I Heart My Little A-Holes Read online

  2. If I didn’t love my pediatrician so much, I’d change doctor’s offices. Why? Because of this:

  I call it the Ebola train table. Oh here’s a good idea. Let’s let every sick little rug rat who comes through here play with this thing and put their saliva fingers all over it so that my kid can come in next and chew-chew on it and catch the plague. Brilliant. All aboard the Hot Zone! We came here with a minor cold and we’re leaving with typhoid. Awesome.

  3.

  RECEPTIONIST: Northwest Pediatrics, how can I help you?

  ME: Hi, my kid is coughing up a lung and I need to get him in to see Dr. Smarty Pants today.

  RECEPTIONIST: She can see him at 1:30 PM.

  ME: Do you have any other times? That’s like smack in the middle of his naptime.

  RECEPTIONIST: Ummm, yes, she can see him at 1:32 PM.

  ME: Thank you, that’s much better.

  Not.

  4. Holden, don’t touch the fish tank. Holden, don’t tap on the fish tank. Holden, don’t put your mouth on the fish tank. WTF? I know you’re a toddler but can’t you just stand there in the middle of the floor and not touch a thing and look at the fish from a distance for 18 minutes while we wait for your name to be called? I’m so glad I drove here like a bat out of hell to make our appointment time.

  5.

  NURSE: So the doctor will be in soon.

  ME: So should I keep his clothes off?

  NURSE: Yes, the doctor will be in soon.

  ME: Define soon. Like four minutes?

  NURSE: Soon.

  ME: Thirty minutes? I just want to know if I should dress him so he’s not cold.

  NURSE: The doctor will be in soon.

  ME: Agggggh, ANSWER ME DAMN IT!!! I’m going to fucking kill you!!! When the hell is she going to be in here?!!!

  NURSE: The doctor will be in…

  ME: Don’t you dare say it.

  NURSE: Soon.

  6.

  NURSE: We’re going to need a urine sample from your daughter.

  ME: Okay, then you better just follow her around all day holding a cup under her naked hoo-ha because A. Getting her to pee on demand is impossible and B. She can’t even hit the toilet half the time and that cup’s like 1/10th the size of the toilet bowl.

  7.

  DOCTOR: Sooo, is he saying any words yet?

  ME: Yeah, lots. Honey, what does a cat say?

  HOLDEN: (Blank stare)

  ME: What does a cat say?

  HOLDEN: (Blank stare)

  ME: Who am I?

  HOLDEN: (Blank stare)

  ME: He says a lot. Really, I’m not lying.

  DOCTOR: (writing something on the chart) Nooo, of course not.

  8. So has he had any bowel movements or flatulance out of his anus that is located right behind his penis and scrotum? Nahhh, I know that’s not really what the doctor says but she’s always using anatomically correct lingo so that’s what it F’ing sounds like and I have to keep a straight face and not laugh at all and even say some of these words back to her pretending like I don’t usually use words like vajayjay and peeper and toot-monster.

  9.

  DOCTOR: Do you have any other concerns or questions about your baby?

  ME: Uhhh, so my husband has a concern that I promised I’d ask you about.

  DOCTOR: I think I know what you’re going to ask.

  ME: Okay, what?

  DOCTOR: No, you go ahead.

  ME: No, you say it.

  DOCTOR: No, you say it.

  ME: No, you say it.

  DOCTOR: No, you say it.

  ME: Okay, let’s say it at the same time.

  DOCTOR: 1, 2, 3, go.

  ME: Is it normal that his penis is so small? Hey, you didn’t say it.

  DOCTOR: It’s a rite of passage.

  Of course, none of this conversation really happened this way. I mean my husband did insist that I ask if it’s normal for his dinky to be so dinky. So I did. In the most clumsy, foolish, bumbling way that I could because I’m not allowed to use words like dinky to the doctor. And then I died of embarrassment.

  The End. Yes, there was a number 10, but like I said, I died. Plus, I’m lazy and the Bachelorette is about to start.

  I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my baby’s eyes glow like the devil’s on the video monitor. He thinks we can’t see him and he’s like “Muahahahahaha, I don’t have to conceal my real identity now!”

  Where the hell did the name Baby Sideburns come from?

  Every day people ask me why my blog is called Baby Sideburns. Well, not every day, but every week. Hmmm, no, maybe more like every month. Okay, so what is that, like twelve people? Hey twelve people who care, this story is for you.

  Once upon a time there was a blog called Mommyhood Unplugged. isn’t that like the most boringest name you’ve ever heard? Plus it’s like ridiculously uncatchy. I’m allowed to say that because it was my blog. Then one day a friend of mine was nice enough to tell me that my blog was funny but the name of it sucked. And I was like okay, you’re right, but I’m totally uncreative so WTF should I name it? Well, I had just written the following post so she suggested I call it Baby Sideburns. Yes, someone else came up with the name. So Lauren Schifferdecker (isn’t that like the most fun last name to say?! I’m sitting here in Starbucks saying it over and over again and people are looking at me funny), this chapter is for you. You came up with the name Baby Sideburns. You F’ing rock. So here goes, the original post that inspired the name Baby Sideburns:

  Every pregnant mom says the same thing—all I care about is that my baby is healthy. Ennhhh, wrong, I’m calling bullshit on this. You see, I’m preggers right now and there are lots of other things I worry about. Like will my baby have one of those giant red birthmarks smack in the middle of its face? Will it be born with teeth (yes, there are little vampire babies born with chompers)? And will it get my Sasquatch gene and be insanely hairy?

  I was lucky the first time I gave birth because my firstborn is like this totally svelte, strawberry blonde girl who takes after her father 100%. Wait, no, 99%.

  RANDOM STRANGER: She looks just like her daddy.

  ME: Yeah, but she got my genitalia!

  Of course, that always ended in uncomfortable silence so I stopped saying it. But I digress. Anyways, they always say the firstborn looks just like the daddy and the second one looks like the mommy so I am scared to death this baby inside me is going to come out looking like me. Not only will it be the sadly-neglected second child, IT will most likely look like Cousin It.

  I was one of those babies who were born with hair on their shoulders. I shit you not. I vaguely remember the labor nurse yelling, “Quick, get me some hot wax STAT!” I mean if I don’t pluck my eyebrows every other day, I start looking like Burt from Sesame Street. I’m dreading the day Zoey gets older and asks if she can do shit like get her ears pierced and braid my leg hair. But anyways, I’ll get to my point.

  So today we’re going in to get our big ultrasound to find out whether we’re having a boy or a girl. Well, really it’s to find out if all of its organs are where they’re supposed to be and shit, but what I most want to know is can I use all of those adorable little precious girl outfits we spent like a gazillion dollars on or do I have to go out and buy all new clothes for this little rug rat? I mean yeah the kidneys are important but there are some super cute dresses that still have the tags on them.

  So anyways, since my life basically consists of thousands of post-it notes with things I can’t forget, I’ve gone ahead and written a post-it note with a bunch of questions to ask the ultrasound tech.

  Is it a boy or a girl?

  How ’bout them organs?

  Does this baby have sideburns? A mustache? A hair sweater?

  So to all of you parents with cue ball babies who want to punch strangers when they say shit like, “Awwww, isn’t he so handsome?” and you’re like, “Yo jackass, do you think I would dress my BOY head-to-toe in hot pink?” Wait, was that a full sen
tence? I’m not sure but it was really long so I’m putting a period on the end of it and starting a new one. Anyways, to all of you, count your blessings. That was me with Baby #1. This round I’m scared shitless I’m going to have to call Blue Cross to beg them to cover laser hair removal.

  My son is still sleeping right now (or dead???) so tonight I will attempt to do exactly what I did last night to make this happen again.

  We will eat dinner at exactly 5:27 and be done at 5:43.

  He will have three chicken nuggets and 16 lima beans.

  He will drink from his Cars sippy cup with the purple lid.

  I will do the laundry today so he can wear his zoo pajamas again.

  I will read half of Goodnight Moon.

  I will sing Row Row Row your boat three times and the ABCs once.

  And I will place his blanket on his left side with the logo at his feet.

  And I will cross my fingers. No, wait, I didn’t do that last night so I won’t do that.

  The serious chapter, like seriously

  This chapter is not funny. No, I’m not kidding. Like if you think I’m joking, please just jump to the next chapter. I’m serious. But hey, by now you probably need a little break from laughing, right? Hopefully. Maybe. Shit, what if this book isn’t funny? Okay, well, at least this chapter isn’t supposed to be. No, F that, in case this book isn’t funny, the whole book wasn’t meant to be. Okay, back to the very serious, not-funny-at-all subject at hand.

  So I have something to tell you. Something I have never told to anyone. ANYONE. Not even my husband. Especially not my husband. Like seriously, he’s reading this for the first time here. And honey, if you really are reading my book, you’re a stud and I love you and please start throwing away your little slivers of soap in the shower so I don’t have to.

  Anyways, this thing I’m going to tell you about happened within the first two weeks of bringing Zoey home from the hospital when I was in total and complete love with her. I remember sitting there not being able to take my eyes off her as I watched her being a helpless blob that did nothing at all. And yet somehow she was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid (lay??? lain??) my eyes on. Look, her finger just twitched in her sleep, awwwwww.

  But in the middle of all that love there was this moment I still can’t believe. I was sitting on the couch and I looked over at my two-week-old baby and suddenly this wave of emotion came over me. It was oppressive. All I could think when I looked at that tiny little being was what the fuck did I do? Not WTF. This was a full on WHAT THE FUCK. And then a thought crept into my head that to this day is so unbelievable to me. I tried to push it back down but it was too late. It was there.

  Let me rewind a bit. Before Zoey came around, Greg and I had this perfect life. We had like this totally awesome marriage and the kind of life people envy. We both had good jobs. We ate dinner out and shared a good bottle of wine practically every night. On weekends we would cuddle in bed until nine or ten or whenever we felt like getting up, and then we would run along the Charles River or meet friends for brunch or go to a Red Sox game. We just did what we wanted, when we wanted, and we were crazy happy.

  And then Zoey came along. And everything changed. I’m not saying in a bad way. Just in a very very different way.

  As I sat there on the couch that day and my hormones felt like they were on the tilt-a-whirl at an amusement park, and it felt like red ants were eating my nipples from the inside out, and my belly still looked preggers spilling over the top of my fatter pants because my fat pants were no longer fat enough, as all this happened, I stared at this tiny little being and for a brief moment I thought— shit, I can’t even type it. That’s how bad it is. Nope, I’ve committed. Okay here goes. For a brief moment, I actually thought about throwing that tiny little baby off our balcony.

  Gasp! Yes, there it is. That’s how F’ed up I was after giving birth. Was it postpartum depression? I don’t know. Is it possible to have postpartum depression for like five minutes? I mean for the most part I was over-the-moon in love with this little being. But suddenly it occurred to me that she was F’ing up everything. Did we still go out to dinner every night? Yes. But I spent like the entire meal struggling to figure out how to breastfeed Zoey without my Boppy under my Hooter Hider in front of fifty strangers as I watched my husband drink his glass of wine that I couldn’t have because I was petrified of trying to piece together the 2,000 parts of my breast pump.

  So that’s why for a brief moment an image flashed through my mind. An image of me taking her out to the balcony and heaving her tiny little body over the railing. How absolutely horrible is that?

  Did I really mean it? No, not really. Of course not. I never would have actually done it. But for a brief itty-bitty tiny moment I actually thought life might have been better if we decided to never have a child.

  And suddenly I understood how moms everywhere are struggling with postpartum depression. Imagine feeling like that for an extended period of time. How awful. Suddenly I saw an itsy-bitsy glimpse of what Susan Smith must have been feeling when she drove her poor little babies into that water.

  And then just as soon as the horrible image popped into my head, I pushed it out. It was a thought I had but didn’t mean. You’ve had those thoughts before, right? What if I jump off this balcony, or drive my car over the median, or just start screaming at the cashier who won’t stop talking to the person in front of me, or something else totally rash that I would never actually do? Or maybe I’m the only one who ever has these kinds of thoughts. But probably not. What I’ve learned the most from writing my blog is that I am never the only one to think the way I do. I post something and think awww shit, what if nobody relates to this? And then like 50 seconds later, 200 of you are like yeahhh me too! So if there’s one thing you get from this book (besides wet underpants hopefully. Wow, that sounds so wrong), know that you are never alone. No matter how wrong, how depressing, or how criminal your thoughts sometimes are, you are not the only person having them. But I digress. Like big time. Back to my very serious story.

  Yo baby book, you can take your milestones and shove them up your you-know-what

  Have you ever looked at someone else’s kid and compared them to your own kid? And if you say no you’re lying. I love when I’m sitting in Gymboree or some other place that’s touched by a thousand feet and I see some asshole mom coaxing her rug rat to show off some new skill so everyone can feel like shit that their own poop machine isn’t walking on their F’ing hands yet or speaking in iambic pentameter.

  Like there’s this father in our hemp weaving class (fake class name so this dipshit won’t know I’m talking about him in case he’s reading this) who’s constantly saying stuff like, “People can’t believe he’s only one.” That’s because he’s not, jackass. He’s 19 months. This is why people speak in months when it comes to baby’s ages. But even if he were only one, shut the F up. You’re just making other parents worry and feel like crap.

  And it kills me to watch some of the moms freak out when their kiddo is like the last one to talk or walk or go wee-wee on the potty. Is something wrong? Sure, sometimes there is, and that sucks balls. But usually they’re fine and just taking a little longer to master some skill. I know it sucks, but someone has to be last.

  And I think my favorite thing about the assholes who brag about how advanced their kids are is that milestones actually SUCK. Most milestones make a parent’s life harder. So why brag about it? “Woo-hoo, my kid won’t sit still on a blanket anymore so I have to watch him like 24 hours a day!” So here we go. Ten milestones that SUCK ASS BIGTIME (FYI, I know bigtime is actually two words, but I don’t think it should be):

  1. Eating solids

  So the doctor finally tells you to go ahead and try solids with your newborn, and you’re like hip hip hooray when really you should be like awwww shit, really? Because there’s nothing easier than just feeding your baby breast milk. I mean I know breastfeeding hurts like a mother-F’er at first, but once you’ve g
ot it down it’s like the easiest thing in the world. You’re at the mall and baby’s hungry. Just pop out a boob and lunch is served. And formula is almost as easy. But feeding your baby baby food is basically the same thing as putting a bunch of crap in your blender and forgetting to put on the top before you flip the switch. Suddenly your kitchen looks like a fugly 1980’s sweatshirt that’s been splatter-painted with diarrhea green peas.

  2. Saying mama

  Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama! Guess what my little rug rat can say now. The first time you hear it, your heart melts a little. The second time you hear it, your eyes well up. The 918,009,576th time you hear it, you want to stab your eardrums out with an ice pick.

  3. Dressing herself

  As I’m standing there begging my kid to hold onto my shoulders and not my head as I help her pull on her pants, I dream of the day when she can dress herself. And then it happens. Ohhh myyyy Goddddd, it’s like watching paint dry.

  ME: Hello, is this the Guinness Book of World Records?

  MAN: Yes?

  ME: Can you please send someone to my house because I am literally watching the slowest person EVER to get dressed in the history of the world?

  And don’t even get me started on shoes. They’re Velcro! They accidentally get stuck to everything so how F’ing hard can it be to close them?! By the time she gets them on for school she’ll have to take them off again because it’s time for bed. In the year 2025.