The Road Runs Both Ways

I have admitted that in the past, shamefully, I do have trouble remembering that C is not adopted. Apparently, I also have trouble remembering that A & N are adopted.

Yesterday, I was in the midst of changing clothes when I heard some health reporter say that women who have had three or more children were at increased risk of prolapse (prolapse of what, I do not know, as I promptly blew a gasket in fear). So, naturally, I did what any health-conscious women who doesn’t have time for a quick Google search would do: I stewed and worried about my poor prolapsed whatsit all fucking night. After all, I have three kids! I’m right in the middle of the doomed population! Something inside could be thinking about falling out right now! Or now! Or even now! I even had a little trouble falling asleep, because I was thinking how mortifying it will be for me to go to Dr. W, crying to him because something or another is in imminent danger of falling out of my hoo-hah! I was doing kegals like crazy, because my luck my poor prolapsed part would fall completely out and I would trip over it on my way to the bathroom.

The next day at work, I resolved to Google the shit out of that health reporter’s statement at my earliest opportunity. I will take each and every preventative measure to insure that what’s meant to be inside will stay on the inside, goddamnit! Do you hear my pelvis? Keep your parts to yourself, yo!

But then . . .

Then I remembered: Those older two kids are adopted! They didn’t affect my hoo-hah in any way, shape, or form! Only one kid affected my girly parts! I’m in the clear!

What a relief.

Until next time.

Underappreciated

I know this scene just screams out SCARRED FOR LIFE BY INFERTILITY, but what the hell else can you expect from me.

Some co-workers and I are sitting at a popular restaurant enjoying still waiting for our lunch, when my co-worker Jane mentions that her niece will be getting married and she’s all planning one of those hip & trendy Destination Weddings in Mexico. And initially I'm all agreeing with everyone 'cause sure it sounds good on the surface, but then my mind hits a chug hole in my thought processes . . . and I say . . .

"But wait! Jane! I know ya’ll think that’s just a fabulous idea but hey! maybe not. Wait, see, your niece might not want to do that, because what if she and her husband can’t make babies so good and like then she might want to adopt internationally you know and then it’s going to be such a bitch getting a Mexican marriage license authenticated! You, like, never know! Better safe than sorry! Think about it! Think about it!"

That little speech causes the entire table to be all staring at me like I’ve gone all crazy-like for some reason. And all that staring-at-me-like-I'm-crazy makes me shut up. And that crazy part may be true, but it wouldn't be because of the aforementioned incident. 'Cause I’m telling you: it makes perfect sense to me. I can't help it if I'm giving out good advice for free and they won't take it.

I'm just sayin', is all.

Mommy Dearest

Sometimes, I wonder if having a third kid has damaged my brain. For real, ya'll.

Last weekend, I decided the kids and I would make some brownies. A and C loooove to bake and they love chocolate, so this seemed like a good plan. And it went well, I try to bake with them every other weekend or so, and they are really becoming quite accomplished. A can almost bake a cake by herself. Of course, it’s out of The Cake Mix Doctor cookbook, but she’s only 6, so I think that’s pretty good for a 6 year old. Hell, I think I’m doing pretty good for a 31 year old when I bake a cake out of The Cake Mix Doctor. Don’t I sound like a model parent? Not only am I keeping fresh baked goods in the home (thereby sounding very much like Suzy Homemaker), but I am also encouraging the children’s creative energies by allowing them freedom in baking.

Oh, but wait. Bad parenting did rear its ugly head. Witness:

I did let them lick the spoon.

And the beater.

Oh hell, I might as well admit that I let them lick the mixer bowl, which they thoroughly enjoyed, even at the risk of salmonella.

N got so into the bowl-licking that he had to take a shower. But, A and I cleaned up the kitchen and all was well.

Further bad parenting abounds when:

Later, I went into my bathroom and was appalled to find out that someone had gotten poop all over my toilet! And my bathroom wall! And I remembered my tirade on Toilet Lady, and so I set out to locate the culprit, because I am not raising any Toilet Ladies, I’ll have you know. By the size of the handprints (yes, I’m referring to poop handprints, you read that right), I figure N is my prime suspect and I set out to interrogate him. He fervently denies any involvement in such deeds. In fact, he denies even pooping, let alone making a mess with the resulting poop. However, he is the only one with that size of hands in our household, and if the glove fits, I can’t acquit, people.

So he is sentenced to time in the corner and a stern lecture, to atone for his sins unrepentant rampant pooping and then lying about it. He is in tears, but I have a zero-tolerance policy where these things are concerned, and therefore I must be strong (as have long history of caving where N and punishment are concerned).

Then I start wondering why N is in his pajamas already.

And then I remember that he took a shower.

And then it dawns on me that the reason he took a shower was because he was covered in brownie batter.

And he took his shower in my bathroom.

Oh yeah . . . oh wait a minute . . . the light is dawning in my weak mind . . .

So, despite my brief bout dumbass-induced amnesia, I am finally capable of deducing that the handprints in question are not POOP they are BROWNIE BATTER! God, yet once again, I feel like such an idiot mother. I mean, what kind of mother would punish her kid due to her own forgetfulness? I’m sure this could be a felony in some states.

I wish I could wrap this up with "and then I rescued N from the corner and we shared a tearful hug, and all was well." But N holds a grudge (not unlike his mother) and his heart of stone could only be softened by allowing him to eat brownies that were shockingly hot from the oven (possibly another example of bad parenting).

So now you see why I have considered requesting some sort of brain scan from my doctor, don't you? Things are deteriorating at an alarming rate over here.

Gah, typing this all out has me fervently hoping for the millionth time that one of my former social workers doesn’t stumble across my blog.

Hookey

Alternately titled: Another Good Idea Shot to Hell

Today the weather is beautiful here, plus it is Friday. So, as a result of my self-diagnosed ADD and SAD, I have thusly diagnosed myself with spring fever. A brief phone consult with T reveals that he is suffering from the same malady. Being a clever and inventive girl, I set about devising a cure. I came up with this:

I would call his work, thereby employing my acting skills by pretending to be school nurse calling in regard to sick child needing to be picked up immediately. In kind, I expected him to do the same for me. I thought this to be a brilliant plan to jumpstart an early weekend. Alas, he did not feel the same. He is firmly rooted in the belief that we should just tough work out for the next three hours. Even adding the incentive of holing up in motel room, for the purpose of our engaging in three illicit hours of wild jungle sex did nothing to change his mind. God, that man is stubborn and I swear, this is just another example of his pentecostal upbringing constantly rearing its ugly head to bite me in the ass.

Yawn.