Makayla's Room Challenge

       So, as I anxiously await the day Makayla comes back home, I’ve realized I’ve got a whole new worry on my hands: how do I decorate her room?  Makayla is the girliest girl of all girls ever and I’m not really sure what to do with this.  I’m not saying I want her to change or anything; I’m the weirdo who was a boy as a child.  I liked Ninja Turtles and capturing horny toads to keep in my wagon and shoving bugs and turtles and frogs in my pocket.  I liked being outside and climbing trees and fishing.  I lived and breathed sports and hated dresses to the point that I would wear jeans under my Sunday dress at church so I could climb trees with the boys after Sunday School.  My mother did not like this and would usually not entertain my manly shenanigans.  I remember when I was about five and Mom took us to some child oriented thing and we were playing musical chairs.  I won and was told I had won a prize.  I went to fetch my prize and saw there was a baby doll and a toy gun.  I took the toy gun and Mom made me get the dumb doll instead.  I did like some dolls as a child.  I liked to dress them and make them have wars with rolled up paper balls.  I liked to fashion booby traps and use my dolls as practice targets.  I liked to make slingshots and then see how far they could throw various dolls.  So I did do some girly things.  I remember when I was eleven, Mom brought me some teen magazine thing and told me she wanted me to start reading stuff like that so it would make me more like I girl.  I read a few pages in it and decided it was the stupidest thing I had ever seen.  My mom would always get so irritated with me because I didn’t care about doing my hair or wearing cute clothes.  And when I started getting boobs in the sixth grade and was told it was no longer appropriate to chest bump the boys who I dominated in tether ball, I was furious.  So, imagine my utter surprise to have a girl child who loves clothes, jewelry, girly toys, and princesses.  She has been like this since she was old enough to tell me what she liked.  I have tried to get her involved in various sports and she’ll just tell me how much she hates the sun and that “sweating is gross.”  When I’ve taken her fishing, she would freak out about how gross the worms were and scream at the sight of a “gross, slimy fish” on the hook.  If I lie down in the grass at the park she’ll scold me on getting grass in my hair while furiously trying to clean me up.  She nags me about “not dressing up” and is horrified that I don’t wear jewelry.  She hates sports with a passion, other than dance and gymnastics.  She prefers singing and art and clothes.  So that’s how she is and that’s great.  A fashionable, artistic, singing kiddo is awesome.  I just have no idea what to do with it.  I’m assuming this is how a liberal, straight dad might feel after his son announces that he’s gay.  He’s fine with it, has no objection to it, doesn’t care either way, but has no idea how to relate to it.  Kind of how I relate to over the top Christian people.  So when I started to decorate Makayla’s room, I knew I was in no position to do this myself.  Makayla’s spirit mother, Rachel, is much better at these things.  Rachel is Makayla’s spirit mother because they are both artsy and have all sorts of other things in common, most of which I find totally bizarre.  They like to paint and do music and all sorts of artsy stuff I don’t know how to do.  So we went shopping for Makayla and Rachel pretty was a professional about the things we would get, while being polite about declining my ideas of “cool” stuff.  You know these two have a lot in common because I personally witnessed Rachel Porter pressing buttons to the Disney Princess dolls to hear them sing and drooling all over the dumb fake animals that blinked eyes and moved, just like Makayla would do.  She also tried to hoola hoop in the store like Makayla would do, and after she decided that would be embarrassing, refused to put the hoola hoop in the basket and just carried it around with her everywhere, just like Makayla would do.  She showed interest in all sorts of child board games that I have no idea how to play, just like Makayla would do.  She patiently explained color pallets and schemes and matching, just like Makayla would do.  She told me the pillow I thought was cool was for old people, just like Makayla would do.  Then she made me go to the CD section to look for some person I’ve never heard of, just like Makayla would do.  And then she saved me from near catastrophe while we were loading everything into the back of my truck and the wind nearly blew the wall mirror out of my hands by basically tackling it and saving the day, something Makayla would do.  Makayla has saved (or at least attempted to save) the day many times by letting me know my jeans had split in three places while running errands and I wasn’t wearing underwear, and shrieking “don’t you come near the brudder or I’ll kick you” to a Wal-Mart greeter she thought was a genuine monster.  Or like the time I caught her shoving pieces of pepperoni into her two month old brothers mouth with her explanation, “he is starving because you said the brudder eats boobs and he told me he thinks he does not want to do that and he won’t even eat my own boobs either so I am going to help him.”  Or the time she saw a lady bug on Caleb’s shirt sleeve and proceeded to whack him with her plastic baseball bat in her attempt to save him from the bug that was “going to probably eat his head off!”  Or how about the time she went to my flower garden and pulled up every single flower I had planted that day so that “those weeds won’t get your flowers.”  Makayla and Rachel are both catastrophe savers.  Anyway, thankfully Rachel was kind enough to help me decorate Makayla’s room because I can only imagine my daughter’s horror at what I would have come up with. 

Uncle Shonni

Well, the past few days have been kind of hectic and emotional.  I don’t Facebook post things that happen in my family when it comes to severe medical conditions.  Some people do to ask for prayers but I don’t believe in god so that wouldn’t make sence.  And everyone who knows my uncle and is worried knows to look on Grandpa’s page for updates.  He’s the leader of the family, not me.  I’ve told a few people at school about it and they were like, “Oh, I didn’t see anything on Facebook.”  Anyway, I have mentioned my Uncle Shonni a few times in my blogs over the years, usually talking about something funny he said.  Now before I start my little rant, know he is OK so you aren’t expecting to find horrifying news.  Anyway, he and I aren’t what you would call “close,” because he is very “to himself” and quiet.  He has had health issues his entire life and lives with my grandparents.  When I was little, before he started getting too sick, he used to take my sisters and me to the bowling alley and buy us root beers and help us get those stuffed creatures out of the claw machine.  One time he was able to catch a Bart Simpson piggy bank for me and my mother did not like it at all.  Haha.  When I was in my first semester of college and working full time and going to school full time and constantly struggling to find time to do even simple things, he helped me out a lot.  He would hold Makayla when she was crying when I ran to fetch a diaper or burp cloth and helped me.  He would help me calm her down when she was crying or offer to play with her so I could go "take a break."  He would warn me about the dangers of "sexting" because he heard about it on the news and enlighten me with sports information.  I left a basket full of laundry at Grandma’s house once, upset that I was so behind on laundry and had tons of homework and my job took up all of my free time. I told her as soon as I was done with classes that day, I'd come back to her house and wash my laundry before I went to work.  When I got to her house after class, I saw Uncle Shonni had washed and folded all of it for me and said he wanted to help because he knew I was so busy.  And when I not needed, but wanted a “newer car,” he bought one for me.  He’s always been so sweet and good to the children in the family especially.  He’s gentle and sweet and kindhearted and I often feel kind of guilty when I leave my grandparents’ house because I feel like I don’t include him enough in conversations.  When I call Grandma, he sometimes answers her phone when she’s busy and I’ll make it a point to ask him how he is and what’s going on with him.  But mostly I feel like I make it a point to hang out with Grandma and Grandpa and I don’t do enough to include him in conversations because he’s so quiet and to himself.  I’ve had these thoughts for years now, never really obsessing over them, just kind of thinking it every once in a while.  I found out a few days ago that he was in ICU with a possible heart attack, pneumonia in one lung, congestive heart failure, and kidney failure.  It was a very strange feeling because at first, my number one concern was for Grandma.  I was worried about her blood pressure and her stress and how hard it must be for her to see her oldest son in that condition.  Then I felt guilty that that was my first worry.  And as the hours passed by that night, I wrote him a letter, went over old memories, and made my plans to get my butt to Midland to go make sure he knew I loved him in case he died, and to keep an eye on my grandma.  I kept myself busy with Makayla’s room and the house and the past few days have been filled with worry and stress.  Yesterday the doctors were talking about taking him off the ventilator but they said they weren’t positive he would be OK enough to keep it off.  Today, right after class, I called grandma to see what was going on.  She said she didn’t know yet and she would call me as soon as the doctors told her anything.

“Tell him I love him if he wakes up,” I said, forcing myself to not let my voice crack because I have no business being a cry baby when my own grandma has to see her son go through this.

  I piddle farted around with homework and lurked around the house until I couldn’t wait anymore and called her.  She said she had already tried to call me and it went straight to voicemail.  Blast.  That must have been when my phone died and I charged it.  She laughed at me and sounded chipper and I demanded to know what was going on.

“He’s off the ventilator and is doing much better.  It looks like he’s going to be OK.  I told him you loved him and he grinned and nodded his head.”

I forgot my rule of not being a cry baby and gasped, “hang on, I am becoming emotional.”

Tears sprang to my eyeballs and ran down my cheeks at such a rapid rate that I couldn’t hold them back so I brushed them away and took a few deep breaths.  Grandma was chuckling at me.

“Hang on,” I said, trying to get myself under control.  At the rate tears were flowing out of my eyeballs, I could have probably made a small bath.  With my super ninja self discipline, I managed to make the tears stop and steady my voice.

“Ok,” I’m good,” I told Grandma.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yup. You’d think I’d have been crying when I found out what had happened, not after finding out he’s OK.  That could be offensive.”

She told me he would be seeing a kidney doctor tomorrow and he’d be in the hospital for a while, recovering.

“Is he able to eat?” I asked, worried that he might be hungry.  She said the steroids they were giving him raised his blood sugar (he’s diabetic) and that he would eat tonight or tomorrow.  We talked about how sweet he has always been, how shy and quiet.  I told her I’d be in Midland tomorrow to inspect him for myself. 

“He’ll have his phone back soon; it’s such a long drive for you,” Grandma said.

“I know and I don’t mind.  If I was that sick I would be comforted by my family being there.  I have to let him know how much I love him while he’s in there.”

“I know,” she said.

  We talked a little more and I told her I loved her a couple of extra times just because Uncle Shonni being in the hospital has kind of scared me about stuff.  Grandma let me know Uncle Shonni was watching football and because of that he was in a “world of glory” or something like that.  I told her I’d bring him some football magazines to look at tomorrow and she said he liked basketball magazines too.  We hung up and I felt the weight of extreme worry and stress lift up a little and I am very, very happy that my uncle is going to be OK.  I would also like to thank all of the doctors, nurses, and other medical staff who used their time and education to help my uncle.  I am very thankful to them and appreciate so much what they do.    

So, Why do You Call Your Blog That?

So, I’ve had some people ask why the name of my blog is Jessica’s Exotic and Coveted Life.  “Where did you come up with that?” they ask, telling me they do not find me exotic whatsoever.  I’m assuming they do not find me exotic because I’m not ethnic.  Anyway, two and a half years ago I wrote this blog (I have a crap ton of them on myspace, like hundreds of them.  I just don’t use myspace anymore.)  This was pretty much a normal day for me back then and because the day I wrote this blog, I did not feel exotic or coveted, I decided to name the blog the opposite of how I felt.  So that’s where I got the name for my blog, and the following is all about the day I decided to write a blog called “Jessica’s Exotic and Coveted Life:”

Dec 18, 2008

Jessica’s Exotic and Coveted Life

I could pretty much tell what kind of day it was going to be while I was making breakfast.  I was scrambling eggs, blabbing on the phone, and looked over to see Caleb had broken every single egg in the carton, and was happily stomping in the gooey mess.  I should have known better than to leave the eggs on the table, I know, but I wasn't thinking.  I turned the heat on my eggs way down and got to work picking up the shells that were crushed to smithereens, and sopping up the gooey crap.  Then I noticed that I had burned the eggs and gave the kids cereal instead.  Instant protests from Makayla.

"You said you were going to make us EGGS!" she screamed, and hurled a spoonful of cereal against the wall.  She learned this habit of food throwing from her brother.  I made her clean it up and told her she could have cereal or nothing.  She chose cereal.  I spent the rest of the morning trying to transform the disgusting mess that is my house into more of an "organized chaos" sort of environment.  It didn't work.  I went to the bathroom to figure out why Makayla's toilet wouldn't flush, and while I was trying to pull out a McDonald's pony from deep inside the hole, I heard a crash.  A big one.  Followed by screams.  I ran to the living room and saw that Caleb had once again pulled the Christmas tree on top of himself, and he was screaming while Makayla was trying to pull him out by his legs. 

"I'll save you!" she screamed as she yanked on him.  He just kicked her away though, and withered around under the tree like a giant slug.  I pushed the tree back up, and Caleb instantly got to work stomping on what was left of my glass bulbs and busting the garland to shreds.  I took him to the playroom and shut him in, since there's nothing he can hurt himself on in there, and vacuumed up the shattered glass and threw away the ruined garland.  While I was doing that, Makayla was in my room, pulling plastic bins out from under my bed, and dumping them upside down.  I went in there, and there were papers and pictures and receipts all over the place.  She had also emptied out both mine and Clint's nightstand drawers, and was munching on my stash of cough drops.  I tried to get to work cleaning that up, but became suspicious because Caleb was so quiet.  I went to check on him and saw that he was standing on the toybox, diaper off, and a big wet stain on the wall.  He had a tube of oil paint that he had somehow managed to hijack, and was happily transforming himself into one of the fellers from the blue man group.  I just stood there wanting to scream, as I remembered the dumb pony in the toilet, the mess from the tree, the mess in my room, the mess everywhere.  I started a bath, but no matter how much I washed him, he still remained blue.  Fabulous.  So I dried him off and dressed him and put both the kids in the living room and turned on the TV.  I got to work unclogging the toilet, cleaning my room, and then attempted to clean the kitchen, but noticed that the kids had pulled all the cushions off the couch and were coloring on them with a sharpie marker. 

"NOOOOOO!" I screamed and did a hurdle jump thing over the big couch.  Makayla had drawn a happy little man on one couch cushion, and on the other, had drawn what she said was a cat.  Caleb had black sharpie all around his mouth and nose.  Makayla had given him a "tattoo" on his legs. 

"What's wrong with you?" I said to Makayla.  I didn't even let her answer.  I marched her butt to the nose button and vowed to leave her there forever. 

"I can't get anything done around here with you two wreaking havoc on everything," I said, "This house is disgusting.  You guys need to learn how to behave."

They weren't even sorry.  No apologies.  I ended up having to let Makayla off the nose button because you can't trap a four year old in time out forever.  It's just not right.  I grounded her from her crayons and paint set for a couple of days.  She was devastated.

"I'll NEVER color on the couch again!  PLEASE don't take my stuff away!"

I ignored her so she went to her room and started pounding on the walls. 

By lunch time, my back was killing me, the result from a botched epidural and two hellions trying to pass as children.  As I was putting lunch on the table, I called my buddy Gayle.

"What happened at library hour today?" I asked her, since her little boy is in a different class than Makayla.

"Oh, they read two books, and colored, and made a craft, and they made ornaments with their pictures on them, and then snacks for the Christmas party," she said.

"You see," I told her, "I know I should take Makyala to library hour.  The thing is, is that I just don't want to.  It sounds like she'd have a lot of fun though."

"Oh, she would," Gayle agreed.

Blast.  I had been hoping to hear, "Library hour was so horrible today.  Cooper was out of his mind with boredom, and was so excited to leave.  You should stay home today. It was the worst day of our lives."

Blasted library hour.

So, since library hour starts at three, I had to get Caleb up from his nap at 2:15, and he was pissed off about it.  He usually goes down for his nap at twelve thirty and is up by two but today he decided to suck my boobs and scream until 1:30.  I do not understand him.  He can be begging to breastfeed so I'll pop a boob in his mouth and while he's sucking away, he still manages to shriek.  When people are only seventeen months old, they are hard to understand.  Both the kids threw a fit while they got dressed.  They both screamed when I made them wear a coat.    I couldn't find my keys.  And we were late to library hour. 

"I brought chocolate chip cookies for the party," I announced, as I walked into the group.

Another mom smiled at me and said, "Oh really?  How funny.  I brought chocolate chip cookies too."

"Yea, hilarious," I said, feeling like I was forgetting something.

"Actually," said the mom, "I think we were all supposed to bring something different.  I guess since you missed last week’s group, you didn't know that."

It kind of pissed me off.

"I was stuck in the snow last week.  Maybe someone could have called me since we all have each other's numbers."

"Who cares?" asked another mom as she rolled her eyes at the cookie bitch, "so they can have two cookies.  They're four.  Hey Jess, I guess Tori isn't coming today?"

"Blast!" I screamed.  I had forgotten Tori.  Her mom is a teacher at the middle school, and I take her to gymnastics and library hour with Makayla.

"I forgot to pick her up.  I'll go get her….and grab something else for the party, since we're so strict on the snack rules."

I picked up Tori and we went to the store and grabbed a couple of boxes of candy canes and marshmallows.

I have a little personality trait, (or what Grandpa calls a "personality defect") that when I'm in a hurry, I expect everyone else to be in a hurry too.  If I'm running late, people who walk slow, drive slow, or do anything slow, really, and I mean REALLY piss me off.  As I was paying for the party goodies, the cashier talked on her phone and held a finger up to me.  I tapped my foot and slapped my credit card loudly on the counter for a few seconds, and when she didn't do anything, I said, "Excuse me.  Maybe your manager will check out my stuff.  Where is he?"

She gave me a look and hung up her phone, rang up the groceries with the speed of a newborn, and then told me, "Oh….yea, I'm sorry.  Our credit card machines don't work."

I pulled out my checkbook and had written the entire check before she said, "Oh, yea, my computer isn't taking checks right now."

"Then ring it up on a different computer," I said and threw my check at her as I grabbed my stuff and ran out.  All while balancing Caleb on one hip and instructing Tori to hold onto my coat so she wouldn’t be kidnapped or hit by a car.  Go supermom.

Once we were at the library again, I passed out my candycanes, and the cookie troll said, "How funny.  You know, the kids were all going to get a cane from the tree at the end of the party."

I imagined how fun it would be to hurl an entire box of candycanes on her, but just said, "Cool.  Now they will have two."

I went to camp out with my group of moms, the best ones in the entire library cult, and we discussed salt dough ornaments, since I had recently made some.

"We should have a party at my house for the kids this weekend, and theme it around crafts like that!" said one mom.

All the moms agreed enthusiastically while I racked my brain for an excuse as to why I couldn’t go. Couldn't find one in time.  So now at 11:00am on Saturday, I'm going to a crafts playgroup.  Usually, I like that sort of thing for the kids, but lately, I've been hesitant to take these monster children anywhere if I don't have to.  I'm in charge of bringing glitter, glue, and yarn, by the way.

After library hour was over, and I had all the kids out by the car, I realized I had lost my keys.  I was instantly surrounded by the other moms.

"Did you lock them in the car?  I can have my husband come out and get them."

"Do you think maybe they're in your pocket?"

"Maybe they fell out of your purse."

"I saw Caleb playing with him when he was getting into the glue."

"YOU!" I screamed at the mom who had seen Caleb with them, "Your idea sounds good.  He had them by the crafts area?"

"I'll take the kids to the reading area so they aren't in the cold while you go find your keys," said the brilliant mom.

"I could just kiss your face right now," I told her, and ran to find my keys.  I couldn't find them.  I searched the entire room and found them under one of the chairs.  Thank God.  There is nothing worse than losing your keys when you're stuck with three children and a significant other who is in North Dakota.  I've lost all my spares too, so it would have been a nightmare.

After I dropped Tori off, I went to the post office to mail a package.  I gave the crap to the lady and was like, "here, wrap it up, I can't do much with the baby, and if I put him down, he'll destroy everything."

She made an "I'm so sorry face," and was like, "Oh gosh, well, we're closing."

I looked at my watch.  4:31. It closes at 4:30.

"It's 4:31," I said, "surely we can go ahead and do it."

She smiled sweetly and said, "Actually it's 4:33.  Come back tomorrow.  I'm sorry."

I smiled back at her and thought about letting Caleb down for just a second so he could destroy some boxes but figured that would be mean.  So I left.  We came home, and as I got out of the car, I nearly fell when an intense pain shot up my back.  Blasted epidural.  I got the kids out of their seats and limped into the house.  I made supper, and didn't even care as Caleb hurled his peas and carrots onto the floor.  Then, I turned on cartoons and laid on the living room floor, rubbing my back.  I bathed them, and wasn't in a good mood about it at all.  Usually, we splash and play around, but tonight, I was like, "Look up, let me rinse.  Don't stand up.  Oh God, my frickin back."

I put them to bed at 7:30, and told Makayla if she got up even once, she would be in "the biggest trouble ever."  I went to lie on the couch for a while before I tackled their recent messes, and within minutes, I heard her running up and down the hall.  I got up, grabbed her by the arm, and led her to her room.

"If you get up again, or if you wake up your brother, I am going to spank your butt."

She got up again.  And woke up her brother, who then screamed for thirty minutes.  Before I went in to settle him down, I went to swat her butt, but missed because she laid down on the ground and then rolled away from me.  I chased her, picked her up, but then had to put her down because it hurt my back even worse.  I put my hands on my knees, trying to keep from screaming, and said, "Tomorrow is going to be the worst day of your whole life if you don't go to bed RIGHT NOW."

She went to bed.  Thank God.  I'm not sure how you go about making a four year old's day the worst day of their life.  I calmed Caleb down.  Considered running away from home.  I popped a lorotab, laid on the couch, and read a magazine.  After my back had gone from intense and immobilizing pain, to dull throb, I got up to clean their messes.  Oh, and by the way, my housekeeper has decided since we live out in the middle of now where, and she's good at getting her car stuck in the snow, that she can no longer work for me. 

Getting Ready for the Kiddos to Come Home!!!!!!!

          So around ten this morning I decided to make a list of things I need for the kiddos’ room and figured I’d call Makayla to see if she could think of anything else I needed.  On my list I had nightstand, lamp, toy-box, bookshelf, and mirror.  Makayla will need this mirror when carefully putting together her super stylish outfits.  She is very good at this and gets irritated with me because I run around in jeans and t-shirts all the time.  She spends just as much time trying to put outfits together for me as she does herself and spends plenty of time scolding me for getting dirt on my jeans and having messy hair.  She has been this way since she was little and when she was three, waltzing into gymnastics in her star shaped sunglasses, fashionable scarf, and sparkly headband, her coach would tell her what a little fashionista she was.  So anyway, I called her and asked her if she could think of anything else we needed for her room.

“I need something to keep all my zhu-zhu pets in,” she told me.  Zhu-zhu pets are fake hamsters that have all sorts of tracks and gadgets that you put together so that the little pets can have a wonderland to zip around in.  Each and every piece of the track is sold separately and I could have probably made a down payment on my own island by now if it wasn’t for having to buy the stupid things all the time.  New hamsters and tracks come out constantly and while I do not like having to compete with the herds of mooing mothers at Toys R Us, I do not mind collecting all of this paraphernalia for my girl child.  The zhu-zhu pets have come in handy in many ways.  While the tracks take forever to assemble, the delighted shrieks from Makayla when she’s watching her little hamsters zoom around makes me happy.  She also doesn’t harass my mother and me for real hamsters.  When Caleb was going through his “acting like a girl” phase, I was worried.  Besides wanting to wear makeup, wear high heels, and paint his nails, he also loved playing with Makayla’s dolls and Barbies and wearing her stick on nails.  Over Christmas, I watched him get a handful of zhu-zhus, lovingly put them in a princess castle, and then pick up a Barbie.  I was thrilled when he used the Barbie as a weapon and started shooting the zhu-zhu pets because I found hope that he might not turn out to be a raging homosexual.  Now, I personally have no preference over the sexual orientation of my children but I am expecting hoards of grandchildren from them someday.  I would also be afraid of the discrimination a very gay boy child might face in college and am assuming my dear grandfather would be less than pleased.  If Caleb does turn out to be a raging homosexual, I’m sure he’ll be fabulous though.  Anyway, after having a talk about how we don’t pretend to shoot animals, while trying to mask my relief that he was doing something “boyish,” Caleb got back to styling the hair on the Barbie’s head and I got busy looking up child psychology on Google.  When he was one, he only liked to play with his sister’s baby dolls and Clint would shower him with “manly” toys that went ignored, while I tried to comfort Clint with the fact that lots of little boys play with dolls.  Luckily, when Caleb’s very girly big sister isn’t around, he enjoys Ironman and explosives so everything will probably be fine.  I dunno.  When I was little I loved the Ninja Turtles and explosives and was pretty much a boy until I was a teenager an as an adult I’m straight, so I’m assuming my son’s strange play habits do not define his sexuality.  If my past predicts his future, then he will be a girl until he’s about fourteen, figure out how to be a boy, and then be attracted to women and only mess around with members of the same sex when highly intoxicated.  We shall see. 

       Anyway, so I told Makayla I would also get a huge plastic tub for her massive collection of fake hamsters and she said she couldn’t think of anything else she needed.  I asked her what kind of bed comforter she wanted since I’m assuming she will not be pleased with my brown one.

“You can decide,” she said, “but no grown up colors, just kid colors.  And no boy stuff.”  I remember harassing my mom when I was her age until she bought me a Ninja Turtle bed set.  She also got me Ninja Turtle cereal bowels and all sorts of cool weapons.  Makayla wouldn’t hear of such a thing.

I racked my brain trying to figure out what constitutes kid colors when she said, “actually, I really like zebra print.  I like leopard print too.  I like leopard print the most.”

Gross.  Whatever.  I jotted “zebra or leopard print comforter, preferably leopard,” hoping she wouldn’t start demanding leopard print outfits.  I am ill prepared for having a six year old pimp looking creature.

“If I can’t find either of those, I’ll call you and tell you what they have,” I told her.  We chatted for a while and I asked her what all she was bringing so that I could make sure I created enough stuff for her to store things in. 

“Probably one of those plastic bins that have those different compartments for storing my art supplies in my room,” she said.

I was please that she knew the word “compartment” and imagined Caleb sneaking into her art stuff and covering everything with glitter, glue, and paint, remembering the time he snuck into my room with a tube of blue oil paint and used the paint as glue to stick like, twenty unraveled condoms all over the wall and dresser.  I told Makayla we’d keep her art stuff in my room and I would be the one to hand it out and collect it to avoid any catastrophes.  While we talked, I was loading the dishwasher and saw Matt had left a cereal bowel in the sink with milk and fruity pebbles still in it.  I dumped it out and was horrified to see the leftover milk and cereal had become a goopy, slimy mess.  I immediately started dry heaving and thought I might throw up.  Makayla was horrified, asking what was going on.

“I dumped out something gross in the sink and it’s making me sick!” I wailed, “Quick, help me think of something else!  Help me think of something else!”

“I don’t know what to think of!” she screamed, panicking.

“Tell me a story!” I managed to gasp as another dry heave took over me.  I tried to get the image out of my head, telling myself to think of something else and all I could see was the slimy, icky mess.

“Once upon a time you had a baby in your belly and the baby was my little brother,” Makayla said, sounding very worried, “and I remember when he came out of your belly and I got to go see you at the hospital and hold him and I love him so much.  Now he is three.  And his name is Caleb only I call him Brother and he is so cute. The end.”

She waited and I waited and after a few seconds I felt better.

“Thank you,” I said, “that was awful.”

“You are very strange,” Makayla told me.  I ignored her and we got back to the list.  She let me know she had a pop tart for breakfast and she had had one for breakfast yesterday.  I was very bothered by this and have told my mother constantly not to let her eat stuff like that, especially as a meal, but my requests go ignored.  I’m all for baking cookies every now and then and letting my kiddos have a cookie as a snack after dinner or something, but I am not cool with pumping a kid full of sugar and calling it “breakfast.”  My sister Amber used to give me such a hard time because instead of candy and sweets, I usually give my kids fruits and vegetables for snacks.  My sister Kalyn laughed hysterically when my kids called granola bars “candy bars” because that’s what I told them they were.  Both of my sisters thought I was really mean to never let the kids have soda or little debbies and only occasionally let them have a piece of candy or a cookie.  But now I’ve got two kiddos who have no issue eating a wide variety of veggies, even raw, and think nothing of being served asparagus or squash and they inhale it as if it was sugary goodness.  Since I brainwashed my kids to believe raw veggies and fruits were “fun snacks,” I now have kiddos who snack on raw zucchini, carrots, tomatoes, broccoli, and whatever else I give them.  I made a note to discuss the whole pop tart thing with mother later and tried to rack my brain with quick, easy things Makayla could do herself for breakfast, since mom usually sleeps later than Makayla does.  I instructed Makayla to go find an apple or banana and drink plenty of water after eating the pop tart and right when I was about to hang up, Makayla said, “Mommy?”

“Yes?” I asked her.

She didn’t say anything and I asked if she was still on the phone.

“Well,” she said, sounding really shy, “do you think you’re going to buy new toys too?  Because Grandma told me I have to give my old ones to kids who don’t have toys so maybe I won’t have enough at your house?”

“You will bring lots of your own toys here but I will buy you some new, cool stuff.  When you move to Dallas, you’ll be here a lot more so I need to have stuff for my house so Grandma doesn’t have to pack all your toys every time I come fetch you.”

She let out a cry of victory and I asked her if she could think of anything she really, really wanted.

“I can think of one thing I want more than anything in the world and I want the rest to be a surprise,” she said, “Do you remember when I was four and you got me all those beads and we made jewelry together all the time?”

I told her I did remember.  I still have everything she made for me in my jewelry box and I adore her masterpieces. 

“All I want is beads like that Mommy, so we can make jewelry together.  Remember how Brother used to get into the beads when we were making stuff and try to do it too?”

I remember all too well the teething, thrashing, angry little one and a half year old trying to put a bead on a string like his sister and then becoming furious and hurling the entire tray of beads across the floor after he realized his tiny little fingers weren’t capable of such a feat.  I remember Makayla’s cry of horror at seeing all of her beloved beads strewn about the entire living room and how we both spent over an hour picking up beads and putting them back in the tray, while Caleb screamed at us from his playpen. 

“I will get you beads,” I said, “but Bubba is probably still too little to really do stuff like that so maybe that’s something we can do when he’s taking a nap or when he goes to bed.”

“But he’s nearly four Mommy, and I was four when I started doing beads.”

True.  But Makayla was one of those weirdo super advanced kiddos that talked at ten months, said full sentences by fifteen months, played Candyland at eighteen months, and mastered drawing inside the lines by two.

“Girls usually do things quicker than boys do,” I said, “Bubba will learn soon.”

“When you go get that stuff for my room, make sure you get stuff for Bubba too Mommy,” she said.  I assured her I would remember.

“Grandma is still sleeping so I have the phone with me,” Makayla said, “call me if you need help.”

My mom is suffering some pretty horrifying insomnia right now because of her seizure meds and it was nine their time so I wasn’t really too worried about Makayla being up by herself.  I’ve gotten her up, made her cereal, plopped her in front of the TV, and gone back to bed when I was super tired.  Bad mommy. 

“Do you know how to call me with Grandma’s phone?” I asked her.

She thought a minute and then said, “I don’t think I know your phone number.  Let me go grab a pencil.  Hang on.”  She ran off and I was thrilled that she was now able to write down information like that.  She came back to the phone and told me she was ready and I realized I didn’t know my phone number because I just got a new phone.  I scrambled through my Facebook, trying to find the post where I updated my number and then rattled it off to her.  She repeated it back to me and I told her how brilliant she was.  After we hung up, I felt a little pain in my heart, wishing she was with me to help me go shopping.  Matt worked so hard building the room for the kiddos and I feel very lucky to have someone who was willing to spend countless hours for my babies.  I am very nervous about how much life will change when they’re here over the summer.  I’m worried about finances since Makayla will be in gymnastics and swimming and I’m worried about how Matt is going to react to two small children and a girlfriend who morphs from working college student to mom.  He has three little sisters (one who is Makayla’s age) and a little brother so he’s really good with kids already.  Caleb has already met him and adores him and demands to know what Matt’s up to every time we’re on the phone.  I’m worried about how spending all summer with me and then moving back with mom for the school year is going to affect Makayla.  I do know I’m going to be well prepared for when she comes.  I’ve been hoarding money like a crazy person, never go out anymore, and will soon be interviewing sitters for when I’m working.  I’ve been meeting neighbors who have kids so that Makayla will have friends when she comes.  I’m really nervous about a lot of things but more than anything, I am SO excited.  I can’t wait to have my little kiddos all to myself for three whole months.  I thought about taking a few summer courses just to knock some hours out of the way but decided against it.  The kids deserve 100% of my attention and time this summer and I’m not going to allow myself to be distracted and stressed over school.  It’s already going to be a challenge to work while they’re here and I want the time I’m home to be spent with them, not homework.  When I walk by their room, I get a little chill of excitement and can nearly see them here already, playing and shouting for me to come assist them with something.  A real challenge is going to be how I’m ever going to sleep the entire time they’re here.  I do not want my kids seeing me sleep in the same bed as Matt so I’ll be sleeping with them and they are both the world’s most thrashing dreamers ever.  When I thought about my reasoning behind why I don’t want them seeing me sleep with Matt, I couldn’t really put my finger on it.  I don’t think a couple should be married before they sleep together.  I don’t even think a couple needs to get married at all if they don’t want.  I don’t plan on hiding my relationship with Matt from them, I just don’t think I’m comfortable letting them see me sleep in the same bed as him.  When Jake and I were together, he and I shared a room and Makayla saw me sleeping in the same bed as him.  When Clint and I were together, before Caleb was born, Clint and I slept in the same bed and Makayla saw that.  And I thought I was obligated to be with Clint forever, that’s not how it turned out.  And in my naivety with Jake, I just KNEW we would be together forever and get married after college so I thought it was safe for Makayla to see us share a bed and then that didn’t work out.  My relationship with Matt is based on respect, kindness, trust, and stability.  My first relationship was based on obligation and sacrifice.  My second was based on having fun and being an idiot.  There was never respect, trust, or stability in either one of them.  So while I think Matt and I are going to be fine in the long run, knowing our relationship is much more real and mature than any relationship I’ve ever been in before, I don’t want Makayla seeing me share a room with a third guy until I’m married.  The marriage part is because then I know it’s forever. I don’t believe Matt and I will ever separate, but I don’t know the future and if we do break up someday and she’s seen us share a room, and then I meet someone else and she sees me sharing a room with THAT person, what kind of message would I be sending her?  So I will be sharing a bed with my two tiny dream thrashers and I’m assuming I’ll end up on the couch more than once.  Anyway, Matt is nearly home and I am going to ask for his assistance on picking out furniture for the kids’ room since he’s good at stuff like that.  Only one more month till the kiddos come home!!!!!!! 

Grandma's Arthritis, an Annoying Lab Partner, and Joshua the Pig

       So I was minding my own business, grilling my biology professor on how to make my grandma’s foot arthritis better (we are studying in depth, human anatomy) when he told me we would have to put our discussion on hold because we had spent ten minutes already of class time in his office discussing it.  He has been teaching us about cartilage and stuff and telling us about how that floppy stuff on a roosters head can be injected and provide a kind of artificial cartilage and is really helpful.  He said his wife used it on her fake knee but he didn’t know much about arthritis and said he’d look into it and other options.  I know my grandma is in tremendous pain because of the arthritis in her feet though she never complains about it.  Every now and then she’ll cheerfully announce that she’s sore but I can tell just from looking at her toes and feet and that she told me it was “bone on bone” that she’s in pain.  When I was a young teenager, I would ask god to give me some of her pain since I was younger and could handle it better.  Since religion didn’t work, I’m moving on the most logical answer: modern science.  Anyway, Professors office is quite a way from the classroom so I used this opportunity to walk with him (or jog beside him to keep up because he’s about 6’7) and he promised me that we could probably find something outside of pain meds that would be able to provide her some comfort.  We went into class and I plopped down.  At the end of class he told us we’d be dissecting embryonic pigs.  I did not feel horrified by this news.  I find baby pigs utterly adorable and love them with all my heart, which pretty much everyone knows already.  I did not figure though, I’d have problems slicing up an embryo pig.  We tromped to lap and I cheered to myself that my horribly annoying lab partner wasn’t there.  She’s always telling me what a “girly girl” I am and that I would never survive in the “country” even though she’s from Dallas and I’m from a farm.  I have no idea why she does this considering my class is at eight in the morning and I always show up in jeans, a t-shirt, pony tail, and no makeup whatsoever.  I think it has something to do with the fact that she tries to mingle with all the boys, telling them what a tomboy she is, while pretending to talk sports.  She also likes to point out that I’m a girly girl because unlike her, I don’t consider it cool to carry around the professor’s dead crap before he’s pickled it.  I am 100% positive she does this because she thinks people admire her for it when in reality, we all think she’s a gross weirdo.  Whatever.  I was just happy I wouldn’t have to deal with her dumb insults about my gender.  The professor told us not to touch anything before he demonstrated the most important parts, reached into a huge bucket, and held up an actual sized baby pig from the hind legs.  Its tongue was hanging out and it had fur.  Involuntarily, I screamed, “Jesus effing Christ!  (I pronounced this “hay-suess” Christ)

Professor looked over to me and said, “I have already told you using God’s name in vain in another language and disguising the curse word isn’t any less offensive.  What’s your problem?”

I was kind of embarrassed, though the people in the class are pretty much now all my friends.  He just looked at me, dangling the poor dead baby pig and I watched as juices slopped down from it onto the counter.

“You said it was an embryonic baby pig, not an actual baby pig,” I said, mortified to feel tears spring into my eyes.

“These pigs were removed from the pregnant mother a couple of days before they were due so she could go to the slaughter house.  They remove the babies and sell them to educational institutions and research.  Notice the umbilical cord is still attached.”

He demonstrated the umbilical cord by flicking it a few times.  “This is NOT the penis,” he said, “I’ve had students ask that.  Now what you’re going to do when you get your pig is take two of these heavy duty rubber bands and tie him down like this.”  He struggled, tying each arm and foot to each corner of the rectangular dissection platter so that in the end, the baby pig’s limbs were all spread out and tied down.  When he showed the class the spread eagle baby pig, each limb tied to a different corner, a girl ran to the trashcan and hurled. 

“Very common,” Professor said as she tried to get the trashcan out the door while still hurling.  A nice boy went to assist her, “if you need to vomit, do so the way she’s doing, NOT on the floor and NOT on the specimen.” 

One girl asked what would happen if we did puke on the specimen which was what I was going to ask because I was pretty sure I could manage to do that.

“If you ruin your pig in any way, you fail the lab,” he said, “you only get one so don’t screw it up.  This is a small class and I’ll be here to help you so don’t go crazy on this thing.  Take your time and if you have any questions, ask before you start hacking at it.”  He started plopping dead pigs on the dissection platters along with the rubber bands. 

“These are very heavy duty rubber bands,” he said, popping a few at his stuffed deer head across the room.  We watched them smack into it with full force.  I envisioned him on the news with the anchor saying, “A well respected college professor is facing trouble after popping a heavy duty rubber band at a stuffed deer head and accidentally injuring his favorite female student, Jessica Hallford.  The injury was very gruesome, but after talking with the girl’s grandfather, our journalists found that she was full of horseshit, which is why the rubber band was able to go right through her.”

  “Do not accidentally pop yourself in the face with these when you’re positioning your pig or it will hurt,” he said, jerking me out of my thoughts.

When I held out my tray he plopped down my baby pig and I was startled by the weight.  I told him so.

“These are about four to six pounds,” he said.  I noticed that my pig’s mouth was wide open and his tongue was sticking straight up.  He had little patches of gray and black and adorable baby pig hairs on the top of his head.  I went back to my table.  There was one pig for each set of partners but my annoying partner had not showed up so I was flying solo.  The thought of slicing into this poor baby pig was just too much.  I love baby pigs.  I love all things tiny and small and cute and willing to cuddle with me.  I had to find a way to get out of it.  I could pretend to have a heart attack.  I could claim to have a health issue when it came to pigs.  I could say I practiced a religion that thought pigs were sacred.  But I remembered my very faltering biology grade and realized I would have to just do it.  Even one screw up the rest of the semester will force me to re-take the class.  I peered down at the baby pig and wanted to cuddle him.  Since he was one, dead, two, injected with preservatives, and three, cuddling a dead baby pig would be weird, I resisted.  I was just going to have to pretend he was a disgusting bird.  I would have no issue hacking into a duck or something.  That wasn’t going to work.  This adorable pig looked nothing like a duck.  I went through my brain, trying to   figure out how I was going to cope with this and then an idea came to me.  I am madly in love with Dr. House.  I would pretend I was performing a special operation just for him, and if it was successful, I would be a millionaire doctor AND get to do dirty things to House because he would be so impressed with my brilliance.  Professor demonstrated what we should do first.  My stomach was churning and freaking out and I was trying to pump myself up to start pretending I was a surgeon for house.  Whatever it takes.  So I got to work.  I got my scalpel and started but couldn’t quit looking at the pig’s face.  I had somehow, in my dumb brain, named him Joshua and I just couldn’t stand looking at his little pig face.  I left the table, grabbed a paper towel, and taped it over his face.  Much better.  I got to work slicing him from the bottom of his chin to his butt-hole.  Professor chuckled at what I had done and showed me how to slice around his little baby pig penis so I didn’t detach it.  Once I couldn’t see his face and his little pig body was open and I was clearing out the tissue from his internal organs, things got better.  I looked in my lab book and saw how to cut his ribs out to better see the organs.  I got to work, following closely so as not to harm any of the important vessels or arteries, and once my pig was totally cleaned out, I made a startling discovery: his insides appeared to be pretty identical to human internal organs.  I went to the back of the lab and grabbed Pat, the unisex dummy that has every single organ of a human that you can take out and put back together.  I sat Pat on the desk next to Joshua and started taking out her parts with my ungloved clean hand, and comparing her with Joshua’s organs.  It was incredible.  I did this for quite a while, and Professor came up to me and asked what I was doing.  I told him and he was thrilled to let me know that pigs are, in fact, nearly identical in organs and placement as humans. 

“You weren’t supposed to go this far without me demonstrating it first but this is actually a very good, clean dissection.”  He stopped everyone to come examine Joshua as an example.  I looked, wide eyed as he showed us various organs and then showed us the same organs on Pat.  I demanded to know if the pig had an appendix and he said that a pig has something that functions like his appendix but it is used for holding bacteria and digesting vegetables.

“And ours evolved from this thing to what it is now?  Useless?”

“Correct,” he said, and went on showing us stuff.  Everyone got back to work and I started labeling the very visible parts of the pig in my lab book.  I heard the professor freaking out because someone had totally removed the lungs with tweezers and had ruined them beyond recognition.

“How does this resemble tissue?” he demanded, “these are lungs.  Class, if any of you ever need surgery, do not ask this girl.” 

I was busy trying to locate the organs behind all of the intestines, which means you pretty much have to get fingers deep into them and mess around.  I was horrified when something squirted out.

“You need to cut more from the fat around the stomach,” professor said, “then you won’t get squirted and you’ll have more room to dig around.”

While I was trying to figure out the best course of action to take so I wouldn’t puncture anything, my annoying lab partner showed up.  She moved Pat to the back of the lab which annoyed me because I wasn’t done with him/her yet and asked what I was doing.  I gave her an overview and told her we needed to remove the fat from around the stomach.  I gave her my scalpel and told her she could do it since I had done all of it so far.  She has always told me how much she loves dissecting things and made fun of me when I gagged when she unnecessarily pulled out all of the intestines from our roundworm weeks before and twirled them on her tweezers.  I was a little annoyed because I wanted to do it but knew it wasn’t fair to hog the entire pig (no pun intended bwahaha) when she hadn’t even gotten to participate.  I gave her the scalpel and she said, “no, you can do it.  We did these in ninth grade so I’ve already done it.”

“Ummm,” I said, “OK, I just thought you’d like to do it since you like this stuff so much.”

Professor had overheard her and said, “which high school did you go to?”

She told him and he looked at her and said, “I actually taught at that high school about the time you went.  What are you twenty, twenty one?  We never dissected pigs.  Not even seniors, most certainly not freshman.  Get to work and don’t walk into my lab halfway through after missing all of class again.”

I handed her the scalpel and she procrastinated by peeling the tape off the paper towel and exposing Joshua’s face.  I was horrified to see his face with his maimed little body right below it.

“Put that back,” I said, “and hurry up so we can finish.  We still need to locate the kidneys and peel that plastic like stuff off of them.”

“Awww, look at what a cute little face she has,” she cooed and made little baby noises at it and told it how adorable it was.

“You’re an idiot,” I told her, “first of all, it’s a boy.  Second of all, put that back.”  She taped it back, and asked for the fiftieth time what the instructions were.  I told her, patiently because I was assuming she was being a big fat liar about ever having done this before and I didn’t want her to screw it up.  She just stared at it and said, “Look, I’ve really done this.  Why don’t you try?”

“Will you just do it so we can continue?” I asked her and then noticed her face.  She was horrified by the thought of cutting at this pig.  I realized that her big tough girl act wasn’t in place just to annoy me; it was a defense mechanism for bad self esteem.  Being a jerk to me was projection.  She might not have an issue being gross with worms and bugs, but apparently this was just too much for her.  I took the scalpel from her and showed her on one side how to do it since Professor had already explained to me what to do.

“Hey, it’s not too bad,” I said, “I covered his face.  It’s actually interesting once you get into it.  You try on your side.”

I handed her the scalpel again and she placed it on the fatty part of the pig’s belly and I noticed her hand was trembling.  I saw she was trying not to cry and realized it wasn’t only dissecting the pig that was bothering her, it was how embarrassed she probably was that her front was kind of losing credibility and that the “girly girl” wasn’t bothered by maiming the pig (anymore) and she was.  I looked around to make sure Professor wasn’t lurking anywhere around and said, “You know what?  I changed my mind.  You’ve already done it and I haven’t.  Let me finish.”

I figured there was no harm in actually doing all the cutting as long as she was learning what the organs were and where they were.  That was the lesson.  I finished cutting away the fat and told her to hold back the intestines with some device made to do things like that so that I could locate the kidneys. 

“You said you wanted to do it,” she said.

“Well, I can’t very well hold back all of that stuff and root around for other organs on account of only having two hands and needing them both to locate the kidneys.”

I pried the intestines all back and told her to hold the instrument.  She did for about two seconds before she let go and said she had to go to the bathroom.  How annoying.  I rooted around and managed to do what I needed to do and when she came back, I showed her where everything was.  I came across a few parts I couldn’t identify and Professor helped me figure it out.  The entire lab, my partner didn’t once participate but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.  I decided not to make any shitty comments about “who’s the girly girl now?”  I just pretended like I didn’t notice.  After lab was over, we were instructed to un-tie our pigs, put them in a labeled plastic bag, and clean up.  My lab partner was kind enough to hold the bag open while I dumped my pig in there, head first.  She labeled everything and cleaned everything up, while I examined Pat some more.  I put his/her boobs back on as well as his/her penis just to be safe.  Professor rolled his eyes at me as he walked by.  Once we were all seated again, he announced this lab would continue for the rest of the semester and we’d end up cutting into the pig’s brain, taking out its jaw, and looking at its face muscles.  Poor Joshua.  As we went to leave, my annoying lab partner caught up to me and said, “I’ve already done all that before so it wouldn’t be fair for you to not do it this time.”  This irritated me.  I also was horribly disturbed about having to cut into this pig’s face and it really wasn’t fair for me to do the entire thing.  I had no problem saving her when she just kind of walked into the situation but now she had fair warning. 

“I’ll do the right side and you’ll do the left.  You’re not going to pawn everything off on me just because this freaks you out when you know it freaks me out too.  Deal with it.”

“I’ve already done it,” she said, “you were cool with it earlier.”

“Then you can do it again and I think we can both agree that that’s fair.  See you next week.”

And then surprisingly, I went and got a bunch of soft tacos from Taco Bell and inhaled them on my way home, after spending over an hour butchering up a tiny baby pig.  Next week I destroy its adorable baby pig face.  I am not looking forward to this.