Because It Would Be Narcissistic to Make Two Separate Posts About How Everyone Loves Me

I'm not what you would call technically savvy. In fact, Nadine set up this entire blog for me. My skill set pretty much consists of signing in, reading other blogs and posting.

My point is that I have no idea how to get people to read my blog. Nadine got me a few sympathy followers to start off with and I think most of the rest of you found me through my comments on other blogs. And I appreciate every single one of you. The fact that any of you want to hear what I have to say, even if it's about diarrhea like 80% of the time, is amazing to me. Thank you all for your support.

Anyway. Somehow my small (extremely small) legion of fans is slowly increasing, and that is fucking awesome. And in the last week, I got two awards from two of my awesome readers:

The first, was the Versatile Blogger award from Selena over at Because Motherhood Sucks

I'm fairly new to Selena's blog, but I was in love with her the moment I saw the title. Because motherhood? Yeah, it kind of does suck sometimes. Selena does an awesome job of being inappropriate and pointing out when things look like orange vaginas. I'm currently reading all of her archives so I don't miss anything.

Next was the Liebster Award, from my Ninja, which is basically her way of saying "Wow, You are awesome as shit. Why are you so underrated?". Ninja is my internet stalker, in case that was unclear. You can easily buy her sassy, Canadian love with some stale cookies and lip balm. She's kind of a whore like that. But seriously? Check you out some Ninja. She's awesome and funny and super smart. Don't play Words with Friends with her though. She's a dirty fucking cheater (or smarter than me, one of those two).

Now, with the first award, you are supposed to give 7 random facts about yourself. Let me see if I can make that happen for you:

1. I'm borderline OCD with my eating habits. The lengths to which I will go to have things a particular way is slightly psychotic. A few examples, you say? Surely. Well, the most obvious example is the fact that I rearrange any kind of burger or sandwich I get. Every time. Even if I'm eating it in my car. The reason for this is to ensure the even distribution of condiments, obviously. Because, moving along to my NEXT example, I need to have a little of everything in each bite. With burgers, that means a little onion, a little pickle, a little bacon and a little ketchup (with anything else, I pretty much get a little of each thing on my fork for every individual bite. Yeah. I know it's psychotic. Didn't I already say that?). If you are wondering what I do about the fries, they are actually eaten in alternate bites with the burger. Last bite has to be burger though, because, moving on to my next example, I have to save what I deem the best bite of something for last. With burgers and sandwiches, this is usually the bite in the middle, which is why I eat around the edges first and work my way in. With steak, obviously the best bite will be the one that looks rarest. And the best bite of pizza is the second bite up from the point. I'll usually bite off the tip (that's what she said), then turn it around and eat from the crust down. These things are the reason I'm fat. Too many food obsessions.

2. I walk weird. I blame my father, as he has the same stupid walk. Rodolfo once described as looking like I'm carrying a bag of groceries in each hand, so... maybe I don't move my arms a lot? I don't know. This is also probably the reason I'm a ridiculous klutz.

3. I'm currently house shopping. It's stressful, because our budget is really tight and we don't want to live in the hood, but it's going to be so fucking awesome when we find the right place. We have been living in a tiny 1 bedroom apartment for 3 years now, and Caitlyn's shit has taken over every nook and cranny, so when she has her own room and maybe a playroom and a fucking backyard to share with Joey, it is going to rock my shit so hard.

4. I married my husband after less than a year ::coughheneededagreencardcough::

5. My left boob is bigger.

6. I have one tattoo, a horribly disfigured little butterfly on my lower back, just above my ass. I got it when I was 19, when my horribly disfigured (okay, maybe he was just ugly) ex boyfriend's brother offered to do it for free on his living room floor because he was learning how to do them. Rodolfo likes to point out that it looks like I got it done in prison and he is 100% correct.

7. I'm not allowed to eat Jolly Ranchers. Yes, in fact I am 29 years old and have been forbidden to eat a particular kind of candy. You see, my mother nearly choked on a similar, squarish hard candy when she was a kid (her own mom dislodged it with the back end of a spoon, so you might understand why she's so traumatized) and told me long ago that I wasn't allowed to eat them. And really? For my mom, who let me drink and fuck in her house because she trusted me to make my own decisions and knew I was intelligent enough not to get pregnant or alcohol poisoning, how could I ignore this one request? I can not. So even today, as a grown adult, if someone offers me a Jolly Rancher, I politely decline and tell them that my mom doesn't let me have them.

Seven random facts. You're welcome. Oh, and thank you, obviously.

I'm also supposed to tag some bitches, but it seems pretty much everyone I would tag for these things has already been tagged by someone else. Except Nadine, who is also awesome and who you should also check out. She doesn't post very often, but her posts are kind of epic (see this post in particular. It's one of my favorites). So I guess I'm tagging Nadine then. Give us some blog love, sir.

I Know How Much You Love My Posts About Bodily Fluids

Back when I had my baby shower, I received a metric butt-load of stuff. I don't think I bought a diaper until Caitlyn was a month old. And she's always been on the small side, so the variety of smaller sized clothes I received lasted until she was nearly a year old.

There was one thing, though, that I didn't understand. Washcloths. I got so many fucking washclothes. Literally at least a hundred. And bibs too. Between the two, I had nearly 200 6-8 inch squares of fabric. The bibs were cute, so I tried to use them all at least a few times. But the washcloths, my god; I couldn't use all those things if my life depended on it.

I don't think Caitlyn was any less messy than any other baby. I had use for some of these things (though, admittedly I haven't used a bib in at least a year- she just rips them off and laughs at me), but I just couldn't understand the sheer volume in which I received them.

It was my experience that the gifts I received from other moms always had at least one thing that I didn't think I'd need at the time. Then Caitlyn would hit a particular stage and I'd realize that those moms really did know exactly what I needed. They were just thinking a little bit further ahead than I was.

But even two years later, I still couldn't make sense of all those washcloths. How often are these people bathing their children? Three, four times a day? So I started using them for other things: Wiping up spills when I ran out of paper towels, cleaning off the filthy high chair, substituting them for wipes if Caitlyn had a rash. And you don't want to use it for bath time after using it for any of those things, so the alternate-use washcloths usually went straight to the garbage.

Then last night, I was looking for a fucking washcloth and couldn't find one. In case you are wondering, it's REALLY hard to not get vomit on the rug when someone pukes on your foot. Touche, experienced moms, you got me again.

Open-Mouthed Relaxation

Today we are going to play a little game. I'm going to tell you what she said and you are going to guess where I was.

"Relax and open your mouth a little"

Was I:

A) at the dentist.

B) on the set of a really bad porn.

C) participating in a hot dog eating contest (on the set of a porn about a "hot dog eating contest"?).

D) getting an EEG.

Let me start by saying that if any of you picked C, please just get out. Stop reading my blog. You don't know me at all. Jaclyn does not eat fucking hot dogs (I probably should take more offense to anyone who thinks I was on the set of a porn, I guess, but I REALLY hate hot dogs).

An EEG, for those of you who don't know, is when they hook up electrodes to your head and measure your brain activity. Specifically, for the test I was getting, my doctor wanted to measure the speed of my visual and auditory responses. So yes, another post about my fucked up brain problems. You're welcome.

To start, the woman performing the test measured my head and wrote all over my scalp and forehead with a red pencil to mark where to put the electrodes. Maybe you guys haven't noticed this about me yet, but I'm sort of chatty. So I tried to make conversation. I asked her if my head was freakishly large as I'd always suspected whenever I try to buy a hat. "Not really". Oh. Ok. Then I told her how we always have trouble getting shirts over Caitlyn's big head and how Rodolfo always tells her to "blame your mother". I think I got maybe a forced chuckle out of that one.

Clearly she did not think I was funny and she did not feel like making conversation. I decided to keep the rest of my thoughts to myself, especially the ones where I considered apologizing for the layer of dandruff she seemed to need to scrape through with that fucking red pencil. Or the fact that I knew they would be putting goop on my head so I didn't bother to shower before the test. It seemed perfectly logical at the time, but when it actually came down to it, I found myself pretty paranoid that I was being secretly judged for my greasy hair.

After the humorless head-scraper had cleared my scalp of any remaining dandruff (and skin), she began the test. For the visual part, I had to cover one eye and stare at a tiny red square at the center of a TV screen for like 10 minutes on each side. Which sounds simple enough. The problem was that all around that red square was a black and white checkboard that was constantly moving and flashing and it made it really hard to focus.

Head-scraper noticed this. Apparently my brain waves indicated pretty clearly that I was not paying enough attention. She walked over to the screen on more than one occasion and tapped her pen in the middle of the screen near the square and reminded me to "focus on the red square. Look right here in the center". Not all disciplinarian-like. She didn't smack her pen once and walk away. No, it was worse than that. She stood there for 20 or 30 seconds at a time, tapping her pen and gently reminding me to focus. I imagine she uses this same technique when she has to do this test on a 5 year old.

After we finished the vision test (and it couldn't end soon enough, I felt like I was fighting off a fucking seizure) we were ready to move on to the auditory test. But she had preparations to make.

She dragged a recliner into the room, put some headphones on me and told me how important it was for me to relax. The test would go much quicker if I was relaxed and, in fact, if I could fall asleep during the test, I should try to.

I tried to relax, really I did. But do you want to know what ISN'T relaxing? Trying to hold in a fart in front of a stranger who has already seemingly decided she kind of hates you. Also, when your husband doesn't understand what "I'm busy" means and keeps fucking texting you every 2 minutes except you don't have your phone right in front of you because you are super busy relaxing so you have to assume it's either him just being annoying or the babysitter trying to get in touch with you because there is an ACTUAL emergency (it was him, for the record). Yeah. Relaxing!

Again, my brain waves gave me away. I was not relaxed enough. And apparently, the default position for "relaxed" is to be slack-jawed. The test lady kept insisting that I open my mouth a little to assist in my relaxation.

You know those commercials for like, the Bahamas and shit? The ones where the actors are trying to convey how relaxing and enjoyable their trip is? They aren't telling you this, obviously, because then they would interrupt the serene-sounding voice-over saying shit like "The Bahaaaaamaaaaaas", all sing-songy. No, they are conveying this message via body language. They are frolicking on beaches. They are lounging on the balcony of their gigantic suite sipping cocktails.

My point is that they are obviously lying. Ok. Lying is a strong word. They are acting, poorly. Because they are smiling on those beaches and balconies. And everyone know that TRULY relaxed people do not smile. Truly relaxed people have their eyes closed and their mouthes open. Maybe they have a little bit of drool on their chin. Drool is the mark of true relaxation. Take note, Bahamas commercials: DROOL WILL SELL MORE VACATIONS THAN YOUR BEAUTIFUL BEACHES AND FANCY HOTELS! Also, I hear the comatose are extremely serene, so it would save you a TON of money in advertising if you just went to your local hospital and got some footage of a dude in a coma and be all "he just got back from the Bahamas". Yeah. I'm kind of a genius.

So my test took a while. Serenity is not my forte.

Whitney Houston Was NOT Your Cousin

Okay guys. I'm sure you've heard. Whitney Houston died.

Is it sad? Sure. But I'm here to tell you something important: Whitney Houston was not a member of your family.

So the weeping lunatics on the news talking about how they can't believe she's gone? Yeah. I hate those people.

It's not just Whitney fanatics, either. My loathing of this phenomenon where deranged fans throw themselves to the ground sobbing and beg Jesus for it not to be true when a stranger who sang a few songs they like (and had a highly publicized drug problem) has died has bugged the ever-loving shit out of me for quite some time now.

I blame Michael Jackson, really. You see, good old MJ kicked the bucket in the summer of '09. 2009 was a bad year for me. It was the year I lost Nicholas. In fact, it was just months before MJ died.

First there was the constant news coverage. The assholes on the news crying over a stranger as if he were a member of their own family. Real fucking tears. Over a man they didn't know who was morally questionable at best. I was legitimately grieving over the loss of my child and these fuckers were devastated that they would never have a chance to see "Thriller" performed live.

Then came the funeral. I can tell you the exact date, actually. Michael Jackson's funeral was on July 7, 2009. Curious how I can pull such a random piece of information out of my ass like that? Because I think I've made it clear till this point that I don't give a shit enough to remember it.

July 7, 2009 was my due date with Nicholas. I should have been celebrating the birth of my son, but instead I was mourning the fact that I would never hold him in my arms again, never see him smile, never hear him cry. So to turn on the TV and see a bunch of retards crying over Michael Jackson was absolutely infuriating to me, to the point that I still get mad when I hear one of his songs. Because somehow I've inextricably linked Michael Jackson to the death of my son.

Anyway, back to Whitney. I'm sorry for her family, her daughter in particular. But really, did no one see this coming? I did. And it isn't my place to mourn her death. That is something to be left to her family.

I will say one last thing though: If you think about it, Whitney really went out of her way to make her death as significant as possible. Right before the Grammys? Miss Whitney, your tribute will be beautiful! Black history month? We have truly lost a black icon! A diva even in death.

Given the Choice, Always Go With the 9 Incher

In the continued effort to figure out exactly what the fuck is going on with my brain, I was told I would need an MRI of my spine.

As I mentioned before, I didn't really enjoy getting an MRI. I'm a bit claustrophobic and it's really hard to not freak out when you are shoved into a plastic coffin for 30 minutes at a time.

Imagine my enjoyment when the imaging center called to confirm my appointment and I casually inquired as to how long I should expect to be there. "Well," Appointment McConfirmington explained, "You will need to be here a half hour before the test begins and we are scanning two sections of your spine, each of which will take 45 minutes, so you should expect to be here for 2 hours".

What?

Two hours? One and a half of which will be spent in the chamber of noise and doom? No thank you, sir. "Oh. That's a really long time. I'm a little claustrophobic", I explained to AMC. I mean, it was just something I said in reaction to the horror that awaited me. I wasn't expecting him to, you know, comfort me or anything. But comfort me he did.

He wanted to make sure I knew it wasn't going to be as bad as I was expecting. He wanted to make me aware of the fact that the machine I would be in is new and larger than what I had previously experienced. He bestowed upon me his wisdom, words that would ring in my head during the entirety of my one and a half hours.

"It will be 9 inches from your face, instead of the usual 4 and a half". Wow. 9 inches instead of 4 and a half. I don't know anyone who would say no to that.

And so I had my 9 inch MRI and all was well. Loud, but well. I only felt like I was going to freak out once, and it passed quickly. In fact, with the way Caitlyn has been driving me nuts the last couple of weeks, it was kind of nice to lay down and not have to get up to pull Caitlyn off of something she knows she shouldn't be climbing for an hour and a half.

I do not have any results or information yet, in case you were wondering, but I will surely update when I do.

Asshole Time 2.0

Back when Caitlyn was an infant, before I started this blog even, she had something Rodolfo and I referred to as Asshole Time.

Generally, we were very lucky. She was an easygoing, happy baby. But every night between 6-9pm, Caitlyn would be an asshole. She would cry despite not being hungry or wet or uncomfortable. Rocking her didn't help. Nothing helped. She would just spend at least an hour or two every night screaming inconsolably and we could never figure out why.

Asshole Time was fleeting. I'd say it lasted from the time she was a few weeks old until she hit 3 months or so. If you figure she hardly ever cried besides that, I probably dealt with a lot less crying than most new moms.

At the time though, it was very frustrating. I couldn't figure out what it was that was upsetting her. I couldn't make her happy. On days when Rodolfo was at work during Asshole Time and I was alone with Caitlyn, I would find myself at the very end of my patience. I would say things that you shouldn't really say to your infant. Things like "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?" and "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU, STOP SCREAMING!" and "I WANT TO THROW YOU OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW" and then maybe I would also cry. Not because I felt like THAT big a failure, but mostly out of the frustration that builds when someone is screaming in your face for hours at a time and you can't just say "fuck you" and leave.

Looking back, it really wasn't so bad. Because right now, we are experiencing Asshole Time 2.0. Also known as the Terrible Twos. Also known as "Stop smacking your head into the ground when you don't get your way then crying because you hurt yourself" and "Mommy isn't laughing because you are being a dick" (side note: I accidentally taught Caitlyn the word dick this weekend) and "Don't hit me, asshole" and "Don't climb out of your crib. You are in time-out. Asshole" and "Keep your fucking diaper on" and "Snatching my phone and then throwing as hard as you can when I try to take it back is NOT cool" and, most of all "Stop fucking WHINING about everything". And it's so much worse. I'd take a hundred Asshole Times in exchange for Asshole Time 2.0.

My kid is funny and charming and adorable. So it's hard for me to deal with asshole Caitlyn. It's like she's possessed. By an asshole. Right now I'd say the split is about 60/40 in favor of her being an asshole. That other 40% is downright magical though. Her personality is so defined now. She does these unexpected, ridiculously charming things. Like last night, we were at a Super Bowl party and while the Super Bowl was on in one room, the Puppy Bowl was on in the other. She loved her some Puppy Bowl, let me tell you. Somehow, she understood that there was a connection between the two and would often walk out of the Puppy Bowl room, hands in the air and shout "TOUCHDOWN!". Shit like that makes it really hard to leave her in the woods to be raised by wolves until she gets her attitude in check.

Right now, hitting is the battle I'm fighting the hardest. Caitlyn seems to think that any slight, real or perceived, shall be dealt with by the merciless strike of her hand. She also seems to think that when I get pissed about it and put her in time-out, that kissing the spot she smacked me in should get her out of a punishment. Sorry, kid. It doesn't work that way.

The mood swings are really difficult too. She transforms from the smiley, cheerful girl I know into a screeching, whining, angry beast in a matter of seconds. She feels the need to exercise her will at any cost. And her will is to be diaperless and armed with an ice pop and my phone at all times. It's exhausting.

This is definitely a phase right? I often wonder about my parenting choices. I feel like I'm doing a good job, but everyone has an opinion about everything I do. My mom, my husband, my sisters, random dicks in the grocery store. And so I find myself questioning the kind of parent I am. Am I too easy on her? Do I give in too quickly? Am I mistaking Terrible Twos for my parenting style just turning her into a full-time asshole? I don't know. Tell it's just a phase, you guys.

Busted Knees and Broken Faces

You know how policemen beat their wives with a sack of oranges because it doesn't leave any bruises? Huh? You mean that isn't common knowledge?

Anyway, despite having no plans to start beating Caitlyn, I realized that if I wanted to, I could totally get away with it. Uppercuts to the lip. I'm just saying. Toddlers man. No one questions it when she busts her face open.

I probably sound like the worst parent ever, but I just find it incredible how often this kid hurts herself. I regularly find bruises, cuts and scrapes and have no idea how they got there.

She's going through a cute little phase though. With all the rain we had last week, plus my natural clumsiness, it was inevitable that I would bust my ass. I'm kind of notorious for falling down all the time. My mom mocks me relentlessly about it. She was keeping a running tally of all the places I'd fallen back when I was a teenager. And she was pretty convinced that I had never been somewhere and not fallen there at least once.

So it was slippery. And I was in a rush. And I'm a fucking klutz and you should maybe just be 2 minutes late to a meeting as opposed to rushing when you are a klutz and it's raining outside. So I fell. Hard. And scraped up my knee pretty badly and fucked up my ankle.

Anyway. I got home and took a shower and was walking out of the bathroom in my towel when Caitlyn spotted my knee. She came over and pointed to it and I confirmed that "yes, oww, mommy got hurt". And then she did the cutest thing I've ever seen. She bent down and kissed my knee. Because she is the most adorable. The most adorable ever.

I'm still pretty scraped up and Caitlyn still comes over and gives my knee a kiss any time she sees it. It's the cute dysentary. She is oozing cute from all her orifices. I love it.

Then the other day she walked over to me. She was in her diaper, because clothes are for fucking suckers. I was cooking dinner or some shit and she was trying to get my attention (did I mention she says Mommy now? Finally. She seemed really committed to calling my Mom for a while, but the minute I got out of the hospital she started calling me Mommy). When I looked over I saw she was holding one leg up, looking at me expectantly. That's when I saw it. She had the tiniest little scab forming on her knee. Maybe a quarter of an inch. I wouldn't have even seen it if she didn't point it out to me. And then I knew just what she wanted. I was supposed to kiss her knee.

And I did. And then I asked if her knee felt better, if mommy's kiss had helped. To which she responded with a pained "Owwww". And then I kissed it many more times.

This isn't something I've ever shown her. I give her kisses if she gets hurt, but the idea that she should reciprocate the gesture was just about the cutest thing I've ever seen, and something she decided all on her own. My girl. She has a natural tendency to be nurturing and sweet, to care about other people.

I think as parents, we always question our choices. We always wonder if we are making the right decisions. We fear that we are raising brats or assholes (especially when they are just hitting their stride in terrible-twos type behavior). And so it's really nice to have a moment like that, where you realize that your kid really is as awesome as you think she is.