Driving today I ran a stop sign... and later I ran a red light (in my defense it was yellow and then turned red... I slipped through)
My daughter Hope looked at me and said:
"Jeez mom! First a stop sign and now a red light... next thing you know you will rob a bank!"
I don't know where she gets her sarcasm from.
6.30.2007
What Happens in Gettysburg... Stays in Gettysburg
My husband and son just drove out of the driveway for a weekend trip to Gettysburg. The girls and I opted to stay home. As soon as the truck turned out of our street... I did a little dance in the front yard-in my pj's-with no bra on.
I love my husband-but he can drive any sane woman crazy from time to time. Being in the military, I have grown accustomed to him leaving and giving me free reign over the household. I miss him... but I am thankful for the freedom. I am sure he feels the same (although, who in the world will pick up his underwear from the floor!!?)
So this weekend it is just the girls. Look out world! Who knows what we will do! I see good movies in our future and shopping... and cereal for dinner. It is all very exciting.
Thank God for this little "break" from our regularly scheduled lives.
I love my husband-but he can drive any sane woman crazy from time to time. Being in the military, I have grown accustomed to him leaving and giving me free reign over the household. I miss him... but I am thankful for the freedom. I am sure he feels the same (although, who in the world will pick up his underwear from the floor!!?)
So this weekend it is just the girls. Look out world! Who knows what we will do! I see good movies in our future and shopping... and cereal for dinner. It is all very exciting.
Thank God for this little "break" from our regularly scheduled lives.
6.28.2007
Here Chick Chick Chick Chick...
I just read a little blurp in my plethora of useless, yet titillating, reading materials this:
"When Colonists wanted to clean the chimney, they dropped a live chicken down it."
I laughed me ass off! I sat picturing a colonial wife trying to make her pot of soup when she noticed that the damn chimney was all dirty. This was causing her dirt floor to get even dirtier and her dirty children to have to breathe in dirty air from the dirty chimney. She sets down her dirty wooden spoon that she has made every meal with and walks over to the window and yells out to her dirty husband who has not bathed in months that he needs to clean the dirty chimney!
Perplexed with how to do this, the dirty husband looks around and sees an innocent chicken pecking at the ground. He yells to his dirty wife to start a fire and to put a pot of water on-he is about to kills two birds with one stone, or clean one chimney and make dinner with one bird.
He climbs on top of the roof holding the chicken by the legs and getting it good and stressed out so it flutters and flaps and just drops it down the chimney.
A huge puff of black smoke fills the little house and the chicken lands in the water. This my friends is how the recipe for "blackened chicken" was discovered.
"When Colonists wanted to clean the chimney, they dropped a live chicken down it."
I laughed me ass off! I sat picturing a colonial wife trying to make her pot of soup when she noticed that the damn chimney was all dirty. This was causing her dirt floor to get even dirtier and her dirty children to have to breathe in dirty air from the dirty chimney. She sets down her dirty wooden spoon that she has made every meal with and walks over to the window and yells out to her dirty husband who has not bathed in months that he needs to clean the dirty chimney!
Perplexed with how to do this, the dirty husband looks around and sees an innocent chicken pecking at the ground. He yells to his dirty wife to start a fire and to put a pot of water on-he is about to kills two birds with one stone, or clean one chimney and make dinner with one bird.
He climbs on top of the roof holding the chicken by the legs and getting it good and stressed out so it flutters and flaps and just drops it down the chimney.
A huge puff of black smoke fills the little house and the chicken lands in the water. This my friends is how the recipe for "blackened chicken" was discovered.
6.27.2007
I Was Starting to Get Worried... But Then I Had a Glass of Wine.
OK, so something has been happening to me lately that I have not shared here because it is just too horrid. I think I have a disease or something, maybe a brain tumor, possibly mad cow, maybe even a chemical imbalance that causes me to be extremely dysfunctional... whatever it is, I am freaked out!
I saw signs of this before my pregnancy,but almost like magic it went away the instant that the egg traveled down the fallopian tube hand in hand with Mr. Stud Sperm (my husband requested that I use that name for his ever fertile, never lazy sperm). I basically forgot about my "diseased condition" and carried on with life-happy in my ignorance of what was spreading in my body.
A few weeks after the birth of Mary Claire, my symptoms returned! I was a mess. I did not know what to do so I kept trying different things to see if it was all in my head, or if I really did have mad cow, or crazy chicken, or pissed off pigeon.
I CANNOT DRINK BEER! I don't know why-I LOVE BEER! Every time I crack open a cold one and start chugging, within 30 seconds I get a headache. I am not talking a little headache like the one I say I have to keep my husband on his side of the bed so that I can watch reruns of Project Runway, nooooo, these are monster headaches! These are the type of headaches that I should be getting the morning after drinking beer, not seconds after a few sips.
For an Irish person, this is a very distressing thing. How am I supposed to live? How am I supposed to tell someone off and then call the next morning and apologize all whilst blaming the beer? How am I supposed to ever sing karaoke again? How am I supposed to survive any visit whatsoever with my mother in law???? Oh the injustice of it all.
I did share my concern of this disease with my cousin Steve and he told me that the same thing used to happen to him. Maybe it runs in our family-I don't know. Steve said that he had to switch to the hard stuff in order for the headaches to go away.
This made sense to me. Back when I was younger I used to drink Kamikazes... not in a little shot glass, no I drank a big ol' 8 ouncer with a straw! I never had a headache. I started thinking that maybe Steve was on to something. So what if I had blackouts and would sometimes wake up in the bathroom instead of in my bed (the bathroom mat can be an extremely comfortable blanket)... at least I did not get an instant headache.
Well, this past weekend I had a breakthrough... and I didn't have to go out and buy vodka, Captain, or even Jack. I had a glass of wine. A full glass. No headache. So I had another glass. Still no headache.
I WAS CURED! I got up out of my wheelchair and danced around the stage!
This is all new to me because I have never been a wine drinker. My mother loves to have a box of wine in her fridge and take little nips from it here and there (ever 20 minutes or so), but I never liked the taste of boxed wine (maybe because it is cheap and I am a high dollar kind of whino). So if you have a fabulous wine that you love and want to share the name of it-let me know. I will go directly to the liquor store where they know me by name and I always give Loise behind the counter a tip-someday she will be able to replace that tooth she lost in prison, and I will buy your favorite wine.
I still feel a little like a kid whose dog just got hit by a car (Beer) but his mom just brought home a new puppy (wine). It is a bittersweet ending to my love affair with beer. We have had some good times together, and the memories that I can remember... they are priceless. I just hope my new puppy (wine) does not end up peeing on the floor in the morning.
I saw signs of this before my pregnancy,but almost like magic it went away the instant that the egg traveled down the fallopian tube hand in hand with Mr. Stud Sperm (my husband requested that I use that name for his ever fertile, never lazy sperm). I basically forgot about my "diseased condition" and carried on with life-happy in my ignorance of what was spreading in my body.
A few weeks after the birth of Mary Claire, my symptoms returned! I was a mess. I did not know what to do so I kept trying different things to see if it was all in my head, or if I really did have mad cow, or crazy chicken, or pissed off pigeon.
I CANNOT DRINK BEER! I don't know why-I LOVE BEER! Every time I crack open a cold one and start chugging, within 30 seconds I get a headache. I am not talking a little headache like the one I say I have to keep my husband on his side of the bed so that I can watch reruns of Project Runway, nooooo, these are monster headaches! These are the type of headaches that I should be getting the morning after drinking beer, not seconds after a few sips.
For an Irish person, this is a very distressing thing. How am I supposed to live? How am I supposed to tell someone off and then call the next morning and apologize all whilst blaming the beer? How am I supposed to ever sing karaoke again? How am I supposed to survive any visit whatsoever with my mother in law???? Oh the injustice of it all.
I did share my concern of this disease with my cousin Steve and he told me that the same thing used to happen to him. Maybe it runs in our family-I don't know. Steve said that he had to switch to the hard stuff in order for the headaches to go away.
This made sense to me. Back when I was younger I used to drink Kamikazes... not in a little shot glass, no I drank a big ol' 8 ouncer with a straw! I never had a headache. I started thinking that maybe Steve was on to something. So what if I had blackouts and would sometimes wake up in the bathroom instead of in my bed (the bathroom mat can be an extremely comfortable blanket)... at least I did not get an instant headache.
Well, this past weekend I had a breakthrough... and I didn't have to go out and buy vodka, Captain, or even Jack. I had a glass of wine. A full glass. No headache. So I had another glass. Still no headache.
I WAS CURED! I got up out of my wheelchair and danced around the stage!
This is all new to me because I have never been a wine drinker. My mother loves to have a box of wine in her fridge and take little nips from it here and there (ever 20 minutes or so), but I never liked the taste of boxed wine (maybe because it is cheap and I am a high dollar kind of whino). So if you have a fabulous wine that you love and want to share the name of it-let me know. I will go directly to the liquor store where they know me by name and I always give Loise behind the counter a tip-someday she will be able to replace that tooth she lost in prison, and I will buy your favorite wine.
I still feel a little like a kid whose dog just got hit by a car (Beer) but his mom just brought home a new puppy (wine). It is a bittersweet ending to my love affair with beer. We have had some good times together, and the memories that I can remember... they are priceless. I just hope my new puppy (wine) does not end up peeing on the floor in the morning.
6.26.2007
Sorry Officer... I Didn't See Anything Out of the Ordinary With This Guy.
I ask you... when in the world did this guy have time to commit any crimes? 6.25.2007
Are You Talkin' To Me? ARE YOU TALKIN' TO ME?
I am Catholic. I love being Catholic. I am VERY Catholic... meaning that I follow all the rules.
That being said, I received this comment today from my Does This Cyst Make My Butt Look Big? post. It said:
"I understand that you may be making light of this situation but I truly hope that you realize that birth control is a Grave Sin and as Catholics, we should always be open to life."
That being said, I received this comment today from my Does This Cyst Make My Butt Look Big? post. It said:
"I understand that you may be making light of this situation but I truly hope that you realize that birth control is a Grave Sin and as Catholics, we should always be open to life."
This comment was posted by "Kevin" and I must say Kevin that I take great offense to the fact that you think you can leave such a comment on my blog. Obviously you have not read much of June Cleaver and I am assuming that you were the Google searcher for the "Butt Cyst" that lead you to my blog in the first place. I personally am thrilled that the search engine would pop up my blog when a person is looking for information on butt cysts, or sore nipples, or alcoholism-also known as "being Irish," but I have to let you know that I cannot stand people who make comments such as these (which by the way, to set the record straight... I HAVE 4 KIDS-I OBVIOUSLY AM OPEN TO LIFE!) who think they are better, or know more, or are closer to heaven than the rest of us... or at least than me.
A few years back at my cousin Dave's wedding (who married a beautiful girl named Shane who reads my blog and Dave is also the son to my Aunt Barb who reads my blog) my Uncle Chuck (who is the father to my cousin Steve who reads my blog and is Mary Claire's Godfather) was telling me a joke. When he was finished, instead of laughing I tried to explain to my Uncle the crudeness of this joke. He looked at me and said "Oh you are just like your mother! Lighten up!" He was right! I needed to lighten up and laugh. By the way, my mother does not read my blog... she doesn't have Internet, we are thrilled that she recently got indoor plumbing though-you are moving up mom!
So lighten up Francis (or Kevin in this case)... it is a blog-a blog on butt cysts!
And another thing... YOU ARE A DUDE! Who are you to be talking to me about birth control? That is between my husband and me and you should be ashamed of yourself for commenting on a woman's blog about such things. The nerve! You need to go to confession.
Someone PLEASE Play The Theme From "Rocky"
The other day I was walking. I do this everyday-we all do actually. I walk from my bed to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the TV room and sometimes I even walk to the mailbox. I consider all of this walking exercise.
6 weeks postpartum and my normal walking routine (couch to fridge) was no longer cutting it and I decided to Baby Bjorn Mary Claire up and take a walk outside. It made me feel good, as if I were actually doing something to get me on the road to Skinnyville again. I used to live in Skinnyville, then I resided in Pregnantville only to be relocated to Flubby Town USA (Flubby is a word... look it up).
As I walked past my neighbor Michelle's house she came outside to see what I was doing. Apparently my walking outside was a sight to be seen as this is not something I normally do. Our conversation:
Michelle: What are you doing?
Me: Walking.
Michelle: Why?
Me: To get rid of some of this extra weight that has attached itself to my rear end.
Michelle: Well walking is NOT going to help that!
Me: Thanks... seriously.
Michelle: You need to go work out! (I love Michelle's brutal honesty)
So today I went to work out. I struggled to get into my sports bra, but after a few minutes of grunting and sweating I was able to secure the twins. I considered that my work out warm up. I did a Jazzercise class with Michelle and I have to say that I really enjoyed myself.... aside from the sweating and heavy breathing.
There was a moment when I realized that my refusal to do kegal exercises during pregnancy was a mistake as I felt like my bladder was going to drop right onto to the floor every time I did a jump-ball change-twist move, not to mention that it felt a little like a wind tunnel down in my lower love region. It is hell getting old and out of shape let me tell you. Men have it easy-they never have to do a kegal penal exercise in order to be able to do some leg lifts without a making little sounds. All I have to say is-Thank God the music was turned up!
So, I am back on the quest for a perfect body... I don't know if I will ever find it, but I am going to try. I celebrated my first workout by coming home and eating a brownie. I have to keep my motivation up somehow!
6 weeks postpartum and my normal walking routine (couch to fridge) was no longer cutting it and I decided to Baby Bjorn Mary Claire up and take a walk outside. It made me feel good, as if I were actually doing something to get me on the road to Skinnyville again. I used to live in Skinnyville, then I resided in Pregnantville only to be relocated to Flubby Town USA (Flubby is a word... look it up).
As I walked past my neighbor Michelle's house she came outside to see what I was doing. Apparently my walking outside was a sight to be seen as this is not something I normally do. Our conversation:
Michelle: What are you doing?
Me: Walking.
Michelle: Why?
Me: To get rid of some of this extra weight that has attached itself to my rear end.
Michelle: Well walking is NOT going to help that!
Me: Thanks... seriously.
Michelle: You need to go work out! (I love Michelle's brutal honesty)
So today I went to work out. I struggled to get into my sports bra, but after a few minutes of grunting and sweating I was able to secure the twins. I considered that my work out warm up. I did a Jazzercise class with Michelle and I have to say that I really enjoyed myself.... aside from the sweating and heavy breathing.
There was a moment when I realized that my refusal to do kegal exercises during pregnancy was a mistake as I felt like my bladder was going to drop right onto to the floor every time I did a jump-ball change-twist move, not to mention that it felt a little like a wind tunnel down in my lower love region. It is hell getting old and out of shape let me tell you. Men have it easy-they never have to do a kegal penal exercise in order to be able to do some leg lifts without a making little sounds. All I have to say is-Thank God the music was turned up!
So, I am back on the quest for a perfect body... I don't know if I will ever find it, but I am going to try. I celebrated my first workout by coming home and eating a brownie. I have to keep my motivation up somehow!
6.22.2007
Date Prince Harry... Marry Prince William
Back when I was in college, we used to have a saying... "Date an ATO, marry a FIJI." These were two fraternities at the neighboring University (I went to an all-girl college, and there was an all-male university just across town.) The ATO fellas were known for their parties and fear of commitment. The FIJI guys were known for their long term relationship status among the women of our college (my older sister married a FIJI).
When I was watching Matt Lauer's interview with Prince Will and Harry, I realized that these two were a lot like ATO and FIJI. Harry is a party boy who I am sure is a blast to have as a friend and the stories and adventures you could tell by having a tryst with him would be on legendary status I am sure, but Will is the more stable of the two, and lets face it... he is going to be King one day.
Today I read that it is William's 25th birthday and he has received his inheritance from his mother. He is also of the age where he no longer would have to seek out his Grandmother's approval of whom he chooses to marry, putting good ol' American girls in the running.
So, June Cleaver advice to all of you single ladies out there... Harry would be fun-but Will is now independently wealthy, and he is going to be KING! Chose wisely ladies.
6.21.2007
I Want To Have a HUGE Funeral
A friend of mine just came out to visit. It is the same friend who has the cyst problem on her tush... thankfully she did not have any blows while here and I did not have to pop anything. But, if she were in pain and needed me to pop something, I would have done it for her-that is how much I cherish our friendship.
We have different kinds of friends don't you think? There are different sides of ourselves that we show to people as well. I have many sides to me, and it is very rare for me to have a friend that I show all sides to. I can think of maybe a handful who know me as well as my husband knows me (although, I don't complain about my husband to my husband, so in a sense some of my friends may know me better than my husband. But, they do not know me as intimately as my husband-as in the Biblical sense-so he has that over them... something I am sure they are not jealous of.)
Here are some of my sides:
The "I am a very good Christian woman" side. Which is a very big side of me, because I am a very good Christian woman... but there are some people that I only show this side to. This side of me also makes me aware that other people may have the ability to show just the "Christian" side to me and therefore I am leery of do-gooders because I know they are tossing back a few and cursing up a storm on the weekends like I do (except for Sunday of course when I teach Sunday School) So when you show me this side, just show me the party side as well-I know it is in there. I guess that isn't a very "Christian" way of looking at my Christian woman side is it?
The "par-tay" side. This is the fun side of me... but it also tends to give me a bad reputation as a parent who drinks. That is fine, because I am a parent, and I do occasionally drink... I do not think these are bad traits to have, but the Christian side of some people don't like my par-tay side. It is confusing sometimes remembering who I have shown my sides to because I may come across a person who I have only shown my Christian woman side to when I am at a party and they suddenly come face to face with my par-tay side. It can be distressing and I have watched many a woman whisper things about me to other do-gooders. That isn't very Christian and this is how I know they have other sides to them than their Christian side as well-so drink up my friend... it is time to par-tay.
My ugly side. This only comes out when you are a good enough friend to sleep with me in the same bed after a night of heavy drinking in a foreign country. I smell of vomit and alcohol and my breath is atrocious... but you know I really love you dearly if I let you see me like this. My husband has seen me like this on many occasions, our honeymoon being one of them.
My "horrible person" side. This is the side where I cry about what a horrible person I am either because I am a bad mom (we all feel this way from time to time) or I am a bad wife (another place we all visit.) You are a good friend when I tell you about my insecurities and failures.
My "who gives a shit" side. This is the side that I show a lot of people, because sometimes I just don't give a shit what you think of me.
My "I am trapped in my house" side. This is my complaining side, when I complain about my kids, husband, parents, other friends, neighbors, dog, Target cashiers, mailman, and the finale to the Sopranos.
My "I'll do anything for you" side. If you are a military wife, or a person who has ever been in need of something-you have seen this side of me.
My "me so horny" side. I must admit that my husband is the only one who benefits from this side, but it is brought on by full moons, alcohol, and ovulation, and I am a handful. Lock up your husbands girls... I may try to come on to them with my slurred words and my loud laughter all rounded out by a good fart and a pass out.
My "mom" side. This is the side I show other moms at the park or at ballet class. It is the side where I am defined completely by the children that have sprung forth from my loins.
My "no bra" side. This is another side only a few have seen. It is the side where I am comfortable enough with you to go bra-less. This is usually accompanied by morning breath, bedhead and a breakfast table.
My "I'll be at your funeral" side. This is the side where I know I will be your friend for life and one day I will be at your funeral-or you will be at mine... which ever happens first. I hope I pack the Church!
We have different kinds of friends don't you think? There are different sides of ourselves that we show to people as well. I have many sides to me, and it is very rare for me to have a friend that I show all sides to. I can think of maybe a handful who know me as well as my husband knows me (although, I don't complain about my husband to my husband, so in a sense some of my friends may know me better than my husband. But, they do not know me as intimately as my husband-as in the Biblical sense-so he has that over them... something I am sure they are not jealous of.)
Here are some of my sides:
The "I am a very good Christian woman" side. Which is a very big side of me, because I am a very good Christian woman... but there are some people that I only show this side to. This side of me also makes me aware that other people may have the ability to show just the "Christian" side to me and therefore I am leery of do-gooders because I know they are tossing back a few and cursing up a storm on the weekends like I do (except for Sunday of course when I teach Sunday School) So when you show me this side, just show me the party side as well-I know it is in there. I guess that isn't a very "Christian" way of looking at my Christian woman side is it?
The "par-tay" side. This is the fun side of me... but it also tends to give me a bad reputation as a parent who drinks. That is fine, because I am a parent, and I do occasionally drink... I do not think these are bad traits to have, but the Christian side of some people don't like my par-tay side. It is confusing sometimes remembering who I have shown my sides to because I may come across a person who I have only shown my Christian woman side to when I am at a party and they suddenly come face to face with my par-tay side. It can be distressing and I have watched many a woman whisper things about me to other do-gooders. That isn't very Christian and this is how I know they have other sides to them than their Christian side as well-so drink up my friend... it is time to par-tay.
My ugly side. This only comes out when you are a good enough friend to sleep with me in the same bed after a night of heavy drinking in a foreign country. I smell of vomit and alcohol and my breath is atrocious... but you know I really love you dearly if I let you see me like this. My husband has seen me like this on many occasions, our honeymoon being one of them.
My "horrible person" side. This is the side where I cry about what a horrible person I am either because I am a bad mom (we all feel this way from time to time) or I am a bad wife (another place we all visit.) You are a good friend when I tell you about my insecurities and failures.
My "who gives a shit" side. This is the side that I show a lot of people, because sometimes I just don't give a shit what you think of me.
My "I am trapped in my house" side. This is my complaining side, when I complain about my kids, husband, parents, other friends, neighbors, dog, Target cashiers, mailman, and the finale to the Sopranos.
My "I'll do anything for you" side. If you are a military wife, or a person who has ever been in need of something-you have seen this side of me.
My "me so horny" side. I must admit that my husband is the only one who benefits from this side, but it is brought on by full moons, alcohol, and ovulation, and I am a handful. Lock up your husbands girls... I may try to come on to them with my slurred words and my loud laughter all rounded out by a good fart and a pass out.
My "mom" side. This is the side I show other moms at the park or at ballet class. It is the side where I am defined completely by the children that have sprung forth from my loins.
My "no bra" side. This is another side only a few have seen. It is the side where I am comfortable enough with you to go bra-less. This is usually accompanied by morning breath, bedhead and a breakfast table.
My "I'll be at your funeral" side. This is the side where I know I will be your friend for life and one day I will be at your funeral-or you will be at mine... which ever happens first. I hope I pack the Church!
6.18.2007
Can I Get A Do-Over?
I feel like a shmuck... yes, I said shmuck! Emma has her ballet recital this weekend. Dress rehearsal is on Thursday, and today was the day that they were going to do the recital for the parents. In full costume. With hair in buns. And make-up on.
Well... I forgot. Hey, as I said before my brain is being sucked through my boobies at an alarming rate since I have been nursing. Cut me some friggen slack here.
We get to ballet (5 minutes late) and Emma rushes into the studio. I notice that there is no one in the waiting room so either there is a fabulous sale at the "Get Nailed" nail salon next door, or I have made a horrible horrible mistake and today is parent's day. As soon as Emma rushes in and sits down with all of the other little ballerinas, she starts to notice that everyone has their bea-u-tiful recital costumes on and she has her ordinary pink one... and I didn't even comb her hair this morning, I simply pulled the curls up in a off center pig tail. She turns to me and in a very loud whisper says "MOM! WHY DON'T I HAVE MY DRESS ON?" I put my finger over my mouth as if that could possibly quiet her and I tell her that everything is OK.
She sits for a few more minutes until the little girl next to her says "Why don't you have your costume on?" (Can I just call this child a brat now? Brat!) Emma looks to the girl on the other side of her and she not only has lipstick on, but she looks like her mother used the same lipstick on her cheeks as blush... a technique that my Grandmother perfected in the car on the way to Mass years ago. Emma turns to me again and says (in a very accusatory tone I might add) "MOM, WHY DIDN'T YOU PUT MY DRESS ON ME?"
It should be pointed out that I was not the only bad mom there today. One of the popular "posh" moms (who can forget the "posh" moms?A Fly On The Wall... ) forgot about the costume today as well. She has teenagers and this three year old... the only thing she really has to occupy her mind with is this three year old, and what vacation home they are going to chose to fly off to next week. I at least can blame the baby... right?
Well, I caved. I quickly motioned for Emma to come to me and then I grabbed her hand and hustled it out of there so fast that you would have thought I was an Olympic sprinter. We made it home in 2 minutes flat (red lights are optional for a mother on the edge) and I whipped Emma into her costume and even put some lip gloss on her and dashed back to the studio just in time for them to start the performance.
While I was sitting there watching my daughter, who was now all decked out in her $80 costume, do her little spins and twirls that I have spent $50 a month for her to learn (which by the way, I want my money back) the baby decided to let out a big ol' poo. This was the kind of poo a bear has after hibernation... when he has to poo out the plug of twigs and berries that he ate last fall with an enormous amount of grunting and pushing. It was a big one... and it was all over her outfit and my beige shorts (the only shorts that fit me since her birth.)
And people wonder why I drink so much...
Well... I forgot. Hey, as I said before my brain is being sucked through my boobies at an alarming rate since I have been nursing. Cut me some friggen slack here.
We get to ballet (5 minutes late) and Emma rushes into the studio. I notice that there is no one in the waiting room so either there is a fabulous sale at the "Get Nailed" nail salon next door, or I have made a horrible horrible mistake and today is parent's day. As soon as Emma rushes in and sits down with all of the other little ballerinas, she starts to notice that everyone has their bea-u-tiful recital costumes on and she has her ordinary pink one... and I didn't even comb her hair this morning, I simply pulled the curls up in a off center pig tail. She turns to me and in a very loud whisper says "MOM! WHY DON'T I HAVE MY DRESS ON?" I put my finger over my mouth as if that could possibly quiet her and I tell her that everything is OK.
She sits for a few more minutes until the little girl next to her says "Why don't you have your costume on?" (Can I just call this child a brat now? Brat!) Emma looks to the girl on the other side of her and she not only has lipstick on, but she looks like her mother used the same lipstick on her cheeks as blush... a technique that my Grandmother perfected in the car on the way to Mass years ago. Emma turns to me again and says (in a very accusatory tone I might add) "MOM, WHY DIDN'T YOU PUT MY DRESS ON ME?"
It should be pointed out that I was not the only bad mom there today. One of the popular "posh" moms (who can forget the "posh" moms?A Fly On The Wall... ) forgot about the costume today as well. She has teenagers and this three year old... the only thing she really has to occupy her mind with is this three year old, and what vacation home they are going to chose to fly off to next week. I at least can blame the baby... right?
Well, I caved. I quickly motioned for Emma to come to me and then I grabbed her hand and hustled it out of there so fast that you would have thought I was an Olympic sprinter. We made it home in 2 minutes flat (red lights are optional for a mother on the edge) and I whipped Emma into her costume and even put some lip gloss on her and dashed back to the studio just in time for them to start the performance.
While I was sitting there watching my daughter, who was now all decked out in her $80 costume, do her little spins and twirls that I have spent $50 a month for her to learn (which by the way, I want my money back) the baby decided to let out a big ol' poo. This was the kind of poo a bear has after hibernation... when he has to poo out the plug of twigs and berries that he ate last fall with an enormous amount of grunting and pushing. It was a big one... and it was all over her outfit and my beige shorts (the only shorts that fit me since her birth.)
And people wonder why I drink so much...
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