Can I sue the company that makes The Pill? Probably not.

SOOOoooo...,
Looks like it's about to be ROUND 2 up in here.
My husband and his unstoppable bionic sperm pulled a fast one on me, once again.
After he snuck that first baby in there, I was like OKAY, YA GOT ME. But after all that being pregnant jazz was over and done with, he says to me, "Let's have Irish twins!"
I grabbed him by the lapels and yelled, NOT TODAY, SATAN. I WILL BE DAMNED IF I LET YOU KNOCK ME UP AGAIN, I AM NOT PLAYIN WIT'CHOO. And I marched straight to the doctor's office and got on the Pill, like expeditiously. I dug a moat around my uterus, and I even decorated the perimeter with the decapitated heads of my enemies just to send a message to his sperm that THIS PLACE IS CURSED AND THEY SHOULD TURN AROUND IMMEDIATELY. But his little gangster sperms were relentlessly testing my defenses for a weak spot, and once they found it, they raped it for all it was worth, and here I sit, PREGNANT AGAIN.

But, let me clarify: it's not that I didn't want to have another kid, I do. I just didn't want to have the second one RIGHT NOW. Because, duuuuuuude, I can't even fathom the idea of being pregnant ALL OVER AGAIN. Being the incubator for a little human is THE most metal thing one can do with one's body parts. Forget about tattoos and piercings and whatever the cool kids are doing to look tough. Whenever I see a pregnant lady walking down the street I think,"oh man, she's hardcore." 

Aaaaand I work retail. Walking 'round and 'round for 8 hours every day with my stomach skin stretched tightly over a basketball is kind of EXCRUCIATING.

Buuuuuut, today i got a glimpse into the future while watching Brandon frolic in the grass with other babies and toddlers. And I fully admit, it warmed my cold, icy heart. If today was any indication of the joys/horrors/highs/lows/nougat middles of raising TWO kids, we might make it out alive. Or not.

Whatever, LETS DO IT.

And now, a poem that doesn't rhyme: Brandon, you are the Riggs to my Murtaugh

Even when you're screaming like a banshee, deep into the night, and probably waking up the neighbors,

You are the Riggs to my Murtaugh 

Even when you bite the holy living shit out of my nipple while nursing,

Even when you blindly reach down to grab your poop-covered junk while I'm changing your diaper,

Even though I constantly have to bend at the waist while holding an unevenly distributed 20+ pounds (YOU),

You are the Riggs to my Murtaugh 

Murtaugh was only days away from retirement, when along came Riggs, who rekindled that dying flame under Murtaugh's ass.

Murtaugh was too old for this shit, you see. But Riggs did not care.

Murtaugh just wanted to chill with his morning coffee and stare into space, but Riggs always had other plans:

What kind of mischief can i get us into? 

How many people will I kill today?

I wonder how reckless I can be with both of our lives this week?

These were just some of the questions Riggs would ask himself everyday.

And Murtaugh did what he could to keep his partner from getting himself killed, like all the damn time. And even though Riggs's shenanigans took years off of Murtaugh's life, he was always down for his homey. No matter what.

As I too, am down for you, Brandon. No matter what.

Because you,

Are the Riggs to my Murtaugh 

cooking, cleaning, telekinesis

I like to listen to old broadcasts of patrice o'neal on opie & anthony as i tidy up my dusty house. BUT, they employ heavy use of the entire curse word RAINBOW, and i don't want Brandon's first word to be 'cunt'.
So i'll listen to my wu-tang channel on pandora instead. Because i'd rather his first word be 'bitches'.

With all this round-the-clock baby holding whilst doing a plethora of OTHER jazz, never have i wished harder for telekinetic powers. Or a freakish but capable third arm to increase my efficiency by a respectable 25 percent. Especially with THIS baby, he does NOT  want to be put down. like EVER.

so i hold him with one hand and fold laundry with the other while we watch another movie on netflix. today's movie will be beverly hills cop because i feel it's important for Brandon to know what eddie murphy WAS in comparison to what he BECAME.

then i hold him with one hand while i whip up a dope meal for two before my huuuusband gets home from work. i feel it's important for him to behold the staggering amount of things i get done with one hand literally tied behind my back.
BEHOLD, SON.

Sleep regression: I stab at thee

And we were on such a good roll, too.

oh my god, go away, sleep regression. I didn’t even know you were a thing until last week, and now you're shaking my confidence in my ability to ACTUALLY BE A PARENT. you're making me want to throw myself through a closed 3rd story window. be gone, sleep regression.

 Since his grand entry into our material plane, Brandon has slept in the bed with my husband and I. Despite advice to the contrary by his pediatrician, I decided to walk on the wild side and co-sleep with my baby. Tangent alert: I didn't realize what an immediate threat my husband's habit of throwing bows in his sleep presented to Brandon's health (dude, could you not elbow our baby), but I also underestimated my own motherly instincts for detecting and deflecting those threats. Even in my sleep. I guess I'm just a bad ass momma-bear like that. One night, my husband was up to his old sleeping antics, probably dreaming about fighting crime or whatever, and threw an elbow that nearly connected with Brandon's head. Something compelled me to wake up a moment before this catastrophe almost happened, and I caught his elbow in my palm an instant before it made contact. I was like Neo stopping the bullets. Elbow my kid? Not on my watch, my dude. This scenario hasn't happened since. Everybody gets one. 

After Brandon hit four months old, I wondered if now was the time to start transitioning him into sleeping in his crib. Not entirely for his sake, but also for mine. Up until this point, Brandon slept directly on top of me and it was really starting to do a number on my back. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hack it as a borderline cripple trying to stankylegg my way out of bed every morning. And since I breastfeed, nothing is easier than rolling over and popping a boob in his screaming maw in the middle of the night so we can ALL get back sleep. Anyway, he was a textbook awesome baby about the whole thing, it took three days for him to get use to sleeping in his crib without getting all pissed off, just like babycenter.com said he would. That third night after he went straight to sleep without protest, i jogged around my crib humming the theme from Rocky, i was like YO I GOT THIS MOTHERING GAME ON LOCK, SON. You could set your watch to his napping & sleeping routine, because he was sleeping like a goddamned CHAMPION.

Then one day.... He was like screw a nap, MOM.
I was like, alrighty...
Then that night, he was like, SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK. All night long. And into the next morning.
I was like, SERIOUSLY DUDE WHOSE BABY IS THIS?

Wash, rinse, repeat.

After the third night of his not-sleeping shenanigans, I jumped on the internets at 3 in the AM, trying to figure out what in god's holy name was wrong with my kid. The internet was like, sounds like sleep regression to me, yo.

Sleep regression is a thing that exists, no one told me about it, it is EXCRUCIATING, and all you can do is strap yourself in and ride it out until your kid snaps back to normal.

In other words, sleep regression is the Keyser Soze of baby phenomena. It shows up out of nowhere, messes your whole world up, and then suddenly POOF! It's gone...