One Cool Mom

I know I haven’t wrote in a long time.  Between having my head up my school’s ass and Riley starting to move, I was more afraid to start to write than anything else.  Such as I begin a thought and Riley breaks the toilet set lid (which she did, she really, really did).  Or begin to type and she chooses to climb through the computer desk and try to pull the iMac down (again, she’s just a crafty little one).  There are so many joys though to having this independent, exploring, playful baby.  She likes to play by herself mostly, which is quite nice for when my procrastination can’t hold out any longer.  I’ve baby proofed as much as possible, but she always manages to find something, somewhere, and it usually goes in her mouth (a shoe, Fitz’s tail, an iPod cord).  So as much as I would love the silence, it’s more of an anxious one, with one ear and eye on the computer trying to focus, and the others waiting to hear a crash. She’s figuring things out too which scares me.  Like that her tooth bottom teeth can be used as a pry bar, that baby wipes clean her hands, and where we keep her veggie puffs.  She’s becoming this little person and it’s more scary to watch than anything else. 

I know I’m not the most fantastic, maternal woman in the world.  I love my kid, I know how to keep her happy and her butt clean which are some of the more demanding tasks while parenting.  I want to introduce her to new foods and see how she’ll react to them, so I joined a group on Facebook that was called “Baby Led Weening for June 2012 Babies”.  PERFECT! It’s what I need.  I need to know that other babies didn’t choke and die on some bananas, or that feeding your kid some pot roast isn’t the worst thing.  As I stayed on the page, I noticed A LOT, I mean at least 7 women, posting pictures of their little ones, mind you Riley’s age, so about 9 months, mowing down on some chicken nuggets, McGriddles, and burgers.  At first I thought, damn those look fucking good, why am I hungry all of sudden.  And then the second thought came, “Hold up, are these bitches feeding their babies shitty fast food that has been told time and time again that not even adults should consider entering into their mouths.”  Yes, Caroline, yes they are.  I couldn’t believe it! The more I searched the page, the more pizza, nuggets, burgers, fries, ice cream, cookies, cake, and other shit hole foods were being fed to these little ones.  I literally couldn’t keep my bottom jaw up.  I was more surprised that there isn’t a second group from this page called “June Babies 2012 who don’t sleep due to high sugar levels, and possible blocked arteries.”  Again, I’m no saint of a mom, but I’ve never even considered handing Riley fast food or stuff that I know I should be guilty eating.  So, I did something I never do, ever.  I found an article about the process that McNuggets go through and how horrible they are for anyone to consume (again, I’m not saying anyone reading this is an awful person for eating McNuggets, when I’m hung over I’ll destroy me some McNuggets).  When I posted the article to the group, at first other moms were like I agree, I don’t think it’s fair and I’ve wanted to say something.  And then, I believe a mom in the form of Satan, commented, “But babies have fast metabolisms.  They can handle these things.  Anything is good is small amounts.  Don’t judge us cause we’re on the go and this is all we can grab when we’re packed in the car.” Again, I was left speechless.  More rants from other moms defending it plagued my notifications and my post, and finally an admin from the page took it down.  That whole discussion, truly made me know that, maybe I’m not the best, but I am also not the mom who fed her baby fast food today. 

So another note of food, this is quite the topic I guess, Riley has discovered how to grab small things while their moving.  Seems silly to people sans children, but the motor skills are still developing and so the fact she can grab the handle of the spoon, while I’m moving it, is suppose to be a good thing.  Until there’s food on it.  And then it’s a fucking nightmare.  Any cute feeding time can turn into a massacre of your couch and clothes because a certain someone think it’s entertaining to see where your frustration level is. 

I think that if I never leave this hell hole of a stay at home mom, I’m going to start to make inventions for moms.  Simple things like retraints on a highchair, or little leg holders on the changing station for when your baby kicks you in the face while changing her poop diaper, or maybe I’ll sell empty water bottles and call them the newest toy for babies, since even though my kid has every toy available at the NEX my ONE water bottle, provides more entertainment. 

Well I guess that’s all for today, hopefully after my finals, things will be easier and I can waste more time telling everyone about the events of my child.  

You know that stupid saying, “Never regrets your mistakes” blah blah. Well, if I could go back and stop everything that 18 year old Caroline did, I would.  More specifically, when she decided to get tattoos.  I can’t believe the decisions that she made, that is now making 23 year old Caroline sit through hours of pain to fix.  No, I’m not doing the sensible thing and removing them, I’m expanding them. And it hurts. So bad.  

Let me start that there are two that I probably won’t touch (out of the 5 that she chose to put on me).  My wrist tattoo which is small and in white ink, making it a mistake that never has to be seen, nor do I have to go through the pain of having my wrist tattooed again.  Then there’s the one between my hips. It was my first.  My gate way drug.  It says strength in those weird letters that can be read upside down and right side up.  I’m not sure why I won’t do anything about it, maybe keep it as a reminder why I will never get another tattoo without thinking.  

But the worst, the one that I decided within a few weeks I needed to cover, was my tramp stamp.  Yes, I had one.  I hated it.  It hurt to begin with, healed horribly, and looked like crap.  So, I met with the fantastic Randy Templin and he turned my thigh tattoo of nautical stars, into this crazy leg to rib wrap piece that I love.  I really do.  I can hide it and when I am in a bathing suit I get a ton of compliments.  Which I never got with my tramp stamp, go figure. 

Then, I did the most awful thing to my legs.  I got a calf tattoo of RI that came out worst and worst, specially when I went to add to it .  I went to the most ghetto tattoo parlor in Norfolk (blue horse shoe, and if you’re from the area, I’m sure you’re cringing too).  Not only did he send me into a full blown anxiety attack at the end, but he scarred me so badly that other artists didn’t even know how to approach it without digging deeper into my skin to fix it.  He put a thick black outline for a wave, it was just horrible. 

(No, I will not post pictures of these tattoos, just take my word for it)

So I am currently fixing my calf, which is now turning into a leg half sleeve (I guess that’s what you could call it.  It’s wrapping from knee to ankle, all the way around) But it hurts.  Bad.  I can barely take it after 4 hours.  I cried last session.  I can admit that cause I’m girl.  But it really, really hurts.  And then the swelling and healing process is ten times worst than anything I’ve ever experienced. 

So, why am I writing about some of this awful (and now much, much better work) that I have on my body?  Cause I do have a few 18 year old friends on FB (not creepy, mostly family) who are running out and getting these awful tattoos.  For example, one girl got a DeadMau5 tattoo on the top of her thigh.  It’s neon blue with it’s tongue sticking out.  And I almost cried when I saw it on this beautiful girl.  I couldn’t believe that was her decision.  I just wish I could start a campaign where grown women who once had tramp stamps, have to stand out side of studios and parlors and talk to these girls.  Tell them their sea story of how awful it was.  Or sit them down and watch Tattoo Nightmares.  

I may not have much knowledge in life, and I’m not even close to being an expert on anything, but you will never regret anything, as much as you will a bad tattoo. 

I find myself in the cross roads of working out lately.  I like running, it’s not that I don’t enjoy the silence and alone time of running.  The non hassle of having to have a matching gym outfit, which looks like a requirement at the Naval Base Gym, no need to look weird not listening to your iPod, no need to stare at the treadmill and hope that the time would go by quicker.  Just you, the pavement, silence, and still no sun yet.  I guess that’s my first issue I’m going to take up with running, is running in Guam. I know most of you are sitting at home, in the freezing cold staring at your flip flops waiting for the snow to melt, but I would kill for a cool breeze.  There’s no such thing as “running at noon” and if you do, you’ll be sorry.  I made the bold decision one day and was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna make it home.  Between the sun, humidity, heat, and me sweating perfusely, I thought home was a distant memory.  2 miles in and death looked more appealing.  So that leaves two times, ass crack of dawn, or when most people would eat dinner with their families.  I enjoy the ass crack of dawn time, barely any cars, I guess you could say “cool” for what the rest of the day will be like, just nice silence, in the dark, alone.  But not every time when the alarm clock goes off at 5 am, am I hopping out of bed looking forward to putting on two sports bras (yes, 2. babies leave you with these ginormous boobs that one normal sports bra can’t hold back).  For instance, this morning.  My alarm clock rang that annoying tone at 5 am on the dot (I even nicknamed this alarm “wake your fat ass up”) but no part of my body wanted anything to do with it.  I went to bed the same time Riley did, 830.  I took some zzzquil, and cozied up on the bed with the originial Jackass movie playing in the background.  I was out cold I would say around 834.  However, at 1 am, I heard Riley’s little coos, even though my husband checked on her.  Then again at 3, then at 430.  Even though each time my husband responded first, there’s something about hearing your baby fuss that doesn’t make you rest easy (go figure).  And because I am a genius, I took a second dosage of the sleep medication at the first 1 am waking, so again 5 am running wasn’t going to happen.  Okay, well what about at 8 when Chris comes back from PT and Riley is still napping. PERFECT! Butttttt Riley was up the minute Chris left for his run. And then there was an earthquake.  Luckily, Riley went back to sleep after some soothing, but I couldn’t.  And now I was so mad, I didn’t want to run.  These may sound like excuses, and I’m sure they are, but I don’t kill myself to run or get to the gym, or I’ll else I’ll start to resent it. 

So there I was nice and awake in that awkward time when I know if I fall back asleep, she’ll wake up, and if I get up to enjoy a cup of coffee, she’ll wake up.  It’s as if babies have these little timers in them.  Oh, what’s that mom, you’re enjoying a cup of coffee. Perfect, I just shit all over my pjs and I’m so hungry I’m going to scream at you the whole time you change me.  Oh good morning to you too Riley! 

And so, I chose the coffee.  I turned my Keurig on, that beautiful machine has saved me quite a few times. Hang overs, late night feeding sessions, early morning doctor appointments, mid afternoon heavy eyes, I love that Keurig. Almost more than the man that bought it for me.  So I popped those delicious Dunkin K Cups in the dispenser and listened, hoping Riley wouldn’t hear the brewing and knowing it was time to wake.  I took the cup, my comfy fleece blanket, and paroozed on the iPad. Riley didn’t wake up for another 20 minutes.  This morning was a success regardless if I didn’t get a run in.  

Now I’m sitting on the floor, convinced that today is the day that Riley will crawl.  For now she’s just sitting, playing with her piano, and yelling at me while trying to reach for the lap top.  Good morning everyone, hope all your weeks start off like mine!

Yea, I got a good looking kid.

I’ve noticed (and no, not lately) that there is a lot of hate for the girls on Teen Mom, Teen Mom 2, and 16 and Pregnant.  You might of thought that MTV replaced all learning channels with re-runs of Teen Mom episodes.  As if teenage girls are now in this haze of “I must get pregnant to get on TV!” and lastly, sharing your hate for the people that watch it.  First, I would like to point out that teen pregnancy rates are the lowest they’ve been since the 1970s (I don’t have the reference, a girl in my Juvenile Delinquency class found it, so feel free to use google if you want), and second, IT’S ENTERTAINMENT! Jesus people! No one said you had to tune in, let alone post all of your mean and ignorant statuses all over FB and whatever other site you’ve dedicated your spare time to.  It’s ridiculous, and mean.  I hate when I’m on FB chatting it up about the latest teen mom episode and how bad I feel for Chelsea, or how much of a stupid bitch Kailyn is being, and someone rears their nasty, rude head in.  ”I hope all those “whorrible” moms get their uterus’ taken out, and then die.” WHOA.  Didn’t expect that one.  But seriously, if you’re going to interrupt a conversation that has nothing to do with you, and are between two people that actually like the show, leave it alone, no one wants your opinion anyways. 

And you know what breaks my heart more? Is that people don’t see the progress that these girls have made.  Shoot I’m 23 and can’t hold a job right now because I’m going to school.  I don’t have my own vehicle, and I live to cook and clean for a man (kind of) and yet no one writes on my FB every twenty minutes saying “GET A JOB BUM!”  If you don’t think that those girls, or me for that matter, haven’t wanted to actually make big changes and moves in life, then you’re sadly mistaken.  I know that while some of you testosterone filled, angry men are reading this post you’re thinking, “BUT THEY MAKE A SHIT TON OF MONEY DON’T FEEL BAD!” Okay, maybe I don’t feel bad, but I do like watching it. So STFU while I write about it.  I don’t comment on your stupid reposts from the Navy Times, or about how awesome your dinner that  you just cooked and had share is, so please don’t post on my Teen Mom statuses. 

Oh, I like Jersey Shore too.  But I won’t give any reasoning for that.  I just love trashy television. 

…and that is the truth. No, I’m not going to sit here and describe them or anything so don’t worry about hitting the “Back” button.  I’m just saying, when I have no problem to pick that 21 lb baby, sniff her butt, and not even flinch when I open her diaper, something inside me disappeared.  I remember the days when my stomach would flip at the thought of me cleaning another human being’s poop, but here I am. 2013. The master diaper changer.  It amazes me my husband even finds me attractive some days.  For example, I haven’t fixed my pony tail from when I fell asleep last night, I have on the same tank top from last night, and my favorite sweat pants.  I quickly brushed my teeth, and there isn’t even a drop of make up on my face.  I’ve cleaned the house though, did more HW, and changed and cleaned up after the smallest, most dirty, human being.  But, if he still likes it, I guess it’s a win. 

Most people look forward to their thirsty Thursday, their Friday night out, or even their football Sunday, but I truly believe the only reason I don’t scream when I’m woken up at 6 am, is cause there will be a 1 in the afternoon. That precious, beautiful time when Riley goes to take her afternoon nap.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy her morning nap as well, but it’s no 2 and a half hour nap that lasts right up until my husband comes home.  It’s like the house is my oyster.  The TV is my own, no screaming over it, no missing the important parts because someone shit their pants, no picking up, just time of silence, and whatever the hell I want to do.  I can concentrate on HW, I can watch a re-run of Teen Mom without Chris nagging me to turn it, I can eat a whole meal, or I can do nothing and close my eyes, in silence.  I live for these few hours everyday.  I know to most people it seems so silly.  ”You’re a stay at home mom, all you have to do is the laundry and make sure the dog doesn’t pee on the floor.” And yes, you are right, completely.  I would kill however to go back to the days that I could wake up at noon, leave the house without a car seat and diaper bag, or just enjoy a simple cup of coffee.  I remember all the mommies that would tell me, enjoy this time, cause once the baby comes, that’s it.  They were right. They were SO right.  Again, I love my child, I truly do. I enjoy watching her crawl for the first time, trying new foods, and her finding how to say certain babbling words.  But there something so comforting knowing that I will have that silence, those few precious hours where I can breathe since my foot hit the floor.  Plus, by the time Riley wakes up, I’ve semi missed her, so it’s like starting the day a new. I love 1 in the afternoon. 

thecoachingstaff:

kingjaffejoffer:

BTW, Dan Wetzel writes for Yahoo Sports, these are legit quotes

THE. END.

GOODNIGHT.

THE. END. ALL. BE. ALL. TO EVERY FOOTBALL FANS INNER FANHOOD

You won. And you’re clearly an asshole too.

(via nfloffseason)

nationalpostsports:

Apparently this was the work of a rogue librarian, and not their official policy on Lance Armstrong. But it’s still funny. 

“All non-fiction Lance Armstrong titles, including Lance Armstrong: Images of a Champion, The Lance Armstrong Performance Program and Lance Armstrong: World’s Greatest Champion, will soon be moved to the fiction section,” a sign, sporting a smiley face, tells library patrons.

Armstrong’s books have also taken a beating from reviewers on sites such as online bookseller Amazon.com — the once-faithful readers now skeptical of every word in the cyclist’s autobiography Its Not About The Bike. (Photo via Reddit user Evadregand)

Lololololol

I have to say, one of the most annoying things about living on a tropical island, other than being pregnant and watching everyone your husband work with run around in bikinis, is the large spectrum at which people’s weight and weight problems are. I understand that the island of Guam is about 80% obese, but what I hate even more, is how everyone is a dietitian and a personal trainer once they discover the gym and whatever the new fad diet is.  Don’t get me wrong, I eat well, I’m not at a perfect weight, but I’ve made out just fine on some frozen pizzas, bud light, and some other junk I’ve thrown in my body.  I don’t hang over my jeans, whenever I do decide to put them on, and it drives me nuts when people sit there and tell me everything that’s wrong with frozen meals, and canned soup (which I practically live off of because my other hand is trying to distract my child).  I would love to eat one packet of tuna, an orange, and carrots for a meal, no wait, I WOULD NEVER WANT TO DO THAT.  So please, when you’ve finally discovered what diet, or meal plan, or whatever it is that is working for you, and I’m not asking, please don’t tell me.  

I guess that’s my lee way into my next small discussion.  I’m beginning to resent people that say “you look fantastic….for just having a baby!”…I had a baby 8 months ago.  And I lucked out.  I wasn’t one of those women who gained 90 lbs, and never bounce back.  I don’t how or why, and if you were one that counted your calories and refused any type of junk food, I apologize.  There was nothing better in the world than knowing that I burned almost 600 more calories a day, just by being an incubator.  I loved every second of my fat tendencies. Long day naps, tons of cinnabon, and lastly, cheese on everything.  It rocked.  And I only gained 23 lbs, with an almost 8 lb child.  It was a fantastic period of my life, one where people ran up, held my belly and when I would exclaim “I’m about to pop!” people complimented my small size.  And then there’s that fantastic small period of time directly after.  Where you automatically drop 20 lbs just from birth and well, never having a moment to eat solid food.  I felt fantastic.  I went from a huge whale, to a skinny bitch in about 2 weeks. I was on cloud nine, feeling my small stomach, and seeing my toes for the first time in months.  And I appreciated the compliments afterwards about my size, but 8 months later, I didn’t just have a child.  I’m proud to say that I am 145 lbs, a size 8, and my boobs are still fantastically large.  I’m not trying for that size 4, I don’t put my pre pregnancy jeans on a pedestal and I certainly don’t feel bad for where I am.  But please, don’t sit there and say I look good for having a baby, it makes me want to jump in the gym and be that old person who only drank her calories, and her excersice was usually running barefoot down the street at 3 in the morning.  I’m doing this the right way, and even though I’m not a 2 and I don’t beat myself up for every consumption of a beer or taco, I do feel good.  And hey, I have a pretty good reason for my size, my kid rocks.