Here I Go Again - A Book Review

I couldn't wait to get out of high school, not because there were cliques or mean girls or whatever (in actuality, I had a much harder time in middle school with all of that anyway, by high school, I had pretty much figured out how to hide in the crowd and not be bothered) but because high school, for me, was just an exercise in futility. A way to get out from the under the watchful glare of my father and a way to still be a teenager instead of the constant caretaker of two much younger brothers. High school and the opportunities to escape were all just a key to get out into the real world and away from home as quickly as possible. 

When I received the book, Here I Go Again by Jen Lancaster, I was initially very excited, especially after having recently finishing The Willpower Instinct and all of the heaviness that comes with self-help and changing thought processes. I needed something lighter, something funny, a good book that would let me focus on something other than my crazy life. 

Unfortunately, Here I Go Again, didn't really give me what I wanted initially. Lissy Ryder was the prom queen, the head cheerleader, a self proclaimed Jennie Garth (90210!) look-a-like. She looks down on almost everyone, except for, apparently, Oprah, doesn't do her job at a PR firm, preferring instead to stay at the gym being critical of anyone that comes into her path. Her husband, Duke, is the same on and off again guy from high school.

I was just about to put the book down and walk away when Lissy's credit card gets rejected at the gym, her husband announces his desire for a divorce at dinner, and the precious world that she has built around herself begins to crumble. 

Fast forward a month and Lissy is swimming in credit card debt, jobless, divorced, and living in her bedroom at her parents house that is a temple to the prom queen cheerleader that she once was. 

This is about people that can't move on, that don't grow up. I am very familiar with these people. The people who think that their best days, their glory days were in high school, that they should be taken care of, coddled, and protected from the unfairness of life the same way that they were in high school. And twenty years later as the world crashes around her, Lissy Ryder finally realizes it is time to grow up. 

The book had some great funny moments, there were times that I felt like the dialogue was bit overworked (Lissy and her friends speak as though they are stuck in the grown up version of Clueless), but it is definitely a great book to take with you on the upcoming Spring Break beach trips with the kids. 

If you would like to join the conversation over at BlogHer, we will be discussing Here I Go Again  for the next 4 weeks!

This is a paid review for the BlogHer Book Club, but all opinions expressed are my own. 

Tonight, Tonight, Oh, Oh

I am not sure why Phil Collins is stuck in my head, but there he is...Gonna make it right, tonight, whoa...

Which leads me to think about what I want to do tonight...

sleep.

Which reminds me of what I will most likely be doing tonight...

not sleeping.

Screw you, insomnia - I don't even care anymore.

These Are The Days...

There are days when I totally want to stab someone, anyone, in the face with a fork. Of course, I wouldn't actually do that because I am kind of a chicken when it comes to physical violence, and also because I cannot really afford to support anyone else for the rest of my life. I have enough going on as it is.

Instead, I fantasize about stabbing some people in the face with forks. Some days, it actually helps me to feel better, other days, it makes me feel considerably more stabby. It's the Russian Roulette of my life, really.

Let me give you an example of an ordinary day around here and you can tell me what you would do to decrease the stabby in this life.

Wake up, wide awake at 3:30 AM. Fabulous. Also? A bit drunk. Even better. Kid comes out of her room at 4:30 AM bitching that the TV is too loud even though I have been struggling to drunkily read subtitles for the last hour in an effort for people to continue to sleep. Perfect. Let's take a shower.

Kid repeatedly calls me "Fat Amy" (I have no idea) and keeps talking about my flabby tooshie. I briefly consider punching her, but violence never gets me anywhere. Headache starts to creep in, slowly at first and then ratcheting up to a migraine. Awesome.

Kid decides to partially meltdown after shower while I am brushing her hair over the lack of Caillou on the television. Whatever, the last thing my head needs this morning is the un-medicated depression of Caillou. I have enough of that going on at the moment - thank you very much.

That hair takes work, ya'll

Get so flustered that I accidentally use her hairbrush on my hair. Her brush that is filled with Argan oil and leave-in conditioners and detanglers and now it is too late to rinse it out of my hair. As my hair begins to dry it starts to feel like it is coated in a fine layer of man-spunk. Great.

Start to walk out the door to go to work when the screams of a banshee fill the household. "YOU FORGOT TO PACK MY LUUUUUUUUNCH!" she screams as she throws herself onto the kitchen floor in hysterics.

"Too late now, get in the car," I say as she stiffens herself against my touch and begins a high pitched wailing that one should only ever associate with eyewitnesses to mass murder. Half carry, half drag screaming child to car as she repeatedly pitches herself to the ground in the cold January air. Finally, just give up, get in car, close door, start car and begin to drive away from the tear-streaked screaming face just as she panics and tries to get in the car.

Once in the car, girl screaming continues for the next 19 minutes of the 23 minute ride to school. Once she has been signed into school and I turn to say my goodbyes, the girl that I birthed, that I rocked to sleep, that I nursed for a year, sticks her tongue out at me while flipping me the bird!

Wonderful. Good to know that she is learning so much about life this morning.

This all happened before 8 AM, God knows where it goes from there, but I am guessing that it starts with an H and ends in ELL.

At least it's Friday.

Stuck on Tumble

When I was a kid we had a cat that would just not stop having sex. She was the tramp of the neighborhood. Within days of giving birth, she would escape out the back door and the squalls of her late night rendezvous could be heard throughout the humid Florida spring air of our neighborhood.

Of course, this meant that we had kittens. A lot of kittens. The ones that I remember in particular are a pair of brothers, Wilbur and Orville (have I ever mentioned how into the Wright brothers I was? Or that when I discovered that my kid was born on the anniversary of their first flight I almost peed my pants with excitement? I am pretty certain that I have mentioned that I am a dork, so I guess I am covered either way.) At any rate, Wilbur and Orville never went anywhere without each other. They were identical except that while Wilbur was completely white, Orville was an orange and white striped tabby.

In the chill of those Spring mornings, the momma cat, Pip Squeak would carry the kittens to the ever open door of the dryer and drop them in one by one to keep them warm.

And so it happened that Orville and Wilbur wound up going through a dryer cycle with my mother's uniforms one afternoon. I am not sure how it happened really, I know that I had pulled all of the kittens out prior to throwing the laundry in, but being 9 with a sister, two younger brothers, other kittens, two grown cats, and a beautiful Florida Spring day happening just outside the window - sometimes things get missed.

The kittens lived, amazingly. My mother's uniforms were coated in pee and poo, but she was a mom and a nurse so I am thinking that it was not the first time. When they first came out of the dryer, they were extremely thirsty and comically dizzy. They stumbled across the floor of the kitchen in a daze, eyes not looking like they truly believed what they had just gone through. They were never really the same after that, never the overtly adventurous and curious that they had been in the past.

I have never really been able to identify with what the kittens went through on that fateful day. Never, that is, until now.

I feel like I am on constant tumble, my mind going in 8000 different directions at all times, never sleeping, barely eating as I just keep tumbling. Rent's late? Tumble, tumble, tumble. Car needs repairs? Tumble, tumble. Loose tooth? Tumble, tumble, tumble. Changing shifts? Cutting hours? Increased taxes shrinking my paychecks? Tumble, tumble, tumble. 

I can't get a foothold. I can't find a place to anchor myself, I just keep tumbling, feeling helpless to the constant onslaught of this reality. It hurts and bruises and I just keep tumbling under the overbearing heat of stress and responsibility. When I see my face in the mirror, when I think about the conversations and work that I have done in a given day, I see that same daze, that same confusion and disbelief in my eyes. This is not how my grown-up life was supposed to be. This is not where I am supposed to be in my life.

And yet, here I am, tumbling along, trying to get a grip.

Gratuitous pictures of my kittens. Neither of whom have ever been in the dryer. 

Ask A Man: What About The Dishes?

Unfortunately, this week's Ask A Man segment is a little shortened due to the fact that Dr. Assberry was struck down by the flu last week. He is on the mend, however, and as soon as he removes the sporks from his eyes (old Southern flu cure, maybe?), he will be able to read all of the questions that you all have submitted.

There was one question that did stick out last week, that I felt must be addressed.

"Dear Dr. Assberry,
 

Whenever my husband does the dishes, he always leaves the pots and pan sitting on the counters or on the stove. Do pots and pans not count as dishes in a man's vocabulary? Is it too hard?

Pic submitted by reader of sink after husband had "done the dishes".

                                                                 ~Kitchen's Still Messy in Teeny, Tinyville"

I presented the question to the good doctor and was presented with a very funny joke that after much deliberation we decided was probably not on topic and not really well suited for the blog. If you would like me to e-mail you the joke, let me know and I will send it on to you (it is really funny).

"Dear Messy Kitchen,

 I don't really understand why your husband is doing the dishes at all, as I have children that are old enough to do them and it is not really an issue at my house. However, I can tell you that I largely consider pots and pans to be metal Tupperware and will place the lid on the pot and stick in the refrigerator. I don't see the point in dirtying two dishes just to store food. Good luck." 

I would like to thank Dr. Assberry for taking the time off of his deathbed to answer your question this week. If you would like to submit a question for the good doctor, please e-mail me and I will send it on to him.

Insomniacs Unite!

I don't sleep anymore. I nap in two to three hour binges (with the exception of last Thursday when I slept all of the day due to my kidney infection and high fever) and then wake up trolling the internet and streaming Netflix until the sun begins to rise and Henry begins to crow his sweet rooster song (that's sarcasm for those of you that are new around here).

And, that, of course, is the exact same time that I realize I am both physically and mentally exhausted.

Around 4 o'clock today, I will suddenly be overcome with energy. I will pick up my kid, go to the grocery store, cook dinner, do laundry and hang out with the family. I will be up until 12:30 or so. I will fall asleep somewhat easily, with a tiny grey kitten perched on my cheek (that's where she likes to sleep) until about 3:30 or so.

And then my day will begin.

Someone told me the other day that I am an overthinker, I think I am more than that. I overthink, I overspeak, I overdo - my mind will not allow me to shut off, or even turn down the noise of the day. Sometimes I talk more than I should, just to drown out all of the other noise that is in my head (sad, but true). I make lists in my head at night, in the quiet, things that need to be done, steps that need to be taken, and on and on.

I have decided to embrace the weird, to stay up when my body wants to, to sleep when my body finally allows me to, and just run with that for awhile. Sleep is for normal people.

The Willpower Instinct - A Book Review

When I was in my 20s, I was a self-help souvant. I bought every book that I could find that promised me happiness and love and normalcy. If a therapist even mentioned a book in passing, I was off to find that ever elusive nugget of wisdom to help fix me.

Most of the time, I was let down and disappointed. I knew that I was codependent, I knew that I had trust issues, I knew that X+Y would never equal Z, so even through doing all of the prescribed exercises and jumping through the hoops, I was never able to really find what I was after. I was soured on the entire self-help genre, figuring I was beyond the help of these authors with their common sense approaches to fixing all that was wrong with normal society. I was obviously not normal and therefore could not be helped with advice meant to help everyone else.

I was a bit hesitant about signing up to review The Willpower Instinct, to say the least, however it seems that this book has come at precisely the right time for me. The subtitle of the book How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What you can Do to Get More of It really spoke to me. What exactly is self-control?, I wondered, and, How is it affecting my day-to-day life?

I always envision myself as the epitome of control. Home at a structured time, dinner prepared and always including a meat, a starch, a vegetable, I am reliable, responsible, trustworthy. There is nothing uncontrolled about my life. What could I even begin to change?

I read the book straight through (even though it is supposed to be done over a 10 week period with exercises designed to help you measure your success and identify your pitfalls). It was interesting, but a lot like what I had seen with other self-help books.

And then I got a bladder and kidney infection last week. I realized that my old friend Mountain Dew had once again crawled up into my life and enveloped me like a seething dragon. I was an addict, all over again.

Today, I start again at page one, going through the steps, learning to strengthen my willpower, my self-control, and get rid of this addiction one last time. Mainly because I thought I was dying, not because I really want to give it up, because, oh, my goodness, ya'll, it tastes SO good.

At any rate, I am going to do this 10 week program and watch it work in my life - who wants to join me?

I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.

Ask A Man - A New Feature for a New Year

The Scare Bear and I have had several conversations as of late regarding the best way to add a little something extra to the blog. The Supergirl is less of a toddler and more of a big girl and is capable of carrying on a conversation without mispronouncing or incorrectly using phrases, so her funny is dwindling. And I am not going to re-open my womb to any new people anytime soon, so we are running out of funny.

Our initial thought was to create a list of the things that bother us about our spouses and have them respond back. Unfortunately, we feel that could lead to bruised egos and hurt feeling from both sides so we withdrew our weapons pencils and came up with a new idea - Ask A Man.

Now we were tasked with finding a man that would be willing to deal with our questioning (we have lots of questions), but would also be good humored about me posting the responses on the blog, and also have a sense of humor about the questions submitted.

That brings me to the introduction of Dr. Assberry. Dr. Assberry is married and a father of two girls. He works as a mechanic full time and with me at Tiny Town Auto Parts on the weekends. He is eager to share his insight, as well as learn a few things along the way from the questions that we ladies ask.

We almost bombed with our very first question, but here we go.

Why is that when a man gets sick, the world is ending? What's up with the moaning and whining? It's just a cold, do you really think you are dying?

Same question, every 28 days. 

 (To be fair, we are a.) cursed with this issue and b.) hemorrhaging. We could really be dying. Every month, I wonder if this is the month where my uterus just falls out on the floor and I bleed to death. It didn't used to be that bad, but now? Now, I may very well be dying a little with every passing month.)

Men are a lot like eggs, we are hard on the outside and slimy on the inside. Let's try another one. 

Why is that men never notice the little things, like haircuts?

I could say, "Wow, you got a haircut", but that seems like it is just stating the obvious. Honestly, men are a lot like dogs. If you make food, we are going to eat it. If you ask if we want to go for a drive, the answer will most likely be "Hell yeah, I wanna go" and we will probably breathe hard on the windows too. If you ask if we wanna, you know... well, yeah, we always wanna. 

But it's the end to a means. You say things like "wow, your ass looks really good in those jeans" or "your hair looks really great" and suddenly your woman is all up on you. Why would it be so hard to say a few words to get that? Do you really notice and you're acting like Thumper? ("if you can't say anything nice...") or do you not notice at all? 

Men notice drastic changes, blonde to red or "fro" to no. Something as simple as a hair cut is easily missed by men. We're so absorbed into the day-to-day that things are taken for granted.

So are women though, especially when it is someone that you see every single day and then you guys get bent out of shape when we don't notice it. Isn't that a double standard? 

 Men don't change their hair or anything as often as women do. To say, "I shaved my legs" - Huh! Okay, that's cool and all, and I definitely appreciate it, but, are we crickets? Men know a woman wants one of two things if she's shaved, she wants to have sex or she's going to wear a skirt tomorrow.

Women tend to get comfortable in relationships, very quickly, and they stop doing the things that attracted their men in the first place.

I would like to thank Dr. Assberry for his very candid responses to our questions this week. If you should have a question that you would like answered, please e-mail me at heather.bush@live.com.

What do you think of Dr. Assberry's responses? Comment below.

They Should Have Named Me Patience

I have mentioned before that I do not deal well with ambivalence. I want what I want when I want it and I tend to get a little moody when other people do not go along with my mood, whims, plans, or fancies.

Like when the Scare Bear calls me at 9:30 on a Saturday to cancel plans that have been in my mind for over a week, I may have cried. I may have gotten a bit pissy. I may have thought about finding a new group of friends. Although finding a new group of friends would be difficult this late in the game and looking for people that I can trust and that I have known for teens of years would put me in my late 40s before we would be able to go out.

Have I mentioned that I am not patient? Have I mentioned that this would probably not be a good plan for me?

Or when I submit applications for my child to start Kindergarten in August and then hear nothing back. Nothing, in two months, well, I tend to get a little on edge wondering if the application has been received, been reviewed, if they have decided that my daughter is not the right fit for the program based on a piece of paper without ever having met her or me.

This could not bode well for the both of us. I just need to know something. Anything.

Or when I spend a day looking at cars that I might be able to afford in a couple of months and I am ready to commit and test drive and go and my friend advises me to step back, be reasonable, be patient. I might get a little testy, even though I know that they are right, even though I know that I don't even have money to do anything right now, even though I know that at any moment the sky could fall - I need to make the plan, need to come up with an idea, need to have a goal to work toward.

My mind functions a lot faster than my body functions. I consistently feel like I am doing 80 mph in a 30 mph world. It is hard for me to be patient when in my mind I have already moved on, I have already moved ahead of whatever this moment is and I am on to making the next plan, the next goal, the next idea.

Does anyone else do this?

Dear Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

I don't know you (I hope) and I am not sure what brought you to my post or why you felt compelled to comment with the tone that you did. I am guessing that your comment:

AnonymousJanuary 5, 2013 10:33 AM That is just really sad... thinking you don't need anymore anyways!

on 1/5/13

is an inference that I am not a good mother because I don't desire having any more children.

Like I said, I don't know anything about you. You may have been having a bad day, you may have just caught my blog right after getting a negative result on yet another pregnancy test and you can't fathom that someone would not want to have another baby when you have been trying SO hard to just get pregnant in the first place.

I understand, I have been there.

You see, while I don't know anything about you, you also seem to know the very little that you read in that one post. Let me share a little bit of my story with you.

My entire life, I have been in training to be a mother. I just knew that I would have a gaggle of kids, everyone knew it. I babysat from the age of 13, I wanted to be a teacher. I was good with kids and they loved me. There was nothing more important to me in the world than eventually being the mother that I knew that I was born to be.

When I got pregnant the very first time, I was not really ecstatic about it. I was 19, the guy that I was with (now the Hubs) was 16. I was in college and he was still in high school. As much as I feared that my life was over, I knew that I would be a good mother, that I would take responsibility for our actions, that I would do everything that I needed to do for this child because that is the type of person that I was. When I miscarried that baby at 8 and half weeks, I mourned. While relieved that I could move on with my life, my heart, my spirit was broken for the very first time.

The next time that I got pregnant I was 23, I lost that baby at 7 weeks. Again, with a broken heart and a heavy spirit, I got counseling, I mourned, I grew up a little more.

The next time would be different, I reasoned, the next time it would not hurt this bad.

The next pregnancy sailed through the first trimester, I only had morning sickness one time. I was older, I was eating better, I was doing everything that the doctors told me to do. This time was going to be different, this time I was really going to be a mother.

I miscarried at 14 weeks, I was devastated, the Hubs (who still was not the Hubs just yet) was devastated. There were a lot of tears. I started cutting and burning myself again. I stopped sleeping. I knew that it was ALL my fault. I knew that I was broken. I knew that I was useless. There was not a darker period in my life than the days that followed me losing that baby.

My two best friends got pregnant immediately following that miscarriage. I now have two of the most wonderful boys to call my godsons. They are beautiful and awesome and I love them so very, very much.

We started trying to get pregnant immediately after we got married. I was 29 by then, settled, married. It was time. Except that I didn't get pregnant. And I kept not getting pregnant. The tears, the agony, the worry about why I could never just be normal, why I couldn't just get knocked up like everybody else in my life was killing me. Why does she get to have a baby when she doesn't even take care of the ones that she has? Why does God bless them and not me?

My faith struggled. My hope struggled. I cried daily.

I went to see my doctor who ran blood work, who did everything he could to find out why my body did not work like everyone else's. He prescribed fertility medication that I took religiously. His nurse would call me every month and report that my blood work was great, that I could potentially be pregnant based on my hormone levels. And I would lie on the cool tile of my bathroom on the first day of the next period sobbing uncontrollably, my body racked with grief at the loss of a little bit more hope, because I wasn't.

I asked the nurse to stop calling me.

I stopped taking the medication.

The very next month we conceived the Supergirl. The entire time I was pregnant, I held my breath. I just knew that there would be bad news, I just knew that something would go wrong. We didn't tell our parents until 16 weeks and only then because it was becoming obvious. Every breath I took, every thing I put in my mouth, every good night's sleep that I got, I questioned. Every lack of symptom or added symptom was researched. I must have called my doctor's office twice a week with questions ranging from gross to crazy. My only symptom besides the increased need to pee was tender breasts, I punched myself in the boob 8-12 times a day just to make sure that they were still tender.

I was so scared.

Miraculously, she was born, a healthy 9 pound, 3 ounce miracle. And she is awesome and smart and so incredibly beautiful. She is so much more than anything that I had ever asked for and I would not trade her for the world.

I did not sleep for her entire first year. I stood over her crib, checking to make sure she was still breathing. I brought her in to bed with me, just to give myself peace of mind. Every cough, sneeze, and sniffle had me on edge.

I am too old to do all of that all over again. The worry, the miscarriages, the grief - I can't do that to myself, I can't do that to her.

You are right in a sense, I don't need another baby and I am done wanting another one. I am a mother and that's all I ever wanted to be. My totality is not encompassed in just being a mother and a wife, there is much more to me than that. I am a daughter, a wife, a sister, an employee at two different companies, and a friend, I make a difference in my world and I want my daughter to know that marriage and children do not end that for women. That women can have dreams and pursuits and plans   that they can pursue even after a baby enters the picture.

You see, Anonymous, while you imply that I am a bad mother for not wanting another baby, I am actually making the best choice that I can for my family. I am sorry that you failed to see that when you read my post. Perhaps you will think of the person behind the blog the next time that you decide to cast judgement on another person's life.

Thanks for taking the time to comment.

Sincerely,

Heather

P.S.
Posting comments anonymously, particularly negative ones, is generally a troll move. If you do not have the guts to put your name on what you have to say, then you are essentially telling me that you are not even important enough to have an identity. That makes me extremely sad for you.

Once Upon A Drunken Night

Last Saturday, I felt like playing some pool. It has been 5 years since I last played, I reasoned. I need a break, a release from the jobs, the kid, the Hubs, the house. It has been months since I have had any real time or conversations with the Scare Bear.

Her only caveat was that I had to drink. Alcohol. 

Let me preface all of that with saying that I have not had a drop to drink since my wedding night 7 years ago when I had one shot to celebrate my birthday and marriage. Besides that it had been a full 15 years since I had really drank, mainly because I did not like the out of control feeling that I was left with and partly because the person that I took as my designated driver took my car to go hook up with some random guy that she had met and then left me at the bar on my 21st birthday by myself. And I fell asleep with my head on the bar. That's what friends do when you are 21. I forgave her and then threw up on her shoes. She totally deserved it. 

And I gave up drinking. 

Me at 21.

I started working at a bar taking care of the ridiculously drunk people that came into my Karaoke Lounge which was really not so much as a lounge as a walk in closet with a stage and a torn picture of George Straight. Once I saw exactly how crazy and stupid people could be when they were drunk and how easily fights could happen between to completely ordinary people that had just had a little bit too much, I knew that that life was not for me. 

I appointed myself the designated driver and may have even become the sober girl that acted like she was drunk (the only line that Ke$ha has ever sang that has ever made any sense to me). Only I was drunk from the comraderie, the lack of inhibitions of those that I was driving around, the silliness of it all - not from the Mountain Dew that I had been swigging all night long. 

I buried the fun-loving me in favor of the responsible, uptight, rigged me. 

But that was back then. 

Going out now is different. I have the Scare Bear, who I trust and who I believe trusts me. I know that she will not leave me to go hook-up with a random guy, I know that she will not let me drink enough to vomit on anything (especially not her shoes) and I know that she will make sure that I get home, even if I am not so certain that that is where I want to go. Having people that you have known and trusted for teens of years is important, I think. 

So we had some drinks, we laughed (OMG, how we laughed), we ran/stumbled our way across my front yard to hide behind a bush to scare a car that never came because what she thought were headlights were really just my neighbors porch lights, she ate way too much Taco Bell and I hijacked people's Facebook posts. 

And it was one of the best nights that I have ever had. 

I am finding a me that I have had buried somewhere for a long time. I didn't realize how much I missed her. 

By the way, I kind of suck at pool now. I should really play some more. Like tomorrow. 

One and Done

I sat there, holding him, this 9 pound beautiful boy that JoDene had just brought into the world. This baby boy, barely 3 days old, that cried softly when he would lose the pacifier that he was working so hard on.

And all I could think, all I could feel was, "Thank God that you are not mine. Thank God that I don't have to do this all over again."

At this very time last year, I lamented over the fact that I would have to start fertility medication in order to have another baby. I cried every month when my body would once again remind me that I had failed to conceive.

But I don't want another baby. Not now, probably not ever.

You may be wondering what has changed and my only answer to that is me. I have changed. I have other priorities, other dreams, other plans.

And none of those include having my nipples gnawed off by a teething infant. Or gaining more weight that I would have to work my 36 year old ass off to get rid of. Or giving up wearing heels for another year because I am incapable of carrying a wriggling baby mass while wearing heels. Or spending the rest of my life in unflattering attire because even after the age of 2, kids still have a way of ruining your  clothes (like trying to clean up a nail polish spill with my bathing suit and then stuffing said suit back into my underwear drawer so that when I find the mess it has now become a bathing suit/underwear/sock conglomeration covered in GLITTER! nail polish).

Yay for heels!

I no longer desire to smell small people's butts to check for poop, or to wipe anyone else's ass for the rest of my life. I no longer desire smelling sour milk, or clean up whatever that nasty, goopy stuff is that collects in the folds of their little necks.

I don't want to drive a car that will hold more than myself and my child and the nine million things that must accompany us on every outing. If there are two children, where do you even put that much stuff? I don't want to re-baby proof a house that just became un-baby proofed. I don't want to waste hours of my time watching reruns on Netflix while I hold a child that will not sleep anywhere but my arms.

Maybe I am selfish, maybe I am just going through something, maybe I am just a bitch. Whatever it might be, I know that should a tornado or a fire or the Zombie Apocalypse strike our tiny home, I can rescue one child - and I don't have to pick which one.

For right now, I am just thankful for my one.