Two years with a baby.

There are lots of things people tell you when you find out you're pregnant. They tell you their birth story, the choices they made for their baby and why you should choose the same. They tell about the local doctors and local hospitals. They tell you how they did it with no meds, by choice. (Yall is crazy. Please give me that epidural and let me feel like I peed on myself, then go numb. Ha! Kind of sounds like a night of wild drinking.) They tell you how much you will fall in love with that child. They are right. They tell you how you will never sleep again. They are also right..... But. There is a lot no one tells you. There is even more no one tells you about being a single mom. I am learning more and more everyday and one day I will compile a huge list of what I wish someone would have told me. But until then, this will have to do. 

Now before we get on a roll with this blog, let me say this. I am not trying to get any sympathy. I'm also not trying to get a pat on the back. I'm not looking for recognition. I'm also not talking about the other parent. This is nothing more than some funny, no more, no less. Now let get to going somewhere.

These are a list of some of the things I wish someone would have told me. 

No one tells you that a breastfeed babies poop looks like Dijon mustard. - I thought Harper had a disease. We went from black tar poop to Dijon mustard. Two way different end of the spectrum.

No one tells you that those cute little toys that light up, talk, and are supposed to be "educational" are going to talk at 2 am. No ones in your living room but you hear VTech Violet say "Come play with me, you're my best friend." No. No, Violet. No one wants to play with your creepy self. Goodwill donation item. Check. 

No one tells you to buy a drill. This one is for the single moms. You best have a drill and every other kind of electric tool you can buy. This past Christmas I sat in my kitchen from 9pm to 3am hand screwing together a laundry play set, a play vacuum, and a princess four wheeler. Never again. On my little girls last birthday, she got a swing set. If you're a single mom, do yourself a favor, hire someone to put that joker together. I sat in my back yard for 3 days putting this punk together. Now I have multiple parts left over and its leaning like the Tower of Pisa. We are not in Italy and it is not Italian/Pisa inspired. It sure does swing my little 2 year old good though! 

You will never be early again. If you're used to be 15 minutes early, you will arrive on time. If you are used to arriving on time, you will be 5 minutes late. If you are like me and chronically 5 minutes late, you will now be 30 minutes late. Get your family and friends to lie to you about when you need to be somewhere. 

You and yoga pants will become best friends for life. I don't do yoga. I don't even know anyone who does yoga. Check my closet. You would think I own a yoga studio. 

Your stainless steel will never be pretty again. Fingerprints, nutrigrain bars, formula, milk, juice, baby wipe juice, lipstick, Doritos, and anything else a child can get their hands on will now sparkle in the light on your stainless steel appliances. 

Single moms - if your child is in daycare and Father's Day rolls around, get ready for this cute conversation. 

Teacher - Ms. Single mom, I see on your child's paper work there is no information listed about their father. 

Single Mom (with an attitude) - I hope my child reads as good as you. 

Teacher - Who should I address Father's Day Crafts to? 

Luckily, Harper has some Uncles and a PaPa that are the bomb.com. 

The Real Housewives of whatever are liars. They are not real or housewives. Oxygen, Bravo, TLC, and any other reality television network, give me a show. I will show you real. Real is trying to pee while being a human jungle gym for a 2 year old, not sunbathing in St. Thomas while your nanny drives a Bentley to drop your kids off at school. 

You will lose a ton of "friends." It's amazing. Just watch. 

Go on and get a DVR. You will never get to watch your shows on time, quietly, ever again. 

All the rules your parents had for you, do not apply for the grandchild. My mom would give the brow (The brow is when Diane gets mad. Her eyebrow arches all the way up to heaven and comes back down. There is heavenly light shinning from her eyebrow arch. It's God saying, you may get called home early if you don't rethink your choices.) if i sat on a decorative pillow or made bed. Harper could stomp it, sit on it, then light it on fire and my mom would clap and cheer for her. Also, when you are trying to tell your child no and grandparents are around, be sure and tell them no too. They give in and take up for the baby. You have no allies in the grandparents. 

You will freak about everything. I remember, early one morning, when Harper was close to turning a year old. We were playing and she managed to nose dive into the side of my bed and then the floor. I picked her up and her nose was bleeding. She was screaming. I was still in my vintage Ole Miss Hoodie and moomoo. I looked like Don King and a meth head had had a baby. Mascara still on my face. I threw on yoga pants and some shoes and off to the emergency room we went. I knew Harper's sweet little nose was broke. We get to see the Dr., God Bless Dr. G at Regional, he is so patient and kind. He cleans her up and tells me it's rug burn. No broke nose. I'm relieved. Then I remember that the hospital will call DHS on unfit parents. Here comes another freak out. I ask him if he is going to report to DHS. He can tell I am ready to burst into tears. He just laughs and tells me no, I'm not the mom DHS is worries about, I just brought my child in to the ER for rug burn.... 

They all tell you how much you will love your baby when you finally get to hold that baby and look in to those sweet eyes and feel their tiny hand wrap around your finger. You are now wrapped around those tiny little fingers and there is nothing better. No matter how many times I was told of this love, I never understood. I'm so thankful for the Dijon Mustard poops, power tools, epidurals, the DVR, and most importantly, my little Harper Lee. 

Fat Girls, Fried Chicken, and the zoo.

My little girl turned 2 this past June. Like any good mother would, I planned a day of fun for her actual birthday. Our day of fun consisted of family, travel, food ( because any event in the south calls for food. Death, marriage, football games, birthdays, divorce, and just because you want an excuse to drink beer in the back yard at 3 in the afternoon on a hot summer day, are all southern events that require food. ) and the Memphis Zoo. 

So. Just incase this your first time reading my blog (you should be ashamed of yourself, depriving yourself from my charming wit) let me get you up to speed. I am a fatty patty. Fatty patty also means fat girl, voluptuous, curvy, chubby, marshmallowy, pudgey, big boned, heavy, hefty, and any other nick name for fat. I also tell it all, the good, the bad, the dumb, and the truth. 

So. We load up in the car and drive on down to Gus' Fried Chicken in Memphis. This is a family tradition. We waddle our big butts in, after starving ourselves all day, just so we can lay the smack down on the best spicy southern friend chicken you ever did get to wrap your lips around. I cannot put into words how good Gus' is. If you haven't had it, do yourself a favor and go. Let your inner fatty out. Eat that chicken. Make you some magic sauce (Hot Sauce and ranch) and eat that chicken !!! 

After we lay the smack down, in true Hulk Holgan and Macho Man Randy Savage style, on that chicken, we go to the zoo. DUMB. 

On that particular day is was 789 degrees outside. The clouds were tan. Albinos looked liked Brazilians. I'm pretty sure I saw a flame melt. It was hot. But. We going to zoo. We unload the stroller and get it together. 

I didn't think this through. We are chicken logged and it so hot, Satan is trying to find a water park. We mosey around and my sister finds the "Cats" exhibit. Hell. To. The. No. No. 

Flash back a couple years. I'm probably 10 years old. My neighbor had a cat, an evil cat. (Sorry Mrs. Sandi or John if yall are reading this!) His name was Mr. Webbles. Mr. Webbles looked like Garfield but had the fighting spirit of Scar from the Lion King. One day I'm walking over to John's house, more than likely to do something stupid and young, and out of nowhere my leg is being attacked. Mr. Webbles is going to town. He is biting and scratching. I was stuck with a moral and physical dilemma. Do I kick this cat, possibly hurt it and run? No. I can't hurt John's cat and well, we know I can't run. So eventually I scream enough that Mr. Webbles no longer thinks it's fun to attack but is getting annoyed at my screaming. 

I was scarred.

Flash forward to the zoo. My sister, Mary Kay (she's a hippie) is all excited to go look at the cats. So is my 16 year old niece. Harper, my little birthday girl, really has no clue where we are or what we are doing. She could care less. Reluctantly, I follow in to the cats exhibit. I begin to feel a tight feeling in my chest. I notice that there are some tink tink wire fences and concrete culverts separating me and Mr. Webbles Mafia Lords. I'm not about this life. I see lions, panthers, cheetahs, and some hybrid cats I knew that could and would tear me up. I could feel them looking at me. I knew what they were thinking. Look at that one. She could be our breakfast, lunch, dinner, morning snack, evening snack and desert. They was ready to eat a fat girl up. I begin to realize that no one else is in the exhibit. There's no one fatter than me. I'm done. If these cats decide to break free, I am the slow poke. I'm ate like I ate that chicken. Half my leg has melted due to the heat. I smell like fried chicken and am full of it. I can't run. 

An anxiety attack begins. We got to get up out this place. Honey. Bless Harper. I know she got the whiplash. My toes went in overdrive. Harper's stroller became a NASCAR and we were taking them corners and rolling up out of the lions den. 

I was done. I was ready to go. We were melting. My hair has now became a full fledged 70's afro. Harper had whiplash. Her stroller tires had no tread from screeching out. 

The moral of the story is this. One, don't load up on fried chicken and go to the zoo. Go somewhere with air conditioner and motorized wheel chairs. Two. If you are a fat girl, take a fatter girl to the zoo with you. If the ferocious animals escape, you have a better chance of making it out alive.