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Someone said the other day that if Douchefaucet (AKA the sperm donor) had any kids that he would be a good father.
Let's clarify a few things:
1. He does have a kid. (Hint: He's a cute little bear.)
2. He is NOT a good father.
Now, I know I hold men to an impossible standard because my Daddy and my grandfathers were and are the most amazing male influences on the planet, but I don't hold DF to that standard. I've lowered my standards for him and yet he still continually falls below them.
Bear is almost five months old -- FIVE FREAKIN' MONTHS -- and DF has seen him FOUR times.
Yep, that's a damn good father right there.
Let's clarify a few things:
1. He does have a kid. (Hint: He's a cute little bear.)
2. He is NOT a good father.
Now, I know I hold men to an impossible standard because my Daddy and my grandfathers were and are the most amazing male influences on the planet, but I don't hold DF to that standard. I've lowered my standards for him and yet he still continually falls below them.
Bear is almost five months old -- FIVE FREAKIN' MONTHS -- and DF has seen him FOUR times.
Yep, that's a damn good father right there.
I won't willingly spend upwards of $70 a month on disposable diapers when I can use cloth (just call me cheap, I sure do). It's just nearly as fast as disposables, once you get the hang of it, and the only extra work I do is tossing it in washing-machine a couple times a week. 
Thirsties Diaper Covers
Velcro is my new best friend, for real. They're ridiculously easy to put on in the middle of the night with a 1/2 hour of sleep total for the past four days AND they easily hold an extra diaper or insert at night. The only problem I have is that the edging (which always comes in white -- how rude) always ends up stained. But it's a diaper, not a freakin' fashion statement.
I'd like to say that I use cloth diapers because I care about my carbon footprint and the ecological impact on environmentally environment things, but that would be a lie.
I'm just cheap.
For my birthday, Bear gave me the gift of sleeping until ten!
Mom & Dad gave me the gift of a few hours of solitude. I got lonely and walked over.
Shut up, it's by birthday.
Mom & Dad gave me the gift of a few hours of solitude. I got lonely and walked over.
Shut up, it's by birthday.
- Mood:
excited
I, like any new mother who intends to breastfeed, thought that breastfeeding would be easy. I assumed with my silly pregnancy addled brain, that all you had to do was plug the kid in and grit your teeth through the pain until he figured it out and you lasped into a content picture from the cover of a nursing book.
I read a ridiculous amount of books, I attended classes, I asked my mom and my doctors all about it. I was going to be the poster child for nursing.
And then I gave birth to the only baby boy in the world completely averse to boobs. He would not latch, he would shriek and scream if he came within feet of a pair of bare knockers, and I'm pretty sure he was willing to starve himself on principle alone.
I was being mocked by an infant.
The nurses attempted to help by shoving Bear's screaming face at my chest every couple of hours until I was in tears. I was going to happily give up until Kerry, the nurse from heaven came in and hooked me up to a pump. It hurt like a mothertrucker, what with my bruises from the other, evil nurses, but after all of ten minutes I had enough milk to feed my little man with an eyedropper. I felt like a milk cow feeding a baby bird.
I still tried valiantly to make Bear a boob-man, but every single time he would end up screaming and I would end up crying. Spending an hour to get him to latch on for two minutes is not exactly the most fun thing to do. And it certainly doesn't boost the self-esteem.
Enter the pump. Again.
The pump has become both my BFF and my worst enemy. We are, if you will, frenimies. Or something. Instead of nursing like a normal person, I get to spend twenty minutes getting my boobs ripped off my chest and then transfer that milky goodness into a bottle. It is a ridiculously time consuming endeavor, so if you take into account the prep time that is the actual pumping, Noah's feeding time takes about an hour. (He's a slow eater...)
Somewhere in all this I'm supposed to fit in eating and sleeping, but I'm not exactly sure where. Silly me.
Why would I torture myself so?
I have an aunt who is one of those people that make everyone else in the world feel bad for their choices. Her daughter goes to a special school where they learn german and french and how to knit and dance and play piano. They eat all organic foods and rice milk and don't use plastic bags. They shop at Whole Foods and she nursed for, I think, my cousin's whole first year. I'm sure she thinks bottles are satan's teets. She's one of those people who look down on the rest of us peons.
While we agree on absolutely nothing, she does agree with my mom that pumping is ten times harder than nursing. So naturally, I am going to continue pumping for as long as my sanity holds just to shove it back in her face while I'm eating my unorganic chocolate cake chock full of unprocess sugar and GASP white flour.
And my son is going to learn how to read before he turns eight.
Suck it.
I read a ridiculous amount of books, I attended classes, I asked my mom and my doctors all about it. I was going to be the poster child for nursing.
And then I gave birth to the only baby boy in the world completely averse to boobs. He would not latch, he would shriek and scream if he came within feet of a pair of bare knockers, and I'm pretty sure he was willing to starve himself on principle alone.
I was being mocked by an infant.
The nurses attempted to help by shoving Bear's screaming face at my chest every couple of hours until I was in tears. I was going to happily give up until Kerry, the nurse from heaven came in and hooked me up to a pump. It hurt like a mothertrucker, what with my bruises from the other, evil nurses, but after all of ten minutes I had enough milk to feed my little man with an eyedropper. I felt like a milk cow feeding a baby bird.
I still tried valiantly to make Bear a boob-man, but every single time he would end up screaming and I would end up crying. Spending an hour to get him to latch on for two minutes is not exactly the most fun thing to do. And it certainly doesn't boost the self-esteem.
Enter the pump. Again.
The pump has become both my BFF and my worst enemy. We are, if you will, frenimies. Or something. Instead of nursing like a normal person, I get to spend twenty minutes getting my boobs ripped off my chest and then transfer that milky goodness into a bottle. It is a ridiculously time consuming endeavor, so if you take into account the prep time that is the actual pumping, Noah's feeding time takes about an hour. (He's a slow eater...)
Somewhere in all this I'm supposed to fit in eating and sleeping, but I'm not exactly sure where. Silly me.
Why would I torture myself so?
I have an aunt who is one of those people that make everyone else in the world feel bad for their choices. Her daughter goes to a special school where they learn german and french and how to knit and dance and play piano. They eat all organic foods and rice milk and don't use plastic bags. They shop at Whole Foods and she nursed for, I think, my cousin's whole first year. I'm sure she thinks bottles are satan's teets. She's one of those people who look down on the rest of us peons.
While we agree on absolutely nothing, she does agree with my mom that pumping is ten times harder than nursing. So naturally, I am going to continue pumping for as long as my sanity holds just to shove it back in her face while I'm eating my unorganic chocolate cake chock full of unprocess sugar and GASP white flour.
And my son is going to learn how to read before he turns eight.
Suck it.
- Mood:
annoyed
I'm terribly horribly afraid of spiders.
And the worst part of living alone with only a three month old batting at a stuffed lamb for pretection? I have to kill my own spiders.
Mostly.
I cracked last night when I saw a spider literally the size of a small SUV and called my BFF's boyfriend to come over and slaughter it for me.
And the worst part of living alone with only a three month old batting at a stuffed lamb for pretection? I have to kill my own spiders.
Mostly.
I cracked last night when I saw a spider literally the size of a small SUV and called my BFF's boyfriend to come over and slaughter it for me.
- Mood: annoyed
Just the fact that I sit around and sniffy the sheet, should be reason enough to go out and immediately buy a case of method.baby squeaky green baby dryer cloths rice milk + mallow. But if that's not enough for you, perhaps the fact that they're eco-friendly, super-green, all-natural, and as their site states, hyphen-friendly.
They smell good, they work well, and they're good for the environment and baby's soft, sensitive skin.
Ummm, sign me up.
They smell good, they work well, and they're good for the environment and baby's soft, sensitive skin.
Ummm, sign me up.
- Mood:warm
Just took my child psychology test. The last 20ish questions were all about pregnancy. I laughed a little on the inside. Then, since I finished the test in 15 minutes ('sup, overachiever), I decided to mosey over to the computer lab for a bit. I'm actually looking up recipes for the cupcakes I am making for Bear's christening. The wheat-free, fat-free, sugar-free, gluten-free, dairy-free vegan & nut-free cupcakes I'm making.
Who says you can't please them all?
Who says you can't please them all?
- Mood: amused
Every time I get a thank you card, I feel the need to thank the person who sent me the thank you card. It's absurd, I know, but I can't help that immediate reaction. It's probably because I suck at sending thank you cards myself, but perhaps this is one of those times when it's the thought that counts?
It's not, I'm trying to make myself feel better.
I have a lovely stack of thank you cards, but it's a huge effort to actually write them. And honestly, when it comes down to writing a thank you card or just writing, just wins all the time. More often than not, though, sleep trumps them all.
Or Harry Potter. But who needs sleep when you can be texting your BFF about a possibly Lavender Brown/Cormac McLaggen epic love fest, mkay?
In other news, Facebook made me laugh. Why did Facebook make me laugh? Because someone sent one of those stupid "drink this beer" things to Christopher because, and I quote, "for being a great dad".
Ummm... I'm merely assuming he must have another bastard child somewhere in the world because he sure as heck is not a good dad to Bear. That would imply being there.
He asked me to baby-sit at his mom's house the other day, ten minutes before I had to leave for class. A? Springing it on me at the last minute? Reeeeal cool. B? Hell to the no. In Bear's short but extremely entertaining life, Christopher has spent a grand total of eight hours with him. He's three months old, I'm going to leave you to do the math. His mother has spent two hours with him, for a combined total of TEN HOURS! He's been alive for 2160 hours, roughly, and they've spent TEN with him.
Yeah, you bet you can baby-sit my child. Yeah right. He then had the nerve to get pissed off when I said no, because I felt entirely uncomfortable with the idea, but he was welcome to go to my parents house and hang out with him there. Although grumpy, he did go see Bear -- and didn't say a word to him, he just held him silently.
Way to interact with him, you moron.
So, needless to say, Christopher will not be baby-sitting Bear in the near future (read: until he's 18) unless he acts like an adult and gets to know him.
This douchebag story is brought to you by Blair and her inspiration about not raising douchebags.
Nurture is going to kick nature's ass, my friends.
It's not, I'm trying to make myself feel better.
I have a lovely stack of thank you cards, but it's a huge effort to actually write them. And honestly, when it comes down to writing a thank you card or just writing, just wins all the time. More often than not, though, sleep trumps them all.
Or Harry Potter. But who needs sleep when you can be texting your BFF about a possibly Lavender Brown/Cormac McLaggen epic love fest, mkay?
In other news, Facebook made me laugh. Why did Facebook make me laugh? Because someone sent one of those stupid "drink this beer" things to Christopher because, and I quote, "for being a great dad".
Ummm... I'm merely assuming he must have another bastard child somewhere in the world because he sure as heck is not a good dad to Bear. That would imply being there.
He asked me to baby-sit at his mom's house the other day, ten minutes before I had to leave for class. A? Springing it on me at the last minute? Reeeeal cool. B? Hell to the no. In Bear's short but extremely entertaining life, Christopher has spent a grand total of eight hours with him. He's three months old, I'm going to leave you to do the math. His mother has spent two hours with him, for a combined total of TEN HOURS! He's been alive for 2160 hours, roughly, and they've spent TEN with him.
Yeah, you bet you can baby-sit my child. Yeah right. He then had the nerve to get pissed off when I said no, because I felt entirely uncomfortable with the idea, but he was welcome to go to my parents house and hang out with him there. Although grumpy, he did go see Bear -- and didn't say a word to him, he just held him silently.
Way to interact with him, you moron.
So, needless to say, Christopher will not be baby-sitting Bear in the near future (read: until he's 18) unless he acts like an adult and gets to know him.
This douchebag story is brought to you by Blair and her inspiration about not raising douchebags.
Nurture is going to kick nature's ass, my friends.
- Mood: annoyed
Whomever said baby's breath smelled good seriously has not caught a whiff of the Bear's sour milk laced halitosis. Milk breath is nasty, folks. Nas-T.
