More Drawings, A Little Less Talk, and a Whole Lot of Poo’

Hello Readers! Are you still there? It has been a while. I’m happy to report that I have not abandoned this blog.

I’ve been meaning to do a blog post since September, but then I got ridiculously pregnant, and everything I was writing and drawing was a total pile of crap. Normally I am pro-crap piles, but only if it’s intentional (if you know me at all, you know how much I love a nice steaming pile of poo’).


No kidding though, I really have been busy these last few months. I have good reason for not posting a new blog entry…and yes, I do believe in the art of presenting believable excuses for not getting jack shit done.

Back in September, we went on our first “vacation” as a family, to Florida. I’d like to say that all my planning really paid off, but nothing could resolve the fact that we were traveling with a toddler.

The fun began at the airport…I made Ben carry the car seat in a special car seat carrying backpack, which I had read on some mommy blog is absolutely necessary for travel. This picture doesn’t even come close to accurately depicting how awkwardly huge it was (I was too lazy to redraw it). It looked like the backpack was wearing him. Ben’s whole body was lurching forward, and he never stopped sweating.

I highly recommend it!


Liam nursed the entire plane ride there and back. He’s off the charts for his height. In the world of mommy blogs, he’d be described as “absolutely thriving,” which is great and all, but it looked like I was nursing an eleven year old.


We did not purchase a seat for Liam, so we had the joy of being crushed by his large body for the duration of the flight. He had a great time harassing fellow passengers and repeatedly opening and closing the window shade and tray table. I know the bald gentleman in front of us loved it, because he kept peeking back at us between the seats, obviously yearning to join in on the fun.


When we got to Florida, Liam decided to stop sleeping. We quickly realized that a vacation with a toddler is not really a vacation, but rather a constant reminder as to why you should never leave your house again, and instead,  just live vicariously through travel magazines.

So you may be thinking, “Wow, really? You’ve been too busy to write a blog post because you went on a vacation back in September?”

NOOOOOO, obviously not. I’ve got plenty more excuses!

I also spent an ample amount of time looking for programs to watch on Hulu. I watched a documentary about the horrors of cow’s milk (bear with me)… which led to a documentary about slaughter houses (seriously, I’ll get to the validity of this excuse)…which led to my husband, our toddler (Liam), and I all going vegetarian. You might not think that’s a viable excuse, but I’m telling you, it is. Changing our diet was incredibly time consuming because I had to spend a lot of mental energy worrying about our protein intake and making sure my husband wasn’t gonna grow man boobs from eating too much tofu. Here’s a fun drawing about being vegetarian (so you don’t hate me too much for it).


I’d like to point out that the vegetarian guy drawing is not a drawing of my husband. He saw this picture and was concerned that I thought he had tofu man boobs. For the record, he does NOT have tofu man boobs.

We also survived the holidays – Thanksgiving, Halloween, Christmas, and even a family reunion, all while not eating meat, which is downright humiliating in the company of family, who looked at me like I had just tucked my skirt into my underpants. We’re talking looks of disgust, as if not only my underpants were showing, but that they were also covered in prominent poop stains.

The thing that has kept us the busiest, though, was the fact that we moved across the country to Pittsburgh, PA. Yep! We packed for a month, put all our crap into moving pods, and got the heck out of Los Angeles.

Everyone knows moving is unpleasant, so I’m not going to go into the details, but let’s just say that there were a lot of panic attacks, tears, sleepless nights, early labor signs, bed-rest, toddler tantrums, vomiting, and fights with family members about a cat who shit and peed on a bed (true story not worth reliving).

Anyway, we made it out alive.

I was 9 months pregnant when we got to Pittsburgh, and spent a good part of each day feeling sorry for myself, which was a lot of fun for the whole family. I think my husband enjoyed it the most. This pretty much sums up that last month of pregnancy:


On Friday, January 22nd, I finally popped out a baby. We named him Henry.

I would go into all the details of the labor, but honestly, I reeeeeeallly don’t want to.

Instead, I pledge to post a drawing of the moment Henry’s little head popped out of my vagina. Don’t worry, you won’t have to see anything too obscene. Maybe just a little bush…

Okaaaay, probably a lot of bush.

In the meantime, here’s a crappy baby drawing I did in one of my earlier posts, Failed Drawings Part 1: Scary Babies:

creepy baby grocery cart




Bitchez Be Eatin’ Cheeseburgerz

This week was a little rough. I’m pretty sure it was worse for my husband. He really gets the short end when I’m feeling emotional and crabby…and by crabby I mean a raving bitch – aka PMSing, but it’s safer not to use that term. If I use that term about myself, then my loved ones will think it’s acceptable for them to use as well, and it’s just not. I repeat, NOT OKAY (by the way, I’m still PMSing, so don’t challenge me).

The thing that really put me in a foul mood though was the four hours I spent on Thursday night, doing an extremely shitty drawing. Nothing frustrates me more than making art and realizing it’s god awful. It was so bad that I still can’t look at it, and I certainly can’t post it. So instead, here’s a doodle I found, which I did a few years ago.

pouring water on vagina

It’s probably more disturbing than my post about badly drawn babies. I’ve seen it make some people actually feel physically sick.

Anyway, so Thursday night, my husband got home from work really late, and he walked through the door just as I realized I had wasted my entire evening on this sucky drawing. So, I did what any woman in her not-so-right mind would do…I unleashed the beast…on my husband of course. Who else?!

When we finally got into bed, I told myself, “Tomorrow is a new day.” But when I awoke Friday morning, I still felt lousy. I knew what had to be done. I said to myself, or I guess to Liam (my one year old son), because he was sitting right there staring at me, “I need to get a goddamn cheeseburger.” Just the thought of getting a cheeseburger started to make me feel better. There’s something to be said for eating your feelings.

Liam and I ate at a restaurant in Culver City. I ordered our food and he stared at the couple sitting behind us, as if hanging on their every word. Our food arrived promptly, and I began the process of cutting half of everything on my plate into little bite-size pieces.

Liam was a joy! When he wasn’t shoving food in his mouth, he was waving at everyone who walked past our table. He sat in the high chair, as still as a saint, with the posture of a dancer. I couldn’t believe it. He has never made it through an entire meal at a restaurant without whining, climbing, or throwing food on the floor.

The burger was epic! It glistened with juices that ran down my chin. My eyes filled with tears of joy as I experienced the crisp crunch of the iceburg lettuce. The brioche bun was the yin and yang of sweet and salty. Someone had made that burger with love.

A beam of light peaked through the clouds from heaven, and shined down on us. Little angels burst from specs of dust and swirled all around our table. I mean, really. It was amazing.

Needless to say, the day really turned around. When we got home, I put Liam down for his nap. Then, I sat on the couch and embraced my food coma. I even left my muffin top untucked.

Tales of the Mundane

washing dishes 1

Being a mom is exactly like the rest of life. Sometimes it’s easy and sometimes it’s really hard. Typically, the hardest times are when you cannot accept the things that are out of your control. I can hate life if I cannot accept the fact that I have to wake up in the middle of the night to nurse, clean the kitchen several times a day, go grocery shopping, make dinner, and take a shower so that I don’t frighten people by my lack of personal hygiene.

We all have bad days, with or without a baby. The difference is that when you have a baby, if you allow yourself to wallow in your shitty day, you’ll feel ten times shittier than before. When you have a baby, whenever you are a sorry excuse for a human, you feel guilty about it. I know any time I am not at my best, I feel like I’ve failed as a mom. Logically I know I haven’t, but I can’t stop thinking that one fit of tears or burst of rage could condemn my child to a life time of drug abuse and bad relationships.

Then, there are things that are just undeniably bad, like serious financial problems, illness, and/or death. Luckily, in times of true adversity, I tend to get really calm and have that rare (for me) can-do attitude. When life is truly challenging and it seems like things are so bad that you might actually have to seek professional help, all that’s left to do is let it wash over you – like a massive wave that you know will beat the shit out of you if you try to swim to the surface too soon; It’s just a matter of riding it out. If you really don’t think you can get through it, it’s totally acceptable to seek professional help. In fact, it’s really the only time you can do that without being judged. You can’t seek professional help because your baby is crying for the hundredth time over a crappy diaper. I mean, you can, but people will judge you.

The same approach must be applied to every day annoyances and the new set of issues that come with being a new mom. If possible, I find a way to enjoy the crappy household chores and the endless demands from that little fungus that is my baby (don’t forget, a fungus can also be delicious)!

I find a way to lovingly wash the dishes. I do this by focusing on how much I love my dish soap and crisp new sponge (the blue one is for dishes, and the yellow one is for counter tops). If there’s a really tough pot that wasn’t soaked the night before, I let it sit in hot soapy water, and ten minutes later I climax over how easily the stubborn burnt chicken juice comes right off! I transform the mundane act of dish washing into an experience. This may sound unbelievable or like I’m pulling your chain, but I swear I’m not. Don’t even get me started on my lovely, well washed, highly absorbent, soft cotton striped dish towels that I only allow my husband to use for drying. They have not a spot on them!

I relish in the new ways I can find to distract Liam during a diaper change, rather than obsessing over how irritating he can be when he’s flopping around on the changing table like a goddamn Mexican jumping bean, seemingly trying to wipe his ass on every surface he can find. It is pure ecstasy when my wipes dispenser has just been loaded and warmed the wipes to absolute perfection! A brand new tube of honest company diaper rash cream can be life changing.

Cleaning the floors can fill anyone’s afternoon with joy. My secret is a napping baby, a Miele vacuum that I found on Craigslist, a brand new vacuum bag filled with perfumed vacuum beads, a Sh-mop (that’s the name of the mop I use), and honest company all natural/baby friendly/earth friendly/make you feel like a better person floor cleaner.

I could go on…

I know I should probably be talking about how I do these things for my little family because I love them, and I do. But a big part of it is my on going love affair with cleaning products and diaper station gadgets.

NOTE: I do not make money off of any links to products that I may provide, and my enthusiasm for consumer products does not reflect a lack of meaning or spirituality in my life.

Lovin’ My Post Baby Body: A Self Portrait

I have one friend who just gave birth six weeks ago, a friend who is pregnant with twins, and another friend who is newly pregnant (I am not allowed to tell anyone about her pregnancy – that’s how new it is). It has got me thinking about my pregnancy and the changes I’ve gone through since giving birth. On a completely superficial level, I’ve been thinking a lot about how much my body has changed.

Some things have returned to normal, but there are still some kinks to iron out. There are ways in which my body may never be the same. I have seen some improvement, but basically, one of the biggest changes I’ve noticed are my boobs.

I know for some women, having two different size boobs was an issue way before pregnancy. This was back in the days when getting boobs was a novelty and there was still hope that they’d get bigger. For me, the situation is dire…far more dire than any female navigating the horrors of puberty.

Here is a visual of what we’re dealing with:

One Boob Bigger copy

My left boob produces an insignificant amount of milk, or at least that’s what I suspect. Because of this, Liam has little interest nursing on that side. He’ll do it, but only to appease me. Sometimes he just latches, and doesn’t actually nurse. He’ll even look up at me and just laugh until I give up and flip him to the other side. I hope they make a bra with two different cup sizes. I haven’t Googled it yet, but if it hasn’t been invented, I plan to get it patented, and will submit a video to Shark Tank.

I just looked it up. It exists.

It may seem as though my jokes are an attempt to mask the self-hatred I have for my post baby body. This would be considered sacrilege to the baby community, especially since I had a natural home birth. As unbelievable as it may seem, I actually love my body more now than I ever did throughout my twenties…and by “love”, I mean there’s no time to look in the mirror and hate what I see. It’s love by default, which is still love.

I used to spend hours agonizing over my mushy stomach and the various ways in which it would spill over the waist of my Seven7 for all mankind jeans, which were ALWAYS too low on the hips. Lucky for me (and everyone else), I don’t have a high set butt-crack, which can present a problem with low riding pants.

Now that I’m a mom, I just throw on a pair of comfy high-waisted jeans, tuck in my muffin top, and I’m on my way. There’s nothing better. Well, except maybe if I was to wake up one morning to find that my stretch marks had been replaced by some seriously ripped abs. That might be better.

My First Post on “Hey, That’s My Baby”

I’m sure someone might wonder how I came up with such a brilliant website name. Or maybe not. But I’ll tell you anyway.

I have always loved the movie Reality Bites starring Ethan Hawke, Winona Ryder, Ben Stiller, and two other famous actors who I cannot recall right now (baby brain, baby brain). For those of you who haven’t seen it, it’s streaming on Netflix. Go Watch it, NOW!

In the movie, Ethan Hawke’s character is in a band called, “Hey, That’s My Bike.” I took that band name and replaced the word “bike” with “baby.” So, there you go. That’s the end of the story of how I birthed the title of this blog. Wow, good story. I should mention now, I really don’t like when people say, “Wow, good story,” after you tell a story that’s clearly not a very good story.

Some people might think “Hey, That’s My Baby” is a line from that song that goes, “Hey, That’s my baaaaby! No Sir, don’t mean maaaaybe!” Or maybe not because I just googled that song and the actual line is “Yes Sir! That’s my Baby!” It’s usually being sung by some old time-y cartoon guy from the 1920s, doing the Charleston.

It is 12:37 pm and that means nap-time is almost over. I have to go clean the kitchen (for the 3rd time today) and prepare to attempt to leave the house on time to visit our good friend Betsey. She’s having twins and I need to fondle her giant belly.