Blog World Domination

Hello everyone, I am Dumb Mom (yes, THE Dumb Mom), and I’m here representing the bestes blog eva parenting BY dummies.

I have been an active member of the blogging community since December, 2008, which means I am coming up on my 18 month blog-a-versary.

I have experienced some success with my blog (you know stuff that matters like followers, traffic, comments, Google page rank), but nothing to really write home about (not that I have to since my mother stalks my blog shamelessly).

But, I haven’t gotten to the point where I feel accomplished or truly successful as a blogger (aka the point at which the money begins to roll in).

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in Crazy Blogger Delisuionalville so I know that I’m not likely to be the next Dooce (no PPD ravings here) or the next Pioneer Woman (no sexy cowboy hubby either), but you know, I kinda would like to be a respected member of the blogging community.

And, I’m sorta sick of waiting for my content to make it happen for me.

Plus, I don’t know anybody (‘cause you know, blogging, like real life, is a lot about who you know), at least not anybody who likes me wants to let me ride their coattails to the top support my “brand”.

So I came up with a new plan.

A plan to ensure blog-world domination in as little as 6 weeks.

A genius plan really.

To eliminate to competition and make people like me catapult me to the top.

Buying blogs!

That’s right people, B-U-Y-I-N-G them.

I figured that one of the main obstacles standing in the way of my become-a-popular-blogger-so-people-will-pay-me plan is that the market is becoming a bit saturated.

It’s getting too hard to have a blog.

Now you have to worry about annoyingly time consuming junk like personal branding, SEO, building a blog community, and other stuff I’ll let you know about when I figure out what it is.

And.  You need a niche.

A niche that is supported by good content.

I don’t have a niche (unless you call being a suckit mom who is strangely funny a niche), or time to think about my brand, or brains to master SEO.

So, I’m taking the easy way out…MONEY.

It may not be able to buy you love (which I’m not sure I agree with) but it can buy you blogs, because everyone needs it and most of us like it (which is more than I can say for my blog).

So the other night when I sat down to do my figuring, I figured that what I need to do is get some cash, find some in-the-market-for-some-cash bloggers, and give it to them to to go away let me be the creative director on their sites.

Basically they post about me and me related material and all is well.

And, guess what?!

It worked!

I’ve turned 12 of them so far!

So instead of reading about Mama B’s peanut butter life, or Angie’s Seven Clowns, or Jen’s Hipness, or KMama’s Daily Dribbles, or Marf Mom’s Marfan, or When SHE became her mom, or Being a former Fatty, or how HER Life Gone Awry, or Amy’s B Hole, or Supah’s Adventures, or Faemom’s Faeness?, or Chicken Nugget’s Wisdom, or even Sunday’s Extreme Parenthood, you get to read about moi.

Before they sign off for good for the duration of their written-in-blood contracts they have each written one last post for you here: parenting BY dummies.

I urge you to give them a chance to explain why they’ve sold you out to The Man (The Man being ME) succumbed to the Dumb.

Come on over and say adios to your beloved bloggers.  MWAHAHAHA!!!

P.S. I am currently not on the hunt for other blogs to dominate as I have run into a bit of an issue with my blog-world-domination budget plan.  #therecessionisruiningeverything

Bathroom Buddies

Following their daddy like the ducklings they are, the boys tried to follow him into the bathroom.  But apparently Daddy wanted privacy for his bowel movement.

The Husband: Everyone out.

He shut the door.  The boys began to knock and bang and pound and drum on the door.

Evan: But Daddy, you know what-

Sean: Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!

Evan: -And then I jumped-

Sean: Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!

Evan: -I ran around-

Sean: Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!

Evan: -Isn’t that so funny?

Sean: Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!

The Husband burst out of the bathroom and came into the kitchen where I was doing dishes, listening to everything, chuckling under my breath.  The boys, of course, followed.

The Husband: How can any one get anything done in there with that racket?

Me: You need to concentrate on what you’re doing?

The Husband: I would like some peace and quiet and to be alone while I’m doing it.

Me: Baby, welcome to my world.  I haven’t had peace on the toilet since Evan was born.

Demon Changilings

So last night I’m pretty sure my boys were replaced by demon spawn.  I’m wondering if there is a cure or a way to bring my boys back.

It started this morning when they bounced in my room all goddamn perky at 5:45.  Not ready-to-kick-some-ass-and-take-some-names energetic, I’m-the-head-cheerleader-and-prom-queen-perky.  At FIVE-FORTY-FIVE in the MORNING.  I don’t do perky well most of the time.  I can’t stand it early in the morning.  I’ll kill and eat it first thing in the morning.  But these are my boys and I tried to get them to snuggle for another fifteen minutes.  Only they jumped around and giggled and made strange noises at each other.  I was less than amused and made everyone leave the room at 6am, so that I could snooze on the couch while they watched TV.

But it wasn’t long before they were in my face demanding breakfast, which they usually don’t do until the decent hour of 7, and by that time, I’m either fixing breakfast or done making it.  While it wasn’t unusual that they whined when I clicked on the news, they were glued to the TV as it talked about the Moscow bombing.  Awesome.  That’s all I need my boys to watch.

Bath time went surprisingly smooth, which I think chalks up to the whole demon spawn theory because the boys love to antagonize the hell out of each other in the bath.

I should have known that grocery shopping was going to be hell because they both ran from me when it was time to get in the car.  After they had a nice long chat with our sweet neighbor and showed him all their sword fighting moves.  They ran, and my neighbor felt obligated to talk to Evan about listening to his mother.  Yup, a proud moment for me.

Why did I let them bring their swords into the car?  Because I’m an idiot.  But we’re going to have a new rule about swords in the car because I can’t have them sword fighting over the head of the baby.  My mom suggested I actually use the third row of seats to separate the boys better.

So we went to the first grocery store where I promptly lost control of the boys after I had them pick out apples to buy.  They ran.  They yelled.  They danced.  They made such a cacophony of unholy noise that it was apparent that I had no control of the situation.  Until the last aisle. Where they listened and helped put things in the basket.  Then we got to self check out where they pulled the bread display over to us.  They were separated and made to stand next to me on either side until I finished.

For some reason I felt I needed to finish the grocery shopping and head to the main store.  I should have quit while I was ahead.  But I didn’t.  Control was lost within moments of entering the store.  I couldn’t get them to settle down by helping me.  I couldn’t get them to settle down with threats of riding in the cart.  I couldn’t get them to settle down in the cart.  Within three aisles we were having a Discussion.  And I had to grab Evan’s mouth to get him to stop making noise as I talked.  I had to grab Sean’s head to look him in the eyes as I talked.  Somewhere The Voice appeared and some veiled threat about, oh I don’t know, selling them here at the grocery store or maybe it was just bedtime as soon as we got home without lunch or school, and the boys settled down to annoying rambunctiousness, not obnoxious rambunctiousness. 

I nearly barked with laughter when the boys, with sweet honey voices and angel eyes, asked if we could go to Burger King for lunch as I packed the car with groceries.  Are you f-ing kidding me?!  With the way you acted, you’ll be lucky if I take you ANYWHERE in public again.

So we headed home where I could put away groceries and make lunch to the sounds of arguing, whining, antagonizing, howling.  Blissful silence reigned only while their mouths were full, and they were content.  Until I packed us in the car to go to Evan’s school.

During the ride, Sean cried in rage as he was defeated time and time again by a baby toy that would not do as he wanted.  Evan shouted out directions.  I prayed for a lightening strike.  When we got to the school, Evan decided he would take his sweet time in getting out of the car, and Sean was still inconsolable about the baby toy.  After I extracted Sean from the car with tears and all, I found Evan trying to take a chopstick to school.  One chopstick.  I took it away and threw it back into the car.  Evan preceded to hit my leg.

TIME OUT!

He stood for five minutes on the intersection of parking lot lines.  Sean was dumped in the back of the SUV to finish throwing his temper tantrum. 

After the time out was completed, I held Evan’s hand, whispering the usual mantra of school lessons, “Listen to your teacher; keep your hands to yourself; play gently with the other children.”  I carried a sullen Sean on my hip.  As usual, Sean wanted down the minute we stepped onto the curb, but instead of running ahead, he moped around until I felt like I had to drag him as Evan ran ahead to make up for his tardiness.  Evan was in his class sitting on his mat by the time Sean and I got there for me to sign Evan into his class. And then Sean let out a mighty cry when I told him it was time to go. 

So I did what I usually do, what any sane parent would do, I threw him over my shoulder and stormed out of there.  “What did you do?” called another mother from her car.  “He needs a nap!” “I don’t need a nap!  No nap!  No home!  I don’t want to go in the car!  I don’t want to go home!  I don’t want to-“  Yup, I dumped him on the parking lot to get to my keys.  I unlocked the car, nearly threw a screaming, crying Sean into his car seat, locked him into his seat, shut the door, and started humming some BS happy song in my delusional state.

Yes, he cried all the way home.  Yes, he cried as I carried him to bed.  Yes, he cried as I dumped him into bed and took off his shoes.  I shoved the binky in his mouth and the blanky in his hands and pulled the covers up.  I sped through an ABC book, ignoring the crying.  I kissed his head, said goodnight, and walked out. 

Yes, I’ve eaten half a bag of chocolate chips, and the day is only half over.

The Answer is

My mom is trying to teach Evan not to whine or throw a fit when he gets a “no” in response to his request.  (I, for the record, just send him in his room until he’s dealt with his issues.)  She tells him, “Evan, sometimes the answer is no.”

Yesterday I was dressing Sean, and he wanted to play with a tiny toy ninja that belonged to Evan.

Me: Sean, that’s Evan’s.  You’ll have to ask him.

Sean: Pease, Brother.  Pease may have ninja?

Evan: No.

Sean started to wail.

Evan: Sean, sometimes the answer is no.

The Friday Recap

1. Double check texts before you send.
2. Blame me if you must, but never criticize the Program.  The Program is good.  The Program is solid.
3. Sean thinks Kit Fisto is the perfect name for a baby.
4. It’s been way too long since we saw the inside of a church; it’ll probably be longer still before we do.
5. A pregnant woman cannot be held responsible for candy purchases for Easter baskets.
6. If I make kid friendly meals (like mac and cheese or quesadillas), they’ll eat better, but I can only do THAT for so long.
7. Budgeting is hard; I miss the inside of book stores.
8. Evan believes he’s a monkey, a daddy, a comedian, and a food critic.  I’ll accept the third one.
9. Evan is tall enough and curious enough to look into the shopping bags left on the table; he’s not getting Peeps in his basket.
10. I only have a few more weeks of a chocolate diet.  It’s not going as well as I hoped.

Sweating the Small Stuff

I may look like I roll with the punches and am cool as a cucumber, but I’m not.  Throw a few speed bumps in my way as I rush head down the path I’ve decided to take, and I will start to cuss a blue streak and murmur curses.  Or I least I did before kids.  Now it’s silent.  Like when I road rage.  Oh, I have horrible road rage.  I just have a hard time dealing with changes in MY plans.  It’s amazing I decided to have children, instead of something more cooperative like fish.

This adorable character trait is nothing new.  It has amused many people especially when crunch time comes and I’m as serene as a statuesque saint.  Halo and all.  Amazingly The Husband forgets this little quality of mine until it rears its ugly head, especially at him.

Which leads me to my Thank Me Later Thursday. 

Sure I could talk about The Husband, who decided to go back to bed as I tried to motivate and round up the troops for a day outing that I promised we would meet my parents and in-laws early.  I could thank him for parking behind me, for forgetting to get the plates on my car done in a timely matter, for not helping with any dressing, for forgetting to give someone a Christmas present and leaving it in the trunk of his car all this time.

But no, again, I direct this Thank Me Later to me.

Dear Fae,

Sure, you’re a planner, and you have to have things go a certain way or you freak out.  I need you to chill a bit on that.  Not that it isn’t cute the way you make up new curses and all, but you’re going to have an early heart attack.  When you sweat the small stuff, you end up doing something incredibly stupid.  Like texting your BFF, “I’m going to kill my husband today.  I bloody know it.”  That in and of itself isn’t stupid.  Not checking who you sent it to is.  Because the BFF didn’t get it.  The first person with a C name got it, and she’s the second person.  The first person was hardly amused by it.  In fact, I would say he really believed it, but he should have known as a cop’s daughter you would never have put plans like that in writing so that there was a premeditated plan.  No, The Husband was not amused, and you, my dear, looked like an @ss.  My advice is to shake off more little things, even when they’re piling on like bugs on a windshield, and to double check who you send sensitive text messages too.

You may Thank Me Later.

Love, Fae

Thank Me Later Thursdays are brought to you by parenting By dummies.

So this is what I get?

You know what’s hard?

Checking out cute guys in kilts.

When you’re pregnant.

When you’re holding the hand of a two year old.

When you run by later trying not to pee your pants while cursing the recreation department for putting the bathrooms so far from the playground.

You know what’s hard?

Trying not to flirt with the incredible cute cashier with a British accent.

When you’re pregnant.

When you have a four year old and two year old dancing around you and trying to pull out the moving counter for wheel chair check writers.

When your husband is waiting at the end of the line for you.

Someone is mocking me.

Bringing Home Baby . . . #2

Want to blow your kid’s world away? 

Bring home a sibling.   

Nothing changes the family dynamics like a new little brother or sister.  And everyone has heard the horror stories of the older sibling who now hates mommy and daddy because of that thing.  A friend of mine told me her son didn’t speak to her for three days.  When my baby brother was born, my grandma refused to tell me it was a boy in fear that I would turn my wrath towards her.  (I just refused to learn his name for six months or so.)  As we neared d-day of Sean, The Husband and I worried what Evan would do and tried to prepare.

First off, Evan was just under two.  Do you know that two-year-olds don’t have a very good grasp of gentle?  My first attempt of paving the way to a non-only-child-household was to buy Evan a baby doll to teach him gentle.  Evan loved Bobby and readily practiced gentle. 

Second, I bought a Big Brother Gift.  Some experts say to have the gift be from the new baby; other experts say that your elder child(ren) will know a baby didn’t buy the gift so don’t insult the child(ren) with a lie.  Seeing The Husband has a hard enough time letting Santa have all the glory, we just had the gift come from us. 

Third, I stalk piled small gifts for Evan just in case people brought only gifts for the baby.  Yeah, let’s start out an already rocky relationship with jealousy.  Lucky for us, we didn’t need one of those gifts because our friends were so generous with Evan.  The baby just got clothes; Evan got toys.  Sweet.  (I kept the gifts for birthday and Christmas.)

Fourth, we added Daddy time.  The Husband now made it a point to take Evan to the park or some small adventure every week, starting during the last trimester.  Evan was over the moon to go with just daddy.

Fifth, we made it a point to never say Evan couldn’t do something (like scream in the house during baby’s naptime) because of the baby. 

Sixth, my mom came out for three weeks to help with the adjustment of Sean.  She came in the day Sean was born, staying the night with Evan, making it a special treat.  She let him help her decorate the house for the baby’s homecoming.  She let him pick out flowers for mommy and a gift for the baby.  She spent tons of time with him during those three weeks.

I’m not sure how we managed it really, but I waited for the other shoe to drop for months, waiting for Evan to start hating the baby, start hating me, start being angry and resentful.  But it never happened.  He adored Sean.  The birth announcements were a picture of Evan holding Sean, beaming with pride.  Evan didn’t begrudge Sean any time, any toy, any baby thing. 

One day as I sat nursing Sean, Evan climbed on the couch next to me with Bobby.  He pulled up his shirt, cradled Bobby in his arms, and started nursing Bobby.  Yup, just like Mommy.  I turned to my mom.

Me: Um, what do you think?

My Mom: (Trying not to laugh too hard) We should get him a baby doll bottle.

Me: Especially before The Husband sees this.

Now we can only hope that bringing home baby #3 will be just as easy.

Friday Recap

1. I don’t like it when people express surprise that my house is clean.
2. Apparently when I’m worried and trying to think, I still pick my split ends like a fourteen year old.
3. Evan will get sick once a month, but at least he’s learning to use a bowl.
4. Nothing is more embarrassing than being pulled over with the boys in their seats and your parents in your car.
5. Ok, having your mom trying to tell the cop your dad is a police officer while you’re talking to the cop is WAY more embarrassing.
6. Sean has decided he’s ready to move up to R movies during DVD time.
7. Stupid third trimester is making me nap and then I don’t have any time to read my favorite blogs.
8. Apparently several moms with preschool children don’t go out on date nights with their husbands; I thought it was just me.
9. My OB/GYN is starting to encourage us about picking out a name.
10. My father in law still annoys the hell out of me, but at least the feeling’s mutual.

To cut or not to cut

(Note: This isn’t meant to change any one’s mind.  I think this issue is personal.  I really don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer.  This is just to say what happened in our family and why we decided what we did. )

We really believed Evan would be a girl.  The Husband was sure.  My mom was sure.  Heck, even my dad dreamed of a baby girl.  But somewhere in the third trimester, The Husband thought it would be prudent if we discussed circumcision.  Don’t you hate when your husband is right?

I had a lot of information under my belt.  I knew the religious, social, and cultural reasons for circumcision.  I even had to research the historical beginnings for several papers.  (In case you’re wondering, it began in ancient Egypt for boys at 12 to prove they bled into manhood like girls bled into womanhood.)  I even listened for several, several, several hours to a guy I knew who was against the whole thing.  He personally felt that because of his that his sex wasn’t nearly as good, but I’ll guarantee you that it didn’t ruin his sex life one bit.  In my sexpert research, many claimed that an uncircumcised man enjoyed sex better and so did his partner.  Unfortunately any girls I knew who could give me a personal account used condoms, which defeated the point.

The Husband had his own experiences.  He knew a guy who wasn’t circumcised.  After being married for a couple years, his wife made him get a circumcision because she thought his penis was gross.  It’s a painful procedure that lays a guy up longer than a vasectomy.  The sick part was his wife still divorced him less than a year after the procedure.

But I agreed that we should research it all.  We dove into it.  I taught The Husband how to search for qualified research.  For every article we found that supported circumcision, we found another against it.  Every time we decided we wouldn’t do it, we found evidence to change our mind.

The Husband: Well, read this one.

Me:  Hmm.  Yeah, but read this one.

The Husband: Hmmm. 

Me: Would you be worried if he didn’t look like you?

The Husband: No, not all.  But what if girls don’t want to get near him because of it?

Me: Do we want him around girls that would take issue with his penis? 

The Husband: No.  You’re right we don’t.

Me: This article says the foreskin is important for lubrication.

The Husband:  And this article says that circumcised men have a slightly lower chance of STDS.

Me: This sucks.

The Husband: Yes.  It does.

By the next OB/GYN appointment, we were both confused and still wondering what to do. 

The Doc: So, any questions?

The Husband: Actually, we have one.

The Doc: (light up since we’re probably the only first time parents without questions) Yes?

The Husband: Fae and I have been debating circumcision, but everything we find just negates everything else.  We can’t see the difference.  What’s your opinion?

The Doc: Hmmm.  (He took a minute.)  It’s all a personal choice.  I don’t want to sway you.  But if you’re unsure, then the medical evidence does support that a male with a circumcised penis has a slightly less chance of getting an STD.  It’s so slight that if you didn’t want your son circumcised, I wouldn’t worry about it.  But if you wanted the extra evidence to make a decision, that’s the medical stance.

The Husband and I: Thank you.

As we left in the car, The Husband and I agreed that a slight less chance of STD was better than none.  Of course, my mom weighed in, saying she got my brothers circumcised because she didn’t know how she was going to teach and be sure a ten-year-old’s penis was clean.

So when Evan was born and in the hospital, I got to know the staff and rooms very well.  Including nursing in the circumcision room, which is scary with all its boards and straps.  I asked the nurses, who assured me that the babies were given pain medication, that the straps were tight but not uncomfortable, that the procedure was quick and nearly painless after the meds.  I was reassured.  Except Evan didn’t get his done in the hospital because of his meds.  I had to take him to the doctor’s office a few days after they took out his IV.

My mom and I arrived at the OB/GYN with Evan on a Friday for an appointment right before lunch.  I helped get Evan ready, and then they shooed me out of the room to wait with my mom.  A few minutes later the nurse came back with a screaming Evan.  A screaming, hurt Evan.  What did I do?  I let them hurt my baby!  I grabbed Evan from the nurse’s arms and started crying too.  My mom started crying because I was crying.

The nurse: Didn’t you give him any pain medication?

That woman is only alive today because I had Evan in my arms.  My mom and I shot her nasty looks.

My Mom: Well, it would have been nice if someone told a first time mom what she was suppose to do.

The nurse wisely and quickly left the room.  I cried and cried.

My Mom: Fae, you have to stop crying.  Evan won’t stop until you do.  We’ll go to the drug store, and I’ll run get him some Tylenol, and you can nurse him.  He’ll feel better with a full stomach.  It’ll be fine.  It’s over.

I nodded and eventually was able to compose myself.  We left, got the pain medication, and fed Evan in the parking lot.  My mom bought us a bag of chocolates because we needed it.

By the end of the weekend, I was sure I ruined Evan’s penis.  Monday I called in a panic because it was still bleeding a little.  The doctor insisted I came in and retaught me how to clean Evan up and assured me I was doing everything right.

Fast forward to Sean.  You would think I would have been against circumcision for the rest of my boys, right?  I honestly had forgotten all about Evan’s ordeal when Sean was born and I was asked what I wanted.  All I remembered was Evan had his for a medical reason, and it still worked for me.  They whisked Sean away and returned him 15 minutes later, a little fussy and wanting to eat.  Done.

The funny thing is Evan has a partial circ, and Sean has a full one.  And I’m sure I can prove that guy in college wrong about the pain and “flashbacks” that he was sure happened to many men.  Evan’s experience was traumatic, but the kid tugs on his penis all the time.  I can’t let him go nude or his hands are on his penis.  I don’t think he’ll have a hard time at all with the enjoyment of his penis.

So with this one, we’ll probably cut again.  

For parents who are about to make this decision, I encourage you to make an informed decision, whichever way that takes you.  Anyone want to add why they did or did not?