Getting Political Once More

Lololol just kidding.

Four years ago, this was happening. I was full of hope, dreams, and rainbows. Can’t say the same about this year.

At one point, I openly admitted I would have voted for Jesse Ventura had he ran. I despise Jesse Ventura and the weird-ass legacy he left in Minnesota.

A few days ago, both kids were spinning in circles and Big A declared “it was just like the election!” I wanted to say Mini B was like Hillary, but her hair was all Trumpy-catawampus and she, as Big A stated, “was more hateful” (which is true, she is a fairly vicious little girl). And Little A was just bumping into things and giggling. Abe (the puppy) was running around not knowing what to do, making him Gary Johnson, and the cat peered from around the couch, mostly forgotten. He was Jill Stein. And we laughed. And died a little inside.

I’m not going to say anything else. I already stated that I would have voted for %^%$@#$@^#$T@EF@#$ VENTURA and that pretty much sums up my feelings.

Maybe, like those same-sex marriages, our children will look upon this and see change. Either a woman as a leader, or a non-politician in the role. Maybe this sets off changes that will benefit them in the future. Maybe the country won’t implode.

But maybe it will.

Here is how we spent the morning four years ago:

election baby

This morning, Mini B sat half naked on the clinic floor, waiting for the pediatrician and eating goldfish. (I would show you a picture but I don’t know the rules on nudity and I don’t want any creepy peepies because eww). Since I can’t vote today (not registered in the state), I figured this was just as fitting. In a diaper, on a floor, eating crackers. Happy and unaware. I may go sit in the kitchen and do the same right now.

Is it too early for a drink?


The Incredible Shrinking…Nut.

Well, my blogosphere friends. I may still be semi-reeling the events of Little A’s hernia surgery, but if you ask the kid, he’ll have a different story. The day after, he’d say “ow”, point to the area and then run in circles for six hours yelling about god knows what.

This kid most certainly has his father’s pain tolerance. Continue reading

Little A’s Big Nut

I alluded to some specialist appointments that had to be made in my update post. You know, that post in which I updated…and then abandoned you again. If you’ve been hanging around here long enough, that shouldn’t have fazed you. If it did, well, you’ll learn.

Back to business and nuts – at Little A’s two-year well child visit, there were a few things of concern.

  1. He wasn’t speaking. I knew this. Speech therapy is ahead.
  2. He wasn’t growing. I knew this. The checklist to rule out any major issues was expanded to include a blood draw, three month follow-up and a visit to a Cardiologist to make sure his murmur wasn’t a bigger issue than we thought. Which was exactly zero issue since he’s had it the whole time and it was labeled “innocent”. UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY. We see the Cardiologist in three weeks.
  3. He has a giant ball. SAY WHAAAAT. I literally cracked up when the pediatrician pointed out his monstrous testicle. I had been prepared for the speech delay, the growth delay, I had even already considered the murmur, but an enlarged cojone?! Nothing could have prepped me for that.

We got the referral to see the pediatric urologist. Whose name, not even joking, is Wang. I can’t make this shit up. The pediatrician thought it was most likely a hydrocele which is a hole in the sac that allows for a slow leak of fluid. Most of the time it’s caught before the baby turns one, so either Little A had a slooooooow leaker or no one has been paying close enough attention to his nuts.

The urologist determined it to be a inguinal hernia, and don’t ask me to explain it, because kid was throwing a fit in her office before, during and after he was examined and I didn’t get a full description. Either way, it requires surgery to repair it. I don’t need to know WHAT is wrong. Just fix it! Fix my kid’s balls!

I’m sorry, I feel bad for making fun of the #$!#$ baby, I really do. He isn’t in pain but it sure can’t be comfortable. But it’s his balls. BALLS. I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy, so. This is just the cherry on top of my summer, honestly. Like of ALL things, it’s this. It’s just so damn funny to me.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not thrilled that he needs to have a surgery or need to be put under anesthesia. But so many people I know knew what I was talking about right as I explained the situation. It’s a common procedure and he should be in and out in 20 minutes. I keep telling people the worst part of the whole thing will be driving in downtown Baltimore.


As it approaches I am feeling a little more nervous, mostly because I know how clingy/cuddly/cranky he can get when he’s sick and I’m sure he won’t be feeling very good down there for awhile. I’m also supposed to keep him from horseplay for like THREE @#%@!$# WEEKS, so that’ll be a fun challenge.

I just can’t believe I didn’t notice the fairly significant testicular sizes. Whoops. I should also mention that when the pediatrician pointed it out, while I started giggling, my first thought was HOLY SHIT I’M NEVER GOING TO BE A GRANDMA!

My brain sort of jumped a few decades there. It was a serious and immediate concern. I don’t have a set, I don’t know what goes on down there.

That’ll be my next few days. Tending to a swollen, surgically repaired sack and trying to keep a two year old relatively still. Wish us luck. We’re gonna $%@# need it.



If I Made Mistakes, I’m Sorry. Just Tell Me.

Dear !@$!# Baby,

At your last doctor visit in January, we were told to schedule an appointment if you weren’t saying any true words by May or so. Well, buddy, we are mostly through April and you still don’t speak.

You communicate, for sure. You know and use the signs for eat, more, please, nap and poop. You can make the sounds of cars, trains (even though it sounds like a monkey), helicopters, airplanes and vacuums. You imitate dogs, cats, monkeys (even though it sounds like a train), birds, seals, ducks, lions, sheep, mice and bears. You know your head, ears, eyes, hair, chin, cheeks, mouth, nose, eyes, elbows, hands, knees, feet, fingers, hands, toes, belly and butt. You know what the five senses are. You can imitate snoring. You know when to clap your hands, stomp your feet or smile when a song tells you to. 

Continue reading

Bananas are the Worst.

My former coworkers can verify that I used to throw a minor fit when the old developer guy next to me would nom on bananas at his desk. The wretched smell would waft over the short cubicle wall and into my banana-free zone. And I would dry heave. When I was pregnant, I actually had to step away when he (or anyone else in the office) ate them. I never said anything, because really, it’s just a #%!#$ banana. And he was a really sweet guy. And it was all over in a few minutes anyway. Plus, hello excuse to leave my desk.

If you didn’t gather from that enthralling anecdote, I hate bananas. They are good for one thing only: banana bread. And when I make banana bread, I pretty much hold my breath until the pan slides into the oven where is becomes delicious non-banananey goodness.

I don’t know if this is true. I also don’t want to find out.

At first glance, they are a perfect food. Cheap, abundant, wrapped in its own easy-peel wrapper that doubles as a cutting board, full of potassium and some other shit.


They are also filled with spiders.

And apparently the bottom end of it tastes like Beelzebub’s booty. (Can someone verify this?)


Spiders, people. Venomous ones.  No. Just. NO.

The worst. THE WORST.

Unfortch, Little A goes apeshit for bananas. His first real word is thisclose to being banana. He freaks out when I put them in the grocery cart. He powers through an entire one for breakfast. I have to touch them on a daily basis. And one would think, after five months of a daily peeling, I would be immune to its powerful scent. I am not.

Does anyone really like bananas? IT’S A CHIQUITA CONSPIRACY. I feel like the world thinks everyone LOVES bananas but nearly everyone I know does not. Including my mom’s side of the family, where a conversation yesterday exposed a communal hatred among two cousins, my brother and myself.


I will continue to give in to Little A’s obsession and continue to cut off the apparently awful tasting booty end. Because I love my little spawn.

The sacrifices we make as parents, amiright?



Sidenote: This post was really hard to write as my N key isn’t working so well. SO MANY EDITS.