If there’s one thing I just don’t know how to handle yet where this blog is concerned it is most definitely how to have the conversation wherein I admit I have a blog at all. And most definitely to the other mom’s of preschool.

I fully understand that when I write all of my innermost thoughts and feelings, ideas and what-have-yous all over the internet that I am opening myself up to all kinds of interpretation and speculation. I get it, I accept it. I try to deal with it respectfully. However I know full well that I am not making that decision for my kids. So … when other parents who have children in the same class or school as mine do bring up my website I cringe a little because (and maybe this doesn’t matter at all) I’m worried about their foresight’s onto my kids BECAUSE of me. (I’m just insecure, I suppose, in a group of other women who do the same thing I do but we never actually discuss how hard it is, how tiring it is or how much we love it and hate it at the same time … mom’s, we’re kind of intimidating.)

Double standard? I have no idea. I hope not. And it’s getting more comfortable but it’s also a little narcistic to talk about myself talking about myself and I’m trying hard to be wise in that area. Or mature? Pretty much I just don’t want to be the one who always has to say something, just to fill the space. Or be some one because I feel pressure to perform.

Nevertheless, I still love writing here so I will get over myself.

(Hi Mom’s!)

Next came Jessica and Oliver – Jessica missed school a couple days this week, the husband ended up losing his voice and I got run over by a truck and had gravel shoved down my throat.

Oh it was fun. Like buckets of acid being thrown on your face fun!

Thankfully the husband could rework some of his schedule to be home with the kids while I was more worthless than your average box of cereal. Ah snap! WORTHLESS I TELL YOU.

I spent the nights tossing and turning and wishing there was a magical fairy who was coming to take all the pain away so I could just sleep, for 15 minutes, for 5 minutes. Anything would have been nice. Instead I woke up morning after morning worse than the night before.

Whu whu whu.

So this morning I called to get an emergency appointment with the chiropractor so he could break my bones into working again and stop all the madness going on in my head. The Chiropractor we see regularly didn’t have an opening so I made an appointment with another guy in the office.

Now. I’ve written before about how going to the Chiropractor is kinda like being in a really bad porn video. The places they have to touch to test a muscle are not very modest, ok. Since we’ve been going to this particular office I’ve grown in my comfort in addressing this issue with the Chiropractors, it’s all part of the medicine and I’m assured that it’s not just me … it’s other patients too.

So. This new guy today, he had to go there. He had to test some muscles that were not very modest and I’m laying there on the chair thinking about how bad this must look from the outside in.

I’m sweating by this point … through my jeans I’m sweating. On my legs, my back, my armpits. A couple of the fixes he had to perform included my jaw, which meant he had to be leaning over me while I breathed in and out with awful, germish breath and I want to die, ok. I just want to die.

One. You are not the doctor I usually see, so this is just awkward.

Two. THIS IS SO UNCOMFORTABLE. But it works.

Three. Contrary to popular belief; I am modest.

We adjusted the supplements I’ve been taking for the blood sugar marathon and I got some tips as to how to avoid throwing my body into this revolt again so I feel like we’re on the upswing. We better be, at least. I’ve got a busy week ahead of me and there is not room for gravel or truck accidents on my limbs.

It has not gotten better.

In case you were wondering.

Although – I do now have toilet paper in the house and there are no longer lottery tickets sitting on my counter … and we haven’t bounced any more checks. There are new problems with my brain.

I remember hearing a story once about a babysitter who wanted job security so she would find the people’s birth control and tamper with it. As in, if it were condoms, she’d poke holes and if it were pills she’d … I don’t know, mess with them. I don’t know how.

This scared the crap out of me because who the heck knows what someone is looking through when they’re at your house and you’re not there?

Now. Step aside. I fully and completely trust the ladies we employ not to sabotage my ovaries. And I trust that if they’re nosey … soon they will not be because I’m sure they’ve found stuff by accident and then decided to shield their eyes for ever and ever, amen.

I’m making it sound like we’re freaks aren’t I?

Meh. Deal with it.

ANY WAY. It has happened before when I come home and start picking a few things up or walk into our bedroom to change or something only to notice the discarded birth control wrapper. I am not spelling this out for you. And I immediately shrink to about 2 inches tall inside and gasp at my total disregard for modesty.

I am married so 2+2=we’re doin’ it. But I don’t really want you to KNOW that. I don’t want you to see the evidence.

There have been countless times when I’m taking out the trash and see toiletries that are less than pleasant resting right on top and I’ve had to wonder to myself … OH MY GOSH! Why haven’t these girls up and quit on us?

Because when I was babysitting, none of this stuff was ever shoved in my face over and over again. I didn’t even go into the parents bedroom. And I’m not saying our sitters do – but our kids do! They love to play in there, be on the bed, wear my clothes. To be completely honest I don’t really care if our sitters do, either.

One thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent is that modesty, in all realms, is really just security for less embarrassment in a crowd. And once you’ve been projectile pooped on in your church bathroom during a service and had to walk right back out and sit down next to the wonderfully put together mom of 4 while you struggle with your ONE … modesty just has no place in that business. At all.

So, I do a mental check now before a sitter comes over. Toilet paper? DIAPERS?! (which I have forgotten many-a-times) Trash cans – clear? Diaper pail – fresh? (I’m bad at that one) Birth control evidence? Clean clothes?

Oh. Laundry. What a waste of time. I always have clean laundry piled high in our basement waiting to be folded and put away. Does it ever happen? Oh yes, about twice a month. And I feel amazing and on top of the world, until the next morning when half of my daughters closet is on her floor and in her hamper once again and it begins all over.

So you will totally be accosted with laundry upon entering our basement and I’ve just stopped apologizing for it. I’ve also stopped making sure that my nitty-grittys are somewhere underneath the entire pile of laundry because I’m sure I’m the butt of many jokes … literally … about how terrible my granny panties look.

That is correct I have not actually thrown them away yet.

But now I must.

Also? I’ll be crawling in a hole today and staying there for eternity.

I leave my camera to Jessica. Good bye.