1. Jamin had the big V procedure on Friday. {dum dum DUM…} Apparently some very dear friends of ours (ahem-LORI) should go into the catering business-they made a fabulous cake for us to enjoy in the celebratory aftermath of our newfound sterile lifestyle. It was as delish as it was hilarious. {Props to the cake makers with their mad deco skills.}

The hubs is doing fine. I was actually in the room for the big V, (out of moral support and sheer curiosity) and consequentially suffered from fits of uncontrollable laughter. It wasn’t long before Jamin joined in, and I’m pretty sure the doc was wondering what our deal was. Yes, I am five. There’s just something awkwardly hilarious about the entire situation, particularly when I am NOT the one being snipped…for once. When they place your husband on a table and shine a single spotlight in a certain place, as if his man parts were about to give a performance, perhaps a diva-esque rendition Barbara Streisand herself could envy, it just so happens to be inappropriately and ever so awkwardly hilarious. I have serious issues in situations such as this. In fact, I happen to be quite good at losing my composure when it should, in fact, be kept. Imagine that.

2. This week, my friend Jamey and I decided to venture to our fave junk shopping hot spot for our play date. I nearly chickened out on the way there, as all three children were screaming like chainsaw welding banshees en route. I do consider it a true sign of arrival as a mother if one may brave the sacred shops of the mecca that is Eastbrook Flea Market. All new moms should pack up their new babes and journey to the swine flu infested aisles to test their stroller/shopping cart navigating skills. {Bonus points for non breakage and double for keeping a hungry child satisfied via multitasking.} Through the aisles we trudged ever so bravely with five children in tow, watching small hands and turning sharp corners. Bribing for good behavior with limited snack supplies and playing musical buggies. With the you break you buy policy that the said treasure trove holds, we were a bit leery of attempting such a feat. I fed Malone a bottle, while I pushed slowly and peered over his car seat to watch Emerson and Aiden alternately. I found it quite irritating that this setting was a prime breeding spot for my ultimate pet peeve: hovering shoppers with a complete disregard for personal space. A few people not only wanted to run over us, but stalk us completely through the entire store. It makes me wonder…were these socially challenged fledglings not taught the basics as children? Uh, wait your turn. Please. Thank you. Excuse me…not so hard.

Pause: This place has three levels and hundreds of possible paths one may take whilst shopping. Aisles upon levels upon aisles upon levels…of promising finds. Yet I found myself completely surrounded by greedy heel walkers. There was the classic creepy loner man who walked right behind me for a good ten minutes. I waited, grimacing, waiting for him to do something like try to take my children or sell me into slavery. He was so close I could almost smell him. I wanted to turn around and exasperatedly throw my hands into the air with a “WHAT do you WANT? You have other options for your SHOPPING paths. GET CREATIVE. Bust up off my grill!” (The last part would be complimented with a good old school finger waving and scary accent whilst head banging in psychopathic patterns for ultimate confusion) There was also the mom who impatiently and consistently pushed her only child on my heels through a back pathway, when she had ample room and other options. After about five minutes of impatient stalking, I finally (and VERY passive aggressively) veered off course and let her follow Jamey who was a few feet ahead of me with her own kids in cart. I then immediately turned back on course, right behind impatient mom, as she was now trapped between us. I mean duh. Look where your rudeness got you. (Victory dance) She finally lost her patience and left our path altogether, but we encountered her a few more times when we turned onto aisles. I was ready to stop and unload the kids, bringing all our peeps to the street fight. In between Jamey and I, along with our ravaged, starving children, we figured we could take huffy mom and her puny sidekick kid. I break a vase and hold it at my side, while Jamey hands small sharp knives to the children. Bring it.

3. This one is so non P.C. Since I’m feeling brutally honest, let me just throw this one in for good measure. I have a real problem with people that drive misleading vehicles that do not fall in accordance with their road personalities and driving skills. There really should be rational system for reinforcing such stereotypes. For example, I am much more likely to be patient with a slow going older driver if they are, in fact, driving in accordance with a vehicle which reflects such mannerisms. Rather than, oh, say, a red Ford Explorer, such people should obviously drive a Lincoln Town Car. A big, fat, bright white, Lincoln tank-of-a-town-car. I mean hello. If you’re going to swerve drunkenly on a double yellow line while doing 15 in a 50, at least throw an AARP sticker on your bumper. That way I can be respectful as I pass. I am much less likely to swerve dangerously and speed past whilst making obscure and non mom-like hand signals on my way to my final destination, if you will simply be up front with me from the get go that you may, in fact, be incapable of regular driving speeds or are of elderly nature. I don’t want to ride your tail and then feel bad about it later when I see that the Miada I was so angry about just so happened to be driven by a tiny white haired lady at the wheel. At the same time, I should probably be driving a hot pink number with a giant pointless glittery Barbie spoiler on the back, rather than my neutral mini. I’m surprisingly agile and cat like in the mom mobile. I’m also the person who, when elected president one day will institute a policy of selective breeding along with psych tests for parental candidates. Go fig.

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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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Saturday night, I was out cold. In my special chair, of course.

It was around midnight when I heard Jamin clamber from the bed to let Chloe out for one of her nightly bathroom rituals. A few moments later, all the lights were on in the living room, subsequently shining right into my face.

"What are you doing?" I asked groggily, a bit annoyed.

"I think a frog jumped on my leg when I opened the door, but I'm not sure."

I gave a slight laugh, and rolled back over to block the lights from my face. {Any of you who have read for some time, know we're swiss family robinson over here: rabbits, snakes, turtles, cyotees, squirrels, deer, wombats and frogs are only touching the surface with wild animal encounters on our side of the world.)

I dozed for at least fifteen minutes and woke again.

The lights were STILL on.

"Are you STILL looking?" I asked him, now struggling to gain enough momentum on my own to do a half fat girl roll out of the Punky Brewster bed chair I now ritualistically slumber in.

"Yes."

"Oh for heaven's sake..."

"I found it!" he exclaimed, as I joined him on his frog hunt in the living room. I looked down at a generously sized kermit sitting nervously at our bedroom door. Jamin had been looking for long enough that the lil tree frog had now traveled all the way to where we now stood... "Let me get something to catch him in," he added.

"What?" I asked him, squinting through the lights, "Are you kidding?"

{Let's pause this story for a second, shall we? Jamin is a man's man. A manly man. An I'm-good-at-any-sport-I-pick-up, chicks-(once upon a time before he was taken, perhaps they still do)-dig-me, I-enjoy-camping-hiking-rock-climbing-sky-diving-mudding, and used-to-do-all-these-fun-manly-things-before my-wife-and-kids-ruined-my-life, kinda man. He stands at a tall dark and handsome 6'3" 190 lbs. of unintimidated status ...man. Think testosterone. RAWR. That being WELL established, we shall now proceed.}

"Well I'm not gonna touch him" Jamin responded, now a bit defensively.

I laughed. "Oh my gosh you're so not kidding!" I now looked at him incredulously as I dove down to catch the slimey little sucker on my own.

Other than spiders and roaches, it may surprise a few of you to know I'm not your typical girly girl. At least not ALL of the time. And I can't believe I've been in a ten year relationship with Jamin, all the while completely aloof to his apparent "distain" for frogs.

I felt (oh so hilariously) betrayed. Lied to. Deceived.

Powerful.

"You're so scared." I said, still surprised at this new revelation.

"I'm not SCARED."

"YES you are! You wouldn't touch him!" I responded, still laughing after I returned Kermit to his rightful place of origins. "WHO are YOU?"

"I just don't like the whole they-pee-and-you-get-warts thing."

"I'm sorry?"

"It freaks me out."

"What???"

"I just don't want warts."

"You dork! That's such a myth! Handled many a frog. No warts. Likely story. You're scared."

"No. I just don't want to risk it."

"Are you being SERIOUS right now???? {pause} "Sissy."

And this joyous banter from yours truly continued upon our return to our rightful resting places...

"Frogs are freaky." was all he could muster from my constant barrage of new attacks.

"Oh my gosh! You're so serious right now! LOSER!"

Oh the ideas that were implanting themselves as we continued our conversation. Emerson placing frogs on Daddy. Buckets of frogs on Daddy via Aiden. Frogs in general...thrown on daddy...I don't have to get too creative here.

We had almost drifted into the happy land of sleep...

When I joyfully shot another "WUSS!" into the darkness.

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