Driving Miss Daisy.....Sort Of

I have become that driver. You know the one I'm talking about: That driver. The one you get stuck behind when you have somewhere to go; the one who drives the speed limit, maybe even a little bit under; the one with a line of cars behind it on a single lane road; the one where all you see is the top of a head behind the wheel. Well, that's me now. I am coming clean. You can curse, yell, scream, shake your fist at me in my rear view mirror as much as you like, I'm not moving any faster.

What brought on this change? I mean, I used to be the girl who was so leaden on the accelerator pedal that I thought I was bionic in my right foot. I was the girl who could bust out the triple digits on the speedometer on I-95 and still sing all the words to "Hungry Like The Wolf" without missing a beat. Don't get me wrong, I can still never miss a beat to any Duran Duran tune, but these days I'm obeying the speed limit, using turn signals, and pissing off whoever is behind me, both with my bumper stickers and with my overly cautious driving.

So again, you may ask why. Not so obvious answer: I can't afford to pay a speeding ticket. Obvious answer: My kids are in the back seat. More obvious answer: Everyone else on the road is a jackass who could ram into us at any moment.

Seriously, every day I see an accident and they are all caused by an idiot being an asshat behind the wheel. My husband is one of these asshats. Now mind you, when he's got me and the kids in the car, he is a decent driver, but when he's alone he thinks he is Vin Diesel from "The Fast and the Furious" movies. Sure he's got the "Tuner Car" as those who soup up their cars to look and sound like spaceships say, but he doesn't have the Stunt Driver For the Movies experience needed to not kill yourself.




When he's late coming home from work (and his fingers are apparently broken since he hasn't called to let me know), my first thought is that his car has been reduced to pieces no bigger than a penny and he has gone to meet the Flying Spaghetti Monster in his noodly sauce laden ethereal palace.

So I've gone to the opposite extreme. I am sure the people passing my car expect to see an ancient driver who is a veteran of the Civil War, but much to their surprise, they are met with an aging red haired tattooed goth girl singing Duran Duran to her two kids in the back seat.

The fact of the matter is, I'm not going to drive like an idiot......anymore. Sure, I admit I used to, but I also used to go to bed at seven in the morning because I had been up all night partying at a club. Life is different now. I've got two extremely important pieces of cargo in the back seat who are worth more than any of Tutankhamen's priceless artifacts are worth. They're worth more than the Universe is infinite and if it takes me an extra five minutes to get down the road, then so be it.

So if you are stuck behind a black 2004 Toyota Corolla with an Obama sticker and Darwin fish on it, don't curse me out, shake your fist at me in the rearview, and ride up on my back bumper. Instead, pop in some "Hungry Like The Wolf", settle into the driver's seat, and relax. You'll get where you have to go, maybe five minutes later than you wanted to, but you'll get there safely and with Duran Duran in your head. You can't get any better than that.

Your 6 Week Check-Up

Well, it has been a little over 6 weeks since I officially became a "Mother of Two" and I have to say that it hasn't been as bad as I thought it was going to be. Granted, I find myself being more neurotic with Dorian than I was with Dante, which is odd since everyone tells me you are more lax with subsequent children, but in my case I am exactly the opposite. I am constantly checking to see if he is breathing, questioning every movement, every twitch, every sound, and every decision I am making.

I am an idiot.

I have to say that I am loving having a new baby. I love the baby smell, the baby skin, the baby babyness. I don't even mind really that since I am exclusively nursing, I am up every 2 or so hours during the night. But, my body has become acclimated to the "No Sleep" factor. I also kind of feel like a Holstein Cow, constantly giving milk, and incidentally my boobs are starting to look like cow udders. I swear I think I either tripped over one of them the other day or zipped a nipple up accidentaly up in my pants. I'm not winning any "Perfect Breasts" contest anytime soon, and I'm figuring that my days of having nice full boobs have moved over to allow for me to look like some African tribeswoman from the pages of National Geographic.

Actually, I think their boobs look better than mine. *sigh*

The biggest question I have been getting since Dorian was born is "How is Dante handling it?" and I have to say that he is doing spectacularly. Sure, he has had his moments of regression (taking up to sleeping with the "woo-woo" again) but he hasn't tried to kill the baby, or punch the baby, or threaten to throw the baby out the window (something I have been told I did when my baby brother entered my life). I am sure that as Dorian gets older and becomes more "human", for lack of a better term, then the rivalries will begin. Especially when Dorian decides to play with Lightning McQueen or Grave Digger. But I guess I will cross those bridges when I come to them.

In an uncharacteristic turn of events, I am so wrapped up in my kids and my mom/wife/superhero duties that I am completely oblivious as to what is going on in the world. I had no idea that FAUX News blowhard Glenn Beck held a "civil rights" rally today in DC, ironically enough on the anniversary of the famous Martin Luther King,Jr. "I Have a Dream" speech. I have to say that, pacifist or not, if MLK were alive to day, he'd most definitely slap Glennie in the face for the insult. I unfortunately have no snarky comments because I am completely uninformed of the facts other that Douchebag Beck seems to think that "going back to god" should fix everything in this country because that's what the "Founding Fathers intended".

Sometime I think I have to invoke Poe's Law, but alas I can't. These people are this ignorant.

But enough about idiots, this is a happy blog about how happy I am about my new little guy and my big guy. There will be plenty of time to wax philosophic and spout expletives about the Tea Baggers, but right now, I'm hearing some fussing on the monitor and my udders are tingling.

It's milkin' time!

Two Kids Are Better Than One.......Maybe-ish.

As I approach the month marker that Dorian (aka Mr. Billy Reuben) has entered our world, I have to say that it's not as hard or as bad as I thought it was going to be. Granted, we all have our "Holy shit, what did I just get myself into again, but for the most part it's been awesome". That being said, I would like to list a few pros and cons regarding siblings, namely siblings that are exacly 4 years, 2 days apart.
Pros:
Dante is 4 years old. He is able to help me when I drop something. He is a great "diapering assistant" when we've got projectile poopy. He is self sufficient to a point that I can say, "Go wash up for dinner while I do this" and he does.
I only have to concern myself with one child in diapers. Which is plenty. I can only imagine the financial and smelly burden on folks with two kids in diapers at once.
Dante sleeps all night, so I only have to concern myself with one screaming kiddo at 2 am.
I can send Randy and Dante out for a "guys day" and get some sort of "me" time when the baby naps.
Cons:
I have forgotten pretty much everything and anything having to do with having a baby. I am so nervous and flustered and I question everything I am doing. Did Dante sleep this much? Is Dorian getting enough to eat? Is Dorian sick? Why is he crying? Should his poop look like that? Why is he spitting up? Does he have acid reflux? Is that a tumor on his head? Where is the fontanelle? Is it normal for him to move like that? Why isn't he walking yet? Is he blind? Is he deaf? When will he be able to recognize me? Should he sleep on his back even though he's more comfortable on his stomach? Is he breathing? Is he dead? What about SIDS? Should his tongue stick out like that? Why are his legs bowlegged? Why won't he try to stand? Did Dante do this? Did Dante do that when he was a baby?
Seriously, I am driving myself crazy.

The Church of Santa Claus

I was infuriated...no wait, inspired (yea, that's it) to write this post after reading Hemant Mehta's post, Too Soon to Learn About Santa Claus, over at his awesome Friendly Atheist site.
Since becoming a parent, I have discovered a whole "movement" of people who believe that telling your child about Santa Claus is akin to lying to them and, in essence, is a horrible thing to do. They believe that you should tell your child the honest truth about where the presents come from so they know that there is no such thing as being rewarded for gifts and that they work hard to give them said gift. It is also believed that children will grow up not resenting their parents for "lying" to them about Santa.
I hate this notion. Childhood is about harvesting the imagination, nurturing it, and letting grow. Telling stories about a magical being that comes at night and delivers presents to everyone all over the world is not lying to them. It gives children a sense of wonder and magic and goodness. They have a whole lifetime of being cynical, cranky, old people. Giving them a few years with Santa Claus isn't going to kill them. Santa is just a part of childhood, like peeing in your pants, skinned knees, your first kiss, and your first heartbreak.
On top of this, as an Atheist family, we get so much flack from fellow Atheists (and religious people alike) because we're the family with Christmas decorations and Santa, like we're supposed to NOT have any sort of imagination and make believe in our lives because we don't believe in god, gods, or any sort of creative force. No, we should celebrate Math Day or Rational Thinking Day instead. Sure, those could be interesting, but tell me what 4 year old would rather spend a day talking about integers and fractions instead of making wishes and lists for a magical fat man who promises treats and goodies for all the good little boys and girls?
We don't ascribe any religious significance to Santa and Christmas, and no one ever told me that growing up and celebrating a non-religious Christmas was "atheist illegal" why start now? And I never resented my parents for "lying" to me about Santa. What's the harm in letting your children BE CHILDREN?
No one has ever died in the name of Santa. There's no dogma in Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, Harry Potter, Star Wars Universe (wait...there may be some weird pseudo/religious dogma-ish thingie there with The Force and the whole Medichlorons or whatever they're called hoodads), but I digress. There is a huge difference, at least in my opinion, in telling your children that Santa Claus resides at the North Pole with elves and makes toys and telling them that there is an omnipotent "creator" in the sky waiting to pass judgement and smite you down if you don't cater to his every whim and follow certain "rules" written in a book by primitive desert people some two thousand years ago.
BIG DIFFERENCE.
Santa doesn't pass legislation prohibiting same-sex couples to marry. Santa doesn't pull a trigger on a sniper rifle outside of an abortion clinic. Santa doesn't blow up buildings with airplanes. Santa doesn't chop off limbs with machetes. Santa doesn't make women subservient by covering them from head to toe. Santa doesn't carry "god hates fags" posters. Santa doesn't diddle little boys for decades and then have Mrs. Claus over at the North Pole try and cover it up and then say it was all a "misunderstanding" and "exaggeration". Santa doesn't do any of this bullshit! He brings presents and is fat and jolly!!!
And true, while I have highlighted some of the more "icky" aspects of dogma and religion, I know that those things aren't representative of different faiths people choose to follow. But, punch me in the face if they're not slightly becoming the "norm" in our society, eh?
So what's wrong with a little magic and pretend? Dante has an imaginary Balverine friend who comes to visit. (Note: A Balverine is a wolfman-like creature from the Fable 2 video game and looks something like this:but the Balverine is a Friend Balverine and doesn't want to eat us).
Anyhow, do I quash my kid's imagination and tell him he's talking to air? Do I tell him he's not, in fact, Captain Jack Sparrow and the bathtub is not The Black Pearl? Do I tell him that we are not actually sword fighting with chop sticks and are not Medieval Knights?
What do you think I do?