I'm having a t-shirt made

Going back to work: This shit is hard.

I'm going to need Jeff as my interventionist

Because I've relapsed.

I've relapsed hard on babies.

Lately babies have been popping up all over the place and I've been on a bender.

I'm sure their mothers were like, "quit bogarting that baby".

Because I've been holding babies too long. Smelling their heads, holding their tiny hands, watching their peaceful slumber and stuff.

Holding newborn babies has wiped my memory clean, like some sneaky memory wiper and then I am all wanting another baby and forgetting the sleeplessness and the crying and the worry and the sore nipples and the poop.

The poop! There is probably poop somewhere on me right now (and its not my own). More poop is pretty much the last thing I need, second only to another baby.

And Jeff? I need to come home and find Jeff sitting on my couch telling me to wake the fuck up, with the wanting a baby. Another baby?!

Actually Jeff, would be all calm and reverse psychologyey, agreeing with all my justifying craziness. And then? Then Jeff, like the sly fox that he is, will pass a picture of an engorged breast across the table and my fate will be sealed. He'll then gently lead me outside where he'll probably offer me a cigarette and I'll be loaded into a van, on my way to baby detox.

After becoming fully rehabilitated, I will realize that I don't need another baby, I don't want another baby. I will not be having another baby.

But if you have a new baby can I smell yours? I love that new baby smell.

for Wordless Wednesday but with words and no pictures

Just when I was careening over the cliff of self-doubt and indulging in some whoa-is-me about the whole going back to work and drinking shitty coffee thing, I came to a realization. I will be making money again! Holy shit there will be money to spend!

This little epiphany has brightened my spirits immeasurably (also my kids were total assholes yesterday and I went into my classroom for a bit and it felt homey, all helping with easing the being employed outside the home anxieties that were creeping up on me, although I'm sure they will creep back up when it sinks in that I will have to pack my lunch everyday, I hate like poison to pack my lunch) Lets just take a moment to behold such a masterful comma splice, all contained within a pair of perky little parentheses. Comma splices also lift my spirits, they make me feel so bad ass! (the sadness and desperation of that statement will be addressed later on when my spirits are no longer lifting)

But for now? The whole money thing is just making me smile all kinds of secret, I'm-going-to-buy-something-just-for-me-because-my-neighbor-just-brought-over-a-big-bag-of-gorgeous-hand-me-downs-and-here-is-my-chance-to-get-something-for-just-me-and-not-feel-guilty-about-it, smiles. And so after I decided that getting a pet llama for the backyard would violate a number of city by-laws and would just exacerbate the poop problem,I have designated the money for underwear. But wait, not just any old underwear.

I want to invest in some pretty panties and matching bras.

Pretty panties and matching bras have gone the way of the dodo over the last couple of years because without getting into a detailed account of the state of one's vagina before, during and after pregnancy and childbirth, pretty panties are a fucking waste of money. Seriously buying pretty panties when you are pregnant or after giving birth is like taking a fistful of twenties and just shredding them in a food processor. Similar in that the pretty panties will be destroyed leaving you all bewildered that something you love, like your vagina or your food processor, is capable of such destruction.

But alas my vagina is back to its old self again, stunning in all its glory and since I broke my food processor, forcing Little Miss to eat her back ribs like a woman, it is safe to once again purchase some pretty panties and matching bras (because I'm no longer nursing and since I hated wearing nursing bras I would just pull the cup of all my bras down to nurse, and so now all my bras are misshapen and tired looking, also some have nipple cream stains on them which is less than attractive).

And pretty panties and bras? They are like secret self-confidence armour. Gods help the person who messes with me while wearing pretty panties. I'm all like, 'Are you kidding me with the cutting me off in the passing lane, apparently you are unaware that I am wearing pretty panties and will not be fucked with today', at which point the middle finger and the horn will be employed for emphasis, but it will have been the pretty panties that would have given you the courage to do so. Pretty panties are like Kevlar, except don't get Kevlar pretty panties because Kevlar is so not a material that breathes.

Now I was going to be all Wordless Wednesday and post a picture of pretty panties, but that would be irrelevant because my idea of pretty panties will be different then yours. The whole purpose of pretty panties is to make you feel pretty, whatever that means to you. Which I would just like to ascertain that, white cotton full brief panties can totally be pretty panties if that's how you roll and they are sufficiently rocked, just the same as a g-string. Although I will confess after pushing out a 9lb baby with an epidural so I wasn't aware of how hard I was pushing and may have pushed out along with said baby part of my asshole, I will not be subjecting myself to a g-string. That was the deal I made with my anus, if it went back to where it was before, then I would no longer subject it to a g-string. And since I am a woman of my word, no g-strings for me or my asshole.

So I guess by virtue of all these words and a number of comma splices, I am not eligible for Wordless Wednesday.

If I was wearing pretty panties right now I would totally tell Wordless Wednesday to fuck off.

the one where I'm melting down and then have some Cheetos and it gets better but then it doesn't

Also where I don't use paragraph breaks because they make me anxious, and so do semicolons. So no semicolons, either. Take that, semicolons! Finally making a stand against semicolons is really empowering. But empowerment is lost on me right now, because I've just realized that I am going back to work in a short number of days. I am not going to tell you the exact number of days because that is just too concrete and I'm not sure if it would require a semicolon so better to play it safe. But lets just say less than twenty days. In less than twenty days I will not be able to have Cheetos and microwaved coffee for breakfast because that is so not professional and I have union obligations, and I won't spend the days singing songs and reading stories and involving myself in half-assed attempts at art projects (oh wait, since I'm a primary teacher I will totally be doing all those things but with someone elses kids so its not the same). Also the toys all over the place, and the diaper changes and the tantrums and the finding the lost teddy bears, all those things will be regulated into a morning or evening time slot. What about the afternoons! Afternoons will only be permitted on the weekends and I hate so rigid a schedule. I'm all mixed up and crazed, like thinking of Kevin Bacon when its really Tim Robbins, mixed up and crazed. But mostly I'm mixed up and crazed because isn't this what I've been wanting all along, to get a bit of myself back, my non-ass-wiping and Cheerio-sweeping-up-self, my wearing-actual-pants-with-buttons-and-zippers self? Hasn't that been my glass of water in the desert, what I've been crawling on hands and knees towards, dragging a kid on each leg while scanning the horizon for a lost teddy bear, hoping I find him before I reach my destination? And now I'm asking rhetorical questions and wondering where the hell is that bear. And with only less than twenty days to find him, I'm feeling the urgency in discovering his whereabouts. Lost teddy bears can be so fucking unpredictable.

toddlers -sigh-

Well it has happened.

I now have two toddlers. Little Miss just recently obtaining toddler status. What with the loud shrieks and flailing when I won't let her touch birds. Flying in the sky. At an altitude of 500ft.

I know, mean mommy.

And so I mourn the loss of my babies. Because my babies? They turn into insane, teeth baring, rabid clowns at 15 months and stay that way until at least 2 1/2. Which can mean only one thing, seeing that most establishments have an insane, teeth baring, rabid clown policy. House Arrest. For me.

Toddlers are not fit for public consumption most of the time. And by most I mean all.

And today? The unthinkable occurred. The double tantrum. In public. At the zoo.

It was a pretty bad scene. Even the monkeys stopped shrieking and stared, dumbfounded as only monkeys can be. At least the camels were sympathetic.

Of course I did what any good mother would do. I ignored it and walked away.

That was about an hour ago.

I'm going to pick them up now.