Pregnancy and Grief, Or How To Get Nothing Done

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

You know those days where you have to keep reminding yourself how much you love your spouse, or you'll end up killing them?

I think my husband is having one of those days.

Oh well, at least Ryan gets me.

I have to admit, I've been a bit of a mess lately. I'm 30 weeks pregnant, so, thanks to hormones, my mind and body don't always feel like they are totally under my control. (This explains why I frequently walk like an old lady and sometimes call my kids by the cat's name.) We also happen to have a lot going on right now, including buying a bigger car, filing our taxes, dealing with an incompetent cable/internet company (I'm looking at you, AT&T U-Verse), and preparing for an upcoming family trip. I'd say I was juggling a lot of balls, but that would only be true if "juggling" meant "kicking around a bunch of balls and occasionally maybe throwing one up in the air and hoping it doesn't hit anyone in the eye."

It's a lot to handle under normal circumstances, but unfortunately there's even more: Late last week, my beloved great-aunt Ruthie--whom I have always considered a third grandma--died unexpectedly.

So, on top of the day-to-day absurdities of everyday life (seriously, AT&T? Thirty-five minutes on the phone to resolve NOTHING?), I have been flooded with grief and memories of my Aunt Ruthie. And, because my Aunt Ruthie and my mom were so close, I am also being flooded with memories of my mom. I am missing both of them so much right now it sometimes physically hurts. And the juggling thing? Those balls have rolled under the couch and are collecting dust and cat hair.

I haven't written much about my Aunt Ruthie on my blog, but back in October I wrote about my memories of my mom and our frequent trips to visit my grandma (Aunt Ruthie's sister). So while I get a broom and attempt to knock those balls out from under the couch so I can get them back up in the air again, go ahead and revisit this:

Arizona Memories, Or How I Learned My Grandma Is A Stone-Cold Killer

And while you're here, I'd appreciate any ideas you have on how I can apologize to my husband for my sub-par juggling skills. It'll get better...probably.

Mommy? No! I Am...VAGINA PERSON!

You are a poopy stinky butt!

Well, not YOU, exactly. Really, more like everyone. Everyone is a poopy, stinky butt.

According to my four-year-old, that is.

The Stinker has entered a lovely phase—The Potty Talk phase. Sometime in the last few months, he discovered that toilet talk is not just regular funny, like he thought it was before. Toilet talk, it turns out, is over-the-top, spit-milk-through-your-nose, fall-on-the-floor-with-your-friends-laughing funny.

Do you know how hard it was to find an appropriate picture for this post?

My first response to the potty talk was a huge mistake: I told him to stop it. Talk about adding fuel to the fire! Now poop is hilarious AND Mommy doesn’t much like it! Let’s just say the resulting verbal poo-splosion was epic. If he wasn’t talking about poop, pee, or penises it was only because he was cackling maniacally at his own genius.

But then, things got even worse. He took it up a notch: He discovered the word “Vagina.” And oooooohhhhh does my boy love to say “vagina.” He uses it creatively, throughout the day, in a wide variety of situations. For example: I am no longer “Mommy”—I am “Vagina Person.” As in, “HEY! VAGINA PERSON! LOOK! THIS STORE SELLS HOT WHEELS!! CAN I HAVE ONE, VAGINA PERSON?? CAN I? CAN I???” Another fun example: He made up a Vagina song, which he then taught to his younger brother. It goes like this: “Vagina! Vagina! Beautiful vagina! Vagina! Vagina! Let’s talk about vagina!” They like to march around the house singing it when the UPS guy stops by to drop off a package or when I’m on the phone with the pediatrician’s office.

The good news is that I have managed to contain the madness:  He doesn’t break out the potty talk at preschool, according to his teacher (that was a fun conversation). But the effort to hold in all those “vaginas” and other potty words during school hours is apparently monumental—as soon as I close the car door at pick-up time, he lets loose with a violent stream of 4-year-old profanity that sends his brother into fits of giggles and makes me want to bang my head against the steering wheel until I no longer care.

The other good news, I guess, is that neither of my boys has managed to pick up any “real” profanity…yet. They truly believe that the worst word on earth is “stupid” and I hope to keep it that way for as long as I can. Because I can just imagine the day that they discover actual curse words—it will be like a whole new world has opened before them. A world filled with ways to embarrass and humiliate Mommy. A world strewn with shocked and horrified grandparents and teachers. A world where Mommy can no longer go to Target without suffering the judgmental stares of her fellow shoppers.

And a world without Target is not a world I want to live in.

Vagina Person

(No joke: Do a Google image search of "vagina person" and about 5 photos from my blog come up, including this one. OF ME.)

(Oh, but also? You probably don't want to do a Google image search of "vagina person." Trust me on this one.)