On July 11, 2011, we welcomed Leonardo Tomas Zapata into the world.

Leo.

Sweet, little Leo.

Leo Tomas was named in honor of our Thomas. And, though he will never get to meet him, he will know him.

He will know them.

My c-section was easy enough, although I did get the shakes after from the anesthesia. I looked and felt like I was having a small seizure. Really weird. Not fun.

Leo was exhausted. Being born is hard, y’all.

Luca came to see his brother a few hours later. He was ecstatic! And so far he definitely wins for best brother ever.

He especially loved laying in the hospital bed with loopy-from-her-meds mommy.

Leo is pretty much the best baby ever. So far. He hasn’t really woken up yet, nor has he found his voice.

Yet.

Yet.

Yet.

Emphasis on the yet, as to not jinx myself.

The day after Leo was born, I noticed that he had a tooth.

A TOOTH,  you guys.

Of course, no one in the hospital would listen to me.

Oh, that’s just his gum. It’s swollen. Or a cyst. It’s not a tooth. Crazy lady.

I finally convinced myself I was high and let it go. Then, I returned home and, in between vicodin doses, I realized two things: that I know what a freaking tooth looks like (YES! Even without a medical degree!) and that I was not hallucinating…about that.

The tooth felt loose, which worried me, so I made an appointment to take Leo to his first dentist appointment. At one week old. It’s all so weird. But, hey, weird is cool (at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself all these years).

So, I was all, “Hey baby, get your lazy butt up. We have to go to the dentist.”

And he was all like, “What?”

The dentist confirmed the fact that I was not hallucinating and that it was a tooth.

Then I asked her if she had something that could make me hallucinate, like some laughing gas or something, and she reminded me that she was a pediatric dentist and that I was being inappropriate.

(Not really)

Anyway, supposedly, back in the olden days, being born with a tooth meant you were a genius or something. And, well, he is my kid, soooo…..

You know, I kind of feel like visiting the doctor who didn’t believe me about the tooth, getting in her face and yelling, “BOO-YAH!” But, I’ll try and not be two.

Also, my boobs are super happy this baby is on the bottle. Back the fuck up, lactivists.

Luca is absolutely obsessed with his baby brudder and his silly tooth (as he calls it).

I’m doing really well.

Really, really well physically (shout out to my superfly doctor!). I healed so fast. I pretty much feel completely back to normal, minus a little soreness when I forget I just had major surgery and overdo it.

Mentally, things are also pretty damn good. The fog lifted hours after I had him. Much like it did with Luca. Suddenly, I just felt happy again and like myself. Pregnancy really does a number on me. Basically, it makes me bat-shit crazy and terribly sad. Good times.

I felt a little anxious yesterday, but I know its hormones readjusting and the weight of having two little boys to take care of now.

Holy shit and thank you Zoloft.

I feel extremely lucky to have such a sweet and healthy baby boy.

Even though he does order me around all day long.

The punk.

This is the latest knocked up picture I’ve taken of myself.

It was at the beginning of this week…week 38.

I love it the most because of the short little photobomber behind me.

Also, I am having this baby tomorrow.

As in TOMORROW.

And by tomorrow I mean TOMORROW.

Wow.

I can already taste the margarita smell the baby.

Stay tuned….

I love buying toys for my kid. Maybe it’s that smile he gets on his face, or because I’m just a big kid myself, but my excitement level is normally on par with his when we return home from the toy store.

Sometimes, however, things can go terribly wrong.

The toy that once brought you so much excitement is wreaking havoc on your life.

There was the time I bought my son a toddler tool set. I naively envisioned him holding the plastic screw with his chubby little fingers, busily pounding away at it with the cute, plastic hammer. And then, he reminded me that he was two years old. The plastic screws ended up in the fish tank and the hammer was used to terrorize the dogs and was beat against anything other than screws.

Then there was that miniature grocery cart that was so cute and harmless when I first brought it home. That is, until my child began pushing it at full speed, non-stop, around our house. For hours. Or until he insisted on filling it with random toys, snacks, and underwear; taking it with him everywhere he went, no exceptions. “No, honey, you cannot sleep with your grocery cart.” It was exactly like raising a little old homeless man for a few months.

I’m guessing it becomes more fun introducing new things to your children as they get older. And, yes, I know these days go by way too fast and I should savor every moment of parental supervision required of me. And I do, for the most part. But, I have to admit, lots of times the toy/toddler combo has the power to make me feel just a touch unstable.

There are some toys are I can deal with, and then there are those that make me crazy on a consistent basis.

• Paint. Timeless fun. It’s awesome, in theory. I want my kid to use his imagination, and I definitely want to stoke any artistic fire he might have. When it comes down to it, though, pulling out the paint for my three year old has proven to be a little trying. “We only paint on paper! Please don’t lick the paint. Honey, the dogs don’t want to be painted and neither do your privates. Can you please spend more than three seconds on each work of art, love?”

• ZhuZhu Pets. What the hell are these things? Evil hamsters? And what are they saying? Why won’t they stop talking? Where is the off button? I still don’t really get ZhuZhu Pets. But, I am pretty sure that if you record one, then play it back in reverse, you’ll discover it’s ordering your child to take a hit out on you and have you buried in the backyard.

• Bubbles. Again, the stuff memories are made of.  And by memories, I mean nightmares. Oddly enough, however, I still fall victim to buying them every single time, somehow forgetting how much I loathe them. They always seem so magical and pure in my head. Then, before I know it, I have bubble solution running all down my fingers and hands. My floor is insanely sticky and my child is screaming at me, “I do it! I do it!,” before grabbing the bottle and throwing it as hard as he can. And what’s the deal with the squeeze and go, pop-up bubbles? Like those ever work…

• Power Tools. Fake, of course. Last Christmas, a friend bought my son one of those battery-operated plastic drills. I now have one less friend. This thing could not be any louder, and it sounds like a chainsaw. Also, I think my son is aware that it drives me mad. He looks at me, all cute and knowingly, and revs it over and over and over again. I have a strong feeling he may lose the drill very soon. It’s unfortunate, really.

• Robots. First off, they are creepy. I don’t trust them. My sweet, sweet mother-in-law bought her grandson a giant, blue robot. With a sword. It yells out in his weird robot voice, “Enemy detected,” then aims his laser and shouts, “Enemy destroyed.” Did I mention there is no volume button on this evil robot? He may or may not get locked in the den at night.

Finally, something so annoying, something that has the potential to push even the sanest, most patient parent over the edge, something so horrendous that just the mere mention of it can cause mass panic among parents everywhere.

Something called…

• Moon Sand. Described as hybrid of play sand and modeling clay that does not harden permanently, Moon Sand is Play-Doh’s evil, messier cousin. This was by far the most common answer given when I asked other parents which toys have the potential to have them committed to the asylum. Besides being messier than paint and bubbles combined, it always seems to get stuck in all the accessories it comes with, usually resulting in me throwing a tantrum and putting it all away. In the trashcan.

Somebody hold me.

These are merely a few toys that have the power to make me rock back and forth in a corner. I’m sure I could walk around my house right now and likely find ten more, in ten minutes, that are just as maddening.

But, I have some things that need my attention.

There’s a secret meeting taking place between my child and his ZhuZhu Pets that’s concerning me. I also need to clean up some paint and lock the robot in for the night. Right after I smash the drill into a million pieces, of course.

Toys are fun!

What are some that you could do without?

I moved from Tyler to Laredo the summer before my freshman year of high school.

Thankfully, my cousin lived there and introduced me to a friend’s sibling, who was right around my age, so I had the entire summer to get to know some new classmates.

And by get to know I mean get really drunk on Boone’s Strawberry Hill and wine coolers and cruise around in a white mustang convertible with someone who probably didn’t have a license.

Whatever.

It was that same summer that my cousin taught me some valuable advice. The Dangle Technique: When the room spins, dangle one leg off the bed and put your foot on the floor. Or just throw-up on yourself. Whichever comes first. Something like that, anyway.

I spent all summer hanging out, meeting new people, and talking on three-way.

To my younger generation readers – this is not the same thing as having a three-way.

It was all so perfect. I had an awesome summer and didn’t have to start school as a huge loser.

I even had a boyfriend well before the first day of school. So what that I’d never actually met him face to face. We were introduced over a three-way call and it was love at first hear. I mean, who wouldn’t fall head over heels in love upon hearing a prepubescent, squeaky, boy voice?

But then, just as everything was falling into place, it happened.

Two days before the first day of high school, at a new school, in a new town, I felt it. That familiar twinge in my eye…the beginning stage of a stye.

Which, at the time, I thought was pretty much the same thing as herpes of the eye. And this totally confused me, because I’d never even seen a penis, much less put one in my eye. Especially not one with herpes.

Weird.

But, there it was. And I knew from past experience that it was only going to get worse, that the bump on my eyelid was going to get bigger and more pus-filled by the minute. (side note: I was initially going to go with, “more pussier by the minute,” and then I remembered that my eye was not a vagina.)

After doing some super complex eye-herpes math, I estimated my eye would be at peak grossness just in time for the first day of school.

THE. HORROR.

How would my boyfriend I’d never met react when he found out his girlfriend had herpes in her eye? He would either break-up with me, or assume I was that kind of girl and try to stick his penis in my eye.  And I was certainly not that kind of girl….at least not for like another year anyway.

More concerning than being dumped by someone I had never met, though, was the fear that I’d forever be branded as herpe girl among my new classmates.

So, I had to think fast.

I mean, my boobs were awkwardly huge for a 14 year old and all (thanks, puberty), but certainly not big enough to hide my monster eye. Just maybe distract from it a little.

But, it wasn’t long before I came up with my brilliant master plan.

I called my new pal, Kim, and asked her if she’d be in on it. And, you guys, she not only said yes, but she agreed to still hang out with me even though I had herpes in my eye.

Now that, my friends, is a true friend.

The night before school, I told my boyfriend I’d never met all about the terrible accident that happened earlier in the day.

All about how Kim had accidentally punched me in the eye, leaving it red, swollen, and with a pimple-like bump on it.

Shut up. It made much more sense in my head at the time and I never claimed to be in the gifted and talented program.

At school the next day I proceeded to tell that same story over and over again to everyone I met.

And it totally worked!

Or people just felt sorry for me, and immediately ran away and washed their hands after coming into contact.

One or the other.

Also, my boyfriend and I stayed strong for like a whole ‘nother week.

Moral of the story: Just lie when you don’t know what else to do.

The End.

Because without eye herpes, I wasn’t awkward at all.