July 13, 2004 | I'm dating the television

… after comfortably settling yourself into bed with your laptop, and turning on the TV in preparation for “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?”, you see a commercial for “Sex and the City” now on TBS and remember oh yeah! and then suffer major angst over which program to watch because that’s quite a choice to have to make, and then you decide to go with “Sex and the City” but OH NO for the love of God you cannot remember which channel is TBS and damn your cheap self for not getting a cable box (with online guide) for this television, and for a moment it appears that all is lost, but then the day is saved because you brilliantly surf on over to your cable company’s website and locate the channel for TBS. Phew!

Geek.

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

New at Domino’s Pizza! Two-for-one deal on Tuesdays!

New at Woulda Coulda Shoulda! Two-for-one deal on Tuesdays, inspired by the fact that I cannot get that insipid Domino’s commerical out of my head!

So, I was going to tell you about my sad failure to enrich my children’s lives with great classic literature, but it’s Tuesday! And so! In lieu of pizza! I will tell you about two such failures! Yay!

(I apologize for the excess of exclamation points. The Hormone Demons have decided I need to have a little headache. For about four days. And so I am currently drinking my body weight in tea in an attempt to caffeinate the headache right out of my… uhhh… head. Yay!)

The ex and I were (are) bibliophiles in a frightening way. Before the first small creature arrived in our home, we had already amassed “all our favorite” books from childhood. Numbering approximately 500 volumes, I kid you not. (Neither of us really grasp that whole concept of something being favorite all that well.) I looked forward to reliving many of these books with my children.

First literary enrichment gone wrong: I read “Little House in the Big Woods” to the kids over about a week or so of bedtimes. Every little girl wants to grow up to be Laura Ingalls, right? It sounds exotic and fun, churning your own butter, salting venison, and all that other stuff. Um, no. It did to me, but my children are part of the new, hip, ultra-spoiled generation. What did my children learn from “Little House”? That the funniest thing in the world is a child wrapping a corncob in a handkerchief and pretending it’s a doll. Chickadee actually wrestled the book from my hands to verify that section, herself, so sure was she that I’d made it up. As for Monkey, he spent the entire week grabbing random objects, wrapping them in his blanket, and introducing me to his “new baby.” I especially enjoyed his new baby, the toothbrush.

But wait… there’s more! It’s a twofer!

Second literary enrichment gone wrong: I remember absolutely loving “The Wind in the Willows”, and was in fact delighted to procure a vintage, oversized edition complete with color pictures. We’re reading it now. Only, I did not remember that Mole and Rat have this habit of calling each other asses when they quarrel. Repeatedly. I am running out of suitable substitute insults. Also? Toad is in dire need of some lithium. And at least once per sitting we have to get into a prolonged discussion about why these animals are wearing suits and ties. I am weary.

Time for more tea, and further rumination on how all my attempts to shape my young into educated beings always backfire….

What do I do all day?

Our house is infected, so I’m afraid you can’t come over today. It wouldn’t be safe. You don’t want to catch it, do you?? And here I sit in the middle of it, guilty.

I’ve infected my children. I thought I was taking all the proper precautions, but as we are prone to puppy-piling and sticky kisses, I guess I should’ve known this would happen. Plus it’s been overcast for several days… that couldn’t have helped, you know.

All three of us have a severe case of Slugbutt.

It started with me, of course. The kids were perfectly fine, and I spent a lot of time on the couch trying to keep up a brave front. “Oh, that’s a beautiful picture!” I would croon, lifting my head up to view it. “Did you build that tower all by yourself?” I would admire, complete with the required hair-tousling. Maybe I should’ve washed my hands more.

At first, their worry turned to mania. Five minutes resting would be rewarded with the cyclone effect in whatever room I’d left them. I pushed them out the door to the yard when it got too bad inside, and they would run around in circles until they fell down. But I didn’t mind, because this was a sign that they were still healthy and strong. Back inside again, they clamored for snacks and activities and attention, and–still dragging–I did my level best to meet their needs yet shield them from my affliction.

But all that is over, now. I can toss aside the facade. The television is on Noggin… as it has been for about a day straight. The children lounge on the couches in their pajamas, barely picking at their cereal, declaring that they’re too tired to move. They’ve cocooned themselves in blankets (blankets? in July??) and are pretending to be babies in adjoining cribs. So other than the occasional “goo goo!” and the drone of various animated creatures on the TV, all is silent.

And the guilt… the guilt is overwhelming. This isn’t right, for children. They should be running, jumping, shouting; playing. I never meant for them to come down with it. Honest.

I must try to nurse them back to health. I must be strong for them. And I will. Right after I rest a little while….

July 12, 2004 | Health is overrated

I know that I have been concealing my post-hysterectomy hormone issues so well that you are all shocked and amazed to learn that estrogen–or the lack thereof–is a major issue on what is left of my rapidly-failing, hormone-deprived brain. Nonetheless, for those readers who are female, I have some important information to share. (For those readers who are male, either skip this entry or read ahead and then feel superior as you bask in testosterone. I don’t mind. Someday your prostate will be as big as my deformed ovary was, and then I will have sweet revenge.)

Women need estrogen. It does lots of stuff. It helps prevent osteoporosis and life-crippling mood swings and… uhhhh… other good things like that. So if you are lucky enough to have a total hysterectomy well before the menopause years, your doctor will want you to take estrogen to enhance the quality of your life and prevent you from suing her later on. It will then take approximately until you have reached what would’ve been your menopause years to figure out the correct balance of dosages and whatnot, but hey, it’s only time and your sanity, right? That is not today’s issue.

Accepting as a given that the magic hormonal balance will not be struck any time in the near future, the focus in the meantime should be to minimize any sense of freakishness while waiting to feel human again.

Here we have a lovely picture of the Mylan brand estradiol patch. (Sorry, Genuine, that’s not my butt.) This is the first patch I tried after the whole Combipatch seasickness disaster. (And in case I forgot to report, discontinuing the progestin source cleared up the nausea quite nicely.) Now, this isn’t a fabulous picture, although the model does have a lovely derriere, and I think mine looked like that, once, maybe when I was 16 or so, but anyway (could you please stick to the topic at hand?), what you may notice right off about this picture is that the Mylan patch is enormous. Huge. Super-gigantic. In fact, should you look very closely, what you will realize is that it looks an awful lot like an overgrown version of another product that you probably wouldn’t want people to notice you wearing. And let’s remember our priority here: minimizing any sense of freakishness. Would you feel comfortable and attractive with a gargantuan corn pad stuck to your ass? No, you would not. And in fact this patch is thick enough to show through clothing, and has enough writing on it to actually be read through light-colored cloth, all of which means that one’s sense of Total Freak will be expanded about a thousandfold. Therefore, the Mylan patch is a poor option unless you enjoy that sort of thing, which by God I hope you don’t.

Okay, now we have determined that the Mylan patch was made by misogynists. Surprise! So what other option do you have, because in the name of all that is good and pure you can feel your bones crumbling this very moment??
Relax. There is a better option. Climara patches deliver the same product, at the same dosages (four to choose from! oh boy!), in a clear, small, wafer-thin patch. They’re so damn cute, you can use them to make flower petals for the logo! Ain’t it grand? Plus, where else can you check out a multimedia presentation of all the things going wrong with your body now? And for added fun, if you apply the new Climara patch right after you’ve gotten out of the shower–before you’ve put on your glasses–you may then spend several fun-filled minutes on the floor, frantically searching for the dropped patch, because in fact the patch is firmly adhered to your posterior but without your corrective lenses, you couldn’t see it. Not that that’s ever happened to me, this morning or any other time. Ahem. But with Climara? You can totally go back to feeling like a freak for non-hormonal reasons, like because of your hair and the unforgiving humidity. Yay!

I hope today’s lesson has been illuminating. I’m all about bringing education to the masses.

July 11, 2004 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

After my earlier post, I realized that I was in dire need of some rest and rejuvenation. Okay, if you want the truth; I sat down on the couch and while “helping” Monkey with a jigsaw puzzle (a complicated task, considering he shrieked at me any time I dared to touch one of the pieces, yet any time I pulled back he would again exhort me to help), I fell asleep. For about a millisecond. And it is not fun to wake up to “You have to stop resting because we need to find Spiderman’s eye!!”

So I hatched a brilliant plan. First, I fed the children a snack. Next, I allowed them to pick a movie to watch. Then, I explained that I needed to either lie down for a while or sell them into slavery, therefore it would behoove them to watch their movie and let me rest. My bedroom is directly above the family room and sports a one foot square vent in the floor (designed to allow heat from the family room woodstove to rise to the bedroom; not that I’ve ever used the woodstove because I figure it would just be simpler to take the small ones directly to the burn unit and skip the rigamarole). I pointed out that I could hear them through the vent, they should call me if they needed anything, but they should not need anything, please. Chickadee was kind enough to chime in, “We know, we know, not unless we’re on fire or bleeding.” I guess she does listen, sometimes.

Thus it was that I retreated to my bed and was able to relax for about an hour. Fine; I fell immediately into the deep slumber of the dead and the children ate the contents of my medicine cabinet just before burning the house down and wandering the neighborhood in their underwear. I jest! That would never happen! And if it did I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone! Okay, kidding aside, they came upstairs when the movie ended, and we had a lovely and not at all dysfunctional time hanging out on my bed. It all started when Chickadee picked up Snuffles.

Chickadee: Mama, where did you get this?
Me: Snuffles? I already told you, Wendy got him for me when I was in the hospital.
(This is true. My friend Wendy not only babysat me my entire surgery day, she bought me Snuffles to keep me company!)
Chickadee: Yeah, but what does he do?
Me: Do?
Chickadee: Yeah, do! Like does he play music or something?
Me: No, he doesn’t play music, Silly.
Monkey: Silly!
Chickadee: Oh.
Me: He talks, though.
Chickadee: Oh. WHAT?
Monkey: He TALKS?
Me: Of course he talks. Wendy got him so he could take care of me. He has to talk.

Monkey looked skeptical. Chickadee had that waiting-for-the-punchline look. So of course I did what any of you would’ve done in that situation; I invented a little voice and started bobbing Snuffles back and forth the way that one does when illustrating that a stuffed animal is talking.

Snuffles: Of course I can talk! I had a lot of stuff to tell Mama at the hospital!
Monkey: *laughs so hard he falls over*
Chickadee: *small giggle* Like what?
Snuffles: Oh, I had to remind her to hold something over her tummy when she sneezed or coughed–
Chickadee: How come?
Snuffles: Cuz if you don’t, after they cut your tummy, your insides fall out!
Chickadee: Really??
Snuffles: Sure! And also, I would remind her to take her medicine and stuff. When the nurses were busy.
Me: Yeah, Snuffles took care of me after I came home, too. He’s a very smart bear. Do you know what bears like to do?
Monkey and Chickadee: What?
Me: Hibernate.
Snuffles: Yeah! I loves me some sleeping. Sleep, sleep, sleep! Let’s all go to sleep! *Snuffles flops over on his back and starts to snore*
Monkey and Chickadee: *much giggling*
Me: Oh, yeah. Snuffles loves to sleep. Know what used to happen after I came home from the hospital, before you came back from Grammie’s?
Monkey and Chickadee: What??
Me: Oh, I would wake up and say “Gee, I think I’m hungry. I think I should go downstairs and get something to eat.” And then Snuffles would say…
Snuffles: No! No downstairs! No need to eat! Just sleep! Sleep sleep sleep! *Snuffles flops over on his back and starts to snore*
Chickadee: Mama! He must do something besides sleep. Sometimes. Doesn’t he?
Me: Well… not really. Although he did wake up when you two came back from your trip. Know what he said?
Monkey and Chickadee: No! What??
Snuffles: Who are those little creatures???
Me: Now Snuffles, you know I explained this, those are my kids, my son and daughter, and we love them very much–
Snuffles: No! No we don’t! They are LOUD and they don’t SLEEP and also? They smell funny! Really!
Monkey and Chickadee: *laugh and laugh, and smell each other and laugh some more*
Snuffles: Let’s run them over with the car!
Me: Um, wait, what??
Snuffles: I don’t like them, let’s run them over! SQUISH! Flat! Flat is good for sleeping. Get your keys!
Monkey: *laughs so hard he falls off the bed*
Snuffles: Oh look! One down! Excellent! Now, how can we silence the little girl?
Chickadee: *grabbing Snuffles and stuffing him under a pillow* Mama, I think Snuffles is a little crazy.
Me: Yeah, I think you may be right. Uhhhh, let’s let him sleep and go start some laundry.
Snuffles: Hey! Let me out of here! I’m not done!

My name is Grumplestiltskin

1) Taking the kids to a playground and then for ice cream because “all we’ll have to do is sit there and watch them” is more strenuous than it sounds, no matter how well-meaning and sympathetic the friend with this idea may be.

2) Quickly-melting ice cream is a tragedy of catastrophic proportions to an overheated, overtired child. (Otherwise known as, No good deed goes unpunished.)

3) Do not write out a list of “things to deal with next week” right after balancing your checkbook unless you feel like having a good cry.

4) Do not assume that because you are not having hot flashes, your hormones are in proper balance. To wit: feeling a little crazy? Crazy like a single mom to two kids, or crazy like I wonder what it actually feels like to strangle someone? There is a subtle yet important difference.

5) Bring additional child distractions to church in the summer because Junior Church is not offered. “Watch me put this toothpick up my nose!” is probably not the reaction to the sermon that the pastor was hoping for.

6) Don’t forget to call your mother. Even if you feel lousy. Just don’t.

7) I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. (Corollaries include–but are not limited to–I am a bitch, Yes I want to go to sleep now, Don’t touch my Advil, and No matter how much you love your children, sometimes you wish they would disappear.)

July 10, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Me *opening the blinds*: Oh, it’s a beautiful day outside!

Him *digging in the pantry*: Yes! It’s a beautiful day for Sponge Bob Bubble Berry Poptarts!!

July 9, 2004 | Detritus

Tonight I had a brilliant idea. And it was the following: Hey! In spite of never letting anyone take my picture–hence the paucity of pictures of myself that Don’t Completely Suck–once a couple of years ago I had to have my picture taken for the paper. And I behaved! And wore lipstick, even! And I think I still have that picture! And wouldn’t that picture be nifty on my blog?

Only, it isn’t nifty at all, for BlogSpot is evil. BlogSpot takes my bee-yoo-tee-ful picture of me, and shrinks it down in such a way that I am actually scary in the thumbnail to the right. So I have tried and tried to make a version of this picture that is exactly the teeny-tiny size that BlogSpot craves, so that it will not smush and pixelate and distort my poor self so, but BlogSpot is not deceived, and it continues to contort me no matter what I offer it.

Why? Why does BlogSpot hate the One Only Sorta Kinda Decent Picture Of My Head that I have? How can I make it stop hurting me? I have spent hours looking at the template code. I can’t figure out where it is receiving the direction to smush the profile pic (the pic itself isn’t much bigger than the thumbnail, so if I could tell it to just use the full-size version that would be fine and dandy).

Can anyone help me?

Detritus

Really, I am only doing this post to cheer up Zoot and show her she’s not the only freak magnet out there. As we all know by now, there are plenty of freaks to go around! Also, between Friday Facts and Fiction and hitting the grocery store today, my energy is pretty well tapped out. (Yes, ladies and gentlemen–nearly 3 weeks post-op, and I still possess the energy level of your average door stop.)

So, behold! A smattering of searches that have led folks to my blog this month:

“diet drinks sodas unhealthy for kids June 2004″
Oooookay. Which is more puzzling? The fact that someone is searching the internet about something so obvious, or that there’s a date inserted as if perhaps it’s new news? Hmmmmm. What’s next? “guns kill people July 2004″?

“grow your teeth July 2004″
This had to be the same person, right? Please? If there’s more than one person like this out there, I’m afraid.

“magnesium citrate pleasing lemony flavor”
My theory is that this was this person’s second search. The first one was “magnesium citrate nauseatingly sweet yet bitter lemony barf flavor,” but it didn’t turn up any hits.

“groper site:blogspot.com”
I’m a little terrified that there were 176 matches for this search. I’m even more terrified that my site is on the second page of results. Eep.

“dental deep cleaning scam”
Oh yeah, a few days after relating my joyful dentist tale, seeing that on the list made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

“burnt bagels”
I’m number four! I’m number four! I’m number–huh? What’s that? Yeah, that is a weird thing to search on I guess. Do you suppose the searcher was mad when they discovered my entry had very little, if anything, to do with bagels (burnt or otherwise)?

“side effects of a sonohystogram”
Okay, it’s becoming obvious that there’s not a lot of information available on the internet about sonohystograms, because I average about 3 searches a week that include that infernal word. But this poor sap? May now believe that the side effects might include: total abdominal hysterectomy (with bilateral salping-oophorectomy; say it five times fast!), broken TVs, coconut bras, and gum disease. But if they think that, they deserve it.

… and my personal favorite…

“woulda”
It may be my favorite because I’m the first Google hit. Or it may be my favorite because pondering what this person was hoping to find makes me giggle. A lot.

I have to go now, cuz I just did a search on Google for “the” and it’s probably gonna take me all night to get through the results….

About

I love how threatening to be even more pitiful than usual just draws the questions out of everyone. It doesn’t make me feel like a melodramatic attention-demanding freak at all. Really. Let’s get to it before I think about that for too long, mkay?

Genuine asks, how can he keep one sibling from killing the other, or–perhaps more importantly–him from killing them both?

Thanks for asking, Gen! I love when people give me parenting advice, and so will seize any oppotunity to dispense some, myself. Preferrably of the sort that makes me look like a cross between Carol Brady and Mother Theresa, and makes the questioner feel like primordial pond scum who foolishly reproduced through mitosis while thinking about… ummm… nothing. On account of being single-celled. (Fiction. I hope.)

My kids have a couple of years on yours, but what I have found to be true is that no matter how badly they are nudging and annoying each other, they prefer being together to being apart. A simple “if you cannot play nicely together you will be separated” is often enough to head off trouble around here. When it isn’t, they play alone in their rooms for a bit, and whine and cry about how they want to play together. The following reunion usually goes more smoothly. (And if that doesn’t work, that’s why God invented DVDs.) As for you? Take a deep breath, walk away, count to 10; do whatever you need to do to remember that someday you will look back on these frustrations with fondness. (Fact.)

Zoot wants to hear about my most embarassing moment, but there are soooooo many to choose from!

Well, my neighbor came over while we were playing outside last week, and we sat and chatted, and after a while I asked how her husband was doing because I hadn’t seen him in a while. She said I hadn’t seen him because they were getting divorced and he moved out several months ago. Oops. Or there was the time in college (when I lived in a curfewed dorm) when my roommate and I had the munchies really badly (because… ummmm… cuz we were just hungry. yeah.) and the only vending machines were in another building, so we ran across campus, after-hours, in our pajamas, in search of food… and were caught on our way back through our window, still laughing our asses off. Bummer. How about the time when I was still working as an engineer, when Chickadee was a baby, and a coworker opened up my closed office door–thinking I was out to lunch, and wanting to leave some papers on my desk–only to behold me sitting at my desk, eating a sandwich, with my double-electric pump slurping away as it jutted out from my bra? Ah, memories. (I will leave it as an exercise for the reader to determine the truth of the preceeding.)

Zoot also wants to hear about my dream date. Egads.

Oh, it involves windswept strolls on the beach, diamonds and fast cars, and a Fabio look-alike who adores me and spends endless gobs of money on me. (*gag*)

I haven’t been on many actual “dates.” Part of that is because I got married too damn young, and part of that is the whole college/grad school “hanging out” mentality where no one has any money, anyway. My ideals involve the person, not the setting. And apparently those ideals for the person–which I’d thought were reasonable before I realized that most people are selfish idiots–are such that I’m about as likely to get that dream date as I am to meet Santa Claus. Know a nice single guy with a great sense of a humor who loves kids and bright but neurotic women? Send him my way, and I’ll tell ya all about our date! (I’m serious. Send him now. No, don’t. Crap.)

mc uncloaked from lurkdom long enough to ask how and/or when did I know I wanted kids.

Right about the time the contractions started, I knew…. (Fiction! Fiction! Be right back; I have to put more money in the kids’ therapy fund….)

As I’ve discussed on here before, I am the sort of masochist who always wanted kids, even as a child myself I was always enchanted with little ones. So the “how” was easy, for me. The “when” was a bit more complicated (both in deciding and because we faced fertility issues), but the criteria there included the obvious like being married, having enough money for diapers, etc. For those who haven’t always desired offspring, I have no idea how you decide. I know folks who swear “there’s never a perfect time” and “once you do it you rise to the task” and that may be true, for some. On the other hand, I know people who truly believe themselves incapable of the sacrifices parenthood calls one to make, and I think that’s a worry worth heeding. One of my parents felt very deprived of, heck, I don’t even know what… something… due to the impact of us kids, and it colored (still does) our relationship. Kids know when they’re viewed as burdens. I may rant about my kids, sometimes, but I cannot imagine my life without them, and they are the highest calling I’ve yet to experience and I hope they always know that. (Fact. When did I turn into such a sap?)

Busy Mom wants to know the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow…

… but she neglected to return and clarify which type of swallow she meant, so I’m going to have to demand that she bring me a shrubbery before I can answer.

Amy had a lot of fun with some wine last night and professed her love for me, wanting to know only if I loved her in return.

My dear, I love you as much as is possible without it becoming weird and scary and causing your husband to file a restraining order. (Fact.) Also I am thinking of moving to my own domain, and am seriously considering naming it Miralah.com. Just because I want to be cool like you. (Fiction. Well, the site name. I really do want to be as cool as you!)

Pam wants to know if I have any extra digits or extremities, and if so, are they creepy?

How did you know? I have a third nipple. It’s on top of my left foot, which came in handy when I fell asleep nursing in the rocking chair and dropped the baby on the floor. (Fiction. No need to call the cops.)

Sorry, nothing extra. I’m plenty creepy with just the requisite number of appendages. (Fact.)

Julia wants to know why I’m too chicken to consider lasik.

It’s very simple. I feel that if a surgery doesn’t result in the removal of actual organs, it’s not worth my time. (Fiction.)

It’s very simple. Lasik involves having your eyeball sliced open while you are awake. And there is huge chance of improved vision, but also a small chance of blindness. All in all, not my idea of a good time. (Fact. Ick.)

Lisa wants to know if I feel like I’m wasting my life on domestic chores and would I like to join her Lifewasters Anonymous support group?

Yes, and yes. Crap. That wasn’t very anonymous.

Mad wants to know if I would ever consider marrying again.

Welcome to Friday Facts and Fiction, Mad. I’m going to guess this is your first one, because someone asks me that almost every week. Not that it makes me feel like a lonely loser, or anything. No, really. It’s okay. I’m not crying, there’s something in my eye! (I’m sorry; it had to be done.)

Under the right circumstances (and no, I don’t know what those are, as they’ve yet to present themselves), yes, I would consider it. It seems very unlikely for the near future, though. (Fact.)

I love Debby, but she is a wiseass. She wants to know the true meaning of life.

Say it with me, everyone… 42. Suckah.

Jennifer asks three questions, but I’m skipping the book one since I’ve already answered that twice. So…

… how did I choose my children’s names?
Why, do you have a problem with me naming them Chickadee and Monkey? Well, do you?? (Oh, you figured out those aren’t their given names? Dang.)

I am crazy into the meanings of names. Perhaps because the traditional translation of Miriam is “bitter” (despite modern baby-naming books trying to soften it up by claiming it means “strong” or “stubborn”). Chickadee was conceived after years of infertility, one definite miscarriage and a couple of probable ones… and the same week my grandmother died. I am convinced my Grandma made ordering up my mini-me her first order of business in Heaven. I was determined to name her after my Grandma Rose. But we needed a middle name, too. On an infertility listserv I belonged to at the time, a long-time member popped in to announce the joyful news of having adopted a little girl, named a beautiful and unusual name I’d never heard before, but reportedly meaning “God has answered me.” I proposed this name to my then-husband, and it turned out that we both liked it so much, we used it for her first name (her middle name is Rose). It suits her, and I don’t think Grandma Rose minds a bit.

With Monkey, again we delved into the baby books and debated the various meanings. We quickly settled on a less-common name that means “he laughs.” (Never was a name more perfect; this boy has the most frequent and jubilant laugh of anyone I’ve ever known.) That left us to months of debating his middle name. The ex wanted Matthew, but both the chosen first name and our last name have two syllables, and–as I cautioned Genuine during the hot debates to name baby AJ–a repetitive syllable pattern (in this case, 2-2-2) often sounds weird. We finally negotiated down to using Matthias, which was “close enough” and solved my obsession with the syllable thing.

Both children also have initials that form words. We did that on purpose. We’re weird. (Fact.)

… what is the best part of my day?
Breakfast. Or lunch. Maybe dinner. Or any time I’m having a snack. (Fiction, honest.)

This is a tie between waking and bedtime. Monkey hops into bed and snuggles with me in the morning, and provided that he isn’t too starving hungry or carrying a load in his pull-up, this tends to be an awesome one-on-one time for us. Conversely, Chickadee is not a morning person, but often causes me to melt into a large puddle all over her room at bedtime with some random profundity. It’s easy to let the hustle and bustle of everyday get me caught up in enduring my life rather than enjoying it. Those precious “just being” moments with my kids bring me back to what’s important. (Fact.)

Regular Cinderella want to know if I’m pretty when I cry, which I think officially makes her weirder than me.

In the category of the-truth-is-stranger-than-fiction, I’ll go for full disclosure: When I cry, my normally hazel eyes glow electric green, my nose turns bright red, and my smattering of freckles are intensified on the background of whitest-white-mixed-with-angry-red-splotches. This may be why people ask me questions on Friday rather than risk me crying. It may also be why–when I caution the children “don’t do that unless you want to make me cry”–Chickadee shrieks with glee, “Do it! Cry! Mama looks crazy when she cries!”

Janet wants to know why lilacs smell so good.

That’s a great question. I can only guess their amazing scent is designed to offset any irritation generated by the incredible mess the petals tend to make.

Shiz asks why do people get sick when they travel, why did the dinosaurs die, and where is the hidden treasure?

Air is recirculated on airplanes and therefore if anyone on board has some germs, you’ll be breathing them; everyone knows the real reason dinosaurs became extinct; and if I had any idea where the treasure was I sure as heck wouldn’t be sitting here blogging when I should be on Monster finding myself a job. (Yeah, I know my answers are getting shorter. I’m getting hungry.) (Truth, kinda.)

Shelly wants to know why fools fall in love.

Because they’re fools. Duh.

Alrighty… thank you all for playing! For some reason, although I fed them just a few short hours ago, my children seem to think they need to eat again, so it’s time for me to go. I hope that you enjoyed this week’s installment as much as I did. And that you have all vowed never to shop at Excellent Purchase even though this morning I did manage to get the TV debacle somewhat straightened out.