Long story short, the kids got sick, and then my husband and I got sick, and then there was ONE kid who got healthy while everyone was sick, and that kid ran around the house whining, I'mBorrrrrred! at volume 10 for three days while the rest of us dragged around the house like toasty 102 degree zombies, and at first I was all brave and sequestering all of us for the Good of Humanity! because eff you, flu-bug. I shall not pass you on.

But eventually I broke down and called people to at least come and take the healthy kid - I would slip her through the mail slot to avoid contagion - just do something to help me out. But no one would help me out. Not even my own dad, who claimed he was too old and infirm to risk getting the flu.

So here's the problem: Almost four (!!) years ago, I started writing here because I knew this part of me was really wrong. I was afraid to speak my mind. I was more worried about hurting someone else's feelings than I was worried about smothering my own personal opinion. And smothering I was, and smothering more every day in efforts to get rid of this horrible idea that I might open my mouth and be marked as offensive or unlovable or wrong. I was fairly disturbed to see that with each passing season, I was becoming expert at shutting my mouth instead of opening it. Unfortunately, the more I did that the better it didn't get.


ETA: Sorry - I forgot to close comments here. Nothing personal.

Two weeks ago, we got that awesome slip of orange level terror alert in my first grader's backpack: THERE HAS BEEN A CONFIRMED CASE OF H1N1 IN YOUR CHILD'S CLASS. And I sat in butt clenched terror for a week or so, because I have nothing real to worry about and so Zomg, the terror of the flu is right up my alley, with subcategories about wee children who are too young for drugs and such. I finally broke and called the Ped and signed my kids up for whatever vaccine they had on hand because Holycrap!PokeMyKidWithSomethingToEaseMyTerror. And that's when a real bored secretary told me I was on the waiting list and expect a call next month.

Ran across this cooking dinner last night.

One of the reasons I cut my hair is that it has been falling out like crazy. Every time I have a kid, it has fallen out, and every time, it seems like it gets worse. Seriously? I estimate I have lost a third of my hair this post-pregnancy. Brushing me is like brushing a shedding animal. But what is worse is that this time? It is not just the hair on my head.

Which, who cares about a little pubic baldness? Not I, says I.

As of this morning, I've lost 60 pounds since the birth of my April Fool's Day baby. I gained 48 pounds with her, so this is the skinniest I've been since I started having kids.

Which is not as sexy as it might seem, as now I'm always running around hitching up the seat of my pants everywhere I go. Plus, underneath that? My ass* has actually gotten small enough that my underwear bunches up. What I'm sporting right now is like the opposite of wedgie, because there is all this extra loose material. It's a buldgie is what it is. It looks like I have herniated my panties. Enjoy that, google string searchers.**

6. Farts
5. Creepy twin boys in skull t-shirts. One would say, "Follow me!" and run out of sight. Then the other would appear at the other end and say the same thing. I ran around in a circle for 5 minutes before I figured it out. Identical giggling bastards.

I cut twelve inches of hair off yesterday. From my head, wise ass.

First real cut since 5th grade. Thought I'd cry, but I didn't.

I'm in this bad place lately where my deletey finger is rubbed raw from use. I dunno. There is a difference between 1) getting up the guts to say something even though you are embarrassed versus 2) realizing you have to say something even though it is stupid. Here is my stupid:

The great CrankyPantsFest of '09 continues unabated. Nay - it more than merely refuses to bate. CPF09 has woodstocked out. Shit has it's own theme song.*