Monday, November 18, 2013

Things Are Shaping up to be Pretty Odd

"Like Alexander the Great and Caesar, I’m out to conquer the world. But first I have to stop at Walmart and pick up some supplies.
" -Jarod Kintz

Hi, interwebz friends.  I took a break.  I fell into some feelings that I had to deal with, but don't worry... I brushed that shit off. 

Have you ever prepared to move halfway across the country?  Holy balls, dude.  This is over-freaking-whelming.  I'm in my bedroom all, "Do we need this? I bet I will never even think about this object again for the rest of my life if I threw it away right now... I should pack it."  What the helllllllll?  Why am I packing all this shit?  I've been packing and re-packing the same boxes for weeks trying to weed out all the useless junk in them.  Ugh.  I need a personal assistant or something.  Someone that can throw all my crap away for me that I can be pissed at for throwing it all away... And then secretly thankful that they did.  The worst part of it is, though, that for every one item I throw away there are five more that I remember that I haven't even bought yet.  Being a big kid BLOWS.  Majorly.  I'm all like, "Hey, paycheck, it was good to see you. Thanks for sticking around for 11 seconds! Meet me again in two weeks, so we can do this again."

So, Thanksgiving is around the corner.  If I hear one more word about Christmas before I gorge myself on turkey and pumpkin pie, I swear to sweet ten pound bearded baby Jesus I will flip the fuck out.  Thanksgiving is like Christmas' redheaded step child.  I feel your pain, Thanksgiving.  I'm a redheaded step child, too.  (Just kidding. I'm a redhead, but everybody loves me.)  But seriously.  Why is Thanksgiving the forgotten holiday?  It's the only one where you can show up empty handed, stuff your face until near Diabetic coma, drink half the box of wine your family provided, and pass out on your dad's couch.  This is a golden holiday, America.  Get it together! 

I'm going out on Black Friday for the first time in my life this year.  I am terrified.  Those seasoned ladies freak me out.  I'm so nervous they'll smell my fear and rip the Doc McStuffins Checkup Bench out of my quivering little hands causing me to runaway crying and forcing me to pay full price for the toy my husband is forbidding me to buy.  Oh, yeah.  Doc McStuffins Checkup Bench is happening, Mr. Streetlight.  My Boy wants it.  It's a "girl toy."  Whatevs, dude.  If he likes the little girl that is a doctor, he can play with her toys.  Really, all I'm doing is setting my child up to be a physician and securing early retirement.  Duh!  No, not really.  I just don't give half a crap if they toy is purple with flowers on it.  He picked it out himself from the Big Book 'O Toys, so he can have it.  It fits in his allotted gift budget, so he's getting it.  BAM!  Approximately, 4.5 minutes after Christmas I'll probably want to throw it out the window and promptly set it on fire, though.  I bet it plays the Time for Your Checkup Song.  Lord, help us all.

I got a new doggy.  I thought I would never stop crying.  It was honestly the hardest day of my life to lose that old boy.  I still find myself waiting for him to bound down the hallway like a herd of elephants to play.  His 2.0 is just as stubborn and protective, though.  I think I've managed to take in the dog he became in his next life.  Having a puppy is like having a toddler.  I mean, if I say, "Why is it so quiet in there?" all of them get a guilty look on their faces.  One hides the smashed crackers, two run away from the leaky sippy cup, one tries to hide the chewed on toy, and I cry silently in the corner while my house looks like it's just barely survived a small tornado that threw three kids worth of stuff everywhere.  Nothing makes me happier (read: slightly insane) than hearing children screeching while the dog tries to pull their pants off.  It's a Water Babies Sunblock advertisement in my house all day long.  Why is this dog obsessed with pulling their pants off?  I think I picked the village idiot of dogs.  The kids love him, though.  Ok, ok... I kind of think he's the cutest thing ever, too. Well, ok.  Children, husband, puppy.  Those are the order of cutest things I've ever seen.  Or maybe it was Children, Puppy, Husband...?

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

I Could be Anywhere, But I'm Right Here

"It's not necessary to go far and wide. I mean, you can really find exciting and inspiring things within your hometown." -Daryl Hannah

It's getting real that I'll be leaving my home soon.  It hits hard.  I wanted nothing more than to leave this place when I was younger.  I wanted to take off and just never come back.  I always thought that I was meant for bigger things and this place was just holding me back.  Now, the closer I get to Mr. Streetlight coming home and leaving looming right behind it I wish I had spent more time enjoying this town. 

I was driving home with my kids the other night.  The fields were tall, and the temperature was perfect.  They were giggling in the backseat while we listened to "Mr. Jones" with the wind blowing everyone's hair around.  It really made me miss home before I've even left.  I didn't even know it was possible to get homesick while still at home.  There are so many memories that my kids will never get to have about this place.  

There's more fun to have here than I would have ever admitted when I was a teenager.  We had to make our own fun.  Maybe it wasn't always legal, but it was mostly harmless shenanigans.  Everything was fair game.  There's a memory in every part of the city, and even more in the tiny town I grew up in.  I've spent four years wanting to move back home to all those memories, and now I have to uproot and leave them.  

What's in front of us is a huge adventure.  I'm looking forward to it, but on the same hand I just want to stay here and keep making memories.  I know once we finally get going it'll be easier to deal with.  It's mostly fear that makes me not want to leave, but I'm sure I'll get over it eventually.  We'll come back as often as possible.  Hopefully, our new home will feel more like home.  It's kind of funny.  I have lived in the same house for four years, but I still don't think of it as "Home."  Any house in my hometown would feel like Home.  It's strange how you spend so much time wishing to get out, but it feels wrong when you leave.

The song I used for my title is called "My City."  The first time I heard it on the radio, it made me cry for some stupid reason.  Maybe it's because I love this place more than I realized at that time.  It's a group of local artists trying to put the place more on the map and make positive changes in the community.  I can come up with a memory for every place they are in their video.  So, to end my little ramble, I'll post the video.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Old Shep, He Has Gone Where the Good Doggies Go

"Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge." -Author Unknown 

My good ol boy died tonight.  

He was a big majestic German Shepherd.  I got him when I was 12.  I had had the worst day a 12-year-old could have.  I got home and was being a brooding tween and acting all Woe Is Me.  I was late for dinner after a babysitting gig gone wrong.  I only got paid half of what I was supposed to get because the wrong parent dropped me off and didn't know how much to give me.  Don't get me wrong, these kids were great kids.  I babysat them for years.  This one day was just bad due to a huge miscommunication between their parents.  So, I was out twenty bucks, and that was the end of the world...  Because, you know, 12-year-olds have so many reasons that they need money.  Anyway...  I got home and went storming into the kitchen, and my mom and step-dad are just laughing at me.  So, that just made it worse.  I kept asking them what was so funny.  Then, I see it.  This soft fuzzy little black dog with blonde eyebrows (totally crying while typing this) just staring at me from my step-dad's lap.  I hit my knees and started patting the floor for this cute little shit to come to me.  From that moment on he was my dog, and I was his person.  He slept in my bed with me.  I walked him.  He protected me.  When I would come through the door after school, he would jump up and put his paws around me and put his head on my shoulder.  I never trained him to do it.  He gave me a hug everyday after school because he missed me.    

He was the guardian of the house.  Every night before we went to bed, he would walk through and check all the doors before he came and got on the bed.  As he got bigger, he couldn't sleep in the bed with me, so he would stay on the floor and rest his head on my mattress.  He did this every night until I was 16.  On my 16th birthday, my little brother was born.  They brought him home from the hospital, and the Old Boy knew it was his duty to take care of him, too.  He would pace the hall for hours between our bedrooms.  I'd lie in my bed and hear the "click click click" of his nails on the hardwood floors until I drifted to sleep.  After hours of this, he would lay directly between our bedroom doors making it impossible for anyone to get to me or my little brother without having to go through him first.  I would catch him some nights after waking up to go get a drink, and he would pop up and look at me as if he was saying, "Nope, I wasn't sleeping on the job!"  Every morning at 5:30 when my mom and step-dad got up, he would come in my room and put his head on the mattress until it was time for me to get up.   

He hated my son's biological father to the point that my son's father wanted to keep him outside.  Old Boy did not take kindly to the notion the big new bed I got no longer belonged to he and I.  There began the power struggle between Old Boy and Ex.  He would race to the bedroom at bedtime and sleep there until Ex kicked him out.  As soon as Ex got up for any reason, Old Boy was back.  Many nights I would wake up with him between us.  He stayed by my side through everything when he had the chance.  Every fight, every hurtful thing Ex did, every time Ex did something to me...  That dog stood there and looked at him with more hate than I knew a dog could have, but instead of hurting Ex he growled and stood in that perfect terrifying position until Ex backed off.  I should have known to trust that dog's instincts.  He knew Ex was bad from the beginning.  He could have saved me a lot of hurt, but unlike a human he didn't act high and mighty.  He laid his head on my lap and let me cry when I ended the bad relationship. 

Finally, I left the house and moved in on the farm my mom and step-dad had moved to when I was 19.  This would be Old Boy's final home.  The old dog had eight acres of freedom.  He ran and played like a puppy again.  When he got tired, he laid under his tree in the shade.  He was the playground monitor.  He would keep a watchful eye on the kids while they played and he would let them know when he didn't approve of certain behaviors by giving a stern bark.  He survived five children three of them being my own.  He survived arthritis in his hips.  Arthritis that sometimes got so bad he would get mean over.  He nipped at my step-dad during one of his especially bad days.  He told me to stay away from him.  We thought that was the end.  I remember crying on him and begging him not to be mean anymore.  I promised that if he stopped I wouldn't let anything happen to him and I would make sure he always got what he needed to feel better.  That was that.  We had a deal.

Four years later, it was finally Old Boy's time.  One day he was fine and himself.  He was wagging his tail and bumping me with his wet nose and we played.  The next day, he wasn't ok anymore.  My step-dad broke down in tears, my mom cried, and Mr. Streetlight did, too, halfway around the world.  But I couldn't.  I just stood there when I saw him.  I didn't know how to feel.  I felt like my best friend left me without saying goodbye and I was a little mad at him. Why did that stupid dog have to die?  That's when it hit me.  He wasn't just some dumb dog.  He was my dumb dog.  My step-dad took apart his doggie mansion, and tossed it in a fire.  He said no dog was ever going to be good enough to have it, so it had to go.  Stupid, right?  But I felt the same way.  Maybe it was some hillbilly form of therapy to see that.  Maybe it was like some kind of canine Viking burial.  I cried until the fire burned down to nothing but hot coals.

Tomorrow, he'll get buried under his tree.  Tomorrow, my little brother has to find out that it's no longer his chore to feed Old Boy anymore.  Tomorrow, I'll probably cry some more, but I think it's ok.  Maybe one day I'll find a dog as amazing as that one, but for now I think it's ok to believe I won't.  

I cried it out on a parenting website I frequent, and a couple of the great ladies over there gave me a story called "The Rainbow Bridge."  While I started bawling all over again like a little baby bitch, it helped me feel better.  I think that no matter what we think about what's out in the unknown or whether or not there's something bigger than us, we all really hope that there's a special place somewhere for our furry (or scaled or feathered or whatever type) friends where we'll get them back.  I hope my Old Boy puts his head on my shoulder and gives me a hug again someday.  I hope we'll get to cross the Rainbow Bridge together. 

Photobucket Pictures, Images and Photos

March 2002-August 2013

Monday, August 5, 2013

In a World like This Where Some Back Down, I Know We're Gonna Make It

"Only once in your life, I truly believe, you can find someone who can completely turn your world around." -Bob Marley

Yep, the title of this blog is from a Backstreet Boys song.  Wanna know how many fucks I give?  ZERO!  They might be Backstreet Men now, but I still live in a land where the Backstreet Boys are speaking to my 16-year-old soul.  Three kids doesn't change that thought process at all.  God, they're gonna be so embarrassed by me someday.  Awesome!  My laptop screen is shot.  It just dawned on me that maybe I could do this shit on my phone.  I'm so tech savvy!  So, my apologies for any weird formatting or fun autocorrects!  Alright, on with the blog...

We are in the downhill six months.  Mr. Streetlight is halfway done.  You know what that means?  That means I need to stop slacking off on Zumba...  Ok, I'm kinda just kidding.  He doesn't give a damn.  I do, but he's like, "Meh."  Every morning I wake up and do a sort of happy dance and figure that has to count for some type of exercise.  It seems like it's been a million years since he's been home.  We got to be married a whole 12 days before he had to go.  I find it sort of weird that I've been married this long and still have absolutely no idea how to be married.  Oh well, I guess.  I've always been a fly by the seat of my pants kinda gal.

It's been hard so far.  SO. HARD.  I've spent a lot of time crying.  I feel really pathetic admitting that, but it's true.  Sometimes I feel like I'm gonna snap from frustration, but then I remember how many other wives and husbands are out there doing the exact same thing.  I keep reminding myself that I'm not the first girl in history to miss her husband.  Hell, not even the first of my friends or family.  I look to those ladies for help to get through the shit.  The way a seasoned army wife looks in the eyes of a fledgling like me is amazing.  You look at this hardass woman, and think, "Goddamn, she's a tiger, and I'm a kitten."

It's gonna feel like it's taking forever now, but at least I have a lot of crap to keep myself busy with.  My twins turn one this month.  ONE YEAR OLD?  What?  Where are my babies?  This time last year I was hot and miserable and hated everything.  Now, I have these almost walking and almost talking little girls.  I wanna know who swapped my little five and six pound babies with these kids.  I swear this happened overnight.  It had to have.  My boy is huge.  I can't believe it.  He'll be three in a few months.  Somebody needs to make this stop.  My kids are not allowed to grow up.  If they grow up, that means I'm growing up.  I don't like this concept.  I refuse to believe I will be 23 in less than three weeks.  I still feel like I belong in high school, not like going to college and stealing my grandma's coupon inserts for the best deal on toilet paper.  Ew.  Grown up stuff.  Le sigh.  At least I found the right person to drive nuts for the rest of forever.  We remember all of each others' stories.  Half the trouble we got into was together.  There's always that.  I always talked poor Mr. Streetlight into dumb shit.  Just ask him.  He'll tell you.  Usually with a shake of the head and a sigh.  It's safe to say we're gonna be that couple in the old folks home driving everyone insane with our antics because none of our kids will be willing to deal with our shenanigans.  My poor kids.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

I Hope You Still Feel Small When You Stand Beside the Ocean

“Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.” -Anne Frank

So, I've been watching all the babies in my life turn into kids and all the kids turn into grown ups.  Some of it bums me out, but on the same hand I just have to keep reminding myself that this is supposed to happen and the only thing that stays the same is that nothing stays the same.  I've decided to put it down on... blog... what I've realized and learned in my few short years of being a mom.  They're kind of like my own set of Mom Commandments.

1. A deeply sleeping baby is scary.  You stand there perched over their little zonked out bodies asking yourself, "Is he breathing? Should I wake him up? If I wake him up, he's going to cry. Fuck it, I'm waking him up."

2. Someone somewhere is always going to judge you based on how you feed your baby.  If you formula feed your baby, you're giving her processed poison.  If you breastfeed your baby, you're going to make her clingy. Blah, blah, blah.  Feed the baby.  It doesn't matter if it's from an Enfamil can, or straight from the Mama Tap.  Just feed your baby.

3. Every parenting style is "wrong."  If you use Attachment Parenting, you're letting your kids walk all over you.  If you're a Helicopter Parent, you need to let your kids spread their wings.  If you're a Tiger Mom, you're too mean. Again... Blah, blah, blah.  Do your best.  Tell the other bitties to cram it.

4. Bassinets are like home gym equipment.  You buy that shit with the best intentions at heart, but it gets used like three times before you give up on it.

5. If you're wearing a black top during the spit up ages, you're going to be barfed on.  It doesn't matter if you're using a burp cloth.  The burp cloth could be the size of a three ring circus tent, but that doesn't matter.  It'll still end up on your black shirt.  (A variation of this is dirty toddlers and white shirts. After your kid starts walking, just completely eliminate white from your wardrobe.  It'll save money.)

6. Crawlers put everything in their mouths.  Everything?  Everything.  Having a crawling baby makes you feel like you're the worst house keeper in the world because even if you can't see it, they can.  And they're eating it.

7. You're gonna get peed on.  Boy?  Girl?  Doesn't matter.  If you've never been baptized by your child, you're doing it wrong.  Or maybe you're doing it right?  I don't know.  The jury is still out on this one.

8. Fact: Baby fingernails are the sharpest weapon known to man.  A near second is baby teeth.

9. Potty training a boy if you're a girl sucks.  Major sucks.  My son still hasn't managed the Stand and Pee without needing new pants immediately after.  =|

9.5 If your child is still in diapers and she's baby Houdini and you have this problem about remembering to put on her jammie bottoms...  Take out stock in Gain.  You'll be needing it to make back all the money you're going to be spending.

10. If you tickle your child eventually you're gonna take a foot to the schnoz.  Then, you're going to wonder why you ever thought putting your face that close to flailing toddler limbs was ever a good idea.  Then, you'll probably tickle him again the next day.

11. You're going to get mad at your kid.  You are.  But just when you're about to pull your hair out, she's gonna do the cutest shit ever, and you're just gonna be all, "D'awww! What was I mad about?"

13. Kids are fast.  Invest in roller skates.  And maybe a spare set of arms.

14. If your kids are sick, you're sick.  You may not know it yet, but as soon as they're on the mend and feeling fabulous... You're going to feel plague stricken.

And finally:
15. There is no such thing as too many hugs.  If you feel like you've hugged your kids too many times in the same day, hug them twice before they go to bed.

Sometimes, when I'm thinking about all that random junk we all think about before nodding off, I worry about if I'm sending my kids down the right path.  I wonder if I'm doing all that I can do to make them good people, but then I look back at all the crap I've done in my life.  My mom did the best she could for me.  Later on in life my dad did, too.  It didn't stop me from making bad decisions.  That is a part of live and learn.  We all have to grow up and sometimes mess up and reroute the cosmic GPS to get going in the right direction again.  I hope I show my kids the right way to go about doing things.  I hope they make better choices than I did in those last few crazy teen years, but if they don't I'll always remember Commandment 15.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

If You'll be My Bodyguard, I Can be Your Long Lost Pal.

"The father of a daughter is nothing but a high-class hostage." -Garrison Keillor 

So, seven years ago I found my dad. About this time all those years ago is when it happened.  I just like to remember it as a happy anniversary of sorts.
At a young age I realized I was different than my classmates.  For a long time I thought he was actually just dead.  I didn't know otherwise.  When I was about 11-years-old, I gussied up the courage to ask my mom about my dad.  Turns out he wasn't dead.  So, I spent the next few years of my life hating someone I'd never met.  I often thought about mean things that I would do if I ever met him.  Over time curiosity trumped the hate.  When I was in eighth grade, I wrote a letter to a man that I thought was my father.  I was excited at the thought that I had found my long lost dad.  I didn't tell my mom what I had done, so she was shocked to find a letter with the name of my dad on it when he finally wrote back.  She didn't even let me read it first.  She called me to tell me that the man I had written wasn't him.  I probably cried for a week.  I still have the letter from the guy I wrote.  It's been worn from being read and cried on about a million times, but the guy's kindness is what makes me hold onto it. 

After that disappointment, I swore I would never look for my dad again.  My grandpa promised to try everything he could if I really wanted to know.  He even offered to hire a private investigator to see if he could be tracked down based off old information.  I didn't want to know anymore, though.  That first let down was enough.  I didn't want to keep trying and ending up with sad letters telling me, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. As much as I would love to tell you I'm your father, I can't because I'm not him."  I just let it go.  I went back to feeling angry at my dad.  I didn't want anything to do with it anymore. 

I still remember the exact date, what I was wearing, what the weather was like that day, and all sorts of other trivial things about the day everything happened.  I was coming home from my best friend's birthday slumber party.  I sat down at the computer and logged into my MySpace account to see what was going on and talk about how I'd had such a great time catching up with my friends.  I looked through new comments on my page and then checked out my new messages. Everything was normal until I came across a message from a person with the MySpace default avatar.  In the subject line it just said, "Hi Coco." I figured it was spam, so I checked the little box to delete it.  For some reason, though, I decided not to just trash it. I opened it.  Inside was a message telling me how I was a beautiful girl.  I rolled my eyes at that point thinking I was right about the spam.  Then, I read on... "I don't think your mom wants you to meet me, but I think you're old enough to decide for yourself. I'm pretty sure I'm your dad."  I continued to read and then I was pissed.  It had to be a joke.  We had just spent the night before talking about how I wasn't going to know my father unless he found me.  The timing was uncanny.  It was too coincidental for me to believe it.  I slammed the computer shut feeling every kind of emotion I could all at the same time.  Then, I yelled, "Fuck this guy!"  My mom heard the commotion and was concerned, so I showed it to her.  She told me what questions to ask, and we waited.  The next day he proved that he couldn't be one of my friends playing a prank.

We talked over MySpace for a long couple of months before I finally agreed that it was time to meet my dad.  I talked to him on the phone for the first time the night before I met him.  It got passed around the room.  I got to talk to my stepmother and my dad's best friends who were there with him to celebrate and sort of support him for the next day.  I never knew that the people on the other end of that line would be such a big part of my life someday.

The next hours were a nerve wrecking rollercoaster.  It was finally time to go at about 3:00 pm the next day.  I sat with my mom at a table in a mall food court, and then this guy in a Notre Dame baseball hat approached the table.  My mom said, "There you go."  So, I stood up and reached to shake his hand, and my dad hugged me.  It was surreal.  All those times I imagined screaming at him and berating him for being this terrible person just didn't matter anymore.  This was my dad.  He was kind and funny and the kind of person I had hoped he wouldn't be, so I could keep hating him.  But he wasn't.  And he was impossible to hate.

I don't even know what we talked about.  We had Panera for dinner.  I do remember that, and he took me to Best Buy with him.  Silly, but I didn't want the day to be over.  He picked up something that he needed and bought me a charger for my iPod.  I still have it tucked away in a shoebox.  I won't let anyone touch it like it's the Holy Grail or something.  There's a napkin from Panera in the box with it.

It was a hard road at first.  I still didn't know what to do or how to act, but after some time he became "Dad" to me instead of, "Hey."  His name in my phone contacts changed from first and last name to "Daddy."  My sisters and I became inseparable, and my dad became my best friend.  I look back to the beginning and think about how I felt and it makes me kind of laugh.  I was so afraid that one day I was going to wake up, and it was all going to be this weird dream I'd had or that he was going run away and I'd never see him again.  Now, seven years later, I realize it was silly to feel that way.  He was there when all of my kids were born, and he's making up for what he missed by being there for my kids.  And, boy, do they love the stuffing out of their Papa.  That makes me the happiest person in the world.

So, there's my sappy daddy story.  If there's one thing I hope for when my kids grow up, I hope it's that they can be as close to their dad as I am to mine.  It took a long time, but he's my shoulder to cry on and the person I go to with exciting news or when I need advice.  There's nothing I'm afraid to talk to my dad about.  I really hope that my husband and our kids can have that.

To end on an awesome note, this is the song my dad and I are dancing to at my wedding reception when Mr. Streetlight gets home. We both used to wait for this video to come on MTV all day. Because Paul Simon and Chevy Chase are the bees knees, dude.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Que Sera, Sera

"Having children is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain." -Martin Mull

My kids have peaked and plateaued at this level of insanity that astounds me lately.  Spring is here!  There’s this feeling of, like, child euphoria hanging in the air across the entire city.  I go to the park and see angry little bodies being wedged into carseats with chubby little legs kicking and arms flailing about and think, “Dear God, let mine go easy when it’s our time to leave this parents’ nightmare that is the playground.”  Bedtime should be easy after hours of sweet screaming joy, right?  Negative.  Because for some reason, they think that this day was the last day ever for nice weather.  It's like the fun stuff we did is just going to disappear never to be seen again in the morning.  We must play on it forever, or it will run away!!  Sweet Jesus, I just wanna sleep, kid.  I must gather my strength for tomorrow. 
My twins stand up now.  The crawling was enough.  I mean, it was a workout, but I’m not ready for walking because walking leads to running and kids are so fast.  So, so fast.  Whose great idea was that?  It’s like some hilarious cosmic joke that they’re fast, and I’m slow.  Guess what.  Not laughing.  My legs are too short for child speed distance running.  Let me tell you, when my oldest kid runs, dude is like Forrest frigging Gump.  I don’t need that times three.  For real.  I hope for two girls that are like their mother.  That translates to running only when necessary.  Like, when you’re TPing somebody’s house in high school, and the lights turn on inside.  That’s when you run.  Then, and only then.  Or when you’re sadistic gym teacher thinks it’s brilliant to make you run the track for laps and laps and laps as part of Cardio Day once a week.  No, just no.  (Ok, it was only a mile, but still. Not cool, man.)  I have a feeling I’m not going to be lucky like that, though. 
As the months get warmer, it also seems that my two lovely daughters would like nothing more than to remove their diapers at night.  It would be fine and dandy if they were old enough to hold it.  I have gone through more laundry detergent in two weeks than I think I did in the past two months.  How do you baby-proof a diaper?  Where are the diapers from the good old days where you had to pretty much cut the damn tabs to take them off?  Screw the Velcro, Pampers!  Bring back the glue!  I might just write a sternly worded letter and request this…  Or maybe I’ll just remember to put jammie bottoms on from now on.  One or the other.  Alas, the laundry is done.  I must go.  The little people need sheets.