So I was taking some shots yesterday, and my camera misfired. (Read: I blew the shot) I found the outcome quite humorous and thought I would share. Yes, I do have freakishly long finger toes (Can I get a whoop whoop, Jamey? She's my FLFT sistah) three kids=not a problem. Escaped child + arms full=grabbage with the toesage. I can type on the computer with these little piggies...

But my belly is, uh, starting to get in the way...

Onto my story: Setting: our living room  / Characters: Me, Aiden

I was wearing one of THOSE shirts. You know. The kind of tops that aren’t really meant to be maternity, but feel nice with those pj bottoms I keep donning around the Mills sanctuary. If I were to escape the confines of the house in said shirt (say, to check the mail) someone may refer to me as “white trash.” I’m not sure why. I think an elderly neighbor screamed that out of her car window the other day as she passed…

A seemingly innocent tank top until weighed down by my unfortunately new bulbous figure. Not really what one could refer to as my “style.” Guess I’m not really into the whole show-off-more-than-anyone-cares-to-see-until-they-find-themselves-spontaneously-dry-heaving sort of thing. I could wear stretched-beyond-elastic-limits tank into a bar, a-la-Joy from Earl (or even Picadilly, for THAT matter) and probably manage to pick up an oh-so-sketchy person…who just so happens to be someone’s grandfather. Whilst pregs. Thus the white trash appeal…wow I totally over explained this one.

I was playing with Aiden on the floor.

Aiden: {gazing up at me with his crystal blue eyes, oh-so-innocently} “Mommy?”

Me: {Semi aware of his latest attempt at engagement in conversation as I was busying myself with the Candy Land set up: it has to be JUST RIGHT! I get to be the PRINCESS! NO AIDEN-go back to the ORANGE SQUARE! Stinking CHEATER!!!} “Yes?”

Aiden: “Mommy,” {Now with the all too familiar smirk on his face…his eyes alight, as if he were quite satisfied with himself for coming up with this profound conclusion all by himself.} “You have two booties.”

Me: “Uhhhh-“ {At this point I thought he was going to refer to my actual somewhat enlarged hind quarters…THANKS kid-you’re DEFINITELY not winning this round. EAT IT!!!}

Aiden: (continuing in his revelation) “See?” Pointing at the top of my chest. Tracing the subsequent line he could see running down into my, uh, area…which disappeared into my shirt… “There’s a booty crack. Right THERE. You have TWO booties!” He giggled slightly, completely pleased with himself. Then, as suddenly as it came, it passed. He was now reengaged in our current activity. No longer interested in my woman parts.

Me: {deciding its best to run with it rather than breaking out the 80’s Childcraft books to show him the distinct differences via illustrated references of boys v. girls… Yep. That would be the UNSTABLE thing to do…} “Yes. Yes, Aiden. Mommy has two booties.”

And back to our classic Milton Bradley’s board game we went… the land of rainbow slides, gumdrop allies, and mommies with two booties. Ahhh, the new revamped 4-D deluxe addition! What a happy place.

As usual, we have more mousal movement for you today...

Nursery Sneak Peak

Inspirational Photos

Easter...FINALLY!

1. Me: At publix. Picking up a baby shower cake for friend's shower. {read: Judy} standing in line at the checkout. Two people had already stopped me to see said cake. Why these curious purveyors found the cake so interesting, I will never know. It was publix. 1/4 a sheet. Not a three-tierd wedding cake. 

Enter woman behind me. A slightly larger and older woman, who struck up a conversation regarding cake. We will call her LaRonica (Jamin saw this on a car tag recently and we've been giggling about it. I've been dying to use it. It's just as bad as Lurleen.)

LaRonica: Ooooo let me see!

Me: Lifting tissue paper off the cake (I had to purchase tissue paper as I had not yet wrapped said shower's gift-read shove tissue paper into gift bag) "It's for a baby shower. They DID do a good job, didn't they?"

LaRonica: "Yeah they did!" She then took a gander at my belly in an obvious gesture.

Me: "Oh. Not MY baby shower. This is number three for me. A friend's."

LaRonica: "Oh! Really? I got one too!" She looked down at her belly. Enter confusion.

Me: putting on my best congratulatory voice "Do you really?" I was ready to proceed further, wondering what a sixty-something year old woman was thinking using in vitro, and if she had grand plans on being world's oldest octo mom when she backed up to her cart. I then began to wonder, as she shifted through her groceries if there was a small child hidden in between the milk and eggs.

LaRonica then revealed her own cake sitting proudly in her cart."It's my neice's birthday."

Me: Breathing a huge sigh of relief that I did not take the conversation further into the world misguided embarrassments. "Oh! Well how fun! It's just beautiful!"

Seriously? Where is my brain? The way Laronica was phrasing, I totally thought she was refering to her own uterus being with child. Shew. Close one.

2. I'm a big fan of laid back doctors. You know, the kind who tell you only the things that are important and leave out all the unnecessary noise in the other visits.

I'm a chihuaha. I'm hard enough on myself as it is. Example: I appreciate the fact that my obgyn doesn't scold me for gaining too much weight every time I go in for my usual checkup. Why should he go next door and pat the 300lb woman on the back for only gaining five, and scold me for putting on fifteen? What do you want me to do? Stop eating? Someone told me recently I was ready to pop. Ummm not okay. I was kind of proud of myself and here come the unwarranted socially retarded comments that give me something to blog about, an opportunity to be insecure and then laugh it off while constantly asking Jamin if I AM about to pop as I listen to his (obligatory) repeated No's...

But alas, I DO digress...on to my point.

Took the kids to the doctor today. A couple of mysterious skin legions/rashes. Not my usual ped. I love MY doc because he is so laid back. He is a wonderful pediatrician and he totally catches the important stuff when it matters. (read: hydrocephalus, febrile seizures, third degree burns...you name it. We're sticking with him.) He concentrates on the important stuff. I, as a parent, appreciate his approach to medicine. Never once has he scolded me regarding potty training or pacifyer useage. He knows I'm doing my best. And if he said something I think he also knows I may start torturing my children with some kind of militant reward system whilst simultaneously sending our entire family over the edge into crazy over acheiving Bree from desperate housewives land because I'm high strung like that. He is just the kind of personality I need...It just works for me.

Enter NUD. (Not Usual Doctor.) at our last minute appointment regarding skin infestations. He starts taking a look at Emerson and then utters the unmentionable. "Started weaning her off the pacie yet?"Right. Off. The bat.

My immediate and curt reflex response: "Are you kidding me?" Me=clawing the walls. They were suddenly closing in and I needed out. Like a dog forced into a crate with a water hose turned on him. My child is fifteen months. JUST STARTED SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT. Are you kidding me? Are you? I seriously thought Howie Mandel was about to spontaneously appear in the doorway with a camera crew. "This is how we do it!!!"

NUD: "I've been reading a new study that's proven that children weaned off of their pacies around one year have fewer ear infections."

My response: "Aiden didn't come off of his pacie until three. It was a battle. He has only had one ear infection his ENTIRE life. Emerson has never had one. I think we'll be sticking with the pacie for a while."

NUD: backed off, making a passive statement about teeth alignment

At which I again curtly replied with a similar utterance of "braces anyway." I mean aren't they ineveitable? LAWD people if I want my child to have a pacie in her mouth until she is FIVE I will freaking do it. He then went on to tell me Aiden had something on his skin related to small pox, and Emerson will not grow out of her rash until she is thirty. Uh, seriously? Second opinion much? I trust no one who enforces pacifier weanage on miserable sleep deprived parents all for the sake of some random study on ear infections. Bring on the eustachian tube woes. Emmy sleeping=pacie.

The. End.