Category Archives: TMI? Says who!


NOOO!! Don't make me do it!!


With everyone buzzing about the Oscars tonight, I have a confession to make. I could give a chocotini who wins what. I’m a woman. I have a pulse. So hellz yeah I’m vaguely interested in what everyone’s wearing. But more than anything, I wonder—glitz and glam aside—how do all the beautiful peeps feel in their clothes. Like the bourgeouis dress me up clothes, they can’t be comfy, right?

Granted, the bp’s have much better duds, much better bods, and are much more poised than your aver-ahhhge hausfrau who has to forage for dresses at suburban Macy’s (gasp!). Pretty sure they don’t pretend running up stairs to fetch babies out of cribs constitutes cardio. (The mystery of the muffin top, revealed.)

To me? Getting dressed up is savage. It’s cruelty of the worst kind. It’s a crime against women perpetuated at every wedding, cocktail party, fundraiser, bar mitzvah, and work party. It doesn’t discriminate. If you’re a woman, you suffer. Period.

Seriously? Tell me there is anything worse than getting dressed up when you’re a woman.

I’m wai-ting.

You’ve got nothin’, right?

That’s what I thought.

Of course we feel good when we’re all gussied up, because looking good always feels good. It’s a confidence boost to know you’re looking your best and hey, having people say it out loud makes it all the better. And when People mag says it, well hot damn, you really are a bp. (But so far, despite being a loyal subscriber and avid reader, I’ve not received such accolades. I suppose since being a famous bp is looking unlikely, the only way I might make Peep is if I have like a dozen more kids and parade them on reality tv. Ehhh. I’m thinking no, my hair just can’t take those harsh extensions.)

See, if you’re like me at a social event, the glow of pretending I’m walking the red carpet wears off by appetizers and by then? I’m crying inside. Dying inside. 1,000 tiny muffin top deaths.

I’m hobbling to the ladies room hoping I don’t fall flat on my arse, or worse, my face. The entire time I’m waffling about when I should dare “powder my nose” because once I hit the loo, I’m not entirely sure I can put myself back together again. Somewhere between my bladder going numb and fearing I won’t be able to speed wobble in heels fast enough to get to said lavatory, I break down. For me, that’s after one drink. You read that right, one. Uno. A drink. One drink. (Thank youuuuuuuuuuu, labor and delivery!) Labor and delivery, 3. Muffintopmommy, ZE-RO. (It’s a damn good thing there’s a cute prize at the end of labor and delivery!) That’s right, I said it. And the Oscar for World’s Smallest and Weakest Bladder goes to….muffintopmommy!

WWBD? What would Brangelina do? Does Brangelina stress about creeping to the toilette? Just because you’re rich and faboo, doesn’t mean that you can ignore when nature comes a calling. But when it seems like all eyes are you on all the time, when do you go? How do you discreetly sashay from your seat to the lav in a jam-packed, televised event? And when you make it to the potty in all your fabulousity, who else is in there and what’s the chatter about? Do you think Angie is shifting her weight, crossing her legs, and tapping her foot praying Susan Sarandon hurries the hell up and gets out of the stall? Do you think she’s bitching about the line and grousing about her uncomfy Stuart Weitzman’s to Sarah Jessica and Mo’nique?

Because I know when I’m out, there’s no way I’m alone in all this. Even the skinny girls are kvetching in the bathroom about their pain and suffering, and you know they don’t have on half the under-ammo-cammo I’ve got going on. And while I’ve never walked in anyone else’s shoes, don’t stilts support 100 pounds much easier than (more than that, okay, just…. more than that!). I’m no physicist so that could be erroneous information. But still!

Regardless of size and shape though, we women all bear the dress up burden. I defy you to prove anyone–famous or not— really feels comfortable in high heels, dresses that bind and undergarments that truthfully, I think—nay, I know, the CIA could use to interrogate terrorists. Forget the whole waterboarding debate. You want a guy to talk? Stuff him like a sausage into casing with female muffin top reducing undergarments, shove him into two inch heels, force him to stand, smile and make idle small talk for hours on end while plying him with miniature foodstuffs and booze, reduce his bladder capacity and lengthen the men’s room lines, and…and wait…and then? Wait some more. Bitch’ll be crying like a school girl before the dessert cart is wheeled out. Oh, and do it in a cold climate, because in addition to the aforementioned flaws, bear in mind that most of women’s fancy schmance attire is not at all warm. (Hello, sleeveless dresses in winter in New England? What about that is not torture?)

You want Osama bin Laden? Just borrow some of my undergarments and shoes. I can picture it now…..

CIA OPERATIVE: “I’m going to put you in this support garment and these heels, and YOU WILL tell me everything you know!

BAD TERRORIST GUY: “No! No! No! I know what that’s about. You did it to my friend from the training camp! You will not do it to me. I’ll talk! I’ll talk. I’ll taaaaaallllkkkk!”

Sorry, but the Feds are overlooking some very valuable tools they readily have at their disposal. As a proud American, I’m ready and willing to answer the call to duty by emptying out my closet on a moment’s notice to help secure our nation.

I am that selfless. Yes, yes I am.

(Do you think Peep would interview me about my heroic plan to protect the nation?)

Either way, CIA, you know this plan is bitchin’. Cawl me. I’m in the book!



Filed under OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!


Dorothy, this ain't Kansas. But wait, is this big ass tree going to keep me from Facebooking?

This has to be payback. You know, for my letter to the weathernerd last month. (Click here if you missed it–it wasn’t, um, complimentary.)

Well, weathernerd struck again, and this time? Oh, he brought his A game, the rat bastard.

So, what I heard him say on the forecast yesterday morning was something like this, “Blah blah, a few inches of rain, a few inches of snow, blabbity blabbity, look at my FANCY map.” Insert cheesy knowing grin, clear throat for good measure and…..TADA!

So I’m minding my own biz last night, crafting a new blog post, Facebooking (Where I joked about building an ark and escaping with some smut mags and booze on the muffintopmommy page– but son of a bitch, there just wasn’t enough time! I swear Noah had a serious head’s up.), twittering, and enjoying me some Olympic figure skating when….BOOM!  The windows start shaking, wicked rain beats the house at a 90 degree angle, and the lights start flickering. I mean, it sounds all kinds of freaky like I’ve never heard it before. If I had been sitting in Kansas and not New Hampshire, I’m pretty sure I would have sprinted for the basement. (Maybe…if I were a little faster. And…if the basement had adult seating. And…if my arse wasn’t glued to the leather loveseat like a hungry college boy to a free buffet.)

The lights flicker again, and the hubs and I share a knowing look (and reflexively bolt to the thermostat and jack the heat up) and sigh, all “What what?” because, for once, it’s warm out. (And by warm I mean, like in the 30’s at night in New Hampshire in Februrary…a few more degrees and I’m totally rocking happy hour on the deck in some fleece.)

Hubs heads to bed, smart enough to realize it might be a long night. I press on with my regularly scheduled activties. Sure enough, part way through my blog post, right after souless, skimpy Cleopatra’s skating routine, the house goes completely dark. I’ve only the glow of my no longer connected to the internet laptop (so long, mommy’s playdate) and the flashlight my brilliant husband left by my side to guide me. 

“Seriously!?” I shout to no one.

See, usually this nonsense happens when it’s like 3 degrees out and there’s a vicious ice storm that weighs down the trees, which knock down the power wires, which….render us all Little House on the Prairie, minus the coping skills and that crafty Charles. Last time Mother Nature showed us who’s boss it was December of 2008. Eight months pregnant, with a 3 year old, a not yet two year old, no power, no heat and no cell connection—no, it did not make for a pretty scene. Hubs thought he saved the day by booking a room for us at a local well known chain hotel so once he got home from work, we blasted five miles over there practically crying for a hot shower. We pull up, and the hotel is completely shrouded in darkness.

“And how exactly does this help me?” I screech.

Hell hath no fury like an 8 month hungry, dirty, caffeine and booze deprived pregnant lady. I told the hotel that they– and their 1-800 schmucks down in Alabama or wherever we called (somewhere warm, damnit, I know it was somewhere warm) to make our FAUX reservation of a room with light and heat– could bite my back fat because I could go back to my own dark house and sleep for free, bitches!  After setting hotel chain straight, things went decidedly downhill as there was not a hotel room to be found in all of southern New Hampshire. For real. From there to the state border and beyond, Seriously? Mary and Joseph might have had an easier time finding a place to squat for the night. Okay, maybe not. (But ridic or not, in a moment of woe is me pity party, the thought did cross my mind. I know, what a whiny bag.) I realized while we sat smugly on our hotel rez all day, others in the area booked reservations at hotels that actually HAD power. None of our friends had power, our nearest relative was 40 minutes away and had no power, and, the highlight of an already fantastic day…. one year old booted up his Mickey D’s dinner all over me. Yup. Is there anything hotter than a puke covered, unshowered,  8 month pregnant woman waddling out of Mickey D’s?

Mother Nature broke me that night. I admit it. When we drove out of Mickey D’s with no place to stay, I started to cry. A little, tiny bit. Just as I hit rock bottom, the phone rang, and it was our in law’s saying they just got their power back. Phew! Who but family would take in a motley crew of pukers and dirty birds?

So, here I sit, over a year later. It’s been over twenty four hours, and still no power at home. It’s not freezing. I’m puke free. I’m not pregnant and exhausted. Yes, downed trees impede travel and progress all over my town. Something is hanging from the side of my roof and a section of picket fence litters my yard. 

 I’ve even seen a few huge pines on people’s homes. So it doesn’t really seem that big a deal that I got woken up by 2 year old last night, complaining it was “dark” because his night light was out. (And btw, how can the “dark” wake my kids? What about that makes any sense?)  Weekend plans had to get shuffled around. Stuff will get patched up. Life goes on. But livin’ on the Prairie ain’t easy……so we had to escape for warmer, brighter digs…with free internet and unlimited refills. And while we appreciate that there’s room in the inn again, I realize  as much as I rant about it, I miss the frat house already!


Filed under got what I ne-ed, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, TMI? Says who!


*Hello muffintoppers! After I published my lovely, heartfelt poem the other day, some of you asked about the toilet paper rage?rant?grousing? from the poem. About three months ago, I first published this post. There are some similar themes as the poem, but it goes into….greater detail about my plight. Since many of you weren’t rocking the muffin top with us here at muffintopmommy a few months ago, I thought it was worth a second run….to ,um, help put things in perspective for the newer readers! If you’ve been following the blog since pre toilet paper roll rage, there will be a brand new post by the end of the week. Keep on reading and spreading the word of the muffin top!

Oh! And don’t forget to check out muffintopmommy on Facebook.


Someone wake me up. Surely, this must be a dream?

Tell me I don’t live with a 40 year old adult who can’t put a new toilet paper roll on the hanger thingy?


Before we go any further, disclaimer… (Read: I’m about to bash the hubs just a teeny bit, and because I feel just a wee bit guilty I’m broadcasting it on the world wide web, I’m going to put down some nice stuff about him. And, if he wants to respond in kind, he can feel free to start his own blog, OR make amends for his transgression immediately!)

But I digress….I’m the first to admit I’m very fortunate to have the husband I do. Not only does he put up with my constant sassing and overall smartassishness, he tells me I look great even when I know sometimes THAT ain’t true. Better yet, he actually wields a mop. He even—without prompting, puts the toilet seat down. Does he bring me flowers? No, not often. He really doesn’t. But, he does bring me 12 packs, and truthfully, that’s because he gets it—that’s what makes mummy happy. So,yes! Yes! It’s true. The romance IS alive. ‘Nuf said.

But for the love of God in heaven above, why can’t the boy put a toilet paper roll on the hanger thingy? Tell me I’m imagining that. Please.


It’s not hard. (Please see exhibit A.) It’s not even one of the tricky ones built into the wall. You don’t have to exert even a sliver of effort pushing it to the one side and wait for it to spring back. You merely plop it on the hook thingamabob and done! It takes, I dunno, a second? Two if you’re in major slow mo?

I just don’t get it. I buy the toilet paper. I bring it home. I put extra rolls under the sink. It just needs to travel from under the sink to the hanger which is all of a foot away. Perhaps I should draw a map?

I know you’re not supposed to sweat the small stuff, blabbity blah blah blah. I know it. I know there are far greater transgressions in the world. But this is my world at the moment. Besides, you do the math. I have three little sons so I’m pretty outnumbered around here, and let’s face it, they’re going to be taking their potty cues from daddy. Three boys + one man – basic bathroom etiquette = one jacked up mama bear holding a gazillion empty toilet paper rolls forever and ever and ever! And ever.

After a long, exhausting Thanksgiving that included one family trip to the emergency room (not from my cooking, but thanks for your concern), having houseguests afoot and running to and fro serving food and schlepping drinks all day, I ran into the toilette to take a few moments to tinkle and this is what I find?

For whatever reason, at that moment, on that day, at that time, when all I wanted was 20 seconds to have a minute of quiet time to do the most basic of bathroom biz, I was enraged that, in the words of the great Elaine Benis, there was not a “square to spare”! Because really? That’s just a big FU! Am I right?

Doesn’t everyone, besides someone at huge rager of a college party, deserve a few squares? (Come on, you walk into that situation you know it’s every man… I mean, woman, for herself so no bellyaching. If it’s a good enough party you shouldn’t care if you have to drip dry anyway!)

Even prisoners get toilet paper.

So I sat there stewing for a minute. It was time for action.

I stomped into the family room and held up the evidence at hand.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I wailed, thrusting the sad, little empty roll in the air.

At which point, my husband looked at my brother, and they exchanged a knowing look. And then, they laughed.

Way too loud. And for way too long.

I stormed off, knowing I had lost the battle.

But some time, some day, I know I’ll hear a pleading call from the el bano, and then? Victory will be mine!


Filed under Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!


Okay, so listen, before we jump into my super romantic poem, if there are ANY fellas in the muffintopmommy house today (Be not afraid! You are totally welcome along with women with flat tummies. I’m a lover, not a hater. We are the world.)…what I say in the poem reflects only the opinions of ONE sassy woman who may be prone to eschew certain societal romantic overtures. (Unless done randomly and without prompting!) What? I am not a pain in the ass! Whatever, it ain’t worth getting into here. Just know, not every woman shares my opinion on roses and gifts for Valentine’s Day. It is up to YOU to figure out what makes your woman tick—so, good luck with that! These are just the romantic ramblings (!) of one random, red rose hating, woman. So, unless your name rhymes with trick or pick or thick, take the poem with a grain of salt and in the spirit in which it was intended! Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! (Just wanted to publish a few days early in the hopes my sweets has time to meet my demands. I mean, polite requests. I mean, unsolicited, loving overtures. I mean. Um. Never mind.)

NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOO. Just, NO!!!!!!

Roses are red.
Violets are not.
Bringing me flowers on V Day
Just ain’t that hot.
Lemme sleep in,
Take the kids at witching hour.
Bring me some gin.
But keep yo damn flower!
A sweater, a scarf, even a purse I can do.
Of course, you know me likie shoes, too.
And don’t spend 8 grand on some huge sappy card,
Just say I love you–don’t make it that hard.
Save your cashola to feed the muffin top.
Some seafood or steak?
But please , no lamb chops. (BAA!)
If you show with even one stinking rose,
I swear to God I’m gonna break your nose.
Oy, do you know the mark up on V Day?
And seriously, could it be any more cliche?
If you really want me to swoon?
Bring me a 12 pack some random day in June!
The only “Buds” I wanna see from my man?
Come in a lovely glass bottle or can.
Oh, don’t be afraid–I’m not starting a fight.
You always *mostly* get it just right.
And if you can’t find that perfect gift for me?
I know of one that is perfectly free!
You can *for once* just replace the TP!                                                
It’s already bought and wrapped in clear plastic!
It’s so super soft and perfectly round.
Under the sink is where it is found.
And when you need it, it sure is fantastic.
What? I’m not even being sarcastic!  
I love you, dear.
I love you so much.
You’ve nothing to fear.
Your gifts, always clutch.
If my demands seem mean or even nasty,
You knew when we married
I’d be bringing some sassy!
I must confesss now, I don’t care what you do         
As long as you read this and still love me, too!
 *Props to the very funny for teaching me how to make that bitchin’ heart! Check out her site!
Well, ladies? What say you?


Filed under Awesomeness, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!


*Readers…I know, after ALL THAT, after all my carrying on about how you can come to muffintopmommy and always get the funny…I did the unthinkable today and am posting something on the serious side. I need to put in the fine print somewhere with an asterisk, that I reserve the right to get serious from time to time. Hey, even Conan’s doing it this week! And if you don’t like it, rest assured, a refund for your subscription will be promptly rendered! That’s what I thought!!!!!! As always, thanks for reading…

Do you remember where you were on January 15, 2009?

I do.

Lying in a hospital bed, cradling my five hour old newborn in the crook of my arm, I glanced over at the tv.  I’m not sure why I even turned the tv on—the room was dark and I was supposed to be resting. My room had finally cleared out and my husband had gone home to get our two other sons so they could meet their much anticipated new baby brother.

I still felt a little hazy (Or high?) from the meds they gave me during my rapid fire (!) delivery (Please refer to, “The Break Up—I Thought I Knew You!”) and as I squinted toward the tv, I wondered if I might be seeing things.

“Oh no. Is that? Is that a plane in the Hudson River?” I whispered.

Baby did not respond—strong, (9 plus pound!) silent type.

I got an immediate pit in my stomach as I watched what looked like a scene from a terrible movie— the plane sort of suspended there, partially submerged in what had to be inhumanely cold water. Freezing air gripped the entire Northeast that day and I feared for the fate of the passengers. I wondered as I clutched my new bundle tighter —was it terrorism? Did it just crash? Would anyone live? Who was on board?

Nothing made sense. At all.

All of the lingering meds and pregnancy hormones combusted in my brain, as I imagined who might be on the plane.

Mommies and daddies? Children? Pregnant women? Expecting dads? Daughters? Sons? Brothers? Sisters? Friends? Grandmothers? Someone who might have the cure for cancer or the next life changing innovation? People whose life stories were incomplete, their dreams unfulfilled, their songs not yet sung?

Anytime someone dies—especially younger people and regardless if I know them or not—my mind always races with the same questions…What could they be? What would they be? If this… didn’t happen? How would the rest of their lives have played out and what sort of impact would they have had on the world? I’m not sure if I do this because my own sister passed away far too young when I was in high school, or if this is what everyone does. It’s just my normal, I guess. I have no other basis for comparison.

As I held my warm infant, and smelled his perfect head and marveled at his tiny fingers, I imagined and dreamed about the possibilities that would exist for him, for his hopefully very long life. “Welcome to the world!” I had exclaimed just a few hours ago. (Well, I’ll have to check the video—it might have come out more, “Awwww…wecumtothawhirllll…”, but I said it and I meant it—even if under the influence!)

But now it appeared a tragedy occurred on the day of his birth. It seemed exceptionally cruel. The whole thing. A plane full of innocents whose mothers once held them when they were a few hours old and likely dreamed for them the same dreams I had for my own son—possibly gone in a few moments?

And much less importantly? It crossed my mind that my son’s birthday would always be slightly marred coming into the world on the day of such a devastating event. And did I even deserve to be this happy on a day when others lost their loved ones and by human extension, a part of them?

As news started to trickle in though, optimism trumped dread. Squinting, it looked like there were tiny figures on the wings of the plane. ‘Scuse me? Rescue boats appeared! Eventually, it became clear every single person made it out alive.

Word quickly emerged about the incredible feat we now know transpired that day. Captain Sullenberger— maybe the only pilot who could land a plane safely in that situation—actually did avert disaster. How many times do I screech, “Disaster averted! Bleah!!” like a flat out crazy lady when I do stuff like barely miss burning the dinner? But this guy? This guy lands a freaking airbus on the Hudson River, next to one of the most congested cities in the world. He’s a DUDE! A STUD! He? Is.The.Man. The MAN! (Attention airline industry: Henceforth I fly only with Sully Sullenberger. Damn straight. Please make a note of it for when I book my next flight.) Sorry. I digress…Never mind if he had just crashed the plane into the river instead of landing it safely—haven’t we all been too scared to wonder what if he’d crashed it into the middle of New York City? He likely saved more than a plane full of mommies and daddies, sons and daughters, teachers and coaches, volunteers and engineers. He probably saved blocks and blocks of them.

I don’t know a thing about aviation. I know even less about plane crash statistics (and prefer to keep it that way, thanks). Everything I’ve read indicates Captain Sullenberger had to do everything right for that plane to land completely intact and for everyone to emerge safely that day. It’s all hard to fathom for a mere mortal like me–who carelessly banters the word disaster around.

For years my husband and I struggled with miscarriages and infertility before we had our first son–so we felt grateful, if puzzled, to have three healthy sons in four years with little medical intervention. So I’ve long since given up on figuring out the mysteries of science— never mind of life. I’ve tried repeatedly to wrap my head around it all, but I’m left with more questions than answers. (English major.) In the end, I have to believe it’s some kind of miracle. Because really? Like Sullenberger landing that plane against impossible odds, pretty much everything has to go right for a woman to go from un-pregnant to holding a real live baby. I don’t understand the mystery; I’m just a willing and grateful participant.

A lot has transpired both in the world and within the walls of my home over this past year. My newborn has grown probably ten inches, roughly tripled his weight. He’s learned to roll, sit, crawl, stand, and he can even walk a few steps. He’s got three (and a half?) teeth and a full head of enviable hair. He good naturedly survived wearing a helmet for three months—and we did, too. (Please see, “Oh No! We Have a Smelly Kid!”) He found his personality and his voice—he’s chatty (not in my native tongue, unfortunately) and stubborn like me and playful like daddy. He’s already been busted for ripping things, climbing on things and pulling on things—and been forgiven in an instant all for flashing a three and a half tooth grin. And for all my joking some days about the inmates running the asylum around here and how I’m going to hide under the kitchen table ’til daddy gets home, I get it. I know how lucky I am to be able to watch his brothers and him grow. Through their eyes, it’s all promising and new again. And when I start to forget this— something always pulls me back to reality. Sadly, I only have to think to events of this past week in Haiti to be reminded of my good fortune.

Some people might call it good luck that Captain Sullenberger, of such brilliant ability, was piloting that plane that frigid day. And some might call it a miracle. I’m not a super religious person, but I do believe in miracles. I do. And, when I look back on that day, I know I got to see not one, but two miracles. January 15, 2009 is a day I will never, ever forget. I feel honored—and that maybe it was good karma even— that my son was born that fateful day. And as I write this, as things look very dire, I hope for the people of Haiti that many miracles have occurred there this week as well.

If you wish to donate to help the people of Haiti, go to or call 1-800-REDCROSS. Or, text HAITI to 90999 to donate $10 to Red Cross Haiti Relief.


Filed under Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!


*Greetings muffintopmommy readers! We have many new readers, so a big thanks for joining.  We’re excited to have you! Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions in the comments. And, if you like what you see, please subscribe and tell your peeps. If you’ve been with me since the beginning (waaay back in September of ’09…go loyalty!), you may notice I first ran this post in October. So if it’s not new to you, consider it a  refresher–or some back story, to what I’ll be posting on Friday. It’ll make sense then, I promise. Thanks!


I learned some dreadful news the other day.

Apparently, there’s been a terrible break up. And it happened to some of my favorite people.

What went wrong?

Did they grow apart? Was it a fight over money? Did someone get wooed away?

The worst part is, I only found out about it when I read it in the Sunday newspaper. Nobody told me. I missed all the signs.

My ob-gyn practice is splitting up!

I’m sick over it!

If it were my primary care practice, that I hardly know anyway, then pfft—who cares—easy come, easy go. I go there, what, once a year, maybe twice if I come down with a bad somethin’ somethin’ that requires antibiotics. (And even then, they might not gimme any…grrr. What’s up with that, btw? I see all these news reports about junkies trolling from doctor to doctor for Oxy-Contin and I can’t even score some flipping Penicillin when I’m splayed out in my argyle socks and paper gown on the exam table! We’ve covered this…Would I really waste valuable babysitting to limp to the doctor and strip down if I didn’t mean business?)

But my OB office? Say it ain’t so! Despite their terrible taste in magazines (As noted in my first post, “My vacation… to the dentist”), I genuinely loved them all. They saw me through my last two pregnancies, and did so in good humor (Although, don’t you have to have a sense of humor to do that job….eeek) and in good shoes (plaid Danskos….me likie!)

I often thought, “If I could have passed Anatomy and Physiology, didn’t want to hurl at the sight of blood and thought working nights, weekends and holidays would be super fun, I would SO want to work here!” I know. And people say doctors get paid too much? Eeeehhhh.

From what I gleaned in the paper (talk about being in the know…not), three docs are splitting off to a new office and three are staying put. My doctor is staying with two of the doctors from my original practice, but the two doctors who delivered my last two sons are going to a new office with another doc from the office. My actual doctor never ended up delivering any of my kids because she was never on call when the time came. Or, because she was afraid. But there’s absolutely no proof of that!

What to do, what to do?

My husband doesn’t understand my quandary. I called him all in a flux about the big break up!

“What’s the problem?” he asked. “You should stay with your doctor. She’s been nothing but great to us since we joined the practice. I feel like she really went out of her way to help us when we were having trouble getting pregnant and then was so awesome while we were pregnant.”

“I know. I am not disagreeing with you. She’s wonderful. But the other doctors actually delivered our sons and were also really helpful to me during my pregnancies and I love them too! And, they’re on our home movies!” I (might have) shrieked.

“Remember the last delivery?  When we thought I’d gotten there too late for the epidural, so they gave me that drug that made me kind of cuckoo? (read: high) I think it was called….. I dunno, something evil… I just can’t remember the name of it because….I think I was…. high?….but anyway, remember, the doc and all the nurses and I were all peeing our pants laughing (me literally, sorry tmi) because after I delivered the baby, the doc told me to put him on my chest…. and instead of lifting up my gown, I tried to stuff the baby down the neck opening of my gown and the doc couldn’t breathe and choked, “I didn’t mean to stuff him down your shirt!”, and I was all like, ‘Just say no to drugs, kids!’ We all TOTALLY bonded!”  P.S. Apparently mother’s instincts are NOT inherent.

That is not someone you just dump!

Truthfully, I’m 99.9% sure (That’s what the package insert says, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!)  we aren’t having any more kids. So my trips to the ob from here on in are probably likely reduced to the yearly pap smear visit. (Hap-py birthday to me!) So, even if they all stayed together for the sake of the patients, I’d only see my own doctor anyway.

And, I guess I know deep down none of these doctors probably really remember who I am. They see hundreds of pregnant mamas every week and I can’t even hazard a guess on how many babies a year they deliver. But kudos to all of them for making me feel like I, and my baby, came first. That’s rare I think, and not something to sneeze at. I know I’m not alone in my estimation of them, and I hope they know that, even as they splinter. *Sniff.*

But still, I’m crushed about the break up.

Do you think they’d consider a shared custody agreement?


Filed under Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!


So the medical newsletter from the local hospital where I had my last two sons came today. I usually leaf through it to see if there’s any information that might interest me. It’s actually a very good, well written and informative publication. So I’m about to pitch it when I notice the title of the last article, “Could your thyroid be altering your metabolism?”

“OH YES! Yes, absolutely, a thousand times YES!” I scream in my head.

It’s definitely not the wine, the cookies with my kids, the Thai food or the boneless buffalo tenders (washed down with waistline friendly beer) causing the muffin top. Oh no, no, no! IT’S MY ALTERED METABOLISM, STUPID!

It’s obvious.

I must suffer from a condition called “hypothyroidism”, which is when (please, read this with a grain of salt…you don’t see endocrinologist after my name for a reason, people!) your body does not produce enough thyroid hormone, which in turn slows your metabolism and causes you to gain weight. (This is NOT to be confused with “hyperthyroidism”, which is when your metabolism works TOO fast and you burn too many calories —I think it’s safe to assume I am not afflicted with this condition but to those of you who are, you go girl! Ok, just kidding. It’s actually not good for you at all. No really, it’s not. No, I’m serious. I take that back. I do!)

If you want to remember which is which, here’s a trick:

HYPOthyroidism = hippo = big mama = yo too fat.

HYPERthyroidism = hyper girl = moving too fast = yo too skinny.

(Yeah, and you wonder how English major graduated at the top of drug rep class. OH YEAH! That’s what I’m talking about!)

Ahem, anyway, it’s not nice to brag, so in conclusion, thyroid hormones regulate metabolism and thus can affect your weight. And that concludes our medical lesson for today. Or hopefully, ever.

Now, we’re nearing January 1 and my fat pants are tight. I had a baby almost a whole year ago so blaming him is out of the question. I’d love to blame my thyroid, my metabolism, the kid who sells me my wine in a box, but let’s face it… know whose fault it is….the man in the mirror. I mean, the woman in the mirror (sorry Jacko!). It’s time to look at MYSELF and make that change!

Anyway,  along with half of the continental U.S., I’ve been checking around to see what I can do after January 1 (When all my benders, I mean, get togethers of 2009, are over. Yeah, that’s right. You don’t think I’m going to go down quietly, do you? I have three left, they might have to take place in elastic waist pants, but I pride myself on never breaking a commitment.)

So my husband’s friend from high school…he just lost three pants sizes. Now we’re talking! His wife, Molly, told me he did it using a series of DVDS called P90X. Hmm, DVDS….. I wouldn’t even have to leave the house! I could do it at night, when the kids are sleeping.

“You should totally do it!”  Molly suggested after I peppered her with questions about this miraculous sounding program.

But, upon further investigation, I began to become fearful, very fearful.

“I’m not sure if this is the right plan for me. I don’t know that going from couch surfing right to mega, intense training is such a good idea? And honestly, I don’t need six pack abs. I’m shooting for mediocrity here. I just want to not be rocking the muffin top to the extreme in 2010, you know? No need to be a show off!”

“You would get in SUCH great shape! You should do it!”

Yup, and then they could cart my cold, lifeless body out the front door on a stretcher because that shit would kill me! And, my kids? What would become of them? I’d have to leave explicit instructions for my very best friends to make sure my husband remarries a suitable woman who would love my kids like her own, but naturally be a worse cook, housekeeper and have a bigger muffin top than me.

I don’t think so.

What to do, what to do?

P90X will kill me and I’m 40 years too young for Sweatin’ to the Oldies. The last time I tried to do Wii Fit, that sarcastic &^%$ asked me if I walked often or tripped over my own feet or something like that, and I fell off the balance board and woke the kids!

I hate to say it.

I don’t want to say it.

Do I have to say it?

I think I need to join a….a….gym.

I need to just go to a building, where there is equipment I can use at my own pace, and where there are professionals on staff who could guide me (or, resuscitate my ass, you know, should I keel on the elliptical or something.)

Who’s in?


Filed under OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!