The Graphic Childbirth Post

WARNING: If you haven't given birth and/or if you have penis and/or if you never want children, this post is probably going to gross you out.

I'd like to credit my friend Anthony for inspiring this post. We started talking about what it was like to do 'shrooms (I never have) and he described his trip. I thought I would be kind and reciprocate by describing the process of childbirth to him (a single straight man without children). He loved it. Maybe. But probably not.

Fun fact about me: I'm fascinated by the birthing process. I always wanted to be an OB/GYN, but that involves a lot of school and I simply don't have the patience for that. I'm a birth doula by trade and maybe one of these days, I'll find the ambition to go to school for midwifery. I digress. Birth fascinates me. Another fun fact about me: I have two children. I gave birth to both "naturally" (meaning in a hospital, minus drugs). To me, a truly natural childbirth would involve the mother squatting in a field by herself. However, since there were no open secluded fields nearby (and I didn't know as much as I know about home birth...another post entirely), I went with a hospital.

Now, I had my first child at 20 and I'll never know what possessed me to adopt a soapbox about drug-free childbirth at such a tender age, but I went at that shit like a drill sergeant. No drugs. I'm a badass.

Mushy disclaimer: I will say that feeling another human move inside your body is a pretty fucking fantastic thing. It feels cool and it freaks people out because sometimes your belly looks like the baby is trying to escape through your abdomen like an alien. Also, sometimes it hurts...especially when the baby is the size of a compact car and likes to use your ribcage as a foot stool.

April 27, 1999 (1 week past "due date": arbitrary date to estimate fetal arrival)...approximately 2am. Eyes pop open. PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA. I might be in labor. Wait. Wait. Wait. (Each "wait" is 3 minutes at this point) PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA. After about three rounds of the PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA game, I decide I'm in labor and I MUST shave my legs before going to the hospital, so I do that. And then off to the hospital for party time.

I'm going to interrupt this description of early labor to explain the PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA game. In early labor, this feeling can range from bad menstrual pain (reference point for the ladies) or bad gas pain (reference point for the men) and as time goes on it feels more like your abdomen is being sliced open with a dull knife (reference point for both sexes). This game can go on for minutes (lucky bitches) or hours (more likely), increasing in intensity and succession until you feel like you might be dying. As a matter of fact, in my experience with labor (include both of my own), there isn't a single woman who doesn't say "I can't do this!" at some point in their labor. Not one. As luck would have it, I had a relatively average labor of 9 hours.

Now, intermittently during this time, the nurses come into the room and shove their fingers in your sunshine hole to see how you're "progressing". This means that they're not gonna be happy until they can fit their entire fist in your womb (i.e., you're dilated to 10 cm). Whether or not you're a first time mom or Michelle Duggar, you can predict without fail if you're dilated the full 10 cm. (This is where it starts to get graphic). You know when you're fully dilated and ready to start pushing when it feels like you have to take the most gigantic shit of your life. Like you went to Fogo de Chao and ate the whole damn buffet and it's time to go potty. The unfortunate part about this stage in labor is that, in the hospital, they make you wait until the doctor arrives to actually start the pushing process. This means, you have to hold in the gigantic poop baby until he/she gets there. Imagine a time when you had to poop so bad you thought you were gonna die, but you had to hold it in because you were in the car and you were 50 miles from a bathroom.....and now imagine that that turd has a mind of its own and it's coming out whether you and/or the doctor like it or not. It's a unique and helpless sensation.

But finally (thank jesusjosephandmary), the doctor gets there and you can finally poop....er....give birth. You start pushing. The pushing phase is quite a relief and quite akin to actually pooping UNTIL the crowning begins. Crowning refers to when the "crown" of the head is about to exit the vagina. They affectionately refer to this sensation in the medical profession as the "ring of fire"....and boy did Johnny Cash EVER know what he was talking about. When a head is coming out of your blessed canal of goodness, it burns like a motherfucker. Burn motherfucker, burn. But, just like when you exercise, you push through the burn until pop-goes-the weasel....and out comes the head. It's pretty easy after this, unless your kid is a linebacker (like my first was) and the shoulders hurt worse than the head. If your kid is normal, the rest is cake because the rest of the body slides out of your tired, worn-out vagina like jello through a basketball hoop (I don't know where I come up with this shit...I just like the analogy of the net to the labia).

And TA-DAH! You have a baby. Ooooh, but this baby is all bloody and cheesy. Nomnom. Don't worry, they'll wash it off...or you can lick it off like a cat if that's your thing. There's one tiny caveat. Don't tug on the baby, because it's still attached to you. The placenta is still hanging on and we don't wanna turn the uterus inside out, right? Right. So they cut the tags off the baby, so to speak...and it's all yours. I'm not sure how either of my kids were detached from me, because I was coming down off an endorphin concoction and can't recall either of their cords being cut...but obviously somebody did it. Thanks, whoever.

Now, once the cheesy, bloody human you created comes out, the party isn't over, because you have to give birth to the placenta which is still attached to your innards. It takes a few minutes for it to give up and come out, so just wait for it. Waaaaait for it. Ok, and then a tiny push and out comes this object that very closely resembles a cube-steak with a tail. Don't worry, they'll get rid of that for ya. Oh, and if you get the chance, take a look at it. Often times the placenta is more fascinating than the baby.

Still not done. USUALLY some sort of damage is incurred because a Smart Car just came out of a mouse hole. Yes, we're talking tears. Rips in your flesh. Note: flesh can and will rip like paper. Don't worry, though. They sew you right up. Yep. Needles in your vagina. Don't fret...they numb you WITH A NEEDLE before they sew you up. And let me tell you, they do a fabulous job. I mean, I've seen my bits thousands of times and I can't find a scar to save my life. There is a hole in it, though...(sorry, I couldn't resist).

Yeah, so, that's pretty much it. Then they clean you up and leave you alone with a screaming, crying, pooping, eating machine that you have to raise for 20+ years. Good times.

Also, the more ya know...

Next week: Anthony's 'Shroom Trip.

That picture is not my gallbladder...

Well, I'm positively horrid at keeping up on my blog, aren't I? I guess I should probably just own it. I suck. Know what else I suck at? Recovering from the surgical removal of an unnecessary organ.

A few months ago, I started having a pain between my boobies, but a little bit further down. No, not that far down, back up a little, ok...down just a smidge. Right there. Ow. It felt like a monkey was stabbing me with a dull banana right in that spot at about 15 minute intervals. After putting up with it for a while like a determined, hardcore Mexican wrestling champ, I whined to my husband that it was probably time for us to head to the emergency room to make sure I wasn't dying. They gave me some awesome drugs that made me hallucinate and then said "Go home. You have acid reflux." Ya know, this is the part where I'd like to say that I should've been a doctor because I know acid reflux, and this wasn't acidfuckingreflux. It was clearly an angry baboon stabbing me with the sharp end of a banana right at the very end of my sternum. All I wanted was for someone to kill the monkey. KILL IT! To make a long story short, I had gallstones, so they sent me to this nice Italian doctor who was going to kill the monkey making a rock tumbler out of my poor, innocent gallbladder.

Fast forward to last Monday. Surgery day. I was very excited because surgery is actually kind of fun! They give you medicine to make you sleep like you haven't slept since you were in utero and hospitals smell oddly good to me. Let's give this a go. Let's kill the monkey!

Step one in any surgery is to strip you of all your dignity. This involves the ritualistic instruction of a nurse coming in and saying, "Ok, we're gonna need you to take off everything from the waist up (waist down, depending on where they plan on probing you)." OR "Take off every goddamned article of clothing on your body and put on this paper-thin, ironically printed dress with a completely open back." So, I did as I was told. The worst part of having to wear hospital gowns with NOTHING on under them is that your lady/man bits touch things that they wouldn't normally touch and that's just weird and awkward and uncomfortable. I digress. I handed over my dignity to the nice woman in the scrubs and we proceeded.

Next, they wheel you into the operating room, which is ALWAYS pre-heated to a balmy 45 degrees. It's fucking freezing in an operating room. I've been in lots of them and they're all colder than a well digger's ass. But, the bright side to this gloomy step in the process is that you give a fuck about that cold operating room for about 30 seconds, because your friend, Mr. Awesomely Effeminate Anesthesiologist (they aren't always effeminate, but mine was, which was awesome because that's how I like my anesthesiologists), is about a millisecond away from injecting your veins with magical unicorn soma that would tranquilize even the most dangerous of unicorns. It's fantastic. Then they put an oxygen mask on your face and tell you to breath slowly and relax and the mask smells like sterile plastic andddddddoiaghakgzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

And then you wake up and things are blurry and your very nice, yet unfortunately unattractive Italian surgeon with halitosis is breathing on you and saying your name over and over and prodding you and taking your blood pressure and saying your name and leaving and coming back 30 seconds later and saying your name and taking your blood pressure and breathing on you. GO THE FUCK AWAY, IT'S NAPPY TIME PEOPLE!! But no, you must wake up or you fail at the game of Surgery.

So then, you wake up and OW! I THOUGHT YOU TOOK THE MONKEY OUT THAT WAS MAKING A ROCK TUMBLER OUT OF MY ORGAN! OW! DRUGS! OW! STRONGER DRUGS! Ahhh, that's better. Now, let's talk about peeing. They won't let you leave the hospital until you pee. I HAD to pee, but no matter how much I talk to my bladder nicely and told him we couldn't leave until he performed, all he said was "Fuck you. Me no pee." That was until the nurse said "If you don't go, we're gonna have to catheterize you." and my bladder said "No way, man, I've seen those commercials about the lady with the dirty catheters. I'll do it." And he did. And away we went.

After you have an invasive surgery, they send you away with some fantastic drugs and boy was I sad when those were gone, but turns out that developing an addiction to pain medication is low-brow and generally frowned upon, so I had to face the music and the pain. Also, you're sometimes left with a poofy, squishy belly after they jam their little cameras and utensils into your innards. Your innards don't like that. They rebel and they make you look like you're 5 mos pregnant for weeks on end. It's a little depressing, but I'm dealing ok. I had my husband hide all the sharp knives in the house. It's cool, really.

The really badass part about all of this is that my stomach looks like I'm the surviving member of a drunken brawl. Stab me and see what happens, bitches. I'm made of titanium. At most, your weak attempt at killing me will only make my titanium stomach look bloated! I don't have a gallbladder! You know why?! Because superheros don't NEED gallbladders!

I guess I don't suck so bad after all....suckers.

You Too Can Be Awesome

Sometimes a thought will pop into my head and I'll think to myself, "Self, you better google that shit." Today, after being inspired by a very awesome person, I felt compelled to google, "How to be awesome". Now, you may think to yourself, "Self, awesomeness is subjective. This woman is ridiculous." False. I'm of sound mind (mostly) and the rest of the people out there claiming to have the secrets to awesomeness are just wrong. However, I did find a FEW things that I agreed with and I will intermingle these tips accordingly. Overall, I've decided to make a very comprehensive list of tips. Are you ready to take notes? Good. Let's do this.

Step 1. Do not be boring.

This is a very important step to being awesome and one often overlooked. There are A LOT of boring people in this world. Don't be one of them. Find things to talk about. Interesting things. Giggle at the right times. Tell jokes. Wear funny shirts. Do silly things with your hair. Read books and learn big words. Don't just sit there breathing air. Contribute.
Step 2. You are NOT cool.

Now, granted this is more of a statement than an instruction, but let me assure you that you. are. not. cool. You're only cool when you don't know you're cool...or at least you don't pretend to be cool. It's called self-deprecation, friends. Have a slice of humble pie, will you? Talk to your adoring fans...you know....the little people. They're important. If people don't like you, you can't be awesome!

Step 3. Learn big words.

Learn things. Like words and proper grammar. Your adoring fans will thank you. ALOT is not a word.

Step 4. Kiss people.

People like being touched. It makes them feel important, secure and loved. I've made an executive decision in my life to kiss people. If I have kissed you, it means that I think you're really fucking awesome. If I haven't, well...it means I don't know you like that and I'm afraid you might slap me. Try it. If people seem opposed to you kissing them, try kicking them instead...

Step 5. Compliment people.

I have a very dear friend who calls everyone "pretty". Even if they're not. And I think that's magnificent. Once I called her out on it and she told me that she does indeed call everyone "pretty"...because they are. In their own way. Cliche, but true. For example, I call everyone "baby"...because everyone used to be a baby. Not the same? Whatever.
Step 6. Don't be a dick head.

Pretty self explanatory. Don't be a douche or a bitch or a dick. Ever. Always be nice. ALWAYS.
Step 7. Be open-minded.

Clearly these are not in any type of order, because this is perhaps the most important step to being awesome. No one is going to be exactly like you. Different strokes for different folks, Willis. Unless someone is hurting you or someone you love, leave them alone. Live and let live. Don't be a bigot-y asshat. Asshats don't look good on anyone...except asses.

Step 8. Ride mechanical blue ponies and wear a "Captain Awesome" shirt and do not be afraid what the fuck anyone else thinks about it.

Comeback #2 and Butt Wiping

Hello adoring fans (or people who have had to the misfortune to stumble into my world)! Are you ready for more adventures?! No? Tough shit. Ice is back with a brand new edition! For those of you that enjoy reading about my mishaps and the mundanity of my life, I promise to try to think about maybe blogging on a regular basis. However, I'm about 97% sure I'm operating on a serious case of undiagnosed ADD....................................................................WANNA GO RIDE BIKES?!?!?!

Sorry, where were we? Oh yes, blogging. Did I mention I'm going to start blogging again?

Hold on, I have to go wipe my kid's butt.

Ok, I'm back!

Butt wiping offers a nice segue. When I was a kid/teenager, I LOVED kids. I loved to play with them, hold them, pretend other people's children were my own (but not in a "Hand That Rocks the Cradle" kinda way). LOVED kids. I couldn't WAIT to have children of my own. Until I had children of my own...

Hold on, I'm refereeing an argument over a donut.

Ok, I'm back!

Please don't take this to mean that I DON'T love my children. Despite the fact that I gave birth to them minus pain meds and they destroyed my once precious vagina...I love them. And thank god they're cute, else I'd be eating them with my morning coffee right now.

When I was that glossy-eyed kid that loved children, I didn't realize that giving birth to these minions meant that you would be thrown-up on, pooped on, peed on, bled on, snotted on, screamed at, smarted off too, defied...and forced to ass wipe. Sometimes I feel like I'm being tortured out of a confession. I DIDN'T DO IT!

A lot of times, I think life would be a whole lot easier if I just developed an affinity for prescription painkillers or took up drinking heavily. But nooooooooooooooo, somebody has to have a clear head or else they'll end up wiping a mouth off with the same wipe used to wipe the baby's butt.

It's a thankless job. Well, until you get that sweet little hug and a "Mommy, I love you!" or "You're the best Mommy ever!" (little liar!) And it's totally worth it. Sometimes.

Teaching Lessons To Old People

There is nothing better than a feisty geriatric. My grandmother is 97 years old and still cruising around at 80 year old speed. But what's better is that after nearly 100 years, she's earned the right to say and do pretty much anything she pleases. She could skewer a baby and microwave it and everyone would say "Awww, look at her push the buttons with her little old fingers!" And don't think for a second you can get away with gaining weight around this woman or you'll hear, "You're getting a big butt." and because she's older than dirt, it's perfectly acceptable for her to say that. I mean, what are you going to do? Turn around and look at this adorable little old woman and tell her to "Shut the fuck up before I slap the wrinkles off your face, woman!"? No, you smile and you say, "I know, Mammaw. I've been eating a lot of donuts lately. I'll try harder. Love you!"

Sometimes I just want to be old. Really super old. Not like 70. Seventy is the new 60. Nobody cares if you're 70. You can't get away with shit when you're 70 unless you're on your deathbed and with the life expectancy constantly lengthening that isn't likely. Why, you ask, would I want to step forward in time 70 years? Because I want to get away with shit. I want to say what I want to say without eyerolls or judgement. I want to get hugs for screaming profanities, insulting people and violating social mores!

Speaking of being seventy years old and violating social mores, I'd like to share my "What the fuck?!" moment I experienced yesterday. Allow me to set the scene:

So, I'm on my way to Cincinnati to audition for a commercial I'm likely to get called back for but never hired for...when I get hungry. Since McDonald's is so vegetarian friendly (FALSE), I decide to stop there. I pull up to the speaker and begin to order my balanced meal of a medium fry, a fruit and walnut salad and a medium Diet Coke when I notice that the car in front of me has stopped short of the pay window and the driver (a SEVENTY YEAR OLD WOMAN) has exited her vehicle and is slowly approaching my car. Oddly enough, I become frightened. What is she doing?! Is she going to shoot me?! Mug me?! Scold me for not eating enough protein?! AAAAH! The closer she gets, the more nervous I get. She might be dangerous! As I'm ordering my food, I'm cautiously watching her every move out of the corner of my eye, until she gets right.up.to. my rearview mirror and stops, apparently waiting for me to finish ordering. As soon as I'm done with my order, she leans into the speaker and says, "EXCUSE ME! I FORGOT TO GIVE YOU MY ORDER! I NEED A VANILLA MILKSHAKE!" By now, I'm sure the poor girl taking my order is completely confused because clearly this is not the voice that just ordered the medium fry, fruit and walnut salad and medium Diet Coke. Not only that, but this crazy not-old-enough-to-get-away-with-doing-shit-like-this woman is impeding my progress to procede in line by standing directly in front of my rearview mirror! By this point, I am too flabbergasted by this series of events, I can't even summon the courage to say, "excuse me, ma'am" or "get the fuck out of the way", so I drive slowly past her MOVING her with my rearview mirror. Nothing stands between me and food. Not even old ladies. Let this serve as a PSA: I don't care how old you are, if you get in my way in the McDonald's drive-thru, I will run your ass over.

Now, I'd just like to offer the disclaimer that if this woman had been, say, 107 years old, I would have given her a piggy back ride back to her car and fed her her vanilla milkshake because she would have been on this Earth long enough to earn such luxuries. However, because restaurant drive-thrus have been around for the greater part of the life of a seventy-year-old...this behavior is just unacceptable. It's not cute, it's annoying and I will not tolerate it.

Mannequin

Let the record state that I absolutely HATE shopping. Just thinking about stepping inside a mall makes me want to slit my wrists. I hate the music, I hate the people, I hate the salesmen and women and I hate the overwhelming selection of merchandise. However, I don't mind shopping when I have a $100 gift card. I can suck it up long enough to go on a mini shopping spree on someone else's dime. The only thing I (normally) hate doing worse than shopping is shopping with my two year old. But, like I said, yesterday I had someone else's money to spend and I wasn't about to let them down, so I bundled up my bundle of joy and headed to Macy's. I actually don't hate Macy's as much as, say, Abergoddamnedcrombie, because the music is much more subdued, the salespeople look like they actually eat and I'm not asphyxiated with the smell of bottled teenage libido. I digress.

As we walk into the beautifully decorated Macy's, with their garland and giant Christmas balls (I just wanted to say balls) and pretty, tranquil Christmas music, I am transported into nostalgia. I pretend that I am wealthy and that I live in New York City and I'm shopping at THE Macy's. Even though I'm in Castleton, Indiana and the woman next to me is missing one of her front teeth and is riding a Rascal. I am instantly at peace. Then my fantasy is interrupted by a tiny little voice.

"Mommy, whassat?!"

"What?"

"Dat!" she says as her tiny little finger points to a beheaded male mannequin knealing on the floor decked out in his best winter gear.

"Oh, that's a mannequin."

"What's he do-ning?"

"He's modeling some clothes."

"I like him. He's wearing a chacket (jacket)!"

"I know! He has a nice jacket. C'mon, let's go shop!"

We walk 50 feet and I hear the little voice again.

"Mommy, what she do-ning?"

"What's who doing?"

"The mexican!"

"The Mexican?"

By this point I was horribly embarrassed by my blatantly racist child, until she pointed to an emaciated female mannequin modeling a slutty outfit in the junior's department.

"Oh! You mean the mannequin!"

"Yeah, the mexican! I wanna touch her!"

"Ok, nice touches. We don't want to play mannequin dominoes."

We made our way around the entire store until she had touched nearly every mannequin. She particularly loved the ones with bare midriffs.

"Looka her belly! She has a belly button!"

It was clear that these large, petrified humans were very real to her. Our story takes a sad turn, however, when my sweet little girl had the innocence ripped right out of her little heart as she stopped in her tracks and pointed at some very unfortunate mannequin.

(Sad voice)"Mommy, wha-happen her hand?" she asked when she spotted one who's hand was screwed on all askew. "She needa band-aid?"

And with that, her fantasy was interrupted by a loud nasally voice.

"No, honey, she's not real. Her hand just screws on."

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Hello, dear readers! I'm back! Quiet now. Calm down. Ok, more cheering! More! Ok, stop. You may be asking yourself, "Where the hell has this bitch been?" or "How did I survive without her for this long?" I will address these questions in reverse chronological order: I'm not sure how you survived without me, but clearly you did because you're reading this. I hope you feel better. In response to your (very rude) first question, I can't tell you where I've been because I'm now a part of the witness protection program. What? Blogging is a bad idea if you're trying to fly under the radar? Whatever, shut up. For lack of better excuses, suffice it to say that I took some time off to get older. This may be demonstrated by the fact that I will be turning 29 for the second time in four days. That's 31 in old people years, but whatever...this is my blog and I'll be 29 if I want to. In celebration of the second anniversary of my 29th birthday, I have created a timeline of my life for your reading pleasure. Because I'm really good at counting by fives, and exciting things (or not) happen every five years of my life, I will arrange my timeline as such. Shall we? (Cue time travel music)

YEAR 0: I was born on what I would presume was a very cold day in December of 1978. Make that the 11th. It very well could have been unseasonably warm that day, but stories of births are always much more fun when it's cold outside. So, anyway, it was cold. I popped out of my mother's birth canal at approximately 8:50 pm on a Monday (I think) night. I was probably gooey and bloody and screaming and according to records, I weighed exactly 8 pounds and was 21" long. I was a cute baby. My mother claimed to have tried to breastfeed me, but she didn't try hard enough and ended up feeding me sub par 1970's baby formula, which most assuredly contained Mercury and other cancer-causing carcinogens. I will never forgive her for this.

YEAR 5: Now, years 0-4 of my life were spent being cute, but something happened on year 5 and I started to eat more. I was still cute though and had very long (as in Fundamentalist Christian length) blonde hair. Despite the fact that I was a fat child and spent the greater part of the year in a cast because I decided to walk backwards down a hill and broke my ankle (thank you, 1970's baby formula for making me smart), I had a lot of success in kindergarten. I learned to share with others and even experienced my first kiss on the school bus en route to a fieldtrip. His name was Christopher and he had red hair and freckles and was about a foot shorter than me. We were a match made in misfit heaven. Kindergarten is also noteable because of what we'll call "The Worst School Picture Ever". I was in the process of losing my first tooth, but my baby tooth wouldn't get the fuck out of the way and make room for the larger tooth behind it, so I looked like I was wearing Billy Bob teeth. A fat baby with Billy Bob teeth, dressed up like a Fundamentalist Mormon on school picture day. My mother finds great joy in my kindergarten picture. I will never forgive her for this.

YEAR 10: Did I say that kindergarten was the year of "The Worst School Picture Ever"? That was a lie. By 5th grade, I was in full-fledged awkward mode. Not only was I taller than every.single.person.in.my.class., but I was fatter. And I had a bad perm. Also, do you remember those sweet-ass pink plastic framed glasses that were all the rage in the 80's? Yeah, I had those. And remember the Billy Bob teeth I was sporting in my kindergarten picture? I still had those, but by this time they were permanent. I also switched schools in 5th grade to a more hoity-toity school where the children didn't appreciate my kitschy awkwardness as much as those at my other school. Also, my teacher was a man. I had only had women teachers up until this point. I enjoyed my 5th grade teacher, because he cleaned his ears with his car keys in the middle of class. I thought he was an awesome guy, but a few years later he killed his wife and then himself. Not so awesome. Moving on...

YEAR 15: Ah, things are getting a little better on the awkward front. By this time, I had had braces and they were off. I lost weight and my perm grew out. I was actually kind of cute again. But despite the fact that I was cute, I was still a weird child (shocker, huh?). Always one with a desire to be "different", I experimented with odd combinations of clothing usually acquired at Goodwill. This always solicited snickers from snobby girls walking behind me in the hall, but whatever because I got my first boyfriend in 9th grade! We'll call him "Horrible Kisser" to protect his identity. Horrible Kisser invited me over to his house to watch The Last of the Mohicans and make out. He tried to put his hand down my pants, but I put him in an arm bar to foil his advances. He went to school the next day and told everyone that I clamped my legs shut. I will never forgive him for this.

YEAR 20: We'll call this the "Year of Poor Decisions". By 20, I had completed my first year of college, met a guy we'll call "Practice Husband" and became sperminated. Now, let me clarify that I don't consider my son (the product of said spermination) a "poor decision". Well, at least not until he pisses me off or doesn't clean up after himself. But for the most part, I consider him a "sound decision". Practice Husband, on the other hand, was a bit of a poor life decision. For the record, getting married at 20 is generally a bad idea. We hated each other and our marriage ended in violence. I gave him a black eye. Serves him right...I told him about the wire hangers, but he just wouldn't listen. That's not the real reason, but it's much funnier than the real reason...so for the purpose of storytelling, that's the reason. For the record, I HAVE forgiven him and we get along swimmingly now.

YEAR 25: After my divorce and a few years of reckless abandon, I finally started to act like a human around this time. Started to, anyway. I ALMOST fucked my life up royally by marrying a guy I'll call "Complete Douchebag". We were engaged for a whole month before I realized that my life would be over if I married him. Luckily, I got out of that one by the skin of my teeth and quickly moved on to the love of my life, my current husband who we'll call "Captain Awesome". We met on match.com. We're both cute, so we'd make an awesome commercial. We dated for eight months and decided to throw reason and good sense out the window and get married. So far, it's worked out pretty well. And we made another person. She's cute and she's 2 and she asks a lot of questions and has her father's eyebrows.

YEAR 30: Nothing really noteworthy happened this past year, but I finally feel like I'm "coming into my own" as they say. It sounds cliche, but despite the wrinkles slowly creeping up on my face, I feel like I truly am aging like a fine wine. Or 1970's baby formula...(pastey white and lumpy in spots?)