When He Said, “I Take Your Hand And Lead You To The Dance Floor” You Knew He Was Talking To A Boy, RIGHT??

Two things I have done in the last several days:

1.  Gotten a tattoo

2.  Attended a George Michael concert (and not just attended, but rather DANCED MY ASS OFF for two straight hours.  And as a new Mom, I rarely do anything for two hours.)

To answer your questions:

1.  Yes, it hurt.

2.  And no, I don't know when I became a gay man.

And while we're playing twenty questions, riddle me this Batman:  why is it that I cannot for the life of me remember what I had to eat for lunch today, the name of the dog (that usually comes out Jacks-ah-Park-errr-WHATEVER THE FRICK YOUR NAME IS!!!) or the correct word for various things I am trying to say at the office, such as CONTRACT, BUDGET or SNACK and yet (YET!) for some reason I could recall every single word to Everything She Wants?

My trip to LA was fun, and I enjoyed two glorious nights of uninterrupted sleep, which I haven't experienced in probably nine or ten months, easy, since the last trimester of my pregnancy was plagued by heartburn, frequent peeing and the kind of hugeness that usually renders a human incapable of turning over in bed by him or herself without the use of a large crane and a camera crew from The Insider waiting in the driveway.

My sister and a friend and I (all Moms) went to an Orange County tattoo place and can I say how out of place we looked?  Three desperate housewives, traipsing into the White Lotus Tattoo Parlor, with our fetching  summery handbags and kicky little ballet flats, surrounded by skateboarders sporting full sleeves of work, plus neck tattoos galore, accented by various types of facial piercings.

I got two, teeny little stars on my inner arm to forever remind me of my little babies. 

I mean, it's not like I forget about them, just to be clear. 

I forget everything else, all day long, and joke that soon I'll be like that guy in that movie, the one about the thingamajig, the you-know…the one who has memory loss and tattoos everything he needs to remember on his arm–Oh! MEMENTO!!  Yes, I joke that soon I'll be like THAT guy, tattooing every detail of my own life on my arm so I can remember them, but really I'm just being an ass. 

I have terrible problems with my memory but I do remember my own kids. Most days.

So, um, yeah. 

The return from LA was somewhat tricky as I had some issues with my mother-in-law, who came from PA to help BeBop and ensure that he would not leave Bosco (whose childcare license has been revoked for excessive ball-licking) in charge of the babies while he runs out to get Chinese food.

I've now had 'issues' with my sister-, father- and mother-in-law (I'm on the outs with the in-laws, you might say!) and although I am the common denominator in all of these instances, I do feel that conflicts of these sorts are always a two-way street.  And again, I am somewhat hesitant to discuss these issues in detail because what if, God forbid, my FIL was reading this blog? (Although if that old post about my pregnancy-induced anal fissure didn't get him I guess he can take anything I might dish out.)

The short version of the story is that we are sleep training Jax and giving him a chance, when he wakes early from a nap, to hang out awhile in his crib in the hopes that he can go back to sleep and my MIL would, at the first hint of a peep out of him, race into the nursery and pluck him from his bed faster than you can say "sucktastic Mommy."  And when I would ask her, repeatedly, to not do this, she would promise to cease and desist but this would last only until the next nap.

And then if I wasn't sitting outside his room, guarding the door with a sharpened Swiffer handle, she would sneak back in and begin playing the Dangle The Noisy Bracelets game with him, inevitably waking him fully and rousing Parker.  And when I would ask her nicely to step out of the room, hoping that Jackson would relax and get another 30 minutes of sleep, he would begin screaming bloody murder as if to say, "where is my super fun Grandma why did you make her leave and furthermore, why aren't you picking me up you stupid heifer?" or something like that.

So we went 'round and 'round about this issue of respecting our ground rules in our home when it comes to our babies, and yes, it was as much fun as it sounds. Sigh. 

But in the end we patched things up and I think the next visit will be smoother.  I told her how having kids just changes the dynamic of a family.  (At least in our dysfunctional families.) And how we all have to adjust to these new roles we are in: I am a Mom, BeBop is a Dad and our parents have to adjust to the idea of being grandparents.  This is now their primary function.  And this creates some confusion at times, as we all get used to this new situation. 

And how CERTAIN new grandparents should appreciate the framed photo of his three grandkids that he received on Father's Day (which isn't really a gift-mandated holiday ANYWAY) instead of griping about how he didn't receive a gift card from Best Buy DAD.

And so on I go, stumbling through this new unchartered territory, with lists of what I need to buy this weekend because, if left to my own devices, I would stare blankly at the supermarket shelves, unable to ascertain what is needed at home (BABY FOOD!  DIAPERS!!), with a freshly-tattooed arm that brings a smile to my face and a new pink t-shirt that reads 'Faith' from last night's concert where I wasn't even close to being the oldest person there.

And really, what could be so bad about all of that?