The Effing Fours via Illustrated with Crappy Pictures

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From time to time we’ll be cross-posting from GMM contributors blogs. Contributor Amber Dusick writes about & crappily draws glimpses into her home life at Illustrated with Crappy Pictures.

Crappy Baby will be turning four soon.

Remember how I whined about him turning two back in the day? Ha. That was nothing.

Everyone knows that three is more difficult than two. Course in our family, four is the most challenging of all. At least with my clinical study of exactly one child so far. (Five was much easier, six has been awesome and I hear that seven is magical. This is the extent of my experience but feel free to chime in with yours.)

Well, Crappy Baby is almost four and he is already exhibiting fourness symptoms.

Rage. Pure rage.


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Every Birth Counts

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I’m up at Every Mother Counts today, sharing my labor/birth story. When we talk about the Good Mother, we have to note that she starts before our children even arrive, manifesting as the “good pregnant woman” or the “good birther.” One way to break that down is to share our truths, our stories.

Please take a moment to hop on over to  EMC and read my entire labor day story.

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It all started the week before.

I had been having contractions on and off for a while – just over five days. Intermittent rounds of shooting pain had been sluicing through my stomach leaving me breathless. They were different then the Braxton Hicks I had felt earlier in my pregnancy. Those seemed to gently hug my swollen belly while these new sensations caused me to pause whatever I was doing, and I would struggle to breathe. Just breathe. And then, they would go away for minutes, sometimes hours at a time. It was labor, but not quite. This went on for almost an entire week, and by the end, these “teases” of labor were really starting to wear on me both physically and emotionally.

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Rocking My Inner Ke$ha

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About a year ago, I started highlighting my hair, wearing skinny jeans, and painting my nails black.

“What, you think you’re Ke$ha all of a suden?” my ex asked while he watched me zip up my high-heel hooker boots – the ones with the gun metal grey studs on the sides.

I feigned indignation. But as visions of brushing my teeth with a bottle of Jack flitted through my mind, I was secretly thrilled.

Edgy and raunchy sounded good to me. A little dangerous, a little chaotic… why not? (Never mind that you won’t catch me dead in a halter top) There is part of me that wants to wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy and fight until she sees the sunlight.

The thing is, now that so much of my life is in chaos, sometimes I take it a little too far: Like last month while out with a few friends, let’s just say that some girls from New Jersey messed with the wrong blonde from LA.

Not since Biggy vs. Tupac has there been such an East Coast/West Coast smackdown. And right before I told those Bitches of Eastwick, Hey, you want a piece of me? Bring it,” I remembered the following: I’ve got two kids. I can’t pull shit like this.



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