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’).

Poop

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!

Ben_carseat_bag

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.

Sarah_Toddler_nursing

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.

On_Airplane_to_FLA

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).

Veg_ManBoobs.jpg

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:

Preg_Sarah

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

 

 

 

Advertisements

I’ve Got a Blabber Mouth

barf

So, I haven’t been posting lately for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that I feel like everything I’ve been writing has been one long bitchy rant, which is really not what this blog is meant to be. The second reason is that I was feeling really depressed, which was really at the root of my bitchiness. I just felt negative about everything and I was feeling self conscious about it.

I actually felt so depressed that I started to dread my future as a mother and as a human – having to go grocery shopping, drive in traffic, do laundry, shower regularly, brush my teeth, clean up Liam’s messes, wipe Liam’s butt, wipe my butt, etc.

I realized something…I wasn’t suddenly clinically depressed, I was experiencing a major case of pregnancy hormones.

Oh yeah, by the way, I’m pregnant.

I AM PREGNANT with baby NUMBER 2…BABIES Part Deux. That’s right! I am officially nursing a baby and pregnant with another. I actually wrote about getting pregnant while still nursing in a post a few months ago…not thinking it’d happen so soon. But, I guess that’s what happens when you “do it” and don’t pull out.

A friend of mine recently wrote a blog post about her severe postpartum depression, which is also connected to the hormonal changes from making babies. Reading it helped me figure out how to handle my own depression. Check it out here. When I read it, I started sobbing…and I don’t mean dainty, little, quiet tears from a lady kind of sobbing. We’re talking loud, snot running down the nose, child like sobbing – where you lose all control and can’t catch your breathe or use your words; The kind of crying you did back in first grade.

I don’t know if it was a good cry I needed, or if the hormones were leveling off as I approached the second trimester, but just as I was about to seek professional help, life seemed to get a little less gloomy. I finally felt some excitement about being pregnant again. I was able to go grocery shopping without crying over little things like Trader Joe’s running out of the medium bodied peaberry coffee beans (I’m actually still a little annoyed about that). I was able to cook without having a melt down over a pot of water taking too long to boil. Having to live out the rest of my life as a mother and wife stopped seeming like a death sentence, and started feeling like something I wanted to do again. Phew! Just in time, because I really wasn’t in the mood to have a nervous breakdown.

Things are looking up, but I’m not quite out of the first trimester yet. In fact, I’m not really supposed to go public with this news, but I’m a big blabber mouth. I’ve already told a bunch of moms I don’t know at the park, and all the little old ladies who like to say hi to Liam when we go to Trader Joe’s…aaaand a bunch of close friends…aaaand our entire family…aaaand some acquaintances…aaaand an online Mommy group…but you know what? I didn’t make a public post about it on Facebook, so that’s pretty good. Although I’m going to post this on Facebook now so I guess that would mean I’ve officially completely failed at keeping this quiet. Let’s just hope all goes according to plan and that I am in fact pregnant with a human child.

Before I go on, I need to preface the rest of this blog post by saying that I am STILL very hormonal. I fear that no matter what I do, the tone I write with now is a little on the bitchy/ungrateful/depressed side, and there is not much I can do about it. Even though things are definitely better, my emotions are still a little unpredictable. Okay, A LOT unpredictable. This morning, on the way to see my midwife, my husband was playing drums on the steering wheel, and I told him I wasn’t in the mood. Who ISN’T in the mood for air drums?! He’s really good at it too!

This pregnancy is like the first in that all food smells bad. It has been pretty rough, but compared to a lot of other moms, I’ve got it easy (that’s me trying to be positive and not feel sorry for myself, but I actually totally feel sorry for myself). I hear horror stories of pregnant ladies throwing up so much that they need to be put on medication just so they don’t starve to death. I can’t believe these same women go on to get pregnant again! If it was that bad the first time, I might have considered adoption or a surrogate, no kidding. I really don’t appreciate throwing up.

Sometimes I lose sleep when I think about the day I’ll have to clean Liam’s throw up off the floor. Every kid does it…you just have to pray it doesn’t happen on you, or worse…on a jute rug (yep, barf on a jute rug is my worst nightmare), which if you don’t know, is not meant to be washed. I once spilled an entire cup of coffee on our jute rug. I called a professional carpet cleaning company and they said the rug was fucked. I’m still considering dipping the rest of the rug in a warm coffee bath, to even things out.

I’ve dealt with massive amounts of spit up, but barf has that special smell. I might have to enforce a law that makes cleaning our kids barf off the floor part of my loving husband’s duties (I know, I’m so sweet and thoughtful). I’ll take care of pee accidents, and maybe share poop clean up duties, but he’ll have to do the barf. It’s all in his best interests! If I have to do it, I’ll barf too, and he’ll never hear the end of it.

Now that I’m pregnant for a second time, I’ve noticed a lot of differences from when I was pregnant with Liam.

Firstly, no one cares. I mean, I’m sure some people do, but I think everyone assumes since you’ve done it before, that you don’t need to talk about it. The surprises of pregnancy are not anything new, but going through it with a toddler is quite a shock. Try grocery shopping with your toddler while he tugs at your bra strap because he wants to suck your boobs dry, while you desperately search for appetizing food that all seems to smell like deli meat that has been sitting in a hot car for a month, while you simultaneously dry heave and let out a little trickle of pee right into your maternity shorts.

That’s right, I’m wearing maternity shorts. I’m only 12 weeks pregnant, and I actually look pregnant. The second time you get pregnant, your body knows exactly what to do, and your tummy immediately starts busting out of your big girl fat jeans.

I thought because I had done it before, that the outcome of giving birth and what that means for our family wouldn’t be this great unknown – I honestly thought we would know exactly what to expect. So not true. I have never had two kids. It’s just as abstract a concept as it was the first time. The fact that we will have one newborn and a toddler is difficult to imagine. Mostly because it just seems like an impossible thing to manage. I know people do it all the time, but guess what, when you ask those people what it’s like to have two kids both under the age of two, all of them say, “Don’t worry, it gets easier after a couple of years.” A couple of YEARS?! Jesus! Is that supposed to be comforting?! I was just looking for a few pointers!

Ive noticed that because I’ve been feeling like people aren’t as excited about this second baby, I have adopted the same attitude. I’m not doing it on purpose, but I guess I’m avoiding talking about it too much with people for fear they’ll say, “But, haven’t you already done this?” I suspect that this fear is directly connected to my hormones, which make me feel insecure, unloved, irrational, unappreciated, sad, fat, and very very lonely.

I’m gonna start allowing myself to be excited about this though, and stop worrying about whether or not people will think I’m being overly enthusiastic. I want to be just as excited as the first time, because this is my first time…my first time being pregnant with a second child. Allowing a pregnant lady to get excited about a pregnancy is kind of the only joy there is in being pregnant. It takes the edge off of the constipation, hemorrhoids, insomnia, dry-heaving, barfing, constant hunger, constant thirst, back aches, neck aches, sciatica, vaginal discharge, sore nipples, worry, fear, exhaustion, etc. Aaaaaand I’m sure you have a really attractive image of me in your mind right now.

Here’s what I want to know… how the F@$% are ladies having 5+ kids?! HOW?! Even just 3! That’s when everything really changes. You no longer drive your family around in a car, you quickly become a bonafide bus driver.

It’s not fun to be a bus driver. Think back to when you used to ride the bus. Remember that sour look on your bus driver’s face? Every bus driver I’ve ever met as a kid looked like an alcoholic who hadn’t slept in days. You could see their face the entire trip to and from school in that giant mirror above them.

There was one exception – Mr. Gilligan! He was my favorite bus driver of all time. He always seemed to be happy. Most people thought he was genuinely happy about being a bus driver, but I knew better. I liked to sit up front like the dork that I was, and watch his face closely in that big mirror. I observed Mr. Gilligan’s full fledged facial tick. His mouth rapidly alternated from his lips pursing into a tight wrinkled ring (something I like to refer to as “cat butthole lips”), then switching back to a wide, closed-mouth grin. He switched back and forth between those two expressions a hundred times a minute. I’m certain it was due to transporting one too many rotten kids. Sadly, I eventually joined the rotten crowd and graduated to sitting at the back of the bus with all the other “cool” kids who skipped gym class to smoke cigarettes. Poor Mr. Gilligan.

So, that’s what’s been going on here. I’ve just been laying around being pregnant, and watching episodes of The Bachelorette, which in my skewed hormonal state of mind, is the greatest show ever made. Now that the season finale has come and gone, I need to stop pretending to be an invalid, and get back to my art.

We All Have Buttholes, But We Don’t All Love Ass Play

butt sniffer

Sometimes I wish people were more like dogs or cats. If we were more like dogs, we’d all be people pleasers who greet each other with a friendly butt sniff. If we were more like cats, we’d all be equally selfish and experience great pleasure from sticking our buttholes in each other’s faces. Either way, our personalities would be a lot less complicated, more compatible, and having a butthole would make everyone a winner.

Unfortunately, people are all so different, and just because we all have a butthole, does not mean we all love ass play. This makes finding a mate quite challenging. I’ve wasted many years with the wrong guys, and reading self help books about love. Of course, I had to experience the duds in order to appreciate and discover who and what would work for me in the long term. I just wish I had thought to go to the library self help section instead of dropping hundreds of dollars at Barnes and Noble on titles like Why Men Love Bitches and How To Be An Adult In a Relationship.

It turns out I needed to find someone who had similar interests and a similar outlook on life. Maybe that’s not a necessity for everyone, but I can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t agree with me most of the time. I hate to admit this, but I was the person in high school who lost their shit in debate class, and then spent my early twenties in coffee shops, arguing with regulars about politics. I think there’s something fundamentally wrong with a person if they disagree with me. I’ve managed to tone it down over the years, when I realized I was annoying everyone, including myself. Rather than getting angry, I just respond with mild shock and outrage. Maaaybe not my best quality, but unfortunately, like Larry David, I pride myself on my obnoxious character traits.

During my years of shitty relationships and self help, I came across a book called The Five Love Languages. It’s written by some guy named Gary and I’m pretty sure he believes in Jesus. I’m not a religious person, but I’ve had my fair share of exposure to the Christian faith, so any mention of God in this book didn’t really bother me. I say if you want to be a good Christian, great, just don’t make me accept Jesus into my heart.

Actually, I already did accept Jesus into my heart…when I was about 9 years old, because my mom’s super Christian boyfriend at the time told me that if I did, the angels would rejoice in heaven, in my honor. So I whole heartedly accepted! Who doesn’t want that kind of validation?!

After that, I was extraordinarily stressed out because my dad wouldn’t accept Jesus into his heart. I was like, “Um, dad! If you don’t accept Jesus into your heart, you’re gonna go to hell. HELL, like, the worst place ever.” I thought I had a very convincing argument, but he didn’t seem swayed.

Luckily, my mom broke up with the Christian guy, I didn’t have to go to children’s church anymore, and I could stop worrying about my dad’s ill-fated soul.

Anyway, back to my original point about the 5 languages of love…it’s a pretty insightful book. The idea is that we all show our love to people in 5 different ways, as is implied by the title. Typically, the way in which we show love is also the way in which we feel loved by others. For example, I have two love languages – acts of service and physical touch. I like to give and receive, but if I’m completely honest, I mostly like to receive.

With acts of service, I like when my husband does menial tasks for me, such as fetching a glass of water or making me a delicious and nutritious meal. I can literally be moved to tears of joy when he takes apart the toilet and scrubs every nook and cranny without my asking him! It happens about once a year, but it is truly a delight. Sometimes I go too far, for example, when I ask him to tuck in the sheets on my side of the bed, when he’s already under the covers on his side. He knows when to say no, though, because he has a backbone, and that’s why I love him.

As for physical touch, well I am a glutenous, bottomless pit for any kind of non sexual (although that’s nice too) physical touch, and it doesn’t have to be from my husband. I enjoy anything from a hefty foot rub to a body oil rub down that lasts for hours. If a stranger on the street offered to give me a shoulder massage, I would accept. If a friend or family member gives me a brief, loving squeeze on the shoulder, I will bow my head in ecstasy in hopes that it will turn into a lengthy massage. I’m a physical touch WHORE.

According to this book, if two people are struggling to feel loved in a relationship, they most likely have contrasting love languages. In theory, once you’re aware of someone’s love language, you can show them love in a way that they appreciate, and vice versa.

It’s a nice idea, but basically it doesn’t fucking matter. The relationship is either going to work, or it’s going to be too much work, and ultimately end, depending on each person’s threshold for pain and misery. I think most of us have a hard time finding a person that doesn’t make us miserable. Like they always say, “there’s someone out there for everyone,” unless you’re an exceptionally miserable asshole, in which case the chances of lifelong happiness with one person are pretty slim.

Thank the Lord I found someone who thinks the way I do, so we don’t have a whole lot to disagree on. He’s not an asshole, and neither am I (not that I’m aware of anyway).

It just works.

As for where we stand on ass play? Ummmmmm, that’s none of your business!

cat butthole 2

Boobs, Bush, and The Creative Process.

cropped-rollerbladerfinal12.jpg

“To stimulate creativity, one must develop the childlike inclination for play”

-Albert Einstein

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”

-Pablo Picasso

For six years, I worked at a wine bar called Lou, which is where I met my husband and my best friend B (the one who just had twins). Sadly, it closed years ago.

My poor coworkers patiently endured my quarter life crisis (aka my twenties). During that time, I was dumped by my fiancé right before our wedding, I moved apartments an average of twice a year, and I suffered form a severe case of self-hatred and self-doubt. I also kind of hated waiting tables, which didn’t always make for a pleasant work attitude. I don’t like to admit that I was pretty unhappy.

The real problem was that I was an artist who didn’t produce very much art. I was unable to tap into my creativity. I feared I had no imagination and had nothing to say.

Despite my mental and emotional problems, we all really enjoyed our time working together at the wine bar. Things were out of hand most of the time. I can’t imagine what customers must have thought of us. We gave each other a nightly shoulder massage (our boss included), scavenged scraps of farm-to-table food from the kitchen (every restaurant these days is farm-to-table), sat down with the regular customers, danced, cried, argued, and took way too many smoking breaks.

At the end of every night, our boss would subject us to strange American standards from the 60’s like My Bathroom is a Private Kind of Place and sappy tear-jerkers from the 70’s like Send in the Clowns.

One evening, at the end of my shift, I was sitting at the bar doing the close out and counting our tips, when I found myself with a serious urge to doodle something obscene. So, I utilized the only art supplies I had at the time – a tip envelope, and one of the few pens that wasn’t swiped by some thieving customer.

The first thing I drew was a naked woman roller skating, while being propelled through the air by a presumably noxious fart, with an abundance of breast milk spraying from her nipples, and a sassy turd left in her wake. I’m pretty sure the idea came from a combination of a conversation I had with my boss about making cheese from breast milk, my friend B flashing me her pubes during a girly bathroom rendezvous, and odd memories from childhood supplied directly from my subconscious.

I continued doodling every night, until it occurred to me that these weren’t just doodles. They were masterpieces. I was meant to draw boobs, bush, farts, breast milk, and poop. Is it juvenile and repulsive? Yes! Is it lady-like and feminine? Absolutely not. Is there a deeper message that I want my audience to grasp? Mmmm, I’ll just let the viewer decide.

The point is, I found a way to make art that makes me happy. I’m not constantly questioning whether it’s good or not, because it doesn’t matter. I enjoy the process.

I’m not going to act like I’m fulfilled all the time, because I’m not. It’s easy to slip into doubt, and question my self-worth as an artist. Especially since I am doing drawings that primarily consist of ladies taking a crap, and weird fat babies.

I can easily doubt my abilities as a mom too, when I’m bored out of my skull by having to hold Liam’s hands as I walk him up and down the sidewalk for the hundredth time.

Then, I surprise myself and come up with a new idea for my art, and I get to wonder where it came from…

and I notice how cute it is that when Liam practices walking, he looks like he’s drunk…and he holds my fingers so tight, they turn purple.

More Crappy Baby Drawings That Look Like Old Fat People

My wonderful friend B is in the hospital because she just gave birth to twins! I cannot believe she had two humans inside her, and now they are here – new to this world, like little aliens with wrinkly red faces.

Actually, they’re quite beautiful. B called me via Facetime and I got to see them sleeping next to each other. We haven’t visited yet because Liam (my baby) has a cold. I would hate to wipe his sick all over B’s new babies.

Of course this great birthing event calls for some crappy baby drawings. B! if you ever find time to read this (which is doubtful), I apologize for these drawings. Your babies are so much cuter than this:

betsey's penny

This is Olga. She is seventy-six years old, and enjoys long walks in NYC, in her ankle length winter coat that she purchased at her local thrift store.

betsey's rohan

This is Boris. He also lives in NYC. He has been a cab driver for 26 years and doesn’t take shit from anybody.

Congrats to B and her family! Welcome to the world of endless diapers and breast pumping good times.

Bananas – The Worst Fruit

banana boobs final copy

Remember when you were a kid and you used to have pretend phone conversations into a banana? Those were the good ol’ days! I’m actually kind of pissed I ever switched to a real phone. It got me thinking (which ultimately made me a little depressed), about how my baby, Liam, might never talk into a banana.

A Few Reasons Liam May Never Talk into a Banana:

1. Pretend phone conversations with fruit have been replaced by the imagination-killing glow of the cell phone screen. Anytime Liam gets his hands on my iphone, he becomes irritable and obsessive. It’s actually kind of creepy. I don’t know why, but obsessive babies that have pent up anger remind me of Chucky – minus the red hair, facial scars, bad language, and propensity for violence and murder.

2. We don’t really eat bananas in our house, especially if I buy them. In fact, there are presently 6 over-ripe bananas sitting in our forgotten fruit bowl. I’ve tried to be more Pinterest-y and use over-ripe bananas for homemade banana bread, but they turn black in the fridge and then a month later, I discover them and wonder why I go through so much trouble for a fruit I kind of loathe anyway. In theory, what’s not to love? They’re convenient, healthy, sweet, fun to draw, and phallic. But the truth is that they aren’t juicy! Period! By definition, a good fruit is supposed to be juicy. They are the opposite of juicy. They actually make me thirsty. That’s reason alone not to buy them.

3. Bananas are soon going to be too expensive to buy and then become extinct. Can you imagine paying a dollar per pound for bananas?! Gross! It’s old news, but according to this article, we’re looking at only three more years of bananas.

I have endured a banana on occasion, but I have strict rules for banana consumption.

The Conditions Under Which I Will Consume a Banana:

1. Slightly under-ripe (so it’s not too mushy), sliced over cereal, with a good amount of milk. It has to be in a somewhat healthy cereal, though. Bananas look ridiculous in something like Fruity Pebbles or Lucky Charms. If you eat it in those types of cereals, you’re wrong. Also, for the record, Lucky Charms is a terrible cereal and Fruity Pebbles really shouldn’t ever be eaten, unless it’s on top of some frozen yogurt…and not just any frozen yogurt – it has to be Yogurtland.

2. In a peanut butter sandwich…again, don’t forget how un-juicy a banana is. When you pair it with peanut butter, you will desperately need something to drink. You cannot wash it down with anything other than water or milk, unless you want to be disgusting.

3. Running late for an afternoon appointment, shaking from hunger, with no time to stop for food – not even at a drive thru McDonalds or anywhere else equally as shitty…this is one of the two occasions a banana may be consumed without other food.

4. While extremely pregnant, low blood sugar, in need of potassium, with a strange craving for a banana. This is occasion number two in which a banana may be consumed without other food.

When the banana industry meets its maker, I will not mourn their absence. However, I will continue to draw ladies with banana boobs. I may not find bananas tasty, but they certainly are funny.

Failed Drawings Part 2: Crippled Horse Legs and The Fence Adding Technique

When I was a kid, I loved to draw. When I wasn’t drawing women in ball gowns, I was drawing horses. For some reason, I never managed to obtain a reference photo of a horse, and ended up with horses that had back legs that looked like someone had taken a crowbar and smashed the knees back in the wrong direction. Do horses even have knees? I don’t know. Seems to me like they bend in two places, kind of like a finger. Anyway, the pictures usually looked something like this:

horse crooked back legs

So, I could post images of a well drawn horse, but why do that when I can implement the discovery I made as a kid?! I found a way to avoid drawing certain subject matter. I call it the “Fence Adding Technique.” It’s a great tool to have anytime there is something you can’t draw or are too lazy to obtain a reference photo.

horse with fence

Notice when the unsightly, crippled legs are strategically placed out of site, the subject matter has the potential to be improved across the board.  In this case, the horse now dreams of some day becoming a unicorn, the details in the grass are more apparent, and there is even a pretty pink flower that has sprouted from the soil. Also, let’s note that this horse is decidedly more attractive than the first one with the crappy legs, all thanks to the “Fence Adding Technique.”

The same idea can be applied in different ways. If you are unable to draw hands, for example, then all the characters in your drawings can be wearing mittens. Same goes for feet – they can all be wearing socks…and so on. Just so it is clear, the idea is that you take something you can mostly draw and hide the parts that you have continually failed to render accurately. Let’s face it, drawing hands and feet really sucks. Plus, there is endless entertainment to be had with socks and mittens, especially if the characters you’re drawing are naked.

Crappy hands and feet

Or maybe you don’t know how to draw socks or mittens either. Just like the horse, you can have your characters standing behind a fence too!

girl with fence

Or Maybe you can draw the feet, but not the hands, then you can simply have your character standing with their hands in their pockets:

girl hands in pockets

or coyly placed behind their back:

girl hands behind back

Now, of course, if i wanted to improve as an artist and get better at drawing all things, I could reference a photograph, and practice. I have done this before and I can tell you, it wasn’t half as fun.

Failed Drawings Part 1: Scary Babies

As I stated in my about page, there are a few things that I cannot draw: the back legs of a horse, cute babies, and myself. These are things I’ve actually tried to draw and have found that sometimes the practice just makes things worse.

I wanted to share my attempts at drawing my baby, Liam. Some of them are from when he was brand new, and some are more recent. All of them are scary for various reasons. I apologize if anyone is genuinely disturbed by these images. I know I scared the shit out of my husband when I showed him.

Attempt #1

creepy baby grocery cart

This was done from a photograph of when Liam and I went to Trader Joe’s. After I finished drawing his face, I sort of gave up on the rest of his body, because it quickly became pretty obvious that there was no hope to make it resemble a cute baby, let alone my baby. Ugh. This one gives me the creeps. I call it Creepy Baby.

Attempt #2

gremlin baby
Nooooooo! This one will give anyone nightmares. Somehow I managed to draw an even creepier baby. This looks like a cross between a gremlin and a chucky doll. This is called Creepier Baby

Attempt #3

open mouth baby

I guess this is a little better in that it’s not creepy? It still looks nothing like Liam though. I don’t know why but I feel like this is what a male model baby would look like. I don’t particularly find this baby to be good looking. Maybe it’s the chiseled jaw line. So, of course I’ll have to call it Blue Steel Baby. (If you don’t know what Blue Steel is, that’s because you haven’t seen Zoolander, which is a big mistake.

 

Attempt #4

fat man baby

Fat Man Baby

 

Attempt #5

bald powder baby

Okay, this is what Powder would have looked like as a newborn. Sorry, I’m going to have to call this one Baby Powder. Terrible.

This is Powder:

Powder

If you haven’t seen Powder, definitely go watch it. I don’t remember it being very good, but it’s worth a watch because he’s really pale and he’s always crying.

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.