I’ve never been huge into Valentine’s day. I never was the kid who gave out cards at school, I never bought anyone a Valentine’s Day card. And I promise I’m not just saying that to seem like the cool “its just a commercialized holiday anyway” kinda gal. Trust me, if it’s my birthday, I expect all the things. Like Bora Bora on a private plane with champagne imported from France (JK, gimme a cold Coke), and we’ll call it a day. But Valentine’s Day… meh.
Here’s the kicker though. I still like cute little dates though. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Like, just one on one time with my guy. Wanna know my favourite past time? Making him have deep and meaningful conversations with me. He just loves it when I say “hey, let’s talk.” Ha! I might as well have just told him he has to wear underwear with itchy insulation in to for a year. But! Last summer we went on a road trip, a very loooooong road trip. And I started asking him questions I had found on Google or Pinterest. I would ask and he would reluctantly answer, most of the time with “I dunno.” But after hour 3, and KM 646, and question #1008, he started to relax. He even started to think about his answers. And at one point, he even said “OK, now it’s my turn to ask you questions and you answer.” So there you have it folks. There is hope.
So this Valentine’s day I challenge you to not get a teensy bit mad when the fella doesn’t come home with over priced flowers, or a box of cheap chocolates. Instead, make a brownie and put vanilla ice cream over it and top it with strawberries. Or eat a bag of Doritos chips and have a Coke (or root beer, or ginger ale- I won’t judge). Or just sit on the couch and eat ice cream out of the pint. But ask each other these questions. See where the conversation take you. You might surprise each other.
Questions to ask your Boo/BAE
1). What is one of the biggest lessons you have learned in life?
2). What makes you different from other people?
3). If you had to pick 3 people in your life that represent wisdom, strength, and comfort, who would you pick and why?
4). Describe yourself using only 3 words
5). What was the best thing about how your parents raised you?
6). If you could start your 20’s all over again, what would you do different?
7). What has been you favourite/best age yet and why?
8). If money was no object, where would you travel to?
9). If you could be successful at anything career wise, what would you be doing?
10). What does success mean to you?
11). What habit do you do that you think probably annoys others?
I hope you discover something new. Maybe about yourself, or about the other person. But just remember that Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean fancy dinners, expensive flowers or lavish gifts. That’s what birthday’s are for. Valentine’s day is “just some made up holiday that has been completely commercialized.” Ugh. But how we still hold our breath when we hear him come home! It’s in our nature. This year, make him that brownie. And ask him these questions. And I hope you feel joy when he sits next to you. And I hope you feel loved. And I hope you feel safe.
I hope you have a wonderful Valentine’s day. Wether that means you just had a good day by yourself, or with your best friend, or your family, or your sister, or your mom, or the lady that always smiles at you at the grocery store. I truly hope you have a good day.
We celebrated 8 years of marriage together yesterday. We’ve had some of the most frustrating moments in these last 8 years than ever before. We’ve had some of the angriest moments in the last 8 years. We’ve had some of the toughest moments in the last 8 years. Nothing, NOTHING compares to the joy and gratitude I’ve had for my husband in the last 8 years. And it’s only been 8 years! Imagine how i’ll feel in 80 years? (oh, spoiler alert: I’m an elf and live to like, 400 years old. Give or take a few).
We have shared some of the best memories, no matter how simple or how exciting. We’ve has some of the best laughs where tears are streaming down our face, no matter how lame or how funny what we’re laughing at is. We’ve eaten some of the best foods in the last 8 years, whether it’s at the sunshine cafe in the Philippines across the world, or the best tacos in Fernie. We’ve had Olive, who truly is the best little human in our world. She’s sunshine and toes and little squeals with the cutest smile and endless curls.
Marriage is hard, but it’s wonderful. And it’s worth every smile, tear, fight and kiss. Here are my top 5 discoveries I’ve made in my 8 years of marriage.
1). Men can’t read our minds. SHOCKING. I know. I too, was shocked to discover this. Prime example of what I mean. My husband- “Where do you want to eat?” Me- “I dunno.” (Here’s the thing guys!! I DO KNOW. I want mcdonald’s. Or Joey’s. But I want HIM to OFFER it to me). So we banter back and forth doing the “just tell me where you want to eat…” “I actually don’t know. Don’t actually care….” But really, in my head I’m like “PICK JOEY’S. PICK JOEY’S.” He then suggests NOT Joey’s, and I get mad. And when he asks what’s wrong, I usually say “nothing. I just thought we were going to Joey’s.” And then my husband stares at me bewildered looking like he might scream at the top of his lungs, cry in frustration, or hug me for being so insanely cute (just kidding, this has never happened). Ladies, just tell the poor sucker where you actually want to eat. Save him his sanity.
2). Men don’t like to celebrate things. Anniversaries. Birthdays. Dating anniversaries. Even their own birthdays! According to my husband, birthdays are for little kids. So imagine my dismay when I’ve been dropping hints the 8 months leading up to my birthday, and he drops THAT bombshell on me. Wait… so you’re not surprising me and whisking me off to the Amalfi coast on a private jet?
3). Men don’t get cold. We live in Alberta, Canada OK? There have been days in the dead of winter where it has gotten to -40. Cars stop running. You get frost bite within mere seconds of being outside (slight exaggeration). Furnaces break down. If you threw water in the air it would freeze into crystals (i’ve never done this, but according to my scientific calculations, it would be possible. And also, I saw a video on youtube and it worked. What more scientific proof do you need?) So point is…. it’s cold here. Dane will sleep with the window open so that you can see your breath in your room. And the furnace is NOT turned up all the way. And he still sleeps with his feet out of the covers. MEN DON’T GET COLD. I repeat, MEN DON’T GET COLD.
4). Men don’t like to hear “we need to talk” at 11:23 when their head hits the pillow. Ladies, tell me I’m not wrong. You have been bottling something up all day. They’ve asked you “what’s wrong?” Yet you don’t tell them. You say “nothing,” but in your voice that they should know better and KNOW the something is definitely very wrong. But they carry on about their merry little day. And at 11:15, after they’ve showered, brushed their teeth, checked the last thing on their phone, they turn off the light, and they sigh and close their eyes… and you’re just laying there like…. “Is he seriously gonna go to sleep?” And you bite your tongue for a few more minutes very HEAVILY sighing, letting him know that he should not be going to sleep so calmly. And at 11:23 you can’t take it anymore, and you say “SERIOUSLY?! You’re just gonna fall asleep? We need to talk.” I CAN’T be the only one who does this.
5). Men (*ahem* my husband) are only pretending to listen. I have told Dane things, and he’s nodded his head, even AGREED with me… only to completely be shocked by my retelling someone else the same thing I told him. Or I’ll remind him of our plans for that evening and he looks all shocked and says “when were you gonna tell me we had plans for tonight?” And I have to slowly count to 10 so I don’t loose my cool on him. In my most sugary, sweet as pie voice REMIND HIM THAT I DID tell him about our plans. And then I’ll remind him of the conversation and tell him things he even replied with. You can see the wheels just turning in his head, his eyes are all squinty like he’s trying to remember. And then, there it is. He remembers. Vaguely. And you know what he says? “Well, I wasn’t really paying attention when you told me, so it doesn’t count.” 1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..10……. blast off. I’ve lost my cool.
Here’s the thing. 8 years if marriage have opened my eyes to a lot. They’ve made me grow up. They’ve made me slightly more patient. They’ve made me more understanding. They’ve made me more honest. In a way, these last 8 years have made me more me. It is not lost on me how truly lucky I am to have such a supportive husband. Or how lucky I am to have someone who wants to take care of me. Or provide for me. Mentally, emotionally, McDonaldally (hi, I’m Claudia and I’m a McDonald’s addict. Not currently recovering).
Being married for 8 years has made me realize that this life can be tough, but if you’re married to your best friend, this life can be wonderful. And if the man can’t read your mind and guess your restaurant, and thinks birthdays are for babies, he causes frostbite to your toes and nose, and doesn’t wanna get the “talk” fight before bed, and he only half listens to you….. just count to 10. He’s probably still trying. Men are wired differently than women. As in they aren’t wired correctly and we are, but let’s not hold that against them.
Ladies, love your husbands. They’re amazing men, and they get plenty of credit from their mothers (especially if they’re momma’s boys), but let’s give them a little more.
Cheers (*clink!* My McDonald’s coke clinked with yours:)
I always see these quotes pop up on pinterest. The whole “your body is not ruined, your stretch marks are just tiger stripes who earned them.” Or “I love my stretch marks because they show I carried my beautiful baby.” And I get it. We need to embrace them. For me, it’s more like accept them. And I do. I don’t care that much anymore. I remember when my first one popped out, I was like 7 months pregnant. I put coconut oil on. Biotin oil. Coffee grinds. Vaseline. Then more came out. So I said screw it.
I would have been fine if my proof that I carried a baby in my stomach was the actual baby itself that came out. Or maybe the bags under my eyes because my child is out to get me and doesn’t sleep. I would have been fine with these as my proof. That would have been A-OK with moi. Just humour me here OK? Don’t get offended (but like….who am I kidding, it’s 2018).
But what if a genie came to you and said “You have two choices. A). You keep your stretch marks and nothing changes. Your relationship with your body, your spouse, your child, it all stays the same. Wether it was good or bad. Or B). I get rid of your stretch marks and nothing changes. Your relationship with your body, your spouse, your child, it all stays the same. Good of bad.” Which option would you pick? I would be be picking option B faster than you can say “Hey Genie, if I KEEP my stretch marks, can you grant me a toned stomach?”
But, if you’re a mom who TRULY, 100% loves her stretch marks, and would keep them if given the choice to not have them…. then your name should be Mother fricking Teresa. And I take my hat off to you, and I think you’re definitely a better person than me. AND a lot less vain. But if you’re like me, and would totally pick no to the tiger stripes, AND would try and swindle this genie for a few more wishes, then I also take off my hat to you. Because you’re hustling and trying to get more wishes. But I probably wouldn’t call you Mother Teresa because I feel like she wouldn’t be swindling a genie. Shame on you.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that genie’s would make our lives a lot easier. What would your three wishes be? Mine would be:
1). Look like all the hot, tanned girls in cute bikinis in outfits I have pinned under my secret board called “get it girl.” (I made this board like legit 5 years ago, and guuuurrrrl…. I still haven’t gotten “it.”
2). Have a # in my bank account, it can be any number (just not a 0), but with like a minimum of 6 zero’s following.
3). Health. Health to the people I love the most.
See? Getting rid of my tiger stripes didn’t even make the list. So clearly I’m not that upset about them. But what I was ACTUALLY trying to say is as a mom, or as women, we don’t HAVE to pretend we love out bodies as much as hash tags tell us to. It’s OK to hate your love handles. It’s OK to hate that your thighs are constantly touching and when it gets hot out you get a heat rash (anyone?) It’s OK to hate the fact that your calves make your hunter boots make fart nosies when you walk cuz they’re so tight around your calf, and when air escapes it sounds like a fart. It’s OK to hate that when you look at a picture of yourself you have a double chin and you hate it.
Like you get shamed for saying “ugh! I’ve gained so much weight.” How many times have you gotten “no way!! You look beautiful! You don’t need to lose any weight! You’re perfect!” Puh-Leeze. I have a mirror. And also, my clothes don’t fit, so there’s that. And another also, the person saying that to you is also a solid 10 on the hotness scale… while I’m a solid 3.4 on a good day. So let me tell you that I’ve gained weight. And instead of telling me I’m a babe (Umm, I kinda already knew that, duh), be like “Yup. You’re a fatty.” JUST KIDDING. DO NOT SAY THAT TO ANYONE. But maybe just say “ya, losing weight is hard.” Or “well, you can always fix that.” Or if you’re an amazing friend say “Lets work out together.” Am I getting my point across? Or do I sound like an idiot?
Don’t let your hate for your stomach make you hate yourself. But also, if you hate the extra 10 lbs (or in some cases…me….. 50 lbs. Wait… did I just write that?) get off the couch and lose it. If you don’t wanna lose it, then don’t. If you want to lose it, then do. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Basically, you’re allowed to want to look good. You’re allowed to want to lose weight, and still be confident and happy with who you are. I want to lose 50-60 lbs (before you say that’s too much, just trust me). I still like who I am right now with that extra weight. I still wake up happy (this is a lie. I hate waking up). I still think my husband won the lottery with me (his opinion on this is invalid). I still think I’m a bomb cook. I still think I’m a decent person. I just also want to look…. skinnier. And for me, strong is not the new skinny. Because let me tell you friends, I have yet to lose an arm wrestle against any girl. And I beat my brother, Dane, and another guy at a leg war. I’m a champ, basically. But also, don’t challenge me, you may make me eat my words.
If you have a chicken butt, or a lard butt, at least you still have a butt. So be happy. There!! I figured out the point of my post. BE HAPPY. If you don’t love how you look, do something about it, but be happy. If you love how you look, be happy, cuz you’re a babe. If you don’t agree with my post, bugger off and be happy. Just be happy.
Ps- don’t judge me on the fact that my first two wishes were a). vanity b). money, and that my last one was health. I know the genie’s got it in the bag, so I was’t too worried, OK? Remember, be happy.
PS- This is Olive in my belly. Not a new babe. NOT PREGNANT.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write books. I wanted to write poems about golden retrievers and first loves. I would find rhyming words and write poems that I hope none of you ever read. I never pursued it. Instead I started a blog with horrible grammar and incorrect spelling, all rolled up with a little sarcasm and whole lot of honesty.
The story I’m about to share with you is only partially mine. It’s mostly my parents story, as well as my grandparents story. If we had a nickel for every time someone told one of us that my parents story should be made into a book, we’d have quite a few nickels. This is my way of telling my parents story.
I was thinking I could make into a series. Because let’s be honest, I’m gonna be all over the map, with no structure.
I could do one post about an experience we had, or a post about a really significant thing that happened to my parents. Tell me your thoughts. Yes? No?
There’s just so much to share, and so many things that come up along the way it’s impossible for me to keep track, or to do this in order.
But here’s a start.
I’m Canadian. I was born in Canada. I get asked where I’m from almost daily. I think people wonder why I’m tanned and don’t have an accent. My family (more so my parents) get a lot of ignorant comments. I think a few of us live in this beautiful bubble where we believe that racism is a thing of the past. I’m here to tell you that it’s fine that you live there. I think it might even be a great place to live. But I’m also here to tell you that racism is still here. And I truly believe that it will never go away.
And I’m not talking about the “go back to your country on your banana boat” comments. Even though a man told my dad that three years ago while on a road trip in the States when he asked this man for directions. I’m not even talking about the guy who told my mom “you immigrants come to OUR country and steal our jobs” while at work while she was trying to help him settle his case. Hey buddy? If you want her job, go for it! It’s there. My mother just happened to work her butt off for 8 years in UNIVERSITY getting herself a pretty little paper that says MASTERS DEGREE. You go and do that and you can have her job. I’m not talking about the guy that yelled at my brother “get off the road you dirty Mexican!” while walking home from high school. Or the people who called him a wetback. I’m not even talking about the guy in a truck that yelled at Dane and me to “stick to our own kind” when we were walking home from getting ice cream. Um, sir? If what you mean by “own kind” is that he gets triple decker ice cream cones and I get a small, and he still somehow doesn’t gain an ounce, I 100% could not agree more. But I don’t think that’s what you were talking about. These comments don’t really effect me a whole lot.
You know what effects me? Hearing my parents stories of when they first came. The story of my dad who was working in a house and he found a jar full of quarters. He had literally no money. No money for food. So he stole a handful of quarters. He remembers a few hours later, he saw a police car drive up. He was so terrified he went and hid in a closet and cried. In the end, the owner of the house was a police man coming to see how things were going. But in those moments, my dads world was ending.
There are stories of my dad getting kicked by men in positions of power. There are stories where my dad was exploited by men in positions of leadership, where these men thought they could treat him as if he were just the gum off their shoe. Those stories hurt.
Those are the stories that I wish I could find those men and tell them “you thought you could break Americo Exavi Campos. You thought you could win. I’m here to tell you you were wrong. And that the 20 year old boy you thought you were keeping down, well, he won. He won at this life. And you? You lost.” There are moments, when I want to do just that.
I could tell you stories about my 18 year old mother. I could tell you how her manager at a factory cutting fabric put a banana in her face and said things to her that should never leave the lips of man. My mother didn’t use some hashtag to prove that “time’s up.” She couldn’t wear an all black dress to an award ceremony to take her stand. My mother went home and told her 20 year old husband, “I’m not going back that place. I’m going back to school.” And her 20 year old husband said “Ok.”
I could tell you that when she become pregnant with me, she finished her high school diploma here in Canada, with her feet so swollen from severe edema that she went and wrote all of her diplomas barefoot. She literally went to high school with no shoes, in a country she barely knew, with a language she didn’t know, because that’s the kind of fire my mother had in her.
I could tell you how in the first stages of her pregnancy, her doctor referred her to a different clinic, to which her and my dad went to. Why? Because they were the doctors, they knew better. And my parents didn’t speak English.
Turns out it was an abortion clinic. Her doctor was too ignorant to think it possible that they might have planned me or wanted me. Shame on you Sir, but, I’m here and I made it despite you doubting my parents.
There are nights when my husband is laying next to me sleeping, and my mind won’t shut off, and it wanders to my parents. Or my childhood. My husband does not even know this about me, but on those nights, I cry quietly to myself. I let the tears fall. I don’t hold them back, mostly because I spent most of my early life trying not to cry. I didn’t want people to see that I felt inferior to them. Or that I was insecure about who I was. Or that I didn’t want people to think my parents were lesser people because of their skin colour, or where they were from. I cry because when I hear stories and I see my dad choking back the tears, I wish I could be 30 year Claudia and hug 20 year old Exavi. I wish I could be me, the woman that I am today, and tell him “Dad, keep going. Keep fighting. You make it. In the end, you make it. And your life is beautiful.”
I wish I could be 30 year old Claudia and hug 18 year old Noemi. I wish I could look her in the eyes and say “Momma, you do it. In the end, you get your degree. In the end, you travel the world with your two babies and your husband. You fight and you win some of the hardest battles life has to offer, but because you’re so strong, in the end… you come out victorious.” Those are the thoughts that race through my mind on the nights that the tears flow freely and my husband lays next to me.
I wish I could go back in time and say those things to my young parents. Because I will never understand or know all the hardships they went through, and I can only imagine what kind of lonely nights they must have endured. Or how bleak their futures must have looked to them. I mostly just wish I could hold them in those moments, and tell them how proud I would become of them, 30 years later. Because I am. I really, really am. Those are the thoughts that race through my head at 2:00 in the morning, while my husband sleeps. Or pretends to sleep, because who wants to deal with a crying wife at 2:00 in the morning without ice cream in the fridge?
My parents are immigrants from El Salvador, considered to be one of “s**t hole” countries Mr. President so eloquently put it. They moved to Canada in 1984, due to the civil war in El Salvador. My parents have seen dead bodies on the streets with blankets covering them. They have heard gunshots over and over again, daily. They know what it means to have a 6:00 pm curfew or be shot. They have seen their peers hanging from trees, outside of their school. They’ve heard the marching of soldiers outside their homes. Their mothers telling them to back away from the window in case a confrontation between the guerrilla and military broke out. They know war. They know what war sounds like. They know what war smells like. They know what war looks like.
My grandfather was kidnapped by the military. The day it happened was a normal day. My dad was in the auto parts shop that they owned, which was attached to their home. He and my grandpa were there. My dad says a black van pulled up, men were all dressed in black. They wore masks. They held a machine gun to my dad’s head and told him not to move, scream, or say a word. My dad was 17 and he had to watch as his dad was put into the back of a van and taken away, all the while he had a gun to his head. My dad remembers he could see his mom in the courtyard, and he so badly wanted to scream for her. But he couldn’t. Looking back now he says it was probably for the best. If he had screamed they might have all ended up dead. The second the van took off, he went and ran to his mom to tell her King (That was my grandpa’s nickname and what my dad and uncle called him), her husband, her children’s father, had been taken by men in a van.
What happened next, quite literally shapes the rest of ALL of our lives. My dad’s, my mom’s, my brothers and mine. The life of my grandmother’s on both my parents sides. I would even go as far as to say the life of Olive. If it had not been for this monumental moment, I would not be here. My family would not be here. My parents could quite possibly be dead. This is the story of a strong boy named Americo Exavi Campos, and a beautiful girl named Rosalba Noemi Lopez. These are my parents, this is their story.
Do you guys remember when Tom Cruise was on the Oprah show when he was married to Katie Holmes? And he jumped on the couch because he was so in love and made a complete fool of himself? I remember Oprah asked him “what’s one thing that drives you crazy about Katie?” He got this stupid grin on his face and he answered “her smile and how she bites her lip.” The whole audience of middle aged women all in unison went “awwwwww!!!” I was so annoyed. I wanted to hear the real dirt. Like…. “her farts are rank.” Or “she cuts her toenails in bed.” Or “she has stinky feet.” No. He had to be all romantic and say her smile drives him crazy in a good way. Like EW.
So I decided to go against all Valentine’s Day tradition and tell you for REAL what drives me crazy about Dane. And no, it’s not his smile or his eyes. These are things that he does almost daily and I kinda wanna smack him.
1). He closes the heat vent in our bedroom. This. Drives. Me. Crazy. He has to have the room at glacial temperature to be able to sleep, so therefore I have to freeze every night. When I get up to pee in the middle of the night, its like a different climate zone. Tropical heat (normal people temperature, but for me it’s tropical), and north pole temperature in our room. I sometimes get up to pee just so I can thaw out.
2). He throws my stuff out without asking. So here’s a fun fact about Dane. He HATES clutter. But it sucks for me, because if he sees something that isn’t being used, or to him looks like something he can’t use, he throws it out. Like my makeup bag. With the TAGS still attached. I could have killed. I’ll be looking for something, ask him where it is and he gets this nervous look and says “uhhhh I might have thrown that out.” And then I yell at him and he answers with the same answer every time. “I didn’t think you needed it!” What a guy.
3). The shower head. He’s tall, so he moves the shower head to the very back. So when I turn on the shower to let the water warm up, it’s hitting the back wall, in turn spraying water all of the floor and my hair. Which I did not want to wash that day.
4). He rinses the dishes and leaves them on the counter. Oh. MAN. This actually really annoys me. He will take the time to rinse the dishes and clean them off, but he can’t take that extra 3 seconds to put them in the dishwasher. Which is literally under the counter he’s leaving them on. So he wouldn’t even have to move a step. So I’m left with a ton of half cleaned dishes on the counter, as well as a huge lake of water to clean up. Just leave them in the sink so my counter isn’t covered in dishes and gross food water, or put them IN THE DISHWASHER. Dane- if you’re reading this…. c’mon. Get with it.
5). Makes fun of my eyebrows. For as long as i can remember Dane has been beaking ma brows. He says that I fill one in way darker than the other. I don’t see it, I’ve tried. The other day he looks at me and says “Claud. Your brows are brutal. One looks like you filled in with a sharpie, the other one looks like you filled in with a crayon.” Ouch. Too far, too far. My brow are on flick.Or fleet. Or flick, whatever you’re supposed to say about brows.
6). Eats my cookie dough. That’s it. I’ll be making cookies and he grabs not small, but big globs of cookie dough. And I hate it.
7). Coke. He hates that I drink Coke, I hate that he tells me I shouldn’t drink coke.
8). His french press. He is a coffee snob. I want a keurig cuz you can get fancy white ones, and then I can offer all my guests (no one) coffee in my cute over priced anthro mugs. But noooooooo, he has coffee in a french press. Which he leaves coffee grinds in, and again…. on the counter. So I’m always washing out coffee grinds and they get everywhere. I hate coffee. I want a white keurig.
9). Tightens bottles. Olive wakes up throughout the night. STILL. Ya, I know, feel sorry for me. SO at 3:00 in the morning when she’s whining “bottle” and I’m a zombie and walking to the kitchen to fill up her bottle, and I can’t open it because Dane thinks they need to be tightened so not even Chuck Norris can open it, it gets a little annoying.
10). Laundry. I know what you’re thinking. “Why are you complaining about your husband doing laundry?” Here’s why. He feels the need to do it constantly. ( I can just hear his smug voice.. “If I don’t do it, it will never get done.”) I’m the type of person who will put laundry through the dryer once more just to avoid folding it (asking for a friend). So he washes my laundry, great. But then dumps it on the bed so I’m forced to fold it. When I don’t want to fold LAUNDRY.
I always see these quotes pop up on pinterest. The whole “your body is not ruined, your stretch marks are just tiger stripes who earned them.” Or “I love my stretch marks because they show I carried my beautiful baby.” And I get it. We need to embrace them. For me, it’s more like accept them. And I do. I don’t care that much anymore. I remember when my first one popped out, I was like 7 months pregnant. I put coconut oil on. Biotin oil. Coffee grinds. Vaseline. Then more came out. So I said screw it.
