In Which I Attempt To Thank People For Throwing Me A Baby Shower, But Mostly End Up Rambling a Lot

My seven year old, who I call Sarah on the blog (but who is not really named Sarah, so it seems silly to keep calling her Sarah, because what am I - Pioneer Woman, that I should be important enough to have stalkers? Please. And yet the completely paranoid part of my brain is convinced that if I were to utter her Actual Name dangerous predators would descend from the blogging sky, search the town for children with a similar name and spirit her away to the Land of Stolen Blog Children - so I guess I shouldn't tempt fate and should just continue to call her Sarah), has to have surgery next week.

I would tell you all about it except that Sarah is a little embarrassed about the whole thing, and would rather that I not go around spouting her diagnosis all over my blog. (I'm feeling a little guilty now for my semi-hysterical and very specific Facebook updates, except that I know she will thank me when people drop by afterwards with things made out of chocolate (which I'm assuming they will, because seriously, what is the point of even HAVING surgery if it doesn't result in chocolate)). (For the mother.) So I won't get into the details of the surgery, but I'll tell you that she'll be in the hospital for a few days, a problem will be fixed, and her surgeons are excellent. The surgery is invasive but relatively safe, so I've decided to pretend she's getting her tonsils out or maybe having some hair implants, something fairly benign like that.

(In other words, I forbid anyone from expressing the words "I'm sorry," "I'll pray for you," or anything else that sounds even vaguely compassionate in the comments, because a) people who are going to be FINE, JUST FINE, TOTALLY FINE, don't need compassion and b) concerned comments would imply that there is cause for concern, and there isn't, no there ISN'T - LA LA LA LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU.)

(However, comments like "SUE - your pet monkey is ADORABLE" would be very much appreciated, per usual.)


(This is Sarah taking a pre-surgery class at Primary Children's hospital - a class designed to help the kids work through their fears about what will happen on surgery day.)

Sarah is imaginative and smart, and the combo means that she is an expert worst-medical-case-scenario brewer-upper (she probably gets this from her father). She packed a bag for the hospital the other day, and when she solemnly showed me the carefully packed suitcase with her favorite chapter books and favorite stuffed animal and a note she wanted me to give her little sister on surgery day my heart went crackety-crack. My poor sweet, sensitive little girl. Oh how much I love her.

The baby is still in my stomach, cooking away. I know this because he kicks the living hell out of me all night long. Last night I don't know what was going on in there - soccer drills or something - but I stopped being amused after about fifty-seven straight minutes of it.

On Saturday morning some neighborhood friends threw me a mostly-surprise baby shower. I say mostly-surprise because one of the women in my neighborhood dropped off a gift for me about a week ago, with a note that said, "sorry I couldn't make the shower," which was my cue to badger the living daylights out of my husband - who was throwing it? when was it? where was it? would he warn me in advance so I could get my roots done ? who was throwing it again? - but he wouldn't crack.

I was so touched by the shower. Not just that someone threw one for me, or because I was grateful for the stuff - but the who/what/when/where/why of it all. Throwing a shower for someone is like publicly declaring your friendship for someone, like publicly saying, "OK, yes, I admit to being her friend." That's sort of awesome, especially if you really adore the people who threw you the shower. (And now the women who threw the shower are thinking, oh, CRAP, I didn't realize THAT was what it meant. I just wanted her to get some stuff. HA-HA-HA - sorry girls, IT IS TOO LATE, THERE IS NO RETURNING FROM THIS.)

COMMENCE TANGENT:

This neighborhood is FULL of women I really like - including many who I really want to get to know better, but never quite get around to getting to know - partly because we are all busy, and partly because I am a dork.

Sometimes we'll have a girls night out or I'll be at book club and I'll end up sitting by someone who I know casually but not very well, and I end up thinking I LOVE HER, and I HAVE TO GET TO KNOW HER BETTER but then I do absolutely nothing about it, mostly because I have no idea what to do. I'm horrible on the phone, the most awkward dork in the universe, and the idea of making a phone call without having a SPECIFIC PURPOSE for making the phone call absolutely horrifies me.

(I can't imagine what people say when they call people for no reason - just to chat. How do you do that? What do you say? Do you make up a reason? I suppose if I answered the phone once in a while I would have a better idea of how that works.)

/End Tangent

Oh. Wait.

RECOMMENCE TANGENT:

I have to say something about book club. I've been in a book club for the last four years and I love the other women in the group. We talk about books, we talk about life, we eat, we talk about books and life some more. The women in the group are wonderful, and every single time I leave book club thinking, OH MY GOSH, I LOVE HER (but I end up thinking it about twelve women at once, which is fairly overwhelming).

I have to remind myself before it starts not to talk too much, because I tend to get all overly excited and blurty and almost anxious. Sometimes I write little reminder notes on my hands, things like "don't talk so much," and "it is rude to interrupt people even if you are excited about what they are saying." (That one is long - I have to write that one on my arm or stomach.) (Although frankly, writing it on my stomach makes it more of a problem as far as reminders go, what with it not being visible).

Anyway, between book club and girls night out and the outlawed-by-our-bishop bunko group (long, strange story), there is a circle of women who I interact with more frequently, who I admire and respect and enjoy, but I STILL don't call them on a regular basis, other than to arrange for my kids to play with their kids. Sometimes if we're already on the phone I'll get really brave and ask a question about something non-kid related and we'll end up talking.

I'll get off the phone on this post-phone-talking high because I ACTUALLY TALKED ON THE PHONE, and then I eventually realize the other woman was trying ever-so-graciously to get off the phone for at least the last ten minutes, and I did not notice because I do not speak ever-so-gracious and because I kept having to tell her one more thing, and one more thing, and oh, wait, ONE MORE THING, and then I feel like a moron and swear off the phone FOREVER. Again.

/End Tangent

On Saturday night I went out and bought thank you cards and a little thank you gift for the women who organized the shower and carefully filled out the cards, but I still haven't delivered them. I don't want them thinking I'm some kind of overly eager dork who was counting the minutes until she could express her (possibly inappropriate amount of) gratitude, but rather a cool, cool cucumber of a normal-type friend who was just the right amount of socially acceptable grateful without being a total freak about it.

(Except one of them reads my blog, so the jig is probably up anyway.)

(So maybe I should just go deliver those cards.)

(Yeah, I'm leaving now.)

I'm Not Quitting My Blog, I'm Just Sparing You Posts Like This One

Despite the long periods of blog silence, things are actually quite normal over here at hypochondria central. Would you like to hear about it?

And would you like to hear about it in run-on-sentence form with no discernible punctuation?

WELL OF COURSE YOU WOULD.

First of all, you should know that every other week or so I wake up at night feeling a sharp stabbing pain in the front of my calf, kind of like a really ticked off hornet is messing with me. I always reach down to brush it away, then realize there's nothing there, then start to say "SON OF A -," then I realize the pain is gone, and then I go back to sleep.

I keep meaning to talk it over with the doctor, but whenever I go to see her I completely forget to mention it, so distracted am I by our regular monthly discussion/game of "so when exactly do you think my uterus might rupture?"

Her standard response is some variation on "there's really no way of knowing if it will, or when it will, but let me know if you have sudden sharp uterine pain," and then I ask her to quantify what she means by pain, exactly. The sharp pain I sometimes get when I sneeze, is that a rupture? Or when the baby kicks an internal organ really hard and I have pain, is that a rupture? Or when I feel this sharp stabbing pain in my leg, is THAT a rupture? And could she possibly give me her cell phone number so that I can call her late at night when I feel a pain that might be a rupture?

By the time we finish having this discussion, she is usually giving me this look (this look like, who referred you to my practice again?) and I've completely forgotten about the leg thing because I'm busy rocking back and forth on the exam table imagining my own death.

Most likely the pain in my leg is from a (non-imaginary) blood clot, and probably I will die. (Farewell, internet.) The good news is that I'm so forgetful lately that most days I don't remember my impending death and life proceeds quite normally.

(You know, I'm not REALLY a hypochondriac. I don't lie around feeling sick and inventing reasons to lounge around on the couch every night (that's what TV and books are for). I'm more of the long-range, google-infected, I'm-probably-going-to-eventually-die-of-something-exotic type of relatively harmless imaginative hypochondriac.)

The first real day of summer vacation for the kids was Monday. I've been busy reading things like Last Child in the Woods and Free Range Kids (which I LOVED and made my book club pick this month), and I'm determined to make sure my kids spend their summer out exploring NATURE, dagnabbit. We have a perfectly good gully across the street with a stream in it, and a park down the road with a stream in it, and mountains five minutes from our doorstep, so in theory we are all set. Now all I need is a non-pregnant friend to con into taking them on all of these nature adventures while I lie on the couch.

Yesterday I took the kids swimming at a completely fantastic pool down the road (complete with water slides, a lazy river, play structures, and water shallow enough to keep my non-swimmers from drowning). They loved it, and I loved it too - as long as I stayed in the water. Since I am not one of those adorable little pocket-sized pregnant women with a cute baby bump, I don't look pregnant - I just look incredibly fat.

I'm fighting the urge to iron a patch onto my swimsuit, something about baby on board, something that will make it obvious to everyone that YES, I'm fat, but at least some of it is virtuous baby-related fat (as opposed to my regular slothful, doughnut-related fat). It turns out that all this time I thought it was obvious I was pregnant, what with my shirts stretched against my baby belly, but a few of my real life friends had no idea because apparently that's JUST WHAT I USUALLY LOOK LIKE. Egads.

By the way, thanks so much to everyone who so sweetly and generously offered to send me baby and maternity stuff after my last post. Hormonal as I am, I sniffled my way through most of those comments. Whoever says blogging friends aren't real friends - well, the maternity shirt on my back is here to tell you otherwise.

I would like to be able to promise to blog more frequently, and I doubt it will ever be a month between posts again, but I am definitely blog-lazy right now. I enjoy blogging and love my online friends, but I have no big goals for this blog anymore, to wit:

• I definitely don't want to review products or do sponsored giveaways or any of that rigamarole (although I've nothing against people who do)
• I had a fit of conscience one weekend and handed the Mormon Mommy Blogs site over to Motherboard (who, it must be said, was doing all of the work anyway)
• I will obviously never make anything more than slurpee money off of my ad revenue (being suspended by your ad network for lack of posting pretty much guarantees that)
• And I think we've definitely established that I'm too lazy to write a book even if I was given the opportunity

That pretty much just leaves me, blathering on a blog to my real and virtual friends and family, purely to hear myself talk. (OK, ALSO FOR FRIENDSHIP. SHEESH.) And since that's why I'm doing it, I figure everyone probably understands the whole not-always-feeling-like-it blogging thing. Or at least I hope they do.

I have more to say about this and that and the other, but I am out of practice and have officially bored myself to death already, so I will save it for another day. (LUCKY, LUCKY YOU.)

I See London, I See France...

There is a robin that sits outside of our window every morning and sings its sweet little heart out. It's very Mary Poppins. Eeeeevery single morning at 5:30 AM.

I freaking hate that bird.

The other morning the bird started singing at precisely 5:17 AM and I was so mad that I got up and went outside intending to do something about it, something involving rocks and a few pointedly stinging remarks. Unfortunately, as soon as I got outside it flew up onto the roof of the neighbors house, right above their master bedroom window where it just knew I'd be scared to throw something, and then it resumed singing. MOCKING ME.

Me, whisper-yelling: "SHUT UP BIRD."
Bird: "Tweedle tweedle twee."
Me, full of impotent rage, jumping up and down: "Go away! Go away! You suck! I hate you!"
Bird: "Tweety tweet tweet."

It was very frustrating.

(One of my neighbors has very mischievous six and ten year old boys, and I cannot for the life of me understand why she has failed to furnish them with BB guns. This seems a tragic oversight.)

(Do you think that would be an unfortunate present for someone to leave at their doorstep?)

The bird's early morning singing leaves me plenty of time for rage-fueled tossing around in bed before it is time to get up. I do this with quite a bit of irritation and loud sighing, since in my sleep deprived haze I feel quite certain that my husband ought to be Doing Something About It, although I'm not sure what that would entail. Just something. I think I would like to hear him out there screaming at that bird, really giving it the what-for. Maybe throwing something heavy, like a patio chair or the swing set.

Despite my bird fueled rage, my attitude about all things baby is finally starting to improve. It helps to have ultra-sound proof that it's a boy and not actually a demon from the netherworld as I was beginning to suspect. Unfortunately the only thing I've really done to prepare for the baby's arrival is whine a lot.

When I found out I was pregnant I walked around the house moaning about how stupid we were to give away all of our baby stuff, stupid, stupid, HOW COULD WE BE SO STUPID - thoughts I cagily kept to myself when my sister-in-law generously offered to give me some of her old baby stuff. She sweetly said she didn't need any of it anymore, because they were Done, and I did my best to nod gratefully instead of mumbling "famous last words SUCKAH," under my breath.

(Actual conversation with doctor this morning after ultrasound: Doctor: In a few weeks we can start talking about whether or not you'd like to have a tubal ligation after your c-section. Me: TIE THEM! TIE THEM NOW! I WANT THEM TIED. WITH DOUBLE-KNOTS! DO YOU DO DOUBLE KNOTS? Doctor: Uh....)

Anyway, thanks to my sister-in-law the baby will sleep in an actual crib instead of a laundry basket, and will have a stroller instead of the conveyance I was mocking up - a trained Labrador with a saddle.

We don't have a stitch of baby clothing in the house, and I'm dreading the inevitable trip to Target, where we will lay down all of our pennies as a sacrifice to the baby apparel gods. Most weeks lately I feel like Alexander, Who Used To Be Rich Last Sunday - payments from my tech writing clients come in the mail and at first I dance my wild dance of crazy glee, and then I realize the dishwasher is broken, and we owe fifty-seven million dollars to the IRS, and Carter grew two sizes over the winter and needs new pants, and the mortgage is due in three days.

I can't bring myself to spend money on maternity clothes. It seems such a waste to buy new clothes that I will use for four months. I have decided to forge ahead with wearing pajama pants and stretching out my existing shirts for the next few months, and if my underwear happens to show, well then it JUST HAPPENS TO SHOW.

All in all, I expect that I will be quite grumpy this summer, what with the pregnancy and the extreme wardrobe, and if anyone says a word about my non-conventional maternity wear, they will RUE THE DAY, because I swear if it is the last thing I do I will find a way to sic that freaking bird on them.

Ginormica LIVES

• I've been avoiding blogging, because if I blog, it's proof I'm alive, and if I'm alive then I have to actually read my email and feel guilty for not answering it in a more timely-like fashion, and if I feel guilty then I have to eat more chocolate, and if I eat more chocolate than I have already eaten I will most likely end up in a diabetic coma.
  

• I'm finally off the cursed hormones, and I feel much more like my version of normal. The hormones not only made me crazy, they also made me narcoleptic. I was falling asleep anywhere and everywhere. While sitting at a stoplight. Standing in the grocery store looking at fruit. Typing a sentence. In the middle of saying something to my husband. I could stay awake and reasonably alert around the kids for most of the day, but by dinner time I was pretty much done. It wasn't all that uncommon for my husband to come home after work and find me dead asleep, sprawled on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, the kids running around scavenging for food and generally recreating scenes from Lord of the Flies.

• I'm at that stage where nothing fits very well, but I'm still resisting maternity pants in favor of sweats and really baggy jeans. The baby is only about the size of a cantaloupe right now, but I do not let this define the size of my stomach. I like to stay ahead of the pregnancy fashion curve (why look five months pregnant when you can look seven? Tres fashion forward).
  
  With all of my other pregnancies I've been pretty careful about gaining weight. I didn't need to be any heavier than I was already, thankyouverymuch - but this time around instead of feeling responsible and excited and careful, I've tended more towards feeling completely freaked out and a little depressed, and I ditched my usual cautionary weight gain attitude in favor of SCREW IT, pass the ice cream.
  
  I am GINORMOUS. (We took the kids to see Monsters vs. Aliens on Saturday afternoon. The female monster's name was Susan and her monster name was Ginormica, and I decided it was probably a sign from God, telling me it was inevitable and to just go with it for a couple of months.)

• I was blathering to my husband about camping this summer - maybe we could take the kids to the Grand Canyon, or maybe to Yellowstone, or - and my husband had to remind me about the baby, and the possible-but-not-certain early delivery issue. I just keep forgetting about the dang baby. I never forget the PREGNANCY, but I space the resulting baby. The reality of the baby still seems like some kind of elaborate April Fools prank.

• The doctor says I should be able to carry the baby all the way through to September, or maybe August, or possibly July. She would narrow it down a little, but it all just kind of depends on "how much your uterus rips and how likely spontaneous uterine rupture looks after each visit." But she says not to worry because they'll "keep an eye out." PHEW.
  

• The kids all mistakenly stayed home from school today. I pulled up the April school lunch menu online and it said "No School - Professional Development Day." I naively assumed this meant no school. But later, when we were driving by the school on our way to the plant nursery, and I realized that all of the other children in the universe were at school. WELL. Then I realized that it must've meant something else. Something more mysterious.

• Hooky or no hooky it was a gorgeous day, and once I was done with work we spent most of the afternoon outside. We planted a few flowers and I pulled up weeds while the kids jumped on the tramp. My husband came home a little bit later and threw baseballs to the kids while I sat on the steps watching in my lazy I-don't-have-to-play-because-I'm-pregnant way. Everyone was happy, and it was one of those moments I wished I had on tape - not just because it was a happy moment, but so that in a few months I could play it back for the kids and say - SEE?!! BEFORE THIS BABY CAME, I WAS A GOOD MOTHER. IT'S ALL THE BABY'S FAULT.
  
  (So if you were wondering if I had a plan for parenting four children, you can put those fears to rest. Clearly, I am ALL SET.)
  

The End.

Blogging Under the Influence

I am taking hormones. (Have I mentioned that? Because I am.)

The hormones are a good thing, since they keep me pregnant. My personal view is that this is much better than not-pregnant, despite my nervousness and anxiety about the baby’s arrival and all things exploding uterus.

When they did my initial lab work, my levels didn’t look good. They were indicative of a failing pregnancy and impending miscarriage, a road I’ve been down before and didn’t particularly want to revisit. So the doctor prescribed hormones – the same hormones I’ve taken with all three of my kids.

At my last appointment the nurse had a hard time finding a heartbeat. She was about to give up and call the doctor in to use the ultra-sound machine when she finally found it. I don’t know if I can describe the relief I felt, hearing that reassuring little 'shoop-shoop-shoop.'

So the hormones, overall, are a very good thing. UNLESS you happen to live with me, or run into me in the neighborhood, or interact with me online. Then they are - more alarming.

On Thursday night I got into a huge fight with my husband (who has been tensely chanting “hormones, hormones, hormones” like a mantra (a remember-not-to-kill-her mantra) ever since the day he picked up the prescription - he’s familiar with the level of crazy that usually attends my interaction with this particular hormone).

I can’t remember exactly why we started arguing, (probably something about who ate the last Peep) (HIM) but I DO remember that it ended when I poured a bottle of coke over his head.

Yes.

Did I mention I’m taking some hormones?

Well.

Luckily, my husband is the forgiving sort. (Otherwise he would’ve been REALLY mad after that whole thing where I locked him out after he went outside to cool off.)

The OB in Vegas who handled three of my pregnancies liked to point out that mood swings weren't a typical side effect of the hormone, and he suggested a few times that maybe it was the placebo effect - I was allowing myself to feel crazy because I believed I had an excuse.

I didn't like following his train of thought - this out-of-control feeling was nothing more than emotional self-indulgence run amuck. If he was right, then why could I feel The Crazy ramping up each night after I took my pill? And on the days I forgot to take it, why was I so eerily calm? (I think the calm was more disturbing to my husband than the not-calm. Like waiting for a volcano to explode.)

I felt so vindicated when my new OB told me they've now found that mood swings are a common side effect, and that some women have very heightened emotional reactions. The hormone calms most women down and makes them sleepy, but other women respond differently.

Don't get me wrong - my Vegas OB was a good one. He put me on a hormone therapy that wasn't commonly used at the time - saving those pregnancies and safely ushering my kids into the world. I love him for that.

He sure made me feel stupid though.

It's good to know that I might be irrational, but I have a legitimate, chemically induced reason for it. (At least until I stop taking them in a week or so. After that, it's aaaaaall me.)

Still, I'm swearing off of coke for a while. (I promised my husband.)

I have more to say, but I have to go take my hormones now, and I've made a pact with myself not to blog under the influence.

PS: I don't think I'm going to do Very Funny Friday anymore. I gave it a shot, but it just wasn't working out because:

1. I'm not reliable enough to remember to put up a VFF post on the right day.
2. The graphic annoys me, even though it is exactly what I asked for. I see it and I get annoyed.
3. I don't like having to check to see if people are following the carnival rules, because WHO CARES. But some people do care. I know this because they email me. "Poster #14 didn't follow the rules - you have to delete her post!" But... I don't care. Not enough to delete a post. I don't like being all Carnival Rule Enforcement Officer. It makes me feel twitchy.
   
4. It's hard to come up with a funny post on a specific day - for me and for everyone else too, I think. The funny comes when it comes. I think if I had a 'Mildly Depressing and Cynical Saturday' carnival there would probably be a lot more participation. (Somebody! Run with that! You'll have the biggest blog carnival EVER!)
   

The End.

Why Yes, I AM Slightly Irrational Today, Thank You For Asking

We got the results from some lab work I had done on Monday and things - didn’t look fantastic. The doctor prescribed hormones to try to keep my levels up and I've been taking them for a couple of days now. Prescribed hormones + normal pregnancy hormonal upheaval + morning sickness = total emotional chaos.

(I’m really pleasant to be around right now, trust me on this.)

I don’t feel much like myself right now, so I’m gonna take a little bloggy vacation for a week or so. I hope I'll see you when I get back.

Thanks so much for all of the well wishes and reassurance and for all the love. It was exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you. Really.

COMMENTS OFF

PS: Oh - don’t forget to go enter the giveaway, it closes tonight. Free Amazon, what’s not to love?

So... The News

This is karmic payback for all of the times my teenage self scoffed at my mom over my youngest brother and sister’s “accidental” entry into the world.

“How can you have an accidental baby, Mom? Sheesh. Just use birth control. It’s not that hard."

NEVER TEMPT FATE, PEOPLE.

I'm very accidentally pregnant - just past the first trimester.

We are still adjusting to the reality of it all. We're a little shell-shocked, because we were done. DONE. We gave away every last baby thing a long time ago.

And of course, there's stuff making me nervous.

For one thing, I’m old. Thirty-SEVEN. (How is that possible?!)

For another, my uterus is shot. Two different OBs warned me numerous times not to get pregnant and strongly encouraged me to do something to ensure that I didn’t.

(You know, I kept meaning to take care of that…)

The current plan is to take the baby about six weeks early to avoid uterine rupture. (Yeah, if you thought I was a hypochondriac BEFORE...) Apparently this isn't all that uncommon and they know how to handle it, so (insert melodramatic tone here) WE WILL SURVIVE.

We’re trying to work our way into being excited about it, but right now, even though we’ve known for a while, it still seems like something we made up, like a little joke we are telling each other. SURE we’re having another baby. Right. Good one.

I'm a little worried about the kids. I have three good kids and I usually feel somewhat equal to the task of being their mother. But four? I don’t know. I don't know if I can do it and still be the kind of mom I want to be.

Some women have the patience for a large family - the natural knack, the talent for handling crowds. My next door neighbor has seven, and she's a fantastic mother. But if I had seven I'd end up on the news. "Local mother barricades herself inside shed with shotgun, refuses to come out until the children are all asleep."

I know four kids isn't necessarily a large family. (I have eight brothers and sisters. THAT's a large family.) But four kids feels like a lot for me. I'm nervous.

So tell me congratulations, and tell me it's going to be o.k. I really need to hear that right now.


PS: MMB is having a giveaway. Among the offerings, a $20 gift card to Amazon.

Psychic Brain Wave is Probably the Best Choice

Yep. I just joined Twitter.

I don't really know why I'm joining Twitter. I resisted as long as I could, but people are just so darn passionate and sincere about the Importance of Twittering. It's like the MLM of the online world - I'd better start building my downline now, or when this pyramid blows I'll be completely SOL.

I'm not sure I really understand the point of it yet, but if you’re on there, and you feel like following me, I'm @suelikestoblog. (Although I’m not exactly sure why I want you to follow me.)

(Are you sensing a theme here?)

Also, I need to give a shout out to my little brother...

Mark is definitely the funny one in our family, the one with the dry wit and the snappy comebacks. He's also very smart, and so gosh darn normal that I sometimes wonder if he was switched at birth. (I have eight brothers and sisters, and I think almost every single one of us have Mark and his wife Holly listed in our wills as the just-in-case guardians for our kids. Because they're normal. And FUNNY. Nothing worse than having your kids raised by humorless people.)

He is also the most amazing insurance agent on the FACE OF THE PLANET. I never plug people or products on my blog (seriously, click over to my review blog - it's BLANK), but I really wanted to spread the word. He just got his license as an independent broker, which lets him shop around - and this, as it turns out, makes a rather gigantic difference in the premiums. He basically halved our auto insurance cost and is saving us about twenty percent on our homeowners insurance - all with the exact same coverage.

When I told him I was going to mention him on my blog, he wrote this back:

Thanks. I'll be sure to plug your blog to all my customers:

Mark: Thanks for buying your insurance from me. My sister has a cool blog you should check out.

Client: Excuse me?

Mark: You know, a blog.....on the internet.

Client: Oh, is it about insurance?

Mark: No.

Client: {blank stare}

If you're thinking about taking a look at your insurance costs, you should call him. Or email him. Or contact him via psychic brain wave. (Whichever method you think will be the most efficient.)

His name is Mark Hutchings, his work email is mhutchings at distinctive dot net, and his work cell is 702-588-9176. He's licensed in Nevada, Utah and California.

PS: Mark, you should totally start an insurance blog. A funny insurance blog. IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES.

HA! HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA! HAHA! (And Such)

I think I'm changing it from "Very Funny Friday" to just "Friday." And you can just post whatever. Or not.

It's the Very-Low-Threshold-For-Participation Carnival. Come one, come all!

I’m still working away at those questions you guys gave me. (Never fear Shawn!)

Today, I’m answering this one from Mom Babe:

"Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah, I don't really care how you met your husband. I want to know how many boys you kissed BEFORE you met him."

THERE IS NOT ENOUGH BLOG SPACE IN THE WORLD TO LIST THEM ALL.

No, that's a lie.

But not because I was one of those "only kiss the guy you marry" types. No way.

It's just that I was a complete horror show in high school, and then I had a succession of super hopeless crushes that kept me out of the dating pool for months at a time. And then I got married.

But here are the ones who squeaked through the safety net.

1. Larry Long. Seriously, that was his name. Complete tool. I’ve told this story before, but for those who missed it:

At a Saturday night dance the spring I turned fifteen, I somehow ended up talking to THAT guy. You know the one - football player, extremely cute, very popular. Way out of my dating league - not that I was dating. Truth be told, I was so young for my age, so gullible, and so just plain dumb that I have to wonder why my parents ever let me out of the house.

Larry danced with me, told me I was cute, told me he really liked me. He drove me home - almost all the way to my house, where he stopped the car, took my hand and asked me if I wanted to take a walk with him. (DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!)

We walked down the street and he told me how much he liked me and gave me a kiss (more like a SERIES of kisses) and then eventually, veeeery eventually, I went home. I was so happy. Ugh.

The next day he wouldn’t call me back. My best friend’s boyfriend Wayne told me that he and Larry had a bet going on to see how many girls he could kiss in one night, and I was girl number five. But Wayne told me I should be proud, because I’d taken a lot more work than some of the other girls, and that “was cool.” Somehow this was not comforting. It was my first kiss, and I was absolutely crushed.


(I know, this is the best Funny Friday post EVER. SO HILARIOUS. Now excuse me for a minute while I go weep in the corner over my crushed fifteen year old hopes and dreams. Ha! Ha ha! Also - THANKS LARRY.)


2. A guy I met when I was ditching school with my friend Diane a.k.a. The Very Bad Influence. It was the only time in my life that I ever had alcohol. I drank half of a wine cooler, thought this meant I was drunk, and proceeded to make out with - some random guy. After fifteen minutes I felt horribly guilty and left.
   
   I went to my bishop at church and confessed about my wild afternoon of debauchery, crying and asking him if there was any way I could ever be forgiven or if my soul would always be black and dark and evil. (I was lacking a little, how you say - oh, yes - PERSPECTIVE.) He managed to keep a straight face and told me not to worry about it, but to stop hanging out with Diane so much.
   


3. Chris, the adorable cook at the Mr. Yogurt where I worked as a waitress the summer before college - the summer of the forty pound weight loss due to my shredded lettuce and taco sauce diet. He kept flirting with me and asking me out. I could not understand it. What was his GAME? What was his DEAL? He was very cute and funny, and I developed a sizable crush on him, but I was suspicious, because cute boys weren’t usually interested unless there were bets involved. (THANKS AGAIN LARRY.) Clearly, something was wrong with him and/or he was just playing with me. I repeatedly turned him down and insulted him, made fun of his vocabulary ("I don't think that word means what you think it means"), and generally behaved like a charm school drop-out.
   
   One night we were closing the restaurant together and I said something particularly insulting and he kissed me, shocking the stuffing out of me. I called and quit the next day, completely unable to deal with the situation. The situation where a cute, charming, smart guy who I had a crush on wanted to date me. {{pounds head against desk}}
   


4. Oh gosh. Kent. Poor Kent. Poor incredibly shy, mom’s-station-wagon-driving, ran-out-of-money-on-our-first-date, car-broke-down-in-my-driveway-after-the-second-date Kent. I was about to let him down gently after the second date, but he wrote me a letter saying how much he cared about me and it made me feel bad. (DATING TIP: Generally, you should not kiss guys because you feel bad for them. It makes them write you a LOT more letters.)


5. Justin. Or, more accurately, Keith.


6. Friend who I secretly kissed a few times who I should NOT have secretly kissed a few times. I'm not going to name him because a few of my friends from back then read my blog and if Facebook has taught me anything, it's that meaningless but juicy gossip has no shelf life.
   


7. Scott - the on again, off again guy who was, as it turned out, just not all that into me.
   


8. My friend Heather’s friend, short Rob. I completely took advantage of him. I was on the rebound, trying unsuccessfully to make someone jealous, and this was the equivalent of grasping at very short straws. I would feel bad about it, except that right before we kissed I said, “I’m totally on the rebound.” And he said, “O.K.”
   
   The most awful kiss ever. I think he was trying to strangle me with his tongue. He kissed me for a minute, then said, “People say I’m not a very good kisser. What do you think?” I said, “I have to go home now.”
   


9. Aaaaaand…. My husband. Out of respect for his privacy and probable complete embarrassment over this post (aren’t you glad you showed the people at work my blog? I told you that was a good move) I will not comment on the quality of the kissing, I will just say I think we went on four real dates during our entire - uh… courtship. The rest of the time we mostly spent making out in his truck.
   

And that about wraps it up. I tag Azucar, and Kalli, and Kelly and Melanie. And whoever else wants to share. Because apparently, now this is a meme. A meme AND a carnival post. ALL IN ONE.

(If you participate, don't forget to link back. Non-linking posts will be deleted. For more info about what's going on here, go here. Or you can just wonder. Forever.)

(wonder, wonder, wonder)

In Which the Universe Sends a Little Karmic Justice My Way

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!

No, it isn’t my birthday.

OK, actually it is. It's my birthday. (Am I allowed to say that? Is that like some kind of big faux pas? Here's my whole thing about birthdays. You SHOULD get extra recognition on your birthday. You kind of need it to get through the day, because it's not like its a naturally fantastic moment in time. Sure, you might snag a few presents, but really it just means you're one year closer to death.)

(I would never end up having a Sixteen Candles forgotten birthday deal, because after about five minutes I’d be all, HELLO LOSERS, WHERE ARE MY PRESENTS?!)

(My husband likes to claim I forgot his birthday last year, but this is a wretched lie. He was getting ready to leave for work and I stumbled out to the kitchen. I was barely conscious, and he gave me a whole thirty seconds of head clearing time before he said, “I can’t believe you forgot my birthday.” I was like, “I didn’t forget your birthday - I’m not even AWAKE yet.” It’s not like I was going to forget it all day long. Probably.)

We celebrated my birthday on Monday, because Tuesday is one of our horrifically busy days, and today we were all home. Sarah used her actual piggy bank money to buy me a present. My husband tried to pay for it, but she insisted, and actually CRIED when he didn't use her dollar bills to pay the cashier. If that isn't so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, then you are DEAD INSIDE.

I answered some of the questions from the last post in the comments to the last post. Tonguu Mama was right - I’m kind of sick of talking about myself. (I KNOW! Who'd have thought?!) There are a few I didn't answer that I'll probably post about later. I know you can hardly stand waiting for my thrilling answers. Try to contain your excitement.

Aprel, Mandajuice and Melanie all wanted to know how things were going on the book front and I've been meaning to talk about that, because the whole thing is ridiculous. (Me + ridiculous = SURPRISING.)

So how things are going, how things are going, how things are going....

Wait. Before I tell you, first I'd better make sure we're all on the same page, that we're speaking the same LANGUAGE, that you know all about the whole publishing BAG.

Here is how traditional publishing works:

1. In order to get published, you need an agent. They’re the gatekeepers for the publishing world.
   
2. In order to get an agent, you have to write a query letter. Most agents get hundreds, if not thousands of query letters every month – so your letter has to be at least goodish.
   
3. If the agent likes your query letter, she might ask you to send a partial manuscript – usually the first 30 to 50 pages or so.
4. If the agent likes your partial, she might ask you to send her the full manuscript.
5. If she likes your full manuscript enough, she might just go crazy and decide to represent you.
6. If she represents you, she’ll shop your book around to publishers and you MIGHT get a book deal. And CHANCES ARE, if you get a book deal, she's gonna ask you for another cookie.
   

(Wait. Not that last sentence. Scratch that last sentence.)

So if you've read for a while, you know that one night a few months back, I completely lost my mind and sent out query emails to a few agents in the middle of the night. Even though, uh, I hadn’t exactly written a manuscript. And by that I mean I’d written four pages.) But they were GOOD pages.)

I did not expect to get an answer, especially from a national agent who pretty much specialized in the kind of stuff I imagined I wrote. (I mean, I had no actual proof, but I was guessing - if I wrote something, it would be RIGHT UP HER ALLEY.)

But a few days later I did get a response, and she wanted to see a partial. So I got all blithery dithery and pounded out a partial, sent it to my critique partners (who told me exactly what I needed to fix), then sent it off to her after making my changes.

Now this agent said it would take her a couple of months to read the partial, and not to expect to hear from her before that time. So I planned to use the two months to finish the manuscript.

And I started. I did. I started to finish it. But when I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks, I started to have doubts. Because really, would it HONESTLY take her two months? Just because she'd said it would? Of course not. That was probably just her way of letting the bad writers down easily.

Obviously, the only reason she hadn't responded within the first two weeks was that she'd read it and decided it was the most horrible dreck that ever drecked. I re-read the partial approximately eighty times, and by the eighty-first read I was ready to stomp on it, burn it, curse it for the horror it was. There was no way she would like it, why bother finishing it, why bother even LIVING, blah blah dramatic blah.

So I stopped working on it.

And of course, a week or so ago she sent me an email. She really liked my partial and wants to read the full.

Gulp.

So now I'm working on the full, hoping that she'll still want to read it when I'm done. I figure – hey – what’s a little two month lapse, right? Right? RIGHT?

And so I sit here late at night after the kids are in bed and I’m done with my work, trying to write something funny and fluffy and my mind is a total blank. All I can think about is popsicles.

I’ve always wanted to be a real live published writer, and now that I have something close to an opportunity I’m completely frozen. It’s like those dreams you have where you’re back in high school and there’s this really important test you need to study for, and then suddenly you’re in the classroom and the test is right in front of you but you didn’t study, and also you’re naked.

My writer friends are all hating me right now, thinking "CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER," and "THIS IS KARMA" and such. And yes. Yes. THIS, THIS is why you don’t try to cheat the system, my friends.

WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS? WHY? WHY? WHY?

See, this is what being impulsive gets you. (Besides married. And owning a boat.) LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU.



PS: No – that isn’t my news. The news – I’m still percolating on that, but it’s nothing very exciting. I'll probably tell you about it later. I was just feeling a tad dramatic that day. (I like to be melodramatic, have you ever noticed? You probably haven't noticed. I'm subtle.)

Highway Freaking Robbery

(Post Disclaimer: I've been in a funky mood for the last couple of weeks, a mood caused by news that's completely thrown me. Like picked-me-up-and-slammed-me-against-the-far-wall kind of thrown me. I'm not ready to talk about it, but just know that I'm a little off. A little discombobulated. A little brittle. But I should be back to my regular self any day now. Probably.)

I hate Valentines Day. (CHEERFUL!)

Not because the romance is gone, but because it's this one day where it feels like you have to "PROVE IT! PROVE IT NOW! MEASURE YOUR LOVE! IN CHOCOLATE!" And then after Valentines Day, everyone posts about the darling things they did for their kids, or the darling table they set, or the darling gift their significant other got them, and then I end up chasing my eyeballs around the kitchen floor after I roll them so hard they freaking spin right out of their sockets.

Today we performed our annual St. Valentines Day Why-Don't-We-Just-Go-Ahead-And-Set-the-Money-On-Fire-a-thon, buying Valentines for all three children to give to their classmates, along with candy and Valentine plates and cups and drinks and napkins for the class parties. Of course, attempting to find anything red or pink ("Dear Sarah's Mom: The plates and cups must be red. Or pink. Sincerely: Sarah's Sadistic Teacher") at this late date was an exercise in complete futility which required visiting three separate stores, and after all of that I STILL forgot the parmesan cheese.

(For dinner, not for the class party.)

(Tell me about how fun class Valentines Day parties are and I will come over there and rip out your gizzard.)

Class party fury aside, I do try to make Valentines Day fun for the kids. Last year, in a fit of guilt over our impending move, I did all kinds of Type A Valentines Day Motherish things - even attempting pink heart-shaped pancakes (FAIL). This year I will probably... I don't know.... Do... something. (That is my big plan as of 11:00 tonight.)

My husband and I usually go to dinner, and that's what we're doing again this year, but on Friday instead of Saturday because 1) who cares? (romantic) and 2) finding a babysitter in our neighborhood on Valentines Day is impossible.

There are at least fifty-seven families with young children within a three block radius of our house. Babysitters are booked up for seven months in advance and when you do manage to win the babysitting lottery and secure one you have to pay them in Cool Ranch Doritos and freaking GOLD. Bidding wars break out for the good ones until only the babysitting dregs are left and you end up making incredibly desperate choices. "Well yes, I know Margene almost electrocuted Carter last time, but really, what are the odds it would happen twice? Pretty small, right?"

Here's the thing that annoys me about babysitters. My kids are good kids. I'm not just saying that. We won the good kid lottery. They're easy, they get along, they play well together, they do what they're told - and they're even easier with babysitters than with their mom. We usually have them in bed by 7:00, and the sitter typically comes at 7:30. So basically we pay some teenager $7 an hour to sit on our couch and watch TV and eat our food and make sure the house doesn't burn down. It really chaps my hide. A LOT. MAN. SEVEN BUCKS.

When I was a babysitter I did the dishes and cleaned the counters and mopped the floor and organized their 8-track collection, all for $1 an hour. BUT THESE KIDS TODAY. THESE LAZY KIDS TODAY.

MAN. !!!

(Actually, I'm not sure if I'm legitimately upset by this or if this is just a continuation of my MYSTERIOUS ITEM induced bad mood. Maybe I'm doomed to be irrationally irritated for a little while.)

(I apologize in advance if I end up posting tomorrow about how it really ticks me off when the sun is out, and also it ticks me off when the sun is behind the clouds, and also how inconvenient is it that it gets so freaking DARK at night?!)

(Any of these things might set me off. AT ANY MOMENT.)

Happy freaking Valentines Day.

Thirty-Six is the New Fifteen

For years when my family would get together, we’d all immediately revert to our adolescent roles, instead of acting like the more multi-faceted adults we’d become. In my mother’s house, I was perennially fifteen and moody (the way my brothers undoubtedly remember me best).

It took a long time to start shaking those chains loose. Over time, we’ve started allowing each other to be the adult versions of ourselves. We still pigeonhole each other a little, but it's a more informed pigeonholing - a little more subtle and relevant to reality.

This family shift has gone a long way toward making me feel better about The Past, although The Past isn’t something I tend to dwell on. I don’t especially like thinking about unpleasant things, and that part of my life was extremely unpleasant. I slammed that mental door shut a long time ago. I’ve almost convinced myself that difficult, awkward, judgmental teenager never existed.

A year or so ago we took our kids up to Heber City to ride an old fashioned train that was decorated to look just like Thomas the Train. There was a petting zoo, crafts, and county fair type “entertainment."

It was the last place I expected to see a flock of people from Las Vegas.

They were all people I’d known from church as a teenager, all grown up now with kids of their own. I saw them, they saw me, and I froze.

I could not make myself say hello to them. I averted my eyes and pulled my husband and kids over to the refreshment tent, then snuck furtive glances at them.

I wasn’t sure why I felt so sick to my stomach.

It wasn’t as though I didn’t like them. One of them was my brother’s best friend - a perfectly nice, quiet, serious guy. One of them was a girl who’d been a sweet kid when I was a teenager. Perfectly nice people.

I guess they sensed my discomfort, because we all pretended like we didn’t see each other or recognize each other, even though we were standing about two feet away from each other. It was ridiculous.

(Note: Lisa and Steve, if you ever read this, please know that I’m sorry. I was rude.)

It wasn’t them. It was me. Their only crime was knowing me back then. I didn’t want to be confronted with people who knew that girl, who thought I was probably still that girl.

It wasn't as though I was a serial killer. I've tried to think about how to describe myself back then, but I don’t even know what to say. I wasn't a wild teenager. I was just awkward and angry and very troubled, and I'm sure it showed in all kinds of ways I wasn't even aware of.

It’s hard to know if you ever really view yourself accurately, especially when so much is distorted by time and selective memory. Was I the girl who the old biddies in that congregation remember and still gossip about at baby showers? Was I the kid my mom remembers? Was I even who I remember? Maybe I was all of those things.

I know worrying about what these people think of me is silly and ridiculously self absorbed, but I guess that's how I behave when I'm surprised by someone I knew back then. I'm suddenly fifteen again, forced to see myself through the lens of my adolescence.

I don't live in Las Vegas now, so the odds that I'll run into someone randomly at Costco are slim. But if we run into each other sometime, if a little piece of the past walks up to me at Target some Saturday afternoon, I promise I’ll try to act like an adult and say hello.

Something in me might shake just a little, but I'll do my best to be polite and pleasant. It's the grown-up thing to do. (Actually, forget grown-up, it's the NORMAL thing to do.)

Besides, I figure all that shaking is probably good for the chains.

I Know What You Are Probably Thinking

You are probably thinking about how best to achieve world peace.

But also, ALSO, you are probably thinking, "Geez, Sue. What's the deal with the freaking blog makeover? How long are you going to force us to look at those infernal clouds?" (This probably keeps you up at night.)

Listen. I'm SORRY. I KNOW. Here is the thing about having me work with a blog designer. The process goes kind of like this:

"So, Sue, what would you like your blog to look like?"

"I don't know."

"What colors do you like?"

"All of them. Except orangey-red. For obvious reasons."

"Do you want a cartoon person at the top?"

"Yes. No. Probably no. I don't know. Maybe yes. No."

"OK, I'm not really getting a sense of what you want here."

"Yes."

"Help me out here, Sue."

"Make it look nice. Something nice. Cute but not too cute. Modern but not too modern, because I don't like really modern things. But also not scrapbooky. It should just make you think of my blog. You should look at it and think, yeah, that's it."

"Uh - "

"Read my archives, then it will probably just come to you. Like in a vision."

"Huh."

"When could you have that done by, do you think?"

She offered to give me a whole new layout, but the sheer number of "what-do-you-want-it-to-look-like" oriented decisions I'd have to make if we did that was making my brain pressure high, so I told her we'd just stick with the header for now.

(Speaking of strep (see how I snuck that in there, even though we were not actually talking about strep? SNEAKY): My doctor prescribed me something called Magic Mouthwash to make my throat stop hurting, but I'm afraid to take it because the pharmacist said it would make my tongue numb and to be careful or I might accidentally bite my tongue off. I was having visions of accidentally chewing my tongue to a bloody stump without realizing it, so I decided not to take it.)

(Also I'm suspicious of medications that contain the word "magic." It's a little too old timey and peddlerific for my liking. "Where's the COW, Jack?" "I sold him for five magic beans and some Magic Mouthwash, Mother." "You FOOLISH BOY." My throat is KILLING ME right now.)

Currently the blog designer is waiting for me to tell her what my new tagline is. I need a new tagline because of the whole "stupid dog" issue. It is apparently not kind to continue to refer to your stupid dog as a stupid dog after you've sent said dog to live with old people (old people who do not have children to bite). It makes people think you are filled with dog-hate.

(And even if you are filled with post-stupid-biting-dog-dog-hate, you should not admit to this, because then people think you must be a CAT person, but really cats suck even MORE (if that is possible), and if you admit to disliking cats and dogs (and generally anything that sheds or makes you itch in uncomfortable places), people just think you're a weird animal hating CRETIN, because everyone likes animals except for YOU, you horrible woman.) (Although really, I don't mind dogs OR cats, as long as they stay out of my house.)

So, long story short - I've been trying to think of a new tagline. All I've come up with so far is "It's Not About Oranges" which is kind of - not catchy. Help me out here... If you have any ideas for a new tagline, I'd love to hear them.

I'm Definitely Teaching Them The Baked Goods Thing

I just got a 16" shot in the behind. Turns out the illness that's been slowly sucking away my will to live is strep. Never fear - that's not what this post is about. I just wanted to share. Because anytime you get a needle in the butt, it's kind of an Occasion.

When we lived in Las Vegas for that short four month period, my six year old came home from first grade suddenly talking like a valley girl, repeatedly shrieking “Oh my God.”

I was startled because Mormons aren’t supposed to talk like that. Of course I’d never actually bothered to tell her about the whole not-taking-the-name-of-the-Lord-in-vain thing, so it wasn’t all that surprising that she didn’t know.

I’ve been a bit of a slacker in the religious education department over the last few years, partly because I currently suffer from an advanced case of spiritual slackeritis, and partly because in Utah I hadn’t had to teach her much of anything - she’d just absorbed the shared religious/cultural values almost by osmosis. Here in Las Vegas things were a bit looser, and it suddenly dawned on me that if I didn’t want her to eventually end up swearing like a long-haul trucker, I was probably going to have to sit down and actually parent her a little.

Eureka.

We had a little talk about language - about how in our religion, we only use God’s name when we are actually talking about or to God. That we only use His name with reverence. She seemed to get it, and agreed to do her best not to say it. She is her mother’s daughter though, forgetful and flighty, and the words came flying out of her mouth throughout the day.

She swore she was actually saying “Oh my gosh.” My hearing is rapidly going, and I couldn’t tell the difference between the Word and the word and so we decided the best thing to do (read: easiest for mom) was to just ban both phrases – and that is how “Oh my gosh” became a Very Bad Thing to Say in our family.

Now you've gotta understand, I was educated in Idaho (if by educated you mean I went for one disastrous year, then slunk home in defeat), so “oh my gosh,” “holy crap” and “holy freaking cow” are all sadly permanent parts of my vocabulary. At least six times a day I let out an “oh my gosh.” The kids would hear me say this and would look at me with shock and horror, all, “ooooooh, mommy you said a BAD word.”

(Of course I can let fly with a nice strong dammit and the children won’t even blink. They have no idea it’s a curse word. I do try not to say dammit around the children, but sometimes I forget myself, mostly because I don't think of dammit as a swear word. I figure it's more of a comic prop when used appropriately - always with the appropriate emphasis and bluster, ala “DAMMIT, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a technical writer.”)

When my mother-in-law found out about our banned phrase she shook her head and muttered something profane about Utah Mormons, sure I was turning into some strange kind of fundamentalist.

Now we're back in Highland and the community standards are a little, er, different, to say the least.

At the end of last summer I ran into a pack of neighborhood seven year olds who were all making that “ooooooh, you’re in trouble” noise and asked what was going on.

Nate looked at me solemnly. “She said the S word,” he said, pointing at one of the girls.

I was a little shocked until the girl hung her head and confessed that yes, she’d called her sister a stupid head.

PROFANE SINNER.

So the whole taking the name of the Lord in vain issue has kind of faded into the background, because the other kids around here just don't say it. With the impetus gone, I decided I would let my kids know that "oh my gosh" wasn't ACTUALLY an evil thing to say. (I was tired of having them giving me these pitying little looks every time I said it, looks that clearly said, "Oh mommy, I'll be so sad when you aren't up in heaven with us.") So I sat them down and reminded them it wasn’t actually a bad word, then told them I was lifting the rule, and they could say it if they wanted to.

You would’ve thought I’d told them it was Christmas. THEY COULD SAY IT. WHENEVER THEY WANTED. The forbidden was now – allowed. It blew their minds. I could see it on their faces. Mom is an all powerful being, who has the power to make The Naughty = The Un-Naughty. Bending the laws of the universe to suit her will.

All day long they said “Oh my gosh,” then watched me out of the corner of their eyes. “We’re allowed to say that now,” they reminded me, eyes darting around. “You said we could. You said we could.”

(I should say for the record - I'm not one of those people who believes a fake swear word is just as bad as a real swear word, that if you say, "oh fudge," you might as well just fork over the whole F word.)

It's funny and a little scary, the way they think I have the power to "make it so." The way they take my word for it - what is good and what is bad.

If I tell them the color blue is evil, or that robots will fall from the sky in 2017, or that "Honor thy father and thy mother" actually means that at least once a day all good children must bring their parents baked goods, they might believe me - at least for a couple of years. And it suddenly feels like a lot of responsibility, teaching kids what to believe - especially since I'm not always one hundred percent sure what I believe myself.

It's ALIVE! It's ALIVE!

If you've pictured me lying around on the couch this week, sick and feverish and pale, you would be wrong.

I'm actually lying on the floor, sick and feverish and pale. Come on. Nobody's gonna believe you're sick if you're sitting up on the couch like a pansy. Get with the overly dramatic program.

I think I'm starting to be mostly over whatever this is/was. I can tell because instead of moaning and covering my face when my husband turns the TV on, I actually feel the urge to watch it now. Granted, it's through the cracks between my fingers on the hand that is lying across my eyes, so that he will understand I'm not really better yet, not by a long-shot, and as a matter of fact, watching television is taxing enough that it is actually a trial and a sacrifice, but I do it for him, because I'm a giver.

Actually, this is just what I wish happened. In reality, we have jobs and children. Sucking it up is kind of required. Lying around like a drama queen is not exactly on the itinerary.

Except at night when my husband is home and I can harumph about how I can barely move because I had to take the kids to school and to piano and get my work done and make dinner (pouring cereal is exhausting), all whilst practically dying of Dengue fever. So it's sort of on the itinerary. It's actually blocked out right there from 7:30 to 8:15 actually. It's my husband's favorite part of the day.

I did trick the kids into waiting on me the other day, telling them we were going to play "a game" called "the rich sick lady and the orphan servants" and they were to bring me pillows and drinks and snacks and generally see to my every need. I'd ring the bell and they'd come running over to the couch to do my bidding, then creep around quietly afterward, lest the "mean rich lady" punish them for making too much noise. I would periodically yell at them "NOT ENOUGH ICE IN THIS DRINK" and send them to the dungeon (basement), and they would run screaming and giggling for the stairs.

They LOVED this game.

Yeah. We plan to play it again. Obviously.

Lighthearted indentured servitude = good family times.