Monday, March 2, 2009

At least my christening gown was not white

Loretta is back, my sweet invisible friends.

After an exhausting week, I decided the best way to relax would be to take two children under the age of five on a five hour road trip. Because the drive to Dallas is so invigorating what with all its beautiful scenery (Centerville, Texas, the eighth wonder of the world) and my children slumber so soundly in strange places.

HA!

I had two very good reasons to go to Dallas though, name of Jackson and Grace Anne:


Are those not two of the CUTest kids you have ever seen? Oh, I am in love with these babies in the way that you can only be when dear, dear friends procreate.

They belong to my BFF Jenna. I've blogged about Jenna and how she saved me from great he's-just-not-that-into-you humiliation once upon a time when I had sand in my teeth. Recently we decided it was high time for our children to meet each other.

And fall in love.


Which evidently Jackson did. He showed off all weekend for his new girlfriend by telling silly jokes, running "vewy vewy fast", and generally disobeying his momma. Like all the cool four year olds do when there's a lady around to impress.

When I had told Eva Rose about Jackson on the way up, she asked, "What am I sposed to do, like, marry him?" so she was game. She played along with his affections, only occasionally giving him the Heisman:


It seems to be a good match, even though she has half a foot on him.


My daughter is very tall. I am very short.
That's the story of, that's the glory of genetic mutation.

Do not let the swim suits fool you, because I was once again blown away by the fact that it gets WAY COLDER in Dallex (as Eva Rose calls it) than in Houston. And we never could get that hot tub to heat up.

Oh, if I had a nickle for every time in my life that the hot tub wouldn't heat up, I would have, well. At least thirty cents. It's a recurring theme and I am glad that is just one of life's hardships that my children have now been exposed to, for character building's sake. I just quoted a little Romans 5 at them and we headed out to a McDonald's playland.

There's very little that God's word and a Happy Meal can't solve.

The only problem with visiting girlfriends with children sans husbands is that our propensity to stay up way too late drinking red wine, looking up old boyfriends on facebook and comparing how fat and bald they've gotten, scooping The Real Housewives of Orange County (she had two seasons on her DVR. Color me addicted) and munching on wasabi almonds does not mesh well with my very very early rising children.

Did I mention I was tired last week? Oh, my skull.

How do those rock stars manage to check themselves into a hospital for "exhaustion"? Honestly? I mean you know it's bad when you wake up with a sinus headache and get excited because now you have an excuse to pop some Sudafed.

Actually, I think "exhaustion" might be code for "addicted to a tad more than Sudafed." So, perhaps I should be careful what I wish for.

Speaking of allergies. Congratulate me, five point five years into parenting, I have finally been mommy christened.

No longer will I be able to astound my public with the fact that despite having four whole children, I have never ever once been puked upon. I have enjoyed the honor for a long time. And I know those of you who have suffered through bouts of rotavirus mentally slashed my momivan tires when I told you that. But my kids are just not big pukers. Refluxers, yes. Half my children did their best Exorcist impressions far beyond their first birthdays, but we all know that baby spitup has nothing on real live regurgitated partially digested Stouffer's lasagna and Caesar salad.

Mags' coughing from her allergies was so bad in Dallex that she could only sleep upright in my arms Friday night. Which was actually really sweet, as I had just been reminiscing about how often her little hauled around, third child self took naps in my arms when she was an infant.

So, around 1am, I sat in Jenn's big momma chair, cradling a precious sleeping little girl with one hand, and a remote control with the other, as I zipped with fascination/horror/skepticism/shame through the times and plastic surgeries of Vicki, Jeana, Gretchen and Tamra.

Suddenly Maggie popped up and began making glub, glub, glub sounds. A sanctified mother would have known to run run RUN to a toilet or trashcan. Not I. Like a clueless heathern, I sat mystified, but did instinctively put my hand under her mouth, you know, just in case.

Most of y'all know very well that hands aren't particularly effective in situations such as these. Not. one. bit. Her jammies, my jammies, and Jenn's cute leopard print throw blanket proved much more absorbent. Poor baby moaned, "Yucky!!" Indeed.

The upside was that since her tummy was utterly and disgustingly empty, I could then dose her up on nighttime cough syrup, lie her in her bed, and retire to my guest room. Where there was a TV. And a loaded DVR.

Yawn.


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