First of all, you can all just calm down. And by “you all” I mean ASHLEY. Jesus, girl. Just because you can raise three boys and still show up to work wearing underwear AND pants doesn’t mean the rest of us are that handy.
No. There is no “major life announcement” coming at the end of this post, although, that would be a nice tidy wrap up, would it not? Number Two, Part Three: NUMBER THREE (SURPRISE!!! HA HA!!) WOO HOO! Another baby! I WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE.
No. No thank you. I like my mental health right where it is. (Phasing in and out at random intervals with no rhyme or reason.) Throw another kid on top of that, and flirffety sasbb placknut mangle stew nubbers, you know what I mean?
No, this whole writing exercise really was about Patrick. My dear, sweet, second son, who is so special, and, who, in the time it has taken me to wax poetic about his Christ-like tendencies, has managed to transform himself into, I hate to say it but, well, kind of a butthead.
I say that with love, of course. The poor kid has some kind of sinus thing going on, and his eyes are all red and puffy, and he probably has an infection that will only escalate enough to warrant a doctor’s visit when it smells me really getting into my book this weekend, but HOLY NUT, KID, FIVE TANTRUMS IN TWO HOURS TONIGHT? REALLY? NO ONE IS ASKING YOU TO EAT THE EGG YOLK, BUT THE CHICKEN CAN’T LAY THE EGG WITHOUT IT, MAN. C’EST LA POULTRY VIE.
And all week he’s been stabbing Gus with food and calling him names.
“(Fish stick jab) You’re fat, Gus.”
Apparently that’s his idea of really harshing his brother’s mellow. Or, as Larry astutely pointed out, maybe some kid at school is callingPatrick fat. Which, maybe I need to kill that person BECAUSE I AM GOAL ORIENTED LIKE THAT.
Who calling my baby fat? My baby not fat.
My baby NOT fat. He just like he hot cocoa.
No. There is no “major life announcement” coming at the end of this post, although, that would be a nice tidy wrap up, would it not? Number Two, Part Three: NUMBER THREE (SURPRISE!!! HA HA!!) WOO HOO! Another baby! I WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE.
No. No thank you. I like my mental health right where it is. (Phasing in and out at random intervals with no rhyme or reason.) Throw another kid on top of that, and flirffety sasbb placknut mangle stew nubbers, you know what I mean?
No, this whole writing exercise really was about Patrick. My dear, sweet, second son, who is so special, and, who, in the time it has taken me to wax poetic about his Christ-like tendencies, has managed to transform himself into, I hate to say it but, well, kind of a butthead.
I say that with love, of course. The poor kid has some kind of sinus thing going on, and his eyes are all red and puffy, and he probably has an infection that will only escalate enough to warrant a doctor’s visit when it smells me really getting into my book this weekend, but HOLY NUT, KID, FIVE TANTRUMS IN TWO HOURS TONIGHT? REALLY? NO ONE IS ASKING YOU TO EAT THE EGG YOLK, BUT THE CHICKEN CAN’T LAY THE EGG WITHOUT IT, MAN. C’EST LA POULTRY VIE.
And all week he’s been stabbing Gus with food and calling him names.
“(Fish stick jab) You’re fat, Gus.”
Apparently that’s his idea of really harshing his brother’s mellow. Or, as Larry astutely pointed out, maybe some kid at school is callingPatrick fat. Which, maybe I need to kill that person BECAUSE I AM GOAL ORIENTED LIKE THAT.
Who calling my baby fat? My baby not fat.
My baby NOT fat. He just like he hot cocoa.
Sweet baby.
Which reminds me. Where was I?
Oh, right. I had a baby and sold my soul to corporate America. Which, I have to say, was probably the best thing that could have happened at that point in time, for a number of reasons. Putting on big girl clothes and acting normal and competent actually tricked my brain into thinking I was a big girl who was normal and competent.
ACT AS IF. ACT AS IF. I can’t stress this life skill enough.
Anyway, somewhere in the midst of writing about “solutions” to “counteract the disappearing yield curve and facilitate and diversify the integrated flickety flack shmack noober mc’shmubble” of “financial institutions” I somehow managed to stay conscious enough to engage in sexual intercourse and become pregnant with another child.
Wonders never cease.
We did not find out what we were having, because WHY BOTHER? I WON’T BELIEVE YOU ANYWAY. But I was not in the least bit surprised to find myself the mother of two boys. And if I were to keep going with this enterprise (not that I would, ASHLEY), I would not be in the least bit surprised to find myself with fourteen boys.
Boys are my specialty.
You just stand in the middle of the kitchen and say, “Don’t eat that. Don’t touch that. Don't smell that. Don't put your hands in your pants. Don’t stick that on your brother. Go outside. Play with that OUTSIDE. OUT. SIDE. But, slow down, SLOW DOWN YOU’RE GOING TO FALL AND BREAK YOUR—It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, sweetie, no. No, no, no, shh, shh, sweet love, no, shh, no, no, NO! NO! NO WE DON’T WIPE OUR NOSES ON THE CURTAINS.”
It’s easy.
But Patrick. Man, what a difference with Patrick. I brought him home and just carried him around. For two straight weeks, I held that child. Not because he demanded to be held, but because how could I not? I was so HAPPY. And he was so CUTE. And “Yay! Babies!” I would wake up in the middle of the night, sitting upright, still holding him. I never wanted to put him down. Never wanted to record his bowel movements in a spiral notebook. Didn’t pay any attention to his feeding “schedule”, I just fed him. And when the doctors asked me how many times he was eating and pooping and wetting diapers, I was all WHO KNOWS? But look at him! He’s fine!
Even without my crazy notebook ... he lives!
(WHO PUT THE LONG WINDED SAUCE ON MY BURRITO? I have to go to work.)
We did not find out what we were having, because WHY BOTHER? I WON’T BELIEVE YOU ANYWAY. But I was not in the least bit surprised to find myself the mother of two boys. And if I were to keep going with this enterprise (not that I would, ASHLEY), I would not be in the least bit surprised to find myself with fourteen boys.
Boys are my specialty.
You just stand in the middle of the kitchen and say, “Don’t eat that. Don’t touch that. Don't smell that. Don't put your hands in your pants. Don’t stick that on your brother. Go outside. Play with that OUTSIDE. OUT. SIDE. But, slow down, SLOW DOWN YOU’RE GOING TO FALL AND BREAK YOUR—It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, sweetie, no. No, no, no, shh, shh, sweet love, no, shh, no, no, NO! NO! NO WE DON’T WIPE OUR NOSES ON THE CURTAINS.”
It’s easy.
But Patrick. Man, what a difference with Patrick. I brought him home and just carried him around. For two straight weeks, I held that child. Not because he demanded to be held, but because how could I not? I was so HAPPY. And he was so CUTE. And “Yay! Babies!” I would wake up in the middle of the night, sitting upright, still holding him. I never wanted to put him down. Never wanted to record his bowel movements in a spiral notebook. Didn’t pay any attention to his feeding “schedule”, I just fed him. And when the doctors asked me how many times he was eating and pooping and wetting diapers, I was all WHO KNOWS? But look at him! He’s fine!
Even without my crazy notebook ... he lives!
(WHO PUT THE LONG WINDED SAUCE ON MY BURRITO? I have to go to work.)
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