By Golly, There are Good People in the World!

Thank you...

To the lady behind the counter at Wendy's today who thought my little one was cute and brought her an extra kid's meal toy~

To the Toys R Us employee who helped me load my car with the SANDBOX and made sure that everything fit perfectly~

To the man at Lowe's who asked this ol' pregnant lady if she needed help lifting those 50 lb. bags of play sand onto our cart~

To the employee at Lowe's who tried to give me half of my flowers for free (because he was either a disgruntled employee who wanted to "stick it to the man" or he had just gotten high on his 10 minute break) but who also understood when I reminded him that I needed to pay for ALL of my purchases~

To the young guy in the parking lot of Lowe's who saw this ol' pregnant lady drop a 50 lb. bag of play sand in the parking lot and not only did he jog over and pick it up, but he also helped load my van as well~

To my son who was the man of the day and lifted and hauled everything I needed without a single complaint... and who also held his little sister's hand across the street so she would not be harmed without me having to ask.

To my oldest daughter, who vacuumed the sand up from the family room carpet before her dad came home and said "See! I told you sand would come into the house if you got that sandbox!"

To my little one, who I dragged to 4 different stores today and who did not run away from me once making my uterus want to fall out if I had to chase her.

To my husband... who rushed home from work so that he could pick our son up from karate and take him to his baseball game so that I would not have to leave the house again today.

And Lastly, to the man in the white pick up truck beside me today for picking his nose with such focus and vigor that it had my children and me in hysterical fits for hours! Thank you! Thank you also for looking at us like we were horrible people after we caught you digging in your nose and making us laugh even harder! Thank you! Thank you for rolling that booger between your thumb and finger and flinging it in your TRUCK-not even into the street! Thank you for the laughs my friend... Thank YOU!

Mascara OCD

I recently did a post on my deodorant OCD. I am still in shock as to how many of you emailed me and commented saying that you only use about 4 or 5 swipes of deodorant a day. In my opinion, if you are not stinky by dinner time, than you are definitely stinky in next morning when you do you yawn and stretch and you get a whiff of yourself and say "PHEW! Maybe Cris has something with the 12-14 swipes she does!"

One comment I found interesting was from elaine who said...
"Have you ever counted how many times you wave your mascara wand on your lashes???? I swore I only did it about 4 times per eye, but it is close to 20 on each eye. My husband who works for "THE BIGGEST" cosmetic company claims that the average woman does 90 strokes between both eyes. Sounds crazy, but maybe not! Just sharing one more random thought ;)"

Now, information like this just gets me giddy with excitement! First of all... what company does your husband work for Elaine and can he get me free samples? Secondly, when I get information like this, it will stay with me until I try it out myself... and then I will think of Elaine and her husband and his job at this cosmetic company (who I bet Elaine gets free samples from) each and every time I use my mascara.

Well, it seems that I wave my wand over each eyelash a good 35-40 times! WHO KNEW!! I am not a big make-up wearer but since I am blond and have blond eyelashes (don't hate me because I am beautiful) I will wear mascara every day... even if I chose not to shower and put my 12-14 deodorant swipes to a two-day marathon. If I don't put on mascara people all day long will tell me that I look "exhausted" to which I will answer, "yeah, well you look ugly!" and then they are no longer my friend and I don't know where it all went wrong. So, to avoid such altercations, I wear mascara.

So, since Elaine sent such a titillating comment, I challenge all of you to count your mascara swipes. All of you high and mighty 4-5 deodorant swipers may surprise yourselves and where you are lacking in deodorant usage, you are making up in mascara application. Be sure to think of Elaine while you are counting~

Having said all of that, it occurred to me yesterday that I now have mascara OCD as well (with Elaine and her husband to thank) because now not only do I count my deodorant swipes, I count my mascara waves as well... making sure I am putting the same amount on each eye.

24,25,26 on the left
24,25,25,27, little 28, 29 on the right--ugh!
27,28,29, long 30 on the left---AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I am willing to bet that the only one who actually achieves the 90 waves is our mascara hero, Miss Tammy Faye Baker.

The Peasants Foiled My Evil Plan...

Our three year old is allergic to sleep. She goes to bed wonderfully (that is after I have read to her, placed her blankets on her perfectly, fetched her all of her "favorite" stuffed animals, found her Bible, placed Holy Water on her head, kissed her 4 times on each cheek, and made a sacrifice to the sleep gods that her slumber will last her throughout the night!), she just doesn't STAY asleep.

Some nights she is up just once, others nights she can visit our bedroom up to 4 times. It is frustrating and we have tried everything (so please do not put your "we tried this with our precious angel and it worked" suggestions in my comments). Each time she wakes up I simply guide her back to her bed and tuck her in... it takes only 2 minutes and I am back in my own bed in no time. I will admit that some nights I do not fall asleep again after she wakes me up, but I am assuming that is just a side affect of pregnancy and surely by the time she is 18 she will not be waking me up any longer. *fingers crossed*

The other night I came up with a brilliant plan! My son has never been a good sleeper either (my children must be so intelligent that their brains do not turn off at night and therefore they are thinking of quantum physics or something instead of sleeping). He does not like to sleep alone-or be alone... so I suggested to our little one that she goes and climbs in with her brother when she wakes up in the night. That way, she can bypass coming into my room and the two little people in our house who like to cuddle and have a warm body next to them can have each other.

The first night was a success. Our son welcomed her into his bed and they slept soundly until after I was even done with my shower. It was a world record! The second night... last night, did not go so well.

I did not calculate into my evil "passing of the sleepless night's torch" that my son is both a mixture of his father and of me. The part that is of his father is the one that would welcome his sister into his bed to cuddle up next to and keep warm. This is just like my husband, he likes to cuddle and sleep close. I on the other hand HATE IT! I am cranky at night and I do not want to be touched. That is the part that my son picked up from me... the cranky if woken up part. So, although he would have happily had a little body next to him to cuddle with, he was not happy when she walked in at 4 a.m. and demanded he share his covers and give her a pillow (she obviously gets her "demanding" attitude from me as well... can't these kids get any of my good traits like my ability to recall 80's pop music at the sound of the first note?)

Our little one was back in our room in no time... with tears in her eyes and proclaiming her brother's meanness for all of the household to hear. That is except for our oldest who I would never suggest to our little one to go climb in bed with because our oldest is the carbon copy of me. Do not bother this child when she sleeps. She sleeps long and hard and if woken up she will place her wrath upon you. I just leave her be-one day she will have children of her own and her pleasant nights of sleeping soundly will be shattered.

So now we are back to where we started. I think I will do a practice run tonight before bed-much like you would practice a fire drill with your children. I will have them practice how to quietly climb in and out of each other's beds without waking mommy up. If all else fails, I will just pretend I am a possum and play dead when my daughter walks in my room--then my husband will have to carry the sleep torch, but he is very VERY good at playing possum himself... he's been doing it now for three years.

Friday Romance...

My husband took the day off of work today-I don't know why, he just felt like having a day off I guess. He works hard so a day off here and there on a Friday is much appreciated.

His original plan was to go golfing, but when he woke up it was raining out so he had to change his plan. As I have said before, my husband is nesting. He wants everything in order for when the baby comes, so he suggested that he and I go to the commissary together... without children... and even get some Taco Bell! He was accurate in pointing out that our cupboards were so bare that Mother Hubbard would have to fry up the dog rather than looking for a lonely bone for the poor thing. I agreed and I was excited at the prospect of a couple of hours alone with my guy. My heart was a flutter and I was giddy with sexual desire. Hey, I am about to give birth here-I am like a 15 year old boy pulling his mom's Victoria's Secret magazine out of the mailbox-I have no control.

Now, my husband and I go to the commissary (grocery store for all of you civilians out there) a lot together, but lately I have been doing it solo or with my son. I can zip through the aisles faster than a race car driver and get in and out of that place in no time. Today, shopping with my husband I realized why I had decided to start going it alone the last few months... he is soooo slow! It is like shopping with my mother-and if you knew my mother you would know that she does nothing in a speed faster than a turtle... a turtle who recently had hip replacement. My mom has always been slow and that is just the way she rolls... slow. I on the other hand have to do things fast. I have to talk fast, type fast, do the dishes fast, shower fast, and even walk fast. The only one who has me beat on my fast speed is my older sister, but I chalk that up to the fact that her legs are about 2 inches longer than mine and she just takes longer strides.

Anyway... my husband was getting on my last nerve at the store, and seeing as I am about to drop this baby from my loins, she is so low that she is resting on my sciatic nerve-so having my husband on my last nerve and this baby on my sciatic nerve made for a very frustrating shopping trip.

He had to read every stinking label! He had to comparison shop! He had to stop and chat with the senior citizen in the olive oil aisle about the Vin numbers on the back of the bottle in comparison to the Vin number on the shelf label! He kept suggesting foods that I never buy and by the time we were finished, not only did I spend $60 more than my usual grocery run, but I wanted to rip out the ad in the back of the Star magazine for the divorce lawyer/exotic dancer!

But all was forgiven and forgotten when we were able to enjoy our fancy lunch of Chalupas and Empanadas. I looked across the sticky table for two that only has enough room for a one-armed person and all of my sexual desires came rushing back. It is Friday, my husband has the day off, I am eating a Chalupa, and I am feeling frisky. It doesn't get any better than that!

Look Hon, No Pants!

Has anyone seen the Burger King commercial that is on right now advertising the kid's meal with SpongeBob?

It starts out with an ENTIRE family in the bathroom-kids asking mom if they are going to BK. They run off in delight and mom then turns her attention back to cleaning the sink (I bet there is cemented toothpaste on the sink, as I am quite sure there is cemented toothpaste on every sink in every house that has children... and men.) We then notice that her husband is not only in the bathroom with her, but he is in the bathtub... taking a bubble bath no less. Now, I don't know about you, but my husband does not take bubble baths because well, he is an adult and the only time he would attempt a bubble bath would be if I were in it with him and we were on vacation somewhere... without the kids.

The husband decides to be "funny" and puts a sponge on top of his head and stands up. We get a full frontal of this man-thankfully the bubbles have strategically hidden the family jewels-and he makes some off handed joke about a child's toy. "SpongeBob, no pants."

I am repulsed by this commercial every time I see it. First of all, what dad takes a bath (or does anything in the bathroom) with his children running in and out. Yes, our little one will run in and out of the bathroom while I am in there, as will the dog, and the occasional neighbor... but that is different. I am the mom-we have no private parts. All of our private parts have been on display for years and we are like anatomical eunuchs to our children. And secondly, why do we need to see this naked man make a joke about a kid's meal toy?? Gross!

Maybe if it were the Bachelor in all of his muscular glory standing up in the tub naked with the bubbles placed just so, and there was no mention of Spongebob... then I would not be so repulsed, but that kind of thing does not come on until after 8p.m. in these here parts.

I don't know what Burger King was thinking! I guess it could be worse. That creepy King they have who will show up in people's beds in the morning or on the elevator to work could have played the part of the naked husband in the bathtub. But my guess is that he is built like my Ken doll was when I was a little girl...

A Challenge

We have chosen the Godparents of our little #4 and today I have been browsing the Internet looking for the perfect gifts. My older sister is the Godmother and I have ordered this for her:

It is very sweet and it fits her to a tee...

I have come upon a road block for what to get the Godfather. My cousin Steve is the Godfather and he is a Irish, drinking, hilarious, fun-loving kind of guy. I want to mix all of those things in with the fact that I am so thankful to have him as our baby's Godfather and I cherish the relationship that he and I share and how happy I am that he has accepted this role of being a Godparent to one of my children.

That being said... I was going to order this:

But then I came across a T-Shirt saying this:

And then I saw this poster:

So as you can see... I am at a loss. I need to step away from the computer before I end up ordering him a Toilet Humor book!

I need your help-do you have any suggestions for a Godfather gift for a unique and lovable guy? One that will let him know how much he is loved but also be appropriate for the Sacrament of Baptism??? I am depending on you!

There Was a Saint Hubbins?

Spinal Tap is reuniting. I'm sorry... I've got nothing. This is all I can think of. Well no, this is not all I can think of, but I am in a bad mood today so this is the only "safe" thing I can think of without offending people...

Maybe I'll be back with a more pleasant outlook later in the day-right now, I prefer to stay in my bad mood.

Deodorant OCD

Random thought #1

I believe I have Deodorant Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I buy Secret Invisible Solid... but it is never invisible. Almost every time I put on this stinking deodorant, I get white marks on my shirt. I have tried the inside-out-roll-out technique when putting on my shirts, but I still get the white runs down my side. I have tried switching brands of deodorant, but none keep me BO-free quite like Secret does. I think I have cracked the code on my white marks...

Maybe I put too much on.

Each morning when I get out of the shower I count as I put on the deodorant.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 on the left...
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12 on the right...
then I have to go back to the left...
11,12,13... 13? UGH! Now I have to go back to the right...
13,14...
ARGH! Back to the left...
14!

I can have anywhere from 12 to 17 wipes under my pits on any given day. I think this may be deodorant overkill. I do not know why I need to have the same amount on each side... for fear of one pit smelling through 12 wipes versus the other not smelling through the 13 it received? Maybe I love my pits like I love my kids-equally. I do not want to show favoritism.

In any case, I think I am putting too much on so the "invisible protection" is overruled. Do people really only put 4 or 5 wipes on each pit? I do not know... but I am not willing to take my chances with a measly 4 or 5 wipes and end up smelling like dirty laundry.

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Random Thought #2

I have not been watching the Bachelor this season because, well he is in too good of shape for me. It is ridiculous! Do these girls not know what they are getting themselves into? Do they not know that life is much more pleasant if you fall in love with a man who has love handles and a little gut rather than a man who has more muscles than the statue of David?

I am thinking that working out is the Bachelor's main source of relaxation and entertainment. I am also willing to bet that he follows a very strict diet-a "NO FUN" diet. I can tell you that he probably expects the same level of commitment from the person he dates. That means no Dairy Queen M&M Blizzards for dinner. That means no laying on the couch for an entire Saturday afternoon and watching 5 movies while eating nachos and popcorn. That means no cake, cookies, cupcakes, candy, chips, or Milk Duds.

These poor girls are going to stress themselves out completely trying to keep up with this Iron Man and in the end they will find themselves hiding in the back of a closet stuffing a Honey Bun in their mouth for a little relief.

June Cleaver rule... never marry a man who is in top physical shape. Find a man who is a little on the lazy side when it comes to working out. Sure, find a man who will go to the gym... but also one who will say "OK" to your request for that DQ Blizzard for dinner. These are words of wisdom here...

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Random Thought #3

I have Narco-somnia.

When my little one wakes me up in the middle of the night to either give me another kiss, or to have me fix her blankets on her bed... I end up awake for the next hour or two. It stinks. I hate it and I pray for sleep to come.

When my husband's alarm clock goes off early in the morning after my hours of insomnia and he needs me to get up with him and make his lunch and breakfast... I can no longer keep my eyes open and I fall into a deep deep sleep in the 3 minutes that he is in the shower.

This is an amazing phenomenon to me. When woken up-I have insomnia, but when I am needed to get up and help someone... I have narcolepsy.

Scientists are baffled.

Under WEAR? Under THERE!

OK, so I recently did a post on nursing bras. It was all the rave and I received many emails on suggestions for the perfect "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder." Thank you very much. I have ordered enough bras to last me through my prison sentence... I mean my nursing years, and will keep you posted on the support factor, the pretty factor and if they are repulsive enough to keep my hound dog husband at bay (for the time being).

Today I thought I would share a conversation I recently had with a girlfriend of mine who is 6 months pregnant.

She called me one day to ask what kind of underwear I wear. She apparently knows me well and was confident that I would go on for hours about my panties. She was right. We had a long conversation about what type, make, model and year built that the panties were that I am sporting these days.

She was a little apprehensive about going out and buying the granny pantie that I had suggested. Hey-I am pregnant, there is nothing sexy about what is going on with this body so therefore if I put on some sexy panties i.e. thongs, it would be like a man who has not showered in days putting on cologne. It does not work and it makes other people avoid you.

In my opinion, there are few times when one can get away with wearing granny panties for months on end. The first, is if you are my mother and have worn them since the beginning of time and therefore do not know that there is a different kind of world out there-one that is full of panties that do not go all the way up to your belly button and all the way down to your mid-thigh. But she is happy and why challenge her full-coverage freedom. The other is when you are pregnant.

My friend is STILL wearing thongs. Crazy I know, but she just cannot let go of the need to feel sexy, and then she said it... the words I knew she was going to say but was hoping that she would have thumbed her nose at and ignored. She said that her husband does not like the granny panties and therefore she is still sporting the floss between the cheeks look-even though the cheeks are getting larger and her tummy is all but hiding the front on the thong so she looks like her body is literally EATING her underwear.

I sat stunned in silence. Finally I had to ask, "Well, is your husband paying any attention to you while you are in these thongs of yours?" Her answer... "No."

I convinced her that if said husband does not take an interest in you while sporting said floss than he has no say in what you wear. AND JUST WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS? (I didn't say that last part, but I was definitely thinking it!)

Long story short, she has gone out and bought the granny panties and called me to fill me in on the pretty colors and the comfort level that she is feeling. It is amazing what a little room "under there" can do for a woman's outlook on life!

Were You Ever a Kid???

My husband and I are in a heated debate... no, it is not the Economics versus Hormones debate, this debate is much more critical to the pleasant atmosphere that permeates the air in our loving home.

Should we or should we not buy our little 3 year old a sandbox.

For weeks now I have been waiting for the warm weather to come so that I could go to Toys R Us to buy a sandbox. I love sandboxes. They are hours of cheap entertainment for kids of all ages. Our little one is at the stage where she no longer wants to play inside where I am, she wants to run free in the warmth of the outdoors every waking hour of the day. She will beg and bribe-she even told me the other day "Mommy, I will give you a penny if you let me go outside." She is a smart cookie. I figure if I have a sandbox, I can at least keep her in the backyard.

I have not shared my plan of getting a sandbox with my husband because frankly, he is no fun. Seriously-I can only assume that he never had any fun as a child and therefore does not know what it is like to feel the cool sand of a sandbox between your little toes, or the thrill it is to dump and pour sand for hours and hours.

He always veto's my brilliant ideas!

"Let's get a TRAMPOLINE!"
"NO... too dangerous! Our kids will break their arm, or worse, the neighbor's kid will break his arm and they will sue us and we will lose everything and become homeless."

"Let's get a POOL!"
"NO... do you know how much upkeep a pool is? I don't have time to go to work so that you can stay home and live the life of a princess and also take care of a pool."

"Let's buy another PUPPY!"
"No... the dog we already have stinks and a puppy will pee on the carpet and poo everywhere and I will have to spend more money to have the carpets shampooed each month."

"Let's have another BABY!"
"NO!"
"You are right... what was I thinking?"

This morning I briefly mentioned that I was planning on taking our little one to Toys R Us and getting a sandbox for her. I mentioned this while Fox News was on and while he was scanning his blackberry in hopes that he would just give me a "Uh-Huh." and life as we know it could carry on as planned. Well, he stopped dead in his tracks and said "We are NOT buying a sandbox!"

Why not? What is the harm in a sandbox? I do not understand his logic. His concern is the mess that will be tracked around the yard and in the house. I on the other hand do not have this concern because I do not see sand being tracked into the house... and if it is tracked in the yard--who gives a crap! Anyway, if sand does come into the house who does he think will clean it up? HIM? Not likely.

Here is the deal. This man of mine gets up every morning and goes off to work. He is surrounded by adults all day and he is able to have conversations that do not involve the words "Mommy, Snack, Little Bear, Can I?, or Wipe ME" all day long. He truly has no idea what happens in this house during the day. He is not aware of the fighting between the two oldest, or the tantrums with the little one. He does not have to drag three children (two that are unhappy that they have to go) on every errand that he has. He also is able to use the toilet without an audience of a dog and a three year old-every stinking time! So... if I need a sandbox for a little sanity around here, well then he better get used to the idea that I am going to buy that sandbox!

My husband also has a condition that I like to refer to as his "Christmas is Cancelled, " or his "sling-shot attitude." He will quickly veto a thought and not only will he say no, he will give a stern warning as to what will happen if the idea is actually carried out. This morning he said "OK, you can buy a sandbox, but we are cancelling the cleaning lady!" HUH? Crazyhusbandsayswhat? Why does he have to hit me where it hurts! I would give up indoor plumbing before I gave up my cleaning lady!

As God is my witness... I will get that sandbox. Childhood fun will prevail in this house if it is the last thing I do! When I was a kid, we were able to run free. We had a pool AND a sandbox. We never had a trampoline, but if we really wanted one I am sure it would have been in our backyard. We had dogs, cats, hamsters, a homing pigeon (yes, I said a homing pigeon), turtles, snakes, tadpoles, frogs, and birds. We ran in and out of our house with boundless energy, slamming the basement door at least 300 times a day without my mom yelling "IN OR OUT!" or "TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!" or even "PUT SUNSCREEN ON!" We were carefree kids-we drank out of the hose for goodness sake! I want my kids to have the same thing.

Let life be all neat and organized when they are adults. Let kids be kids, stinky dogs be stinky dogs, and let hormonal pregnant women get their way! That is my motto.

It It Too Much To Ask For a Little Support... In a Pretty Shade of Pink?

I am going to cover a topic today that I have never read about on any blog, in any magazine or in any medical journal... nursing bras. I mean, come on! They stink. They are ugly and they look like something my Grandmother wore in 1932. They look like the prototype that first came out for bras (when the first man thought it would be beneficial if women had something to strap her twins down so he wouldn't have to walk around excited by her body all day long... men are so selfish.)

We have such an array of bras to chose from when we are not nursing. We have little bras, we have big bras, we have red, green and blue bras. There are bras that give you cleavage and there are bras that allow you to run without knocking yourself out. We have back support bras, and front support bras. There are water bras, push-up bras, separate and lift bras, and "has she gotten a boob job?" bras. We have bras with lace, bras with flowers and bras with sports' team logos on them. There are bras for everyday use and bras that are meant to only be worn for an hour and then lay on the floor. We have bras we wear for special occasions, and bras we wear hoping for a special occasion. There are even bras that can apparently perform miracles... but I have not found one nice nursing bra!

Buying a bra should be an Olympic event. It takes some people years to find one that fits right and does not pinch, bite, crowd, harness or cause pain. First though, you need to have a complete stranger who makes minimum wage in the lingerie department at Nordstrom's feel you up and measure you. Honestly, a man would never be caught DEAD having his personals measured and sized up by a stranger... unless it was a female and she was more attractive than Shamu that is.

Who really likes bras? I mean, I know WHY we wear them (visions of National Geographic women haunt my mind when I think of actually going braless... I personally do not want my boobies touching my belly button.) but do we ENJOY wearing them? I vote no. I take very good care of my bras. I hand wash them (OK, I only hand wash the "gonna get me lucky-which will possibly lead to pregnancy-stupid bra!) ones and the others get tossed in the washing machine... but I do air dry them all so that they do not lose their shape. I fold them and place them delicately in my drawer (OK, I wad them up and toss them in the sock drawer-only to curse and scream when I cannot find the one black bra that goes with that one black top that I have that I want to wear today because I am feeling a little frisky and I want my husband to notice my cleavage and not my cellulite.) But still...

The last few days I have been on a mission to find a few nursing bras. I have decided that the world is a cruel cruel place. Once a woman goes through 9 months of pregnancy... and yes, I know pregnancy is supposed to be a beautiful thing, but let's be honest with ourselves shall we? Pregnancy makes women look just odd. My husband has learned to avert his eyes when I walk naked from the bathroom to the closet everyday because if I catch him even glance at me it will send me into crying fits of "Don't look at me!" I compared myself to a naked sea lion the other day and my sister had to agree. Nice. But anyway... pregnancy is not a great body image builder, and then you go through birth and are left with a deflated balloon for a tummy and torpedoes for boobs and you don't know what to make of yourself. The sympathetic makers of nursing bras have obviously taken all of this into consideration and made an arrangement of the ugliest, most uncomfortable nursing bras for a woman to chose from... I bet male politicians are behind this obvious attempt to bring women down. First they screw us with the no equal pay thing, and now nursing bras. Sheesh!

I purchased a nursing bra the other day at a baby store and decided to wear it yesterday, as my regular bras have been screaming for some relief from my pregnancy induced breast augmentation. When I put it on I thought it felt rather snug, but figured I would just have to stretch it out. I have this same belief with jeans... if I just do enough squats and lunges after I put them on, surely they will loosen up around my rear. Anyway, after a couple of hours I had to take the nursing bra off. I felt defeated. I am normally a 36 C and so I was buying a 36 D for nursing-which has been my routine for the last 2 kids. My first born, I went from a perky 34 B to a saggy 36 C... life is just not fair. This bra was so tight that I started scanning the Internet for a 36DD! My husband was excited (I don't know why... it is not like he is going to be able to-WHATEVER!) I was very sad because once you go into DD's, the pretty factor is out the window for bras. I was looking at a future of Cross-Your-Heart support with 4 inch thick straps, and 17 clasps in the back. *Big Sigh*

I figured I needed to return the bra I had purchased and started to fold it up and put it back in the original packaging... and what do I see? I had accidentally brought home a 36 B! I was not growing to enormous proportions at all! I was just going blind in the nursing bra aisle at the baby surplus store! What a relief!

I called my sister right away to tell her the good news... that I was able to withstand a couple of hours with only B cup boobies! Yes, my girls were relieved when I took off the bra and I felt like Hilary Swank in "Boys Don't Cry" with an ace bandage wrapped tightly around me... but I had stuffed these suckers into a B cup and survived! So I say BRING ON LABOR! I am no longer afraid! I stuffed my C's into a B for a time and came out rejuvenated! It is the little things in life, or in my case, the larger... but not so large that I have to go to DD's, that make me smile.

By the way, if any of you have found the perfect nursing bra-please let me know. I am looking for one that does not have any of those stupid flowers all over it (that will ultimately show through when I wear a white shirt) and no lace. I am partial to the ones they probably hand out to women inmates-white or beige and plain. Nothing that will excite my husband too much-now, that is a tall order!

It Is A Slow and Painful Death... Hormonally Speaking

I had an interesting conversation with my husband last night. He was editing a magazine article he had written and we were talking about him asking our neighbor if he could take a look at it before he submits it.

Me: "I could edit it for you."

Him: Sounding a little haughty, "No, I don't think so"

Me: "Well why not?"

Him: "Just... because."

Me: What is this article about?"

Him: "Economics"

Me: "So, let me read it."

Him: "You wouldn't understand it."

Me: blinking back my disbelief in his dance with a slow and horrible death, "I don't understand economics?" Then I turned to my daughter and said, "Your father thinks he is smarter than me."

Him: "It is not that I think I am smarter, it is just that I understand this and you don't. It would be like you asking me to edit a paper on hormones for you."

Me: Again blinking at him in disbelief, not knowing I had actually married a CAVE MAN! "Oh... hormones."

I did not reply, I simply walked into the kitchen and proceeded to:

• eat an entire chocolate cake
• throw an expensive plate against the wall screaming "NO ONE UNDERSTAND ME!"
• start to cry hysterically
• grab my car keys and head out to Target to see if there is anything I may need to buy.

My husband looked at me in complete disbelief.

Him: "What is wrong with you?"

Me: "You wouldn't understand... it is hormonal. By the way, tomorrow I am selling your golf clubs and donating your collection of sports jerseys to Good Will. I must be hormonal. Also, I want you to paint the living room yellow and the dining room red... don't ask me why, I am hormonal. Oh, and if you want to have sex tonight--I am feeling hormonally imbalanced and I feel a headache coming on. But I wouldn't expect you to understand."

I then run into out bathroom and lock the door... I can carry on like this for weeks! I bet I am editing that economics paper by tomorrow evening.

On Strike!

My neighbor came over yesterday and we were sitting at my kitchen table talking and she mentioned that she has gone on strike. She was fed up with doing everything for everyone in her house and she has decided to just go on strike. She was no longer cleaning, cooking, and if they did not put certain items on the grocery list (like say, milk... eggs... butter... KY Jelly) she would not buy it. *side note: I mentioned KY Jelly in a joke to my mom the other day and she laughed and laughed and then said "What is KY Jelly?"

I gave her a stern warning... my mom went on strike back when I was a teenager, and she never recuperated from it!

Now, when I was a kid, I felt that my sister and I (my older sister, our younger sister never had to do ANYTHING because she was the BABY and they loved her more than they loved us.) we had to do sooo many chores it was unbelievable. Not the simple chores that people give their children today like pick up your room, or feed the dog, no, we had hard labor chores. I was mowing the lawn when I was 7. No joke! We scrubbed bathroom floors, cleaned toilets, and even washed the dinner dishes by hand every night! It was like I was a Walton let me tell you.

The problem was that my parents (I am looking mostly at my Dad here) are pack-rats. They save every stinking thing they can get their hands on. They can't find anything from yesterday's mail, but if you need a letter that Aunt Carol wrote back in 1983, well that is on the buffet table in the kitchen... right on top of the Bobby Darin record. I think the only thing that my mother managed to ever toss out was the wood sculpture that my dad had of a hand giving the middle finger. I never knew they had such art until I saw it in a photo. My mom was holding my sister as a infant and in the background, sitting on top of the TV was a big ol' wooden middle finger. Priceless.

Anyway, my sister and I tried in vain to keep that house clean-until we went on strike as teenagers. This was around the same time my mom shouted "GOD BLESS AMERICA!" at the top of her lungs and declared she was going on strike. Sure mom, believe what you want... but we all know it was us that went on strike. I was a teenager and I had more important things to do than brown the pork chops for dinner... I had my tiger beat mag to read and my New Order cassette to listen to.

I could see where my mom was coming from though. When we were little, it was easy to get us to help around the house. As long as you start kids off early with slave labor, they will not know the difference for years to come. If you say "No TV until the kitchen is swept, the living room is dusted and all of the towels are off the bathroom floor." than one can bet that a kid will do these chores in order to get the TV because they do not know any better. Mom has always been the law around these here parts, and they are not about to go Billy the Kid on the system.

My kids are not yet teenagers, but they are entering the stages of "moodiness" and "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" They are starting to form their own ideas and their own opinions (dang!) and I see the way my daughter looks at me when I give her a "to-do" list. Her eyes tell me that she thinks I am lazy. So what if I am going to lay on the couch with a People magazine and a can of soda while she vacuums around me... my mother did it to me, I am just passing down family tradition here.

The truth is that I depend on my kids a lot to help out. If I didn't write a list of chores each day, this place would be in squalor. It would eventually look like a medieval shack with no indoor plumbing. I would have to go on the show "Clean This House" or I would have to call "Home Extreme Makeover" and have them come rebuild me a new house after this one has been destroyed. I would have to think of a good cover story to get them out here. I am still working on one. I was thinking of the angle "My husband can rinse the dishes, but somehow he is incapable of putting the rinsed dishes in the dishwasher, so really his idea of helping is causing me cerebral hemorrhaging." I don't know-I don't think they'll buy it.

Anyway, my mom went on strike years ago and it did not work. All she got was a messy house that never recovered. I know this for a fact because a few years ago my parents moved from the house they had lived in for 32 years and headed south to a new house. I helped them pack. I should get an award or something because I have never packed more crap in my life. They now have all of that crap in their new house in Georgia. So, my mom's idea of "I am just going to show them!" did not work. We all said "show us what?" and now she still has Aunt Carol's 1983 letter on that same buffet table in the kitchen, only it is in a new kitchen 800 miles south.

My, What Big Teeth You Have Granny...

Yesterday I had to go to the veterinarian. I have decided that I should go back to school and become a veterinarian... because the prices they charge are ridiculous!

Our dog Sophie has horrible breath. She also has separation anxiety which means that every time we leave the house we have to put her in a pen in the garage because she is not trusted to be alone indoors. She has been known to scratch, bite and claw her way through a slatted door and then manage to pull the insulation between the door and the door frame completely out. She is a maniac... a psycho... but she loves us, so we keep her.

When we first moved here I needed to update her shots. I should have done it in good ol' Nebraska where you can pay your vet with some chicken feed if you need to. Here in VA... they want cold hard cash, and they want a lot of it. I walked out of the Animal Hospital in shock from paying a $300 bill. FOR A DOG! This time around I was determined to not pay so much so I started shopping around for a vet to clean her teeth. Again, back in Nebraska it was no big deal to call and make an appointment for Sophie to get her teeth cleaned... here I have to second mortgage my house and budget before I can schedule the appointment.

I had to go in for an "initial" visit so that the Vet could see Sophie before he cleans her teeth... I had all of her shot records with me, so I did not know why he would need to see her, but whatever.

I load Sophie into the car (which is the easiest part of going to the Vet). Sophie will bound into the car with pure joy. She sits in the back with her tongue hanging out and her breath permeating the air. She is so excited to be going for a ride... in the car... to anywhere! Her demeanor changed dramatically the moment we pulled into the parking lot. Her and I both looked at the building. She was only thinking of torture techniques I am sure, whereas I looked at the double wide trailer and saw some cheap prices on the horizon.

I continue to drag her into the trailer/office while she is attempting her Michael Jackson impersonation of the moon walk. Her mouth is now fully open and her tongue has become the length of a toddler's arm hanging out of it. She is in full-panic mode.

We wait in the trailer/waiting area that smells of disinfectant and urine combined with a little wet dog hair and bad breath and I start to understand why the receptionist has a constant pinched look on her face. Finally, we are called to see the Vet. I drag Sophie through the back doors (which remind me of the back door to the pawn shop in the movie "Pulp Fiction" but I quickly put those images out of my mind) and we sit in another room waiting.

Sophie has crazy eyes now. She is crying and making every attempt to jump into my lap. Her hair is flying off of her body and she is breathing so hard one would think she was just strapped to our bumper and ran along the car the entire way to the Vet. Finally... the Vet comes in and engages me in small talk. Looking at my protruding pregnant belly (which always gives me the creeps when men look at my prego belly) he starts to tell me about his 3 children who are all in college. While he is giving me the 411 on how brilliant his children are, he is listening to Sophie's heart rate and feeling her tummy. 2 seconds later he says she is all set to come in for a teeth cleaning and to see the receptionist to schedule it.

I head back to the waiting area with Sophie dragging me toward the door and stop to make my appointment and pay for the 2 second check-up. $50 later we are out the door and on our way home. $50???? For what??? A story about your kids (who I am apparently now helping to put through college) and you feeling up my dog? What a scam!

There will be no pedicures for me this month, just so the dog can have pleasant breath. I will tell you one thing... I better not catch her outside eating her poop when this is all said and done!

Is This a Contraction I am Having, or am I Just Happy to See Myself?

Labor and Delivery. UGH!

I was thinking about Eve (From the singing group Adam and Eve... in the Bible) the other day and I started to wonder something. Did she only give birth to two boys? We only read about Cain and Abel in the Bible, yet we are all here today... meaning that Adam apparently found her irresistible in her leaves and vines, and she had other children. She had to have girls as well. Having said that, this would mean that her boys would have to have children with their sisters... which may explain a lot about my mental state from time to time but it still makes me scratch my head and wonder. Now, I have heard of people marrying their first cousin, and if we are all related as brothers and sisters and then you go and marry your first cousin... no wonder your children are born with 4 fingers or an extra nipple.

Anyway, I decided to ignore the thought of Eve having more children other than the two that we know about in the Bible and just assume that maybe God came down and made more people-maybe not next door to Adam and Eve's hut-but on the other side of the world. I don't know-it is a stretch, but it helps to support my labor and delivery decision that I have been tossing about in my head.

Now, God told Eve that she would have to endure the pains of childbirth as a punishment for eating the apple. If I go with the thought that she only had her two boys, than she only had to go through natural childbirth twice.

As far as I am concerned, this means that I am all Eve'd out since I have gone through natural childbirth twice as well. I am good... I am even with Eve. I am well on my way to heaven.

I was at the Dr. yesterday and we were talking about epidurals. I had an epi with my first born and it was a bad experience. I was so pumped with juice that I had no idea I even had legs and I could not walk for hours and hours after birth. Our oldest had to be away from me for 5 hours and in observation since the meds made her heart rate decrease and she was a forceps delivery. Personally, the forceps should trump anything Eve ever had to do... but whatever.

With my second and third deliveries I went a' la' natural, thus making me even with Eve. So with this baby I am once again considering the epidural. I expressed my fears from my first epidural experience to my Doc and she stated that since this is my fourth baby, my body will be better at reading the signs of labor (like when to actually push the baby out!)

The other problem I have is that I truly do not think my body "knows" how to go into labor. I have been induced with each of my babies. I was hoping my Doc would take pity on me and simply schedule an induction rather than let me wonder each day if I am having a contraction or if I am just having gas. No such luck there. She suggested I start taking Evening Primrose capsules and see how I do. SEE HOW I DO? That is what is worrying me.

I live an hour from the hospital on a good day. I truly do not want to give birth to this baby on the George Washington Parkway. It would be easier for all involved (my husband, the police, the road crews, other commuters) if I had a scheduled induction... but I am going to start taking the evening primrose.

I also mentioned to my husband that he should start helping me out. Like a friend of mine says, The best way to get it out, is the way you got it in. My husband said "Whatever you need me to do babe." As if he were being the hero and taking one for the team... he is such an Adam.

What Does The Pope And My Aunt Have In Common?

Their birthday of course! Happy Birthday Aunt Barb! Happy Birthday Pope Ben!

I bet you get a special dispensation for everything when you share your birthday with the Pope! Talk about having an "in!"

Love you~
God Bless,
Crissy

A Fly On The Wall...

I saw an amazing thing today. It boggled my mind and made me even start to second guess the existence of manly men (other than my husband of course.)

I was at ballet today and enjoying listening to the "posh" mom's conversation. It usually goes something like this:

Posh #1: "I spent $500 yesterday at Target, and I don't' know what I bought!"
Posh #2: "That is nothing! I spent $1300 on a bicycle for my son... and he refuses to ride on it!"
Posh wanna-be (this is the mom who does not look like a posh mom to me, but has somehow gotten sucked into the posh conversation every week. She says a lot of "Uh-Huhs" as if she knows what the other posh moms are talking about, but she and I both know that she is just as confused about the description that posh mom #1 is giving about her new kitchen counter tops as I am!): "Uh-Huh"

I usually sit off to the side reading a book or balancing my checkbook and I can chuckle to myself at how absurd these women are. I don't mean to be all judgemental, and I do confess this to Fr. D, but it is not like I am gossiping about them to my best friend, I am just sharing this story with the millions of readers I have (OK, not millions...)

Today, posh mom #2 was not there so she sent posh husband in her place to take posh daughter to ballet. From what I gathered from the initial greetings, posh mom #2 was very tired from their weekend getaway to California so posh husband took the day off of work to help out with the kids. HUH? I had to physically shake my head back and forth to see if a bird had pooped in my ear in the parking lot and had somehow altered my hearing abilities. Posh mom #1 and posh mom wanna-be looked very sympathetic of posh mom #2's condition.

Posh husband went on to describe in intricate detail the wonderful weekend he and his posh wife had browsing antique shops and buying chocolate. He talked more than posh mom #1 usually talks, and she talks so much that by the end of ballet I am usually ready to pound my head against the wall mumbling "make it stop, make it stop." He then went on to describe a ring he had bought for posh wife and he used words that I had to jot down quickly in order to look them up in the dictionary when I got home.

And then it happened... I started to question his manhood. Now, I must admit that I started to lightly question it when he walked in with his ironed blue jeans (the kind that have the crease down the front) that were hitched up way past his belly button, his penny loafers and his black socks. He looked like my grandpa, but he was only around the age of 39. His hair was combed into a perfect style (which actually did not surprise me as posh mom #2, also his posh wife, has a perfect hairdo every week. It is not a hair do that I would be caught dead wearing... but it seems to fit her to a tee.) Anyway, posh mom #1 started to talk about body lotion. She started to go into detail the dry skin that her and her posh daughters suffer from and the various expensive lotions she had tried. She finally found the perfect one-I can't remember the name because it was something in french and I have not taken a french class for about 17 years so she lost me-in any case, I had never heard of this lotion and I would probably have to sell my 9 year old son in order to afford it.

Posh husband was thoroughly intrigued with the lotion conversation. He started to tell posh mom #1 and posh mom wanna-be (who by the way simply said "Uh-Huh" when she heard of the french named lotion-but I am willing to stake my life that she had never heard of it either!) about HIS struggle with dry skin and HIS constant scavenger hunt for the perfect lotion! I had to stop myself from staring with my mouth gaping open in disbelief!

As I drove home from ballet, I thought of my husband and if he had ever even been in a conversation with all women. He seems to avoid situations like that for one reason or another... but the main reason being that he can give a crap about what women talk about. I am also willing to bet that if he and I went on a weekend getaway all he would talk about would be the food he ate and the sex he had, but he does not talk about sex in the presence of women so he would just talk about food. The lotion conversation would have put him in a day dream about boobies and baseball and if quizzed on what was said, he would not be able to recollect any of it.

I am married to a man, a burping, farting, stinky man who has never even put lotion on unless it is the kind that gets "warm when you blow lightly on it." I am married to a man who will talk about three things in public... politics, religion, and sports. He has never had a manicure and he still gets his hair cut at a barber-and they only use clippers on him. I am married to a man whose idea of trimming his nails is to stand naked over the toilet and clip them down to the nub before he jumps in the shower, only to have them bleed for a week or two until they grow a little. I am married to a man who loves me for all of the things that he is not--feminine.

Basically, if my husband had to listen to the ballet posh conversation today, he would have come home, taken two shots of tequila and gone out in the garage to use his hammer, chainsaw, and lawn mower-all at the same time!

By the way, if any of you have a posh husband, my suggestion would be for you to go directly to Sears and buy him every power tool known to man. You will have a stinky farting husband in no time! Guaranteed!

My Husband Is Nesting...

I like to ignore the fact that pregnancy will lead to labor and delivery. I like to live my life oblivious to the fact that I will very soon have an enormous amount of pain to hehehoo through. I like to pretend I am still skinny and life as I know it will just keep moving as it does every day... my husband on the other hand is different than me.



He is nesting. We have done more "preparations" for this baby in the last 24 hours that I am starting to think he has the inside track on my cervix and whether or not I am dilating at all! He has been telling me for months now that I need to start getting prepared for this little bundle, i.e. I need to go out and buy baby stuff. I have yet to do this... I don't know why, I just don't have the energy to decide what crib sheets to buy, how many onsies I will need and if I should get a digital monitor or a regular one that will enable me to listen in on my neighbor's cordless phone conversations. It is not that I am not excited about this baby (although I admit I am still in a little shock from that pregnancy test that came out positive), I just don't think a brand new baby needs all that stuff right away. All she needs are some diapers, a few pairs of socks, a couple of onsies, my boobies... and she is set! She does not even need the crib set up because she will sleep with me for a few months. I don't need a changing table, because who has time to stop what they are doing and go into a different room to change a baby? I just do it on my lap, and a baby tub? Nah, I just use the tub that came with the house--it is amazing that houses come with tubs now and they work very well at bathing children, even the little ones.

Well last night we went to Babies R Us and bought out the place. I would sit and fret over which brand to buy by the amount of money each cost whereas my husband was in baby utopia and wanted to buy everything he possibly could for the baby-and he only wanted to pay top dollar! I wish he had this attitude more often, like when we are in a jewelry store or a furniture store. We came home with the van packed and my husband was very proud of himself.

Today he busied himself putting everything together. We now have the cradle up, the changing table all stocked and ready and every stitch of baby clothing has been washed, folded, and put away lovingly in little drawers. We are set...

I am not due for another couple of weeks, and my babies always like to hang in there for as long as they can. My theory on this is that they hear me yelling so often at their new brother and sisters that they are floating around in there thinking "I think it is safer if I just stay in here."

My husband has given me a list of things to do before I go into labor. I thought the wife was supposed to give the husband a list of things to do before the baby, but I have come to realize that my husband and I are nothing like your typical "husband and wife." Wouldn't it be nice if all I had to do was HAVE the baby?

Yesterday Was A Bad Day...

I pee'd my pant yesterday. Thankfully I was home in my own bathroom, but it still happened! I have been trying very hard this pregnancy to stay in fashion. Now, that may seem like an oxy-moron because most of the maternity clothes that I find either scream "look at me! I am a big pregnant person wearing flowers and bunnies!" or it says "don't look at me I am fat!" Through some serious searching however, I have been able to find a few items that have become staples in my wardrobe these past few months. One of these items is a pair of chocolate draw-string pants. They are very comfy and they are very cute. I can roll them up and button them to become Capri's or I can leave them down and keep them as trousers. From the back, I don't even look pregnant wearing them! OK, that is a lie, but these kind of lies are what get me through the day people.

I have only pee'd my pants once before. I was in kindergarten and we were making mailboxes out of cartons of milk. Do you remember when milk came in gallon cardboard cartons-not the plastic gallons we have today? Those were so much better for crafts-I should write a letter to the president of milking and let him know that he is doing a disservice to little children everywhere by doing away with the craft friendly cardboard gallon cartons.

Anyway, I had to pee, but I was afraid of my teacher. I was afraid because a boy had just asked to go to the bathroom and she yelled at him because he did not go when the class went and so no, he could not go now. Now, I ask you, what kind of kindergarten teacher does this? As far as I know, 5 year olds are much like puppies. They do not have full control of their bladders yet and if you tickle them or give them lots to drink-they need to pee.

So, I decided to not let the teacher know I had to use the facilities and I went on making my mailbox. I suddenly started to cry. The girl next to me was very sympathetic and wanted to know what was wrong-I don't remember her name, but I do remember that she even hugged me. She was very kind until she realized that she was in fact standing in a warm puddle of pee... then she turned on me and yelled for the teacher bringing all the attention of the entire class upon me and my golden puddle I was standing in. It was humiliating... I don't know where this girl is now, but I bet she is a kindergarten teacher somewhere.

My dad was home recuperating from open heart surgery and my mom was off running errands with the car. We only had one vehicle back then-as most of Middle America did, and if my dad was hanging around the house recovering from surgery, I am willing to bet my mom was up at the VFW bar calming her nerves. My dad had to walk up to the school to get me and he was instructed to bring me a clean pair of underwear. He brought them in a see-through sandwich baggie! The humiliation never ends in this family let me tell you. We walked home happily together, although I still hear about the blisters he got on his feet from walking up to the school in new shoes. Sheesh!

So yesterday I was forced to have flashbacks of that fateful day when I pee'd myself again. This was not one of those little piddles that happen to a pregnant woman when she sneezes, or when she laughs too hard... not this was an all-out-can't-stop-the-flow pee. It was those DAMN draw-string pants! They did me in I tell you! My son and I had just gotten back from the grocery (another punishment to his much needed discipline from his weekly actions) and the moment I climbed out of the car I knew I needed to drop everything and run, not walk to the restroom. I get in and I start the dance of the pee bird-it is a special dance, one that demands music but alas, there is never music in a bathroom so I usually sing "I Will Survive" while I am unbuttoning and unzipping. Well... there appeared to be a knot in my draw string. With each tug and pull the knot was getting bigger and tighter until I started rummaging around in the drawer for a pair of nail scissors, nose clippers, nail file-ANYTHING! All I found was a comb so I started to try and pry the knot loose with the teeth of the comb (it should be said that this was a barbie comb, but I was desperate!) I could not even see if I was making any progress because I cannot see anything that is happening below this big pregnant belly so it was the blind leading the blind down there. I tried looking in the mirror, but I always get confused with the opposite affect that mirrors have and at this point I was panicking so nothing was going to calm me down in time to get the knot undone and the pants down in order to release the flood gates.

I ended up peeing... all the while crying and singing "I'll never survive... I'll never survive"

When all was said and done I had to cut my draw-string with scissors in order to get them off and I threw away the pants that I once loved, but now I hate. They turned on me and I just cannot forgive that kind of treason. Not only did I lose a pair of good maternity pants, but I had to wash the bathroom floor... and the bathroom rug... and that barbie comb as well. I have a Doctor's appointment on Monday and I am thinking of asking if they can just hook me up to a catheter now... life would be so much easier!

Sometimes I Can't Help But Think Someone Is Out To Get Me~

Do you ever have those thoughts that something bad "might" happen? I have a problem with paranoia. I can't help it-it takes over my body and I start to panic. These are not typical panic attacks that would merit a trip to the Psychiatrist and a prescription to alleviate such paranoia... it is just your typical "I think too much" paranoia. Although, it would be nice to take a little medication to calm down now and then, maybe get a nap in... but I will never openly admit that!

This morning I had to take our van into the dealer because I could not get it into gear D2, D3 and so on. This really didn't bother me as I was able to put it in reverse and drive... what are D2 and D3 used for anyway? My husband thought it was something that needed to be fixed so that meant that I had to take the van in. I truly wonder some days if he just sits around and says "What can I do to make my wife crazy... I know! I'll tell her she has to take the van in for maintenance... she LOVES that kind of stuff!"

As I was laying in bed last night thinking of taking the car in, I started to panic at the thought that I would have to take the Courtesy Van back to our house. This meant that I would have to be in a vehicle with a person (probably a man) of whom I did not know. My children would be left at home for the hour that I would be away and so I started thinking "What if this is a maniac serial killer that is driving this Courtesy Van?" And so the paranoia began... I kept wondering what kind of background checks Honda does on their Courtesy Van drivers.

When my husband is out of town, I worry about an ax murderer coming into our house at night and will lay in bed listening intently to odd noises. "WHAT WAS THAT?" goes through my mind as I hear the house settle around me.

I don't fret over little things such as whether or not it will simply rain, no I worry that it will rain so much that the sewers will back up into our house. I worry not so much that I have a mosquito bite, but I do worry about the West Nile virus.

When we are on the second floor of the mall, or at a hospital and they have those stupid railings that are made out of glass so that you can see down to the level below, I worry that they will break or come lose and a person will go tumbling down. I can't help it-I worry, I am paranoid, and I panic.

The only good thing about my personality is that I am so laid back (read: lazy) that this paranoia is only in my head and by the time I think of doing something about it... it would entail just too much energy on my part so I just say "Ah, it'll be OK-if an ax murderer actually does make his way into my house, I will just deal with it then." Thankfully, this scenario has yet to play out so I have not had to open my Can O' Whoop Ass on an unsuspecting maniac in my home.

This morning as I was driving to the car dealer, I started thinking about the serial killer who would be driving me home in the Courtesy Van, but it was so early in the morning that I could no longer be bothered with my paranoia. I was tired (from laying awake worrying) and I was hungry (because I am pregnant and have to eat every 12.4 minutes). When I reached the dealership, the nice girl who took care of me simply informed me that I had been trying to get the car into gear in an improper fashion. She demonstrated to me how to do it correctly and I was on my way back home, in my own van within a matter of minutes.

The serial killers will have to go back to bed and wait for another day to hunt me down. Today I was saved!

The Peasants Are Trying To Overthrow The Queen!

OK, ever have one of those moments, days, weeks, years when you feel your children are plotting against you? I truly think that my precious children-whom I have carried in my body, gave birth to and nursed, are trying to figure out how to destroy me.

My oldest had softball practice last night. My husband, who is the coach, is once again out of town so that meant I (full term pregnant and all) had to run the practice. Now, I don't know about you but the sight of me hitting a ball, throwing a ball, catching a ball, or even running (or should I say lumbering) after stray balls is enough to make any person cringe. I am sure that all of the moms on the bleachers were just waiting for a baby to come tumbling out of the bottom of my pant leg!

Thankfully I did not have to curse my husband too long for this obvious attempt on his part to make me crazy because one of the other coaches came to my rescue and took over practice for me. I happily went to sit in the dugout with another mom and we started up a conversation. It was the first adult conversation I had participated in all week (because as I said my husband is out of town and homeschooling keeps me locked up in our house with no outside stimulation... it is all part of the evil plan to overthrow the Queen) I was thoroughly enjoying this conversation when my son walked up and decided that he wanted to be a part of the conversation as well.

My son usually runs as far away from me as he can when we are at a ball field. There are usually other kids around for him to play with and it is like watching a Labrador retriever puppy wiggle out of his leash and run free with his ears whipping in the wind and his tongue hanging out in pure bliss that he is not longer attached to his owner. Last night however, my son decided to cling to me... and I was not in a clinging mood.

My week with my son has been a tough one. He has been disciplined to the highest degree for offenses that he was guilty of and his life is very very bleak right now. I am currently his arch enemy so I would have thought that he would have enjoyed a couple of hours of freedom. Apparently not.

The conversation was one where if I said one thing, he would say "No, it was not like that, it was like this..." and so on. He told this woman everything under the sun about our family-even pulling out the big guns such as "my mom got so drunk she threw up one Christmas" or "I play my video games for 6 hours every day!" and my favorite, "I am trying to figure out how to make gun powder in our back yard."

I wanted to strangle the boy-or rather, I wanted to run screaming from this conversation that I was trapped in with my 9 year old Nemesis.

Why does this happen? Why do kids divulge such secrets--ones that aren't even true (well, OK, I did get so drunk a couple of Christmases ago that I did end up throwing up and passing out in the bathroom of my brother-in-law's house--but the wine was good and the turkey was taking FOREVER to cook!) Now this woman thinks that my son should be on Homeland Security's "person of interest" list because of the lack of parental supervision (the hours of violent video games) and the apparent weapon making (the gunpowder in the backyard.)

I did not clear any of these misconceptions up with this mom. She told me she had a son who was in high school so I figured (hoped!) that she had once been in my shoes. I did not defend my parenting (my son does not play video games for hours on end-unless of course I am drunk and passed out on Christmas) and he is not making REAL gun powder, he is simply playing "civil war hero" in our back woods and he is "pretending" dirt is his gun powder.

I have been waiting all day for Child Protective Services to knock on my door... but so far it has been quiet. Eerily quiet actually... and the children are huddled in the corner whispering and cackling... peering at me with their sinister eyes. Maybe I should let them eat cake!

Please Send All Donations To The June Cleaver College Fund! Part Deux

As I was saying...

The price of an education is crazy! I mean, people go off to school to better their lives (or to be in a drunken stupor for 4 years) and when they leave school and are ready to face the world... they are drowning in debt. It just does not make sense to me.

I don't like debt-in fact, it makes me sick to my stomach. We live our financial lives the Dave Ramsey way (If you don't know who Dave is, than just Google him and you will be on the road to Financial Freedom!) Anyway, we don't like debt, we don't have debt (except for my student loans) and sometime soon we will be able to thumb our noses at Sallie Mae and pay off this mega monster.

I attended a small Catholic college that had a HUGE tuition. When I decided to go back and finish my degree I continued my education at the same college doing an "external" degree. That just means that I had no set schedule-it was flexible. I did not have to attend classes, just do the work on-line and get everything in by the end of semester date. Now, this is a brilliant plan for someone who is structured, but I am a procrastinator at heart. I will put off doing things until the very last moment. I only procrastinate when it comes to my own personal obligations. The obligations of my children and husband are always taken care of quickly and meticulously... my stuff gets shoved to the back of the line and sooner or later I freak out and remember that I need to turn in a 10 page report on the abnormal behavior of prison inmates who have lived among primates by tomorrow! I have even been known to start and finish an entire course in two-weeks. I would not recommend this-it is not very conducive to a happy stable home... basically it makes me a crazy woman for a couple of weeks and I retain nothing. Do not ask me anything on American History... all I know is that there were Native Americans, and now we all live here. Good enough-I got an "A"!

Actually, learning comes pretty easy to me. I can put it off, write a research paper in the span of 2 hours and come out of the course with an "A" or a "B". I am not bragging... I am just trying to make you feel inferior to my big brain and my savvy use of cliff notes. There were only two courses that I did not do well in. I received a "D" in both and I received those grades on principle alone so I have to say that I am very proud of those D's. One was in a course called "Woman Imaging God" I was very excited as I thought I was going to learn how to be more God-like (not in the "I am a GOD-worship ME sense, but more in the "I am a servant" sense). The instructor thought differently. It turned out to be a feminist view of God-referring to Him as "her" and "Goddess." Needless to say, the instructor soon thought of me as a thorn in her side and I am sure she even stopped reading my papers as they were along the lines of "What are you a crazy person to think such nonsense in a Catholic College?" I am sure she gave me my D just to get rid of me-and that was fine. The second "D" I received was from one of my psychology professors. He was an evolutionist and told me that humans are in fact the third chimpanzee. I made a remark about Michael Jackson and his Chimp and from then on I received low marks. I fought him on every discussion and challenged his teaching style. Again, I became a thorn in his side and I was glad to be done with that course! I even changed my double major of Human Services and Psychology to just a major in HS and a MINOR in psych so I would no longer have to be in contact with this professor.

Anyway, now I am finished, I is edjumacated! A person needs a college degree in order to deal with the banks in which they owe money to. One of my loans is from a small bank in Indiana. They no longer have a student loan department and do not know what the National Student Loan Database is. They reported my loan "paid in full" back in 2004-so when we consolidated in 2006, they did not get on the list. A few months ago we received a phone call from them saying "You owe us money! Pay up or have bad credit!" Well, after talking to the banker that was assigned my loan (who is a rickety old man who went to college back when women were not allowed to even think of higher education) it was apparent that I was in for a long penance with this bank.

Long story short-they have been paid, they have cashed the check... but they just called me last week and said they lost the check and therefore they feel they have not been paid! HUH? Crazypersonsayswhat? So it is back to the phone lines for me to Sallie Mae and back to the fax machine and back to the frustration of dealing with ignorant people (one of my pet peeves).

The moral of this long winded two day post? Save for your children's college! Give them a fighting chance in the world when they emerge from their 4 year stint of no responsibilities and endless toga parties! Let them get into debt with more fun things like overbuying shoes, or buying a Hummer on a 20K a year job! Those are the good mistakes to learn about debt from-not the monkey on your back that I call Sallie Mae. They will thank you one day as they drive up to your house in their BMW.

My Wife Went To College, And All I Got Was 50K In Debt!

My husband is a good man. He takes good care of me. I am not hard to take care of though, I don't smoke (unless I do what the Parenting magazine's tell me and then I am smokin' in bed) I don't drink (at least not right now at this very moment) and I don't do drugs (unless you count the happy gas the dentist gave me as a child-I would stop brushing just to get a cavity to merit a ride on the Dentist's chair of flying high). I stay home, raise our children, keep the house, balance the checkbook, make the meals, do the grocery shopping, wash all dirty clothes, bathe the dog, put gas in the van and I even will mow the yard on occasion just to surprise him when he comes home. I am a pretty good catch. I don't shop excessively-honestly. I do not even enjoy shopping really because I prefer my money to stay in the checkbook that I balance. I have not pulled out a credit card in over 5 years... I don't see the point of them, AND, I let him have most of the control of the remote! He is a lucky lucky man.

The only negative point is my college debt. I do not have my own income. This job that I have does not pay all that much, and we cannot live off of the ad revenues that this blog collects (last month I earned a total of $0.01!) So my debt is being paid by my husband. I hate that thought-I really do but... it is partly HIS fault that I have this debt. Let me explain~

I met my husband when I was fresh out of high school and working for the summer at a restaurant and lounge in our hometown. The restaurant was very nice, the lounge was very "not nice." The place was owned by a Greek named Tony who wore his button down shirts half open with his chest hair popping out and gold chains around his neck. He was greasy-he was an "oily bohunk" but leave out the bohunk part. He was about 4'9'' and he thought he was God's gift to women. Between him, the cooks in the back and the bartenders, my guardian angel was working overtime that summer.

My husband and his twin brother started frequenting the lounge. Why you ask? Well, they didn't fit the normal cast of players at the bar-the high school teacher who was there every day grading summer school papers, the group of older women with frizzed and teased hair and blue eye shadow, or the leather vested biker guys that came in on Thursdays-my husband and his brother did not fit in at all! They came to listen to the Talking Head's cover band (who did a great rendition of "And She Was")... or at least that is what I assumed. Maybe they came in because in our hometown, there was not much to do unless you wanted to cruise up and down the Boulevard and park at the Burger King or the Dairy Queen and drink Boones' Farm Strawberry Hill Wine in your backseat. Maybe they could get cheap beer and watered down Rum and Cokes there, or maybe they just thought they were too sophisticated for Burger King but too poor to drive downtown Chicago. I don't know, all I do know is that I instantly noticed them from my hostess-with-the-mostest station.

One night they came in with a girl I knew. When she walked past me to go to the restroom I said "Hey Suzie, which one you got, because I'll take the other!" Well, the other was my future husband, my future debt payer.

We started dating. Now, it should be said that I was only 18 and my husband was 23 at the time. 18 and 23!!! What were my parents thinking??? I mean, if my daughter came home and said that she had met a guy at a lounge who was 23 and she really liked him and wanted to date him... I would lock her away in her room and make her say the rosary over and over. I guess there was some divine intervention happening here-either that or my parents didn't think he would be hanging out long because I never kept a boyfriend long. I was too free... too ready to see what the world had in store for me to be tied down to a boy. Oh my poor parents.

August came and I headed away to a small Catholic (read: enormous tuition) college in Southern Indiana, and my husband headed back to University in Arizona. (He had enlisted in the Army right out of high school and after 4 years decided to go to school. So while I was taking Geometry class and planning homecoming, he was carrying a machine gun and wearing camouflage in field exercises. We had a lot in common). We vowed to stay in our relationship and to try it out long distance.

That worked for 18 months and by Christmas break of my Sophomore year, my husband dressed up at Santa and placed a ring on my finger. I was 19 and he was 24... HOLY COW! My poor parents.

I quit school because how could I possibly be separated from the man I loved and moved out to Arizona to be close to him and to plan our life together. Again, my poor parents. We were married when I was 21 and he was 25... we were babies-but we were a match!

Years passed and we had two children. My husband was working on his Master's degree when I got the notion to go back and finish my college education. It was all fine and dandy until I was a semester or two in and realized that it was really hard to care for a family and go to school-so I wanted to quit. I figured I was doing fine without a degree... I mean, I was a mom, not a lawyer-I was happy with that. My husband would not hear of it. He was my cheerleader throughout and I finally FINALLY graduated. I now have a piece of paper that is worth $50,000! My husband HATES when I say that.

Anyway, we have been happily saving money and paying off this loan with no bumps and no set-backs until recently. We have met up with just about the dumbest bank in the free world and this post is too long today to go into it, so I will continue with Part II of this exciting tale of adventure, intrigue, romance and pitfalls tomorrow. Be sure to tune in as I will be examining the mind of a senior citizen banker who should have retired in 1984 and the crazy cost of Private Education! It is sure to be a page-turner~

The Great Egg Debate

This was the first year that I hid plastic eggs. Traditionally, I would do what my mother did and hide the hard-boiled eggs that we had colored. Well, it seems that I should be locked up... because I could have given my children salmonella. Who knew?

I recently read in a parenting magazine-you know the kind-the ones that don't really HELP you through this maze of parenting but rather make you feel like a complete and utter failure by the time you get to the "work at home" ads in the back. I am obviously not sterilizing enough, making crafts enough, reading the best children's books enough and having enough sex with my husband after childbirth... but they will tell me how to lose that extra 5 pounds (as if 5 lbs. would make a dent!) and they will tell me how to spice up date night at home with just some tissue paper and a push up bra! The editors of these magazines should be fired-these magazines have become as bad as Cosmo is for a single woman... they just stress me out.

Anyway, I was reading about egg-etiquette and it said that hard boiled eggs should not be left out any longer than 2 hours... even if you are having a party and you see that the eggs have been on the buffet table for 2 hours, you should quickly remove them from the buffet and put them in a fridge (or swap them out with the "extra" eggs you have prepared in the fridge already--that just cracks me up... extra eggs prepared! HAHAHAHA!)

I called my mother and asked her what she thought. I have to say that I am amazed that my sisters and I survived the living conditions that we were subjected to on Easter morning. Every Holy Saturday evening, we would color eggs. We would color what seemed to be a ton of eggs. We would color them with toxic crayons first-not the one "invisible" crayon that came with the dye, but the toxic $.99 for a box of 500 crayons. My mom would then let them set on the counter to dry-never putting them in the fridge for fear of the color running when she would take them out to hide. I am sure an etiquette book somewhere states that little dots of Easter egg dye on the living room carpet is not appropriate... it said nothing about poisoning your children back then. After we would go to bed, my mom would then take the warm, hard boiled, toxic eggs and hide them around the house. We would all sleep through the night and wake to find the killer eggs and we would even enjoy one or two before we started putting on our Easter outfits for Church. The eggs STILL did not make it into the fridge, because my mom would then make either egg salad, or deviled eggs (maybe the name deviled eggs is appropriate, I mean, if the eggs are laden with deadly bacteria I am willing to bet the devil had something to do with it.) We would then take the eggs that we had colored for the Priest to Church, putting him in grave danger as well, and then continue to dine on the warm eggs for a week. I must have internal organs of steel I tell you to survive such an obvious attempt on my mother's part to poison us all.

The above had been my Easter tradition as well until I read that stupid magazine. Our beautiful colored eggs have been safely tucked away in the fridge for no one to oohhh and ahhh over and the 48 plastic eggs that were stuffed with jelly beans, whoppers, and sweet tarts are all but empty now and piled in a basket on the counter. My children all went to bed with upset stomachs because of all of the sugar they inhaled yesterday and I was wide awake watching a CSI marathon for hours last night because I was so doped up on sugar. Next year I am going back to the warm salmonella eggs. I think the health and well-being of my children insists upon it!

How Dare You Be HONEST With Your Children!

I have never been a big fan of the Easter Bunny. Even when I was a youngster I didn't like him... to be honest, he scared the crap out of me. A big overgrown bunny dressed in overalls and a bow tie sneaking into my house at night and hiding eggs? How bizarre!

My husband and I have been able to celebrate the Easter Holiday in the way God intended... religiously. We have also included the other parts of Easter as well, the candy, the baskets, the gifts, the egg coloring and egg hiding. We have always told our children that Mommy and Daddy do the gift basket giving and we also do the hiding of eggs. The Easter Bunny is the little guy out in the backyard that emerges from his winter hiding this time of year to eat my tulip sprouts.

We have never encountered a problem with this until this year. I have discovered that when you have older children mixed in with a toddler-the toddler is a lot more street smart than the older ones were when they were little. My toddler has an older brother saying "The Easter Bunny is a fraud!" only to be repeated by her at a less desirable time.

This year my little one has been asked many times if she is excited about the Easter Bunny coming to her house, to which she replies "We don't believe in the Easter Bunny" or my favorite, "The Easter Bunny only eats Mama's flowers, he doesn't hide eggs." This gets me a confused look from the little senior citizen who has posed this question to my daughter only to have me smile and shrug. She is only being honest-brutally honest, the way her brother has obviously taught her to be.

Today after Easter Mass the people in the pew in front of us turned around and asked my daughter if the Easter Bunny came to visit her last night. Their 5 year old daughter looked on excitedly clutching the ballerina Barbie that the Easter Bunny obviously left her in her basket. My daughter, in all of her three-year-old gumption said, "The Easter Bunny is a FAKE! FAKE! FAKE! My Mama is hiding the eggs when we get home from Church!" Each time she said "fake" she grew more and more animated, like she was saying "My Mom just lost 20 POUNDS POUNDS POUNDS!" (that is the only example that I could think of that would merit more and more animation and excitement.)

The poor little 5 year old looked like she had just been told there would be no Christmas this year. The mother clutched her hands over her daughter's ears and gave me a look that I am willing to bet should send her back to confession this week.

Lord help me when the times comes for my daughter to lose her front teeth and some poor unsuspecting person poses the question "Is the Tooth Fairy going to visit you tonight?" I pray that I am at least at the grocery store and not at Sunday Mass.

Forgive Me

America! What Are You Thinking?

Sanjaya? I mean... c'mon! SANJAYA?

I put my hands up in disgust. I can no longer take the weeping and the moaning that comes from my daughter every Wednesday night after the American Idol results show. She has professed her love for Chris Richardson and will respectively vote for him her allotted 10 times each Tuesday night... but something is amiss when SANJAYA is still hanging in there!

I thought for sure he would have been booted with last week's faux mohawk hair but I was wrong.

I have figured out what is going on. Middle aged men have nothing better to do at work than devise plans to flood the phone lines voting for Sanjaya because they are so sick of their daughters and wives watching American Idol that they want to put a wrench in the works. You may be asking, "Why do you think this Cris?" Well... because that is what my husband and his cronies at work are doing!

One of his fellow workmates has even taken to sleeping on the couch every Tuesday night because after he hides the phone from his wife, he runs into the bathroom and votes for Sanjaya as many times as he can. When he emerges, he is locked out of his bedroom and so he does the sleep of shame on the couch. Somehow they think this is all hilarious!

My own husband has been physically tackled by my daughter and had the phone wrestled from his hands when he was trying to vote for Sanjaya. I am telling you-there is a war going on in our house and I do not see as calm a resolution as the British soldiers coming home from Iran happening here. I see more of a stand off that will include a clown suit and a water tower in my husband's future.

Men are weird. There, I said it. It is like they cannot handle the fact that for a couple of hours a week, something else is getting their wife and children's attention. For years now they have secretly been plotting the ruin of this show and finally, with the arrival of Sanjaya, they have figured out how to do it.

My daughter and I will have our revenge though... when the American Idol Tour comes along you can bet that we will be the first in line to buy tickets. We will buy enough tickets for our ENTIRE family to go-especially my husband, so that he can sit in the audience amid screaming girls and watch Sanjaya LIVE and IN PERSON! If that does not do him in, the fact that his hard earned money was used to buy the tickets to see Sanjaya will surely make him regret his evil plan. So, go ahead and keep plotting my darling husband... you have no idea what you are up against.

Pick ME! Pick ME!

OK, so I love to watch the Bachelor. I am not sure why because I get so pissed off every stinking time I view an episode, but I keep coming back to it-I just HAVE to know who will get proposed to in the end... I then open up a betting pool to see how long they will actually stay together-it pays for our mortgage every year, seriously!

I am always amazed at the people they chose to be on the Bachelor. I mean seriously... there has to be some kind of dysfunctional baggage that they are hiding if the Bachelor is good looking, physically fit, educated, a millionaire and knits baby booties in his spare time for little orphans in Nepal, yet he somehow has not managed to snag himself a wife on his own. Hmmmm-he probably has a horror for a mother and a drunk for a father and a brother like George Clinton who is in and out of jail-but they just hide that part of his life behind door number 3.

I always like the first episode. I sit and yell at the TV "LIFE IF NOT LIKE THIS!" I have never walked into a room and had up to 25 people wanting all of my attentions. As far as I know, this has never happened to my husband either-so the size of the ego that Mr. Bachelor must develop in this show is being studied by all reputable psychologists around the world I am sure. Personally, I believe that if he was not a jerk before the first episode... my guess is that his male jerk-gene will rear it's ugly head very soon, and they display this by letting him reject 10 of the lovely ladies who have dolled themselves up swearing their love and devotion to him.

Like the cigarette ad says "You've Come a Long Way Baby!" but apparently not long enough! The producers of this show do a fabulous job at searching the earth for beautiful women who have also found the cure for cancer-but have no self-esteem. Again I say that there must be some dysfunctional "my ex-boyfriend made me wear a french maid outfit" baggage happening there. Basically we are watching two beautiful people with emotional baggage try to fall in love on the television and survive. Not gonna happen people.

If I had met my husband and he said to me, "Look, I think you are great and I would love to kiss and hug you and take you on dates to exotic places... but I have these 24 other women who I am seeing as well." I would have been out of there faster than a speeding bullet! They have got it all wrong here... men are the competitive ones, not women. Women like to be the center of a man's universe (or at least made to feel that way) not jumping up and down trying to get his attention. This is why there are so many cat-fights on the Bachelor. They make these women revert back to junior high behavior.

As far as I know, the only couple to have survived a Bachelor show is Trista and Ryan-and that was the Bachelorette. This is because Trista had all attentions placed on her and Ryan was able to be the victor in the competition for her heart. He can probably care less about the other guys-because he won! He was able to mark his territory and felt like the hero. Women are different. We remember the other girls and that pisses us off. I admit it, I still will see red at the slightest mention of the girl my husband was seeing before he met me. Women do not want to be in competition-it is not a fun game to fight over a man. We want the man to come to the mill that we are working at in his full Military Dress Whites and sweep us off of our feet-making a spectacle of his admiration for us and us alone for all the other women to witness. We want to say "nah nah nah nah nah--he loves ME and only ME!" We do not want the other women thinking "sure, he picked you, but he kissed me, and her, and that girl, and even that girl over there... so big deal if he chose you-you can have those sloppy seconds!"

So, my prediction is that this Bachelor will kiss all the girls, make many of them cry at his rejection, make even more of them pull each other's hair and call each other names and he may even send a few to the psychiatric ward for evaluation. He will propose to someone in the end... and they will announce their split after all of the morning talk shows have them on as guests. It is what good TV is made of!

When Puberty Attacks!

My daughter is stuck... stuck somewhere between being a little girl and being a young woman. She has the men in this house completely confused let me tell you. Her poor brother does not know when it is safe to talk to her-some moments he may get his usual happy-go-lucky sister, and in the next breath he may get the girl from the Exorcist movie spinning her head completely around and vomiting on him. Her dad does not know when it is safe to go into her room anymore and has decided that it is best if he just waits her out.

I on the other hand, know exactly what she is going through and I have decided to wage this battle head on. I probably get most of the attitude thrown at me, and now I know what my mom felt like when I did it to her. The eye rolling, the arms crossed, the heavy sighs... those of you with tween daughters know exactly what I am talking about.

My daughter would rather have her fingernails pulled out by an ancient tribe than do any of the activities that I think of for our family. This week is the Cherry Blossom festival in DC. The trees are peaking TODAY! I asked her if she wanted to go downtown and stroll along the Basin and take in the beauty of it. Her reply (which is her reply to everything these days) "Do I have to? Can I just stay home? It sounds really boring. You mean, we just walk around and look at flowers? Please tell me that you have not made a definite decision that we are going. PLEASE!"

I will admit that I depend on her a lot. She helps out constantly in the house and rarely complains when her little sister tags along behind her outside. Some days I look at her and my heart is torn between allowing her the space to fly and holding on to her so that she does not get hurt by the evils in this world.

Heck... I am still in that attitude phase. Do women every grow out of it? The moods that creep up on you like a mugger and just morph you into a crazy person at the drop of a dime? I experienced this last night... I had a full day of Dr. visits and house cleaning and a three-year-old that decided that she did not want to wear shoes at all-or underpants. My son gives me the "I KNOW" response to everything I say and my oldest was already in her "OH no you didn't" head twirling mood when I blew a gasket. I was alone-except for the dog, who seems to always get the brunt of my bad moods (and she still loves me-amazing) My husband came home from work with the sniffles and retreated to bed at 6:45. That was the last straw I am sure. So I finished the dishes and instructed all children to stay as far away from me and they would a nuclear test site and settled down to watch the Bachelor. (Which I will post on tomorrow because I have far too many opinions on THAT to go into right now).

So today I am going to become my daughters worst nightmare and take them to see the Cherry Blossoms. I am going to take my camera and make her pose 756 times with her brother and sister and I may just make her hold my hand from time to time. Oh the HORROR! I am going to waddle my pregnant self all over rubbing my belly and moaning from time to time just to embarrass her (because there is nothing more embarrassing for her right now than my bursting belly) and I am even going to pack a lunch and bring a blanket so she has to sit and have a picnic with us. I am not sure which daughter I will get... the one who calls me "Mommy" still, or the one who calls me "@#$%@$" behind my back. I have my money on the one who calls me "Mommy" but with a slight eye roll.