I Want My Epidural Back Read online

  ME: Zoey, either you stop doing that or I’m going to have to punish you.

  ZOEY: Like you’ll take my Isabelle doll away?

  ME: Yes, like that.

  ZOEY: That’s okay, I don’t care about her anyway.

  ME: Fine, I’ll do something else.

  ZOEY: Why don’t you take my dollhouse away?

  ME: You never play with that anyway.

  ZOEY: How about my swing set?

  ME: Stop saying all the punishments. You don’t get to decide.

  ZOEY: What if I don’t get books tonight?

  ME: Stop it or I’m sending you to bed without dinner.

  ZOEY: That might be a good one. What are we having?

  Make sure people don’t like you for your bagina

  OKAY, YOU KNOW WHAT’S TOTALLY AWESOME? When you’re invited to hang out at your friend’s house for an evening with a bunch of other families and all of the kids are finally old enough to run off and leave you the hell alone so you can actually finish wine and sentences and conversations and not worry too much. Until this happens.

  BOY: Miss Karen, the girls just showed us their baginas.

  AGGHHHHHH, they showed you WHAT?! I mean yes, I heard him quite clearly the first time, but for some reason my natural reaction was to make him repeat it, which makes absolutely no sense since it was pretty damn painful hearing it once.

  BOY: The girls showed us their baginas.

  Shiiiiiiiiiit!!!!

  My first reaction was to storm into the room where Zoey was and turn into Cujo, but I somehow managed to control my anger and not beat the crap out of her.

  ME: (what I wanted to say) WTF are you doing???!!! Only slutbags do that!!

  ME: (what I actually said) Zoey, come with me into the other room, please. (walk walk walk) Why would you show people your vagina?

  ZOEY: They said we should.

  ME: Who said you should?

  ZOEY: (shrug) They.

  ME: Zoey, you know that’s your private part. You don’t show that to anyone.

  ZOEY: Except you and Daddy and the doctor.

  ME: Yes, that’s it. No one else.

  ZOEY: (truly regretful) I’m sorry, Mommy.

  I gave her a hug and I was about to say, “Go back and play with the other kids, but keep your clothes on,” when I realized something. I was letting a good teaching opportunity pass me by. I mean my daughter might not know about the birds and the bees yet, but it’s never too early to teach her about self-respect.

  ME: Zoey, do you know why people like you?

  ZOEY: Because I’m nice.

  ME: Yes. And funny and creative and smart and all sorts of other things. Things in here (I point to her head) and in here (I point to her heart). People don’t like you for your body. They like you for what’s INSIDE your body. Understand?

  ZOEY: Yes.

  And I think she understood. At least at that very moment she did. But I know there are going to be lots of moments in her life that will make this lesson confusing. Like when a boy likes her for her pretty face. Or when she figures out she can get attention by wearing a short skirt. Or when she learns that her body actually has a crapload of power.

  So it’s my job to teach her that you DON’T share your body to convince someone to like you. That you convince someone to like you and THEN you can share your body if you want. And not until you’re older. Much older. Like 147.

  And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll just turn into Cujo and beat the crap out of her.

  HOLDEN: Oh fuck.

  ME: No, no, nooooo, you do not say that word. Only bad people say that word.

  HOLDEN: And parents.

  ME: Yes, and parents.

  I’d totally kick your ass if my toenails weren’t still drying

  OKAY, SO I TOTALLY KNOW what you’re supposed to look like when you greet your hubby at the end of the day. You’re supposed to be all fresh and put together, preferably wearing an apron and holding a drink for him in your hand with your luscious lips all puckered up. Bwahahahahhaha!! ’Cause THIS is how I looked when my hubby walked through the door yesterday.

  He took one look at me and said, “What’s for dinner?” Nahhh, just kidding. The last time he did that he lost a genital. But seriously, he took one look at me and said, “Rough day?”

  ME: The kids are downstairs. Dinner is in the pantry. I’ll be back later.

  And by later I meant whenever the F I want. I didn’t tell him where I was going and I didn’t wait for an answer. I just grabbed the keys and pulled a Thelma and Louise, minus the whole driving off the cliff part. I mean, WTF, these two women finally learn how to stand up for themselves and what do they do with their freedom? They decide to commit double suicide. Yeah, that’s empowering. Not. But I digress. Anyways, I debated where to go:

  A. Target, but my legs were killlllling me. Wait, is it okay to ride around on one of those electric cart thingies that has a basket on it if you’re not handicapped? Hmmm, probably not.

  B. The gym, but that would require belonging to a gym.

  C. The nail salon. OMG, yes. Do I care if some stranger is going to see my Chewbacca legs that haven’t been shaved all winter? Not. At. All.

  So I went in, said I wanted a pedicure, took like 9,000 minutes to figure out which color I wanted because I’d probably be wearing it for the next six months, let the skinny little hairless Asian lady try to pull my very tight leggings up over my elephant calves, and then I finally sat down in the big ole massage chair, where I debated whether I picked the right color but my feet were already in the hot water that was wayyyy too hot and probably scalding me, but I was too embarrassed to say anything.

  And then I sat. And sat. And sat. And I closed my eyes, and I relaxed for the first time that day. And even though the massage chair was vibrating and rattling my brain and repeatedly giving me multiple concussions, I didn’t give a crap and it was ahhhhmazing.

  And at one point I was tempted to pick up my cell phone and call my friend, but I didn’t want to be THAT jackass who ruins the peace and quiet for everyone in there. No way, hozay. Wait, speaking of jackasses, WTF is that sound?

  “Wahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!”

  I opened my eyes. OMG, you’ve got to be kidding me.

  A mom had just walked in carrying her screaming 2.5-year-old toddler.

  Yo lady, it’s okay to be five minutes late to your nail appointment because your kid is freaking out and you want to calm her down outside before you bring her inside and bother everyone else.

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: Come on, sweetie pie, we’re here. It’s time to get your nails done.

  SCREAMING CROTCHMUFFIN: Wahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Wait, WHAT?!!! She’s here to get her 2.5-year-old’s nails done? I mean no, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you want to shell out $20 to get your toddler’s minuscule nails painted with literally one drop of nail polish on each nail. I’ve even done it for Zoey on special occasions. But what I could give a rat’s ass about is you wanting to get your toddler’s nails done so badly that you are willing to do it when she’s in the middle of a screaming tantrum and it’s ruining the peace and quiet for everyone in the nail salon.

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: Now stop crying, cutie-wootie. You don’t want to bother the other people.

  No shit, Sherlock.

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: Come on, munchkin, what kind of purple do you want?

  SCREAMING CROTCHMUFFIN: No purple!!!!

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: Pink?

  SCREAMING CROTCHMUFFIN: No color!!!!!!!

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: Does that mean clear?

  SCREAMING CROTCHMUFFIN: NOOOOOOO COLOR!!!!!

  Yo dumbshit, I’m pretty sure what your howler monkey is trying to say is that she doesn’t want to get her nails painted. Which is awesome, because nobody else wants her to get her nails painted either. Oh, and here’s another good reason. NOT getting your nails painted is free! But nooooo, you’ve brought your toddler to the nail salon and you aren’t leaving until her nails are pink or p
urple.

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: I’m sorry, she’s just overtired.

  Ummm, why is that? Could that be because you’ve schlepped her to Neimans (Niemans?? Nemans?? Side note, I am so F’ing proud that I don’t know how to spell Neimans) and the BMW dealership and your polo lesson and the Evian factory and all the other places you’ve probably dragged her to all day? I mean no, I didn’t know this for sure, but I’ll tell you what I did know. When your crotchmuffin is screaming her head off and throwing a mega tantrum, you DO NOT reward her by giving her a $20 manicure. Especially when the other moms in the salon are trying to black out the shit they’ve gone through that day with their own little hooligans.

  MOM WHO SUCKS ASS: Sweetie pie, calm down, you need to get your nails done.

  Uhhhh, no she doesn’t. Kids don’t need to get their nails done. They need to get their nails clipped. And that’s easy. Just pin her to the ground in front of Caillou or some other shitty show that hypnotizes children and clip her F’ing nails.

  Anyways, luckily the little girl eventually stopped screaming. When she fell asleep sitting in the chair while someone was painting her nails. I shit you not. I can’t wait to see what she’s like when she grows up. FYI, that’s just a saying. Really I pray I never see that little howler monkey ever again. Or her mom, who sucks ass.

  ZOEY: I won the quiet game!

  HOLDEN: No, I won it!

  ZOEY: NO, I WON IT!!!!

  HOLDEN: No, you didn’t!!!

  ZOEY: YES, I DID!!!

  HOLDEN: NOOO, YOU DIDN’TTTTTT!!!!!

  Well, that worked. Awesome.

  Boy, was I wrong

  SO I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE. I mean, yeah, my whole life is basically one big confession of alllllllllll the shit I’ve done wrong, but this is kinda a biggie. You’re gonna think I’m a total a-hole for saying this. Okay, deep breath, here it is.

  I never wanted to have a boy.

  See, you totally think I’m a jerk now, don’t you? I mean who the hell says that, only an a-hole, right? All you’re supposed to care about is that the baby is healthy. Nope, not me. Because apparently I’m a jackass. So here’s the part where you do NOT stop reading, so I can explain myself. Like if it’s after midnight and your eyes are closing, hold them open with toothpicks or go lick the coffee filter from this morning or do something to keep yourself awake because I don’t want you to go to sleep thinking about what a dickwad I am.

  Okay, so flashback to 2011. We already have our cutie pie little girl and we are finally preggers with our second. Yippeeeee, a sibling is totally gonna make this shit easier. (See? I was a total dumbshit back then.) And it’s time to go in for the big ultrasound. You know, the one where you find out what you’re having.

  HUBBY: Are you sure you don’t want it to be a surprise this time?

  ME: I do want it to be a surprise. When we find out from the ultrasound tech what it is.

  HUBBY: But we found out the first time.

  ME: When you’re the one carrying a bowling ball in your belly and another one in your ass [hemorrhoid], then you get to decide.

  Well, that shut him up. Seriously, if I’m ever a lesbian and my partner wants to carry the baby, she can totally decide that we’re not finding out what we’re having. I feel very comfortable making that promise. But I digress.

  Anyways, the big ultrasound day comes and you can totally make fun of me for being all Pinterest-y and shit, but I bring two stuffed animals with me to the appointment (no, not to hug, I’m not a total loser). One is blue and the other is pink, and we have the tech secretly put the correct one in a box for us to take home so Zoey can open it tonight after dinner and we can have the silly surprise my hubby always wanted.

  Okay, so if you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m the kinda person who has ZERO willpower, which is why I drink a bottle of Hershey’s syrup every night and chase it with giant fistfuls of Goldfish. So the second we get home, I put the box high up on a shelf where I can’t reach it. But I keep seeing it out of the corner of my eye. Urrggghhh, I am sooooo tempted, I cannot begin to explain how much I want to pop open the flap of the box and take a quick peek. Pink or blue, pink or blue, pink or blue? I’m dying to know. Nooooo, don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.

  Okay, this is not working, so I take out a roll of wrapping paper (black because that’s all we have and I have no F’ing idea why we even have black wrapping paper because that’s so weird) and I wrap it up. Yes, this is a great idea! Not only will it stop me from peeking all day, but it’ll be even more fun for Zoey to open later. Much laaaater. This is ridiculous. I have a shitload of things to do today and there is no way I can get them done with this damn box staring at me.

  ME: Honey!!! Zoey!! Come to the kitchen to open the surprise!!!

  HUBBY: I thought we were going to do it after dinner.

  ME: Then clearly you don’t know me very well. Okay, Zoey, let’s see if you’re going to have a baby sister or a baby brother!!

  FYI, she’s not even two at the time and has no F’ing idea what I’m talking about, but we push record on the video camera and we let her unwrap the box. Eeeeeks, this is so exciting!!! I can’t wait to see what we’re having!!

  I’d totally show you the video here, but (a) this is a book so I can’t, and (b) you would probably die before it’s over because that’s how long it takes for her to unwrap it. I shit you not. Watching her open this thing is like watching paint dry after watching someone invent paint and then watching them build the entire paint factory and then watching them physically make the bucket of paint. Seriously, it could not take any longer for her to open it while my hubby and I sit there dyyying with anticipation.

  IN UNISON: Come on, sweetie, you can do it.

  IN OUR HEADS: RAWRRRRRR, just rip OFF the F’ING wrapping paper already!!!!!!

  And after she manages to take all the wrapping paper off the box without tearing it at all, she takes about ten more minutes to get the flap open. I shit you not. I am seriously going to lose my mind.

  ME: ARRGGHHH, JUST YANK THAT SHIT OPEN ALREADY!!!

  And then I see it. The tip of a tiny little blue ear pops out of the box. You know that tightening feeling you get in your chest when something big happens? I get THAT feeling. Yup, I actually feel bad for a moment. Not terrible, but a little bummed. Which is so weird because I’ve always been the kind of person who says I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. But apparently I’m not the nice person I always thought I was. I’m an a-hole.

  I mean boys scare the shit out of me. I don’t know jack shit about boys. They’re into trucks and ninja turtles and superheroes. Things I don’t know about. And they have penises. I don’t know what to do with that thing. Well, I know what to do with it if it’s on a man, but not on a little boy. And people are always saying how wild boys are and how loud they are and I always see brothers wrestling and almost killing each other, and guess who become serial killers? Boys. You never hear about girl serial killers. Shit, I am totally going to raise a boy serial killer. This is not good. Not good at all.

  Plus, all I can think about are those HUGE bins of adorable itty-bitty pink-and-white sundresses I had so carefully packed away in the basement. And the supercute pink polka-dot bedding set that I spent $300 on and loved so much, even though I could only use the fitted sheet because bumpers and comforters are basically baby murderers. And yes, I know I was an idiot for spending $300 on a bedding set, but I was preggers and certifiably crazy. And besides, if I use it again then I can basically divide that price in two and $150 for one fitted sheet doesn’t sound nearly as bad. Kinda sorta.

  But there it is. A little blue stuffed animal sitting there in the middle of the kitchen table and there’s no changing it. And sure, I guess I can still use that hot pink bedding set because I don’t want to condition him to like only “boy” colors, the same way I painted Zoey’s room orange instead of pink or purple when she was a baby, but I’m pretty sure the hubby’s not gonna go for that.

  Anyways,
my hubby is practically jizzing himself he’s soooooo excited to have a boy, so I fake a big smile and pretend to be excited too. I mean wait, I am excited. It’s not like I’m totally bumming inside. After all, boy was my second choice. But like I said, I’m also scared shitless.

  Until the day I had him.

  Cut to six months later in the hospital when I’m holding my new little tyke in my arms and I suddenly realize that everything the other mothers said is true. (a) You really do love your second baby as much as the first, and (b) holy crap are boys AWESOME. This baby is soooooo stinkin’ cute I can barely handle it. Who cares if I screw up and raise him to be a serial killer?! He’s cute enough to get away with it!