The Triumphant Return

Today is day FOUR. The fourth day of my triumphant return...to my treadmill. My last child was kind enough to saddle me with ten extra pounds that she didn't take with her when she made her blessed exit from my body. Yes, yes, I know. In Hollywood I would have been back to my pre-pregnancy size on some magazine cover in a bikini without so much as a whiff of a strech mark two weeks later. Hey ladies, Photoshop is an amazing thing. I, however, live in the real world where what my body looks like has nothing to do with my job, and thank you God for that. As I was not a stick figure to begin with, after the birth of my third child I didn't feel an immediate and pressing need to become that once again. Unfortunately, the time has now arrived. I have become tired of my extra weight and clothes that don't fit. So we are about to break up. I hope it's a quick one. Oh, who am I kidding? It will be a long, drawn out, messy affair just like it was the last time. After all these years, the one thing I know about my body is this: I can lose weight, as much as I want, if and only if I am willing to WORK at it. Diet, schmiet. I have to MOVE.
After my twins were born, I lost 60 pounds. I had gained 40, so I was pretty pleased with that. I saw a friend who told me that I looked good (no one ever gets tired of hearing that) and then the inevitable question. "How did you do it?' "An hour on the treadmill at a 10 incline at least six days a week." "OH. Well, I don't want to do that! I thought maybe you were taking something." Yeah, well, here's the thing. I didn't WANT to do it either. I just hated being fat more that I hated that treadmill.
I love how the breastfeeding proponents tell you that you should nurse your baby in order to lose weight. It burns so many extra calories! I am here to put a stop to that nasty little rumor. Sorry, girls. With unwavering, slightly psychotic, bulldog-with-a-bone determination, I managed to breastfeed my third child for 13 months. I STILL have plenty of extra pounds left to lose, and I'd never been so hungry in my life. Maybe that's what happened, making milk just made me feel like I was starving, so I made sure to eat more. I dunno. But my plan to let her suck me down until I looked like an old dairy cow with her hip bones sticking out was a miserable failure.
My husband can tell me that men love curves and Marilyn Monroe was a size 12 all he wants. Marilyn doesn't have to squeeze her ass into my jeans. Not only that, but I enjoy breathing while wearing my clothes. Now after three kids, I'm under no illusions about the fact that I'm not ever going to look like my friend Taiga who's all buff and runs marathons for fun. If you've ever given birth to more than one child at a time, you're going to have "wobbly bits" that aren't going away without help from a surgeon. If you see a woman who has given birth to twins or triplets with rock hard abs and no loose skin, she's either got a really great doctor or a great pair of Spanx. Hey, I'm into the truth.
My knees are already complaining. Just this morning my left knee said, "Woman, are you crazy? We don't run. I am for walking and very occasional bending. Keep that in mind or I will make your life miserable. You have been warned." But I am sore in all of the places I despise. So perhaps we are headed in the right direction. Pre-baby weight, here I come. Slowly. With a limp. I'm sure my horses will thank me later.     

My Macho Car, Part Deux

As with anything I write, immediately after I posted yesterday's entry, I began to think of all the things I left out. OK, fine. My husband started pointing out all the things I left out. I forgot to share that my mother's very favorite part of driving a truck as opposed to a car was the ability to run over the curb. She took great joy in this, as do I from time to time. It's just fun. If you've never tried it, I highly recommend it. Just make sure you're in a truck. Fiberglass spoilers on cars do not take kindly to running over the curb. Ask my T Bird.
My mother also shared my "I'm bigger than you and I will run your ass over" attitude when driving a truck. It's the prevailing thought in my mind when some chick in a Mini or a teeny tiny Beemer pulls out in front of me. I could drive over the top of your car without looking back. I win. Having spent a lot of time in a boat as a kid, I was taught early that bigger is righter.
Speaking of bigger, not only did Arnold look tough, he was tough! I'm pretty sure that truck saved my life coming home from Memphis one day. I was cruising along about 70 miles an hour when the tiny Japanese POS in front of me blew a tire. I'm not sure whether the driver jerked it left, or it just went that way on its own. I moved over trying to avoid her just as she swerved into my lane. She hit the right rear corner of my truck, popping my tire and pushing me off into the median before hitting the end of the bridge we were on. Going from asphalt to grass at 70 mph is not an experience I wish to repeat. Add to that the torrent of CD's raining down on my head from the sun visor, and I wasn't sure which end was up for a few minutes. The happy ending was this: had it not been for my flat tire, I could have driven my truck home. I didn't have a scratch. The Elantra and its driver were not so lucky. If you wonder someday why my kids drive a tank, wonder no more.
Adding to the appeal of my macho car is its ability to drive in places other than on the road. My kids are intimately acquainted with the phrase, "Hang on, girls, we're going cross country!" Four wheel drive (or as my hubby likes to call it "fo tire pull")  is the best thing ever invented. I think it ought to come standard on all vehicles.
These days I drive a three quarter ton, four wheel drive piece of American ingenuity. Okay fine, it's not all twisted steel and sex appeal, but it does look tough for a grocery getter. So far, the crowning achievements for my current Suburban "Mighty Whitey" have been his rescue skills. (Hey, I have three little girls. We name everything.) When I told my husband I was writing a post about my macho cars, he said, "Hey Babe, you used your three quarter ton grocery getter to pull out a TRACTOR that was stuck in the arena yesterday. Now how many women can say that?" Duly noted. 

My Macho Car

I drive a macho car. No dainty Lexus or Mercedes with leather for me. I made the move from my green Thunderbird to a 1/2 ton pickup truck when I was in vet school and never looked back. I eventually wore out the truck, which was a company hand me down from my dad, and traded it in when it had over 200,000 miles on it. I left the lot in a shiny new Ford Expedition, which I admit was rather an odd choice, as we had no children at the time. As I'm sure happens more often than people would like to admit, I immediately fell out of love with my new car. I hated the way it handled in the rain, and the last straw was when I called my husband on a trip home from Memphis. I was pulling my horse trailer.

Me: Something's wrong with my truck!
Him: What? Why? What's it doing?
Me: I'm trying to get up this hill. I've got my foot on the floor and the stupid thing won't go any faster.
Him: Pull over and let's swap. Let me drive it for awhile.
Me: Gladly.
Ten miles down the road, he called me back.
Him: There's nothing wrong with your truck.
Me: What? Yes there is!
Him: Nope. You got too much trailer and not enough truck. That's the whole problem.

Then and there, I declared that I would never have another 1/2 ton truck again. Ever. Not long after that, he took me to the Dodge dealership, where I picked out an awesome, slightly used 3/4 ton Dodge 4 wheel drive truck. Four doors, chicken lights, chrome running boards...the only word for that truck was "sexy." I was in love with a vehicle again. More than once, men pulled up next to me and looked shocked when they realized a woman was driving. I had never had a vehicle make me feel so good when I drove it. I felt strong, tough, invincible. I'm still convinced that a small corner of my soul is a teenage boy.
I happily drove my truck, which I nicknamed "Arnold" after the Terminator, back and forth to Tennessee every week to my first job after vet school. It really did attract an inordinate amount of attention from men. Total strangers offered to help load my groceries at Sam's. More than one said something to the effect that they liked to see such a small woman drive such a big truck. (File that away, single ladies. You're welcome.) I didn't even let it bother me when one of the ladies where I worked suggested that as a woman who was a vet with short hair, driving a truck like that made me have a "lesbian" vibe. I'm not sure where that came from, because I never had any women flirt with me when I drove by. At least not that I knew about.
But alas, my love affair with Arnold ended when I got pregnant with twins. A friend who was also a MOM informed me that there was no way I could possibly survive as the mother of two babies without a Suburban. So I reluctantly passed Arnold on to my husband and became the proud owner of a "family car."
As luck would have it, my upgrade was just the opposite. It was in the shop no less than seven times during my pregnancy, once even stranding me on the side of the road. It HAD to go.
As is often the case when you make decisions in a hormone based fog, my next car decision was a definite mistake. We traded the Suburban for a Dodge Charger, which barely had a backseat. I did LOVE to drive it, though. One trip to Texas with our babies and we realized we had really messed up. My husband ended up driving it on his commute to Memphis until we sold it.
Once again, I found myself driving a Suburban, this time purchased from a doctor who was going to trade it in on a new one. "Old Blue" was a great car. Everything that you could possibly do to a car had already been done to it by the previous owner's four kids. When my girls spilled something, I didn't even turn around. However, when it suddenly decided that I didn't need to back up, anyway, we had to trade it in. Just going forward might seem great for all those motivational speakers out there, but I often find that I really do need to travel in reverse sometimes.
These days, I'm on my third Suburban, a white 3/4 ton four wheel drive. Remember when I said I'd never drive another half ton truck? I meant that crap. The other night, I was on the way to meet my husband at a roping when he called me and sent me after horn wraps for the roping steers. I drove to a friend's house, pulled out into the pasture and up to the arena. I located the sand covered wraps which were lying all over the ground, and headed to the car. I opened the back door and took a quick inventory. Red top blood collection tubes, a box of syringes, needles, a couple of different glass medicine bottles, a roadside emergency kit, a pound or so of arena dirt, and a stroller. I tossed in the wraps and thought yep, it's a good thing I don't drive some girly city car. It would never survive my family. So to the lady in her Lexus that looks down her nose at me in the carpool line at school, your car wouldn't last a day and a half at my house, and it couldn't pull my horse trailer down the street. I drive what I drive because I want to, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

My Children's Shoes

Children's shoes are the bane of my existence. On a completely primal level, I despise children's shoes. They never fit, which no one bothers to tell me until approximately 30 seconds before we have to walk out the door. That is, if they can find them. I once spent a solid hour searching for a pair of shoes that I finally located. In the dining room. A completely logical location for a pair of church shoes.
Judging by the shoes, our back porch looks like forty-seven people live here. Everyone but me has at least two pairs of boots or shoes out there, and some have three. This is only because after politely asking the short people to please remove their shoes before coming in after they've played in the arena sand, mom had a complete crazy woman screaming fit. I'm pretty sure that fire came out of my eyes at some point. It must have made a lasting impression, however. Only once in the last few weeks have I had to bust someone for wearing dirty boots in my house. It is worth pointing out that when I did bust them with boots on, they were upstairs! They had to use the bathroom, and there was a spider in the guest bathroom. I'm not sure what was wrong with the other one they walked right past.
The people I really can't stand are the manufacturers of kids' shoes. A size 11 is never the same size 11. One pair of shoes marked a size 13 is EXACTLY the same size as another pair marked size 10.
As a general rule at my house, the more I pay for a pair of shoes, the less my kids like them. Maybe that should be my criteria when I'm shoe shopping. No, we can't buy these. They cost too much. You'll hate them. I own two beautiful, spotless pairs of Pediped sandals. The reason they are spotless is because, even after multiple assurances to the contrary while in the store, my kids have NEVER worn them. Apparently once they crossed the threshold of our home, they underwent a transformation from cute sandals to itchy, uncomfortable torture devices. Instead, my kids much prefer a $5 pair of Children's Place flip flops. Because those look SO much better with their outfit.
The one exception my kids will make to the cheap shoes rule is their boots. My daughter can pick out the most expensive pair of boots in a store in thirty seconds or less. I'm going, "Look! These Old West boots are so cute! You're only going to wear them about two weeks before you outgrow them. Let's get these."
Invariably, we leave the store with two pairs of $60 Ariats instead. Again, these are the only expensive footwear they prefer, and they show them absolutely NO mercy.
I hate children's shoes with shoestrings. When I informed my kids that in order to wear the $50 pair of Skechers they just had to have, they would have to learn to tie their shoes, one of them looked at me and said, in all seriousness, "Can't we just wear shoes with Velcro?" Yes, and rubber pants, too! Maybe you could just wear Pull Ups and skip that whole bathroom business.
I have returned the same two pairs of my baby's shoes a total of three times. Twice because they were the wrong size (see the whole 10/13 thing in the first paragraph) and once because the two shoes that I had were NOT the same size. They were both marked size 6, but in one shoe my baby's toe was right where it needed to be, and in the other it was hanging off the end. It was loads of fun trying to explain, on my third trip, why I was there to exchange a pair of shoes for the exact same size. Not that the girl behind the counter cared. I think I could have said I wanted to exchange them because their chi was bad and she would have nodded and kept punching buttons. No kidding, I thought I was at the airport for a second. I really think she pushed every single button on that register at least twice.
The only thing I hate more than my kids' shoes is stepping over their shoes. If you ever hear that I've broken my neck, you can bet it was because I tripped over a pair of freaking shoes. My number one, enforceable by cruel and unusual punishment rule is that when you take off your shoes, you put them in the laundry room. After the second or third reminder of the day to PICK UP your shoes, I begin to examine the flip flops in my hand and assess their potential as a weapon. They couldn't really do that much damage, could they?

Facebook

I want to begin by saying that I love Facebook. It opens doors and creates wonderful opportunities for personal communication and business growth. That said, it also provides people out there with a platform to show the world what idiots they are. I'm not just talking about misspelled words and grammatical errors here. Goodness knows there are plenty of those out there. THEY'RE going to THEIR house, which is over THERE in Mississippi. YOU'RE not going to believe YOUR eyes when you see it! I could go on. I find errors in magazines for fun. Wait, who am I kidding? I haven't actually read a magazine in years. A quick flip through and half of one article is all that my kids will allow.
I think anyone who's ever taught the English language to a group of students would be horrified by what they saw on Facebook, or maybe they would have proof that their students actually learned something. I guess it could work both ways. My particular pet peeve with Facebook is my young friends. Yes, yes, I know. I could simply ignore their friend requests or block them. Here's the thing: if I did that, it's like telling them, "I don't want to be your friend on Facebook because I'd like to be vulgar and use explicit language. I'd also like to laugh at and share highly inappropriate photos that I wouldn't let my own kids see with 600 or so of my closest friends. But I'll sit across from you at church on Sunday and pretend that I'm a good role model."
It really does put me in a difficult position. Because sometimes I really DO want to be vulgar and use explicit language. Picture with me, if you will, Yosemite Sam in that cartoon where he had to keep from losing his temper or he wouldn't get his inheritance. Every few minutes he had to run into the other room, slam the door, and go totally frickin crazy or his head would explode. I am intimately acquainted with this emotion. I have to exercise that option often. I just try not to do it on Facebook. Sometimes I slip. We all do. But I try not to make a habit of contaminating young minds if I can help it. Which leads me to ask the question: Can't we just leave the "F" word out of some awesome ecards????? I SO want to share some of these and I can't. Plus, I'm friends with my dad and some older people I've known forever. I can't have them thinking I'm a potty mouth! That would never do. Those of you who know otherwise, you just keep your @#%!mouths shut. I know stuff about you, too.
I was just talking with one of my friends last night about her frustration at not being able to share the highly hysterical and wholly inappropriate pictures she saw yesterday because she knew it would offend some of her FB friends. She has the dreaded FB filter. I can sympathize with her, because I have it, too. Some people simply refer to it as being an adult.
Which brings me to my next point. Children do not have a FB filter, which is why it is not a good idea to let them have a freaking FB account! Yes, I understand that some adults are lacking this filter as well, particularly those in the college age range. They are on their own. I'm just trying to point out that while it might seem like a good idea right now to post that picture of you doing body shots on the bar at the Florabama, in ten years it might seem like a really BAD idea. If there are 1600 pictures of you with your friends and a drink in your hand online, it might give people the wrong idea. People who check you out when you apply for a job at the church day care. News flash: Christians know how to use Google and Facebook, too! It's hard to convince a boss that you are a studious, hard-working employee when all he can find online is pictures of you funneling a beer.
This brings me to my other major point about Facebook. And this one doesn't just apply to teens. For those of you who don't automatically know: ANYTHING YOU PUT ON FACEBOOK FOR 600 OR SO OF YOUR CLOSEST FRIENDS TO READ IS NO LONGER "PRIVATE!" A young friend of mine got angry the other night because someone went and told her mother something she put on Facebook. To which I say: YOU PUT IT ON FACEBOOK! You essentially broadcast that crap to everyone you know! And some people you don't know. Because let's face it, girls, even if you share something with "only" your friends, what's to stop them from sharing it with their friends or showing it to someone else? That's how you get stupid statuses and pictures with 50,000 "likes!" It's not just because somebody decided to share it with 50,000 of their closest friends! All I'm saying is please use your head. Divorced people, if you want to trash your spouse, do it somewhere else. Because two married people couldn't possibly have any of the same FB friends. And nobody would ever show that to your kids... If you put it out there for people to read, it is no longer private information. It's something you chose to share...with everyone you've ever known.

Adult ADD

My husband accuses me of having adult Attention Deficit Disorder. He also, like most men, doesn't recognize my fantastic multitasking abilities. He seems to think that I can't look at Facebook on my phone or type on my computer and listen to him at the same time. Which is entirely possible; however, the smart aleck in me can't help but point out that he SAW me sitting here doing something before he started trying to talk to me! And I wondered where my kids got that from...
Anyway, back to my ADD. I am not the same person I was before I became a mother. A high school classmate and I have agreed that our children come into our rooms while we sleep and suck our brains out of our ears through a straw. In addition to that, I would like to share with you just what goes into the writing of a post for this blog.
While walking into the kitchen, I glanced at my watch and saw that I had approximately 30 minutes before I needed to get the children ready for swimming lessons. Perfect! I headed to the computer. As soon as I sat down, our one indoor/outdoor cat started yelling at me through the window. I got up to let her in, then on my way through the kitchen I realized that the counter was full of dirty dishes. I loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. Back to my office. I sat down, read at least one pointless news story on the front page of AOL, and then switched over to Blogger. I typed the title of my post. The baby showed up and demanded that I turn on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, or else. That ought to buy me a few minutes. Thank you, Lord, for a DVR. I returned to my computer, and typed approximately two sentences.
One of my older children popped in and informed me that she was ready for breakfast. While fixing her breakfast, I heard the washer cut off. I unloaded and reloaded it, then came back to the office. Again. I found my train of thought at the bottom of a ravine. It was in a crumpled, steaming pile near where it had derailed. I typed a little more, two entire paragraphs this time, and the baby strolled back in. I knew from the green cloud following her that I was about to be interrupted yet again. Sigh. On the way into the bedroom I noticed how dirty my bathroom was. Bathroom counter cleaned and diaper changed, I was back at it. Until the short people showed up. Was it time for swimming lessons yet? Oh, crap. Yes, yes it was.
And with that, my post was finished. So do I have ADD? I don't know. People just KEEP ON interrupting me. Maybe I could focus on one thing for hours at a time. Who knows? I'd love to have the opportunity to try! I'm thinking that if I do have ADD, it's totally my kids' fault. The baby is back, yelling, "I want to hold you, Mommy!" I give up.   

The Family That Snake Hunts Together, Stays Together.

I like to think that I have lived a pretty full life. I have been to school, loved and been loved by a horse, traveled, rodeoed, and run barrels all over the country, gotten married and given birth to three healthy children. But last night, I found myself doing something I had never done before. I went snake hunting. With my family. I'm not sure, but I think this qualifies as an entry for the Redneck Wikipedia.
Allow me to share some background information. Those of you who know me are aware that I do NOT do snakes. I'm not saying, "I don't like snakes." I'm saying, "I will cause you bodily harm without a second thought in order to get away from a snake." I'm not "afraid" of snakes. I have a deep-seated, molecular level, hard wired, can't help it, Garden-of-Eden FEAR of snakes. I don't think they're slimy. I don't think they want to hurt me. I just don't want to see them. Ever. I don't want to look at one, I don't want to touch one, and I sure as hell don't want to hold one. Every nightmare I've ever had was about snakes. Okay, almost every one. I've had at least a few drowning or falling ones. But mostly, I'm walking along and suddenly the whole ground is covered with snakes. Somebody out there analyze that crap and tell me what it means.
When I was in veterinary school, I was forced to complete a rotation that put me in a room with snakes every day. It NEVER got any easier for me. My heart raced and I felt like I couldn't catch my breath the entire time. When the instructor explained that each of us would take turns caring for the animals on this rotation, I flatly told him that I was going to fail. Fortunately, one of my classmates took pity on me and made sure I got to graduate. My personal goal for the rotation was to touch one of the snakes. It never happened. One of my teachers said I was an animal racist because I told him that I planned to refuse treatment for snakes in my practice. To which I say, can you put that on a t-shirt for me? Call me whatever you want. I'm still scared of snakes, and I don't see me getting over it any time soon.
So, armed with this knowledge, you might ask yourself, why in the hell was I out purposely looking for something I'm so freaking afraid of? I was asking myself the same question. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. We got done riding last night about dusk, and as I was heading back to the barn, I saw two snakes crossing the lake and leaving a wake that you wouldn't believe. My babysitter's fiance has been picking them off one at a time while fishing here lately, but there are obviously some left.
When I told my husband what I had seen, one of my five year olds practically yelled, "Oooooh, Daddy, can we go snake hunting?" Yes, my little redneck children. Why not? So he loaded a German Shepherd, snake-fearing wife, three kids, and a .22 into the Ranger and off we went, complete with Corgi escort times two. We rode around the lake at a snail's pace, with my husband saying, "I need a spotlight" about 1200 times. Guess we all know what he's getting for Christmas. If that's not a redneck gift, I don't know what is. I'm sure it was a terrible oversight on Jeff Foxworthy's part when he left it out of the "Redneck Twelve Days of Christmas" song.
In my mind I was thinking, there's no way in the world we're gonna see a snake with this circus. I have to say that I was secretly hoping we didn't. And the crazy thing is, we DID! We saw two and killed one, with my three kids screaming, "SHOOT IT, DADDY! SHOOT IT!" It was awesome. For a second I thought we were in an episode of "Swamp People."
Yep, it was all pretty surreal. Found myself doing something I NEVER thought I would do. Definitely not something I ever did with my parents. I can officially mark "snake hunting" off my Bucket List. I'm fairly certain it wasn't even on there. Oh, wait, I don't even have one of those. I'll have to make that a project for another day. I guess the family that snake hunts together stays together!     

Littering

This post is in honor of the planned delivery of my sweet friend Shannon's twin boys today. She probably won't ever read it, because starting today her free time is going to be spoken for. Permanently. Any time those little cherubs are sleeping peacefully, she will be frantically trying to do things like take a shower or sit down while eating. Or perhaps she will do what I often did when our girls were little: decide that sleep is much more important than food. You can't tell it now, but I often decided that when given a choice, I would rather sleep. Her precious Corgi doesn't know it yet, but it's about to be nudged over into second place. Her adorable husband is about to be pressed into service, ready or not! Someone once commented on how comfortable my husband seemed taking care of our newborns, to which he replied, "What choice did I have? It was either listen to one of them cry until Courtney could get to her or jump in there and help!" Double the diapers and double the bottles produces a need for teamwork like none other. Hopefully it will bring Shannon and her husband together like it did for my family. Some days it definitely felt and looked like a war zone in our home, but at least we were on the same team!
Shannon, if you do ever read this, here is my best "mom of twins" advice: enjoy every minute of them being little. A lot of times, motherhood when our girls were babies was about survival. I often let myself fall into the trap of, "If I can just keep everyone alive until tomorrow, I will be OK." I didn't spend every moment that I could have just enjoying the miracles that were my babies. Sit and stare at them. Take in that sweet baby smell (you know, the one that comes before the poopy diapers!) Spend a lot of time with them curled up on your chest. That's the stuff I wish I could do over. Clean laundry and clean houses are way overrated. OK, maybe not the laundry part. But the clean house part for sure. Best of luck to you guys. Having those babies will be the best thing you ever did.
Now, for the gist of this rambling thought parade. "Littering" (and by that I mean giving birth to multiples) is way too common among veterinarians. Out of my 49 vet school classmates, three of us have had twins. I know at least two other people in the class just ahead of ours who are the parents of triplets. It seems like every single time our quarterly newsletter comes, at least one more person has had multiples. Is it because we are so used to delivering litters in our profession that we think we are supposed to do the same thing? I can't say for sure, but my OB informed me on the day we found out we were having twins that every veterinarian she'd ever had as a patient had given birth to multiples. Coincidence? I think not. And perhaps something that she could have SHARED with us when I told her I was thinking of getting pregnant! Then just maybe I wouldn't have ended up sobbing uncontrollably on the ultrasound table just from the shock. I am however, compelled to remind everyone that I totally blame my husband for our set of twins. The moment I told him I was pregnant, he said, "Oh, I hope it's two!" At which point I informed him that my body didn't have room for one extra person, let alone two. Add stretch marks here.
OK, fine. I know there's probably some detailed, scientific explanation for the herds of veterinarian children out there. Something along the lines of, women wait until they are older to have kids, then they go off of birth control after being on it for years, they have a double ovulation, and voila - a litter of babies! But I prefer to go with the "we are used to working with litters" theory. It's just more fun. So, to my colleagues who are thinking of having "a" baby...be afraid. Be very afraid. You just might find out that you are about to be a MOM...a mother of multiples. Or as my husband likes to say, "We're one double ovulation away from being one of those families who drives a bus and goes to church at home." LOL. 

All By Myself

For those who noticed that there was no post yesterday, the reason is simple: my office has no door. In our home's lovely open floor plan, the builder obviously did not feel it was necessary for the home office to include a way to lock your children out. Otherwise, I would gladly have done it and written a post about how much I wished to be ALONE. With three children under 6, there is always a short person following me around the house. If I'm lucky, while doing something like folding laundry, I get a Phineas and Ferb-esque, "Hey Mom, whatcha doin?" Some days I simply can't keep myself from replying, "Mowing the grass," but alas, sarcasm is lost on the wee ones.
Sometimes I get up and walk into the other room, and immediately hear, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Where are you?"
Me: "I'm in the bathroom! What do you need?"
Child I'm trying to avoid: "Where?"
Me: "In my bathroom! WHAT do you need?"
Child who has found me and is now standing outside the locked door jiggling the handle: "Mom, are you in there?"
Me: "YES. Do you need something?"
Child: "Umm, no, not really. I just wanted to know where you were."
Insert mental image of me banging my head against the wall here. I love my kids with all my heart, but there are times that I just feel the need to scream, "For the love of all that is good and holy, LEAVE ME ALONE!" Luckily, I can usually rein that particular urge in. Most of the time. When I don't, the looks of shock and amazement on my children's faces are priceless. It's as if they want to say, "Why, Mother dear, whatever is the matter? We have clearly missed the thousands of subtle hints that you wished to sit in your room by yourself. Why on Earth are you yelling?"
It's always good to find out that you're not alone. A friend once told me a compelling story of motherhood, privacy, and ice cream. Apparently, she was feeling the urge to consume a Coke float unmolested, and her two daughters were having none of it. After emptying the ice cream carton and pouring the last drop of Coke in the house on her creation, she sat down to eat. As we all know, the sound of a mother's butt hitting a chair, particularly to eat, sets off the children's alarm system in very short order. So there she was, surrounded by two hungry wolves kids, both begging for a bite and jostling for position. I can't be sure, but I'm willing to bet there was some whining going on as well. "Mom, can I have some of that?" "Nope." "Well, will you make me one?" "No. We don't have any more Coke or ice cream." "Then can I have some of yours?!?!?" "NO." What happened next was one of the most awesome Mommy moments in history. My friend proceeded to lock herself in the bathroom and eat the entire thing. ALONE. Way to go, Mom! Now I feel less guilty about the fact that I looked forward to my twins' nap time with joyful anticipation simply because I got to eat in peace.
Yet another secret my friends with kids didn't let me in on: when you give birth to a baby, somewhere wrapped up in all the blood and placenta and crap that follows the baby out, there is a sprinkle packet of guilt. It is the job of the nurse who is in charge of your care to retrieve this tiny packet, sneak up behind you, and pour it on top of your head during those first blissful moments when your baby is quiet and your drugs haven't worn off yet. Then those tiny particles of guilt soak right through your skin and into your brain.
Guilt is what keeps you from doing things for yourself because of your kids. You know, things like locking the door and saying, "You guys fend for yourselves. I need a nap and I'm going to take it!" Mommy guilt keeps you from buying things for yourself instead of your kids. Sure, I've worn the same two pairs of shorts for the last two summers, but my kids really NEED those sixty dollar dresses. Times three at my house. And by the way, twins come with a double helping. Do something like change a baby's diaper, and you will immediately feel compelled to do the same for the other one. Then you will feel guilty about referring to your second child as "the other one." True story. More on mommy guilt later. My little cherubs are already reminding me that I haven't given them my undivided attention for the last 20 minutes. What was I thinking?

Running Shoes

I'm still here! For those of you who were afraid that I got sucked into the whirlpool of toys, vomit, and dirty diapers, never to be heard from again...you can relax. Between swimming lessons, dentist appointments, and trying to keep my barrel horses ridden, I just haven't found much time to write the last few days. Yes, I know that I could write while my kids sleep. I could do LOTS of things while they are asleep. The only problem with that is this: while they are sleeping, I want to be sleeping, too! My body has this annoying need for 7 to 8 hours of sleep in order to function properly. Even though to the childless population, the words stay-at-home mom conjure up some image of a woman sitting on a couch in a housecoat stuffing her face and watching soap operas, nothing could be further from the truth! My daily life reqires supernatural amounts of energy and very few peaceful moments.
I prefer to think of myself as a stay-in-the-road mom. I wear running shoes every day, although some days I think I should trade them for combat boots. I dress casually, usually a tee shirt and shorts, although some days I think a referee's uniform would be a more appropriate outfit. I'm sure those stylish black pants hide a lot of flaws. But I prefer my running shoes.
I have an interesting relationship with tennis shoes. I remember the first pair I ever had - blue Kangaroos. They had a zipper pocket on the side for all the important stuff a six year old girl needs to keep...in her shoes. My first pair of sneakers held a special significance for me, because up until then I had been made to wear brown corrective shoes. Apparently my right ankle rotated inward, and the solution was to send me to school in the ugliest pair of brown shoes on the face of the earth. (At least that's how I saw it.) I suppose they did their job, as both of my ankles appear to be in good working condition now.
My current shoes are Saucony running shoes. My best friend as a kid had a pair, and I can remember wanting some so badly. Not that I was deprived as a kid...I just remember how cool I thought those shoes were. When I graduated from veterinary school and realized how much I was going to be on my feet when I was working, I bought my first pair.
Oprah Winfrey tells a story about the first time she started making a lot of money and rushed out to buy some Ralph Lauren towels. To her, that meant she had made it. Now I'm certain my salary as a new graduate was NOT the same kind of money that Oprah was making, but to a kid who'd never had a real job, I felt like I was loaded! It was the first time in my life I'd ever had money that was mine, that I'd earned and not been given. I admit that I caught a terrible case of "Doc-itis" as Dave Ramsey calls it, and bought plenty of stuff thinking, "I have a job! I can afford this!" I also admit that it came back to bite me in the butt later in life, but that is a story for another day.
I love my running shoes. I don't do much actual running in them, as is evident by the size of my butt, but when I lace them up each morning, I take a deep breath and feel like I'm headed to the starting line of my day. When the gun goes off, there are days that I'm already behind the pack. There are days that I feel like the starter loaded a live round...and pointed it at my head instead of up in the air. And every so often there are those days when I feel like Usain Bolt, sprinting down the track and looking back over my shoulder. Try to catch me, suckers! Those days are decidedly few and far between. I have also discovered as a parent that the moment you congratulate yourself on having it all together, someone immediately pukes on your shoes.
I also wear tennis shoes most of the time because my feet hurt. My grandmother and mother were kind enough to share their lousy foot genetics with me, so finding a pair of comfortable shoes is like the quest for the Holy Grail. When I went shoe shopping after vet school, it took me two solid hours of trying on sneakers to find a pair that fit. Actually, I found two. I threw the first one away last year. When I find a good pair, I wear them until they fall apart.
These running shoes have taken me a lot of places. Sometimes I feel like a hamster on a wheel, running my legs off and never getting anywhere. Other days I feel like a rat in a maze, no clue where the heck I'm going, but by golly I'm going to get there in a hurry! Wow, two rodent references in the same post. Can't wait to see what kind of ads those bring up!        

Pregnancy Test Warning Label

I think pregnancy tests should come with a warning label. Okay, maybe more of a disclaimer. Yes, I know that they come with a package insert (I've seen them all. I should have stock in EPT.) But the only thing the package insert really tells you is how to tell whether you're pregnant or not. And they must not do that too well, as so many of us feel led to take another test right away, just in case we read the first one wrong. I propose that those things should come with something else.
Something like this: Congratulations! You're pregnant! Or you're not! We sincerely hope you got the answer you were looking for. You can go ahead with your plan to take another test. We're pretty sure it's going to say the same thing, but if you want to give us ten more bucks, we'll take it. If you are not pregnant and wish to be, we will gladly take your money again next month. If you want to increase your odds of getting pregnant (and the pressure on your partner) please invest in one of our company's ovulation predictor tests. These can help you finish removing the romance and spontaneity from your sex life, as well as telling you the most likely days to conceive your little bundle of joy. Our company thanks you for your business!
If you are pregnant, congratulations! Please sit down and buckle up, as we are about to share with you a few of the things other people have tried to explain, but you never really understood until now. Thanks to the little plus sign on the test you just took, you will now be relinquishing control of your life physically, mentally, emotionally, and in all other ways.
Your body now belongs to your baby. You will feed it, pamper it, and subject it to all manner of uncomfortable medical procedures solely for the benefit of the tiny person growing inside you. You will lie awake at night daydreaming, worrying, or trying to figure out how you are supposed to sleep when you can't get comfortable and you have to pee every 30 seconds. You will overcome your fear of needles, doctors, and hospitals as you subject yourself to poking and prodding by total strangers in the interest of delivering a healthy child. You will add new terms to your vocabulary, fun things like stretch marks and hemorrhoids. If you are lucky enough to need a C-section, you will receive a daily reminder of the fact that you let someone cut you open and play with your guts in order to remove your baby from your body.
You will now begin to attract attention, whether you like it or not, no matter where you go. Women in the grocery store will feel entitled to put their hands all over your belly. Total strangers will offer you unsolicited advice about what to do with your body and your baby. Everyone you see will want to know "what" you are having, when it will arrive, and what its name will be. Then they will share with you their thoughts on whether you should have another child (you know, if the child's gender isn't what they think it ought to be) and the name you have so carefully chosen. Because we all know that annoying, crazy woman at the mall should get a vote.
Every Supermom you know will tell you what to eat, what to wear, and what fun, artsy fartsy projects (maternity photos and plaster belly molds and such) you should do while you're pregnant. You will smile politely while you fantasize about one of two things - ripping their head off of their shoulders or having a bowl of ice cream and a nap. The subject of your fantasy will be solely at the discretion of the hormone fairy. She will determine your mood at that particular second, and then on a whim will inform you that you are no longer angry, but now need to weep uncontrollably. As an added bonus, we'll let you in on the fact that the hormone fairy hangs around long after your delivery. That bitch will move into your spare bedroom and mess with you long after you have evicted that precious baby from your body. Just something to look forward to!
You will plan out the perfect delivery to the letter, and fantasize in your head just how everything will go. In your mind, you will go into labor in the morning, when your hair is clean and fixed and your makeup is fresh. After a brief, not too painful labor, you will deliver the most beautiful child ever conceived while Daddy holds your hand, says all the right things, AND takes all the pictures you wanted. Then you, the beaming, not high on drugs, not a hair out of place mother will pose for pictures with your gorgeous baby who does not at all resemble an alien with a conehead. The horror of what you just put your body through will not even occur to you at this point, because the drugs will not have worn off yet. That comes later. Enjoy this part, sweetie, because we can almost guarantee that your delivery will NOT happen that way. Delivering a baby is kind of like planning a wedding. You can be certain that something will not go according to plan, but hopefully it's nothing major and you get the desired outcome.
The one thing that we can tell you about your pregnancy is this: you won't regret it. You'll actually miss that big belly when it's gone. And no matter how easy or hard it is, or how much your delivery fails to resemble your fantasy, you'd do it all over again in a second. Congratulations on taking the plunge. Let go of the bar, throw your arms up in the air, and get ready for the roller coaster ride of your life.

Dental Hygiene

Local commercials in my area have always been a major source of amusement for me. Misspelled words, incorrect grammar, horrible Southern accents, you name it. We done seen it all. I have to tell you that some of my favorites are the ones done by local businesses that involve some sort of health care "minute." Hospitals, veterinarians, and day care centers, just to name a few, bombard us with their wisdom each and every day during the potty - I mean commercial- breaks. But I heard one the other day that left me shaking my head.
A local dental practice has begun a "dental health minute," which has provided some mildly amusing stuff in the past. Up until the other day, my favorite was the one where the guy wasn't even trying to pretend that he wasn't reading straight from a teleprompter. The script had obviously been written by someone in approximately the sixth grade. I know this because every sentence started with whatever subject he was discussing that day, something really exciting like root canals, and he used the same two words eighty-seven times. To which I say, don't they have producers who record that crap and edit it before it goes on the air? Boy was someone asleep at the wheel!
I now have the distinct honor of reporting that I have a new favorite "dental health minute." In this one, Dr. Strangelove decides to step outside the fascinating world of dentistry to address...wait for it...parenting!
This man actually recommended that you not share your food or drink with your child, AND that you not kiss your baby on the lips because BACTERIA could be transferred from your mouth to theirs. Wow. Just sit there for a minute and think about that. Needless to say, my mind went crazy.
Here are a few of the questions I would like to ask: first and foremost, are you now or have you ever been a parent?!? I'll go one better. Have you ever actually been in the room with a child while someone else is eating? My kids have the most fantastic selective hearing on the planet. When they are watching TV or I am calling them to do something they'd rather not, they actually become deaf to the sound of my voice for brief periods of time. I was really excited the day they told me they were going to test their hearing at school, because I admit I was beginning to have concerns. The great state of Mississippi assured me that they could in fact hear, but I wasn't convinced. Luckily, my fears were laid to rest by a potato chip bag. I could rattle a bag of Doritos in the kitchen and those suckers would wake up from a coma, drag themselves out of bed and RUN to me.
Sitting down with food around my kids is sort of like being surrounded by a pack of wild dogs. I could have a big steaming pile of poop on my plate, and if I sat down to eat it they would circle around me and elbow each other for the prime position just so they could get a bite. My personal favorite is my daughter's habit of ordering what she wants at a restaurant, then eyeballing MY order as soon as our food arrives. She asks for a bite of my food before my plate has even touched the table. Either that or she asks something like, "Mom, are those cheese sticks? Mmm, those look really good...do you think I could have one of those?" And of course, I give it to her. Isn't there some sort of unwritten rule about that when you become a parent? You know, something like "what's mine is mine and what's yours is mine, too?" There is at my house.
And another thing: the whole bacteria issue. I refer you again to the question, "Have you ever actually been a parent? Have you observed the daily habits of children at all?" Let's see, my kids drink out of the toothbrush rinse cup, fill their mouths with bathwater, and put their hands in their mouths after they've played in the dirt at the arena. I could go on for hours here. Those things make me want to puke, and I don't even have a booger eater...that I know about! You're worried about the bacteria that I could transfer out of MY mouth to theirs? Whatever, dude.
Kissing my sweet baby girl on the lips is sometimes the highlight of my day. As far as I'm concerned it's one of the best parts of having a baby, and I don't intend to stop because some guy on TV said to. If eating off my plate rots their teeth, I guess my children will just have tooth decay. Poor little suckers. Someday when they talk to their therapist, they can blame that on me, too.    

Run Your Own Race

Several years ago, I was given a Joel Osteen book as a Christmas gift. I had never heard of Joel Osteen or his books, but as I began reading I found a multitude (Biblical term) of things he said that were directly applicable to my life. Now I love to listen to his weekly sermons while I'm dressing for church, and frankly sometimes I get more out of what he says than the live action version. No offense, Brother Sammy. On many, many occasions I have felt as though he were speaking directly to me. And no, not in a horror movie, psychic friends, freak show kind of way. He doesn't call me by name, and I'm pretty sure his head has never spun around.
It just seems like the topics he chooses often relate directly to what's going on in my life. It's almost like a sport now...I wait to see if he's going to guess correctly this week. And yes, I completely get that his messages are constructed in such a way that they appeal to the masses. That's why his church has a gazillion members, some of whom are willing to send him large sums of money, which I am not. I have to admit, any time I hear a televangelist ask for money, I immediately think of one of my all time favorite movies, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, and Randy Quaid saying, "If I just had back the money me and Catherine sent to that TV preacher that was screwing the hockey players." That always makes me giggle.
The sermon this past Sunday was about running your own race and being focused on the journey that is uniquely yours. It was absolutely jam packed with excellent advice on how to ignore the people in your life who are jealous of you, who are trying to bring you down. I have heard him say before that it doesn't matter what you do, some people will never be "for" you, even in your own family. People will pressure you to conform; they will try to mold and shape and pound you into their idea of what you are supposed to be. There are those people in your life who will be happy as long as you are content to remain in your current state of affairs, that will despise you when you begin to improve your station in life and come into God's favor. He went on to say that God has chosen the path that he has laid out before you, that he has put people and circumstances in your life that will help you along that path, and that when you will step out of God's favor is when you are doing things that are not in his plan for you.
Wow. That was a lot to take in. It also gave me a lot to think about. A few short years ago, we would have said goodbye to people we knew in high school and never heard from some of them again. And then there was Facebook! I look at it as a double-edged sword. I really enjoy keeping up with friends and family who live far away. I have seen pictures and read stories about their lives I would never have had access to. I have kept in touch with acquaintances from across the nation that I met before I was married.
More importantly for me, I have felt less isolated as a stay at home mom of small kids because I can "talk" to other people who have been where I am now. There's just something about saying, "I was cleaning up puke at 1:30 this morning" and someone responding, "Oh, I've done that lots of times. Were there chunks in it? I hate the chunks!" Just makes you feel better in some small way. Or, "My kid peed on the playground at McDonald's today" and hearing back "Oh really? My son pissed on the floor at the grocery store." Hooray! I'm not alone. Other people have gotten sucked into the whirling vortex of vomit, crap, and toys and clawed their way out on the other side. Some of them are even partially sane once again now that their kids are all grown up. There's hope for me!
One of the best things that has happened so far is that I have reconnected with people from my past that I never really took the time to get to know. I have figured out that I missed out on some really fantastic people who were in my life because I didn't give them a chance. I talk often with a few people I knew in high school who make me laugh until I cry. I had no idea they were such fabulous writers or that they were so freakin' funny! Maybe if I had started talking to them sooner I wouldn't have been in such a bad mood for so many years. WHERE WERE YOU PEOPLE? Why didn't you tell me that I needed to pull my head out of my a__ sooner? GAH! Oh, well, at least you're here now. Thanks for brightening my day, even if it's just by saying, "Look, I have it so much worse than you do it's not even funny!" Point taken.
The other edge of the Facebook sword is this: I can totally see how people look at the CAREFULLY SELECTED parts and pictures of other people's lives that they choose to share on Facebook and think that they are missing something in their own lives. That's the beauty of the Internet. You can make your life look however you want to online! Wake up, folks. People leave out the uncomfortable stuff! Divorces, financial problems, less than perfect spouses and rotten, rebellious kids...they're all still out there! You just don't hear about them because people choose not to share that. I actually find it quite funny to match up the things people post online with what I know to be true about their actual lives. I guarantee you the picture you have in your mind is a far cry from reality. As someone who has appeared (at least once, on some occasion) to have it all together, I am here to tell you that I don't. Every day is a balancing act, and more often than not I end up in the net. Or on the concrete. Depends on the day. A woman from our church told me once that my husband and I "seem so laid back and calm, like you never lose your cool." To which I say, "I would like to thank the Academy..." because my acting skills have obviously improved! Take home lesson for the day: Don't judge a Facebook by its cover.

My Big Fat Redneck Trip to Walmart

When you live in the South, Walmart is just a part of life. You can make six stops, which for me equals unloading and reloading three children twelve times, or you can go to Walmart and get everything from your sleeping pills to your chicken livers to your flat tire fixed. No joke. You can buy cow tongue and fluffy bath towels in the same store. Who'd have ever thunk it? The idea of that much less work is just way too appealing to me. I am a one stop kinda girl these days! However, I am also willing to pay a babysitter well so that I don't have to take the short people with me when I go to Walmart. The way I look at it, I'm paying the sitter what I would have spent on the extra things they begged me to buy, so financially it's a wash. Plus, I get to shop in peace. I wander up and down every single aisle (so it will take longer) and make no apologies about it! I smile sympathetically at the women with bratty kids who are lying the middle of the cereal aisle screaming, and they look at me as if to say, "If you had kids, you would understand." Oh, I understand, lady. I understand more than you know. I'm simply on a break. As an added bonus, I get to listen to the radio station of my choice on the way there and back without Shrek on the DVD player behind my head blaring in my ears. It's heavenly.
Yesterday, I made an epic trip to Walmart. What made it even better was that I didn't plan it that way, it just happened spontaneously. Coincidence? I think not.
So there I was...doing my weekly grocery shopping. I was getting the usual: four different kinds of cereal, milk, diapers, eggs, bread. I guess I should mention that I did have five pregnancy tests in my cart. Calm down, calm down! I am not now, nor do I wish to become pregnant. Spoiler alert: They are for the cover of my book, which I hope to have published before my kids are in college.
I really wish I could do justice to the strange looks you get when strolling through Walmart with five pregnancy tests in your cart. I finally looked at one lady who was staring openly and said with a smile, "I just want to be sure." She was speechless.
I was headed to the checkout line when the phone rang. It was my husband. Was I still at Walmart? Why, yes, I was! Would I like to make a detour? Sure, why not? He then proceeded to describe the water moccasin in our lake that was roughly the size of his forearm. Would I swing by the sporting goods department and pick up some ammunition? Absolutely! As I have never actually purchased such a thing, I admit it was rather exciting. Redneck woman on a mission!
I got the box of bullets without showing any identification (which both surprised and worried me a little) and headed to the front of the store. Since it was a rather long walk, I started thinking about what was in my cart. When I started unloading it onto the conveyor belt, I started giggling and couldn't stop. Where else in the world can you buy men's underwear, bullets, and pregnancy tests all in the same shopping trip?
When I told my husband the contents of my cart, he looked at me and said, "You gonna make some SOB admit that he's your Baby Daddy, aren't you?" Holy freakin cow, I really am a redneck! I gotta go have my roots done. Dr. Phil, here I come.

The Magic of Advertising

Here's a fun fact that I find completely hysterical. Since my writing is something that I enjoy immensely and hope to turn into a career someday (like I don't have enough other things to do,) I was willing to allow Google to place some ads on my blog. They're pretty small; I don't find them to be too disturbing or obnoxious. Here's the funny, or mad scientist with brilliant, evil plan part, whichever camp you prefer to be a part of. The ads change according to the content of my blog posts! I know, I know, all you people in advertising are going, "Well, duh! Of course they do. Big deal." I, however, having no working knowledge at all of advertising find it TOTALLY FREAKING HILARIOUS.
For example, the other day I mentioned the word "vomit" several times in a post, and within hours an ad for personal vomit containment (airsick) bags appeared on my site. Another day I mentioned my desire to have a "free from the potty" party when all of my kids are old enough to go to the bathroom by themselves, and shortly an ad for a company that builds glass toilet partitions and partition hinges appeared, along with an ad for professional restroom cleaners. I'm seriously thinking of checking into the professional restroom cleaners. I could SO use their services.
Naturally, the immature, teenage boy part of my brain started going crazy. WOW, the possibilities here are infinite. I am really having to fight the urge to write one long post full of every embarrassing personal hygiene product I've ever heard of, along with every obscure medical condition I can think of, just to see which ads come up. I mean, toilets and vomit are a good place to start, but really, you start mentioning things like sex and alcohol and the sky's the limit. This just went from a site that caters to women to one that anyone can enjoy! Okay, okay fine. I promise to keep it clean. Well, sorta clean. Oh, alright, a little dusty with the occasional pile of dog poop. On your foot. That makes you drop the F-bomb in front of your kids. You were warned.

Empty Nest

This time of year is all about graduations and children heading off to college because they are "all grown up." Those of us who have already lived through this magical time in our lives realize now how far from being grown up those kids actually are, but as we all know you couldn't make them believe it for anything in the world. When I think back on my decidedly well-behaved college days, I remember the friends that I had who took full advantage of ALL that college life had to offer and wonder how they are still alive. And not in prison. I have heard that God protects fools and little children, and I have been and been friends with both! My husband has informed me that there was a time in his life (before we met) that he felt the need to drink all the beer there was. Then, like most people we know, he outgrew it. I never went through that particular phase in my life, and he continually reminds me that perhaps that's what's wrong with me today...an alcohol deficiency. Maybe it's some sort of developmental phase that I missed, you know, like those kids who just started walking but never crawled. That would explain a lot.
Thanks to the magic of Facebook, I communicate with all these women who are about to become "empty nesters." They are all so sad, talking about how bittersweet it is to have children leaving home and wondering just what they will do with their time. COME TO MY HOUSE. That's what you can do! Then you can remind yourself how happy you are that your children are not this age anymore.
A few days ago, while the kids were swimming, one of them announced that she had to go to the bathroom. The people who lived here before us were smart enough to build a pool house with an easily accessible bathroom. No big deal, right? Wrong! Apparently putting back on a wet bathing suit when you are five is the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. Not gonna happen without some adult supervision. So as I was wrestling my second child of the hour back into a wet swimsuit, I started thinking. My youngest child is almost ready to potty train. What will it be like when all of my children can go to the bathroom with no help at all from me? No pants to button or bathing suits to pull up. No walking them to the public restroom in a restaurant. I can't begin to imagine how much extra time I'll have on my hands. Added up, I spend hours every day changing diapers and addressing the older girls' bathroom concerns. I think I'll have a free-from-the-potty-party! I'll invite all my mom friends whose children have also reached this magical age, and we'll lie around and marvel at how much extra time we have. Then we'll take turns using the restroom in peace with the door locked, because surely they're going to leave us alone by then, right? Hey, a girl's gotta have dreams.
Personally, I've already got a list of stuff I want to do when these kids are grown that I'll never possibly accomplish before I die. I can remember my mother saying she couldn't wait to get to the nursing home so she could read all the books she wanted to, but never found the time. I'm sincerely hoping that my old a-- can still throw a leg over a barrel horse when my kids are grown! And I'm going to read, and cross stitch, and do puzzles, and all the other stuff I used to enjoy that my kids refuse to allow these days.
Not that I'm in a hurry for them to grow up and leave. I'm just saying that I won't be bored. I'm also a little worried that a couple of them may not leave. I have one who tells me every day that she just wants to stay here and help take care of the baby. I've tried explaining that the baby will be growing up, too, and that she won't need to be taken care of forever, but older sister is not convinced. Oh well, at least they like us. For now.