What I Didn’t Expect When I Was Expecting. *WARNING: do not read if you’re squeamish and/or an in-law*

I’m not naive…let’s just get that out of the way right out of the box, but there is some funky business going down over here at No. 7 and, for once, it’s not of my doing. Since making the move to WordPress, I’ve discovered this magical place called Site Stats. It’s a far more magical place than Sitemeter ever was because within Site Stats exists the most magical realm of all. Its name is “Search Engine Terms”. Getting the picture? I can see what people are searching for when their proverbial ship comes to ground here on the beautiful yet slightly schizophrenic island of Narragansett No. 7.

I can’t stop myself. I love logging on and while my stats are loading, my level of anticipation builds to a frightening level.

Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please let there be just one more bizarre or filthy sounding search term in that queue!

I have started sharing the previous day’s weirdest and/or most offensive search terms on the Narragansett No. 7 Facebook wall. I own it, so I can do whatever I want to and, well…I want to. On Saturday morning I shared Friday’s winning search term which was as follows: “mom washing my penis”.

Huh.

Well, I’m not entirely sure how that particular search landed Mr. McIssues at No. 7, but I want to thank him for the laugh.

As I pondered these strange and border-line repulsive searches conducted by people unknown to me, I recalled a time back before I was a mommy. Actually, I was technically very close to becoming a mommy for the first time. My stomach was freakishly large and I was enduring a heat wave in Boston which, for some odd reason, caused me to sit on the floor in front of a fan for an usually long period of time. I don’t know why. Maybe the hardwood floor felt cool, I don’t remember. Nonetheless, after lying around like a giant sow for what seemed like hours, I hoisted my grotesquely deformed self off the floor and began my pitiful end-of-pregnancy waddle toward the kitchen. Mid-waddle, it struck me that things weren’t quite right down below. Something was really out of place. I’d never had a baby before so you’ll understand that I was slightly alarmed when I realized that my entire crotch was swollen.

Yes, that’s right, I said my crotch was swollen.

Believe me…I had the same disgusted and horrified reaction except I actually grabbed a mirror and looked at it! After emitting a piercing scream, I ran-waddled to my laptop and began furiously searching Medline and OB/GYN sites for the cause of ‘giant swollen crotches in the 9th month of pregnancy.’

Evidently I wasn’t the first woman on the face of the Internet to suffer the malady because I immediately found a discussion board about the very subject. I know…what are the chances? Yet, it was on that very informative (and slightly off-putting) discussion board that I found a link for “Cheeseburger Crotch”. By that time I had determined I wouldn’t suffer death by swollen vaghooha and my swelling was likely due to the fact that I’d sat my big, fat pregnant ass on a hardwood floor while my baby’s head pressed on some nerve or something…yadda yadda and totally boring. BUT… Cheeseburger Crotch intrigued me. It might have even made me giggle just a little bit, so I clicked the link. Today, as I wrote about what is probably my most intimate and mortifying moment ever, I found myself Googling “Cheeseburger Crotch” again. Nearly seven years have passed since my brush with The Burger, and it appears that Cheeseburger Crotch is much more widely discussed in these enlightened times. WebMD has even dedicated an article discussing embarrassing pregnancy symptoms, one of which, as you can probably guess, being Cheeseburger Crotch.

Well, back there in 2004, I laughed really hard – at myself and my crotch. Then I did what any woman with freakishly swollen vagina would do. I called my sister.

Hello?

Hey…so, I have Cheeseburger Crotch.

WHAT?!

Yeah, Cheeseburger Crotch.

Ummm…(followed by some nervous laughter)

I got up and couldn’t walk right because my crotch got in the way.

WHAT?!

Seriously. My crotch swelled so much I couldn’t walk, so I walked to the bathroom and looked at it because I thought maybe the baby’s head was coming out or something, but it was just REALLY swollen. So I did a web search and it turns out that I have Cheeseburger Crotch. [pause as I popped a salt & vinegar chip into my mouth] But don’t worry…it’s going away now.

uh…

I’ve gotta tell ya’…Cheeseburger Crotch is exactly the right description for what was going on down there.

I don’t really know what my sister said because she was laughing so hard. Until this very moment…right now…as I type…I have never discussed my run in with The Burger with anyone other than my sister simply because of all people on the face of this earth, she was the only one I knew who would laugh as hard I did.

 Yeah…I went there. Click the flashing box if you like fries with your burger.

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Buh, Bye Booger Wall!

As parents, we tend to overlook some of the more ground-breaking hypotheses that our children deliver. Mostly because we’ve been desensitized by their inane chatter. There must be some base instinct aimed at preserving our sanity that has enabled us to tune them out yet, respond to hours-long monotone diatribes about Bakugans and Yoshi’s with a series of non-committal mmm, hmms and random uh, huhs. Lately, Joe has begun to remind me of a character from the movie Meet the Robinsons. The villain who, as a child, suffers from a lack of sleep and seemingly never stops talking. Not ever. Joe has become the child version of Michael “Goob” Yagoobian. 

Joe recently started medication for ADHD of the Inattentive Type and, two days after beginning the medication, David and I endured 40 minutes of incessant talking. Talking with no breaks. If he did happen to take a break say, to breathe, he started over again at the beginning of whatever convoluted and wildly uninteresting tale he was trying to relay.

His droning monologue began in the minivan, continued through two errands, back into the van and finally, mercifully ended in the kitchen. The child didn’t even stop talking when we shut the doors to the van, paused for a breather, then opened the sliders to let the kids out. Gwen had melted into her booster seat, wearing a glazed expression similar to what I imagine the people who have undergone music torture must wear.

We resisted giving him the drugs for nearly a full year after his original diagnosis, so when this new chatty version of Joe evolved, I was concerned. Under the circumstances, I did what any mom would do. I jacked one of his pills to see what it felt like. It is, after all, a form of speed that we’re pushing on our son. However, seeing as I already talk a lot it was, in retrospect, kind of a stupid experiment.  I did, however, learn that going to your physician, explaining that you’ve stolen one of your son’s Adderall and seen the light, then requesting a prescription of your very own probably isn’t the brightest idea. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that they had a good laugh when I left the building.

Where was I going with this? Oh, right…inattentive ADHD and excessive talking.  

Thankfully, Joe’s non-stop talking has leveled to a socially tolerable state and, with his newfound clarity, I’ve begun to tune back in. I’ve discovered that he’s a deep thinker. I mean, I always knew that he had some important stuff tumbling around in that little head, but now he can actually present his theories in an organized and intelligent manner. I’ve been learning something new every day!

This morning Joe was wiping the sand from his eyes when I jokingly told him the Sandman had brought him dreams and, while he was there, he stopped to poop in his eyes (I know, I know… I’m not the most appropriate or mature mother in the world, no need to leave nasty comments).  Without missing a beat he turned and looked at me, “Actually, that’s not true.”  

Oh, really?

I detected a hint of eye roll. “It’s just boogers that go up to your eyes.”

I was intrigued by his reasoning. “What do you mean; it goes up to your eyes?”

As if suddenly realizing that I’m an idiot, he explained, “When you pick your nose it makes some go straight up into your eyes and some goes into your ears.”

“So let me get this straight. Booger picking causes eye boogies and ear wax?”

“Well, not just picking them…you have to eat them too.”

“Okay, so if you pick your nose and eat it you’ll end up with eye boogers and ear wax?”

“Right,” he confirmed.

“So…you’ve been eating boogers then?”

“Right,” was his matter of fact response, “I think I’m going to stop though because I’m thinking that eating boogers gave me that earache a few weeks ago by causing extra ear wax.”

So there you have it. Adderall has provided my boy with the clarity he needed to kick a nasty booger eating habit. He’s taking a stand and knocking that monkey off his back once and for all. Maybe together we’ll tackle the removal of the Booger Wall behind his bunk bed this weekend.

If you have enjoyed this edition of Narragansett No. 7 please take a moment to vote by clicking on the obnoxious flashing brown button down below. One click, once a day casts a vote for No. 7 and tells me that you like me…you really like me. You do, don’t you?

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Bradley Cooper, Foreign Languages and the Dirty Monkey

Okay, here’s the thing. I’ve watched that video clip of Bradley Cooper speaking French four times. I’m supposed to be writing yet each time I pause mid-sentence, searching for an elusive word, there he is. Bradley…my extra-marital freebie. I have to admit, until recently I only truly appreciated Bradley circa The Hangover. He was the ravishingly handsome bad boy, all unkempt but still beautiful. I’ve always like my boys that way – gorgeous, confident and well-dressed. Just like my husband was that day I met him eleven years ago. Last weekend, David and I watched Limitless and I marveled at how Bradley wore those English suits with such ease. Who doesn’t appreciate a handsome man in a perfectly tailored English suit? 

Esquire magazine June/July 2011

A few days later the movie was forgotten. Bradley the movie star slid into the background because, let’s face it he’s just a dude who’s in some movies that hired great stylists. Then the video clip appeared. Oh God, the video clip. I could dive in and take a swim in those liquid blue eyes. Is it weird that I’ve watched it four times in the past 48 hours? Is it? Go on…be honest.

Somewhere in my questioning, I was reminded of a monkey I once knew. Okay, I didn’t actually know the monkey. We never had a conversation or anything, but I still feel like we knew each other on a relatively intimate level. He lived in the pet store at the Aviation Mall where I recall standing with my mother, watching him perform behind the glass. I was 14 and still relatively innocent about all things involving sex. I was really only there to see the funny little monkey. He was eating a banana and jumping around his glass house. Boy, did we laugh. Then he scaled up to the highest level of his platform and proceeded to rub one out. Vigorously. 

Now, since people in Bloggy Land tend to take things so literally, I feel compelled to explain that I am not doing The Monkey while I watch Bradley speak French. It’s just that somehow my oddly-wired brain took me on a trip from French speaking Bradley Cooper to the masturbating monkey. I suddenly wanted to tell my husband about that masturbating monkey but I’m sure that he was already in bed, resting his gorgeous blue eyes. While I was pondering my mini-Bradley obsession and the masturbating monkey, David was sleeping just feet from his closet filled with perfectly tailored suits and impeccably shined Alden’s.

If he were awake, he’d patiently listen to my random recollection of that self-pleasuring monkey and probably wonder how, exactly, that memory surfaced while I was upstairs writing…and watching Bradley Cooper speak fluent French. Maybe today, I can coerce Dave into wearing a suit on the weekend. Perhaps he’ll forego a shave and speak a little Italian to me after we’ve tucked the kids in tonight. Did I tell you that his blue eyes still make me swoon? He smells good, he’s gorgeous, he makes me laugh and, after nearly ten years of marriage he has never done The Monkey in front of me. And that’s a good thing.

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Tune in Tokyo!

I know, you’re asking yourself, now why in the world is she posting a lame clip from a truly lame 80’s movie? Well, because today, in an effort to fill the day with fun activities, I jumped into a deep jacuzzi tub with the girls. Or shall I say, my two daughters and I jumped into the tub and Kate discovered my girls?

This toddler seems to show a lot more interest in human anatomy than the other two did. I spent the better part of bath-time being felt up, tweaked, twisted and pinched by a grabby two-year old. As she performed a dual boobie twist, I was reminded of the line, “Tune in Tokyo.”

It all started when I turned the jets on and the bubbles accumulated. Suddenly, Kate became enthralled with a new game called Find the Nipples.

To begin with, I’m not all that modest. I don’t feel the need to cover my girl parts when the kids come crashing into the bathroom. In my past, I had no problems with topless beaches when visiting another country. However, I draw the line at letting a kid use my boobs as another disposable play thing.

A few months ago, I left the television in the kitchen on for background noise. Normally, as soon as The View comes on, I run to turn the channel. I can’t stand the cackling noises that come from that group of women as they vehemently argue about things like Charlie Sheen’s parenting skills or Chris Brown’s violent behavior. Yet, about twice a year, I find myself sucked in to their weird conversations, like the time Elizabeth Hasselbeck described peeing in a diaper while stuck in traffic.

On one particular show this winter, that bunch of cackling hens clucked about bath time with their children. Barbara piped in and explained how, when her daughter was little, they “bonded” during their communal baths. I thought, huh…I do that, but I never looked at it as a bonding opportunity. More like, I’d love to take a Jacuzzi tub but the minute I run the water, the kids come running as if candy is dripping from the faucet. I say if you can’t beat them, let them hop in.

Gwen never showed any real fascination with my boobs beyond complimenting me on their size. Apparently, in Gwen’s mind, my boobs are GINORMOUS, which is funny because I can buy training bras in the kid’s section at Target or, in the alternative, skip the bra altogether. Gwen never grabbed a boob.

Kate digs boobs. Kate likes to play Radio Operator with my boobs. She’ll stop at nothing to locate boobs. Nothing can dissuade her from her bizarre infatuation and, wearing a look of intense determination; she forages through the bubbles until she finds them, and then squeals with delight, as if she has uncovered the lost ark of the Covenant.

So on this lovely Thursday morning, I endured precisely 15 minutes of Tune in Tokyo before I finally called it quits. I left Kate and Gwen to enjoy what was to have been my warm, relaxing bubble-filled Jacuzzi tub. Within minutes, I heard Gwen yell, “Kate! Stop pinching my boobies!”

I couldn’t help but wonder how Barbara Walters handled getting felt up by her daughter.

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