Dora even let map get stolen by a damn eagle one time. If I had a map like that, I’d keep it in my underwear, or somewhere equally as hard to get into, for safe keeping. Dora’s lack of appreciation makes me angry, but it’s not the end of the world. No, what pushed me over the edge is that the other day, Boogs and I are sitting there watching as Dora tries to rescue a kitten who’s stuck in a tree. Now, I won’t go off on a tangent about how I’ve personally had kittens, and know for a fact that the damn thing WILL come down and WILL be fine if you just leave it’s ass up there. Instead, let’s talk about how Dora heads off to the fire station and takes the only fire truck there. Ok, what the hell Dora? What if there’s an actual fire?? You and Boots stole the fire truck and now the firemen can’t get to the fire. That’s a really bitch move on your part. But then Dora and Boots took it a step farther. See, the town just happened to be having a parade that day. And instead of taking a different route (something I’m sure map could’ve provided) they turned the sirens on, made the parade stop, and sped off to save their stupid kitten. So by now I’ve decided Dora is selfish, reckless, and criminal – all for the sake of a fucking kitten that can get out of the tree on it’s own. Or if it couldn’t?? I’m sure that backpack could’ve provided a damn ladder or a net or something – no need to steal the firetruck and ruin the parade.
Why I hate Swiper
Swiper’s transgressions are much fewer. He’s just a total dick who is discouraged way too easily. It takes Dora and Boots saying “Swiper no swiping” 3 times to make him stop? I mean what the fuck Swiper?? On a pretty much daily basis I have to tell Boogs no at least 15 times before he stops trying to stick a fork in the electrical socket, and he’s easily distracted! And then there’s the times Swiper actually swipes something. What the fuck kind of fox are you?? You steal stuff just to throw it in the bushes 3 feet away? Why? What’s your motivation? If you’re going to go through the effort to steal something, at least hold onto it!! You suck Swiper.
So in summary, all I have to say is that Dora’s a cunt, and Swiper is a spineless asshole. But I’ll still continue through the rest of Season 3 because it gives me 20 minutes of silence.
Nap When the Baby Naps
It’s been a while since Polythene Pam was a newborn and apparently nature has a way of making those first few weeks of sleep deprivation fuzzy and foggy so we’ll, you know, continue to fuck like rabbits and perpetuate the species or some shit like that. So her early “waking every 2 hours to chew my nipples off” phase is kind of a distant memory. The lack of sensation in my nipples lives on, but the feelings of exhaustion have faded into grey.
I’ll tell you one fucking thing that is clear as goddamned crystal, though. It’s the game Mr. Mustard and I used to play. It’s pretty much the most un-fun game in the history of games. It’s called: Who’s More Tired?
I guaran-fucking-tee you have played the exact game with YOUR significant other. ESPECIALLY if you’re a stay at home mom. You might be lucky enough to get one to two weeks of your husband staying home from work if his company is mod enough to offer paternity leave. I can’t speak from experience because Mr. Mustard had to work pretty much once they scooped Pam from my nethers. Once your husband goes back to work, the game begins.
You try your hardest to get up with the baby, because your SO has to get up in the morning, get himself ready, drive and do other shit that requires concentration if he wants to NOT be fired. You’re being considerate and if you’re nursing, this is the only way it’s going to work because daddy sure as shit doesn’t have milk-making titties. So you’re the sole source of nutrition which means you are also the one who shuffles around the house like a zombie, running face-first into walls and slamming your crotchbone against the edge of the motherfucking dining room table at 2 A.M. trying to figure out if what you’re hearing is your baby screaming or a goddamned tornado siren.
So you’re the most sleep-deprived because men can usually sleep through an actual goddamned tornado siren. Your hubby wakes up in the morning, slurps his coffee, ties his tie and kisses you and your suckling babe on the forehead and reminds you with a wink, “Nap when the baby naps!” and on the outside you smile and say “bye honey” but on the inside you’re thinking about the quickest way to end his life because whoever came up with “nap when the baby naps” NEEDS TO BE SHOT IN THE EYEBALL.
So after you’ve gotten through give rounds of “Rock a Bye, Baby” and bounced so much your thighs look like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s neck, you get your baby to sleep. But instead of napping when the baby naps you continue to hold your household together. Laundry. Cleaning. Eating. Catch up on e-mails. Call your mother. Call your sister. Eyeball the clock and wonder if you’ve got enough time for a quick snooze. Dart to the bedroom and lie down, snuggle under the covers. As soon as your head hits the pillow for a nap, the baby is wailing wanting more boob. So you drag yourself out of bed. You realize you haven’t even fucking brushed your teeth yet and they might have fur on them by now.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat. ALL FUCKING DAY LONG.
So your husband gets home whistling “Wheel in the Sky” or whatever fucking song it was he last heard on his commute home and looks at you and says, “Boy, I sure am tired!”
After he ducks the frying pan you just chucked at his head he asks what you’ve done all day.
After he dodges the screeching cat you’ve just thrown at his face, he tries to put the moves on you.
Once you’ve retrieved ice from the freezer to put on his aching balls that you just kicked you’re able to pass off your baby, look at him and say “I need a nap”.
He whines, “I’m tired, too. I’ve been at work all day and I kept waking up when the baby would cry last night. You’ve been able to nap today when the baby napped.”
You look around at the stacks of clean, dry, folded laundry. The spotless sink. The motherfucking pot roast in the Crock Pot. You stare at your beloved for a moment who is holding your drooling spawn, calmly leave the room and dial 911.
Because when you’re done with him, this motherfucker is going to need an ambulance.
Toddler’s First Trip To The Gyno
Yeah, it is as pleasant as it sounds!
I went in for my first yearly since my 6 week post pardum check up. No one could watch the kid, so it was just the two of us, off to face the vagina doctors on our own.
I took the kid in his stroller so while my bits were getting examined he wouldn’t be opening drawers and putting speculums in his mouth. So we wait like an hour and half (and I’m only SLIGHTLY exaggerating). By then the kid is so sick of his toys he is throwing them across the room. My ass keeps coming out of the back while I chase after them and try to wash them because God only knows what STDs are breeding on these floors. Once the whole fucking gown fell off, which sent the toddler in a frenzy and I had to nurse him.
So finally the doctor comes in, asks me my form of birth control (as if the screaming toddler wasn’t enough I suppose?) and points me to the table. She checks the boobs and says on feels full. Uh yeah, I just had to feed the milk fiend from one because you took a half century to get in here. Then the feet go in the stirrups.
And the toddler starts screaming.
So the doctor PULLS his stroller up to the table. NEXT TO HER.
He tries grabbing the light, pulling on the paper sheet. All very relaxing. As she is taking my newfound virginity (because I haven’t had sex in…. a long time) the kid pulls the sheet over and peeks in. And the doctor says “Is there something in here that you want?”
UMMM WTF?!
Apparently she opened a draw and that is what grabbed his attention, but still. WTF. Keep my kid out of my vagina. He’s been there one time too many as it is, k thanks?!
So we finally get out of there, only mildly scathed. The kid is either going to be a Freud’s best pupil or a gynocologist when he grows up.
Next time? I’m finding a babysitter or I’m not going.
not my kid. mine’s
Twitter Train Wrecks & Attention Whores
If you’re active on Twitter, you are aware of people I like to call Twitter Train Wrecks. They’re the ones who have epic Twitter meltdowns, freak their shit and spew all sorts of diarrhea of the fingers, covering Twitter with their vile and insane blabber.
I equate it to drunk-texting. In the heat of the moment you don’t really care – might even think it’s a good idea – but the next day you re-read the words that you spat out across the internet and feel remorse. Regret. Shame. Embarassment.
Well, most people do. The Twitter Train Wrecks don’t. At all. They say things like, “Well you probably think I’m crazy now, but *insert justification for freak out here* so if you don’t like it, fuck you! Don’t follow! I SEE DEAD PEOPLE EVERYWHERE. MY SKIN IS ALIVE WITH FIRE.” And for some reason, these fucking lunatics have loyal fan followings and are all, “We totally love you! We support you! It’s completely normal to say you fucking hate children and say your child is an asshole!”
Ahem.
Then there are the Attention Whores who just annoy the ever-living fuck out of me. Why do I follow them, you ask? It’s just like reality TV. You hate yourself for watching, you yell things at the people on the screen but you continue to watch because it’s good drama. You can’t believe your eyes. The same rings true for TTWs and Attention Whores. Attention Whores are the ones who Tweet things like:
“What’s the difference between diced and chopped? I don’t get it!”
This is paraphrasing an actual Tweet from an actual person who is an actual fucking moron.
“If I drink day-old toddler juice, will I get violent diarrhea? THIS IS LIFE OR DEATH, HA HA, PAY ATTENTION TO ME PLEASE AND THINK I’M CUTE. I’M SO AWKWARD AND CHARMING AND SUCH A DORK!”
Are you fucking kidding me? I know you’re trying to be all funny and dorky and shit but you’re coming across to those of us with a motherfucking brain as obnoxious. You’re transparent in your painful need for attention and acceptance.
Then there are the hashtag abusers. These people are kind of like your painfully unhip aunt who uses phrases like “bodacious” and “I’m hip and with it, right homies?” because she’s trying reaaaaallllyyy hard to speak your language but is just falling short. Hashtag Abusers don’t understand the concept of a hashtag. There are a few ways to use a hashtag. You can Tweet something like,
How much should my 2 week old be nursing? #breastfeeding
This is a perfectly acceptable way to use a hashtag. This means that anyone searching for other people talking about breastfeeding can easily find your Tweet, and your chances of getting your question answered increases. You can also use it as a witty interjection, such as:
Muffin Tops + Me = #SadPanda
It’s a way to add one last little bit to your Tweet without actually saying it. I’m not saying that’s the wittiest Tweet ever, but it’s a pretty good example of how to use a hashtag as something funny. Hashtag Abusers don’t understand these concepts. They will Tweet things like:
My husband talked about an #exgirlfriend last night. It made me #sad.
Ohhh, I so love drinking this cup of coffee with #sweetener instead of #sugar to save #calories!
@PersonWhoIsIgnoringMe You SOOOOO rock for running 2 miles today! #YoureAmazingPleaseLoveMe
Hashtag abusers just don’t get it. Who the fuck is going to be searching for #exgirlfriend, #sugar, or #sweetener? There’s nothing cute, or funny about your use of hashtags. It just makes me shake my head and feel bad for you and your painfully unhip, desperate to fit in self.
Anyway. The moral of this post is to think before you Tweet. Also, I am easily irritated. Also, I might be drunk.
Mission Accomplished?
Hello Bitches.
It’s me again, Helena. You might remember me from here. I’m the crazy housewife who’s in the process of tricking her hubby into getting her pregnant. Ring a bell? I thought it would.
I’m coming to you ladies with a little bit of a conundrum. Here’s what I know a couple of weeks ago Hubby pretty much attacked me on my Ovulation date. Didn’t even need to seduce him. Imagine that! Biology is a funny thing y’all. Fast forward to Monday. I’m one day late. No big deal. This has happened before. Even so I went and peed on a stick cause let’s face it y’all it’s kinda fun and nada. Negative.
Later that evening I get AF! So that answers that right? I’m absolutely not pregnant and have to go through another AGONIZING month of having to seduce and sleep with hubby. But this is where my conundrum comes into play. AF is gone. Not only is she gone but it was like she was never here.
So I need one of you lovely ladies to tell me to do here because google just ain’t cutting it. Y’all know way more than Dr. Google anyway or at least that’s what y’all keeping telling yourselves 
P.S. have y’all ever searched “Am I Pregnant” on a forum? I shit you not it is pretty much one of the most entertaining things I have ever done.
Now with that being said.
Could I be pregnant? When should I test again?
An Open Letter to Crazy Animal Owners
Dear Crazy Animal Owners,
You know who you are.
You’re the ones who buy little costumes, and sweaters, and presents for your cats and dogs and fucking ferrets to open on Christmas. You’re also the ones who throw birthday parties for your animals.
Well guess what? I think you’re a looney. Yeah, I said it. Do you know why I think you’re a looney?
Because you’re investing time and money into an animal. A pet. Something farther down on the evolutionary ladder than yourself.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like animals. I am kind to animals. I am a friend to animals. I love cats. I absolutely adore them but since having children they drive me fucking bonkers. Why? Because they shit in my motherfucking house in a box that I have to clean. So in between cleaning up after my OWN mess, Mr. Mustard’s mess and Polythene Pam’s mess I have to clean up their mess as well. They knock over their water bowls. They spill their food on the floor. THEY MEOW INSESSANTLY AT THREE o’CLOCK IN THE EVER LOVING MORNING. They’re assholes. All of them. Cute, furry, fuckfaces.
Now I know what you’re thinking.
“I invest time and money into my pets because they’re like my children.”
You obviously do not have children. Pets…. Are not like children. Pets are like pets. They are like cats, and dogs, and whatever the fuck else people keep as pets. They do not learn like children. They do not laugh like children. They do not grow up like children. They do not have the same value as children. Sorry! But they don’t. An animal is not even remotely the same thing as a child. If a bus were barreling toward my daughter I’d throw myself in front of it to toss her out of the way. If a bus were barreling toward my cat, I’d say sorry buddy, been nice knowing you. And anyone who says they’d risk their life for a cat is a fucking lunatic. Do you understand what being hit by a bus means? It means that you’re going to die. Taking the big dirt nap. Pushing up the daisies. GAME FUCKING OVER.
Now you’re dead, and your cat is alive and you know what’s going to happen? Your cat is going to outlive you by MAYBE 10 years. If it’s not already a few years old and then maybe it’s got 5-7 left in it. And you’re dead. Did I mention that’s permanent? Your family is mourning the loss of you, your mother is forever changed, whatever romantic partner you might have is heartbroken.
But Mr. Fluffers is just fine and fucking dandy.
Okay now I admit, this is an extreme example but I have met people who claim they’d die for their pets. And when a pet of theirs dies? OH JESUS. The world ends. IT ENDS. It’s the most tragic thing ever, and nothing in their world will ever be bright and sunny, all of their red doors will be painted black. They’ll never get over the trauma of losing Wigglebuns. Now losing a pet is sad. I understand that. Especially if Wigglebuns has been a beloved companion for many years. I’ve cried over cats, and then I built a motherfucking bridge and got over it. Because it was a cat. I loved it, I fed it, I pet it and cuddled it and then it died – AS EVERYTHING DOES – it sucked and then I was fine. People who lament and moan and gnash their teeth over the loss of their pet – while calling that pet “their child” – are slapping the faces of everyone who has actually lost AN ACTUAL CHILD.
Call me heartless, but you knew upon adopting/buying/finding your pet that Wigglebuns’ time on this earth was limited and that if the odds were in your favor, he’d go before you. NOT EXACTLY A TWIST ENDING, FOLKS. Maybe you should put yourself in therapy to work on your coping skills if the death of your hamster or whatever the fuck Mr. Wigglebuns is sends you into a dark, deep abyss of depression.
Then there’s vet bills. I’ve known people to put themselves into thousands of dollars of debt because Princess Snookiepie needed a spleen transplant or some bullshit like that. I will spend some money helping my cat out if it’s something easily curable, some kind of medication, etc. But surgery? Mending bones? Uh, no. I suppose I can understand if Princess Snookiepie is the only family you have, crazy cat lady, but in other circumstances I just don’t get it.
Alright, you crazy bastards, my rant is over. Hate me, sniff “you just don’t understand” at me, I don’t really give a fuck. It’s time someone pointed out to you how nutso you really are and if it has to be me, so be it. Now go drop your Kitty Lumpkins off at daycare before it gets too late.
Realistic Porn
Men in this country have a disgustingly skewed perception of what women’s bodies should look like, and what sex should be like. Because of porn, many men don’t realize until they’re lonely and 40 that women don’t look like Pamela Anderson and Megan Fox naturally, and if you happen to find one that does, it’s guaranteed she’s the dumbest bitch you’ve ever met…and might even have some pretty colorful STDs. Too many men have to find out the hard way that sex isn’t a bunch of blow jobs, bending over, and smiling with joy that a man was just pleased because you are a slut.
I have big plans to transform the porn industry single handedly by producing my own realistic material. Starring, who? Starring you. Let me set the stage:
First of all, the stage is a bed. Not the kitchen table, a desk in an office, a hot tub, patio furniture, or dunes on the Cape.
This is being shot with a cell phone camera because, honestly, we don’t really need to record anything longer than 5 minutes.
Lighting isn’t necessary. The room is as dark as we can get it because I know at least one of you doesn’t want to have to see the co-star’s fat ass.
And yes, there is only one co-star.
The longest part of the video is initiation. It’s going to take a few minutes for you to stop pretending you’re asleep and make an executive decision (based on the possibility that giving it up might get you that purse you’ve been wanting) that you’re going to have sex with Sasquatch.
There are no boobs flying in the air. Shirts stay on because he only needs to access your crotch and you don’t want his hairy sweaty chest brushing your arm or anything.
You don’t move. The man gets on top. In fact, you don’t really have to move at all during the entire thing.
There’s no screaming, and it has nothing to do with the fact that there’s a baby in the next room. You might let out a couple moans that translate into “ouch”, “hurry up”, and maybe an angry one: “don’t you fucking slobber on me, it makes me break out”.
A lifetime of a few minutes later, it’s over. You both get up and take turns in the bathroom. You get dressed and crawl into bed, he puts on underwear and heads to the couch and turns on his xBox.
You get up for a quick second to shut the door and spray some Febreze, then the music stops. Music being the ABCs squawking out of the toy you just stepped on.
The end.
Welcome to reality, scumbags. Now where’s my money?
The Ex-Files
Have you ever noticed your brain is like a filing cabinet of all your past men? A seriously unorganized cabinet because let me tell you. Sometimes my ex isn’t even on my mind. But then this mother fucking filing cabinet has to find his lost folder and then I’m all like obsessed with it.
I dream about my exes all the time. It’s a PAIN in my ASS. I don’t even talk to these assholes anymore. And when I dream about them it’s always how much I hate my husband (which, well, is true. Filing cabinet is taking real life notes too, just to fuck with me) and I’m in LOVE with my ex and wish we never broke up. He’s in LOVE with me and is begging me to come back and I’m all trying to figure out if this will work or not.
WTF filing cabinet, WTF?
1. These are dreams. Where is the purple sky and three headed poplar trees? Why are they SO REAL?!
2. There was a reason we broke up, but thanks to YOU filing cabinet, I can’t remember what that was.
Are you a habitual ex-dreamer too? There are two types of habitual ex-dreamers. The ones that just forget it, what a dumb dream, pass me my morning martini please, and then the ones like me. The certifiable crazy bitch who will stalk this ex for a day or two wondering WHY DID WE BREAK UP?! (After having 2 morning martinis.)
It’s really easy to stalk the ex-files nowadays. Facebook is the jizz-am.
So you make your way over to the ex’s Facebook page. You two are friends for GOD ONLY KNOWS WHY (I think the filing cabinet did this because he KNEW you would need this research one day). Homeboy has a new girlfriend and his arm is draped over her knee in some picture. Draped like he really loves her, was totally accidental and not strained. And it makes you even more crazy. So what do you do next? You either message HIM (don’t do it. after you revisit the exfiles after 16 times like me, you will learn.) or message a mutual friend with some bullshit story you remembered about the two of you being drunk and stealing a mounted deer head from a bar, and slowly bring the ex files up.
Then you find out his girlfriend looks like a horse in real life and only looks beautiful on Facebook. That helps a little. Then as you pretend you hate your ex and bitch about how he had no oral sex skills and a big weiner but didn’t know how to use it, you start to remember why you really DO hate him. You know that time he cheated on you with his girl best friend? Or the tshirt tucked into belted straight legged jeans? You still have trouble separating reality from dreamland, but at least now you know that the break up was for the best.
It may take a few days for you to lose the ex files in the cabinet of hell again, but you will. It’ll get shuffled between real life and actual GOOD dreams (like George Clooney proving HE has oral sex skills and a weiner he knows how to use).
Sometimes you have those ex-file dreams that make no sense at all. Like the one about your 9th grade boyfriend. You’re holding hands like you only ever did when you were 14 (my slutty years didn’t start until 17) and then he has to go to the bathroom. You hear him explosive diarrhea-ing all the way through the wall.
My filing cabinet is seriously fucked up. Who dreams that??
My kids destroyed my body, then went after my self-esteem
STRETCH MARKS
There, I said it. And I made it big and ugly just like the real things. Stretch marks suck. With Boogs, things weren’t too bad. Sure, my tits and ass look like they spent a few hours in a cage with a tiger, but those puppies switched to white pretty quickly and really didn’t bother me that much. I looked at them as Mommy battle wounds, and I wore them with pride. For the most part, my belly returned to it’s pre-pregnancy look after about 10 months (at which point I went ahead and got knocked up again). It was a little “looser” (as in less toned – not like I had digestive issues. Gross) than it was before Boogs, but I was pretty sure I’d eventually be able to get back into a bikini.
Then Princess started her gestation. They say you get bigger faster the second time around – so maybe that’s why… but it appears my tummy is taking one for the team this pregnancy. For every stretch mark on my ass there are now two on my stomach. And they are FAR from white. They aren’t like some disgusting shade of purple the way I’ve seen some women get, but they are a noticeably vibrate shade of red. So thanks kids. Princess has pretty much set in stone the fact that I will never again prance around in a bikini feeling confident and hot. Actually, let’s be honest here. I probably WILL prance around drunk on margaritas, wearing a bikini and thinking I’m hot, but I will be the only one. Everyone else will be giving me the side eye and whispering to their husbands/boyfriends/whoever that “that drunk bitch really should put on a shirt or something.”
Now. As if I wasn’t already a little down about the bikini-less summers in my future Boogs had to go ahead and attack my self-esteem. See, I’m pretty good at lying to myself and making myself feel good. And I had pretty much convinced myself that these stretch marks, like their cousins, would fade and be almost unnoticeable. That is of course, until Boogs lifted up my shirt to say hi and give the baby a kiss and stopped dead in his tracks. A tiny finger came up and touched just next to my belly button. And Boogs uttered the two most demeaning words I’ve heard in a long time. “uh-oh” You’re damn right uh-oh kid. Feeling slightly ashamed I pulled my shirt down… but Boogs was adamant I take a look. Pulling my shirt up again he used both hands to point… “mama uh-oh.” And so it continued. Boogs spent a good 3 minutes pointing out each stretch mark and letting me know there was an “uh-oh” on my stomach. And the Princess hasn’t been given a kiss since. Apparently those stretch marks are just too hideous. Thanks kid. Now I feel beautiful.
