Tag Archives: parenting

Fear And Loathing In Fatherhood

Fear And Loathing In Fatherhood

Fatherhood.

I know less about fatherhood than I know about….well….motherhood. And I know next to nothing about motherhood.

Don’t tell my kids.

But, it’s Father’s Day so it seems that something needs to be said about those stalwart men out there.  These co-creators of our offspring who, despite conflicting DNA urges to run screaming from the village encampment, are now expected to bond, relate, nurture and practically breast feed the little darlings.

So here’s to the dudes out there who are trying really hard to pony up in this brave new world of fatherhood.

I’ve actually pondered (because that’s what I do…ponder) how much the role of father has changed and how quickly.

Now, I’m no spring chicken (and I’ve never understood what that meant anyway) but it seems to me there has been a pretty drastic change in the expectations put on dads since I was, well, a spring chicken.

Why, back in my day, fathers were rarely seen and often heard. And if you heard one, you ran away and hid because you were in a world of trouble.

Dads were put on earth to teach you things.

See, son, this is the peritoneum….

See, son, this is the peritoneum….

Important things, like:

  • The difference between a flat-head and Phillips screw driver
  • How to tie a solid knot
  • The correct way to gut a fish
  • The exceptionally high cost of water because Jesus Christ how long can it take to wash your privates and get the hell out???
  • If you’re a boy, having the MOST UNCOMFORTABLE AND POTENTIALLY LIFE-ALTERING discussion about sex in the history of discussions about sex or anything else for that matter
  • If you’re a girl, absolutely no discussion about anything. Ever. EVER. ASK YOUR MOTHER
  • The exceptionally high cost of electricity because what the hell are you doing that requires so much God damned light? Reading? Light a candle!
  • The fact that the odometer in a car does not change if the wheels don’t turn. A rather painful lesson when you’ve gone on a joy ride when your folks were in Florida on vacation and you did NOT know they wrote down the mileage and you said you just started it so it wouldn’t get too cold and you thought that was good for cars and no I didn’t actually drive away in it and, wait, what was the question?
  • How to eat a meal without letting your teeth hit the fork because that drives them insane….as a people
  • How to bait a hook without puking

And, they gave these straight-forward life lessons as impatiently and with a level of irritation normally reserved for much more heinous violations. Like terrorist attacks.

The biggest gift here though is bestowing upon us the opportunity to recount these lessons while impersonating them at every Christmas gathering for the rest of our lives.

Modern fathers still need to do all of the above. After all, I still know how to gut a fish, even if I don’t do it all that often.

(Though I have been sorely tempted on more than one occasion to reenact the fish gutting scene from Office Space. If I ever do, I will have my father to thank for the precise way in which I gut aforementioned fish.)

He’s actually not doing it right….

He’s actually not doing it right….

But, in addition to these lessons, they are now expected to look their kids in the eye in order to give them their full attention. They are expected to listen to their weird little stories that really don’t end up with a point. They have to at least pretend to laugh at their jokes that make absolutely no sense, have no comedic timing and an utter lack of irony.

So, hat’s off to you, modern day Dads.

Champions of childhood.

Protector of our prodigy.

Subjugator of our spawn.

We lift our collective glasses of chilled Chardonnay to you. Please keep teaching them weird stuff that would never even occur to a Mom (myself included).

And continue to bestow upon many generations the gift of mocking you at family functions. That gift alone is priceless.

Letter To My Pre-kid Self

Letter To My Pre-kid Self

Dear Pre-kid Irene,

Hello sweetie! How are you doing? Right about now you’ve just gotten back from a month travelling around Thailand. And it was an awesome trip, right? But, for some reason, with all the travel you’ve gotten to do, this time you came home feeling a little less fulfilled than you usually do.

Now, I’m not going to tell you exactly what happens next because that would just be shitty. It would be like telling you the end of a movie, reading the last page of a book or letting you know that, as awesome as it looks in the trailer, the 2014 version of Godzilla is actually a little disappointing.

What I will tell you, is that you will be a mother one day. And, believe me on this, you are not in the least bit prepared. But, have faith, because no one is so at least you are not in the remedial class alone.

So, my independent girl who is swathed in a light of freedom that you are not taking nearly enough advantage of, let me tell you just a couple of things.

  1. Being pregnant is the scariest thing on the planet. It’s also pretty cool. But mostly it’s just scary because the bigger you get the more impossible it seems to get that thing out of you without dying.
  2. Don’t listen to your husband when he tells you shit about delivery he has absolutely no clue about. “Oh, the human body shuts all other functions down when it gives birth.” Really Mr. Science? Needless to say that is utter crap and you need to know that terrible stuff will happen in front of complete strangers. You do not have to apologize as much as you do when that time comes
  3. When you do have to get the giant bulge out, you do not actually die. There are moments when you wish you could, but you don’t.
  4. You will hallucinate due to lack of sleep. Just enjoy the ride and pretend you just took mushrooms like that time when you were camping and you saw Nixon’s face in that leaf. Don’t question, just go with it.
  5. Parenting is like getting a bikini wax. It’s excruciating when it happens, sending you into a sweaty fight or flight reaction that can, in some instances, result in the punching of a Russian esthetician (sorry Svetlana). But, after it’s over and all the irritation subsides, it’s pretty awesome.
  6. You will feel like a giant fish-out-of-water when you are around other parents and be under the mistaken impression that everyone has this parenting thing down except for you. Listen to this absolute truth: 99% of the other mothers are either on Prozac, drunk, or looking to get their hands on any mood-altering substance to survive this. The 1% who make the rest of us feel like shit are all assholes and you don’t want to party with them. You will be buying drugs from their kids one day.
  7. Speaking of partying….all that blow you did in the 80’s will actually serve you well once they hit puberty. I suspect our sense of smell is not as keen as it was before those years in San Francisco and that will literally save your life as it should dull the assault on that sense.
  8. Everything will go excruciatingly slow and way too fast at the same time. It must be some weird parental worm hole or a tear in the space/time continuum because it makes no sense, I know. But you’ll feel like you are swimming in Jello during the tougher times and then the nuggets of amazing times will fly by in a blur. I have no idea how to fix this. Just thought I’d let you know.
  9. Believe it or not, you actually end up not sucking as a mom. And, not sucking is pretty high praise when dealing with such an impossible task so take the not sucking and wear it like a badge of honor.
  10. Don’t let your responsibilities define you. You are more than your kids. You are more than your aging parents. You are more than your financial limitations. Do not lose yourself in the often overwhelming weight of what you are on the hook for. If you ignore all of the above, please remember this.

And with that, I send you on your merry, innocent way.

Oh, one last thing. A little later in the year, on September 11th, some terrible things are going to happen. The world survives and so do you.

Much love,

Irene the Elder

The Five Stages of Summer Grief

The Five Stages of Summer Grief

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Every year around mid-May I start to get the same feeling I did when I was young. Summer is coming!! Summer is coming!!

Summer has always been a sun-kissed, dreamy time of beaches, lakes, boats, booze and making out with strangers on various docks. Nirvana!!

But now? Oh, my how the times they have a’ changed.

I suddenly remember that I don’t really get a summer anymore and I begin my annual “Stages of Summer Grief” process.

You see, now that I’m an exceptionally reluctant grown-up, a work day is a work day is a work day. Only the temperature in my office and the clothes I wear seem to change. But, my psyche still fucks with me and for a few brief moments, I imagine that the next 12 weeks or so will be a cavalcade of extreme fun and freedom.

Then those moments abruptly stop and the process begins.

1. Denial – This first stage is a doozy. It’s when I still feel a sense of optimism about this summer being different. Hey, it’s mid-May, I can lose 15 pounds and get a rock hard six-pack by June 1!! Sure I can!! Then I’ll go buy a little bikini just like the one I wore when I was 21. So what if I had twins! So did J. Lo and she can still rock it!

2. Anger – Now comes the rage. After two weeks of binge eating and goal-avoidance, it’s now end of June and not only did I gain 5 more pounds, I haven’t gone near any kind of bathing suit. Or mirror.

Yes, this one will do quite nicely, thank you.

Yes, this one will do quite nicely, thank you.

Along with this epic failure comes the end of school year blitzkrieg of potlucks, celebrations, after parties and parental guilt. I feel fortunate to have escaped with only one bout of food poisoning and an eye twitch.

And, now the kids are home and driving me to the brink of insanity.

“I’m bored!”

“I’m hungry!”

“Mommy, why are you drinking wine with breakfast?”

The good news here is that the eye twitch is really an effective addition to my look of maniacal rage that stops them in their tracks. Turns out they do have a survival instinct after all.

3. Bargaining – The idea of deal-making starts up right around the 4th of July holiday. What is more representative of the good ole’ summertime than bad food, fart-inducing beer and blowing a few fingers off with illegal explosives? All in the name of patriotism.

This is when I tell myself that the 4th is the REAL start of summer. So, all my previous June failings really don’t count, right? And, on the 5th of July, after the high-sodium hotdog and beer has left my body in whatever form God intended, THEN and only then will I REALLY start to prepare for my summer of amazing fun.

I will make summertime my bitch!!

4. Depression – With the first of August comes the realization that we are staring straight into the abyss of Fall. August is really the Sunday of summer. You want to enjoy it but Monday morning is looming.

All attempts to harness that sunny optimism, to join in numerous games of beach volleyball, to frolic carelessly in the surf have been reduced to middle-aged, tummy slimming bathing suits that are so tight you feel like any oxygen flow has, thankfully, been cut off to your head. Hey, at least it’s a buzz.

Get this woman a good waxing, stat!

Get this woman a good waxing, stat!

The kids are as ready to get back to school as you are to have them gone. The lethargy that comes with the dog days of summer has rendered you all a sweaty mess.

Ah, screw it!

Whatever!

Who cares!

5. Acceptance – The trigger for acceptance is receiving the supply list from school. It’s like watching the Western Union kid ride up to your house with eternally bad news.

Wipe that smile off your face you tiny harbinger of doom!

Wipe that smile off your face you tiny harbinger of doom!

Now it’s time to join the hordes of other frazzled parents (who also didn’t seem to have much of a summer) on the annual trek to Target for backpacks, pencils, T-squares and lunch boxes.

I’ve now accepted the fact that another summer has come and gone.  We are fast approaching Labor Day and the official end of summer.

Now there is a new excitement in the air.

Every year around late-August I start to get the same feeling I did when I was young. School is coming!! School is coming!!

The Amazing Viola De La Parra

The Amazing Viola De La Parra

 

Mom

Today my biggest supporter, my best friend, my mentor and the best woman I have ever known passed away peacefully at the age of 90.

I can never come close to thanking her enough for being the amazing mother she was to me. There will never be a day that I do not think of her, miss her and attempt to be the kind and loving person she was.

In honor of her, I am re-posting a Mother’s Day piece about my awesome Mom with a few additional facts:

Her family was from Chile and she was the only one born in the United States. New Jersey to be exact.

Her maiden name was Viola De La Parra.

She spoke Spanish first, French second and English was her third language.

She hated mayonaise.

She lost her father to pneumonia when she was 9 years old.

During the Depression, her mother opened up her home as a boarding house to make ends meet for her four children. Most of the boarders were traveling vaudevillians who would spend hours teaching my mom how to tap dance.

She met my father on a blind date.

She discovered she was a very gifted watercolorist when she was about 60 years old.

She believed in reincarnation. So, good thing the world will get to have her back again because we need more humans like her among us.

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“An ounce of mother is worth a ton of priest”
– Spanish proverb

With Mother’s Day here, I feel compelled to write about the most influential person in my life – my mother. Her name is Viola and she just turned 89. She is in the final stages of dementia but continues to smile through it all like a champ.

If you think about it, dementia has its benefits. You can see the same movie or read the same book over and over and enjoy it just as much the first time as the tenth. And my stupid jokes and stories are always hilarious and fascinating no matter how many times I repeat them. So, in short, an 89-year-old with dementia is my perfect audience.

Here are some Viola-isms and Viola-facts:

“Always leave a bathroom cleaner than you found it or you’ll never be invited back.” To my knowledge, there are much bigger reasons to not invite me back to your home than this.

She has a terrible singing voice. She sounds just like Alfalfa from Little Rascals. It’s really quite disturbing.

Uncannily, she knew the moment I lost my virginity because I abruptly stopped talking about and asking questions about sex.

“Even the strongest man on earth cannot properly squeeze the water out of a sponge with one hand.” I have no idea how to prove or disprove this theory. But, she stated it with such conviction, I have to believe she has somehow witnessed this.

She taught me that to judge people was a waste of time. You wouldn’t judge a kindergartener for not acting like an MBA student so think about what “spiritual grade” a person might be in. (I am clearly in some sort of Special Education department.)

My mom always reminded me of Edith Bunker. Seemingly a bit ditzy on the outside but solid and smarter than everyone else in the room on the inside.

She graduated with a degree in Psychology with a minor in Latin Studies the same year I graduated from high school. She could psychoanalyze you in Spanish, thereby making you feel decidedly paranoid.

She regaled me and my friends at Mom’s Weekend in college about how terrific sex is after 50. The truth of this remains to be seen.

“I’ve taught my kids to be able to eat dinner with a king.” This skill has never been tested.

So, on Mother’s Day, I thank you, Vi, for being my biggest fan, my most honest critic, and my guide through the numerous missteps of my life with unwavering love and loyalty. I will always remember these things, even if you can’t anymore.

Cap’n Crunch And The Weakening of Our Youth

Cap’n Crunch And The Weakening of Our Youth

Captain_Crunch_WTF_507516178

Oh Cap’n, my Cap’n. I am sorely vexed.

I have recently heard what I had hoped was an urban legend – that the original recipe for my favorite weed-induced breakfast cereal has been changed.

I speak, of course, of Cap’n Crunch, Original flavor. Because I require Yellow Dye 5 and 6.

The broken glass and razor nuggets that used to slice up the roof of my mouth, rendering it useless for other foods, is now softer and less abrasive.

Say it isn’t so, Cap’n!

This is yet one more example of the codling of our children. We are at risk of raising a generation of people without leathery upper palettes. People who have smooth inner cheeks and lack the life skills to deal with violent food stuffs.

Why, when I was young we ate only after beating our food into submission in a violent knife fight. Then we washed the jagged shards down with a sugary liquid laden with every chemical dye known to man. And, if it came in a can and was called Hi-C but possessed no known vitamin of any letter, then all the better.

I remember stealing my parent’s Maraschino Cherries from the liquor cabinet. That’s right, I was shooting formaldehyde by the time I was 8.

So, keep your gentrified cereals, you generation of weaklings. I will continue to man-up and chew, unabated.

And to you I say, There Will Be Blood.

If Lunacy Had a Soundtrack It Would Go Something Like This

If Lunacy Had a Soundtrack It Would Go Something Like This
Play Freebird!!

Play Freebird!!

There is nothing weirder than kids. Except maybe parenting kids. That’s just Kim Jong Un weird. You know, unreasonable weird.

I don’t usually like to blog much about being a parent. It’s not that I have an issue with being a parent….who the hell am I kidding? OF COURSE I HAVE AN ISSUE WITH BEING A PARENT!

Being a parent is being in the epicenter of the lunatic fringe, if that’s even possible. The thing is, I kind of like being in that epicenter. Except for the noise there. And the crying (theirs and mine). Oh, and the smell. Definitely the smell.

At the end of the day, the odd way kids see the world is what I sort of dig about them. It would appear I kind of get lunatics. Who knew?

But, there is shit they come up with that I honestly think would better the world as a whole if we all just decided to behaved like them.

Case in point: My kids seem to constantly be singing. They have a soundtrack for everything. They can’t help themselves, they start to hum and sing background music for almost anything you can imagine.

  • Watching the velodrome races during the Olympics, they sing circus clown music. I suddenly enjoy watching track cycling. A first, I assure you.
  • Walking through a zoo, they have a different song for each animal depending upon the pace of their movements and physical oddities.
  • In the grocery store – each fruit has a theme song.
  • They actually wrote some rap upon seeing  a woman pushing a little pug in a baby stroller (I know, I live in southern California, shit like that happens).

Puppy in a stroller
What’s wrong with your legs?
Puppy in a stroller
I bet you’d like some eggs.
Puppy in a stroller
Bone

They even made up a game called Colored Elmo. And, no, this is not some strange racial slur. Though, if Elmo ever needed to be cast as a human, I think Samuel L. Jackson may be our man.

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The rules of this game are as follows:

Player One thinks of a color. They then begin singing a tune that reminds them of that color.

Player Two then rattles off every color they can think of that may (or may not) match up with the color the music brings to mind. These colors can range from primary (green, blue, red, etc.) to hybrids (chartreuse, puce, mauve, etc.) to precious metals (bronze, gold, platinum, etc.).

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Player Two, Player One has changed the color numerous times in his head to throw off and enrage Player Two.

It’s fun stuff until someone loses an eye.

So, next time you are in some high-powered meeting, putting gas in your car, having a mammogram or a prostate exam done, go ahead and sing a little ditty. It just might put the whole thing in a new light.

Or, you may end up either arrested or institutionalized. Either way, you’ll have a song in your heart.

The Stay-At-Home Mom – Your Lady Balls Are Bigger Than Mine

The Stay-At-Home Mom – Your Lady Balls Are Bigger Than Mine
I’m tired just looking at you.

I’m tired just looking at you.

I’ve been asked repeatedly over the years about why I am a working mother. Are we poor? Am I a narcissist? Is your husband a drunk or something?

Of course, the answer to all of these queries is YES. I am a poor narcissist with a drunk husband. Duh!

But, there are actually a couple of other reasons too.

Like the fact that my kids love me a lot more when they see me a little less. This is an absolute fact about how most people feel about me. Ask any of my ex-boyfriends. You can get overwhelmed by me pretty damned fast. But, when I’m not around, I am thinner, prettier, wittier and smarter. So, I choose to keep that mystery alive for as long as I can.

This is also why I work remotely. It’s like that scene out of Hello Dolly when she goes back to the Harmonia Gardens every time I visit the home office.

This would be our casual Friday look.

This would be our casual Friday look.

And, that’s how it is every time I come back home too….for about an hour.

The simple fact is that when I’m at work, it’s the only time anyone listens to me (or pretends really well) and sometimes they even do what I say. I’ve even had times when someone asked me for my opinion on something and sat, in rapt attention, waiting for my response.

Needless to say, I don’t get a whole lot of that at home.

But, the absolute, number one reason I work is the fact that I am a big yellow-bellied coward. Being a stay-at-home mom is HARD! I’ve only done it a couple of times for like a week over a school break and was in the fetal position by hour 12.

I still have a loop of “I’m bored” and “I’m hungry” sing-songing through my brain like a bad Michael McDonald song.

Ya Mo Be There…. Ya Mo Be pouring me a big ass drink about now.

Ya Mo Be There…. Ya Mo Be pouring me a big ass drink about now.

The idea that a human female becomes more patient and kind once they have children is as confusing to me as my kid’s math homework.

But, given that the children of most of my stay-at-home-mom friends are alive and seemingly healthy, I must assume I simply missed out on that hormone. Along with the hormone that makes you forget the pain of childbirth. Didn’t get any of that one either.

So, I salute you, my bad ass sisters! You have thrown yourself on the parental grenade and I stand in awe.

Pull My Finger – My First Guest Post

Pull My Finger – My First Guest Post

I have arrived, y’all!!!

I’m so excited this week to get to do a guest post for the delightful Shari Lopatin! Head on over to her blog and take a look at the purdy post I done wrote up for her….and all of you!

Pull My Finger: My Uncivilized Life With Boys

While you are there, check out her fantastic site – http://sharilopatin.com – she is the shizzle!!!

Enjoy and discover, my friends!!

 

Ode to a Brave Husband

Ode to a Brave Husband

Look Mama!
I bagged me a keeper!

This week’s blog is all about my lovely husband “Jim” (I still don’t believe that’s his real name). Today  we celebrate our 17th wedding anniversary.

And since I couldn’t find what the appropriate gift was on the list for a 17th, I’m going to give the gift of words.

For anyone who knows me, maintaining that level of consistency for that long without just wandering off is a rather large feat.

And, anyone who knows me will also agree to the super-human accomplishment by “Jim” for having lived with me every freakin’ day…for 6,205 days…148,920 hours…8,935,200 minutes. Not that the poor man is counting or anything.

I only hope the three goats, basket of root vegetables and the plot of dirt he got from my village elders was enough to make up for it all.

So, I thought, given his obvious insatiable thirst for pain and discomfort, maybe he deserved a little shout out on this, the anniversary of his decline into madness.

We’ve traveled the world together, had the mad rollercoaster that is twins, moved too many times to count, fart and pee in front of each other. What story would be a good one to really capture the essence that is “us”?

The one that comes to mind is the Incident of the Bee in the Bathtub. So that is the one I’ll tell, as a tribute.

(The knocking-himself-out-on-a-ceiling-fan story will have to wait for his birthday.)

By the way, this story does nothing but paint us both as complete morons.

Back before we went down the slippery slope (covered with rusty razor blades) of parenthood, we used to do monthly getaways to quaint bed and breakfasts all around the Puget Sound.

On this occasion we headed to Victoria for our romantic getaway, staying at a lovely Victorian B&B across from a bucolic, grassy park.

We checked in and, as childless people tend to do, we decided to take a bath in the middle of the day! We were that filthy.

The large Jacuzzi tub was positioned right next to the bed, in a large bay window that overlooked the park across the street.

Once you are sitting inside the tub, you could not be seen from outside. But, you sort of had to slide in on your stomach to avoid showing the world your kibbles and bits. And so we slid like Army grunts into our soapy haven without detection from the outside world.

Once in the tub, we noticed there was a lovely wedding happening in the park so we soaked and watched all the hazy loveliness of new love blossoming across the street as we sipped champagne.

As we relaxed, we both started to hear a loud buzzing noise and noticed we were beginning to be dive bombed by a very large and annoyed wasp. We swatted it away and thought for a minute he had found something else to occupy his time. But, it would seem he was just getting started.

Over the next hours (OK, it was probably 90 seconds) we were terrorized relentlessly by this little asshole. I don’t know what we did to piss him off so much, I believe wasps by their very nature are just pissed off, but he went after us with a vengeance as if we had killed his family and burned down his dry cleaning business.

(Cue The Benny Hill Show theme music….now!)

Our swatting and flailing grew to a fevered pitch. There was water splashing all over the place, we were slipping and sliding all over, hopping and dancing around trying to get the damned thing to stop terrorizing us.

Finally the water must have gotten it because we saw it floating in the suds as we stared at it, panting from the exertion.

As we high-fived each other on our exceptional wasp survival skills we realized that we were standing, buck naked (or is it butt naked…I’ve never known), in front of the window for all the gentle citizenry of Canada to see.

This of course, is humiliation enough. But we also realized that there were quite a few people at that wedding who were no longer paying attention to the exchanging of vows happening in front of them.

We both waved to them and slowly sank back into the tub, where, “Jim” was stung by the dead bee anyway.

So, Happy Anniversary, “Jim”! You are a brave fighter of bees, a tolerable scrabble player, fair armchair electrician, and a man with the cohones to be married to me. Well done!

And perhaps, some day you will reveal your true identity.

K-Mart Nipples

K-Mart Nipples

This title can go in so many directions….if you went in the dirty direction then shame on you. You know who you are….

When Jim and I were in our darkest hours of depression and sleep deprivation with the whole twins thing, we found ourselves having a psychological breakdown whilst lying on the floor of the baby bottle aisle at K-mart. Let me back track a bit here.

(That, for those of you not in the “writer’s biz”, is called leading with the end. Please keep up.)

(Actually, I just made that up. I don’t really know what that’s called. But, I think that’s a great term and one that everyone should use from this point forward. You’re welcome.)

We brought the boys home from the hospital at a mere 4 lbs. each and with a heart monitor strapped onto one of them because he threw up in his sleep.

Throwing up in ones sleep is not necessarily reserved for babies, by the way.  I now see I should have been on a heart monitor myself throughout college and am lucky to be here today.

We had two old chairs that we called the porn chairs because they were permanently stained with creepy white splatters because of all the spit up.

The whole thing smacked of a bad mushroom trip. You knew there was a time when you weren’t high, but you could not recall what that might have felt like.

Blah blah blah, you were tired, twins sort of suck, we get it.

One of our little bundles of joy was personally out to get me. I was convinced that this one had a bone to pick with me from some previous life and, by God, he was going to make me pay for whatever past transgression I was guilty of.

Every time we tried to feed him it was like a bad Lucha Libre match, but without the fun masks. He squirmed and cried and did that weird rigor mortis stiff thing babies do that both pisses you off and freaks you out.

We decided it was the specific nipple on the bottle that this little prince was having issues with, so we went on the hunt for the perfect nipple like we were on the Crusades in search of the chalice.

We had heard the lore of the perfect nipple but didn’t dare to dream it really existed. It was whispered about in dark alley ways, spoken about in hushed tones at Mommy and Me classes. We wanted in on this…bad.

To our great despair, K-mart was the only store in our fairly small town that had a decent supply so we bravely headed out the door.

The scene went something like this:

Jim: My God, I’ve never seen so many nipples in one place. Am I hallucinating again?

Irene: No. If you were hallucinating, they would be human nipples, which would scare the shit out of us. This, my friend, is nirvana.

Jim: OK, you start at that end and I’ll start down here. Yell when you find the right one.

Our desperation began to build as we pulled nipples down one by one, only to reject it and throw it over our shoulders to the ground. We did this with increasing violence until we met in the middle of the row, where we became aware that we were standing in a large mound of nipple packages.

The twitches of maniacal, unhinged laughing began….

Jim: Clean up on aisle 10.

Irene: Wouldn’t it be intense if these actually were human nipples?

Jim: There is something terribly wrong with you.

Irene: YA THINK????

And the damn bursts as we fall to our knees in the rubble of nipples, and can’t recover ourselves for a good 20 minutes.

I can only imagine how odd the scene must have looked if we frightened people bad-ass enough to actually be a K-Mart shopper.  But, crowds gathered at a safe distance to see how we would play this out.

My memory fails me a bit after this. At some point we must have found what we needed because the baby is now a kid so he must have eaten at some point.

And, I don’t recall any government agencies coming to my door….yet.