Secrets and the Whores that Tell Them

I prefer not to tell anyone my secrets.  Whenever I do, it just so happens that that particular secret leaks out to the world.  Maybe it's the people that I choose to tell.  Maybe what I tell them is just so juicy that it cannot be kept inside and the world must know of the evils that I have done! Meh.  Not so much on that part.

To preface my frustration and my anger, I must tell you this little diddy.  My youngest "full-blooded" sister (let us call her B) is a skanky ho.  She lost her virginity last year to an ex and has slept with at least two other guys (that I know of).  That part only makes her a slight ho.  How did she make the descent to skanky ho?  By breaking a 'sister secret' to further her own agenda. 

Definition of a sister secret:  I have three younger sisters. The real youngest is my half sister and is too young to yet be included in the sister secret circle. Eventually, when she starts her period or something, we'll include her.  So, the other two sisters and I have made a pact that when we need to get something off of our shoulders, we can tell each other without fear that that piece of information will be shared with anyone else.  ANYONE.  Spouses, mother, father, etc.

B seems to think that this rule no longer applies to her.  I told her a sister secret, one that never should have left me lips, but seemed to roll effortlesslly off of hers.
No, I did not cheat on my husband. I never will, nor could I. 

Anyway, when she came under fire for sneaking out of the house to meet her boyfriend, she told the sister secret.  "Megan snuck out of our old house to meet her boyfriend and Sarah slept with, like, four guys in high school!"

What.  the.  Fuck. 

She was trying to justify her own stupid behavior with our stupid behavior!  Let me know if I'm not making sense, or if she was right in justifying herself in this manner.  However, I cannot.  I told her that secret in confidence, when she needed advice.  Yes, I was borderline retarded for confiding this in her.  She's not a good secret keeper.  She sucks.  She's a bitch.  And I hate that she thinks of only herself when she comes under fire. 

I'm going to punch her in the taco and then give her a shirt that says "Shut your whore mouth", c/o Aunt Becky.

I need a GPS for my BLOG

I obviously don't have a direction for my blog.  My purpose is to write whatever the hell I am feeling at the moment.  Getting lots of comments and becoming a blog of note is not something that I am aiming for.  I just want to write. 

I want to write about work.  My passion for chemistry and working with all neat-o instruments and having the ability to talk with people about that without sounding like a high almighty know it all is unique.  Want to know about chemistry? Want to know how long it really takes for all the analyses on CSI?  Yeah, talk to me.  I'll let you know.

I want to write about breastfeeding.  I'm still not sure if my son was just a horrible breastfeeder (or some hungry monster that didn't care about proper latch, but just wanted his god damn milk) or I was so freakin' inexperienced or maybe just a combination of the two.  Either way, we worked it out, and now, I could be a breastfeeding pro.  My wealth of knowledge about breastpumps and finicky eaters is vast.  Ask me.  I know pretty much all there is to know about booby milk.  And I'm not afraid to tell people about it.  Hell, I did an independent project during college to analyze the sugar content of my breastmilk.  My lab partner was totally awesome about it and he even did his seminar about it! Love that guy!  My husband totally enjoys this breastfeeding thing for many reasons.  Top ones: 1) He gets to see my boobs at least three times a day; 2)My boobs are huge compared to when we started dating; 3)He doesn't have to wake up in the middle of the night to feed the baby. 

Maybe I'll talk about how my husband and I have opened up to each other in the past few weeks.  We are a completely happier couple because of my invisible vixen friend.  Go see her.  Love her. 

As for my birthday list, I did already do something.  I planned a girls' night out for my girlfriends and me.  Should be awesome.  Margaritas, baby.  Bring on the tequila! 

Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday. As a side note, it is also my father's birthday. And Pearl Harbor Day.  But, most importantly, it's my birthday. 

I won't be that old.  But I feel like I'm old.  Who wouldn't when the only thing in your household that is older than you is the house? No, nothing special planned.  I am taking a vacation day (without the kids....whoa....) and plan on cleaning my house.  I know.  Boring.

The gift that I may give myself is a list of accomplishments that I'd like to achieve.  Not unlike a New Year's Resolution list, but this has nothing to do with losing weight or stopping some bad habit.  I merely want to be comfortable with who I am.  I want to make more friends and have a girls' night out.  I'd like to know what it feels like to be reckless with a small amount of caution.  I want to be comfortable in my own body.  I want to be passionate about my husband and with my husband.  I want to be sexy, like, inner vixen sexy.  (note to self: need more black lace underwear) I want to work harder at my work and I want to focus on my children when I'm home.  I'd like to never have to mix the two.


A proper list will be added later, but for now, that's good enough.

I also want to learn how to take 2 minute showers so I don't have to wake up so damn early in the morning.

No More Kids, Thanks

My (ex) babysitter is adopting a child from South Korea.  Her and her husband are nearly unable to get pregnant.  They have one son that they had naturally, but it has been a no-go since then.  She is adament about people having more children if they are able, but does this almost to a fault.  In a recent post on her Facebook page (yes, I stalked my ex-babysitter.  Why shouldn't I? I liked to read her posts while she should have been watching my kids.  Bitch.) she told one of her friends that she 'thought this crazy lady probably had a litter of children, while all of the nice people in the world couldn't have any'.  Um, seriously? 

I am a fertile piece of baby-making soil.  My husband looks at my uterus and I'm pregnant.  But I don't want any more kids.  None.  Sure, I think about it, but come on!  Eventually, I want to send my kids off to college and go to Ireland or Italy or do some type of exercise program that does not involve them in any way, shape, or form.  Independence is something that I crave! 

This is the point where I tell you that I love my kids and wouldn't change anything about them being in the world.  True.  I wasn't necessarily trying to have my oldest when we brought him into this world (obviously we were having sex and I was taking my birth control pill religiously, but God wanted to punish bless me with him), so it was unexpected and life-altering and felt like I had no choice.  But I wouldn't take it back!  I couldn't!  Reading to that little boy every night and feeling him wrap his skinny little arms around my neck in 'a BIG hug' is the cherry on top of my life ice cream. 

It's just that....sometimes....that ice cream is crap with poop chips.  And vomit whipped cream. 

I understand that I don't feel the pain of not being able to have children.  If I was without that ability, I doubt I would be that heartbroken because of my personality.  I prefer to stay at work late (I don't because I am willingly obligated to my family).  Kids are messy and disorganized; I am not.  I'm more emotional  and pissy than my two-year old.  That in itself should be enough.

However, having the ability to produce children, but not wanting to does not make me the opposite of all the 'nice people' in the world.  Fuck you, bitchy babysitter that wants my ten-month old to 'entertain herself' while you update your stupid Facebook status.  You're not the nicest person in the world, either.

Breastfeeding Kinda Sucks (this time, anyway)

My daughter refuses to nurse.  Except at night (like 3 a.m.) when she has no choice.  On the weekends, she will bite my nipple and continuing biting while she pulls her mouth off.  She is evil. 

Breastfeeding is evil.

So, why not just quit?  Because I was raised not to.  The entire eight years that I was in swimming, I threatened to quit every single year.  Marching band?  Softball?  Yeah, that's right.  I wanted to quit.  I wanted to quit college, too, when I found out I was pregnant.  Thank God that didn't happen or we'd be sitting out on our asses begging for food.  You're not supposed to quit when your situation gets hard, because in the end (unless you're being abused, then get out now and go see Aunt Becky) it will be worth it.  I breastfed my son for the entire first year.  I had a great pump (thank you, Medela!) and a strong will. 

It seems that my daughter has an even stronger will than I.

What is it about the breast that she hates?  Probably because it's too hard to get the milk out.  Well, honey, let me tell ya, I didn't quit and neither are you.  So, take that, little stinker.

Oh, Monday. I hate you.

The weekend was not a horrible one in the least.  I got a lot of Christmas shopping done and the kids and I had a great time.  We celebrated Thanksgiving with my mother and father-in-law since they will be gone for the holiday.  Unfortunately, Monday came around and brought me not to the realization that it was the start of the work week, but that it was the start of the flippin' holidays. 

I am cooking the turkey for my side of the family this year and it is my first time.  A turkey-cooking virgin, am I.  Looking forward to it, but also hoping that I don't kill anyone.  My house doesn't have to be clean, since I am not hosting.  How awesome!  Chances are, my sister will call me Wednesday night after the kiddos are in bed and ask for help cleaning the house since Mom will be a lump and of no use (because of knee surgery! Bah!)

Weird thing happened last week.  I had a dream about fixing one of the machines at work, the GC.  I have to rewrite all of the methods because my stupid analytical manager pulled a piece of equipment off of the GC, but forgot to update the  machine so that it would reflect that change.  Yeah, so after six months of being at work and having absolutely no prior knowledge on how to create a method, I fixed the damn thing.  Because I had a dream.  Imagine that. 

My son is getting a Dodge Charger police car for Christmas.  My daughter is getting a regifted blow up dog tent because she isn't even one and she will never know.  We won't videotape the part when we give it to her.  No evidence of our cheapness.

Ech. Christmas.

Since, I'm pretty much the best wife my husband could ask for, I have gotten him awesome Christmas presents.  As an example, last year, I bought him a 50" plasma HDTV (yes, 1080p, duh) and a huge ass toolbox.  Granted, the deal on the huge ass toolbox was a steal and I probably could have gotten him something else, but I was pregnant and worn out.  And Xander wanted me to have the cutest little shoes.  Fine, he didn't.  Shut up.

This year, my big plan was to get him a motorcycle.  He sold his first one when we found out we were pregnant and would the money for, well, anything.  We needed the money. 

Then, he bought himself one over the summer.

Bastard. 

Fine, he's not a bastard, but now, what the hell am I supposed to buy him?  He's got his man cave, he's got the cool new tools.  I could buy him one of the Dremel things, but he has expressed no interest in them.

I'm getting a sewing table.  Whoo hoo.  I would ask for a new pump, because my bag is getting torn up and it looks like I'm now the hobo carrying the hobo pump bag.  However, Lilly will be done nursing at the end of this year and Christmas is at the end of this year...looks like I'm not getting a new pump.  Dammit.  No, I will not have any more babies to justify needing one.  Now that you mention it, though...

NO!

So, what do I get my husband?  The infernal man has everything. 

Maybe I'll get naked and wrap myself in a bow and blow his mind.  I bet he would like that!

Random Tuesday Thoughts (RTT)

Today is most certainly a random day and thus, a good day to voice whatever the hell is rampaging in my noggin. 

I recently read an article posted by Beta Dad who posted on Daddy Dialectic about parenting.  In particular, about why parents hate parenting, although Beta Dad proposed a new title as Why Working Parents Hate Life.  I am most certainly sure that I do not hate life, but I can pretty much type anything I want about my life and you pretty much have to believe it, pretty much.  'Cause you don't know me, fool! 

What I do hate is coming home from working nine hours a day, fixing dinner, unloading the dishwasher, laundry, playing with the kids, bedtime snacks, bath and then waking up three to four times a night and going back to work at 6:30 the next morning.  So, the perpetual exhaustion might be a key factor in this 'hating of my life'.  It's not the kids.  They aren't a burden to me.  My life before children was boring and unstructured. 

I love having them to myself on the weekends, but I love it even more if I don't do housework.  That seems to be the kicker.  On top of having to take care of my extremely energetic children, I also have the burden of dishes, the stupid floor that constantly needs to be swept and wet swiffered, the whole flippin' house to clean, the ginormous pile of clothes that need to be put on hangers and in drawers, etc etc etc.  I am wondering if it will be possible for me to somehow decorate my house, but no one is coming in it anyway because of embarrassment.  But, hey!  If no one is coming over, then fuck housework!  Ha! Problem solved.

I would like to write a note to my congressman and to the dead Ben Franklin about daylight savings time.  It is quite obvious that Mr. Franklin did not play a fatherly role in any of the 50 or so illegitimate children that he sprung from his loins or he wouldn't have come up with daylight savings time.  My kids get up at the same time that I do when I'm getting ready for work.  At 5:45 a.m.  And they go to bed earlier, so we have to leave early from whereever we are so that they don't undergo a complete meltdown.  Well, Xander at least.  He is just ridiculous if he isn't kept on a strict schedule. Lilly is like, whatevz.

Snickers.  Reese's.  Alex bought Halloween candy on his day off.  Crap, now I have to eat it all.  Oh, man.  So sad!

I'm making the turkey for Thanksgiving this year!  Mom is having surgery and my aunt is depressed, so it falls on the oldest granddaughter that can actually cook.  All of the other granddaughters are either in the Army or not willing to take any responsibility that may come their way.  I know that it will fall on me when Mom dies to keep the family together.  Or I just won't and then it'll make my life easier.  Whoo!  Come on, you know I won't be able to do that.  I have oldest child syndrome and therefore too much guilt to consider following through with anything mildly heinous. 

Guilt.  Yuck.

Farmville and Crazy Mom

In my birthing class that was "mandatory" for all new parents to attend that wanted to give birth in this fancy new hospital, it was stressed upon us that we might go through a period when the baby is first born where we may want to harm him.  (What they didn't tell us is that we will continue having these thoughts until WE die.)  Lack of sleep, hormone imbalance, trouble nursing, etc might all be factors in these thoughts.  Each couple had to come up with an alternative method of calming our baby down.  With 24 couples in the class, we all had some pretty good ideas.  The running water trick saved our marriage.  Shaking the baby was NOT an option, duh! 

Well, for one mom, it obviously was. 

While feeding the cows and harvesting her crops on Facebook's addicting game, Farmville, her 3-month old son began to cry.  Ignoring him, she continued harvesting and trading and buying and building her imagninary farm.  Baby continues to cry.  To make him stop so that she could finish her very important game, she picks him up and shakes him.  Goes and smokes a cigarette and then comes back to shake him some more.  Shakes the baby so hard that he dies.  He dies.  He died. 

Because?  Because playing her imaginary game was more important than feeding her baby, or picking him up, or playing with him or paying attention to his needs because you're the only person at that moment that he can trust to take care of him?  How does someone do that?  I don't understand it!

My son was not a good baby for the first...well, ever...of his life.  He cried and cried and ate and cried.  It was unnerving.  I craved for time to myself.  Yes, I had thoughts of throwing him.  But I was disgusted and horrified the millisecond after the thought passed through my sleep-deprived brain.  I knew it would be wrong.  Ultimately, I convinced myself in a matter of two seconds that hurting my child would bring more misery to the rest of my life than the peace of five minutes it would bring if I could make him just be quiet.  It wasn't worth it.  It would never be worth it!

I wonder what goes through the minds of women and men that are able to physically harm their children.  The lady that drowned her four young children?  What happens in that moment when morals are thrown into the wind and insanity is allowed to reign?  I can never understand it.  I don't ever want to.  I want my children to live and thrive. 

I don't know if the issue is the game of Farmville.  It's not a violent game.  I don't believe it planted (sorry for the pun) a kernel of violence in her head and subconsciously told her to shake her son.  In truth, Farmville is a way for someone to escape into a simpler life.  It is a life where your crops and animals depend on you to sell, feed, harvest, etc.  You can build a new farmhouse and help harvest other's crops.  An alternate life, possibly.  An escape from a newborn that cries and needs incessantly.  Sure.

Any person that stays at home with their kids or takes care of other's kids needs a break.  It's flippin' hard.  I stayed home with my son for four months and I just wanted to take a shower without him needing me to hold him.  You take for granted everything that you did before kids, like taking a 20 minute shower instead of 2 minutes.  (Sorry about the hairy legs, honey. Baby wouldn't let me shave them for the past two months.)  You need a break.  An hour or a few away from them can only make you a better caregiver.  After a date with my husband or a girls' night out, I am so much more grateful for my children than if I had stayed at home with them. 

Her son would be a year old now.  It literally makes my stomach flip to think about what she did to him.  She pleaded guilty to second degree murder.  My only hope is that the women in her prison will show as much respect to her as she did to her son.  Maybe while she's getting shanked or the crap kicked out of her, she'll remember she forgot to harvest her corn. 

Random Thoughts Tuesday

Random Thoughts.  I think that I might be pretty good at this.

I'm having a tubing issue at work.  I finally fix this critical instrument, and apparently, the Horiba Ghost broke it over the weekend.  Gaah!  I have switched the tubing with new, exhausted all of the permutations for tubing combinations and am ready to pull my hair out.  The lady at work that really needs some data says, "Must be a hole in the tubing."

Me:  You think so?  After I just switched all of the tubing twice?  Maybe I took a needle and poked it through all of the tubing.  Maybe I need to use that same needle to poke my fucking eyes out. 

I didn't really say that, but my rage inside of my head did.  Bad rage!

Right....

You know what my mom says a lot that just ticks me off?  'But anyway...' and she uses the dot dot dot things a lot...like more than...is...nece...ssa...r...y.  Yeah, that bad.  Seriously!  Drives me insane!  Who does that kind of stuff?  My weird-o mom, of course. 

I have finally figured out how to make Lilly nurse longer.  I wrap her up in this satin and chenille blanket that I made and she just wants to suckle til the cows come home.  There is a possibility that my child will live in that blanket if this continues to work.  She also does the cutest thing when she sees the blanket.  She does the gimme gimme thing with her hands (clench, unclench fists) and as soon as it gets near her, the thumb automatically pops into her mouth!  Adorable!  My sister (a perpetual thumb sucker since the womb) just thinks this is the most awesome thing in the world.  As cute as it is now, it will cost me a fortune in braces when she goes through her most awkward stage in middle school.  I will just have to get her glasses at the same time.  Maybe she'll get her period, too.  Carbon copy: Momma.  Sorry, babe.  I've learned that it's hereditary. 

Strength, Motivation, Whatever

I am constantly finding that each situation that has been thrown my way is exhausting and makes me want to hit my head against the wall.  I love my kids, but they are a lot of work.  Especially at this age.  Xander only wants his mommy to hold him...and only him....that means, no Lilly.  And she's nine months old!  How can I not hold her.  It's how she moves and gets around.  Where is hubby during all of this?  Throwing up.  How am I - the one that got puked on four times - not trying to force my stomach up through my esophagus, when he's the one that handed me the child that sounded like he was going to puke?  Huh?  How did that work?  I am thankful that I'm not the one who is sick.  Because guess who would still be doing the childcare, cooking, and general everything?  Moi.  C'est la vie.  I married a man that loves to work hard...at work.  Not so much anywhere else.  And he's not a bad father by any measure!  I go to work super early and he wakes up with the kids (most mornings) to get them dressed and off to the sitter's.  I pick them up after work, cook dinner, clean up after dinner, bathe the kiddos, do the dishwasher, put the kids to bed, and then clean.  Occasionally, hubby helps and I love him again.  Every once in a blue moon a while, I get to knit another row of Lilly's slippers that I have been working on for six months.

How does one stay sane?  I feel like I am constantly grasping for energy, pulling for some piece of life that will get me through the next thirty minutes.  Dammit and the bills are due!  That's right, I am the family accountant. 

What does my husband do, you ask? Good question!  Let me tell thee.  When he comes home from work, after dinner, he sits down to eat his plate that I have prepared for him.  After which, I clean up.  He then changes from his work clothes into his pajamas and sits on the couch or the nice chair in front of the computer.  While either watching television or checking FB, he might hold Lil for a moment while I (attempt to) change Xander's diaper.  Xander then roams free while I attend to Lil. 

Yes, I have talked to my lazy husband.  Yes, he has admitted that he has a problem.  Somehow, though, he gets stuck on step two and does an epic fail and retrograde into retardedness.  La da di, I did something right for two days and now it's time to return to the days when I did nothing right.  And so, the endless cycle of love then hate then love happens. 

If it is not that obvious, I am in the hate you stage right now.  When he stops throwing up and I can sleep in the same bed, I might love him again. 

This is my dumb dumb dog, Bubba.  No, I did not name him.  Yes, he is licking the window.

The Pros and the Woes

There are some days when breastfeeding is almost too much for me.  When Lilly refuses to nurse because the milk won't let down fast enough and then she's mad when there isn't more immediately because, dammit, she would like three more ounces, thank you!  Those times, I want to quit.  I want to quit so badly and be able to go away for a weekend with my husband and not have to worry about there being enough milk left in the freezer, and not having to prepare for weeks on end, and not having to pump every three hours, and not having to worry about if there will be enough milk when I go back to work.  It's beyond frustrating.  I want to pull my hair out and throw something.  Freedom.  That's what I want. 

After that moment passes, what next?  I don't want to pay for formula.  I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and make her a bottle when I'm half asleep (would you like some coffee in that bottle?).  I like to know that I am able to provide for her, to calm her down when she's hurt.  I'm also fond of her being partial to me over her father, even if it is because she likes my boobs. 

At the end of the day, the pros outweigh all of my woes.  Not everything can be perfect, and by this point, I am pretty sure that nothing will ever be exactly as it should.  What's the fun in that?  I only have three more months of breastfeeding.  Then I'm done.  Forever!  Unless we get a surprise, which seems to be the running mantra of our lives.  Somebody knock on some wood. 

Pictures That Never Get Developed

Is it just me that doesn't (want to) do scrapbooking?  I can't even get the pictures from my digital camera printed, let alone put them on some fancy page with cutesy little cutouts and stickers.  Blah.  I would rather get the laundry done, the dishwasher unloaded, and finally knit that last slipper I have been working on for the past six months.  Lilly, someday you will have a full set of slippers.  Someday...maybe next year. 

We didn't even get wedding prints.  Gasp!  It's not laziness, I promise.  It's a lack of motivation to spend a ton of money to get enough prints to distribute to family and friends, finishing my senior year of college in chemistry, and taking care of an infant.  That equation added up to very little physical photographic memories. 

Lately, since I have a job that provides more income in one paycheck than I got in one semester as a student, I have a few more prints.  Especially when my awesome friend (also the Godmother of my kids) takes photos with my munchkins and her munchkins (my Godchildren).  And they are good.  Man.  Now something else that I need to post.

Starting Out

First post!  Whoop!  My name is Megan, but my mom calls me Fred because there are so many kids.  My kids call me Mommy, which makes me melt and give them whatever they want.  Apparently, I'm a sucker.  I work as an analytical chemist and I love, love, love! my work!  The two biggest problems that I have, though, are one, I have to get up way too early and two, I'm  breastfeeding and have to pump... a lot...because my daughter is a milk fiend.  I bought rechargeable batteries and definitely gotten my money out of those.  Anyone else feel me?  My hubby works with people that don't pay their loans and if he starts pulling his southern charm on you...watch out!  He did it last night to me and I gave him ice cream.  Pitiful.  Again, I am a sucker :0)  My son is Xander and he is a nutty 2-year old.  Just a nut!  Lilly is 9 months old and is the sweetest little baby, except when she's sick and then she is not even close to being sweet.  Blech. 

So...work...I deal with lots of awesome instruments like a Gas Chromatograph (GC), Inductively Coupled Plasma(ICP), FTIR, and the mostest awesomest SEM which means Scanning electron microscope and takes detailed pictures things.  Think that nail is perfectly smooth?  Think again! That piece of equipment is awesome. 

FEI SEM Pix
I pump at work two to three times in a 9-hour day and have to schedule it around when the janitor doesn't come in (he's a weirdo).  My Medela pump takes eight batteries when it's on battery power, so to save some money, I bought rechargeable batteries.  Life (and wallet) saver!  Just don't check in my lunch box in the refrigerator...it's full of milk.  I work with a bunch of guys so they don't really understand what I'm doing.  Which is kind of nice!  "What's that weird whirring sound in the bathroom?" No one knows! Ha!

Any questions on breastfeeding?  I got some nice hookups to some awesome lactation consultants!