BlabberMouse

The Drive to School

Gus: It seems like everyone in my school likes P.E.

Me: Mr. Streeter is a great teacher.

Gus: Yeah he never wears a mean face.

Me: Do other teachers wear a mean face?

Gus: Well some. Not ... Ms. Barnes doesn't wear a mean face. It's an in between face. She's ... Does pregnant mean you have a baby in your belly?

Me: Yes.

Gus: She's pregnant right now, so it's just a hard time ... She's in an intense place, and she has to eat a lot of Craisins. She keeps a big bag of them on her desk.

Me: I understand.

Four-Way Stop. No Seriously. Stop.

What I do not have time for these days: Blogging, apparently. 

What I always have time for: Bitching and moaning.

Let us begin!

I have nothing against Nashville's Homeless Newspaper. Nothing at all. It’s wonderful. I have no idea how anyone makes any money selling a monthly newspaper for one dollar, but I’m not here to question the business model of the homeless community. They have their ways.

I’m not concerned with the What or the How or the Why of the homeless newspaper, but can we talk, for a second, about the WHERE?

Because my brain?

My brain is not wired to conduct commerce at a four-way stop.

Even under ideal conditions, I struggle with the maths and the moneys. So when you toss in three other cars, a bunch of stop signs, a gas pedal, and a purse (the navigation of which requires an advanced degree in Spelunking), attempting to sell me the homeless newspaper at a four-way stop is like lighting my ass on fire and asking me which one's burning, my hands or my feet.

I DON’T KNOW. I’M CONFUSED. SOMETHING SMELLS.

Running, Falling, Running Some More

Last Thursday during my morning run, I took a bit of a spill. And by "took a bit of a spill" I mean that if nine months from now, I give birth to a bouncing baby sidewalk, not only will I not be in the least bit surprised, but I will name him Woodland Street. After his father. 

Ridiculous, this fall. My toe must have caught an uneven break in the concrete, and in the split second my brain processed the jolt, I hit the ground with such nauseating force that my pepper spray SPONTANEOUSLY EJECTED FROM ITS HOLSTER. 

Okay?

Thank god it was dark and no one was around to see me, because I'm pretty sure I left a dent. My right knee was skinned completely bald, and my left elbow was shredded and bruised to about a third of the way down my arm.

I took a picture of my elbow and texted it to my friend Graham when I got home because she has nurse tendencies, and I wanted to be all LOOK AT MY BOO BOO. Plus, she was there the last time I nearly broke my elbow by tripping over a small child and falling down the stairs, so I thought the photo had sentimental value. 

She (like everyone else I showed, because I am a showster!) was like, YOU ARE DISGUSTING. 

No she wasn't. 

(She probably was. In her mind.)

A week later, I can move everything perfectly well, but my knee is still swollen and radiating a strange eerie heat, and going up and down stairs is a geriatric pain in my ass. 

So I'm taking a few days off from running. 

Which is what brings me here. 

HI THERE!

I've missed you.

I really have. And I keep thinking I'll find my groove and get back into a semi-regular writing routine, but it just---hasn't happened yet. 

I work. A lot. And when I get home, I'm focused on the boys, and homework, and laundry and my quest to find a lunch food that Patrick will actually put in his mouth, and then rinse, lather, repeat. Another day.

The good news is, I love where I work. My clients are great. My coworkers are awesome. I'm still just offensively happy about the whole situation.

Truly, it's gross.

So the rest will sort itself out in due time.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Lots of love from the Blabbermouse House to yours.

 

Wrong

We're always en route to the mundane when they ask me these questions.

Where do babies come from?

I mean how do they get out of the mom's belly?

I've skirted this particular question before, with talk of "Sometimes the doctors make a cut in the mommy's belly and they take the baby out that way."

But this time, they were demanding more. 

What happens the other times? Do they pee or poop the baby out?

I explained that babies were neither peed nor pooped. That babies come out of a woman's vagina.

Silence from the back of the car. And then. Gus.

"But how does something as BIG as a BABY get out something as SMALL as a ..."

Me: Yeah.

<moment of silence>

Gus: That is just WRONG.

Me: Tell me about it.