We returned back home after a Sunday brunch of pancakes. The Husband and I immediately plopped ourselves down on the couch, sinking slowly into a carbo-load coma while Elise and Luke ran around in way-too-energetic circles apparently immune to the IHOP drugging.
We were…getting…so…sleepy.
Isn’t it great they’re old enough to play with themselves, I murmured to The Husband as I glanced his way with closing eyelids. His eyes were already closed, clutching a couch pillow to his chest like a flotation device. (This NEVER happens. At least not to the two of us at the same time. We usually prefer to keep our wits about us when we’re dealing with the insurgents.)
My involuntary slumber was interrupted at various points with Elise and Luke coming to report something or the other. Then I’d hear the Husband say, “Shhh! Go play and don’t bother Mommy!” quickly followed by his snoring.
I may have dreamed of Elise saying, “Spit that out, Luke! Spit it out!” and “Do you want to die? No? Then stop doing that.” (Read more…)
“Baby, you’re sick. Go to the doctor!” My husband’s words were concerned, but strict.
Was he kidding? Does he not remember the whole, we-have-six-kids thing? And even when the oldest four are in school, I’m left to take the two toddlers to the hospital to contend with, all by myself, all while feeling craptastic. No, thank you.
I would consider it if it were worth going any more, but it’s not. Military doctors used to tell us “If the fever lasts more than 24 hours, come in.” We would be seen, thoroughly, have a prescription written, and onwards home we went, to begin feeling better sooner than later. Now, their new favorite line is “It’s just a virus.” Regardless of how long the fever’s lasted or how sick we are, we’re slapped on the wrist for being “silly worriers” and sent off our merry way told to medicate with good ol’ ibuprofen and to drink plenty of fluids. Why the heck would I waste my time going there for some silly virus and to be made fun of?
Let’s not forget what it’s like getting the brush-off by docs while bringing small children, who think all the knobs and buttons to push, along with medical instruments and the spinny doctor’s chair are awesomely fun. (Read more…)
Did you hear about the viral video infecting the Internet featuring five seven year-old girls in black and red bikinis and thigh-high hose dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies”? I have. You see, I’m enrolling Spicy Girl in dancing school, and my dad has an opinion on this type of dancing.
“I hope you didn’t pick a dancing school that has them do a number like that.” My father said to me. Dad likes to use terms like “number”, “rock and roll combo” and “slacks”. It’s endearing.
“No dad, she’s not doing hip hop, it’s more classic ballet. It’s basic stuff. Like I did when I was a kid. Before I started to look like a wounded hippo in pink tights.” I said, stuffing a yodel in my mouth hoping to quell the self-loathing.
“I don’t care if she’s hopping. I used to hop around all the time as a kid. It’s that gyrating that I don’t have any use for.”
“Dad, hip hop is a type of dance. They offer it at pretty much every dancing school out there.”
“What music do they dance to?”
“Um, hip hop.”
“Why is the dance the same thing as the music?”
“I don’t know dad, it just is.” (Read more…)
Apparently, I am someone who bears freakishly large babies (both were pushing ten pounds at birth).
Having enormous human beings growing inside your uterus means one thing for sure: you’re going to be left with a lot of extra stomach.
I’ve been battling extraneous abs for seven years now. Wherein battling means I poke my mid-section a lot, grumble, complain, stomp around, and maybe give up a small handful of M&Ms. Once.
There was the time I briefly joined a gym–one of those ‘girls only’ places with a circuit in which you switched stations every thirty seconds. You knew when to switch because over the awful country-themed playlist, a pre-recorded female voice would command you to get off your tush and keep moving.
That approach got my heart rate up. But, though exercising amongst the fifty-and-up set was decidedly unthreatening, I felt too young to be there.
I’ve tried Spanx, which didn’t so much flatten my stomach as squeeze the will to live right out of me. (Read more…)