Bad Mother Blues

I am having one of those days. Actually, it's the second such day, which means that I have been having one of those days for about 24 hours too long now. I am having one of those days in which I do not like being a parent. And, also, one of those days in which I do not like being pregnant. Which, as a pregnant parent, puts me in the uncomfortable position of disliking the most important aspects of my current existence.

I love my daughter. I shouldn't even have to say it. I love her to the heights and depths, etc, etc, as I do my unborn son. I love that I am her, and his, mother. But I just don't like being a mother, the activity of being a mother, right now, not so much.

I'm just so tired. I'm eight and half months pregnant. My back aches and my legs are cramping and I haven't slept in days. I don't so much walk as lumber. And my sweet little girl, home from daycare since Wednesday while HBF is off doing husbandly things, is determined that my incapacities not interfere with her pursuit of world domination. We cannot have quiet time, we cannot snuggle, and we cannot lurk indoors. There are worlds - and parks and trees and sidewalks and schoolyards and grocery stores - to conquer, at maximum velocity, and she will not be dissuaded from doing it all nownownowMOMMYWEGONOW. It does not matter that I am greatly slowed and incapable of meeting all of her demands: thwart her, oppose her, deny her will... I will be rewarded with an epic tantrum. Cyrus of Persia, the Tarquins of Rome, Napoleon, Stalin - they knew nothing of the imposition of the will as the force behind true tyranny. They did not have toddlers.

I am, today, whipped and beaten and thoroughly down. I am physically spent, and mentally and psychically weak from flagellating myself with guilt - am bad mother am bad mother - and just exhausted. Also, the espresso machine is broken.

Dora is my last hope. All of my remaining energies will be channelled into convincing the dictator that she really, really wants to watch Dora. If I succeed, I will curl up under the blankets and suckle a dark chocolate bar. If I do not succeed... well, if you don't hear from me - or if you happen to hear the screaming - somebody may need to send help. Allied Forces, some UN peacekeepers and a hostage negotiator or two might do the trick.

Pickle Me This

In my inbox this morning:

The Vlasic Stork Is Calling All May Babies! One May-Born Baby Will Win Big With Vlasic Pickles! May Is National Pickle Month!

In celebration of National Pickle Month, Vlasic® Pickles is in search of a lucky May-born baby who meets the company’s criteria to become the official Vlasic® Stork Baby of 2008. The winning baby and family will win a $20,000 US Savings Bond, be officially named Vlasic® Stork Baby and receive a year’s supply of Vlasic Pickles. Entrants simply e-mail a photo of the new baby, and a statement of 50-100 words on “Why My Baby Should Be the Vlasic® Stork Baby"

To sweeten the pickle even more, Vlasic® is offering the family an extra treat! If the parents of the Vlasic® Stork Baby want to show their love and dedication to Vlasic® Pickles by making his or her middle name, “Crunch,” the savings bond value will be increased to $25,000

That's right. All I have to do is give my second-born child the middle name CRUNCH, and I could be eligible to maybe win a whole $5000, on top of a year's supply of pickles, maybe.

Which, OMG, would totally be, like, the best thing that had ever happened to me, EVER, for seriously.

So let's see... fifty to a hundred words... (taps side of keyboard thoughtfully)...

Okay:

"Why My Baby Should Be The Vlasic® Stork Pickle Baby"

By Her Bad Mother

My baby - he's not born yet, but we're expecting him to arrive sometime during Pickle Month - should be The Vlasic® Stork Baby because I like pickles and also because I'm pretty sure that he will look like a pickle. Have you ever seen a newborn baby? They are wrinkly, just as if they'd been cured in vinegar, which they haven't, but you know what I mean. Those amniotic fluids do something weird to babies, so that they look like wrinkled little pickles when they come out of your parts, which bothers some people, but not me! I like pickles! Especially the ones that still have dill stuck to them. I'm hoping that my baby will have dark hair when he comes out so that he'll look just like a little dill-splattered pickle. (NOTE: I am willing to take pictures of his newborn pickly self, and send them to you for the purposes of press and whatever media outreach you have planned. If you could also supply me with some green food dye, I could make sure that he's extra pickly. I will also make sure that the Vlasic® Stork trademark is prominently visible, perhaps on his forehead? Or wherever you like.)

And I will certainly give him the middle name CRUNCH. It was already on our short-list, anyway. We'll have to rethink the first name - my husband was pulling for CAP'N, because there were some other branding opportunities there - but that won't be a problem because Quaker Oats only provides a six-month supply of product and my husband doesn't approve of sugary cereals for the kids anyway.

Please pickle pick my baby! It would be a dream come true!

Now, we wait! In the meantime, um... BOYCOTT VLASIC PICKLES. They want to pickle ur babeez.

In Which Payback Is, Like A Resentful Toddler, A Bitch

There's a reason, I suppose, why the airport people were looking at me funny when I left New York Saturday afternoon: am pregnant. AM VERY PREGNANT. And women who are well into their 8th month of pregnancy should really, maybe, think twice before taking busy trips to New Jersey (after which I will never be able to think of my nether-regions in quite the same way again, thankyouverymuch) and also to New York City's karaoke bars. Because that shit will knock you on your ever-expanding ass, I promise you. It was worth it a thousand times over, for sure (better than sticking hair clips onto a disembodied head? Watching MetroDad and Laid Off Dad duet the shit out of Kenny Loggins. And witnessing, first-hand, Lisa Stone's passion for Salt 'n' Pepa, a passion that is very possibly greater than my own. Oh, and pajama-partying with a couple of my very favoritest ladies in the history of the world, ever, in a lovely little flat overlooking Gramercy Park. I could go on, but...)

... I'm exhausted. More exhausted than I've ever been, except for maybe that time I was in labour for 34 hours. And fighting off what I'm sure is some exhaustion-induced sick that is going to keep me whiny and bitchy for a few days. (Okay: whiny and bitchier.)

So you're going to have to wait to hear about Wonderbaby's attempt to run away from home while I was gone. You'll also have to wait to experience the full force of my pimping energies for the website-formerly-known-as-MBT, now the new-and-improved, all-Canadian Better Than A Playdate, which launched today, and to feel the snap of my whip directing you to WeCovet (where, today, you can learn about caffeinated lip balm and eco-cookies, both of which you need, like, now.) In the meantime, you can go check that stuff out for yourself, and maybe also pay a visit to CoolMomPicks, just because I said so, and also because they could use the business after throwing all sorts of moneys at that aforementioned karaoke party.

And then, when you're all done, maybe spare a moment to feel just a teeny weeny bit sorry for my ass-kicked pregnant self. Unless, that is, you're like my mother, who right now, is somewhere shaking her head and saying, that's the trade-off, sweetie, for not knowing your limits...