Are You There God? It’s Me, Becky.

Howdy God,

I know that we don’t speak a lot, if ever, but seriously I’ve been trying to get ahold of You these days. I know, I know, I might not be Your most pious follower, but hey, remember a couple years ago when I READ THE BIBLE COVER TO COVER? I do. Sure, it was for a class (as an aside here, God, I know the teacher may have been a more God-loving person than I, but his class was basically just regurgitating whatever he interpreted to be the meaning of the Bible. It wasn’t very informational.), but still I READ IT. And yeah, I probably didn’t see what a lot of the people who make church unpleasant were getting at with the no abortions, no same-sex marriages, etc, but maybe it was just my untrained eyes.

Although maybe I wasn’t baptised, You must recognize that this was my hippie parents decision, not my own. See, I even GOT MARRIED IN A CHURCH AND STUFF! And I married into a Religious Family! So, I’m not all bad!

Okay, so here it goes: I need Your help. I have this baby, this high needs baby named Alexander, and I adore him much as I adore his brother. But this baby, cute and sweet as he is, does not sleep. Like ever. I have tried many different things to make him sleep, but to no avail. And God, I’m tired. Really tired. Dangerously tired. I’m not going to complain about the isolation, the inability to do anything fun anymore, or the constant needs of said baby, IF YOU HELP HIM TO SLEEP.

Please, please, please, let this kid sleep. No naps? Fine. Just allow me 3-4 sweet hours straight each night. This waking every 45 minutes to an hour is killing me slowly. Seriously, I’m about 4 hours away from a trip to the nuthouse. This just isn’t pretty.

If You help me, I’ll join a church. Just let me know which one is a good one. I’ll EVEN WAKE UP AND GO TO CHURCH EACH SUNDAY! For me, as You know, this is a Big Thing.

Semper fideles,
Becky

Craptastrophe

For the first time in over four months, yesterday Alex didn’t take a dump. God love breastfed babies, but they shit almost constantly. In fact, the shitstorm usually makes it all over the front of poor Daddy’s shirt (which is freaking hilarious, really) or at least ruins the outfit he’s wearing. But yesterday, be it from stress or from the addition of rice cereal and applesauce not a rumble was heard in his tumble.

At 4 am, Alex woke up and had a meal. He promptly (thank you Jesus) fell back asleep, looking less like the Spawn of Satan with each passing moment. About 2.4 seconds after I turned the light off, I heard the familiar sound of some nasty sounding farts, and after that, he began to whimper pathetically.

Thinking he might still be hungry, I whipped out the tit and grabbed the babe. Once in his immediate vicinity, I smelled it. Either some rotten eggs had gotten into his pants or he had taken a dump. I did the side check and everything looked okay. I checked his back, and nada: no green mess to be seen.

I pulled him onto the changing pad and removed said diaper. Then I saw it. The most disgusting, foul smelling huge dump I had ever seen come out of my Ickle Baby. It went from his penis to his shoulder blades. The outfit was toast. No way I was cleaning that. Had I had some industrial strength cleaner, I’d have sprayed him down no questions asked.

Just desserts, I’m sure Dave would say, for constantly laughing at his unfortunate shit-baths.

No…..Really? I Mean, REALLY?

I am absolutely not a baby person. If my kids could come to me via FedEx at about 6-9 months old, I’d be a totally happy camper. This would spare me the life-sucking pregnancy period as well as newborn hell and I’d probably actually be able to shoot sunshine and flowers out of my butthole. At least in my mind.

In that vein, I always felt relieved that no matter how difficult Alex is during the day (read: screamy each time we try to do something out of the house or out of his routine) at least he slept decently at night.

Well, ha ha ha, looks like my ass was hanging out there.

Because starting at the beginning of July, he stopped sleeping a 5-6 hour stretch at night and began waking several extra times during the night. Which sucked ass. And I whined about it. Let’s be clear: 4+ months of constant sleep deprivation = you exist in a constant dream-like state. For example, I was trying to “beep” Alex’s nose the other day, and I kept hitting his cheek by accident. I finally stopped when I nearly missed “beeping” his eye. Needless to say, I try not to drive anymore. I’m dangerous.

So, yeah, instead of reversing his sleep regression, it’s gotten worse. Since Sunday, he has started waking up and having a difficult time getting back to sleep starting at 2 or 3 AM. I have tried using formula, rice cereal, applesauce, baths, tylenol, gas drops, and am soon about to try whiskey (likely for me, not him, but if he likes it…).

To say that I am upset is a gigantic understatement. To say that I am even more exhausted than I ever thought possible is an even bigger understatement. To say that I have seriously considered leaving the baby in his crib alone and running away to a motel is the damn truth.

I don’t know what to do here. The childcare books I have don’t have any good suggestions that I haven’t already tried. His pediatrition told me that “babies sleep when they need to” and couldn’t offer any suggestions. Taking shifts isn’t quite fair, as Daver does have to work every day. My mother comes each morning to watch Alex while I sleep, but 2 extra hours ain’t quite cutting it.

Like anything with children, I know that this too, shall pass, but seriously not soon enough.

Cry Baby.

Dear All Of My Neighbors,

Sorry that I don’t remember all of your names. See, I have this new baby who has somehow sucked every ounce of memory that I have into oblivion.

Oh, so you knew about the baby, did you? Right, right, right. You’ve seen me through the windows. I am sorry about all of the walking around I now do without my shirt on, my granny nursing bra (sexxy, I know) jutting out in front of me like gigantic two milk-filled missiles. But you see here, Neighbors Of Mine, I don’t have much of a choice now. I have this baby who thinks he needs to be constantly attached to my chesticles and nothing, I repeat NOTHING I can do dissuades him.

See, I’m actually considering what I’m doing as a PSA, well, without the announcement part, because I am aware that all of you with houses that surround mine have teenage boys. And if they see what happens when girls have babies, they’ll never give the love without a glove.

Breast Wishes (hehehe),
Your Neighbor With The Knockers

PS. Be grateful that I wear a bra. Have you SEEN those ‘natural’ childbirth books? Those women are ALWAYS topless. AND they rock the full bush.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Makers of Breast Pads,

I’m sending my complaining neighbors to you.

You see here, Breast Pad Manufactures, I cannot use you, despite my actual need for Leakage Control, as every time my baby weeps (i.e the 4.5 seconds/day that I unjustly put him down). Nowhere, and I do mean nowhere on your chipper packaging, complete with serene looking woman holding baby (which I must add, is obviously staged, as no new mother has clear bloodshot free eyes without bags around them. Unless they had a wet nurse or something, and if they did, why would they be buying breast pads?) does it mention the what your pads are made of.

Latex. That’s what’s in them.

Want to know how I know? I got a huge rash all over my freshly milk-filled funbags. It looked as though my breasts had come down with a nasty case of herpes, which at 2 days postpartum is _so_not_appreciated.

Because I was ‘desperate’ and ‘a glutton for punishment’ I tried another brand. Same goddamn symptoms: my breasts felt like they were on fire so I itched the skin clear off of them. It was totally awesome.

By awesome, I mean sucky.

So in addition to adding ‘contains latex’ to your packaging, I am imploring you to please write a letter of apology to my neighbors, who can now clearly see the sweet-ass milk stains and perpetua-hard nipples that otherwise would have been obscured by your product.

VD-Free Since 2003 (and Counting!!!),

Red Boobies Are Not Sexxy

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Stomach Flu,

Fuck You.

Sincerely,

Cleaning Barf Out Of The Darnedest of Places

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”-

Dear Nat,

I am so totally confused.

How did you manage to lose Ben’s shoes?

Seriously, wasn’t he WEARING them?

Love,

Taking Responsibility Where You Won’t