1. I was brushing Emerson’s teeth this morning, getting ready to go out. I was shirtless (Yeah. Cute. I know.) and I bent down, so I could get a good look at what I was doing. Aiden sauntered into the bathroom and made a beeline for me. “Look at that fat belly!” he said, smiling. He was patting, ever so affectionately the exact spot where my exhausted baby maker just so happens to resemble a rubber band stretched past its elastic limit. He then skipped out of the room.

I froze. In sheer horror. I think I actually felt my stomach wobble in giant ripples of fat vibrations with each loving pat. I have now baked and birthed three children. Things are a little out of place, to say the least. Thanks for the complex, kid. I have five pounds to lose, and I was pretty darned proud of myself, but I don’t even think my bones have completely moved back yet from the exhaustive process one experiences in the incubation of such vicious little creatures. So for the sleepless nights, endless morning sickness, excruciating pain, exhausting mental/emotional strain and completely transformed body three times over…This is the thanks I get.  I found myself standing up straight and sucking in, pondering the age-old question as to why I indulged in the Papa John’s extravaganza the night before, while simultaneously boring a hole into my midsection via the unforgiving mirror. The mirror and the scales are on a secret mission to ruin my life and just brought Aiden in on the mix. He still resents me for all the potty training tactics I’ve tried on him. Revenge is his. Bring on the carrot sticks and then ten-mile runs. (Revision: Scratching that.) Too bad I don’t have the time or energy to make a ten miler. And who am I kidding? Pass the cookies. I’ll be hiding in the closet from now on, if only to change a pair of shoes. I probably have some sag on my toes that may need some acknowledgement from the blunt little observers in my life.

2. I braved my way to Prattville yesterday to a new flea market I wanted to try out. This place was the very best kind…a little off the beaten path, where people don’t really try to pass off a plant stand as an antique and/or charge one hundred bucks for it. This is the kind of place where you have to dig, but a little elbow grease and creativity will take you a long way. I was armed with my arsenal system or two kids in the double stroller and Malone in the sling. There I was, collecting my plunder, when a curious woman walked by. I still don’t know why people think they have the right to touch my children in public. They were all reaching out in slow motion with their nasty swine flu hands, and it’s all I can do not to take a few steps back in sheer terror. No, I don’t mind if you touch my child. Right after I run this background check, call three references, and ask you to don a mask and gloves AFTER complete sterilization of the hands…And a full orthodontic makeover. You’ll be needing one of those too since your smile is kinda creepy. What?

Anyway, this woman walked by and started staring at Malone. I hadn’t even so much as looked in her direction when she peered down ever so curiously. “Are you sure he’s comfortable in there?” she motioned toward my sleeping baby, frowning.

“Uh, yes…” I said, doing my best to keep my tone polite. But she didn’t move. She simply kept staring, frowning, looking at me expectantly, waiting for a thorough explanation on my child’s comfort level. “It’s supposed to be like the womb, I guess” was the best I had to offer. I didn’t owe this woman anything, yet there she was, staring, and blocking my walking path into the next segment of the store as if she fully expected me to break out the power point and informative statistics on child safety levels and sling transportation.

“He doesn’t look comfortable,” she responded.

Pause. What I really wanted to say: “Yes. I felt like putting my seven week old in this sling to punish him for keeping me up all night. I’m secretly hoping it causes serious neck injuries and I can’t wait to see if his head stays in the same place when I get him out to sit in his car seat on the way home. But that’s impossible since I don’t own a car seat. I mean, why would I since, obviously, I could care less about him as indicated by my use of this cruel device. I’ll drive home with him strapped to my chest just like some of your relatives I saw digging around in boxes in the garbage behind the STORE. But thanks for your unwarranted concern and unsolicited advice. I’ll be the first to sit in your waiting room when you open up your peds practice. Call me.”

Yeah. The above paragraph would have made a stellar story. But instead of the dialogue which I found could easily escalate to violence (and who has time for violence when they’re out using valuable laundry-folding time to haul three kids around and shop?) I chose to ignore, for the sake of my children. I kept walking. I totally scored some fabo finds that made up for it, anyway.

3. Because when I do lists, I have to do them in three’s: remember that time (see below) I wrote this huge entry about how my kid finally pooed on the potty, and then in doing so made the fatal mistake of assuming he would continue to do just that? Yeah. Not. So. Much.

the usuals:

funky greens, classic linen and a touch of ikat

mums, fabulous finds, and kirklands vomit

yummy babies