The Poop, Scoot & Boogie

I thought I had reached a point in motherhood where nothing poop related could gross me out. I was pretty sure I had seen in it all. In fact, I was pretty cocky in the poop department. I pretty much fancied myself a veteran of domestic poop wars.

You know what they say, pride goeth before the great poop fall.

My husband had been out of town for two weeks on a work trip. He finally returned home, and I was more than excited to have an extra pair of hands helping me wrangle my tiny terrorist. He came home sick, however, and being a man and therefore an even bigger baby than, say, my actual baby, he went straight to the doctor. So there I was, rocking the mommy thing alone again - or so I thought.


I ran the bath like I do every night, completely unaware of the impending crisis that was about to go down. Just as her baby toes hit the bath water, a pooptastrophe of pretty epic proportions struck. Because this has, believe it or not, happened to me before, I was grossed out but still relatively unphased. I thought I was an old pro at handling this type of situation. Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen next.

Just as I was about to whisk her out of the tub, she grabbed a handful of poop and with a devilish gleam in her eye she crammed it into her mouth! Not being as cool a cucumber as I thought I was, I started to scream. At the sound of my wail, her eyes widened in fear and she began to match my screams.

And there we stood, both of us screaming, when it occurred to me - I literally don't know shit.

The Snot Sucker

The Snot Sucker. The first time I heard of this simple little device, I wrinkled my nose in disgust and filed it away in my brain files under "Never Gonna Use It. Ever. In a Hundred Million Bazillion Years. You Will Have To Kill Me First." And yet, here I am writing a rave blog post about the grossest and most effective little thing in the whole wide world.

We've made it 7 months, 1 week and 2 days without the little baby terrorist getting sick. Now that she is on the move, I am constantly trying to save her from self destruction, but I have managed to keep her from catching any germs that might have the wild idea of manifesting into a cold. It's not that I have been proactive in germ prevention department. I've just been lucky. Sadly, my luck ran out and the baby terrorist began sniffling a few nights ago. By yesterday, she was a full fledged snot machine, blowing nose mucus bubbles I couldn't help but admire.

I quickly emailed the doctor and was told to avoid cold medicine but to use either an aspirator or a NoseFrida - aka the Snot Sucker. Well, naturally, I was all oh hell no, not gonna use that snot sucker! That puppy is gross and I am never going to be the mother that sucks snot out of my baby's nose.

Fast forward 3 hours, and I am totally that mother who sucks snot out of my baby's nose. I would do anything to make that poor little terrorist feel better.

It wasn't such an easy sell on the husband. I was going to sneak out to Target, tricking him into thinking he was going to get to do some yard work. Trust me, the man loves doing yard work. Backyard time is his version of my watching Real Housewives while binge eating chocolate. Yet on this day, he was all about accompanying me as I ran errands. Shit. I was going to have to think fast.

I began with talking about buying a humidifier. I then eased into talking about this really awesome thing called a NoseFrida! It's so cool! And fun! And the baby is going to love it! The husband was on board until I quickly sandwiched the phrase "andyousuckthesnotoutwithyourmouth" super fast between It's so cool! and Fun! He went silent for a moment, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and finally asked me if I was serious.

I laid on a healthy dose of guilt even though I, too, was mortified at the prospect but, because we love that little congested baby terrorist, he finally consented.

As we unstrapped the baby from the car seat, a peculiar smell met our nostrils. I started to laugh hysterically as I often do in very uncomfortable situations as we realized that there was a poop-tastrophe of epic proportions splattered all over the baby and the car seat and now, my poor husband. Because I am nothing short of a hot mess, I had neglected to grab the diaper bag which was conveniently stocked with diapers and an extra outfit. So, in we marched to Target, heads held low in shame, two of the three of us covered in poop, and proceeded to make our necessary purchases (the humidifier and the Nose Frida) and a couple of unplanned purchases (diapers, wipes and a new outfit for the baby). One of these days I will get it together. That, however, was not the day.

The baby terrorist of course screamed bloody murder when we began the snot sucking process. She probably thought we were trying to suck out her brain and at one point I began to think it might be a possibility, because this contraption really is that amazing. And now I am not sure which is more alarming, the fact that I am now an unapologetic snot sucker or the fact that I am willing to share it with the world. File that in your brain file under "No Shame - This Shit Works."

When You Don't Know What You're Doing, It's Best To Do It Quickly

Worry could have been my middle name. I worry about anything and everything. I stay up at night worrying about worrying, and then when there is nothing to worry about, I worry about that. I am a human version of Chicken Little, with whom I have always felt a bit of a connection. He had a legitimate concern. Although the sky may not have literally been falling, in his world it was crashing down and that is definitely something to worry about.

If I thought I worried before, nothing compares to the worries I have now that I have my very own little baby to raise. She keeps me up at night, both literally and figuratively. 

I don't just worry about tomorrow. I am constantly fretting over what will happen in two weeks, five months, ten years. I enjoy bringing up my concerns with my husband right as we are going to bed, which he does not enjoy and usually dozes off as I am mid worry rant. So, naturally, I worry that we don't talk enough about the things that worry me most.

This is a laundry list of the things I am most worried about at the moment. I am leaving off quite a few items so as not to overwhelm you.

I worry the baby is not gaining enough weight, and then I worry I feed her too much.

I worry that she doesn't like bananas. For crying out loud baby, bananas are delicious!

I worry when she doesn't fight me when I put her to bed at night. 

I worry when she fights me when I put her to bed at night.

I worry when she sleeps through the night, and when she doesn't I worry that she never will.

I worry that I am not absorbing every moment I have with her because I am too tired, too distracted, too busy worrying about what is going to happen next.

I worry that she thinks the only clothes I own are yoga pants.

I worry that I don't worry enough.

I worry about that my husband and I are way too into talking about the baby's poop. We talk about poop with genuine interest over dinner. It's disgusting and fascinating.

Now that the baby is mobile, I worry just about every second that she is going to get injured on my watch. I envision the courtroom proceedings as the mean old prosecutor tells the jury, "She put the baby to bed and then made herself a vodka tonic as if nothing was wrong." I'll be splattered all over 20/20, Dateline and 60 Minutes and yes, as you can see, I worry about that.

I worry when I enjoy being at work.

I worry that this nanny thing is working out. 

I worry that if I get a babysitter on the weekend I am a horrible mother because she was with the nanny all week. No date night for mommy and daddy, unless you count a rushed dinner and binge watching Homeland as romantic.

I worry that her first word will be "nanny."

Scratch that. I actually worry that her first word might be of the four letter kind, as I have been horrible about watching my language around her sweet baby ears.

I worry that I cram a 40 hour work week into 22 hours so that I can spend more time with her, and then I worry that because I am rushing through work I am failing professionally.

I worry that when I have to put in longer hours at work, I am failing as a mother.

I worry that because I stretch myself so thin, I am bound to drop the ball at any moment. That once I screw up, a domino effect will ensue and my carefully stacked house of cards will come crashing down.

I worry about the way having a baby has changed the dynamic of most of my relationships.

I worry that all of this worrying is causing premature gray hairs and wrinkles. Oh wait, that's actually not just a worry. That's a reality for this girl.

I worry that I forget everything. I trail off mid sentence. This mommy brain thing has me worried that I am suffering from an early onset of Alzheimers.

I worry about school districts and what her musical taste will be when she is a teen. God help me if we don't share a similar love for the banjo.

Then there is my husband. That sweet man with a head full of zzz's, who falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Who doesn't even worry about what is happening in the next hour, let alone tomorrow or the next ten years. I worry about his life of bliss. Who does that?! 

Whenever I answer something with "No worries," the irony is not lost on me. No worries exists in the land of every little thing is gonna be alright. And yet, despite my atrocious number of neurotic worries, it seems that for now, maybe although every little thing isn't perfect, it really might be alright.

The Family That Baseballs Together, Stays Together

It's no big secret that I am a true blue Dodgers fan. Year after year, I am a glutton for punishment as those boys in blue toy with my emotions. Each season, I think this is it! This is our year. I stick it out to the bitter end, and believe me, the end typically is bitter. Disheartened but not deterred, I look ahead with hope to spring, when my faith is renewed with the smell of pine tar, beer and hot dogs.

I tell you this because this year, I decided that I haven't suffered at the hands of the Dodgers or the baby terrorist quite enough. Nope! I had the brilliant idea that a road trip to spring training from San Diego to Arizona with an infant would be the best thing ever. I usually think of myself as an intelligent girl, but decisions such as these tend to make me and those around me question my sanity. Much like the Dodger baseball season, our road trip was filled with peaks and valleys, hope and desperation, the freedom of the open road and the solitary confinement of the car. 

Rather than regale you with a long tale of our misadventure, I will instead give you a visual montage of what a Greene family road trip looks like.

We started out stoked, excited for the adventure ahead. The baby terrorist instantly fell asleep, a sign of good things to come. Around El Centro, we were just starting to feel bored when we realized that we were getting a free air show! The Blue Angels were practicing, so we thought we should stop and have a look.

Feeling spunky, we got the baby terrorist out of the car and took a family photo. 

As you can see, we are all having a great time, baby terrorist included. However, good times were not to last long. A few miles down the road, the baby decided she was just about done with the car seat and she was going to tell us all about it.

Our love of the open road quickly turned into a hatred of all things desert related. Will this road never end? Why haven't we seen a road runner? Why are there so many cactuses? (A fight then ensued about whether or not it is cactuses or cacti. We really know how to party.) For the love of God, will that baby EVER stop CRYING?! Tensions ran high as we crossed the border into Arizona. I looked longingly out the window at a sign pointing toward Mexico, entertaining the idea of opening up my passenger door and doing a fancy tuck roll out of the car, not stopping until I found myself face to face with a tequila shot, a pristine beach, a pitcher of margaritas and a mariachi band singing songs of freedom as they welcomed me, baby and husband free, to a lifetime of leisure. 

And then, just like that, the baby terrorist had cried herself out and fell into a glorious slumber. Renewed, we cranked up the radio and sang along to a little ditty about Jack and Diane. Spring training, here we come! 

We finally made it to Phoenix and to her credit, the baby terrorist handled the game like a champ. It was hot and crowded but she is most definitely our daughter because she rocked her Dodger gear and cheered along with us as LA beat the Padres 5-0.

Because we are crazy and cheap, we thought we'd save ourselves some money and head back to San Diego right after the game. Like all seemingly good ideas, it started out great. Our little road dog was down for the ride.

Alas, the good times did not last long. The baby terrorist employed new tactics to try and convince us to set her free from the car seat. Instead of a high pitched screaming wail, she instead puckered up her perfect pout and looked as sad and forlorn as can be.

It tugged my heart strings and I spent the next 100 miles or so torturing my husband with my fears that I was a terrible mother, sentencing my poor daughter to years of couch time in a therapist's office. I could tell that he was really stoked to have that conversation.

And just as all seemed lost, we finally pulled into our driveway and told ourselves that we had fun fun FUN and we can't wait to do it again NEXT YEAR!! YEAAAH! And you know what? We probably will because it is misadventures like this that make us a family and let's face it, the family that baseballs together, stays together.

20 Types of Boys That I Can't Have Dating My Daughter

I am the mother of an extremely adorable baby terrorist. The other day I got to thinking far into the future, which I am notorious for doing, and thinking about the types of boys I would be mortified if she brought home. Of course, she won't be dating until she is 100 and if it were up to her father, she will be enrolled in "nun school." He thinks that is an actual thing and I don't have the heart to correct him. 

Now, I know that this is silly and unrealistic. At some point, the baby terrorist is going to grow into a teenage terrorist, then a college terrorist and I am certain she will inevitably bring home a boy that her dad and I will want to punch in the face. We'll clutch our hearts and clench our teeth and chug cocktails until she comes to her senses and decides that her mom and dad should arrange her marriage with a nice, respectable boy that we have hand picked. 

I have compiled a list of boys that should she bring one home, I might just keel over and die on the spot. I consulted my husband and without even showing him my list, his number one was the same as mine. Apparently we really hate skinny jeans. Should the baby terrorist bring home any of the types of boys listed below, I am going to have to enlist some really embarrassing mom tactics to sabotage the relationship and if that fails, the neighborhood liquor store will see a serious boost in sales because mama is going to need a drink.

1. A boy who wear skinny jeans. Your ass is not that fine, we don't want to see it, get off our front porch. You are not dating our daughter.

2. A San Francsico Giants fan. Since the baby terrorist is a Dodgers fan, this is a star-crossed lover relationship doomed to end in tragedy.

3. A boy who bumps gangster rap. I may be an old lady, but I don't want anyone rolling up to my crib with the bass bumping, vibrating my humble abode as he advertises that girls are bitches and hoes. Sorry, honey, cancel your plans. You're staying in tonight, eating popcorn with your mother and watching wholesome Disney movies.

4. A boy who wears glasses even though he doesn't need them. What is with this trend? Your non-prescription glasses don't make you look smart, it makes me annoyed. And I don't want you dating my daughter.

5. A boy who honks his horn instead of ringing the doorbell. You can honk all you want buddy, but you aren't going out with my daughter. 

6. A boy who sags his pants. I hope he trips walking up the driveway. Then we can all have a good laugh and the baby terrorist will understand our stance on low hanging jeans. And if he is sagging his skinny jeans, we can cross #1 and #6 off our list at once!

7. A boy who doesn't make eye contact. I don't trust you, Shifty.

8. A boy who calls my husband "bro." No, bro. It's time to go.

9. A boy who has naked girl mud flaps. You sir, are a douche.

10. A boy who picks up our daughter late because he lost track of time playing video games. You are adult enough to date, so you should be adult enough to put down the video game.

11. He doesn't believe in having a job while in high school. If your parents gave you money for this date, I probably won't like you.

12. A boy with a Justin Beiber haircut. I realize that by the time the baby terrorist is old enough to date the Beibs will probably be obsolete, but I find that haircut so annoying. I can't be bothered with my own bangs, let alone the bowl and bang hair style of my daughter's boyfriend.

13. A boy who wears any type of Affliction clothing.

14. A boy wearing more hair product than either myself or my daughter.

15. A boy with a flat billed hat. It makes me want to snap that baseball hat off your head and smack you in the face with your own bill just to add insult to injury.

16. A boy who says "you know what I'm saying?" No. I don't know what you are saying. And if you saying what I think you are saying, then I don't like you and you can kindly leave.

17. A boy who is really into his car, but hasn't put a dime of his own money into it.

18. A boy who takes too many selfies! The definition of "too many" is up to my discretion but if I have seen more pictures of your face making stupid expressions with lame captions then perhaps you should just date yourselfie. See what I did there? 

19. A boy who comments on what or how much she eats. 

20. A boy who doesn't hold open the door for her. Get some manners, bro, you know what I'm saying?

If you are the mother of a girl or a boy, what would you add to this list?