Chocolicious

Okay, now say it like ya mean it:

Chocolate is not the answer to life's problems. Chocolate is not the answer to life's problems. Chocolate is not the answer to life's problems.

The answer to life's problems? Is not chocolate.

One fun-size bag of M & Ms per day is enough for anyone and one fun-size bag per day is all that anyone needs. Put the second fun-size bag down, woman, for the sweet love of God, put the second bag down, please.

And slowly, slooooowwwwwllllyyyy step away from the Halloween candy.

No one ever said I didn't need a 12-step program. No, I'm not kidding.

This Just In: Incest Is NOT Best

In a stunning revelation, the brilliant mind of he-who-would-be-Senator Alan Keyes brings us this happy thought:

"If we do not know who the mother is, who the father is, without knowing all the brothers and sisters, incest becomes inevitable"

Let's put aside matters of how, in my opinion, this quote trivializes incest and promotes discrimination against adoptees and couples pursuing ART, as well as homosexuals. Ahem.

So. Let's see. Following this twisted thought process (not as easy as one might imagine), I'm thinking that this will also affect anyone (gay or otherwise) who has been "masked from their biological parents", such as parents who utilized donor egg/sperm, or those who chose to pursue closed adoption or international adoption.

You do know what this means, don't you, gentle reader? Well, my friends, it means that in 20 years or so, you'll be reading my blog that's dedicated to my darling little three-headed, cross-eyed, forked-tongued grandchildren, the product of incestuous relationships unwittingly perpetuated by my children, who were masked from their bio sibs/spouses through no fault of their own, thereby wreaking chaos upon the gene pool. Don't fret, I will certainly post pictures of the little dears.

Thank you, Alan Keyes, for drawing this matter to my attention. I will certainly insist upon DNA testing for all future potential spouses of my children and their children and their children's children, just to ensure that no incest occurs.

Bluh.

SnotFace, look what I've done

SnotFace, look what I've done!

No, really. I think I'm onto something here. Multi-tasking: that is the key to motherhood.

Have I mentioned before that each week A (in 1st grade) brings home a reader from school? No? Well, then, A's teacher sends a new "weekly reader", if you will, home each Monday. None of these are very long, just simple stories about Pig escaping from his pen and Cow feeling sad and Cat going on a trip and Dog not wanting to take a bath. We are to read them each and every night, sign a note attesting to the completion of such, and return note & reader to school on Friday. A loooooves this. She pretty much harasses me from suppertime to bedtime each night: itstimetoreadmyreader canwereadmyreader iwannareadmyreader itstimetoreadmyreader ineedtoreadmyreader canwereadmyreadernow. And on and on and on and on. Don't misunderstand: we are happy that she has this love of reading. In fact, as something of a bookworm myself, I'm thrilled to see her so excited about her reader. Its . . . just . . . that . . . a grown woman can only hear about the exploits of Dog and Cow and Pig and Cat so many times before her brain morphs into a soft, squishy polenta and tries to make an escape out her right ear.

I have no one to blame but myself, really. You'd never know it from this particular entry, but I love to read to kids. When A was an infant, I read to her incessantly. We had all those Boynton on Board books, with Barnyard Dance being one of our favorites. It's just that now I like it when we read our chapter book (currently we're reading about Charlie Bone) instead of the board book stuff. So, I've been worried that baby C isn't getting enough reading-to. Because what with listening to the reader and our nightly chapter-book chapter and the spelling of the spelling words, I'm kind of tired of kiddie lit. And I feel much angst over this. I don't want C to be an illiterate jr high drop out all because his mother was too lazy to read more Boynton on Board.

And then.

And. Then.

This weekend I stumbled upon a solution. It's so simple, can't believe I didn't think of this sooner. A? never can get enough of reading aloud. C? needs more reading-to. I've put A to work reading the board books to C! This has resulted in two happy children and one less stressed-out parent who is not as worried about raising illiterate children. Ah, these are the days, man, these are the days.

I am mothering genius! Now am thinking of starting own parenting magazine, dedicated to lazy parenting methods (not to include things such as bottle-propping, am very much against things of that nature). Am mentally spending profits of magazine, even as you read this.

What I really want to say

I very much want to blog about bratty acquaintances who use the tragedies of others for their own personal gain and/or to focus attention on themselves. Because, you know it's all about THEMTHEMTHEM. That is what I really want (no, make that need) to get off my chest. I am sorely struggling with not venting about people who attempt to capitalize on catastrophic events to further their own agendas.

But I will refrain. If I started, there's a good chance I would not be able to stop. And I would not want relatives of those involved in a recent tragic event to ever stumble across my blog and ultimately recognize what I was ranting and raving about, thereby resulting in yet more grief in a situation that abounds with endless sadness already. Especially since things are still so fresh, so shocking, and so horrific.

So I'm forcing myself to stay quiet about a particular incident that has shocked me to the core.

I have never excelled at keeping my mouth shut. In the grand scheme of things however, there are others who are struggling ever so much more than me.

Dear Lord, it is so hard. Why do people have to act like such self-centered assholes?

Fun & Games

So, LAF wrote an excellent commentary on a fabulous new board game offering. Feel free to check it out, as my blog will still be here when you're done with the eye-rolling, bird-flipping, lunch-losing fun of it all. While LAF was incredibly original and creative and thusly made up her own board game, me: not so much. I'm thinking that the good folks at Baby's Birth Benefits mean well, but they seem to be bumbling about under the assumption that all of us are Fertile Myrtles who just glide effortlessly through our glowingly uncomplicated pregnancies. Since LAF's blog has already done a very fine job of disabusing them of that notion, I thought I might could clue them in 'bout a few more of them there game cards they must've overlooked. Now, I'm not all about scaring the pants of the expectant momma-to-be, but if this is to be an educational resource, it is sadly lacking. I just wanna round this offering out a wee tiny smidgen. So naturally, I'm going to be a generous soul and help out in the deficient areas.

Here ya go:

Problem: Dr. can't find baby's heartbeat. Maybe it's too early or maybe you have no baby or maybe the dingo ate your baby. Schedule another ultrasound for next week.

SO: Move back 1 week

Problem: Dr. says your blood pressure is so high, you're at risk of having a seizure. Offers to write letter so others will "be nice to you" (Dr. will definitely take offense to you uttering the word "assclown" at this point, so try not to.) Dr. assvises you to "avoid stress".

SO: LOSE 1 Turn

Problem: At 33 weeks, the Dr. says you're having waaaay too many contractions. Sexual activity could very well throw you into pre-term labor.

SO: Hubby LOSES all turns for the rest of the game. And he'd better not bitch about it, if he knows what's good for him.

Problem: Dr. says that you're still having waaaaay too many contractions at 33 weeks. So keep your fat ass in bed, girl.

SO: Move ahead 3 weeks, oh hell, make that 4 weeks--this baby could come at any time.

Problem: OB says your bp is now way too fucking high. You will need to deliver baby soon.

SO: Move ahead 3 weeks. And hurry up about it, before you have a stroke.

Problem: Perinatologist says your bp is fine, it's your ob that's screwed in the head. You don't need to deliver baby soon.

SO: Move back 3 weeks.

Problem: Oh wait. You've got HELLP syndrome. The baby does really have to come out, like now. No, really. Like in the next 2 hours.

SO: Automatically move to the end of the game.

And what pregnancy board game could be complete without some IUGR babies, babies with birth defects, and preemie babies added to their mix of bundles of joy that are "delivered". Ya know, in the interest of making learning about pregnancy fun and all.

As usual, I'm here to serve.

Like A Virgin

A few or so nights ago, I was having a night out with the "wives group" from my husband's work (we'll chat about the pc-ness of such a group another time, k?). Anyways, we went to see The Forgotten which was just really average, but that's not the point. Before the movie, that is the important part of this narrative.

So Before the Movie (which I almost referred to as "BM", but that triggers a whole 'nother set of mental pictures entirely), we were chatting about different movies we had or had not seen lately and what we'd seen that we'd recommend or would not recommend. And so, F (who is 17, and is dh's boss's daughter, but also tags along) is with us and I mentioned that I would like to see a particular movie. The thing is I can't even recall what movie I said, because my mind was blown half away by what F said next.

She said,: "Oh Laurie, you don't want to see that. That movie has way too much sex in it for you." Well, as you might imagine, I was rendered fucking speechless.

What the fuck? (no pun intended. really.)

And just how much sex would that be? Any? And how does she know what my sex quota is, anyway? As you might imagine, gentle reader, a girl of my insecurities must now mentally comb through all past wives group meetings, frantically searching my brain files for incidences of prudishness or otherwise sexually-inhibited behavior, or incidences that could have been mistaken for prudishness or otherwise sexually-inhibited behavior. I have never been mistaken for a prude, and therefore I was kind of taken aback, having a 17-year-old be my chaperone and all. I mean, what is the appropriate response in such a situation? "Oh, no. I like sex. Lots and lots of it, the really kinky kind, man." Or, perhaps a more nunnish approach of softly asserting "Yes, sex is bad. Very bad, and I simply won't tolerate it in my movies." Or, maybe something intellectual sounding like, "I can only appreciate sex in my theater when it's central to the story line. I do not particularly care for gratuitous-ness in the least little bit." The response I came up with was laughter, of the hollow, I-don't-get-the-joke variety.

I honestly don't know what to think of this. Now I will feel weird when it is my turn to suggest a movie for our group. Will people be thinking "Oh, that Laurie, she always picks those chick flick movies because she doesn't like sex and all."

Oh well.

Appetite suppressant

Wanting to tame those nasty carb cravings?

Can't stop yourself from snacking on that pesky Halloween candy?

Are you a junk food junkie?

Get yourself a gander at this and I guarantee you'll lose your appetite.

'Cause see, I was seriously craving me some cheetos, but an eyeful of naked george, and like magic! cheeto craving is completely gone. Ideally, I would like a print of this to put in my kitchen.

The stars are stacked against you girl, get back in bed

I continue to be a marvel to modern medical science. I'm an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in backsass. The doctors? They just shake their heads in befuddlement and, in some cases, amusement.

I offer you:

The chances of somehow spontaneously, miraculously getting pregnant after adoption? About 2%

The likelihood that a woman with pcos as severe as mine will manage to get pg and stay pg without medical intervention? Not bloody likely.

The probability of an expectant mother developing HELLP syndrome? Lies approximately somewhere abouts between .2 and .6%

The chance of an expectant mother developing HELLP syndrome without previously being diagnosed with pre-eclampsia? Fairly unusual, muses Dr. QuirkyNerd, my perinatologist.

And now, the odds of a reasonably healthy 31-year-old developing shingles? That usually happens in people over 50, per my new gp.

The possibility of extreme crankiness and irritability as a result of shingles in a 31-year-old wife & mother of 3 (including one infant-insomniac)? 99.44%

The likelihood of me being pissed off over the astronomical cost of 4 different kinds of shingles prescription remedies despite my sucky prescription "insurance" (and I use that term lightly)? 100%


Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!

Shingles hurt like a sonofabitch.

The Practice of Medicine

I know that N isn't the first kiddo to get the words "adopted" and "a doctor" mixed completely the fuck up. (And just yesterday, wasn't that me who was bragging on his comprehension of adoption? What the hell do I know from comprehension.) But, surely, N is the cutest, little confused dickens.

While in the midst of grocery shopping in hell's little half-acre (some refer to it as Super Wal-Mart), we ran into a doctor that I work with. I introduced him to N, and N was his usual charming self (have I mentioned previous, without prejudice naturally, how incredibly handsome N is?). So, the three of us exchange the usual crappy pleasantries and chatted a bit while we were waiting at the check-out line. "I", N states with pride to Dr. From-My-Work, "was a doctor too, when I lived in Korea. Yes, I was a doctor in Korea." "Oh no, honey", I correct him gently but firmly, since as a general rule, doctors from where I work frown on casual, careless bandying-about of the title doctor, "you were adopted in Korea, not a doctor. It's not the same thing at all." "Yes", N continues emphatically, "yes, I was a doctor in Korea. The kind of doctor who stabs people hard, right in the finger and makes them bleed and then paints with their red red blooooooood." Dr. From-My-Work is now very horrified from this exchange, undoubtedly wondering what the hell we do at home in our spare time, and he moves on as quickly as he can. Which is okay with me really, 'cause I don't much like it when my "worlds collide" (work world and home world, in this instance). Checkout girl stares at my precious, precocious boy in a stunned yet oddly admiring silence. N beams back at her, sensing that he has another member for his fan club.

This might not've seemed to macabre to Dr. From-My-Work if he had known that a) N watched C have his repeat PKU test done and b) N recently had a lead screening done. So, stabbing and painting with the resulting blood seems a perfectly common doctor activity to him.

Forever Family

I've taken a lot of time to explain my children's adoption stories to each of them and to also try to explain the concept of adoption in general. I think they grasp it pretty well, particularly for as young as they are. And normally, my kids get along and I think they have a good big sister/little brother relationship. Honestly. No, I mean it, they truly do. A and N are each other's best friends, even though they can serve a dual-role as "worst enemy" from time to time. Nonetheless, I was a little surprised to hear this exchange coming from my little darlings:


A: "N! You are soooo bugging me! Stop it stop it stop it!"

N: (Continuing whatever annoying activity he's doing. Please note that I am powerless to stop all his annoying-to-A activities, as this encompasses way too many things. The child simply Has to do Something.)

A: (howling now) "Stop it! Stooop It! SToooooppppp!"

N: (Still persevering in the "damn little annoyance" department. He's very talented at this, believe you me.)

A: (in her most cutting tone) "N, sometimes I'm almost sorry we ever adopted you. Now that you're adopted, that means that we will never ever ever be rid of you."

N: (Through it all, he is nothing if not persistent in the "damn little annoyance" department, unphased by A's intended barb. Only now he is more than somewhat gleeful as he realizes he has really really irritated the bejebus out of her. And isn't that what younger siblings are all about?)


Tee. Hee. At least she understands that adoption = permanency. And lest anyone think I'm a completely horrible mother, I sincerely did try to turn this into a love-thy-neighbor teachable moment, but that effort went down in flames, I tell you. Sometimes they just don't buy it. Hmmm . . . maybe that does mean I'm a horrible mother. Make executive decision not to dwell on that thought.

File this under "Things we won't be sharing with the social worker during our next homestudy".

Life's Not Fair, Exhibit A

Lately, I've read a few blogs of women who are yearning for children, whether through adoption or through infertility treatment. I remember well back when I was enduring the same sort of emotions. That feeling of not being in control of your own family-building, the helplessness in the face of shitty circumstances just sucks. 'Cause see these women? They will be great moms when the opportunity arises. So, thinking about their potential greatness and their frustration made me think about all the instances of life's unfairness. Thusly, I've gotta get it out of my system. We'll start with:

Exhibit A

At around 30 weeks of pregnancy, it was discovered at my routine live baby check that I was having pre-term labor (PTL), with fairly strong contractions at an alarmingly (to Dr. W) rate. This was news to me, as I felt nothing (did not know previously that one could have PTL and not realize it/feel a damn thing). So, was safely ensconced in hospital and whereby was given plenty of fluids and terbutaline to stop the labor that I didn't know I was having. The aforementioned terbutaline then proceeded to wreak much havoc upon my blood pressure (which was already slightly weirding out) and Dr. W. and Dr. V., after much wringing of hands, decided that I would need to be held hostage at the hospital at least for overnight.

When you're a recovering infertile suffering from PTL and the resulting excessive DBTs*, a smallish community hospital is the worst place to be. Not only is there no NICU, but around here, there is also Dr. W (espousing that you can't be delivered here and that your baby will be doomed if he is delivered now in this hospital at this time and that Dr. W will certainly not be a party to this madness, so out of luck there). However, what I hadn't realized beforehand is that there is little to no sound proofing. But what does that mean, you might ask gentle reader. What it means is:

There I was. Lying in my plasticky bed, hooked up to the terbutaline, having to listen to every goddamned laboring moaning groaning woman in the entire fucking hospital. (See? Proof positive that a pregnancy simply does not banish the bitterness or self-centeredness potentially caused by infertility.) And newborn babies wailing. All the while compulsively thinking about various ways that terbutaline, prematurity, high blood pressure, pre-eclampsia, etc could otherwise harm my own precious baby. Then obsessing about whether my baby would actually make it to the "newborn crying" part. And sweet Jesus gay, the incessant volume of the moaning and groaning and panting and screaming was growing louder every blessed minute. Make it stop, please please for the love of God please make it stop! It was worse (way, way worse) than spending the night in a cheap motel. I was like an unwitting voyeur in the world's weirdest, longest porno flick starring laboring pregnant chicks. But I digress.

Anyway, this particular incidence of unfairness started the next morning. For the duration of the night, I'd had my room to myself, in body if not in spirit. But the dawn (I do not exaggerate when I say dawn) brought a roommate. Roomie was there for an induction. She was hugely pregnant and complaining longly and loudly to anyone who will listen. Naturally, I'm feeling sorry for myself and wondering/praying that Please, Please let me get to the hugeness stage, to the large and in charge, full-term-live-baby-yielding point.

Roomie is rather, ahem, rough looking. And I don't mean "rough" in a holier-than-thou way, or in a snobby way or in a "fallen upon hard times" way, but in a "she looked psychotic" and "I was scared to share a toilet with her" way. She also has her two daughters (equally bad-ass looking) in tow. Her two teenage daughters (and isn't this a school day for fuck's sake?!). Her two pregnant teenaged daughters. Her two pregnant teenaged daughters who are whining longly and loudly about how they hate being pregnant. And happily, in turn, her two pregnant teenage daughters each have toddler child of their own in tow. Roomie also brings along a copy of. her. restraining. order. For her Baby Daddy. And guess what? Blonde Pregnant Teenaged Daughter has a restraining order for her Baby Daddy (ya never know when you're going to need it)! This amusement never ends! Now, I fleetingly consider getting a restraining order against my Baby Daddy for leaving me here alone to endure this torture. But, alas, he's taking care of the kids and gainfully employed, so I decide against it.

At long last, Roomie is hooked up to the monitor and labor-inducing-drug-administering ensues. After a few hours (days? weeks?), the nurse returns and Roomie is told that she can go home, and given instructions as to if/when/why she should return to the hospital and that if her labor doesn't progress, she will repeat this same procedure in two days. The nurse exits my own personal hell, I mean, our room and Roomie and Daughters start to gather up their paraphernalia.

As they leave the room, I hear them planning to stop by the local bar on their way home. Since Roomie will deliver soon, they figure there's no way a few beers can hurt the baby at this late stage.

No, they're not kidding.

How is this fair? Why do women like this get pregnant completely without difficulty or stress? And their pregnancies are seemingly easy and uncomplicated, in spite of their own reckless disregard for their babies? Why aren't they the unlucky ones? Why not them? I don't get it.



*DBTs=Dead Baby Thoughts

Adoption After Infertility, as Explained by a Crazy Woman

Karen of The Naked Ovary poses some dilemmas that have been lurking in the depths of her very soul. Rather than constipate her comments section with my incessant chatter, I decided to provide my own feedback here. Keep in mind that this prattle originates only from my personal experience as the mother of a couple of Asian kids, and that I am not a mental health professional (HA! That was some funny shit, right there, eh?)

So, here goes:

Q#1: Will I be able to handle saying "she's adopted" every time a stranger/friend/acquaintance asks me what is up with the fact that my daughter is Chinese and I am not? Honestly, this just doesn't come up much at all for me. Now, I was a smidgen flabbergasted at the number of strangers who automatically presumed that my daughter was the result of an illicit union between myself and any Asian man who just happened to be in my same zip code. That misunderstanding doesn't happen so much now. I also don't feel obligated to explain my familial connections to any freakin' body if I choose not to. I always tend to err on the side of NOT violating my kid's privacy. But to respond to the bigger issue that this question alludes to is: YOU will have to handle the fact that your kid IS adopted. You will not just have to Handle It, but you will have to be Completely Okay with it. You will have to break the mindset that saying "she's adopted" is a bad phrase, but rather come to consider it as an everyday state of the union. Which it will be.

Q#2 Will I be able to walk into a Baby's R Us, which I am terrified to be near (like it's some huge neon monster) and not cry? Ah, yes. Your checking account, credit cards, and your parents' credit cards will all cry for mercy. You, however, you will be lost to baby shopping bliss.

Q#3. When will I feel the right to buy baby stuff, to even talk about the fact that I will have a daughter? I'm sure this is personal to everyone. For me, once dh & I opened the purse strings to write that mongo check that goes to your agency & to China (or, used to go, it's been awhile, I'm sure procedures have changed) along with your completed dossier, it was a done deal. Our hearts and minds were focused (with a never-again-attained laser-like precision) on that baby girl waiting for us in China. And yes, we decided, she would deserve the best that Babies 'R Us could offer her. And more. So, so, so much more. The timing was similar for my best adoptive mom friend as well.

Q#4 When will I no longer feel like a fat, infertile failure? (Note that I am paraphrasing here, Karen herself was actually much more poignant and eloquent): This is a Tough One. Speaking from my own experience, I can tell you that adoption nor gastric bypass nor pregnancy nor any form of medication the pharmaceutical industry has yet to crank out has helped one damn little bit with the issue of betrayal by my own body. Why me? Why my husband? Why you? Why not that crack whore who beats her twenty-nine kids from twenty-nine dads? Why not her, damnit?! It's been said everywhere that adoption will cure childlessness but not infertility. If you can learn to accept that, things will work themselves out, family-building-wise. Body-betrayal wise, though, it's not so easy.

Q#5 When will I deal with the sense of parenthood-unworthiness and be able to get down with the parenting discussion and interaction with my parenting peers? I worried about this quite a bit. I worried that I wouldn't be a good mom and that other parents would instinctively sense this about me and pity me, since they would know that good parenting abilities couldn't really be expected from me since my kid was adopted. I'll be blunt and tell you that this paranoia didn't go away real quick-like. In fact, my daughter was so unhappy and so grief-stricken and so ill in the early days following her adoption, I was terrified that Chinese officials would "repo" her, since I was so obviously an unfit mother. But as my parenting skills improved and my daughter bonded with her new family, this vanished completely.

Q#6. People email me and tell me that their adoptive babies made "almost all" the pain go away. Honestly, it's not my adopted children's job to make my pain go away. In my opinion, you will be better off if you don't expect that to be the kid's job (child labor laws and all that). It's the kid's job to be a kid and my job to be the best mom I can be, while dealing with my own issues of infertility/pcos freakishness. I'm presuming that the moms in question here are referring to the concept of grieving for the pregnancy they didn't get to experience (and I think that too many times this loss is overly minimized. It shouldn't be, 'cause it does suck). I dealt with that at the time by remembering that my daughter's birthmom had her share of pregnancy trauma, too, thereby keeping in mind that it wasn't all about me. The "not all about me" attitude isn't one I generally cultivate, as I like to be fairly self-centered the majority of the time. I'm kind of shocked that worked for me, but it did.

Q#7. Will I ever stop inadvertantly glaring at women that seem to have all the fertility in the world wrapped up in their womb with a big fleshy bow? Yes. You will be way too worried about food allergies, developmental milestones, creating a lifebook, and potty-training. You think I am joking but I am not. Suddenly, Gerber vs organic vs homemade baby food issues seem incredibly, vitally important. And, they are.

Q#8 What if adoptive daughter yells at me, "You're not my REAL mom, so I don't have to listen to you or even love you!"? She's probably gonna. Regardless of where your kid comes from, it's gonna go thru adolescence and that's going to suck your ass. You'll do what any other mom does: if the phase doesn't pass, you'll sell the kid to the gypsies. Erm, you'll hit the mother's little helper extra hard. Uhm, I mean, sign the kid up for a lobotomy. Or yourself. Or both of you, thereby getting great family rate. Oh, no, I really mean, you'll get counseling. For whoever. And you'll deal.

Q#9 On feeling all alone in a vast world of fertiles: "You are not alone" (sung in creepy Michael Jackson musical tones, oh wait, that's not appropriate at all). Is there an adoption support group either through your agency or otherwise? A local FCC chapter near you? This always helped me out. And I'm presuming you've entered the cesspool known as the APC? It's tetchy, and moody, and whiney, but you definitely won't be alone. During the wait for my daughter, my best adoptive mom friend and I formed our own adoption support group, that's how damn lonely we were. Ya know what? It rocks.

Q#10 Bad mom fears relating to the fact that adoption wasn't one's first choice: As a chick who has wanted to adopt internationally since the age of 15, I don't have solid footing on this one. But I do want to point out that being proactive and recognizing potential problems is a great parenting tool. Showing that you're sensitive to issues surrounding your child's adoption is an awesome start. A wise friend once told me not to make my infertility issues into my daughter's issues. I think that sage advice applies here, too.

If anyone is considering adoption after experiencing infertility, I would highly recommend the read Adopting After Infertility by Patricia Irwin Johnston. It's not the be-all, end-all, but it's a very good start.

God, but all that sharing has worn me out.

Workin' for a Livin'

alternatively titled, potential career paths I have taken under consideration.

Dh and I have started watching Bounty Hunter on A&E (I think, but maybe it's Discovery or TLC or something). Between Bounty Hunter and Stephanie Plum, I think I've got this bond enforcement shit all figured out. So far, I figure I will need some handcuffs, some kevlar clothing, and a fire-extinguisher sized can of mace and/or pepper spray. Oh, and an assistant who can manage to look intimidating.

Dh says this is will never fly. God, why does he have to be so discouraging?? I'm starting to think that as he is obviously not part of the solution so maybe he's part of the problem.

Other career choices Dh has vetoed of late:

• I love alpacas dot com
• Private detective (am very nosy, erm curious about people, um I mean, things)
• People Psychic
• Pet Psychic (am also very good with animals. as long as they don't bite. or hump. or fly.)
• Mobile Meth Lab (there is an abundance of room in the Jeep and a TV too)

But now thanks to Leery Polyp, I am hopeful that perhaps I won't need to work at all now, at least not for much longer. See, as per the Fascinating Woman I have made a few parenting, well she would say they're mistakes, but now I am seeing them as a potential financial windfall. But, I'm getting ahead of myself, let me back track a bit. See, the shit of it is that my 6 year old and my 4 year old are already well on the way to reading. At this rate, they will be smarter than me waaaaay before they're fifteen. Now, Ms. Andelin would have you believe that they're too young for jobs, but I beg to differ. As a matter of fact, I've already got the ITT Tech packets on the way. I'm definitely seeing work-from-home medical transcriptionist in both their futures (that is, when those damned adorable alpacas aren't keeping them busy), thereby earning income and saving me money on those too-fucking-high daycare/school expenses. In just a few years, I'll be living a life of leisure while they bring home the bacon. Yes, time really is on my side.

Thank you, Helen (can I call you Helen??), thank you oh so much.