So, I unwrapped Baby J this morning. I thought he'd be glad to see me, but he was out the door in three seconds, yelling something about 'going to a support group' over his shoulder.

He called me on his cell a couple hours later.

I don't know what's come over me, except the baby has slept a full eight hours, three nights in a row, but I am feeling kind of overwhelmingly weepy and grateful this morning.

And so! Here is a terribly sappy song I love, made worse because it is the song my dad always wished he could go back and dance to with my mom at their wedding. They didn’t dance at all at their wedding, because it was the sixties and they were barely allowed to get married at all, because you know: One was Baptist and the other Adventist, and most people using the authority of the church to marry others believed that combo was clearly a marriage made in Hell, and would produce some kind of freakish offspring. Wait a minute.

So after mis-singing the Lady Gaga lyrics for two weeks, I got some weird looks and finally had to google . I bet you are much disappointed to learn she is not screaming "Au Jus bad romance!" towards the end there after the French part, because I know I was. Also, because I would argue: Nothing better describes that icky-in-love feeling than if it came with a side of its own sauce
Not as cool as I thought you were, Lady Gaga. Oh well.

Each time I am pregnant, someone inevitably asks me, "so... you gonna have another one?" With the first pregnancy, the askers were all shiny-eyed chipmunks,kind of like that Michael Jackson Gif from Thriller, waiting to see if I'd make it or totally lose my shit Rosemary's Baby style:

The universe is conspiring against me to get one effing thing done on my own this week. Three kids is no joke, people. They can successfully get out of pocket, outnumber you, grab you by your ponytail, throw a saddle on you and ride you with spurs on, and all sleep around the clock on different schedules, keeping you wide awake for 36 consecutive hours. Until you are hiding under the bed, calling 911 and begging for rescue.

I have been stuck inside my own head, with Lady Gaga on infinite play I've been pondering: I think I'm a little crushing on the Edward panties.

I've gotten myself in this stupid meta-blog-pickle in which I am keeping secrets from you again, and I'm not brave/stupid/ready to talk about that with you yet, and its effing up my ability to talk to you about anything at all.

It is weird how I have to reenact secrets everywhere once they get started somewhere.

Here I was in those size 30s two months ago.

And here I am this morning in the same pair.

Of course, after I took that picture, I started breathing again, ate breakfast, and promptly tripped on the spare tire that miraculously regrew over my belt loops.

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.