shit i can't do with just my right hand

• pick up or carry the baby
• change a diaper (bummer, eh?)
• touch type
• write (other than like my four year old - big, scrawly, indecipherable)
• cook
• clean dishes
• tie my shoes (wearing crocs everywhere, ugh)
• use my cell phone while driving (oh, shut up, like you don't)
• properly wash my hair
• use normal dental floss
• read a hard back book in bed
• use a corkscrew (drinking doesn't seem to be a problem, though)
• properly blow my nose
• cut my own food (or help my children)
• give a real hug (etc)
• my job (my classes for fall will be thrown together in a last moment frenzy)
• carry laundry
• make a bed
• fold clothes
• and on and on...

thank god dh is superhusband, or i'd be screwed...

So much to say...

not enough patience to type one-handed with the wing i didn't break, like an idiot.

for now - just a little advice... if you slip, don't break the fall with your hand - your wrist bones might break.

more when i can use two hands again.

K

All this damn nostalgia...

I keep encountering fluffy little blog questionaires about the good old days. "Wouldja do it all again? Didja like to be a cheerleader? Don't you miss high school? Wasn't it grand?".

I fucking hated growing up.

I suffered through grade school, hated middle school, was borderline suicidal through early high school, and a basic misfit for the rest of it. I started to catch on in college, and started to become a real human in graduate school. But, pretty much, we're talking work in progress - still. So, I am a bit behind the curve.

When I was a suffering freshmen in high school, crying to my dad about one thing or another, saying "geez, dad, but this is supposed to be the best time of my life".

Dad says, "Bullshit. That's ridiculous. You survive all this crap so that you can become an adult. That's where things get interesting."

I was gobsmacked. And, since I remember the conversation, I guess that means that it made me feel a bit better.

Although all of that suffering made me who I am today, and much of my suffering was self-inflicted - it paid off. I have three boys that rock my world (when I am not ready to sell them to the highest bidder), a wonderful husband that I can't possibly deserve, a cool job, and a great house. Anyone that would relive adolescence over being a grown-up with their own beer fridge, control of the remote control (when dh isn't in the room), and their own wheels is a sad case indeed.

That said, I'd be ok if I had the same body I had then (dh wouldn't mind either).

Other things that I wouldn't mind:

• Having a poo without an audience ("You want privacy? Ok". Child shuts door, but remains in the room, stares at me expectantly. Expecting what, exactly? - not sure)
• Dinner with wine, but without whine
• An uninterrupted conversation with dh
• A day without other people's (or a dog's) bodily fluids
• Sex without listening for a child at our door or crying in their bed

But, losing all vestiges of privacy and getting peed on once in a while beats hell over being a teenager - that really sucked.

Decided to do it...

I guess that it was inevitable that I would just go ahead and make my pissing and moaning about life public.

So, here goes on sharing little bits and pieces of working full time, parenting our three rambunctious boys, and letting our house go to hell.

J, dh, is sickeningly perfect. He has no vices; he stays trim, he doesn't drink or smoke. He doesn't even like caffeine or chocolate - does this invalidate his American citizenship? He leaves his desk completely clear at the end of the day and doesn't ever speak ill of others. His main vice is that he makes me look like a fat tyrant.

The wrecking crew:

The oldest, Z, is six (and a half). He is getting ready for first grade and spending the summer at home with me. I had foolishly believed that I could do my summer work with him underfoot. He is sensitive, bright, creative, and provides a narrative of all of our activities all of the time - if he is silent, he is sleeping (or sucked into a vortex in the television). He is sure to provide helpful hints, louder and more insistent the more frustrated you become.

Our middle child, B, just turned four. He is a spitfire. If he doesn't have something productive to do... he'll find something else to do. Typical exchange:
The house is quiet, too quiet.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting more water."
Pause while this sinks in.
"MORE water???!!"
B is simultaneously the most likely to make me blow a gasket and the most likely to melt my heart.

The "baby", T, will be two soon. T is a study in perpetual motion. He idolizes his older brothers. He learns new words every day, I hope to avoid him picking up any naughty words - I use them far too often.

The dog:

The only other female (does she count - she is fixed?) is our golden retriever, Katie. She is a wild, counter-surfing, trash-diving fool.