A Baby Story

This past weekend marked Luke's second birthday, and what kind of mom would I be if I didn't pay some sort of homage to his birth. Two short years ago, Luke shot out of my pelvis and into this world like a stripper popping out of a birthday cake. He all but said, "Ta-da!" When all was said and done, I was left with a healthy baby boy and a tear all the way from my V-hole to my B-hole. My nether regions were fit for a straight to DVD horror movie. "Have you seen the new horror flick, Frankenstein's Vagina?" Let me tell you, it's scary and I was about two bolts and a zipper away.

After almost a year passed without healing, my doctor suggested I see a vagina therapist. I couldn't see how my vagina laying on a sofa, while pouring its heart out over an unfresh childhood could help. He then explained that it was a type of physical therapy, so I opted in. The whole way there I kept picturing my sister to the south on a tiny little treadmill while people stood around shouting, "You can do it!"

As usual, things didn't turn out as I expected. The therapy hurt. Bad. I'm pretty sure a portion of my therapy is banned in several states, but after a couple of months I was better. By Luke's first birthday I was back to my old self again, and just in time to hear, "When are y'all going to have another one?" I still try not to cringe when I hear that question. Don't get me wrong. I love my son more than life itself. He is hilarious and has more shtick than I could ever dream of. He is amazing from the top of his strawberry blonde head to his dirty little toes. I would take a bullet, lay down in front of a train, or even attend a UT football game for him. But more babies? Not. Going. To. Happen.

Happy Father's Day!!

While searching the internet for Father's Day craft ideas to do with Luke, I came across a list numbered one to ten. The instructions said to write nine things you love about your dad, and one thing you'd like to change. Is that really the message we want to send our father's on their special day?

"Dear Dad, I love it when you come to my soccer games...but I wish you didn't show up drunk."

"I love it when mom gets child support checks...but I wish they weren't always late."

"I love it when we spend all day together...but it'd be ok if you got a job."

"I love having fun with you...when you're on your meds."

Let's pledge to make this a special day for all the dads in our lives. Give them complete control of the remote, while they watch the program of their choosing in total silence. At the very least, call your baby daddy and tell him, "Thanks for being you." It's just for one day. You can do it, because come tomorrow he'll be watching Sesame Street while being pelted with "why" questions and cooking lunch. That's how it works in my house, anyway.

Deep Thoughts

I wish I was a Jolie-Pitt kid. All they do is travel the world and eat ice cream. Jealous.

Deep Thoughts- Sweet Mammaries

Why is it that every time I buy a pair of shorts from Target, the pockets are sewn together? I end up having to tuck my cell phone into my bra because I have no place else to put it. Everyone knows you can only stash certain tools in your bra without fear of short circuiting due to boob sweat. I don't think Target could handle my death by mammary electrocution.

So I ask you, are stylish shorts with pockets at an affordable price too much to ask? Dang sweat shop kids cain't make nuthin' right.

Come Apart, Luke Style

This week brought a very interesting temper tantrum to the Wescott household. It was bedtime and Luke wasn't ready to go to bed. He expressed his unhappiness by throwing himself on the floor and shouting, "No dank you! No ma'am! No dank you! No ma'am!" This was perhaps the most polite fit I've ever encountered. I'm thinking about applying the same mannerly method to my own tantrums from now on. It might help me get my way more often...

Web Review

I recently stumbled upon a website called Fiverr.com, where people list things they’re willing to do for five dollars. My personal favorite is five dollars worth of “domestic or international adoption advice.” Dear Russia, I think we found the problem.

My next find frightens me to the core. Think twice before cheating on your spouse, lest they order a package from CrabRevenge.com, and sprinkle it in your bed. That’s right. If working for the postal service wasn’t dangerous before, now they have to handle crab lice. I’d be angry too.

Don't be a Baby

I was working in the yard last weekend while my son played beside me with his trains. Suddenly and without warning, he began shouting. The shouting then turned into red faced screaming. His trains had obviously done something wrong, but what? I tried without success to remedy the situation, but his disposition worsened with every attempt. A full on temper tantrum ensued. I sat there watching what had always been my even tempered two year old with fear and puzzlement. That’s when I was hit with the best idea of my life. Three words: toddler cage fighting.

A new twist on mixed martial arts (MMA) might be just what the doctor ordered. I know what you’re thinking. Why mess with perfection, right? Just hear me out.

Your kid has just embarrassed you at a play date by throwing himself on the floor after refusing to share his toys. You could put him in time out and listed to him cry for five minutes, or you could ding the bell and put him in a cage. Wisely, you choose the latter.

“Ladies and gentleman, wearing a Huggies diaper and white wife beater, we have Luke Duke’em Wescott weighing in at twenty eight pounds.”

Another mom places her child in the cage with Luke because she wrongly assumes it is a Pack and Play. Epic mistake. Luke’s Thomas the Train tattoos and bubble gum cigarette should’ve been a dead give away, but it wasn’t. A struggle quickly ensues and the other moms begin placing bets. Before you know it, some unsuspecting “high rollers” emerge from the maternal pack and you have a good chance of making a sweet return on your play date. The crowd immediately separates into two camps, breast fed versus formula fed, and trash talking begins. Eureka! Being a mom has just gotten a lot cooler. Just then, Luke Duke ‘em deals a low blow and bites the other lad on the shoulder. As the rules clearly state, the first tot to cry loses. Luke emerges victorious and you just scored enough money to buy a new Vera Bradley purse. Win-win!

Ladies, it’s time to stop hawking jewelry and makeup. Cancel the Tupperware party and invite your friends over for the big fight. With a slogan like, “Don’t be a baby,” or “We breed soldiers,” you won’t have to ask your husband twice to get on board. Nothing will touch a father’s heart more than watching his daughter drop an elbow on the next door neighbor’s kid. The fight over who has the best rose bushes just became irrelevant.

No longer do we have to be the unsuspecting victims of our kids’ angered emotions. No longer do we have to be robbed of our peaceful moments in motherhood. It’s time to turn the tables and tack back control. Together we can turn frustration and anxiety over our children's bad behavior into a monetary reward. Don’t be a baby. Support toddler cage fighting.

Soy un bastardo

My cleaning lady is the best in the world. No job is too big or too small and she always has a smile on her face. I like to think that her smile is due, in part, to the fact that she is cleaning MY house. “She probably looks forward to coming here.” I’ve often thought. And why wouldn’t she? I offer her something to drink, stay out of her way, and never complain. I’m practically the ideal client. I can just hear her bragging to her friends about how much fun she has when she comes over.

Aside from her strong work ethic and positive attitude, she is also a good listener. Or so I thought until recently. As usual, I was talking about myself when I noticed something, or rather, a lack of something. There was no response on her part. No active listening skills or even a half-hearted nod. Our conversation was totally one sided. What was the meaning of this?

I decided to test her. “Josephina, (pronounced Hosephina) you did an awesome job on the house. Sorry we are such slobs.”

“Yes,” she replied.

Interesting, I thought.

“Brantley and I wanted to get you a gift certificate. Where do you like to shop?”

“Yes,” she replied.

Hmmm. One final test. “Josephina, did you have any flood damage?”

She smiled, “Ok.”

I went upstairs and found Brantley and Luke watching TV. “Why do you always talk to her?” He asked. “You know she doesn’t speak English, right?”

“Of course I know that, duhh.” (I totally didn’t know that.)