Despite of the disaster of the last vacation, my husband and I just booked a trip for all of us to go away again the first week in August. (Dramatic pause)

Wait for it….Wait for it….

ON A PLANE.

I think the beers I drank while watching the Cubs game last Saturday are still floating around in my cerebral cortex somewhere. Because? A plane? Will probably equivocate to Dante’s version of hell, except instead of wasps there’ll be toddler temper tantrums, thrown Cheerios and formula sprayed all over the poor saps in front of us.

Mind you, we knew all of this fully when we hit that Book Flight button. But, we figured we deserved a vacation, it wouldn’t be that bad, maybe he would behave…blah, blah, blah. I believe I’ve just set the premise for every comedic movie involving what was sure to be a “fun-filled family vacation” that goes horribly awry.

It’ll be like National Lampoon’s Satanic Toddler Vacation.

Oh, did I also mention we have a two-hour layover in Atlanta? I’m sure my eleven month old will TOTALLY understand that connecting flights were much cheaper than direct flights and thus, we have to endure two boardings, two landings and two sets of people who will hate us from the moment they lay eyes on us.

And I’m sure he’ll be just FINE with the fact that the flight crew generally doesn’t like it when crawling babies block the aisles, stopping only to turn red-faced and grunt out a good, smelly poop, so he’ll have to stay on my lap.

He’ll definitely understand when I remind him that it’s not polite to rip out the hair of the person next to you, no matter how much her hair resembles something a bird would live in.

I mean, right?

(Oh, and to anyone who is traveling from Chicago to Savannah in early August, may God have mercy on your soul.)

Why does it seem like every mother of a large brood, with the exception of me, is in denial? I’ve yet to hear one of these mothers come right out and say, “Fuck you, uterus, or damn you, Ortho Novum! You both royally screwed me too many times!” Why do these large quivered mamas feel compelled to only say sickeningly sweet things about the fact that they are a walking fetus factory? Just once, I’d like to hear one echo my sentiment that it sucks to be helpless against repeated, ill timed pregnancy. What are they so afraid of? Do they fear being called a bad mom? It is a reality that not every child of a large family was a planned baby. Trust me. Seven of mine were “Oh shitballs” moments. Yes, all seven. You can choose to argue with me on that, if you want, but it is the honest to goodness truth. I tried, like a son of a gun, to stop. When I realized that stopping was not an option, I decided to settle for spacing them out. Nope, it obviously wasn’t going to happen. 

Our first baby was the result of a total drunken moment of passion. So, I’ll take responsibility and admit that we were just idiots. Marlie is proof that even stupid moments can yield wonderful results. After our first, I converted to Catholicism and agreed to use NFP. Unfortunately, Natural Family Planning is a two person effort and only one of us was really doing it. Voila, baby number two, Daniel Jr.! Then came the “pull out” method. Uh…that does not work for a man who pre ejaculates. Sorry for the over abundance of information, but it is true. We call that lesson, Trenton. He is a cute little accident! Next came the nursing pill. I was pregnant the month after starting that, with Phillip. Condoms? They break and I have a two legged, sass mouthed, four year old Aiden to prove it. Those female condoms and that foamy spermicidal stuff are both jokes. Maybe God knew that I needed the fireball that is Ella. Even an IUD was no match for my body’s mission to pop out a record breaking amount of babies. My uterus spat out that little plastic and copper device, like a child rejects brussel sprouts. Unfortunately it spat that sucker straight through my uterine wall and into my rectum….but that is another story. Luckily, the end result was a healthy little Reed. My point is, birth control doesn’t work unless your body allows it to. My body would not allow anything we tried to interfere with its procreative recreation. Finally, my husband went in for the big V, much to his resistance. 

Do I regret my kids being born? No. At least, not 98% of the time. There are those days, however, when I’d like to jump ship. Who doesn’t have those? Am I thrilled that I was unable to stop my baby factory of a body? Hell no! I did not enjoy the shitty side effects of seven back to back pregnancies. I was relieved to return to an ungestating state and cried when it ended in yet another pregnancy. Call me selfish. Call me a bad mother. At least I have balls to say it. (I’m seriously looking into that possibility, since sometimes I ended up pregnant when we didn’t even have sex during ovulation!) I wish that more fertile Myrtles would stand up and admit to being pissed when the little pregnancy stick turned up with two pink lines. I want to know that someone else threw that test at their husband and threatened to cut off his balls if he did not go get a vasectomy. It is okay to love your children and simultaneously curse the fact that your uterus failed to respect your wishes or that birth control was useless in giving you a rest. I say it and I’m still a good mom…or at least a mediocre one! Call my kids frustrating accidents or call them joyous blessings, I say they are both and I sure wish more moms in my boat, would verbally agree.  

On the auspicious ocassion of this Father’s Day I think it only fitting to bring up a rather touchy subject. What’s a day that’s all about family without bringing up something sure to piss nearly everyone off anyway?

Recently, I have begun to branch out in my daily newspaper reading. Now that I have discovered the birth announcements, I am no longer confined to the police blotter to keep up with the myriad ways humans can commit crimes against the innocent. When it comes to giving children outlandish names designed to say (about the parents, mind you) “look at ME” I really do think there ought to be a law.

Don’t believe me? Just read your local paper’s birth announcements. There you will see for yourself that there really are people who name their children “Alltruism” and “Hayllheigh.”

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Get lost, Sun, and take your rays that sear my bloodshot eyes.

Come back in two hours, when I’m ready for your rise.

Shut up, birds. Be quiet! Stop that perky song.

Don’t you know that I have babies who woke me all night long?

Alarm clock, if you have the will to live, do not bother me.

For if your beeping dares pierce my ear drums, broken you will be.

Husband dear, I love you, but keep your distance, friend.

Your persistence in nudging me awake, may surely mean your end.

Sounds of energetic feet echo loudly in the hallway.

But I’m not prepared to leave these sheets and start another day.

My night shift was a double and seemed to have no end.

Crying, bad dreams, teething, all endless needs to tend.

Sleep, you have eluded me, for the fifth night in a row.

Rest, you have betrayed me. Your face I no longer know.

The only one who accompanies me through long and taxing nights,

Is my dreaded foe, Exhaustion, who afflicts, taunts and smites.

Isn’t there some other mom, who has the luxury of sleep?

Can’t you pick on her for now, so I can count some sheep?

Two hours is not a lot to ask to mend my mental state.

If you do me this small favor, I’ll let you stay up late.

Dear Friend Who Just Had Her First Baby:

Welcome to parenthood! It’s a bitch, but I already warned you about that one, didn’t I?

Oh, that’s right…you didn’t listen.

You refused to believe my prognostications about stocking up on coffee, wine and Valium to get through the first six weeks.

You were convinced you’d be a “natural” mom and your child would be an “angel baby.” Well, after our conversation last night discussing why your baby wouldn’t stop “fucking crying” (your words), let me be the first to say, “TOLD. YOU. SO.”

Seven weeks ago, you brushed off any suggestions or tips I so eagerly offered. You waved your hand when I shared my coping mechanisms for quieting a child with colic. I believe your eyes may have even rolled your eyes when I told you about the wonders of a swaddle blanket, white noise machine and swing.

I offered you a canteen of water before you even set foot in the desert, which you refused. Now, gasping for breath and dying of thirst, you beg me for a drop to drink.

I wasn’t sure if it would come to this. Especially when your child was two days old and you said, “He just loves to sleep! He only woke up once to eat last night!”

I began to secretly question my experience as a mother: “Did I just end up with a really crabby kid? Why isn’t her child screaming his head off like mine did for eight weeks straight?”

Then, last night. Your phone call.

Your baby finally woke out of his “newborn daze” and announced his presence to the world with two solid hours of crying.

Welcome to hell. Look around, get used to the surroundings. You’re going to be here for awhile. It’s OK though, you’ll have lots of company. It’s like a sorority. A sorority of pain.

Just because I’m nice, I’ll give you one last tip: Hit up the local liquor store and join their wine club. We earned so many points during our son’s first few months, we’re now platinum members and receive a gift certificate every month. (Which really, really helps once you move into Teething Hell.)

Sincerely,

Your Friend Who Actually Knows A Few Things