Because Tomorrow I Won't Remember...

...what I don't want to forget today.

You are 4. You are rotten. The end.

You call yourself the medium sister. No "middle" for you and you in no way fit the middle child mold. Your brownish blonde hair is unkempt and your bangs are always too long. Your eyes are big and as brown as chocolate and look just like your daddy's. You have the biggest toothy smile I have ever seen and it literally takes over a room.

You are funny. You are so funny and you know that you are funny. You have a unique sense of timing and can crack everyone up without even trying. You are emotional. You get your feelings hurt so easily and you are not easily persuaded to get over it and move on. You can pout for hours. Actually, a more accurate observation would be that you can be stubborn for hours. The pouting can be over but the stubbornness takes control and really just won't let you lose.
You know no strangers. You are every one's friend and have absolutely no sense of stranger danger. You tell everything you know and always have a story - even if it is not true. You get upset because I won't encourage you to hug every cashier or restaurant patron we encounter goodbye. I'm not kidding. You are genuinely sweet and caring, charming and friendly. You are the apple of your teachers' eyes and always ready for a friendly chat.

You are never quiet. You are always making some kind of noise and never, ever, ever stop. Even in your sleep you cry out with one loud sigh or another. You love sound effects and music, and are an incredibly talented singer. You learn the words to songs super fast and always have one in your mind that you sing over and over again. Sometimes, I don't even think that you realize that you are making noises, it just comes naturally.

You are always on the move. Whether it be jumping, climbing, twirling or just digging your toe in the dirt, you always have something to do. You are quite busy and rarely to you ever just sit for a break. You do not, however, put this exciting energy into eating. You are one of the slowest eaters I have ever known. But even then, you are moving.

You love to please those in charge. You are quite complacent and love to be praised for your first time obedience. You will do some things without being asked and are very aware of other's feelings. You are a rule memorizer, follower, and repeater. You love to tell the rules to others who aren't following them. I'm not always sure that this is because you are trying to be helpful but instead because you are legalistic.

You are independent, enchanting, entertaining, and emotional. You are headstrong and fun; one extreme to the other. You are my angel baby, my "medium" - my second born daughter.

The Best Purchase Ever Made...

When you buy something similar to these...

And then hear Tater say this:

"Tot - don't clean up all the dirt. Save some for me!!"

You realize that $1.68 (x2) buys a lot more than you ever expected.

Drama for the Mama

Let me preface this story by telling you that Sunday, in general, is the hardest day of the week for my little family. It is the only day of the week that we all have to be at the same place at the same time. It's hard to get three wee ones ready from head to toe, and I normally have nothing to wear. It is the day when it seems like our house shrinks at least in half, and anything that can go wrong does. I think that it's the day the Devil does whatever he can to try and get you to decide that you can't make it to church. I think that, while you are sleeping on Saturday night, clothes are wrinkled and keys are hidden and shoes are strategically placed to ensure maximum trippage capability. This is why I think that in order to take our stand against the devil's schemes, we need not only the belt of truth and the helmet of salvation, but also a little alarm button of some sort to help you find your keys.

The long morning and afternoon leads to an even longer Sunday night, which includes AWANAs for Tater and Tot from 6 to 8. They have a blast, learn alot, and really just run themselves ragged. So, needless to say, the kids are tired by the time we get home.

All of that (my word!) to tell you this story about Tot. Tot who, on this particular Sunday, was absolutely exhausted. Combine the exhaustion with a Benadryl buzz and a skinned knee, and you've got the perfect recipe for drama. May I present to you,

The Knee

complete with pictures

It all began with the first steps into the classroom. There was an unnoticed fall and a quiet comment about a hurt knee. There were no tears, no requests for kisses, and really, no one even paid attention. The fall was followed by two hours of play, a trip to the grocery store, and a walk into the house. That is when we saw it. And by we I mean she. And by she I mean Tot.

A spot of blood on her white tights.

A spot smaller than a penny, but with consequences as large as the sea.

The spot of blood led to the discovery of a small scratch on her left knee. A spot that was, in fact, smaller than the spot of blood on the tights. A scratch so miniscule, that you probably can't even see it in this professional photo taken by her father, The King of Shorts in Winter.

That scratch was then treated with an "icepack" that is about the same size as, well, the palm of her hand.

Little did we know that the wound would leave her unable to walk.

In case you can't tell, she's scooting. On her bottom. She scooted on her bottom from the living room to the dinner table, all the while proclaiming "I'm hurt! I can't walk! I need my icepack! I have a RED SPOT on my knee!"

It was a long, agonizing trip.

Even a steaming bowl of the best Spaghetti-O's in town couldn't stop the pain. Or the tears.

We did, however, have a medical breakthrough.

When nature calls?

All wounds are healed.

Do you smell that? Part III

Okay, I’m here to try and finish this smelly story. When we last spoke of the shampoo memories of 2004, I was talking about the imminent birth of one little Tot. After those 2 or so weeks in the hospital, my husband walked around my bed and kissed me goodbye so he could go home for the evening. And, yep, you guessed it, my water finally broke. And when I say broke, I mean BROKE! For around 45 minutes, my bed filled and filled and filled some more with amniotic fluid. And I couldn’t get out of it. The whole cord-prolapsing/placental abruption/hemorrhaging thing prevented me from being able to jump up out of bed. Gross, right? Yeah, I think so, too. Well, after placental abruption, slight hemorrhage, and a baby who wasn’t tolerating labor very well, I was whisked away to the operating room for an emergency C-section.
I lay in that cold, bright, sterile room and realized that everything in my life was about to change. I just didn’t realize quite how much it was going to change. They cut, they tugged, they pulled and prodded, and finally, they lifted my little preemie right out of my stomach.
And she cried. And I cried. And then she stopped crying. And the nurses and doctors stopped talking. And I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And I asked what was wrong. And I got no answers. Only silence. Scary, scary, scary silence. No crying. No talking. Just silence.
They brought her around the curtain for 2 ½ seconds so I could see her. And then they took her away to the NICU.
And I didn’t see her again for 8 hours.

*Obviously, I have not finished this story. It turns out, to my surprise, that it is a little harder to share than I first thought. I will finish, just not today. Please bear with me. Your patience is appreciated.

Do you smell that? Part II

Where was I? Oh, yes. The shampoo.
At my early 30 something week ultrasound, it was found that I had too much amniotic fluid. My doctor told me I had polyhydramnios. A normal amniotic fluid index (AFI) is between 5cm and 25cm. That day my AFI measured 46cm. My doctor was a little concerned to say the least. Well, I, having no knowledge of polyhydramnios (or polly, as I like to call her), did what any freaked out pregnant mom would do. I came home and looked on the internet. If you are to ever take anything from this little blog hobby that I do, please let it be this. NO MATTER WHAT THE CIRCUMSTANCES, NO MATTER HOW FREAKED OUT YOU ARE, NO MATTER HOW MUCH OF A KNOWLEDGE-HUNGRY-GOTTA-KNOW-SOMETHING-ANYTHING-TO-HELP-ME-COPE -WITH-THIS-UNBELIEVABLE-NEWS-ABOUT-THE-HEALTH-OF-MY-BABY MANIAC YOU ARE - DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT - GO ON THE LOVELY WORLD WIDE WEB TO RESEARCH MEDICAL THINGS. You will always find the worst , most horrible information on there. Every.Single.Time.
Ok - I’ll move on. I was sent to a specialist and had a few high-resolution ultrasounds. She was looking to see if the cause of my polly was baby-related. 65% of the cases are not. Pretty good odds, right? I even got to take home pictures of little Tot from a 4-D ultrasound. One of the fun things about polly, though, is that she can cause you to go into preterm labor. Preterm labor with too much amniotic fluid is not a good combination. Doctors are scared that you could encounter placental abruption (not good), that your cord could prolapse (double not good), and that you could hemmhorage (probably not good either). So, when it was found during a non-stress test at my regular OB’s office that I was indeed in active labor at 33 ½ weeks, I was admitted to the hospital that afternoon, and we all pretty much thought that I was going to have a little Tot quite soon. I was given magnesium sulfate to help slow down my labor so that the steroid shots in my hips would have enough time to help mature Tot’s lungs.
On a side note, magnesium sulfate was one of the most horrible things that I have ever endured. And I’ve had brain surgery, and have been paralyzed and on life support, folks. I’m not inexperienced when it comes to bad things happening to a person. I ain’t gotsta lie.
Anyhoo, the magnesium sulfate did indeed work, and my doctor decided it was best to transfer me to the nearby hospital where my specialist practiced. There was not a NICU in my local hospital, and they wanted to be as prepared as possible. Well, I loved this doctor. She was very matter of fact, very down to earth, great bedside manner, funny, and altogether just a great lady. Her intentions were to have little Tot stay inside my belly as long as possible. So on hospital bed rest I spent the next almost 2 weeks. And I am not a very patient person. I do not like to have to stay in one place for long periods of time. (Being paralyzed for a month a 15 can do that to you.) So, my lovely nurse told me that after the foley catheter was removed, which she was going to do, I would need to use a bed pan if I need to “go.” Well, you see, I don’t do bedpans. I don’t “go” in my bed. Just won’t do it. So, I pitched a fit. I wouldn’t let them take out the catheter until I could speak to my doctor. Who I loved. Seeing as though I was quite adamant about not “going” in my bed, she gave me bathroom privileges. This may not seem like a big deal to most, but to me, is SO was.
Shampoo, shampoo, I hear you chanting. I hear you, and I’m getting there. With bathroom privileges comes shower privileges, seeing as though the potty and the shower are both in that same room. Well, when I went to the doctor for a simple non stress test, I didn’t quite expect to spend 2 or so weeks in the hospital. So, on various trips back and forth from home to the hospital, different family members had brought me different necessary items. One of those items was the shampoo from my mom. I was allowed to wash my hair. So when I smell this shampoo now, I am first taken back to that hospital shower where I think of how scared and alone I was. And huge. Did I mention how huge I was? I think of all of the thoughts that go through my head as to what mine and Tater’s future holds. Will she be okay? Will she live? Will I be okay? Is Tater okay? My husband? My parents and in-laws who have in an instant become full-time parents to a 13 month old? I prayed, I bargained, I begged, I pleaded, I cried, and if I thought that the bathroom wouldn’t immediately be filled with panicked nurses, I would have screamed.
To Be Continued…

Do you smell that? Part I

There is nothing like the sound of your husband saying “I do” at the alter or your baby’s first attempt at “mama.” Nothing could replace seeing the 10 tiny fingers and 10 tiny toes of your children for the first time. There is nothing more delicious than wedding cake being stuffed into your mouth or the taste of sticky mashed banana kisses. And what could possibly feel better than you husband’s hands on the kicks of a pregnant belly or the softness of your newborn baby’s silky tuft of hair? I don’t know if anything could replace these experiences. The feelings that resurface when a irreplaceable memory is brought to the forefront of your mind is indescribable.


But, for me, it’s the nose that knows.


You know what I mean. Maybe it’s the smell of spring rain that takes you back to being a worn out kid in your front yard. Or perhaps the smell of bus exhaust immediately takes you back to those elementary school field trips of community plays and Happy Meals. When it comes to me and my nose, I could go on for hours. There are so many smells that evoke such poignant memories that I feel that if I could bottle them up, I would be able to tell my life’s story. Line all of the containers in a row across the counter, from day 1 of year 1 to day 1 of year 28 - oh the tales I would tell.
A whiff of Rave hairspray takes me back to my bedroom as a sixth grade girl getting ready for my first middle school dance. Oh, the teasing and the feathering and the scrunching and the curling. And the amount of hair spray in the little room was enough to choke a horse. The purple eye shadow - or was it blue - smeared from lash to brow. The boys, I’m sure, were quite impressed.
If ever I am knocked unconscious for some odd reason, don’t worry with hunting down any smelling salts. No, grab a stick of the Dove original scent deodorant, and I’ll be up in no time. Because you see, every time I get even the slightest hint of that smell drifting my way, I’m in Disney World on my honeymoon in an instant. It’s unbelievable. There we are planning our day wondering if Magic Kingdom or Epcot will be a better choice. And honey, do we really need another Mickey Mouse shaped ice cream bar? Yeah, you’re right, we only have one honeymoon.
But then there is that shampoo. ..
A few weeks ago, my mom gave me a bottle of shampoo that she decided she wasn’t going to use. I opened the bottle and breathed in the sweet smell. Now for most people, that would have been a small second in 1 of the 24 hours of the day. But not for me. Because when the smell of that shampoo entered my nostrils, it tickled my memory and swept me back almost two years ago to the hospital room where I spent the almost 2 weeks leading up to Tot’s birth. And the next month held for me the most unbelievable adventure I have ever endured.
To Be Continued...

You have GOT to be kidding me.

Well, it started out as any other day. We got up, had breakfast, and got dressed. For you see, today we have some errands to run. A trip by the church to drop something off, a stop at the bank, and a quick run to the Wal-Mart. Everything is going fine. I wish that it had occured to me that it was going to be THAT kind of morning. I brushed my teeth, pulled up my hair, gathered the girls' things and started to put on shoes. First, Tater found her sandals and put them on all by herself. Wait to go, big girl. Then, after much protest, Tot's sandals slid on without a hitch. I got my keys, my sunglasses, and was ready to head out the door. All I have left to do is slip my brand-new-New-Balance-slip-on-wanted-more-than-anything-and-had-to-search-3-states-to-find-my-size-and-finally-bought-at-a-6-hours-away-store-that-I-just-happened-to-see-on-our-way-out-of-town tennis shoes. I looked, and I looked, and I looked. I enlisted the help of Tater and Tot to help mommy look for her shoes. I searched high and I searched low. I tore through my closet, the girls' toy boxes in the toy room, the oven, under my bed, under thier beds, in the showers, under the couch cushions, and on the front porch. No luck.
Bet you'll never guess where they were. (At this point you should, if you haven't already, read yesterday's post.)

Yep - you guessed it.

She had thrown them away.

Now, I bet you're thinking - "How cute and funny and it ties in to yesterday's post. The little almost two year old is going through the throw everything in the kitchen trash can phase. What a simple little prank - it could be worse!"

It was.

My tennis shoes weren't in the kitchen trash can. You see, during the frantic turn the house upside down looking for them rant, I actually looked in the kitchen trash. But, no tennis shoes. It was after I had completed this raid that lasted a good twenty minutes, I had this slightest glimmer of a thought. "No, it can't be", I told myself. I went back and looked at the kitchen trash can and , lo and behold, it was relatively empty. Which meant only one thing. My husband had taken the trash out yesterday. I remember him doing it when he was helping me carry the girls in from our outing. Our trash goes into a big-trash-can-on-wheels that is picked up by one of those huge trucks with the arm that comes out and dumps it. On Tuesday. TUESDAY!

It is then that my inner super-hero "can't let anything happen to the shoes" self comes out. I run in leaps and bounds to the curb where the trash can waits. I pray and silent prayer that the big truck hasn't made it yet. I breathe a sigh of releif and a thankful prayer when I am welcomed by that beautiful smell of rotten food, cut grass, and poopy diapers. But I do not delay. I dig right in . My huband and I mowed the yard last night and dumped the bag into the trash can, so that was the first layer to dig through. Then I spotted the old pizza box that he had thrown away with yesterday's trash. I new I was getting close. I scooted around to the other side of the trash can and pulled the first bag out that I saw. I saw a milk jug and a juice jug that I recognized as the latest flavor of the week. Ah, this had to be the one. At this point I was covered in grass and gagging from the stench. But I hastened to see what this bag may behold. I ran my hands around the outside of the bag trying to feel something familiar. Let's see, a diaper, no two diapers, a macaroni and cheese box, paper towels...and then it happened. My hurried fingers landed right on the heel of one of my favorite shoes. There they were, in the midst of poop and milk and ketchup covered paper plates, were my all time favorite shoes. I tore open the bag, which by the way ,somehow smelled worse than the entire trash can, and removed two gray slip on New Balance with the baby blue N. Oh yes, I'll be wearing them to Wal-Mart. I don't care how stinky they are. They are my favorite shoes.

So this is what that whole "one man's trash" thing is all about. Who new?

Do you actually WATCH that trash?

Yes, I most certainly do. I have to. I don't have a choice. I know it's dirty, but I just can't find a way around it. Every time I turn around there is something new to see. And then I think it's all over, but I have to look just one more time. I can't stop. No matter how hard I try. I mean, just last night I saw two brand new pair of denim capris. This morning it was a really cute one piece outfit. Then this afternoon, it was the remaining stack of size 4 diapers. And tonight, well tonight, it was the cordless phone. So you see, this is a serious problem that I have on my hands. I can't just let Tot throw anything that she wants into our kitchen garbage can. I have to keep a close eye on these things, or I'll never know what we are missing.

What did you think I was talking about?

What is the strangest item that you have ever found in your trash can?

Did I Mention?

Did I mention that my mom (Nana) told me today that when she was holding Tot yesterday, her hair smelled like pee? Not Nana's hair, Tot's hair. I don't remember her or anyone else peeing on her head. Could I possibly have missed this rather obvious event? Just wondering - is that any sort of reflection of my parenting abilities? Do all moms come to a point when they can't smell the pee infused stench of their children? Maybe she meant a pea. We haven't had peas. No one will eat them but me. And no, I didn't rush to give her a bath after she told me this. Nana said she would give her one on Saturday. Don't judge me. Just write it in the notes of my Mother of the Year Award assessment. It won't be the worst of my blemished parenting credentials.

Until Next Time,
Tater and Tot's Mommy

Have you heard the one about....

...not being able to keep anything on your kitchen counters? You know, crazy things like pieces of fruit or packs of gum. Although I'm sure that somewhere along the way a clever mom thought "Gee, a flat, raised, mostly clean surface....maybe I could place some of the kitchen items I use on a regular basis on them, or perhaps even eating goods that do not need refrigeration."
What a novel idea.
Too bad it doesn't work.
As I have mentioned in the past, Tater and Tot both love to steal things. Lots of things.
Drinks from my cup, lipstick from my purse, and an almost finished scarf off of my knitting needles. I still haven't had the class where they teach you how to put it back on. But it seems that lately, they are scoping out my kitchen.
I have a strange feeling that they are planning a heist, a hostile take over, a "job." Anything they can get their hands on is fair game. I walked into the kitchen yesterday to find Tater eating a pack of gum. No, no, listen carefully, not chewing a pack of gum. Eating a pack of gum. Chewing and swallowing. She had even gotten a paper plate to display it on. You know what they say, presentation is everything. Remind me when she's 10 and pooping unknown things, and I'm frantic trying to find out what on earth it could be. Help me remember the Great Gum Ingestion of 2006. I'm sure I will forget by then.
And then there is the Fruit Fiasco. It started out as bananas grabbed from the basket while standing on tip-toes. Then it moved on to grapes being snuck from the fridge (which by the way takes four hands and four feet to open.) Well, today it escalated to the strawberries. I wouldn't care much about the strawberries, except that they are my favorite. And I'm not real keen on sharing. I was in the living room minding my own business when Tot, the smaller of the two perps, came to me with half of a strawberry. It was like she was showing it off, daring me to apprehend her. It was then that I realized that it was the end with the green leaves that was missing. Maybe she had come to me wanting an explanation as to why something that smelled so good could taste so much like a cow pasture. I'll never know.
But I did know that these particular thieves worked in pairs. A Thelma and Louise, if you will. There was no time to radio in for backup, so I had to face this situation on my own. I went into the kitchen to find Tater standing on a chair digging through the container, looking for the best ones. She looked at me innocently with those big brown eyes and told me "Mom-my, Sissy wanted stwawbewwies." How could I protest?
Now I know how the best in the force can go corrupt. You know, let the little things slide, maybe even take a little for themselves.

Forget about lunch.

We ate strawberries.

Now I have to go and finish my report on the incident. My paperwork will reflect that it was a false alarm. That is, if I can hide the strawberry stains.

Until next time and if anyone read this far,
Tater and Tot's Mommy

Worn Out!

Just a quick update...we just got back Monday night from a long weekend near D.C. We spent Sunday at the National Zoo, and had a great time. Tater and Tot loved all of the animals - and the popcorn! Tater was so excited, and made a cute list of what she wanted to see. She used her little fingers to make sure I knew she wanted to see the "monkeys and wions." I made sure we got to those or I would have never been forgiven! Tot was excited to try and call to the "cheeeetaaaaz" and have them come over. She was, however, scared of one very active orangutan! She hasn't quite grasped the concept of protective glass. We were with older cousins this weekend (3 and 5) and Tater and Tot both thought that they were big girls! Their aunt had everything so nice and had some fun things planned for all of the girls. They got to hunt candy Easter eggs in their egg bags and had thier picture made in their P.J.s and pink bunny ears! She even had each girl a chocolate bunny! Too cute! It was a great weekend with my girls!

Until next time,
Tater and Tot's Mommy

Today is...

I need a break. Just in case you were wondering, today is a Scenerio 1 day. Say a prayer and wish me luck. I'm going to go try to potty in peace. We'll see.

Until next time,

Tater's (who has on no clothes and who continues to steal grapes from the refrigerator) and Tot's (who has cried more than anything and keeps getting hurt) Mommy

Here goes nothing...

Well, after much pondering, I have decided to blog. B-L-O-G...it seems as though everyone's doing it. I just Googled mom blogs, and can not believe how many mom's are out there putting their stories on line. Worth a shot I guess. I'm sure that there has been research done, and probably a very intelligent reason why mothers are attracted to blogging their daily lives. Perhaps it is because parenting is the most difficult job on the face of the earth. A job that is entered into with virtually little or no training. Imagine a NASA engineer committing to work on the next shuttle to launch into space with no one telling them which part of the process is theirs to manage. Get the picture? Perhaps it is because being a mother is the type of position that no one on the face of the earth can relate to except another mother. And usually another mother who is the same situation as you are. Not a mother of 20 or 30 years ago. Although full of very knowledgeable and insightful information, grandmothers and great-grandmothers seem to take to the notion that their experience parenting was quite harder that yours. Maybe it was - but that's not what I need to hear. I need comfort that you are as scared as me that we might possibly be scarring our children for life. And I will comfort you when you say that your baby pulled a TV off of its stand yesterday by telling you that mine fell off of a couch and has carpet burn on her face. See, it happens to everybody.
So, enough about that - more about me...
I am a stay-at-home mom of two gorgeous, smart, funny, and trouble-making little girls. For the sake of not being sure how much specific information I am going to share about my family (names and such), I am going to refer to my girls as Tater and Tot. Tater will be 3 in May and Tot will be 2 in July. "Wow, that's really close," you say. My response? Yes it is. "Did you plan it that way?" you ask. Me: I always say that if you are not preventing then you are planning...so I suppose we were planning. We were surprised, but extremely excited! Normally, you say, "So, how is it? Two babies just fourteen months apart..." My response to this question can vary...
scenario 1: I wake up to Tater in my face screaming for grain bars and milk. Maybe demanding instead of screaming, but I can't hear her for the screech in her voice not to mention that her mouth is exactly 2 inches from my right ear. In the background, Tot is crying a constant scream of "Momeeeeee, Momeeeee." I groggily take the baby from the crib and, after wiping the tears and the snot, attempt to take her downstairs. It is at this time that Tater has decided that she needs to revert back to infancy and declare that she cannot walk down the stairs, and must be carried. I explain that it is not possible for Mommy to carry both down the stairs and she is big enough to walk on her own. A full-blown on-the-floor-kicking-and-screaming tantrum begins. I then proceed down the stairs only to find that Tater indeed can, and has, walked down the stairs before waking me. It seems as though she decided that her morning project is redecorating the living room and kitchen. I'm not sure if redecorating is the word I'm looking for....more like a magic marker mural on the walls, counter, table, and trash cans. And that was just the kitchen. Serve that up with evidence of a chair climbing banana stealing heist, a hearty snack of cereal, most of which is on the floor, and wrappers from my if-I-hide-it-here-she's-just-two 1/2- and-will-never-see-it-candy, and you have Tater at her finest. I could go on, but surely you would be bored. And so our day begins...
Response to scenario 1: I don't know, see if you can guess. I'm always busy, never have a moment to myself, can't remember the last time I have pottied in peace (yes, have a two year old and it suddenly becomes "pottied") and spent at least 98.2% of my waking hours cleaning up after a husband, two kids, and two cats. If I make it through the next 3 years without being committed, it will be an absolute miracle.
scenario 2: After a morning of quiet and sleeping in (okay, maybe no sleeping in, but everyone can dream), Tater comes to me and asks "Mommy, I need breakfast, please. And some milk." I hear Tot from her crib asking sweetly "Mommy? Mommy?" I go to retrieve her and she looks at me with the most adorable smile I've ever seen and says "Mommy, I a good girl?" Of course you are, my angel baby. Breakfast is full of giggles and jokes, questions and answers, singing and rhyming. I am rewarded with kisses and hugs and the brightest smiles in the world. And so our day begins....
Response to scenario 2: I don't know, see if you can guess. I'm always busy, never have a moment to myself, can't remember the last time I've pottied in peace and spend at least 98.2% of my waking hours cleaning up after a husband, two kids, and two cats. If the next three years go by as quickly as the past three years have, and if my girls keep growing this fast right before my eyes, I'll have to be committed. If ever I forget how blessed I am to have such a wonderful, precious, and unbelievably overwhelming life, I deserve to be committed.

Until next time,
Tater and Tot's Mommy