The Childbirth Secret No One Tells You and Celebrating Joy

Two years ago at this very moment, I had just shat myself on a delivery room table.

My helpful husband informed me of this.

I probably did it with the first two kids, but no one felt compelled to let me know. It was information that I had been blissfully ignorant about for years and years.

Upon my mortified further investigation, it apparently happens all the time. Often enough to not receive a big reaction from the doctor.

Because he ALSO let me know that the doctor was "very professional" about the whole thing.

"She was very matter-of-fact and professional about it," explained my husband. The doctor apparently did her job well. As in, didn't gag or barf .

The last two years have been very different with a baby girl. And because she is very vocal, our house has also been very loud.

I recently heard of an old wives' tale that girls "steal your beauty." I completely buy into it.

"What's up with your face," my brother asked today as he gave me a hug. He visited , along with my parents, to celebrate Maggie's birthday.

"What do you mean?"

He gestured to my forehead area. "That whole thing."

"I've had this for TWO years," I explained.

I didn't add that it was caused by the oral contraceptives that I had to take after Maggie was born, because it would probably freak him out.

Another fact that people don't generally disclose (along with the unpleasantness of crapping during childbirth): Oral contraceptives can make you fugly and make people wonder to themselves "What the frack is wrong with her skin?"

Except, apparently, for immediate family members. I suppose they are supposed to point out the obvious ~ the food in the teeth, the booger in the nose, the dark spots on the skin. You know, helpful stuff like that.

I made a mental note to hound my doctor for some industrial strength fade cream.

Another obvious change after the birth of my daughter were my tastes in food.

I would hum and practically acheive nirvana when I dove into a pint of Cherry Garcia. Now I get a similar reaction feta cheese and soy sauce.

I ask for extra jalapenos; I eat sauerkraut "just because~" I don't even need a polish sausage, although that scenario would be highly preferable.

I honestly think I would stick my face in a vat of full-fat, chunky blue cheese salad dressing if it wouldn't ruin my fine reputation as a completely rational, sane person. It would also probably cause undue horror and result in social suicide.

In addition to the skin and cravings, I have a new relationship with deodorant powder. I also "get" the leaky faucet bladder commercials on television.

But Maggie is a joy. She has brought a breath of fresh air to our house.

She has given us a new sense of unity and brought our family closer together.

She's a brilliant, sweet and beautiful little girl who loves balloons, Elmo and pickles. She squeals with joy and has her own language.

Hopefully we'll speak the same one very soon, because I want to understand her thoughts and her dreams.

I want to protect her and not let the world in to chip away at the innocence that God gave her.

I want to watch her, now, as she sleeps in her crib filled with silky blankets and her favorite stuffed animals and dolls.

I want to thank God for our special gift that was sent to us two years ago today.

Vampires and Burritos Surpreme

I am fairly confident with my belief that I discovered the vampire genre long before the lot of you.

My passion for these books began as I read Fledgling by Octavia Butler.

A friend slipped me the first in the Undead and Unwed series, by MaryJanice Davidson, along with a copy of "The Becoming" by Jeanne C. Stein.

Okay, admittedly it was not heavy reading.

However, I was reading these books during a time in my life when I needed the lightest reading I could get.

My husband was escorting generals, Geraldo Rivera and Catholic priests around Iraq in Blackhawk helicopters. He was sending videos back of himself poking his over sized helmeted head out of tanks in downtown Baghdad, and doing a little pageant wave to the locals as he motored by. (Okay, I made that up. He did no such wave.)

Yes...I needed escapist fiction.

My interest in these books waned a bit with the craze of the Twilight series.

In general, I tend to rebel against the masses . If something becomes wildly popular, I will refuse to buy it and/or participate in it. Cases in point: the Snugli, the Chia pet, and Dancing With The Stars.

Even though I appear to follow the masses, I am truly a rebel at heart. That character flaw is to be wholly blamed on my parents who were both preachers. You can't mess with a kid any more than that.

My interest also lightened up as I realized that there are, truly, vampires in this world. They are the ultimate takers, unarguably selfish and self serving. They will mercilessly suck the life out of you if you aren't very, very careful.

I have proof of this in the form of a picture. It is a picture of me, of which I will never, ever reveal to you. It was candidly and very meanly taken by my husband who thought it was funny.

I have bags under my eyes and a double chin. There is about three inches of re-growth on my once fabulous highlights and dark circles under my eyes.

These vampires are my children.

As delightful as they may be at times when they give me hugs and tell me that they love me, or when the youngest repeats the word "mamma" four hundred times after I leave the house for 20 minutes to purchase a gallon of milk at Publix, they can be the rudest, life-sucking forces known to man.

Lawd help me people, if I begin to utter the words "another baby would be nice" I encourage ~ no I INSIST~ that you to b***h-slap me and remind me of this blog entry.

The oldest one is the most expensive, I am sure, if I add up all of the food he inhales along with the shampoo and water he uses during his daily showers. I don't know how he goes through so much shampoo, and I probably don't want to know.

He asks for lunch money inappropriately often, begs for Hollister clothing and Nike Shox, and tests our levels of patience with his frequency of detentions for "forgetting" his school ID card.

The middle one is going to give me an early onset heart attack. This is because I know that it is just a matter of time before the neighborhood parents will begin ganging up on me on our front doorstep. The gripe session will be to inform and share with me newest offense he has inflicted upon one of their children.

The most recent report was on Sunday. A mother stopped by to complain that he had kicked her son in the balls. Twice. The boy accompanied her, looking awfully pitiful , crying and hunched over in agony. Sort of like he had been kicked in the balls.

The youngest is currently the the most trying, psychologically, for us. She is the child who, in my opinion, has caused me to age at LEAST ten years in the past 17 months.

When we first moved into the rental house in Florida, we were excited by the entirety of the ceramic tile floors in every area of living space, aside from the bedrooms.

"What a cinch to keep clean," we exclaimed. "How perfect for children," we proclaimed to each other. We punched each other on the shoulders playfully, dreaming and musing with each other about the beauty of the situation we were about to move into.

The red flags went up almost immediately.

We had moved into this house in the midst of a terribly frustrating phase that I will just refer to as "the screaming phase."

We couldn't take Miss Maggie to restaurants for fear she would shriek ~ not because anything was direly wrong ~ but because she could.

I couldn't have her sit with me in church because she would squeal at the most inopportune times, setting off a painful squeal of hearing aids (including the grandparents') in our immediate vicinity.

The vaulted (How airy! How open!) ceilings have added to the noise.

It has become maddening ~ as in drop to your knees, claw at your face and weep to the heavens, maddening.

Tonight, I was crazed to the point of declaring "I need a burrito!" and fleeing.

I left the oldest bloodsucker in charge for ten minutes as I drove, with the windows completely down and Orlando's hip hop station blasting, to Taco Bell.

I plopped down on the sofa with the burrito and pintos and cheese (to add to Chris' misery , no need for him to be happy tonight) and cayenne pepper to sprinkle on each bite.

Because the kids were still awake and checking on me every two minutes, I was unable to order the movie I REALLY wanted (it was of the horror genre). I was forced to order Bride Wars.

I am only ten minutes into it and want to slash my wrists and gnash my teeth, but dammit, I paid $3.99 for the pay-per-view show and it WILL be viewed.

I probably should just go read a book, but I have been uninspired with my reading material recently. I have no fewer than six books started.

I wish I could find a genre I attacked as voraciously as the vampire genre. But now that it is so trendy, it isn't as fun. And it reminds me of the little vampires I am currently housing and feeding.

I love and am enamored by them. They are sort of sparkling and glittery at times and it is difficult to tear my eyes away from their adorableness.

But they are taking all that they can get.

You can't get much more vampirish than that.

Reality Shows and Personality Disorders

It is not a secret that I watch a lot of junk television.

I'm a sucker for those skill-oriented competition type programs. Pretty much anyone with a talent or a crazy skill fascinates me.

This is probably because I am quite mediocre at just about everything.

I never displayed a talent in anything except piano.

The most interesting thing I can do on a piano is play songs by ear, but mostly only in the easiest scale of "C" (the one doesn't require the use sharps or flats). All of my songs basically sound exactly the same; my piano skills are the equivalent of that 80's band The Smithereens.

Actually, even the non-competition shows are pretty intriguing to me, too. The Rachel Zoe Project has very few of these competitive elements, unless you count the drama between Taylor and Brad. (I strongly feel that Taylor needs to switch her meds. I have had experience with this type of thing and I can just tell.)

My DVR is full of shows I need to watch.

They build up because I try to watch them when the children are not around. I have a thing about not letting the kids, especially Miss M, watch junk television because I think it is a detriment to their IQs.

My IQ, however, is most likely a lost cause. No amount of documentaries or non-fiction books is going to change the fact that I failed math in high school and verily cheated my way through statistics in college.

"Turn Spongebob off, guys," I yell at the boys when I hear the screechy voices of Spongebob and Patrick "You're making the baby retarded! Turn on an educational show, or better yet, Vivaldi!"

Maggie listens to folk, classical and big band music during the day. She watches the occasional Yo Gabba Gabba (the one with Jack Black. "You Can't Always Get What You Want" is a brilliant song) and her "Your Baby Can Read" DVD's.

I'm determined that this one is going to be a prodigy.

She will start violin at age three (or as soon as she stops throwing things) and will be reading at 2.5. She just will; I feel it in my bones.

It might be shocking, but not all junk television is "junk." There are some very important lessons to be learned as I have discovered recently.

Case in point: I have just found the A&E program called "Hoarders."

If you EVER want to feel better about your current situation, watch "Hoarders." I kid you not; you will feel like a rock star.

My floors have not been mopped for a week, and there are dishes in my sink from dinner last night.

On the bright side, however, there isn't any dog
crap/vomit/urine on the floor that has been fermenting for six months and there are no mouse droppings anywhere to be seen. You will find nary a squash or pumpkin from last fall decaying in a corner, nor do I have milk that expired two months ago on the kitchen counter.

"Hoarders" makes me feel like a winner (score one for self-esteem), and causes me to get up off my couch-potato ass and clean (score two for motivation).

I watched one particular episode this past week about a couple whose children were taken away from them because their house was such a wreck. As the crew took shovels , yes SHOVELS, in the house to haul away the dirt and trash, rats scampered away to get out of the glare of the cameras.

I didn't even wait for the end of the show to get up and clean my sinks, toilets, bathtubs and showers. I pushed "pause" and scrubbed my little heart out.

Another epiphany I had this week was during "Flipping Out" with Jeff Lewis.

Jenni, Jeff's assistant, regularly takes on a persona of a woman named "Deb" when she makes phone calls. "Deb" is irrascible ~ a bitch ~ if you'd like. She is demanding, kick-ass and tells it how it is. Deb speaks in a low voice and plays rugby.

It's brilliant.

I think that I may create a "Deb." Perhaps maybe even not only for the phone .

My Deb could express her displeasure at Suntrust bank, Walmart, and the DMV. My Deb can be strong, decisive and not so worried about what people think of her.

My Deb can be more outspoken about her kids, herself and issues that affect her daily.

I think it's a brilliant plan and I am going to see how it pans out in the next week or so. Some people might call it a personality disorder, but perhaps this is just what I need. And I don't think I have to worry about psychiatrists down here in Florida since just getting into a regular doctor requires a wait of about two months .

I think "Deb" will claw her way to the front of the line and get an appointment with a doctor for next week. Maybe I should dare her to do such a thing. Perhaps "my" Deb plays rugby, too, and is familiar with clawing, pushing and tackling her way to the goal.

Those are moves that this "Mary" isn't quite so experienced with.