Her Bad Mother

Friday, April 20, 2007

On a Wing

It was a good trip, but we'll be glad to get home.

We've got some recovering to do. A few stumbles and scrapes, and a little bit of bleeding, but nothing that the heart couldn't handle. Nothing that didn't make the heart grow stronger.

(Any damage is only superficial. Our time away did our souls good.)

(We'll back soon. Missed you.)

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Mom-101 Guest Post: Worship the Belly.

Burlesque blogging? Seriously? That is my assignment as I guest blog for the great Bad Mother. And yet...


These days the closest you want to get this pregnant woman to a stripper pole is an episode of the Sopranos. Nudity around these parts constitutes the 18 minutes it takes for me to get my underwear up over my hips after a shower. And the dirtiest thoughts on my mind? How best to, er...put toilet paper to its God-intended use, considering the unfortunate relationship of my belly size to arm length.

None of which bode well for a good raunchy/dirty/titillating (heh) post, as requested.
Now if HBM had caught me in the second trimester, I was dreaming of orgasmic romps with the likes of Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, and Danny Bonaduce. There could have been some blog fodder in there for sure. But nope. These late third trimester days there is little sleeping, which means little dreaming-- of the sexual kind or otherwise.

But just because I'm not dreaming about sex doesn't mean that people are not dreaming about sex with me.

Yes, I'm talking about Craig's List, that 21st century mainstay of Whoo, everything goes!

(And HBM, advance apologies for your google searches for the rest of eternity.)

A quick poke (heh) around the CL personals yielded the following very nice sentiment:

I hope to find a pregnant woman who is in need of a casual lover. Your age, race, size, and marital status are unimportant to me, I just want to relish in the beauty of your form, and make love to the goddess that is a woman creating life.

And then there was this:
I think pregnant women are incredibly sexy. If you're up eating pickles and ice cream while hubby is sound asleep, send me a note. Totally discreet.

Then they started getting weird:
ISO Milky or Preggo Woman for a Good Boobs Massage

Or oddly specific:
asian couple looking to play with girl or possibly couple.she is 5 montth pregnant and very horny.party favor friendly(t).so hurry and lets have fun

Vaguely appealing:
Full-grown man, 42, is looking for a naughty pregnant girl for some fun. I'm good with massage too, in case your feet are a bit sore.

There's something about clothes that are too small on a woman I really, really like. A little muffin top spilling out over jeans is hot. A bra over flowing with cleavage puts me over the edge. If you have recently gained weight, are pregnant, or for some reason are just filling out, I would really like to talk to you. I want you to try to fit into your old clothes for me .

Eek, getting scared:
Are your breasts filled with milk? I love breast milk and would like to meet a lactating or pregnant woman for daytime feedings

And my favorite:

Which, I mean...well, how can you resist?

So breeders present and future, take comfort. You may feel like your boobs are reaching new lows, your scale is hitting new highs, and your stretch marks are getting stretch marks. You may lose your thongs in your ass for days on end. You may be marring your face with streaky tears daily as you look up hemorrhoid treatments and excessive flatulence on the internet. You may be sprouting hairs in places that make you entirely certain of the man-ape connection.

But know that in the beautiful utopia called Craig's List, none of this matters. For there, you are a hot, sexy, glowing, wanton, wanted goddess of loooooove.

Sniff. Sort of warms the heart.

Or maybe that's just the acid reflux.


When Liz isn't here messing up her friend Catherine's perv-to-real reader ratio, she's over at her own place, Mom-101. Stop on by for a rollickin' good time. With your clothes on, please.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

R Rated Road Trip

Brought to you by guestblogger, Gingajoy…


The Wife, The Husband, Two Children, Fetid Dog, No legroom. Levered into the car for the four-hour trip to Grandma’s. Forbidden Lunchable snacks have been consumed, messily. The Baby has finally drifted off, and the DVD player kicks in for Big Brother.

For the grownups…this is as close to Couple Time as they are going to get.

The Wife coyly broaches the subject. “So. I’m signed up to do “Burlesque Blogging” next week for Her Bad Mother…..” “I have no clue what to write about. I mean. It’s meant to be burlesque.”

She looks sidelong at The Husband at the wheel. “Well” he says nonchalantly, “you do know that burlesque originally refers to a “literary device for parodic gesture?”

(She didn’t)

“Oh Yes!” She exclaims “And, of course, the burlesque as a performative genre has its roots in the Italian Commedia d’Elle Arte. As you know.” (No need to mention that this little tidbit came courtesy of a wikipedia search earlier that afternoon).

“The thing is,” she says “I think the idea was more in line with burlesque as striptease. You know. Naked girls and big feathered fans and all that. The word HBM used was “dirty.” Actually, instructions were along the lines of ‘make it dirty, dirty, dirty, gals… but feel free to interpret the word loosely.’ But I think she’s thinking along the sex lines.”

“What about that episode of South Park” The Husband warms to the idea now. “The one where Mr Garrison has all the kids listing all the sex positions they know “Missionary, Filthy Sanchez, Glass Bottomed Boat… That was really funny. And filthy”

“There’s definitely some inspiration to be had there” she concedes “But I got the sense that she was thinking something a little more sophisticated, you know, where the narrative can function figuratively as a type of strip---”

“---You know what the glass bottomed boat is don’t you??? And the filthy Sanchez?”

“Uh, hello? Yes! Yes I do, thanksverymuch.”

“You know that with the glass-bottomed boat they use cling wrap to…”

“YES! I know! Blegh. Shuddup!”

An idea dawns on her “Actually, maybe there’s something to that. Sex acts and erotic equipment that make me want to lock it up with a key.”

“I saw an ad for a Flash Light recently” He offers.

“A flash light?”

“A FLESH light”


“It’s a flash light, with a “female opening” where the light would be. You can choose your own orifice.”

“I don’t get it. Are there handles on the side?’ (She sidesteps the question as to how this device made its way into his purview).

“No. It’s shaped just like a flash light”

“Well. Think about it. That doesn’t seem to be very ergonomically savvy. What a pain in the ass… (Heh).”

She opts to share something. “When we were in Kentucky, HBM and I went into a Sex Shop. For a giggle. It was right by the hotel. There was a lot of stuff like that. Repellent, yet fascinating. I mean I get the vibrators and stuff, obviously, but the female parts…. There was one doll-thing with three erotic openings for your pleasure…”

“Yep” He says. “All three.

“It makes you wonder about all the effort involved, you know?”

She goes on. “A bit like when you need to chop up and blend a bunch of vegetables for a nice spot of soup. You think to yourself ‘Do I get out the Cuisinart? I mean, am I really going to bother with all this equipment I have to clean up, or…”

“Or shall I just do it by hand and save on the mess?” He completes her sentence for her…

It’s moments like this… When they become one.

[CUE MUSIC: “Ooooooh. I Love to Love you Baby. OOOOOOOOH I Love to Love you Baby…”.]

[and fade….]


Sunday, April 15, 2007

Our Dirty Little Secrets

When Her Badjesty kindly asked me to blogsit, I was more than happy to oblige her. Seeing as I'm a bad mother in my own right, I figured I'd be able to conjure something up to fill this wonderful space.

But then she told us to make it dirty. And I sort of freaked, because I imagine your hostess's version of dirty is a bit classier than mine. It's my dildo to her Dante'. My poopy jokes to her Plato. And my crotch couture to her Confucious. Basically, my raunchy diatribes on pubic hair and blow jobs would do nothing but insult the word "dirty" and its place on this highly intellectual blog.

I did consider providing a sociological comparative analysis of how the word "dirty" means both "unclean" and "sexy." But, really, who I am to sociologically analyze anything when I'm walking around with two different socks on and a nursing tank with about 12 milk stains and a twisted strap.

Plus, who cares, right?

And so, I figured that instead I would share a dirty secret, something that I have never revealed on my own blog, or the scores of other confession blogs that are permeating the blogosphere (including your hostess's fine establishment).

I get mad at my 3-month old son for not sleeping and I sometimes lose it.

I suppose it's not the juiciest dirty secret that could be told, but it's one that is haunting me as of late. Perhaps it's because at any moment, particularly during the 14,572 moments in which I'm nursing him in the sling while bouncing on a large blue exercise ball so he'll actually sleep, I feel like I might jump ship.

For the first year of my daughter's life, I spent almost every day in a state of confusion, frustration, and then guilt over the same damn thing.

Why isn't she sleeping? went to
Why the FUCK are you not sleeping? and turned into
Why did I just say fuck to my baby. I'm a terrible horrible mother.

I've never actually lost it, persay. I have yelled on a rare occasion and forcefully picked her up and plopped her in the crib (from whence she then jumped out and broke her leg) or the corner, but that's the extent of my frustration and neverending guilt. I tell myself that so long as these incidents are rare, I won't be causing any more psychological damage than what's being caused by us living with my in-laws.

But behold my son. I had high hopes that he would not inherit the "no-sleep-ever-fuck-you-naps" gene passed down from my husband. But alas, I find myself holding a 16lb almost 3 month old in a sling for the majority of my day. In fact, I'm doing it right now as I write this post.

I've tried to do the "right" thing -- you know, put him down at least once a day on a flat surface so he'll wake up in 10 minutes kicking around like a pissed off beetle on his back. I've done the swing, the stroller, and the bouncy seat.

Hell, even my daughter would nap in the bouncy seat.

To complicate matters, he's not such a boob man. With my daughter, the boobs calmed the savage beast. Whipping out a boob meant that all would be well with the world. But apparently my son is an ass man and would rather chew on his own hand (or maybe my ass if I'd let him) than nurse. The planets must be perfectly aligned, or he needs to be sweetly tucked into the sling for him to even consider nursing with intent. However, at a whopping 16lbs, it's clear he's getting food from somewhere so I need not obsess.

But yet, it's fun, and hell I wouldn't be a mother if I didn't, so I do.

It's not so much the pressure in my mind that he must sleep without me holding him or I will surely go to Mommy Hell or worse "spoil him and start him into very bad habits that will be difficult to break." Ack. Thanks Dr. I Never Had Kids Ever and Make Money Guilting Mothers. But it's that my back and neck hurt. I'm tired of holding him, damnit. I'm tired of feeling like I'm forcing my boob on him. And I'm tired of standing on my head and dancing an Irish jig to get my children to sleep.

My only saving grace thus far has been that his night sleeping and eating has been fairly uneventful. Until last night when for two hours, he laid on his back, sucking his hands, and refused to nurse back to sleep.

And so I sort of lost it. Between the harsh shushes, the tighter cuddles, the harder butt pats, and the loud "I carry you all day I cannot carry you at night" whispers, I almost lost it. It was probably fairly typical, but still not one of my finer mothering moments.

He finally fell asleep, and so did I -- sore nipples, leaky boobs, and terribly guilty conscience. And I'm reminded that like everything else in motherhood, the bad and the good shall pass. What worked one day, will surely not work the next -- Mother's Law.

But like my favorite philosopher Anne of Green Gables said, "It's nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet."

Thank God for that.

Care to share your dirty secrets? Or commiserate with me?