not that you asked...

Personal Space: Apparently, I deserve none.

I took the red eye home from LA on Sunday night. I was hoping I'd be able to sleep the entire time, but I'm not a total idiot; I was aware that it might not be possible for a variety of reasons. I figured that if I wasn't able to get any sleep, at least I'd be so exhausted when I got back home that I could go to bed early and my body would be able to readjust to east coast time without much issue.

The flight boarded at 9:45. I had a window seat. There was a guy in the aisle seat, and up until 30 seconds before they were about to close the door, we had an empty seat between us. THEN SHE APPEARED.

At first glance, I thought she looked like Lindsay Lohan. Bigger arms (but who DOESN'T have fatter arms than Lindsay Lohan?) and darker hair, but the same look. She even had on black leggings. Regardless, she plopped herself down in the middle seat and stowed her enormous black purse and then she poked me.

“I read that book,” she said, gesturing to my copy of The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. “It's sad.”

“That's what I've heard,” I said.

“I only read it until it got sad,” she said. “I'm such a DOG person [makes weepy eyes] so it was just so hard to read. I should probably try reading it again.”

“Mmmm hmmmm,” I said, because I didn't want to commit to any kind of conversation with anyone for two reasons: 1) I wanted to SLEEP and 2) I spent the entire six-hour flight TO Los Angeles chatting with my two seatmates, and while that was all well and good at the time (WE ORDERED FOOD TOGETHER, EVEN, myself and two total and complete strangers), I had no desire to do it again. Do you know how exhausting it is to talk for six hours while strapped into a row of seats? I felt like that video of cats watching tennis, snapping my head to the left and then to the right and then back to the left again so I could catch the conversation over the drone of the engines.

Anyway. Lindsay left me alone after that, and I put my book away when the plane took off and made myself as comfortable as possible (which isn't comfortable at all, actually) and closed my eyes. About 20 minutes after takeoff, I heard her start up a conversation with the guy on the end of our row. It was the most annoying kind of conversation, the one where someone who has lived in LA - but who isn't actually anyone of note – talks to someone for the sheer purpose of dropping names.

Oh, her dad shares a boat slip in Malibu with Brad Pitt, and she hangs out with Bradley Cooper, wasn't it so great when he got that role in The Hangover? He was SO EXCITED about it; isn't he funny in the movie? Andy Dick and David Spade are SUPER short in person, but Liam Neeson is a giant – yes! He's HUGE in person! And Angelina is nice enough, but she's disappointed she never got to know Jen very well.

And on and on and on and almost all of the details she was giving this dude next to her were something we all could have read on People.com and then there was some kind of guessing game between them about how old they were and OMG, being 29 is like, the scariest thing ever, you know? Oh, you're just 24? Practically a baby! Wait until you're 29, seriously. It is just, like, SUPER scary.

At some point, they stopped talking, so I could stop rolling my eyes behind my eyelids. She ordered and paid $8 for a movie (The Hangover, NATURALLY) and laughed out loud at it for a while (irritating!), then she turned on some music and settled down to try to sleep, even though she'd already loudly declared that she never slept on red eye flights; she just couldn't do it no matter how hard she tried! Of course, the music was absolutely blaring out of the earphones, one more annoyance preventing me from drifting off.

Eventually, though, I snoozed a little. Not heavy, deep sleep or anything, but I know I was in and out of light sleep for an hour or more. The plane was quiet and dark for the most part. I was leaning my head against the window with my feet stretched out under the seat in front of me.

And then.

Apparently while I dozed, she lifted the armrest between us. I know this because I was jolted awake by her bare feet, which were DIGGING INTO MY STOMACH. This was not a case of her accidentally brushing up against me while rearranging herself. Nor was she mistaking me for the armrest. Swear to you, she was PALPITATING MY SIDE WITH HER TOES. Seriously, she was KNEADING my abdomen with her NAKED TOES in an effort to make herself comfortable. And not in a pleasant way, either – this was DIGGING. It occurred to me at that moment, based on the conversation I had overheard and just the way she was going about her business, that she thought she was higher and mightier and way more deserving than either of the people sitting beside her and was going to make herself comfortable in that middle seat at everyone else's expense. So she was trying to stretch out as much as she could, which meant that she felt completely justified digging her feet into my side (WITH THE ARMREST UP) and leaning her head on the other guy's shoulder.

Now what you'll have to understand is that I'm not a confrontational person. Yes, she was invading my personal space. But it was the middle of the night and I was kind of tired and groggy and out of it, so instead of saying anything to her, I just rearranged myself (WITHOUT OPENING MY EYES VERY MUCH, so I wouldn't have to make EYE CONTACT, EMBARRASSING) and got into a position that made it more difficult for her to touch me with her feet. She flopped around like a fish for a while and finally settled down and got myself into a new, relatively comfortable position (I was sitting on one of my feet and had my other foot resting on the armrest of the chair in front of me so my knee was propped up) (WISH I COULD INSERT A DIAGRAM HERE) and think I drifted off again for a few moments because when I woke up

(and here I would like to insert a nice pause for emphasis)

(and another pause, because SERIOUSLY, do you EVEN KNOW WHAT COMES NEXT?)

she had BOTH OF HER LEGS PROPPED UP ON MY KNEE.

Both! Of! Her! (skinny) LEGS! Just RESTING up there, ON MY KNEE, like I was her PERSONAL OTTOMAN. With her ankles crossed, even! It looked LEISURELY!

Which, OMG, seriously? SERIOUSLY!? I mean, how high of an opinion do you have to have of yourself before you rationalize putting your legs up on a complete and total stranger just because you have the middle seat and you want to get comfortable? YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME. This wasn't a case of someone falling asleep and their head accidentally drifting onto someone's shoulder. That is accidental and embarrassing and also kind of endearing if the person who falls asleep on you is an attractive man who blushes when he wakes up and wants to take you to dinner to make it up to you. That's one thing.

This girl decided what, that I owed it to her? That she was younger and more attractive and could get away with it? That she was BETTER THAN ME?

Oh HECK NO, Lohan wannabe.

But again, me with the nonconfrontation issue, you know? I think I said, “Excuse me,” as tersely as I could manage, which probably just sounded groggy and confused and she actually got HUFFY and did that loud exhaling thing and rearranged herself again. And again, and again, actually, until the lady in front of her yelled something about KNOCKING IT OFF PLEASE, and then she stayed quietly in her own personal space until we landed, even though she made it clear that she didn't want to.

I mean, HONESTLY. Honestly!

I have never been so happy to be on a plane that landed an hour early in my entire life. And then I got home and spent the next hour wondering if it had really happened. (It did. It happened. I still kind of can't believe it.)

13 Things You Might Want to Know About Me Before We Share a Very Small Hotel Room and/or a Car for Seven Hours and/or An Entire Weekend Together

(I'm heading to Sacramento this weekend. I'm traveling 3,000 miles away from my family so I can hang out with some people who I only know In Theory, but who I feel like I Actually, Really Know, as weird as that sounds to people I know In The Flesh, and I'm really looking forward to it. Full report when I get back; in the meantime, I've got to write instruction manuals on feeding babies and packing diaper bags for my husband, who will be spending FOUR ENTIRE NIGHTS with these children without my help or intervention. GOD BLESS HIM.)

ONE: I can be... loud. The good news is that I am not loud unless there is a Good Reason to be loud. Good Reasons include things like me telling you a story about throwing the hotel keys (and brass bar key ring) at my husband's head on our honeymoon or getting excited after finding out that you watched every episode of Felicity, too, or that someone made that Velveeta cheese dip with the can of Rotel mixed in. (VELVEETA! There is NOTHING WRONG WITH LIKING VELVEETA! Even if it's cheese that's shelf-stable!) In other words, I'm not obnoxious. Well, I don't think I am, at least.

TWO: I have a small bladder. This is pertinent information for Manda, because I will be riding in a car with her for six? seven? possibly many more? hours between Los Angeles and Sacramento on Friday, and it doesn't matter if the only thing I drank is a tablespoon of orange juice at breakfast, I am going to need to relieve myself more often than seems necessary. (I assure you, IT IS NECESSARY, except in the instance that I am wearing a pair of Depends and you've lined the seat with a Piddle Pad.)

THREE: I would never actually drink orange juice at breakfast. I drink a 12 ounce can of Coca-Cola Classic with my breakfast every morning. I don't do coffee; I don't do tea. I like the can to be cold, and I like it poured into a short glass with ice. If I get a fountain Coke, I prefer it to be from McDonald's. You can think it's gross if you like, you over there, drinking a hot beverage made out of ground up BEANS.

FOUR: I'm going to be that annoying person on vacation who makes time to exercise. I am less than three weeks away from running THIRTEEN ENTIRE MILES, so I have a good reason to do it. I expect that you will make copious amounts of fun of me anyway.

FIVE: I'm sweaty. I'm sorry in advance.

SIX: I feel like I do ok at clothes matching and hair doing, but I am Absolute Crap at makeup. Perhaps one of you knows what I'm doing wrong? PULL ME ASIDE AT SOME POINT AND GIVE ME SOME POINTERS.

SEVEN: I don't have an iPhone. Or a smart phone. Or even a phone that was sold in stores in the last five years. I have a FLIP PHONE and it still works and I hate the phone anyway, so I'm keeping it for now. I would love an iPhone, I guess, but I just bought my brother's secondhand iPod Touch and that seems to do everything an iPhone would do for me except make calls and I'm fine with that. And anyway, I am holding out until Apple and AT&T dissolve this ridiculous monopoly they've developed. DOWN WITH AT&T.

EIGHT: I am probably, at some point, going to interrupt the very nice photo you're trying to take of people who are posing for it. I can't help it. I am trying to make you laugh, and I have this FEELING that I'm going to have a partner in crime to do it with.

NINE: I can't talk TV. I never know what the cool shows are until it's the third season or something, and then I don't want to watch because I like to watch from the BEGINNING, and I never know what time anything's on so I can record it and so I end up watching the Discovery Channel way more than I should. So I don't know a darned thing about Don Draper, but I can tell you what the nine most poisonous snakes of Africa are. YOU'RE WELCOME.

TEN: I am not good at small talk. The whole “nice to meet you, what do you do, where are you from” stuff is HARD for me. I like discussing the DEEP stuff or telling funny stories in a group but I always feel like I'm terrible at introductions and those first awkward minutes of getting to know people. From what I'm reading everywhere else, you people like to hug. So if it gets awkward or weird, I'll suppose I'll just hug you.

ELEVEN: Speaking of hugging, I'm not the world's cuddliest person, but I don't mind hugs, either. I don't often initiate them, I guess, but I certainly don't refuse them. I'm definitely not going to shake your hand – handshaking is for old people and corporate meetings and introducing your boyfriend to your dad for the first time. Please don't air kiss me, however. I have no idea what to do when that happens.

TWELVE: I'm looking forward to losing my Internal Nap Clock for a few days. Every time I go out of the house, I'm thinking, we only have so much time before we need to be home for lunch/naptime/a run/dinner. I'm SO looking forward to being able to do what I want to do, without having to STOP AND EVALUATE THE TIME.

THIRTEEN: I'm hoping that this is the kind of weekend I would scrapbook about, if I scrapbooked. You know? I mean, no pressure or anything, but we all better be BFFs when I leave or I am asking for my money back. (KIDDING, KIDDING.)

I'm headed to LA tomorrow evening! See you all on Friday afternoon! xoxo

This is how it's going to be my entire life, isn't it.

Although Asher will turn three in October, we did not enroll him in preschool this year.

I have mixed feelings about it. Actually, all my feelings about whether it was right to keep him out of preschool this year are on the same page: I know we did the right thing for him. I think my confusion about preschool stems more from me wondering whether the reason he ISN'T ready for it is because of something we may have done wrong as his parents.

That sounds harsh, I guess. I mean, Asher's a normal two-year-old kid, in most respects. But he's a sensitive and timid kid, too, and sometimes I think maybe that's my fault; maybe I didn't expose him to other kids enough, or I didn't get him involved in enough activities that encouraged him to develop and understand his strengths and abilities. Maybe I should have spent more time away from him; maybe I should have gotten someone to take care of him a couple times a week while I did my own thing. Maybe then he would be more articulate and confident. Maybe it would thrill him to enter a classroom filled with toys and kids and art projects instead of terrifying him.

On Sunday, we went to church, and for the first time ever, Asher went to the two- and three-year-old classroom instead of the nursery. We talked to Asher for WEEKS about going to his classroom. We emphasized that it wasn't the nursery, that it was for big kids, that his cousin would be there and that Mama and Dada were just going to be upstairs, that if he went to class, we'd all go out for cheeseburgers afterwards. And then 40 minutes into the service, we were paged back downstairs because Asher had cried the entire time we were away. Forty minutes of crying. There were at least 40 minutes left in the service, and his teacher was pretty sure she didn't want to see him crying for 40 more. Knowing that he'd been down there crying filled me with so many different emotions. I was sad for him, but I was frustrated by him, too. I was jealous of parents whose children waltzed into that classroom and never looked back. I was fearful of having to do it all over again the next week. And I was a little bit angry at myself, for not knowing what to do to make it right.

I know that it will probably get better with time. We've been talking about it again all week, going so far as to promise Asher that if he can stay in class and be brave, that we'll go out to lunch and let him pick where we eat. He acts nervous when we talk about it, but he answers that yes, he will go back to class, and that yes, he will try to be brave. I don't know if we'll see any improvement, to tell you the truth.

I guess what's hardest for me is that I feel so much pressure to have my kid in preschool. I admit, it's not DIRECT pressure; no one's getting all up in my face and telling me I'm an idiot for not doing it. It's not that kind of pressure. It's the pressure that I put on myself... not necessarily for not putting my kid in preschool, I guess, but for having a kid who isn't READY to go to preschool. He's smart and capable and wonderful but he isn't ready. Right? Or IS he ready, and I'm just not pushing him enough? Would he have been ready if I had done more to GET him ready?

And in the next breath, I'm telling myself that there's nothing I could have changed, that he's been a shy kid from the beginning. That his dad and his uncle both had similar personalities as kids (Dave was in preschool for WEEKS before he ever uttered a SINGLE WORD to anyone and my mom had to peel my hysterical brother from her legs on the first day of FIRST GRADE) and that he'll warm up to people and new experiences when he's ready. Except I don't know what that means, really. When he's ready? I always assumed that when kids were ready to do something, they just did it. But I'm realizing now that some kids probably have to cry for a few days or protest in other ways – in other words, they have to get used to it. Right? I know, I'm talking myself in circles.

In my heart, I know I have a more sensitive and timid kid. But am I being overprotective of him because he's sensitive? Or is he sensitive because I've been overprotective?

God knows, I don't want the sensitive part of him to go away. I don't want him to change, I don't want him to be forced to be someone he's not, that's for sure. I don't want him to think he has to have a bazillion friends if he only needs a handful; I don't want him to think he has to be the center of attention if he wants to be a quiet observer. I want him to be who he is and nothing more. I want him to be his best self. I just wish I was really sure that I'm helping him to do that.

**I wanted to add, I'm not pushing preschool for the academic aspect, just the social one. And I am not even sure that if he were READY to go to preschool, if I would have sent him this year, as his birthday falls 10 days past the cutoff for the school year, so he won't even attend kindergarten until 2012, and three years of preschool seems like a lot. (Plus I kind of like spending my days with him.) It's the age-old "nature vs. nurture" debate, I guess.

Dress Me, Vol. 3? Or 4? I can't remember.

We are headed to a couples wedding shower on Saturday. I actually really enjoy showers; especially wedding showers. I mean, I like baby showers and all, but I have a really hard time watching someone open baby presents without thinking, “Oh, they are going to be SO disappointed with that piece of crap stroller,” or “Cordoroy pants? For a NEWBORN? For reals?” (I have really strong feelings about the kind of pants newborn babies should be wearing, which is NO PANTS AT ALL. You only get to spend three entire months in your pajamas ONCE in your life. LIVE IT UP, NEWBORNS, save the denim and cordoroy for when you can hold your own heads up.) I would never say any of that out loud, you understand. I can ooh and ahh over tiny, crotch-snapping t-shirts with the best of them.

But WEDDING SHOWERS! I can't help it, I love seeing the shiny appliances and the wine glasses and the fluffy towels and the crystal vases. Come to think of it, though, I've never actually been to a couples wedding shower. Unless you count my own couples shower, which was actually a tool shower for Dave. You can't really throw a shower for a dude without including women, you know? I can't imagine Dave's horror if the tool shower had just been him and a bunch of his friends opening up elaborately-wrapped wrench sets and drill bits. So the women came, too, and a couples shower was born, even though all the presents were for Dave. Having women there was also a way of ensuring that there would be things to eat and drink, as well as a big cake with a hammer made out of gray and brown frosting on it.

(You know, one of the things Dave got at that shower was a really nice yellow shovel. About six months after we got married, we landscaped our postage stamp-sized front yard, and that included digging up this hideous bush that had been there since 1978. But while Dave was digging up the roots, the shovel handle snapped in half. So we took it back to Sears, because right there on the handle was a little blurb that said something about how the shovel had a lifetime guarantee, but then? When we told the guy at Sears what happened? He got all huffy and said, “Well, you're not supposed to dig up STUMPS with it. I'm not sure I can replace it if you broke it digging up STUMPS.” And Dave was all like, are you kidding me? A shovel is a shovel is a shovel and you should be able to use a fricking shovel for whatever it is you NEED TO SHOVEL. So the guy gave us a new one, but I went home and checked, and there is no such thing as a shovel made just for stump removal, which leads me to believe that the job calls for a REGULAR shovel, which is exactly the kind of shovel we had in the first place.)

ANYWAY.

So! I'm going to a couples' shower. On Saturday evening. What (out of my relatively plain and simple wardrobe) should I wear?

   

My options include the turquoise dress from the Gap ($22 on sale at the end of summer! and it has POCKETS!), dark jeans with a ruffled cami and a cropped sweater (pay no attention that it's a MATERNITY sweater; it isn't any larger than any other cropped sweater, since the hem falls way above where my stomach would have begun protruding) or a simple black sundress from Ann Taylor LOFT (it's cotton and has a ruffle at the bottom, and is probably a little bit boring, I guess).

Which would you choose? (Please don't say NONE OF THE ABOVE, unless you know my wardrobe in an intimate fashion and can make a VERY SPECIFIC SUGGESTION, because we're kind of out of clothes money at the moment, what with the kids growing by leaps and bounds and all.) Also, I would LOVE it if when you vote for number one, two, or three, if you would add exactly how you would accessorize it. Accessorizing remains my kryptonite. Anything more than a pair of earrings or a necklace (NEVER BOTH) and I feel like I'm really overdoing it; like if I walk out of the house, people might point and stare. Would you add a cardigan to either dress? Would you wear a long necklace with the cami/sweater or a short one? Would heels be too dressy? Would flats do the opposite? HERE I AM, YOUR FASHION SPONGE.

Although, I'm not sure I can hold myself back from wearing these shoes should we decide on Option 3:

(TARGET. ON CLEARANCE. I know!)

Vacation-Related Quick Takes! Except once again, nothing about these is quick or even fast-paced.

ONE: We stopped to eat at Zaxby's on the way down to the beach. Zaxby's and Sonic are our two preferred fast-food vendors when traveling southbound, but we rarely find a Sonic that isn't fourteen miles off the Interstate and boarded up, NOT THAT THIS HAPPENED, or anything, STUPID STUPID POORLY INFORMED GPS SYSTEM.

Specifically, we stopped at a Zaxby's in the sweet little college town of Greenville, North Carolina. I tell you this because Dave and I had discussed, in the car, immediately prior to arriving in the sweet little college town of Greenville, North Carolina, how neither of us had ever been there. NEVER. Also EVER. And then we got out of the car and went into the restaurant and Dave says, “Hey! This is the same Zaxby's we went to last year on the way to the beach!” And I was all, “Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME? Did we not just discuss this in the car?” And he's all, “What? It looks the same! Don't you think it looks like the same one?” Which is when I left him to order my food so I could haul the first of two very dirty diapers into the bathroom. And I rolled my eyes as I walked away. I mean, surely this man understands the concept of chain restaurants and how they are DESIGNED to look identical? I suppose if we had dropped him off at the Target next door, he would have thought we were already back at home.

Except then I remembered this ongoing argument that we have been having since, oh, 2002 or so, because that's when Dave took me to this restaurant called Hops and although I had never been to Hops before, Dave swore that I had, and that he had been the one who had taken me. “No,” I told him while we were standing in the lobby of Hops, which I was seeing for the very first time. “I have never been here before.” “Yes you HAVE,” he continued to insist. “No, I HAVEN'T,” I told him, “because if I had been here before, I never would have come back. We've been waiting an hour and a half for a table and the floor is FILTHY.” And yet, he continued to assure me I'd been there before - with HIM, no less – for the next five? six? years, until one night I broke him and he finally admitted that maybe it was possible that perhaps he had taken another girlfriend there, and although he couldn't remember EXACTLY who it was, he was no longer 100 percent certain it had been me. WELL. DUH.

TWO: You know what sucks? When your kid is already a totally craptastic sleeper and at nearly nine months old still gets up two, three, four, FIVE TIMES A NIGHT. But you can take a small amount of solace in the fact that putting her down is relatively easy since she loves having a delicious warm bottle and being rocked to sleep but then you show up for your week-long vacation and there is NO ROCKING CHAIR TO BE FOUND so you have to simulate a rocking motion on a squeaky twin bed for all naps and bedtimes and also each and every time she gets up in the middle of the night, all two, three, four, FIVE TIMES and it takes 20 times as long to calm her down because she KNOWS YOU'RE FAKING IT, and there is NO ROCKING CHAIR, just a STUPID TWIN BED with an ugly pink comforter on it and what sucks even more is you didn't even come home with six-pack abs from all the rocking, only sore arms. And bigger bags under your eyes. (As if that is even possible! I am fast approaching Hag Status!)

THREE: So remember how I asked you for book recommendations? I bought some books! Like, a THOUSAND books or something before I left. And I packed them all in my little fancy computer bag and carried it out to the car all by myself even though it weighed as much as three Ashers and then up to the beach house when we got there a bazillion hours later and then? I NEVER OPENED IT AGAIN. I read one (1) book while I was on vacation. It took me six days to get through 608 pages. Pages that were written in ENGLISH, even! Not, like, French or Greek or some other language I have no knowledge of and which would necessitate my obtaining of some kind of dictionary for the purposes of translating the entire thing. It was so unbelievably depressing. (The book I read, though – the book I read was EXCELLENT and I would highly HIGHLY recommend it. TO EVERYONE.)

FOUR: On the drive home, I had... An Incident. (Remember when they used to print that page of Embarrassing Moments in Seventeen magazine? OH how I loved reading those. Does anyone remember what it was called? Before they called it Traumarama and published a book, I mean.) ANYWAY. We had stopped for lunch about 12:30, but by 2:30 both kids had crapped their pants and needed new diapers and I had to pee. So we pulled over at a rest stop. I got Lucy out, Dave got Asher out, we started towards the giant Building of Stainless Steel Toilets and suddenly, I realized I was having An Emergency. So I said to Dave, “I AM HAVING AN EMERGENCY.” And he got all huffy about it and said, “Well all you have to do is TELL ME,” but I was already throwing Lucy at his head and speedwalking to the bathroom where I found myself in the most awkward of situations; the kind of situation I have not experienced nor FEARED experiencing since, I don't know, high school? The kind of situation that required me to throw my underwear into the TRASH BIN and then exit the building holding my diaper bag in front of my shorts and MY HANDS OVER THE BACK so I could try to hide what looked like evidence from a crime scene. And then I made Dave dig through all of the stuff in our trunk to get me something new to wear from the suitcase, a suitcase which is the size of a small bathroom, which in suitcase world is MEGA-HUGE, which means it was the first thing to go into the trunk, which means it was buried underneath absolutely EVERYTHING ELSE. It took him a long time to get to the suitcase, is what I'm saying, and I spent most of that time naked from the waist down in the front seat, feeling like I was fourteen again.

...Wait, feeling like I was fourteen because of The Incident, not because I was naked in the front seat. Being naked in the front seat doesn't actually remind me of any particular age.

FIVE: I have read enough Baby's First Time At The Beach! blog entries to know that babies like to eat sand. I knew my kid would be no different, despite her adamant rejections of most foodstuffs that are actually tasty and digestible. She ate as much sand as she could manage. I was constantly monitoring her and trying to keep her away from it, but MY GOD, there are MILES of it; sand as far as the eye could see! It was like a Cruise Ship Buffet for BABIES! So she managed to eat a decent amount, handfuls when she could sneak them, of course, but she was also keen on sucking it off of her toes or off sand buckets or from toys. And then, on our second morning of vacation, my mother changed her diaper and announced that she had produced a Sand Turd. An entire turd made from what appeared to be sand, and ONLY sand. I kind of got a little more vigilant about it after that. (I didn't want her colon to be over-exfoliated or anything.)

SIX: Did I just write about my period in Thing Number Four? Without warning anyone? Yes, it appears that I did. APOLOGIES. I have no limits anymore. Which is exactly why I can tell you that Dave and I have this new agreement that I will remember to flush the toilet if he will remember to close the kitchen cabinets after he opens them and removes whatever it is he needs. (IN MY DEFENSE, I do not flush the toilet overnight. I flush during the day. I have these crazy notions about toilets waking up babies and therefore, I don't risk it.) (There is no defense for Dave, as this morning I closed SIX cabinets and drawers that he had left open. Six cabinet doors and drawers is approximately 30 percent of ALL of our cabinets and drawers. My flushing percentage is WAY better than that.)

SEVEN, NOT VACATION-RELATED: My hot brother is married and has produced spawn with his wife. So that road is closed to you, Commenters and Willing Homewreckers. (Just kidding!) HOWEVER, may I continue to remind you that my brother-IN-LAW (Dave's older brother) is still single and rather adorable as well? 

(You're welcome to introduce yourself in the comments.)

Because we're still getting up four times a night.

Here. HAVE SOME PICTURES. Of our picturesque vacation, which was also the opposite of restful and relaxing and what was even the point of asking you for book recommendations when I only managed to read ONE MEASLY BOOK THE ENTIRE WEEK? HaRUMPH.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

For the record.

I consumed some alcohol before participating. HEAR ME OUT.

I did not NEED the alcohol for the reason you might think I did, for I am perfectly capable of embarrassing myself without any help from anything that exists because of a fermenting process.

However, I DID need the alcohol if I was going to have to part with the FOUR ENTIRE DOLLARS it cost to participate. Four dollars! Seriously! PASS THE TEQUILA. Then PASS IT AGAIN. Also, where is my margarita and then my Bud Light pitcher? Now you can have my four dollars, which is actually EIGHT DOLLARS since my husband wanted to participate too. Which, FINE. Since this is our VACATION.

Why, yes, Internet. Those ARE enormous motorized stuffed animals. HEINOUSLY UGLY stuffed animals at that. See my brother? The one riding the bear all the way to the left? You can't hear it, but my brother's animal is playing music. “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” actually, which seems appropriate considering this is probably an attraction for PRESCHOOLERS, not pathetic people in their mid-30s who may have left the babies with their grandparents and DON'T KNOW QUITE WHAT TO DO WITH THEMSELVES WHAT WITH ALL THE TEQUILA. And FREEDOM.

Sometimes I kind of enjoy being the center of attention. And... well. Four people in their mid-30s riding enormous motorized stuffed animals tends to attract a crowd. I would have stood up on mine, if I hadn't been absolutely certain that when I fell off, my skirt would have flown up over my head and revealed my dainty underpinnings to people of all ages. 

Motorized stuffed animals FTW!

(Also, I know EXACTLY how to get my eight bucks back.)

Well. This went deeper than I intended.

We hosted an old friend of mine and her boyfriend for brunch a couple of weekends ago. She and I had worked together for a while but hadn't seen each other in years. In fact, the last time I saw her, Asher was three months old and I drove out to the airport to see her during a layover, which meant that A) we saw each other for MAYBE 30 minutes total and B) I WAS A POSTPARTUM HEIFER WEARING PANTS IN AN ASTRONOMICAL SIZE. Anyway, we had a lovely visit and I made completely edible food that everybody actually ate and we talked about all kinds of things like our old coworkers and how family-friendly Indianapolis is and what she'll be doing when she graduates with her master's degree in a medical field from a very prestigious Ivy League institution, which is joining her adorable boyfriend in (family-friendly) Indianapolis where he runs his very own non-profit organization that builds schools for children in Uganda.

Ahem.

A medical degree from an Ivy League school. And yes, BUILDING SCHOOLS IN UGANDA.

Now don't get me wrong, these are two wonderful people with drive and ambition who work hard and have done amazing things with their lives because they've chosen to commit to doing them. But it was hard to ignore the humor in the contrast of our lives. You know, like when my husband was asking my friend which medical specialty she is thinking of pursuing, while I'm holding my daughter up to my face and sniffing her butt and announcing that she pooped before hauling her upstairs for a new diaper while my son crawls under the kitchen table and gets his head stuck in the rungs of one of the chairs.

And when we all finally retired to the living room, it was not for a cocktail or a quiet discussion of local politics, but for an episode of Dora, with ambient background music provided by everything Fisher-Price has ever made that operates on AA batteries. This was so the non-pooping child would stop demanding that we all go outside in 95-degree weather (with 90 percent humidity) (and copious mosquitos) (bearing West Nile Virus) to play baseball and the baby would just stop screaming.

(Do I have to say that horribly annoying mommybloggy thing about how I chose this life and I wouldn't change a thing about it and I love my children blah blah blah and all that other cheesy nonsense? Because DUH.)

I think my friend wants to get married someday and have children of her own. I know I wanted it for myself at some point when I was where she is now: dating, graduating from college with a degree that she wants to use, and sorting out exactly what to do with her life. But MAN, I remember exactly how I felt when I was in her position and hung out with people who were in my current one. I felt like surely, SURELY it would be different when I had my own kids. My kids weren't going to be rambunctious or loud. They'd have perfect table manners and wouldn't fling blueberries across the room or refuse to eat a DELICIOUS CASSEROLE made out of EGGS and SAUSAGE and CRESCENT ROLL DOUGH and GOBS OF CHEESE, all of which are well-tolerated in INDIVIDUAL FORM. They would play with wooden toys (nothing formed of primary-colored plastic, or that, GOD FORBID, sings catchy little tunes about ridiculous things like FOOD GROUPS and SHAPES) and they would color quietly in restaurants and they would say please and thank you and Mother, may I? and they would poop gold coins.

(At this point, the lack of gold coins is the LEAST of my worries.)

And my friend assured me that Asher and Lucy were sweet and charming and adorable, and of course they are. And I know they had a good time seeing us and seeing the kids, it's just that sometimes I get this opportunity to step back and see my life through the eyes of someone who I knew before I was the person I am now and I think, how weird is this? I made, and consequently OWN two small people! And then I think about how someday, these two small people aren't going to be the focus of my entire life like they are right now. Someday they won't be my full-time job anymore. They won't need me to unwrap their granola bars or find a stuffed turtle before bed or buckle them into a car seat and what happens then? Am I going to feel completely lost in the world without them to focus on? Will I be able to cobble together some kind of career to dedicate myself to? Will I know what to do with myself? It is sometimes hard to convey the idea that although I love being their mom, I don't want that to be ALL I ever do, you know?

Interested to hear what you plan to do when your kids aren't babies anymore, especially if you've stayed home with them. Go back to your old career? Start something new? Volunteer? Go back to school? Weep and mourn? Do you think this is why Mrs. Duggar keeps having babies? So she doesn't have to think about doing anything differently?