Excitement on the side

I try not to get all of my self worth from my kids.  Or from my husband. Or from anyone really but my own damn self.  That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

As a person I am reminded that I am the only one that has to live with my decisions.  As a fledgling athlete I am competing only against my own times.

But sometimes something will happen and I can feel myself riding high.

Two words.  “Mama funny.”  She was smiling to herself in the car. Lucy said I was funny.  Man, there really is no better feeling.  This was on the heels of Em telling me that I was hilarious just a few days prior.  I know that the days are numbered, these days that my kids find me the pinnacle of good humor.  How many times can I drop trou in my kitchen when someone asks if I have seen the moon that night?  But for now I am funny.  Emily says so.  And now Lucy is in agreement.

I enjoyed this inflated sense of self worth for not quite 24 hours.  This morning at the breakfast table Lucy made a second proclamation.

“Yogurt funny.”

Dammit, man.  I swear I am funnier than yogurt.

It has been far too long since I have been really disgusting.  I can’t have you all thinking that I am somehow growing out of my penchant for being gross.

Moments ago I got myself to laughing hard enough that I almost demonstrated a literal display of one of my favorite expressions.  Allow me to set the scene.

Perfect morning.  It was supposed to rain but it didn’t. 8 mile trail run with friends turned out to be 8.4 and I didn’t even mind.  Came home and the kids were happy, the husband was cheerful.  We have plans this evening and a babysitter (HOLYSHITWEHAVEABABYSITTER!) so I hopped in bed with Lucy and thought I might close my eyes while she slumbered.

She napped. I did not.  I stealthily snuck out of the bed SIX times in the course of her hour long nap.  She made it known she was not pleased with my intermittent absence upon her waking so I figured I’d just try and stay put.  Instead of running back and forth from the bathroom I amused myself as she fell back to sleep by googling “diarrhea and running,” “diarrhea and distance running,” “running hydration diarrhea.”  You get the idea.

And then my clumsy fingers slipped down and before I noticed I had mashed the “share to facebook” button.  Because obviously the whole world needs to know that while my run was great my post-run intestinal situation left something to be desired. And then I started to laugh. And I couldn’t stop laughing.  And then I started really laughing.  And then I texted my husband this picture and said “When I poop in the bed it is Lucy’s fault.”  Because when you are married you can do things like that.  (Text stupid pictures, not shit the bed.)

Crisis averted.  Lucy has awoken and I did not “shit the bed.”   But this evening’s gathering?  It just might be BYOTP for this girl. Because that is exactly what Dr Google says to do about runner’s diarrhea, by the way.  Dr Google says to make a tasty appetizer, pound some Prosecco and go to a party. I added in the BYOTP.  And maybe BYOCOP (which is, of course, change of pants.)

Sometimes spilling your down and dirty details on the internet is weird.  And other times it can save you from having to say “Oh, hey, guys.  I have raging diarrhea but I understand it is very common….” when you walk in to a party.  Because at least one of my friends is bound to read this before I get there.  I’m looking at you, JW and LA.

Happy Saturday!  Bottoms up! And may no one shit the bed!

I have never understood the phrase “drawing a line in the sand.”  How drawing a line that will surely be washed away in the next 24 hours can be an indicator of an unwavering stance is a mystery to me.

But I still do it.  I draw lines in the sand.  Sometimes the lines are washed away by the ocean and I meticulously draw them again. And still other times I am grateful to the great and powerful ocean for letting me change my mind.

I have not drawn an irreversible line in the sand with regards to making more babies.  There has been no snipping or frying or tying of anything, not mine or MQD’s.  This is not to say that I have not quietly wept and pressed my lips against Lucy’s head, inhaling her sweet scent and choking back the ugly tears because I know that she is my last baby.

Shortly after she was born MQD and I would joke about more babies.  I joked.  He smiled.  My newly post-partum hormones gave way to hysteria one day and I begged him to say it out loud that we were enough, the four of us.  He had the good sense to keep smiling and say “Of course.”

We are a family of four.  I am more than satisfied.  Sometimes I see a mother and a little boy in overalls and I will tell his parents “Most of the time I am at peace with having two little girls, but damn if a little dude in overalls doesn’t make me start to wonder.” Sometimes a woman will laugh and say “You want him?”  Sometimes she will say “You could have one more?  C’mon, you could try?”

I used to explain.  I’d explain about how happy I am with the spacing between our two children and that if I was to wait four or five more years before I had another I would be 43. I am tired now at 38.  Sometimes I would tell her about how I am certain that my husband is blessed/cursed to spend his life in a house full of women and that I know we’d have three girls if we had another. Or I’d laugh about how 2 kids means we can keep our house and our cars.  I would mention that my husband and I have always had children and while I adore them with every fiber of my being I do look forward to a day when he and I can be alone.

There are so many reasons. Some humorous.  Some sincere.  All of them valid.  I am done.

This afternoon I cleaned out Lucy’s closet.  I do it frequently.  I am a sentimental soul but I save memories and moments in time with photographs and words.  I am a recovering packrat and I am cautious not to fall down the rabbit hole of “saving just this one thing.”

So when I put these overalls on the “Donate” pile and my eyes welled up I didn’t know what to make of it.  She didn’t even wear them all that often. It can’t simply be that she is growing up so fast.  There was a pile of clothes she had outgrown that didn’t make my nose start to tingle and my eyes leak.

Why the overalls?  Right there on the front they say “OshKosh Girl.”  These overalls aren’t for the boy that I think I am destined to bring in to the world.  And surely the pile of pink I was donating could be useful if my suspicions proved themselves to be accurate and we had another little girl one day.

I put the overalls back in the closet.  And I sat down on the floor and I had a good cry.  “Mama?  Mama sad?” Lucy asked.  I started to laugh.

“Baby girl, I have no idea what I am. Except pregnant.  I know I am not pregnant.  Mama isn’t sad, Lucy. Mama just might be a little bit crazy.”

It’s a good thing proximity to small pairs of overalls has nothing to do with getting pregnant.  Because if teeny OshKosh could knock you up I am afraid we’d be expecting a baby next summer.