Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Now That I'm Done Feeling Sorry For Myself

The number one reason to share a bed with your baby:

To wake up from a nap because she's awake and gently petting your hair.

Woot! I have paragraphs now!


I was turned down to be in a study on post-partum depression, because one of the things it was studying was the development of the babies involved. Because they wouldn't be able to tell if her developmental delays were because of my depression, or because of her disability. Because this child is just getting a double whammy-- a body that won't work right and a mom who can't be normal. I think that's all I can say for now.

Just a Quickie

I know it is an old stereotype, and it is true on both sides, but this side is more fun to hate. Carlos sent me this, because he knows I am always up for a) stories about strippers, and b) stories about Republicans making asses out of themselves.

Monday, August 30, 2004

Whoa Nellie

So I was wondering what to write about tonight, because my mind went blank again. This writing every day thing is hard. So I turned to television, as every inventive writer should. And whoa, did I find something.

See, I've been kind of down on myself lately, especially where my weight is concerned. I weigh more now than I did six weeks post-partum, and I have been asked not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES when I was due again. One of them was by a seven year-old, but still. So I thought it would be interesting to watch a show called Drastic Plastic Surgery on the Oxygen Network (it was showing after Dazed and Confused, which I watched with my baby. Bad Mama, on many levels there). This episode was about breast augmentation. Now, I have always been pretty neutral about that whole thing. You know, you want to do that to yourself, or pierce your genitals or split your tongue, hey, fine by me. This show, though, was something else. I learned three things on it that will never allow me to think about augmentation neutrally again.

The first: On some women, after lots of push up bras, the implants will move closer and closer to the center of the chest until they essentially create one large cavity -- a uniboob. Boy, do I wish I could find a picture of this.

The second: In order to create enough space in the chest cavity for large implants, the doctor put her fingers inside the incision and just ripped the connective tissue. Just worked her way around in there like she was skinning something. Now, I've seen a lot of The Operation on the Discovery Channel, and I am no stranger to the violence that is inflicted on the body during some surgeries. Liposuction, for instance, looks horrible. But this... this... just seemed so much like something I'd do to a chicken breast to put butter and herbs under the skin before roasting.

The third: Some implants have valves on them so that it is an easy trick for the surgeon to go in and attach tubing to them to fill them with more saline to make them bigger. It happens that often that women want to enlarge them after surgery, or to make them so big that even the above ripping doesn't give them enough skin so that they have to gradually enlarge them, over a period of weeks.

Is there someplace safe that I can take my daughter and raise her so she would never, ever contemplate something like this?

Sunday, August 29, 2004

My Brain Is Made of Rice Pudding

I had a great idea for a post earlier in the day, but my brain won't turn on. I can't make it coherent. I am too tired. Somehow, when my husband is home, I end up more tired. Not that this is necessarily his fault--I think that I will myself through the fatigue during the week when he is gone and finally give in when he is here on the weekends. I'm just frustrated because I was trying to be a good girl today and stay offline and get work done around the house, but I didn't get much done and I lost my brilliant idea for the post. Maybe it is for the best. If *I* can't even hang onto the thought for 10 hours, it probably wouldn't have riveted my readers anyway.

At least I remembered to feed Peanut today. Twice, actually. And I got some laundry done, and a few dishes washed. So it wasn't a total loss. Unlike this post...

Saturday, August 28, 2004

Learning Curve

I am still working on figuring out formatting issues here, as well as learning how to use basic HTML for links and other stuff. Please bear with me while my blog looks funny.

So why is this called Bad Mama? Because I am a Bad Mama. Not a Terrible Mama, as in raising my child in filth and crystal meth and feeding her formula and letting her watch TV (hah! just kidding about those last two!). Just bad stuff, like "forgetting" to feed her solid food for a whole day or taking her to Willie Nelson concerts where PEOPLE ARE SMOKING POT and THE MUSIC IS VERY LOUD even though she is not digging it because I miss loud music and I am hoping for some good secondhand smoke for myself. I forget to do tummy-time, and she still can't hold her head up from her tummy at almost seven months old (though this may have to do with her other physical limitations, to be discussed in a future post). I hate giving her baths, even though she likes them, so I don't nearly as often as she needs them. I have contemplated giving her a dose of her prescription pain medicine when she doesn't need it because it makes her sleep and she won't sleep, and may on at least once occasion have convinced myself that her crying was from pain and not general crankiness so that I could justify doing so.

I try, I really do. I have the best of intentions. I breastfeed and eat organic foods and stay away from chemicals as best I can. I play with her with educational toys as well as brainrotting toys because I want her to be balanced and not pressured. I get her vaccinations (though late) because I think that is what good parents do and I have read all the nonvaccination sites and they all sound like raving lunatics to me. When I do remember to feed her solids, I feed her organic or homemade baby food that is the least allergenic possible.

But other parents remember tummy-time, don't they? It seems like they do. They set a regular schedule for their babies, and take them home when they are tired or obviously not fans of loud music. They read to them every night without fail. They remember to feed them, and to give them medicine on time, and to always put diaper-rash cream on to prevent rashes, rather than waiting until their child's bottom looks like a boiled lobster. Some of them even jog with their babies, both keeping themselves in shape and setting a good example for the children.

I know there are lots of mothers who do none of these things, not even the good stuff I manage to do. We all know who they are. They are the ones we Tsk about, the ones that make Infertile Women and Difficulty Getting Pregnant Women (I belong to the latter group) want to knock them out and run away with their precious children and treat them better because we can't believe someone who obviously doesn't deserve them got them. They are the Terrible Mothers. That is not me. I am simply Bad. You can tell me I am Terrible ("How can she forget to feed her child? If I had her child, I would never forget to feed her!"), but I am from the Midwest, and I know self-righteousness when I see it, and that is it. Now that I have my own child, I have a strange feeling about criticizing other parents. I really try not to anymore, because I have learned that one bad moment does not necesarily make a terrible parent, and I can't tell if a stranger is having a bad moment or a bad life. But I know it about myself. I know I am a Bad Mama, though I strive to someday be an Okay Mama (in other words, I remember to feed my child, but I use regular non-organic food).

So. That is me. This is probably a good time to point out to anyone who chooses to comment that I will completely ignore any negative criticism in the comments. I mean completely. It will be as if you never existed. You can tell me your child is well on the way to curing cancer and so you are the expert, but for all I know he is in prison for axe murders, so I will ignore you. You can tell me you are praying for me and everything will be okay if I accept Christ as my savior, but for all I know you spend your days telling homosexuals they are going to hell and have twisted Scripture to suit your own ends so I will ignore you. You can tell me I suck, and I most likely do, but I don't care what you think because only sucky people tell people minding their own business that they suck. This is assuming anyone reads this at all, much less comments. I am writing this blog to amuse myself and to fulfill my Creative Writing class assignment to keep a daily observation journal (Hi Laura! You don't mind me calling you that instead of Ms. S., do you? Because I think you are my own age and I would feel very silly doing so). If other people like it, that is great. One thing I learned long ago in a writing class was once you put it out there, it isn't yours anymore. You can't control the way other people respond to it. So I will release myself from the need to control this. But that doesn't mean I have to suffer abuse either.

If you are still reading this, thank you. I hope what amuses me also amuses you.

Friday, August 27, 2004

Second Attempt

Ok, apparently the Enter key problem lies with the fact that I have AOL. Yes, I have AOL. It was the easiest way to get online waaay back when I started going online, and frankly I don't want to bother changing my email address. So there. The Blogspot help page says it is resolved, but it isn't.

We went to the Willie Nelson/Bob Dylan concert tonight in the minor-league ballpark. We took Peanut with us, which wasn't nearly as much fun for her as we'd hoped (hence the title of this blog). It was an event designed for families, where you brought a blanket to sit on the grass, and she did like the crowds. There was a young woman in a long striped skirt near us who was dancing and it was apparently riveting. The music was too loud for her, though. She put up with Willie but when Dylan came on it was just too much and she started to cry. As I pretty much went to hear Willie anyway, that was fine. We'd finished our beer, so we got our t-shirts and left. Unfortunately, we didn't have enough money for the "Willie for President" poster too. Oh well.

That's enough, I'm tired and going to bed.

First Post

This is my first blog post, in order to test out all the neatsie-keen features I picked completely at random, since I don't know what any of them mean. Now I just have to figure out how to get it to let me start a new paragraph.