Hippo Brigade

Preschool Sucks

Berlyn started preschool.

Here are the pros and cons.

I’ll start with the cons, and then, well…why don’t I just skip the pros altogether, because the pros seem kinda self-explanatory, right?

Because school is good. Learning stuff is nice. Macramé+tempera paint = a good time, yadi, yadi, yadi.

Con #1

I have to get up early. This is shameful. Because I am a sleeper. And I’m damn good at it too. I can sleep like no one’s business. Just watch me…Wait, don’t watch me sleep, that’s weird. STOP IT, YOU’RE FREAKING ME OUT!

Con #2

I have to get dressed and look presentable. Because my daughter’s teacher is cute, and not only is she cute, but the whole mess of teachers at her school are super adorable and bouncy and blonde, and they make me feel self-conscious. So instead of looking all slechpy, I wake up (groan) and force myself to wear jeggings and a scarf and a sassy pair of shoes. THEN, as if waking up and getting dressed wasn’t bad enough, I actually have the energy after I drop Berlyn off, to run errands. At 8:45 in the morning!! Who runs errands at 8:45 in the morning? Bloomingdale’s isn’t even open that early. But there I am, pounding on their door, shouting to the maintenance man that I can see him and he’d better let me in because I have a coupon!!

Con #3

Berlyn has been in school for 4 weeks now and has been sick 4 times already.

Um, hello? In case you didn’t know, that’s a lot of sick up in my house. Fortunately, I have the immunity of a jungle cat, but my darling baby boy does not, and I’d like him to stay perfect and booger free, thankyouverymuch.

I don’t know how many more ways I can tell my daughter not to lick other kid’s noses. Or to not eat other people’s sneezes. Or please don’t rub your eyeball on those pencils. But does she listen? Nooo. So when she gets home I have to spray her down with a decontaminate and make her eat a bowl full of oranges.

Con #4

Kids are little turds. Berlyn is picking up all this bad behavior from the kids she’s now associating with, and there’s really nothing I can do about it. I just have to pray that what I have done to teach her about being nice and not to talk about her poop is enough. I’m not there to referee her actions 24-7. And it breaks my heart when I hear from her that someone wasn’t being nice to her. So much heart breaking, in fact, that it takes everything in me not to bust down little Sally Mae’s door and give her a piece of my mind.

So in conclusion, I don’t much care for preschool. But I think it’s something I’m going to have to get used to. Berlyn has a lot of school ahead of her.

And I have a lot more pairs of jeggings I need to shimmy in to.

For more go to hippobrigade.com

Drunk Breastfeeding

I’m not a party girl.

I don’t like to get drunk.

I don’t like that sick feeling the next morning. Plus there’s always the inevitable drunk poo, and possible vomiting, and honestly, that’s just too many runny bodily fluids for me.

I do, however enjoy the occasional drink.

But because, I’m nursing Hudson, I have to be mindful of how much I drink.

I don’t want a drunk baby on my hands.

Could you imagine?

Wait–on second thought, let’s not imagine.

So I bought these alcohol strip thingies to test my milk before I give it to the Huds.

He appreciates that.

The other night I went out with a few friends, and had two glasses of wine. They were spread out over 3.5 hours, and I even drove home, but by the time I got home I tested my milk, and wouldn’t you know?

It said I was piss drunk.

I tried to reason with the strip.

“Listen here,” I commanded. “I’m not drunk. I had 2 glasses of wine and a heap of pasta. I’m totally sober. If I were drunk could I do this?”

I started to pat my head and rub my belly simultaneously.

“Or what about this?”

I touched my nose with my index finger while closing my eyes and tilting my head back.

“Hell–ooo? Check this out.”

I moon walked across the kitchen floor. I even threw in a lewd crotch grab, to really drive the point home.

Just then my husband walked in, “Who are you talking to? And what the hell are you doing? You’re totally sauced right now, aren’t’ you?I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive home!”

“No, no. Pat, don’t be silly. I’m talking to the milk strip, see?  I’m showing it that I’m sober. It thinks I should dump this milk.”

“Ludicrous. Hey let me see that thing.”

Pat grabbed the strip from me.

“Oh Beckey, this thing darker than the chart! You’re totally drunk right now. You should probably lay down. Here, take some Advil. I’m going to dump this milk. It’s tainted with your irresponsibility.”

“Nooo!!! Don’t dump it. That’s liquid gold. Maybe we can make cheese out of it. Or if we dump it into the garden I bet a beautiful tree will grow. Or maybe you can drink it!”

“Seriously Beckey? A tree? You are totally drunk.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

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Poorly built sugar piñatas

Every night I switch off the light, close my eyes, and make attempts of peace in harmony in my subconscious. I visualize lemon meringue pie and pink bunnies, and how amazing it would be to have bouncy, shiny hair. I visualize Jason Bateman in a speedo, and street tacos, and drinking Prosecco in Union Square.

But as soon as I drift off into sleep, I have an anxiety attack.

My body becomes an angry, dark place and all my muscles clench up. My fists ball up, my spine becomes a crocked disaster, and my jaw gets insanely sore. It’s like my body is telling me, I hate sleep, and I don’t want to do it, no sir, I don’t.

And then my mind chimes in and says, quit being lame, sleeping is the most magnificent gift. It’s glorious, and it’s the one thing I look forward to all day. Stop screwing this up for me!

And thus, a war is waged.

When I wake up in the morning, I’m like, what the what? Why do my teeth hurt? Why is my arm all the way over there, that doesn’t seem natural. And why can’t I look left anymore?

I can deal with a sore body. That’s fine. I can do yoga or stretch to work the kinks out (although I never do). But my mouth is another story.

The teeth thing really bothers me, I have dreams of my teeth shattering and crumbling into pieces. Like those sugar sculpting T.V. shows on the Food Network. You know where they spend 8 hours making a 5-foot piñata out of delicate pink and blue sugar, and then they have to move the thing 20 inches in front of them to have it judged, and the whole thing shatters, and everyone is like, “OH NO!!” but honestly, we all knew it was coming. Because it’s a piñata, made of sugar.

So, yeah. My mouth is like the shows on Food Network.

And my teeth are poorly built sugar piñatas.

I used to have a mouth-gaurd that I’d wear at night, but it mysteriously disappeared. I’m not positive, but all signs point to my dog eating it. Her recent dry hacking, coupled with her repulsive ability to eat anything, especially if it’s thickly coated in my morning drool, was what ultimately tipped me off.

Thanks Zoey, now all my teeth are going to fall out, and it’s all your fault.

Plus, you owe me 400 dollars.

So, why is my mouth so stressed out?

Or, better question, why am I so stressed out?

My life is pretty awesome. I don’t have a schedule that I have to adhere to, and my kids are so frickin’ rad. Seriously, have you met them? You need to, they’re amazing.

I get to do practically anything I want, which means my days are filled with going to the beach, the pool, and the mall, and hanging out with my best friends.

Although, I do touch a lot of poo within a given day, and I get yelled at by both my baby and 3-year-old, and on really special occasions, my mom. I usually have Hudson sitting on my left hip, and my free hand is preparing endless snacks for Berlyn. I am constantly cleaning up paint, play-doh, and Golden Puffs. And my boobs are not my own. Oh, and speaking of my boobs, they have lost all discretion, and have been spotted by 3 of my neighbors and at least 4 Container Store employees, and that was just yesterday.

Being a mommy is tough, and even though my mind is okay with it, my body is telling me otherwise.

If I don’t get a vacation from these kids soon, I’m going to end up with grinded down stumps for teeth.

They are going crumble and shatter into a million pieces like those sugar creations on T.V.

But it won’t be all bad, because maybe I can wear one of these:

For more go to hippobrigade.com