Yesterday, I completely forgot to brush my teeth. And when I say completely, I mean it was around nine-ish in the p.m. before I even looked at myself in the mirror and noticed the filmy scunge that desperately needed to be cleaned off those pearly whites that my parents spent thousands of dollars on in my (awkward) teenage years. (I know…they are SO proud.) I don’t have time to contemplate plaque build up, along with my epic fear of dentists while chasing after the 3 amigos.

Okay. I’m not really so much chasing the newbie. I’m more or less strapped to a couch and feel a bit like a degraded milking cow more than anything else. I desperately throw morsels of pop tarts fat free low-cholesterol avocado sandwiches on the floor, scream at our dog NOT to eat them (STOP stealing from Emerson!) and restart Monsters Inc. Sesame Street so they can watch it for the twelfth time in a row. That’s if I’m not buried in piles of laundry. Or up to my elbows in mountains of accumulated diapers. Or yelling at Emerson NOT to stick that fork in the socket or stab herself in the eye with the pen she stole from Aiden who is now wailing that she destroyed his latest “project.” {Project = piles of THINGS on the floor that he collects from who knows where, ranging from the white knobs you can steal off the door stoppers to dust bunnies made of dog hair…all precariously balanced into fabulous sculptures Divinci himself might marvel at.}

Emerson had Chex mix for lunch. Aiden has been a little wild. I smell constantly of the delicate balance between spilled coffee, spit up, and urine. Yes, urine. I think I’ve been sprayed in the face twice now.

Lil Mama with her "diaper bag" and stroller...check out those awesomely tacky pj's

I’ve decided that after Emerson was born, I suffered terribly from PTES (Post Traumatic Emerson Syndrome) and after dealing with my little colicky nightmare (no, I’m not just a total whiney butt, the kid spit up BLOOD-that’s BLOOD people. I win the utmost award for sufferage in dealing with sleepless nights-at least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself…I’m still waiting for my medal to arrive in the mail.) I was terrified of all babies. So when I found out our little surprise no. 3 was on the way, I had two things at the top of my prayer list: for a healthy baby (I had to request health first, duh) and for a GOOD one. For my sanity’s sake. God apparently decided he’d be nice to me (for NOW) because Malone is an absolute sleeping angel. Both children adore him. They constantly fawn over him, and last night Aiden informed me that he wanted another baby. Ha. Funny, kid. (I immediately sent him into the kitchen where his father was washing dishes and told him to repeat it…which was not so well received on that end…)

I’ve been caught in this odd world of staring blankly at dirty diapers and then snapping out of it, wondering if it’s really been 2 weeks since Malone was born, and in the next thought wondering why two weeks can seem like such an eternity. It’s this odd sensation of my fastest recovery paired with wondering when I’ll really start to feel normal again. And then I realize in this vicious cycle of a thought process that it truly has ONLY been two weeks…and there you have it. My world of awkward disconbobulation (did I just make up a word?) for now, anyway.

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