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This week’s headlines:

Zodka wows the Obamas with her intelligence and wit. Not. even. close. So, last October I made a contribution, albeit itsy-bitsy, to Obama’s campaign and I was automatically entered to win a dinner date with the Big O’s! I’ve been waiting and waiting for that extra-special email to let me know that I’m the lucky winner of said dinner but, alas, I just learned that the contest is long over and I *sniff* did not win. But let’s just say I did win and got to sit down to a meal with the POTUS and FLOTUS. What would I say? How would I sound? With my hormones raging like a goddamn class V, god only knows what would come flying out of my mouth. Here is a snippet of my recurring nightmarish daydream of My Evening with the Obamas:

Me: Barack, I’ve been thinking…thinking about macrocosms, microcosms, and the medium-sized cosms. What are your views on these issues?

Barack: *awkward pause* Well, I’m not sure I understand your question…

Me: I’m so sorry, sir, er, Mr. Barack President sir, sometimes my mind becomes temporarily inundated with meaningless crap poorly disguised as existential musings, which then become clouds of convoluted queries that float around in my head until they burst into a garbled mass of unintelligible questions that I aim at the unfortunate person sitting across from me when I’m nervous. *fake cough* Could you pass the Sriracha, please?

Barack: *speechless, with a bemused yet slightly intrigued look on his face*

Michelle: *ahem* So, Zoe, you’re a stay-at-home mom. What’s that been like for you?

Me: Well, Michelle, have you ever seen two giant tortoises having sex?

Michelle: *uncomfortable laugh* Um, no, can’t say that I have.

Me: Well I have, and it’s loud, painful-looking, mesmerizing and yet strangely beautiful. That’s pretty much been my experience of stay-at-home motherhood so far…

Michelle: Hmm. That’s an interesting way of looking at it…

Me: Yes, well, I prefer to look at life through toilet-shaped glasses. You see, the toilet is a great metaphor for life. You sit on it, shit and piss in it, spit in it, yack in it, and yet somehow revere it. Pass the salt, please.

Zodka’s hormonal impairment reaches epic levels. My hormones are raging so f-ing badly this week that I’m not sure how to function normally in society, let alone in the confines of my own home. Babe is getting the brunt of it, poor thing, as he always does. I can’t take it out on Baby E or the cats because that’s just wrong. So, that leaves Babe or inanimate objects but inanimate objects don’t sneeze too loudly or snore all f-ing night.

Me: That’s a stupid idea and it’s never going to work.

Babe: *sigh*

Me: Why can’t you remember anything we talk about?!

Babe: *sigh* *eye roll*

Me: Don’t touch me. 

Babe: *sigh* *eye roll* *teeth grit* *fist clench*

I’m such an asshole.

Excruciating baby minutiae. I’m not the only one who’s been having a rough time lately. *gasp of surprise* E’s had a cold for WEEKS and the snot factory workers are refusing to let up on production. She’s also cutting MORE THAN ONE TOOTH simultaneously. I feel absolutely terrible for her. And me. And Babe. And the cats. And any other unfortunate souls who happen to find themselves in the same room as her. Besides screaming in pain, E also enjoys screaming in times of glee and want. The want times are often about food. I always ask her if she wants more, and show her the sign for more, and often make her hands sign more, but she’d rather just let out a high-pitched, ear-piercing, dizzying scream with legs a kickin’ and arms a flailin’. She has also started braying like a donkey to show she’s getting agitated and soon headed for a full-on tantrum if I don’t do what she wants me to do. It’s rather bizarre and kind of embarrassing.

E and I went to the store today because it was all I could think of to do to distract her from the tooth pain that was making her CRY and SCREAM and not be able to nurse without WRITHING and GRUNTING and wimpering. Through the aisles we went, me walking zombie-like and resting much of my weight on the cart, which I pushed slowly and unsteadily, E sitting in the cart with tear-soaked lashes and legs kicking at quarter-speed. In the bulk aisle, a little girl about five or six years old looked at E and then looked up at me with a what I swear was a sneer. Haha. I have all my teeth and the only time I ever cry is when I skin my knee or cut my finger or get called a mean name in school like “vaginahead.” After arriving back home and putting the groceries away, we made our way to the living room to play with the same old toys and read the same old books. Bogey shot me a look. Mikey flashed me his sphincter and exited the room. It was a helluva lot quieter before that loud-ass thing came along. When will it be leaving?

Why didn’t anyone tell me that warm water submersion is essentially a free colonics treatment, at least for babies? I never got the memo. My “memo” came in the form of three consecutive turds (along with accompanying floaters) shooting out of E’s ass in the bath, each one right after I emptied, cleaned, and refilled the tub. Luckily, Mommy was not in the bath with Baby when this occurred. Daddy not so lucky. Daddy thinks it’s good and fun idea to bathe with Baby. Daddy and Baby splashy. Daddy and Baby singy. Until Daddy see floaty turdies. Daddy yell at Mommy to come helpy. Mommy laughy real hard. This time Baby do four turdies. Mommy laughy more. Daddy takey long shower. Baby takey long, relaxing nappy.