Today, after five long days of caring for my family, living in the cave that is my house, I decided to venture forth into the cruel, germ infested world, Emerson in arms, for her nine month appointment.

Yes, I am beyond dramatic.

Yep, this week has been a long one. 

While there, I learned that Emerson is in the tenth percentile for weight, seventy fifth for height, and is doing fabulously. I don't really quite understand how skinny mini is in the tenth percentile considering her passionate consumption of anything remotely edible, but alas, I digress...(aside from the fact that I'm incredibly sexist and believe that girls should be skinny, warped unjustifiably by the world's demands and ridiculous expectations for the female and their weight, determined to give Emerson a complex beyond repair as I only allow her two feedings a day, and call her fatty, placing her on the scales whilst simultaneously circling her fat...)

...other than that, we're great! 

She had her finger pricked to check for Anemia, (routine at nine months) and after we were finished, the lab technician placed a layer of band aids over her finger with a warning to watch her, as they could pose as a choking hazard. 

I usually always pull the bandages off my babe's fingers before I even place them in the car seat, on my way home from the doctor's office. For some reason, today, I forgot. When we arrived at home, Aiden was his old, rambunctious self again, being pulled a-la-redneck style around the house in a laundry hamper via Daddy's belt. I wrangled Jamin and asked him to take a few pictures of me for this "thing" I'm doing, (I'll explain the "thing" later) as I didn't have anything recent and wanted something good. 

Easier said than done. Every picture...every single flippin picture, either made my roots look dark, my nose look big, my chin look triple...you get the idea. I kept asking for a reshoot while the children looked on, making ridiculous fake faces in the process, in my great quest to catch that perfect, genuine smile faltering miserably under the immense pressure. NOT POSSIBLE. I'm that picky. At some point during my ridiculous self absorption, I heard Emerson make a small choking noise. I looked at her, but she was fine. Sitting right beside me, on the floor, cooing away. She's had a cough for a while, so I dismissed it. 

I think we all know where this expose on the Mills household and the subject of negligent parenting is headed. 

A few moments later, I was wrestling with Aiden on the bed for calling me "Mom" refusing to release him until he said "Mommy." Side note: What's that about, anyway? The child already wants to shorten my name and he's only three! I guess I'll just start calling Aiden "AIDS" until he's like twelve and realizes the unfortunate implications that provides when none of the other children want to sit beside him in gym class. 

Okay, focusing: So, in the middle of "AIDS" squeals of torture, Jamin scooped Emerson off the floor and brought her to the bed. Again, the small choking noise ensued, and I suddenly heard Jamin ask, "Ashley, what's in her mouth!?" 

I automatically went into freak out mode, as it all came back to me like a head rush. I could see the lab technician in a foggy memory appear above my head, nodding disdainfully, while I swept my finger into Emerson's open mouth to save her from sudden asphyxiation by latex...all because mommy had to have her glamour shot. 

When I "saved" her, after the second sweep, relieved we didn't have a tragic ending for today, I wailed "I'm such a bad MOTHER!" shamefully into Jamin's shoulder. 

"You're such a bad mother!" Aiden repeated, a grin, from ear to ear on his devious face. 

Can't wait for him to head to preschool, singing my praises with that repeated phrase.

I think I deserve my tall boots AND a massage.