Maybe it's leprosy.

I'm not pregnant. So I'm a little scared since I don't know what's going on inside my own self. And I'm not a fan of going to the doctor.

Last time I went to the asthma doctor, he scolded me because he had to put me in as a new patient since it had been so long since my last visit. For the fourth time. Seriously. I've been a new patient four times with this one doctor. And I wasn't even cheating on him with other doctors.

The last time I went to a general practitioner, I complimented him on his new office. He looked at me weird and said, "I've been here for three years. You've seriously never been to this location?" I told him I was Wonder Woman. (Or something like that.) Then he looked at my stats that the nurse took like there was something wrong with them. I believe the look was Why did I hire that idiot? She can't even take vitals. Moron. So he took my vitals again.

And then he took them a third time.

Then he said, "Did you drive yourself here?"
Me: "Yeah. Why?"
Him: "I don't know how. I don't know how you're even sitting up. Are you lightheaded? I don't know how you're even conscious."
I shrugged. See? Wonder Woman.

So he wrote orders for IV fluids and told me to go to the hospital across the street's ER immediately.

But, see, I had the van, and my husband had the kids and the little car, and if they needed to go somewhere or if there was an emergency, they wouldn't have a vehicle. The ER is a joke for people in a hurry; I knew it would probably take like 6 hours.

So I drove across town back home, told my husband most of what the doc said, got in the car, and drove myself to the hospital near our house. And the ER didn't disappoint. There were tons of people in the waiting room, most of whom looked like they had nothing more than a cold. Half the doctors are sicker than these "patients," but they come to the ER? What is that?! The triage nurse looked at my doctor's orders, looked at the waiting room, and said, "You'll get faster service if I admit you. You'll get a private room, get your fluids, then can check out. Is that good with you?"

Heck yeah, that was good with me. I went on back, settled in a bed, turned on the Monk marathon on USA, and got ice-cold fluids pumped into me. And it was quiet. Aaahhhh.

Problem: I was dehydrated because of a stomach virus. I'll spare you the details. I believe my actual words to my doctor were, "Give me a shot or something and stop me up, because I don't have time to be sick."

But my doctor's orders didn't have any liquid cork written down, so the nurses couldn't give me any. I was begging for some Pepto, and they said, "You'll have to ask the doctor when he comes in."

Hours pass. No doctor. They've changed my IV bag three times. But they're still not happy with my vitals. So I'm freezing, bored, hungry, sick, and they won't let me leave.

More hours pass. I ask the nurse for some food. Maybe just some crackers and Sprite. She says the dinner cart will be around soon.

I see the cart pass by. No one brings me food. No broth. Nothing.

Um, nurse? Can I go home?  "Not without the doctor signing off on your chart, or insurance won't pay. He's doing rounds. He'll be in soon." I call home and tell my husband.

A nurse still says my blood pressure is dangerously low, and not to expect to go home until morning. Great. I call my husband again.

The doctor never showed. I complained. Nicely. That was my problem: I was nice.

I should have been that screaming crazy chick that the nurses will do anything to get rid of, but I didn't have the energy. I also had two just-weened nearly-one-year-olds, a three year old, and a severely undermedicated ten year old at home. So I was thankful for the break, despite the fact that it was in a hospital. You know your life's batshit crazy when you're grateful for the peace and quiet of a foodless, doctorless hospital room.

By lunch the next day, I was begging for food. And a nurse finally listened. "Wait, what? You've been here since 11am yesterday, and you haven't gotten food? Your doctor should have signed you up with meal services."

"But I haven't seen a doctor. The triage nurse checked me in since I had orders from my GP."

"What doctor did you see in the ER?"

"None! The triage nurse checked me in with only the orders from my doctor. I didn't see a doctor in the ER. I came straight in here."

"You didn't see an ER doc? Then who has been treating you up here?"

"Just the nurses. With my General Pactitioner's orders. I haven't see a doctor at this hospital at all. And I haven't eaten in 28 hours."

"What? Really? Your doctor didn't sign you up for meals?"

I didn't hit her. See? I'm nice.

I explained again. Very slowly. In an even voice. Even though I wanted to put her head in a vice and squeeze - but it wouldn't hurt since her head was obviously empty.

She smiled and said, "We'll see about getting you some food, honey, even if we have to sneak it to you."

"What about a doctor, so I can go home?"

"Yes, we'll find you one of those, too."

...

I was there for THREE EFFING DAYS. The nurses stole food off the cart from patients who were too drugged to wake up and eat. They snuck me some meds for my stomach. I got better. The Monk marathon was really getting old, though. The third morning, a doctor finally showed up and deemed me healthy enough to go home.

...

The time before that that I went to the doctor (before he moved to his new location, so this was seven years ago) was for a rash on my finger. It felt like a swarm of fire ants were feasting on my flesh nonstop. It was excruciating. I'd gotten pricked by a rose thorn on that finger, so I thought it could have come from that, since it appeared the same day.

The doctor said, "Well, you're definitely the most interesting case of the day." He prescribed some ointment even though he couldn't figure out what it was. It didn't look like anything he'd ever seen.

Yay for me.

It got worse. It covered half my hand, three fingers, and looked as horrific as it felt. And it was spreading.

So I went back. He looked scared of it. You know it's bad when your doctor is afraid of you. He took a biopsy & then sent me to a dermatologist. The dermatologist didn't know what it was, either. He sent me back to the general practitioner.

And the GP jokingly said, "Maybe it's leprosy. We could cut your hand off, that would make it stop itching & burning."

Yay. I got the funny doctor.

Hydrocortizone and peroxide was the best I could do for it. It was awful.

Months later, I took my baby to her dermatologist (whose waiting list for new patients is over five months long) for her eczema, and showed my hand to him. "I know I'm not your patient, but I might gnaw my arm off if I can't make this rash go away. Do you know what it is?"

One glance, and he knew exactly what it was. He told me the progression of the symptoms, asked if that was right, and said, "It's just an adult-onset form of eczema. No big deal. I've seen it a few times. The ointment that should work on it will also work on the baby's, so I'll just write out a prescription for her with lots of refills so you can use it, too."

"You're my hero." I almost hugged him.

I saw my GP a few weeks later at church. He asked about my hand, and I told him I got a diagnosis and medicine that was helping. He looked, shrugged, smiled, and said, "I don't know. I still think it's leprosy. Give me a call when you're ready to saw that thing off."

Ha ha.

...

So, I'm calling for an appointment tomorrow. Yee haw.

Gregory House is in charge of WebMD

Well, I go in in just a little while to get a blood test. So, in the meantime, I thought I'd see what WebMD would say that I have with their symptom checker.

**For the record, I think WebMD is fabulous when you have a diagnosis and want to know what to do about it.

My symptoms:

• Aunt Flo is nearly three weeks late for her monthly visit. Last time she visited, she was a few days (maybe a week, I don't know) late, packed light, and didn't stay long.
• I feel like I just received the worst titty-twisters on the planet...
• Then got punched in the boobs.
• Lower abdominal cramps.
• Hip bone is sore.
• Lower back is achy.
• Holy crap I can't stay awake.
• Jeez, I could eat a cow...
• Unless I smell food, then I want to hurl. At the same time every day.
• What was I saying? Oh, I can't focus or remember stuff.

I'm still convinced I'm pregnant & the test was wrong. Because the alternative is something like ovarian cancer. So I guess my WebMD search was an exercise in self- um, what's the word? Freaking the shit out of myself. (Figuratively. If you're a literal thinker, that phrase is disgusting.)

So there were about 100 results of what could be going on inside me. Guess where pregnancy was. At the bottom of the list. What? These are the same symptoms I've had with all my short people.

There results were, in order of likelihood (omitting a lot because you would get bored and I don't want to type that much) (This whole list makes me doubt the credibility of finding medical advice on the internet.):

• muscle strain
• menstrual cramps
• heat exhaustion
• irritable bowel syndrome
• pulmonary embolism
• panic attack
• UTI
• breast cancer
• a virus
• lead poisoning
• acute kidney failure
• ectopic pregnancy
• labor
• colon cancer
• sinusitis
• diabetes
• pseudohypoparathyroidism
• henoch-schonlein purpura
• tick bite
• bruise or contusion
• cocaine withdrawal
• postpartum depression
• exercise
• lack of exercise
• hepatitis
• mumps
• narcotic abuse
• restless legs syndrome
• sarcoidosis
• tuberculosis
• bird flu
• pregnancy
• throat cancer
• cat scratch disease

I shit you not.
So, I have a bruise, bird flu, cat-scratch fever, irritable bowels that aren't actually irritated, cocaine withdrawals, breast & colon cancer, ticks, and a baby that may or may not be alive.
And sarcoidosis, to make the list even more like Dr. House's white board. If only the list had said tuberous sclerosis, then it would have been JUST LIKE  House's board.

I guess I should put a bra and some shoes on and go get the blood test now. (Yes, I already have on shorts and a t-shirt.)

Maybe you could pray for me? Thanks.

I peed on a stick

I went to the neighborhood drugstore. The one that's locally owned and has a little gift shop in the back. So while you're waiting on your meds, you can look at overpriced Trapp candles and embroidered baby bibs and hand-painted trays that you can't actually carry stuff on - it's all very cute, but they have such fantastic customer service that my meds are always ready in 10 minutes or less, so I don't even get the chance to have the conversation in my head about whether or not I should buy that cute little thingy I like. That internal debate usually takes at least twenty minutes, and it's the reason I don't go shopping for clothes. It's so frustrating to find something I like, have it fit my monkey arms, then walk around browsing, trying to justify spending the money on clothes that will most likely end up with clorox or paint spots on it, and then end up hanging it all back on the rack. Damn waste of time, then I end up pissed instead of relaxed. But at least my husband doesn't have to deal with a shopoholic. No comfort shopping for me.

Give me a beach and a book, and I'm a happy girl. I love the beach. And kayaking. But my kayak got stolen. Thieves are a-holes.

(I'm ADD. Have you noticed? And I'm even more ADD when I'm pregnant, because babies suck your brains out.)

So, I go into the drugstore and the perky cashier offers to help. I was about to say no, but she looked bored out of her mind and eager to help for something to do. That's the manager's secret to great customer service: there are always six people working, but rarely more than two customers at a time. So I simply say, "Um, pregnancy test?"

And she walks me right on over, says all the brands are equally good, and picks up the "Good Neighbor Pharmacy" brand and takes it to the register. She rings it up, asks if there is anything else (no stick candy this time), and says it's $4.95.

"What? It was just four and a half dollars?" Which means I still have money for a movie ticket. Magic Mike, here I come!

But, yeah, the generic brand was on half-price sale, even though it was already half the price of the EPT. Sweet.

So I went home & peed on it. I didn't read the instructions, because, let's face it, I've done this way too many times in my life.

Then I waited. LONGEST. TWO. MINUTES. EVER.  Every time.

And a minus appeared. Not a plus.

I must have done it wrong. So I pulled out the instructions and actually read them, but I did do it right. The little test stripe appeared in the other window proving I had done it right.

It says it's a negatory on the baby-growing.

So now I have no idea what is going on inside me.

Psych!!!

When we were kids & pulled a fast one, we said, "Psych!" but didn't know why, and we spelled it "sike" on the notes we weren't supposed to be passing at school. Kids these days are missing out on the joy of note-passing since they just text instead. I don't think kids should have phones. They don't need them. When my kids get a job & can pay for them their selves, they can get a phone. However, I will still set rules & boundaries for them.

Jeez, just the title distracted me! That's not what I meant to talk about. My OB-GYN's office tricked me. I went to their website to see if my doctor was still practicing there, and I saw a tab that said "Request an appointment." Well, cool. That's easier than calling during business hours, which invariably makes my children want to scream at the top of their lungs.

So I clicked it, but of course you have to sign in. Okay, so I fill out the registration form. It's long; it requires insurance information, emergency contacts, basically everything that would be filled out on paper forms once you get to the office. So maybe it takes the place of all those paper forms? I hope so.

Done with that. I click "request an appointment" again.

No, I've got to also fill out the privacy policy form, which is just as long as the form I just filled out and asks for almost identical information. Shouldn't their computer program automatically fill out both?

Allrighty, I try again. Click "request an appointment." Hey, good. It works.
Click which doctor you'd like to see (the one that delivered my short people),
what day you prefer (the day of our standing playdate so i can drop off kids somewhere else - they don't need to see me in stirrups),
AM vs. PM (AM for the same reason),
and which is more important - seeing the doctor you want or getting the time you want? (the doctor, - I don't need strangers looking up my cooter)
And would you be willing to see the nurse practitioner instead of the doctor? (sure, she's already seen my vagina)
Also, is there a special concern for this appointment?

I had to filter myself for this answer. I wanted to answer, Of course there is. People don't go visit the gyno for fun. There is always a special concern. Either a tiny person is growing in them, sucking out all their energy and making them incapable of remembering anything for more than two seconds and giving them gas that could float a friggin zeppelin; or their girlie parts are trying to kill them (which you would refer to an oncologist anyways); or it's time for a scheduled but hated checkup. Like a mammogram. As if anyone wants their titties smashed into pancakes so you can check them out. Or a pap smear. Just the name of that is revolting. But no one would choose to have salad tongs jammed up in their lady garden so you can go spelunking if they didn't have a "special freaking concern."

I think the humor would be lost on them. So instead, I wrote, "Had tubes tied, but I feel pregnant. So if I'm not, then something else is wrong."  That's clear & to the point, right?

Click submit.

This took at least half an hour to fill out everything.

Check back a day later to see if they had set up an appointment for me. There was a response: Please call our office to have the nurse work you in. You need to be seen ASAP.

So, that whole online appointment making thing... PSYCH!!!
Also, that whole 'tubal ligation is permanent birth control' thing... PSYCH!!! Hahaha! After 5 years, 13 out of 1000 grow back together - that's a worse failure rate than condoms! Hahaha! And you had twins while using condoms! And that was 5 years ago! I'm going to hyperventilate here! Hahahahahaha! I bet you're going to have triplets this time!  (Gasp!) HAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!!!!!!!!  Awww, dude, we got you good. Whew.

So, um, yeah. I think I'm pregnant. This was not in the plan. Either that... or something else is very wrong.


***UPDATE - I just called and said to the girl that schedules appointments that I feel pregnant, but I've had my tubes tied, and they said online I should come in ASAP. She asked if I had taken a home pregnancy test, and I told her, "No, but it's been 5 years since I've been in, and something's going on in there, so I figured I needed to come in anyway."

She tried to mask the you're-an-effing-idiot-for-calling disdain in her voice, but kinda failed, and told me, "Well, you should take a pregnancy test and call us back so I know how to schedule it."

And since I'm nice, I sighed and said, "Okay, thanks," instead of, "Look, y'all will just give me another one when I get there, which insurance will cover; so why not go on and schedule it and save me the 20 bucks that I don't have to waste right now. I need that 20 bucks to go see Magic Mike with the girls next weekend. It's freaking Matthew McConaughey and that guy from The Vow and the guy from White Collar as STRIPPERS. Don't waste my $20 pleeeeeheeeeeheeeeease!"

Because that might have sounded pathetic. So now I've got to wait until my husband gets home and go to CVS alone. Otherwise, the rugrats will be asking, "What's that?" and "Why are you buying that?" And I'm not prepared to answer that yet.

Not feeling it

I like to write for y'all. I like seeing that counter tick up the page views. It makes me feel good. But I've been feeling angsty lately instead of funny. So give me a moment to work through my funk. Maybe it's just PMS again (for the third time this month).

Hang on, I'll be right back.

...

Okay, I wrote a terribly angsty chapter of fanfic, then I read "Jen"e Sais Quoi and Bloggess, and then I pooped, so I'm ready to make you giggle now.

(I don't know why that's making me laugh. I'm weird.)

...

So, we've got this new chick in my gymnastics class who, like half the class, has never done gymnastics. She's maybe 28 years old, and the coach isn't exactly comfortable telling older women what to do. Our last coach - no problem - he'd leave bruises that made our husbands jealous from grabbing us to help us do tricks until we could do them ourselves - but not this guy. No, he just tells us what to do, then we have to figure out the mechanics of how that motion should feel.

So the new lady was trying to do a basic front flip into the pit (that horrible thing I blogged about in my very first post), but she couldn't quite get all the way over.

The coach tells her to "throw harder." If you don't know how to throw harder, then that advice doesn't help very much. I want to tell her to imagine a pinata hanging from the rafters that she has to break... with her butt. Sling that thing on up there, and gravity will take care of the rest!

But she's new, and I don't want to scare her off by saying something that odd, so I guess I'll let her keep tucking and leaning forward and kinda falling in a flipping motion.

And now that it's summer, the adults don't have the gym to ourselves. The competitive team is practicing at the same time. Oh, if we didn't feel old and out of shape before, we do now. These lithe little things with elastic bones jumping and turning like friggin Flipper the dolphin put us to shame. At this point in our lives, we're a little more like Shamu. (Or, at least, we feel like it.)

But them being there has made me try harder so I don't embarrass myself. It's so much easier when the beginners' class is sharing the gym, because they think we are badasses. "Wow! Did you see your mom flip? That was cool! What was that?!"  "That was a 'full,' son: a layout with a full twist." And everyone's all smiles and pride, even if my full was loose and sloppy.

But when the Team is the peanut gallery, we hear, "Ooh, she needs to pull harder to tighten that up," or "Wow, I bet that hurt." Kid, I don't know you, but I am dadgum Superstar, and it's loose because I'm just here for a fun workout, and it didn't hurt one dang bit. Nyah.

Of course, if I do a great one, the coach is like "wow," and I glance at the Team kids (whose opinions I DO NOT care about), but none of them see it. None. Dang it.

Phoning it in

Yesterday, I felt like crap.

In addition to PMS (which I may or may not claim to have three or four times a month, don't judge), it was rainy. And I always want to lay around and watch TV or read fanfic when it's rainy.

But I've got four short people who require some semblance of parenting, so I made the effort. I got our gymnastics mat out of the carport (our make-shift playroom) brushed the pollen and dirt off, and dragged it into the family room for the rugrats to tumble so I could do something useful. (I will not waste my day on the internet. I will not waste my day on the internet.)


Is she wearing a Jayne Cobb hat?



Then I rubbed my eyes, without washing my hands after wiping the mat.

OH. FRIGGIN. JOY.

So, you know how you're not supposed to toss rice at weddings because it'll expand inside the birdies and make their bellies explode? My eyes ballooned like that. Swollen, nearly exploding eyes, and even more swollen eyelids.

My left eye looked like I got hit by a punk who kinda sorta knew how to fight. My right eye looked like every freaking hornet on the freaking continent took turns gang-stinging my eyelid until they got tired of sloppy seconds. (Dang, that was gross. I'm usually not that crude in my analogies.) (Analogies has both the words anal and log in it. Hehe.)

So, even though it was only 9:30am, I had a bad case of the screw-its and snuggled up with my laptop.
The kids had a movie in and a tumbling mat and a bucket of Thomas train track pieces. They were set for a while. Oh, and I gave them some disinfectant wipes to clean the mat so their eyes didn't swell shut, too.

"Look at my eyes. Does it look like they hurt? They hurt! So I don't want to hear fussing of fighting or anything breaking, okay? Just be good so I can lay in my dark room until my eyes are better. Pleeeease."

"Okay, Mommy."

I read the Bloggess's archives - how on earth have I missed her for the last five years? Oh my goodness, I have missed out on so much laughter! - for a while (not 3 hours, no, that would be bad). Then I pulled my mostly-blind tail off the bed and checked the kids and loaded the dishes. I opened windows because somone had opened a can of tuna, drained the juice in the sink, and hadn't rinsed it out, leaving behind a lovely smell. (Lovely like a cheap bordello, that is.)

I told the shorties what chores to do and went back to my room. It was raining so hard, there were puddles in the swings outside my window. So I turned on Andrew Belle youtube videos and tried to rest. It was nice.

Lunch? I wandered into the kitchen, saw the open bread and nutella and banana peels out on the counter, hollered, "Did y'all eat?" heard a chorus of "Yes ma'am," and that was good enough for me. I took a shower, hoping to rid myself of any residual pollen-dirt-hornet combinations then went back to my room, still only able to see out of one eye.

The twins went out to play in the rain at some point, so I figured they could hear me from the open window calling them back in. So then there were puddles on the kitchen floor.

As soon as it stopped raining, they  ran back out to jump on the trampoline, because a wet tramp is the most fun!

But the teenager broke the wire on his braces again, so we were due at the orthodontist at 4:00. We're in there once every two weeks (no joke) fixing whatever he's messed up. I think he's just trying to spite us. I hate braces. And 14-year old hormones. And ADHD. And Autism.

So, 3:45, I go tell the kids it's time to get in the van. And the five year old girl pops up covered in mud. I mean leterally covered, head to toe, clothes and hair and all. And she clearly didn't roll in it; she smeared it on like lotion. A mud bath. Fan. friggin. Tastic.

Peeking from the one eye now halfway open, and the other finally beginning to kind of open, I grab the water hose and just spray her off. "Hey, take off your clothes. Those things are NOT going inside." So then I've got a naked, muddy little girl running around the yard (yes, there's a privacy fence), being sprayed with water, screaming, "BEST. GAME. EVER!"

She's totally a nudist.

Once she's rinsed, I give her clothes, because we don't have time for a bath. The orthodontist visit goes well, and I'm quite sure we'll be paying for the doc's college with how often we're in there.

We get back home, and they all run out back, and I think, "Holy, crap, they've destroyed the house. Like that joke about the husband getting home & the kids are in their underwear in the yard, the sink is on & overflowing and the house looks like a tornado went through; then the wife is in bed watching TV & tells the husband, 'You know how you ask every day what I did? Well, today, I didn't do it.' That's what this is like. I should really clean this mess up."

So... I went and laid back on my bed and pulled up ParentsShouldntText.com and laughed for a while.

Until I heard my husband walk in.

Ruh-roh, Raggy.

Let me put away the laptop and lay here like I'm sick. I mean, I am sick. I feel terrible. My eyes are swollen.

I hear him walk through and look in the backyard, where the little girl is completely covered in mud again and the others have neighbor friends playing with them. I can hear his head about to explode.

He comes in and, though he's obviously completely pissed off, asks how I'm feeling and offers to grill so I don't have to cook. He also wants to make all the kids come in & clean up, but I convince him they need the exercise for a while.

Of course, his version of grilling out still includes me cooking the veggies inside. So, I grab veggies in steamable bags and stick them in the microwave and pull out raw broccoli and ranch dressing and call it done. And I go back to bed.

He was so mad he didn't even eat with us. Oh well. I'm can only be Supermom for so long before I crash & burn.

I've even been to the doctor in the past (um, maybe 3 years ago, now) hoping for a shot so I could keep going, and he said, "How are you even sitting up? How are you even conscious?! Did you drive yourself here?" Yeah, yeah I did. He wrote some orders for IV fluids and told me to go across the street to the hospital. But I didn't know how long it would take, and I had the van. So I drove home to switch cars in case the husband had to take the kids somewhere. I thought it might take a few hours. They kept me there for three friggin' days. Days!!! The triage nurse thought I'd get faster service if he admitted me than if I stayed in the ER, then they wouldn't let me leave until I was well!

So, maybe I push myself too hard. But not yesterday. Yesterday, I totally phoned it in.

Lessons for Men #2

I want to punch my husband in the face for suggesting something. But I also want to do what he suggested. Is that bad?

Fellas, "Hey, you want to get a tummy tuck with that extra FLEX account money before it disappears?" is not a nice question.

You may mean, "You're beautiful and I love you, and I want you to be more comfortable in your own skin; and I want you to see in the mirror the same person that I see when I look at you. Since we've got a little unallocated money, I'd love for you have it to do something just to make you feel better,"

but that's not what you said.

Men, if ever you choose to suggest lipo to your lovely wife, those are the exact words you should use. Memorize them now.

Because what I heard was, "Hey Michelin Man, do something with those eighteen spare tires around your midsection, will ya? And make sure you don't waste any of our budgeted money while you're at it, you lazy slob."

I don't have major body image issues, but I am female. There will always be room for improvement. I will never be truly happy with what I see in the mirror. I try to see the post-four-humongous-kids belly as a testament to the wonderful blessings God has given me, but I'd be lying if I said that's what I actually see. I try to see the not-quite-small-enough-for-a-tank-top arms as strong and healthy, but I see floppy things that would make me look like an appetizing first-kill in the Hunger Games.

I don't look like a narwhal in a swimsuit, but I'd still like to be rid of 20 pounds. (Honestly, 40, but I don't want you to think I'm a hippo.)

I remember, when I was a kid, seeing moms in ugly mom-jeans that went above their fat rolls and wondering why in the Hell they would wear something that made them look like they had a butt in the front. But, jeez louise, there's not a chance in Hell I'm going to wear a girdle, not even control-top panty hose, so I guess you've got to deal with whatever I manage to put on. And don't you dare say anything about my tank tops. They're cute, and it's friggin' HOT in Alabama.

So, unless someone decides to nominate me for "What Not To Wear," (which I would TOTALLY do), then I think I'm going to take him up on the offer. Maybe I'll update soon about the new, slimmer me. Maybe.

Cha cha cha

It's kinda sad: I opened up the Netflix disc that arrived and got excited because it was The Backyardigans. I love this show. My seven year old says it's a baby show, but still sneaks in to watch it with the five year old twins. I love it because they don't have annoying voices and they have good music. The kids go into their normal neighborhood backyard playground and make up fantastic adventures. They don't get bored. They don't whine or tattle or make fun of each other. They don't use potty humor (so they differ from me there - I love a good fart joke). They think creatively and keep themselves entertained.

I have found that most kids these days don't know how to do that. Helicopter parenting has killed the creative juices in little ones by telling them over and over, "Don't do that. Don't go there. You might get hurt." I've had other moms act like I was a terrible parent for letting my kids climb trees and jump on a trampoline with no net. (Pffft. Who needs a net? When I was a kid, you would have been laughed into hiding for having a net... or a bicycle helmet. Sissies.)

I'm the kind of mom that watches from a safe distance to stop them if they're doing something really dangerous, and I'll even warn them if they're trying something risky. But it's not because I want them to stop; it's because I want them to figure out the best way to do it. To have fun without an ER trip.

I was the kid who was afraid of heights (well, no, I was afraid of the inevitable abrupt splat at the end of a fall), so I wouldn't climb up on the roof, take a running start, and leap over the patio into the pool like the other kids. That eight feet of concrete between the house and the water was scary. So I pushed the trampoline onto the patio so I could jump from the roof to the trampoline and bounce into the pool. See? Creative thinking made it more fun and no one broke any bones.

I was the kid who fell out of a tree house (er, tree platform) and got knocked out, so I said, "Hey, lets screw on some rails." No adult had to tell me that it wasn't safe. Figured that one out on my own.

But kids will come over to my house to play and not know how to climb a tree or anything, because their moms have kept them "safe" inside, watching TV and playing video games. These are kids who don't know what to do with themselves if someone is not entertaing them. And they irritate the crap out of me. They stand there and talk to me like I'm supposed to talk back! Like they're there to be entertained by me! Pshyeah, right! Go outside and let me watch Nathan Fillion interviews on Youtube!

So, I love the Backyardigans. I wish kids would see that and then go immitate them. Go outside. Pretend it's an ocean. There are pirates and mermaids and whatever your mind can come up with. Just because you're a kid doesn't mean you're not capable of thinking for yourself! (Another thing helicopter parents disagree with.)

Something else I love about this show: the music and dancing. They play music of all types from all different eras. It's awesome! And the characters sing and dance. Now, I hate musicals like the Kardashians hate respectability, but these characters are awesome. They were doing the Charleston. And the waltz. I just got to teach my 5 year old how to do the cha-cha.

This is the child who cried during YMCA because she couldn't do the hand motions fast enough to keep up. But she was just doing the basic cha-cha!

I love ballroom dancing (I've got some kick-ass 4" Beckett heels for dancing), and I think this is so cool. Even my 5 year old boy got up and tried it. 1-2-1-2-3.

Fun stuff all around.

(And I probably would have watched it even if the kids weren't home.)

My funny kids, part two

My little boy still has trouble saying some words. Last night, he  said, “Larry is a goom-campuh.”

The only Larry we know is the green parrot that lives at the pet shop at the edge of our neighborhood.

“What?”

“Larry is a goom-camper.”

I giggled. “What is a goom-camper?”

“A goomcamper. He’s green.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Try to say it in a different way.”

“LARRY IS A GOOMCAMPER!”

I laughed. “Yelling it doesn’t help. Explain it with different words.”

He laughed at me for not understanding.

“Larry was at the li-bary.”

“What? No. Larry’s at the pet store.”

“NO! Not Larry the parrot. Larry the goomcamper! At the li-bary!”

I kept laughing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bob is red.”

“What?!”

“Bob is a red tomato, and Larry is a green goomcamper.”

Understanding dawned. He smiled when he saw me get it.

VeggieTales. Larry is a cucumber. And he and Bob were at the bookstore, like, a year ago.

So we practiced pronouncing “cucumber” until he got it.

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Crazy Nasty

Oh, my dear sweet Lord, forgive me for this post!

My mother-in-law just came over to check on her dog that she abandoned at our house.

Then she proceeded to tell me her next stop on her schedule was the dollar store to buy some “jockey itch ointment that men put on when they get itchy down there.”

Because she’s really dry and itchy down there.  She held her crotch when she said it. In my front yard. In front of neighbors.

“Sometimes I have to put ice on it because it hurts, it’s so itchy.”

I choked on my coffee. I might need to go puke now.

And I wonder why I'm tired

8pm - I laid down with the 5 year old twins. (girlA & boyA)
          7 year old M laid down in her bed.

8:30 - gA decided to lay with M.
          I laid with bA so he'd be still & go to sleep. Plotted story points for my newest fanfic.

9:30 - Husband & teenager got home from Bible study. They may have woke me up.
          I moved gA to her bed.

10:30- Went to sleep in my bed.

2am - M woke up & got in my bed too. Took a while for me to get back to sleep.

4:30 - It's too hot. But it's too close to morning to move M without waking her. I caferfully left my bed, got in her bed, & went back to sleep.

6:00 - Heard husband in shower. I went back to my room, crawled in his side of the bed.

6:15 - M wakes up, goes to her room.

6:30 - bA wakes up, comes to my bed, snuggles up, and goes back to sleep.

7:00 - gA and the teenager get in a screaming match in the kitchen - the opposite side of my bedroom wall.

I'm up, dangit. I'm up. Give me coffee.