Life is funny, right?  Like, how does it work that my kids get older and I get younger?  Yes, I’m cute but totally fucking delusional.

My middle son turned 22-years-old a few days ago (and I’m only 26… see?  Weird, right?) and we wanted to totally embarrass him on his special day.  How do you do that?  You take him out to Montana’s restaurant!  The employees like to sing to you and clap their hands and this? is something 22-year-olds hate.  But?  He got a free cookie.  So, worth it.

Free cookie:

Below, son is smiling but dying inside.  The middle kid is my youngest son – yes, his hair is LONG.  He’s a future rock star.  And the girl on the end, is my 9-year-old daughter, who thinks she’s 23.  Missing, is my oldest son.  He’s busy being a grown-up(ish).

It was a nice dinner… and I think the waiter wanted to hang with us.  I mean, yeah, of course, because we brings the awesome, but dude, get some friends.

Son loves having his photo taken.  Evident.

Didn’t get drunk at Montanas (although photo evidence shows otherwise).  May or may not have gotten drunk at a party the night before.  He admits to nothing.

He said he’s gonna rock 22.  I rocked 22 when I was 22… just four years ago.  *cough*

Damn straight, my kids know how to bring da cheese.  They learned it from the master:

We gifted son with iTunes card, an American Express card and a grocery store card.  All as good as cash, and that makes son happysauce.

Note: Giving your kids what they want will ensure they will not put you in a home years down the road.  I’m always thinking ahead.  Just sayin’.

And other lies I might tell you.  (The whole I got a boob job got you here, didn’t it?… Might as well pull up a chair and read the rest… providing you’re bored to tears and don’t have a life on Saturday night).  And, now, technically, it’s Sunday.  Oh.My.God.  I might finish this post by Monday.  Maybe.

I didn’t really get a boob job, but I’m not ruling it out.  Just so you know.  I have a very strong desire to tell you random crap that I’m thinking and/or feeling and since I believe in following strong desires, I’m just gonna do it.  If I bore you, you’re obviously reading this wrong and really, that’s not my problem.  Get help.  That’s all I’m sayin’.

So, random stuff:

I bought this new necklace last night and it’s gorgeous.  I wore it today yesterday two days ago and it’s all shiny and sparkly and all kinds of awesomeness, except, now that it’s almost midnight, I’d like to remove it from around my neck.  Only one problem: I can’t get the sucker off.  The clasp is nailed shut apparently.  Not opening.  I guess I’ll just have to look fabulous in bed. (Yeah, PS. It’s not almost midnight, because um, I’m lame-o and started this on Thursday night and it’s now Saturday evening .  It’s now Sunday.  And me?  I suck).

TGIF.  It’s now 12:01 as I type this and could be 2:05 p.m. before I finish it.  Just depends on what the hell my brain will allow. (And um, PS again… it’s not Friday, it’s Saturday as I’ve already mentioned.  And?  I suck, again). <—Nope, not Saturday now either, it’s Sunday, at nearly 3 a.m. Scratch that.  It’s now Sunday at 5 pm.  Holy fuck.  Monday is looking good right about now.

Pictured: My daughter and her best friend (not the birthday girl), who is the daughter of one of my best friends.

Went to a roller rink today for my girlfriend’s daughter’s party and the kids all looked so cute skating around, disco lights flashing and music booming.  Did I skate?  Um no.  That would have been horrifying.  Not for me, but for the people watching.  I could not do that to another human being.  People were laughing, having fun, being joyous  and seeing me on roller skates?  Would have definitely ruined the happy atmosphere.  I was not going to be responsible for that pain.  OK, sure, I may have looked cute, but as far as performance?  That shit would have been awful.

If I had a brownie right now, I’d lick it and then eat it.  Some dude on Twitter (won’t mention any names) was – I won’t say torturing me (but he totally was) – teasing me STRONGLY with his, Oh I have brownies with fudge and they’re so good, blah blah blah.  Is that not cruel?  Sure, I could make brownies (even though I suck in the kitchen… correction: suck at cooking in the kitchen) and hell, I could even buy them but that’s not the point.  What is my point?  Oh, yeah, I want someone to MAKE them for me.  Or buy them for me.  Whatever works.  Sad fact is, I have no brownies.  And I want one.  Or eight.

I might watch a movie tonight.  Not sure what movie, yet, but I’m in the mood to watch something scary and be, um, scared.  I like being scared – to a point.  You throw spiders at me, and I’ll be so scared, I’ll drop dead.  I don’t mean that much scariness, just some.  Like sitting on the edge of your seat kind of scary.  Nail-biting scary (I don’t bite my nails though).  That’s the kind of scary I want.  I also want to fall asleep listening to Pink.  I’m so bloody tired, and I love Pink’s voice, and can’t think of a better way to drift off.  Well, sure, there are probably a few better ways to fall asleep, but right now?  That one sounds like heaven.  Since this is also an update post because I sucked at getting this finished in a timely manner (because yeah, it’s riveting), I didn’t watch a movie BUT I did fall asleep last night listening to Pink.  Had some good dreams.

It’s windy here.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  And since it’s now Sunday at suppertime, it’s not windy.  Why didn’t I just scrap this post all together?  Because that would mean starting over.  And?  I’m much too lazy and tired for that shit.

I gambled for the first time last weekend.  Went to Yuk Yuks comedy club (the three comedians were so flippin’ funny, which is a plus seeing as they’re comedians and people paid good money to see them, be funny), which is upstairs from the casino and we had an hour to kill before the show, decided to play the slot machines.  We each took a $20 bill which gives you 80 credits.  Well, after 25 minutes or so of pushing a button (MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, HOW CAN PEOPLE SIT THERE FOR HOURS AND PLAY THOSE THINGS?) and winning 10 credits here and there, I was getting down to my last 30, so went big and bet 3 credits at a time.  Well, things were getting down to the wire, and with the next push of that button, I won two hundred credits which was equal to $55.25.  Not quite the jackpot but hey, it was more than I had come with.  I’m a winner!  Winner!

I went shopping today and made a few purchases.  Bought some shirts, which I might model for you later, depending on my mood and if I’m still wanting to wear clothes.  I might be walking around nudish.  Sure, my kids hate that shit, but so what.  It’s my house and I”ll do what I want.  Gah. I’m such a rebel.  Hey, if Lady Gaga – or as I like to call her Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta (’cause we be tight) - can walk around pantless, I can walk around topless.

OK, listen, I’ve bored you long enough.  If you stayed to read this far, you are either really desperate for something to read, just released from a mental institution and don’t know any better, high and/or drunk or love me enough to put up with this shit.  Whatever the case, thank you:

I’m not sure, but I think today is the day the world blows up.  I mean it is September 9, 2009 – 09/09/09.  That is some scary shit.  Or maybe it’s the medication I took?  I’m not entirely sure.  Oh, and? this shit will be rambling.

I’ve been sick for the past few days, I guess it’s the flu? combined with I’ve BEEN HIT BY A TRUCK feeling.  It’s all kinds of awesomesauce <— to quote a friend.  I’ll be better tomorrow, I swear.  If I have to beat the fucker silly, this flu is leaving tomorrow.  Again, I’m all tough and shit probably because of the medication.  I’m likely not able to fight my way out of a brown paper bag if truth be told.  Also?  I just realized I have written “shit” way too many times and I’m not done rambling.  This is da shit.  Sorry, could.not. help myself.

Yesterday, my grown (boys in men’s bodies, let us remember that) sons were both here (one has moved back in, I swear I will think only good thoughts) and within a five minute conversation, they called me cool and retarded.  I think that was mostly good.  They do annoy the ever-living shit out of me crack me up when they’re together, here, talking, especially when I’m trying to work.  Good times.

So far, this 09/09/09 day is not that exciting (take for instance, this post…you’ve fallen asleep).  It’s just before 7 a.m. and nothing has blown up yet.  Don’t believe all the hype, people.  Just do not.  Or maybe 09/09/09 means unicorns will fly out of my butt?  Now there’s something…

I have to go to the bank today, you know, before the world blows up.  I hope I get the teller that likes to look at my cleavage.  He’s fantastic, the way he thinks my eyes are on my tits.  Silly man.  Sure, I usually wear my bikini top, but that is no excuse.

I might be productive today, or I may not.  I mean it’s practically a vacation day, what with the I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’M DYING feeling and it being 09/09/09.  Permissions granted, etc.

I had a dream about Adam Lambert last night.  It was good.  He was here, helping me set up the 60 inch flat screen TV he purchased for me and then he sang for me.  In my living room.  It was a nice dream and I hated to wake up considering I had only been asleep for 2 hours at that point.  Oh well, such is my sleeping pattern.  I’m the two-to-four hours kinda girl.

Did I tell you that my daughter is a teenager?  And an annoying one to boot? Sure, she’s just 9, but she acts like she’s 15.  She wanted to use my credit card yesterday to sign up for some site that you can buy clothes and thought *I* was being unreasonable for not allowing her to go into my purse, take out my wallet, slip my credit card out of it’s little slot and enter all of my information into said website and just purchase a few items.  Right.  Let me get on that, like now, princess.  Has hell frozen over?  No?  OK, good, because I was all worried and shit.

Wow, it’s still 09/09/09 and yet the only thing exciting to happen so far is my youngest son said I need to learn to understand English because clearly I don’t since I didn’t wash the shirt he had asked me to wash yesterday.  Apparently, he could be right.

To my MM vacation girls – I SWEAR I WILL FINISH MY POST ABOUT OUR VACATION BEFORE 2009 IS OVER.  Holy hell, it’s long and youtube (THANK YOU) has been taking 2+ hours to upload EACH video and when I was uploading six videos the other night, yeah, my browser crashed and only one uploaded.  UGH.  Gee, the vacation only ended about 3 1/2 weeks ago.  Yes Sassy, you suck.  I know.  I do.  I will get it done.  Hopefully, it doesn’t bore the (I was going to say shit, but I will use self control) crap (<—that is technically not “shit”) out of you.  I will apologize in advance.  Although, one thing is for certain… Kev on the stripper pole?  Hot.  I mean, he’s so gross.

OK, must cut this, uh, stuff (self control accomplished!) short because no doubt you’re drooling on your keyboard since you’ve died in your sleep because this has been beyond boring.  Hey, it’s 09/09/09, so later, the world is exploding and you will get that excitement you thought you were going to get here but didn’t.  See?  All works out in the end.

I aim high.

My youngest child is nine, yet she totally acts like she’s 15.  I’m not sure where she gets her sassy attitude and smartass mouth from, but some days, she’s a handful.

She started grade four today and also a new school and I figured she would be nervous.  I mean, I used to get nervous on my first day of school, even when I had been at the same school for years.

Are you nervous? I asked her last night.

Get a life, mother. I’m too intelligent to get nervous.

Oh, well, I used to get nervous on my first day.  Especially if I was starting a new school, you know, new people, and all that.  And?  I’m not too shabby in the smarts department, so that really has nothing to do with if a person gets nervous or not.

Uh huh.  She yawns.

She slept like a rock, I,on the other hand, did not.  Not that I slept well as it is, but add some anxiety and I’m tossing and turning for sure.  Actually, daughter slept so heavily, that it took me almost 20 minutes to drag her pretend-teenager butt out of bed this morning.

You really have to get up, like now.  Really?  Ten minutes ago would have been ideal.  I don’t want to be late, your first day and all.

Mother, we won’t be late.  I just need five more minutes.

I cave and give her the five more minutes and she finally saunters downstairs.

Hey, good morning.  Are you totally nervous?

We had this conversation last night, mom.  Hello?  Gah.

Did you just ‘gah’ me?

Yep.  Where are my new clothes?

I’m shocked.  You have ‘grrr’d’ and now you’ve ‘gah’d’ me. Um, yeah, clothes.  On the chair.  Are you sure you’re OK?

Mom.

OK, just checking.

We leave with 25 minutes to spare, so I’m starting to relax, that is, until we are on our way and my child drops a bombshell on me.

Mom?

Yeah?

Um, you’re not going to kiss me, are you?

When?  Ever?  What do you mean?

I mean today.  Like at the school.  Please.  Mom.  Do not kiss me.

Why can’t I kiss you?

Um, hello?  I’m nine.

Yes, exactly.  You’re NINE.

Right.  And I’m starting a new school and going to be making friends, so I don’t need my mom getting all mushy and stuff.

Mushy and stuff?  It’s a kiss.  From your mother.

If you don’t promise not to kiss me, I won’t even let you walk with me to the doors.

I have to promise not to kiss my own child?

Yes.  Promise me.  Like promise, mom.

OK. Fine.  I promise I won’t kiss you.

Say today.  I promise I won’t kiss you today, on your first day or any other day that you drop me off or pick me up.

Hey now, that wasn’t part of the deal.

Mom.

Fine.  No kissing at school.

And no crying either.  Like not one bit, mother.

I won’t cry.  I’m past crying.

Yeah, right.

No, I haven’t cried since you went to Kindergarten.

Uh huh.

We get to the school, and I make sure I walk 10 paces behind her.  Heaven forbid any of her potential friends see her with her mother.

We eventually find the designated spot for grade four students and her demands do not end.

You should probably go sit over there with the other students.

Mom, said in a hushed, evil whisper.

What?  I’m just sayin’.

Don’t just say.  Like, really, you don’t need to stay.  I’m fine.

But it’s your first day, I should be here, wait for them to call your name to go to your class.

OMG mom.  I’m not a baby.

I know, but you’re my baby.

OMG. If you start crying, I’m pretending I don’t know you.

Just then, one of the teachers spoke up and thanked all of the parents still waiting, but basically kicked our asses out, to which my child displayed a very clear visible sign of relief splash across her face.

I turn to her, was almost set to break my promise to kiss her, but she had already moved to sit with the other students.  I smiled and waved and? Yeah, she rolled her eyes.

Fiesty little spitfire with a smart mouth and big attitude.  I think someone else birthed her, certainly couldn’t have ben me.  I am so no like that.  At all.

My son Matt loves IM’ing and texting me just for the hell of it.  Why?  Because he’s clearly bored out of his freaking tree I rock.  Duh.  Can’t believe you had to even ask.  Anyway, so, I get this text message:

Aw, he’s wanting to know what he should do about his “situation,” and still, at 21-years-of-age, needs some motherly advice.  I’m more than willing to give it:

I offered three choices, which clearly, were quite brilliant as I pushed my shopping cart full of toothpaste.  He was so thankful at my suggestions, and he said so:

Hmm.  I was sure there was a big ol’ THANK YOU, YOUR ADVICE ROCKS, LIKE YOU, in that text message but maybe that part got erased when I took the screenshot?  Yeah.  Totally what happened.

Anyway, you’re very welcome Matt, anytime.  Tell all your friends to text me, too, because obviously I give awesome pee advice (but honestly, I am versatile).

Is that the face of a grandmother? Say “Of course not, my gosh, there is no possible way you could be a grandmother,” or I’ll have to track you down and slap you. HARD.

A few days ago I got word from my oldest son, now 22, that he was going to be a father. And if he was going to be a daddy, that means I would become a grandmother. The thought was slightly frightening on a few levels, not the least of which, I.WOULD.BE.A.GRANDMOTHER.

Me? I’m too vain for that sort of thing if the truth be known. I still want guys to look at me and think, “she’s not bad,” or “I’d tap that.” Not, “hey, look, there’s granny.” Does that make a bad person? Probably, but I’m nothing if not honest.

There were other thoughts going through my head, too. I mean, was my kid ready to have a kid? He just graduated from his schooling, is the process of securing employment, and he and his fiance were about to take the first steps to buy a home, and now he has a baby on the way? Yikes. How would he and his girl possibly survive this? Of course, not lost on me was the fact that *I* had my son when I was just 19, and separated and living, once again with my parents. Not an ideal situation to be having a baby, but what’s done is done and there’s only room to go forward. That is exactly what I told my son. Yes, it was a shock to hear it, not totally surprising since history has a way of repeating itself in family situations, but still a shock nonetheless. Son a father? Me a grandmother? God help us. But more importantly, would I be a hot grandmother? I kid (sort of).

I did joke with him on that first day though of finding out, that if he or his fiance took the baby to Sears portrait studio or freakin’ Wal-mart, and not made me the baby’s official photographer, I’d be royally pissed. See? I can still muster up a load of laughs even in slightly and/or extremely upsetting situations. Not that having a baby is upsetting per se, but when your child is just heading into adulthood, and really was not planning on parenthood anytime in the near future and then pending fatherhood just sort of falls into the picture, it can be sort of boot-shaking.

It’s a weird position to be in really. One part of you, as the parent of a child about to become a parent, who yes, is a man, but in your mind, and heart, still a boy at times, is scared. Scared for him – will he know how to be a dad? Will he and his fiance be able to afford a baby (like any of us can really afford kids, if truth be told)? Will this tear them apart or bring them closer together? Will they name the baby Skyscraper or something else weird? OK, the name thing didn’t really cross my mind and I’m assuming they wouldn’t name their baby Skyscraper or Hermit, or HeyYou. Once again, digging deep for the humor. There’s another part of you that is excited, because oh.my.gosh. there’s a baby coming. Mixed bag of feelings.

The situation made me stop and think about my own parents. Did they have similar fears for me when I was 19 and pregnant and living in their home? I knew jack shit about babies. Yes, I have a younger sister and brother and remember when they came into our lives, but uh, they had a mother to take care of the important stuff, like diapers and other baby related crap. I just let them hang around with me, on occasion. Were my parents scared for me? Did they lay awake at night wondering how I would manage? Probably. But then there comes a time, when you put those thoughts aside – they’re still in the back of your mind, but you have to let the positive thoughts come through instead.

You have to let your kid know that no matter what, you’ll be there. There is no time for anger, or lectures on birth control, or saying stupid shit like, geez, what were you thinking? You don’t need a baby now. Doesn’t matter because when there’s a baby coming in a few short months, you have to get in the THERE’S A BABY COMING MODE. That’s what I did. Within a day, I was thinking of the day the baby would be born, what they would name the baby, how I had totally planned to make up a cute, fun title for myself. No Grandma, Granny, Nanny, or Nana for this chick. Oh no, I was going to invent something awesome because, uh, hello? Remember? I still harbor some vanity.

I pictured them bringing baby to stay with us for the weekend while they went away camping. How they’d fuss and remind me of feeding times, diaper changes, burping, bedtimem rituals, because I apparently don’t have children of my own. I’d smile and nod and tell them to have a great time, and baby will be fine. And when they arrived on Sunday to pick up the little guy (or girl), I’d say how much he/she missed them and they would smile – relieved I had taken good care of their munchkin and happy to hear they were missed by their baby.

I’d go shopping and buy cute things, spoil the baby because that’s what grandparents (insert cute made up name here) do, spoil their grandbabies.

Unfortunately, sadly, things aren’t going to work out that way. At least not at this point in time. My son told me today that his fiance miscarried. Yet another round of emotions.

Sadness because your child has had to experience something painful, those feelings of well, it wasn’t meant to be, which I do believe things happen for a reason, but that doesn’t make it less upsetting or confusing. Guilt, because for that split second after you heard the pregnancy news, you were thinking, gosh, can my kid really do this? Of course I believed he could do it, and knew he would step up to the plate. I was given the benefit of the doubt when I had him and I would definitely return the favor.

Obviously they were not expecting this pregnancy. But, after the inital shock, they decided to make the best of the situation and like me, had their dreams and plans floating around in their heads. Would they have a boy or a girl, would baby be a redhead like me and my son? Be born bald? Would they give him/her one middle name or two? So much to look forward to, and much work and responsibility, but so much joy to come as well. Now that pending joy is gone.

To my son and his fiance: This was not your fault. A miscarriage is not about fault. It’s something that happens to some of us (I’ve had a miscarriage and as son knows, I had a daughter who died at birth, too) and we may never know why. It wasn’t meant to be and as cliché as that is, it’s true. One day, when you do have a child, you will think of this time and the baby that wasn’t meant to be on this earth, but because of that pregnancy and miscarriage, a path was carved for you to have the child you end up with. Life works in mysterious ways. Make sure you take time to grieve and then look ahead to your future.

One day, I’m sure my son will be a father and when that day comes, I’ll be there. (But don’t call me Grandma).

1987: Me and son

Yes, you have seen that photo before. You are seeing it again because I’ve had the pleasure of cleaning up vomit since both my youngest son and daughter, were violently ill.

They woke early Monday morning, as in 4:00 a.m., spewing things no person should ever have to see, smell, clean up, try to forget about. I’m quite certain there are worse things in this life to have to deal with, however, when one is in the midst of a vomit storm, one does not care what others may or may not be dealing with.

I was able to go back to sleep for about an hour or so because my husband got up and dealt with the bulk (bad choice of word) of the situation but once he left for work, my day consisted of trying to sit on my ass to work but having very little success.

My children proceeded to tag team vomit ALL. DAY. LONG. and I know I’m probably sharing too much with you, but hey, that’s what friends do. SHARE.

They are both much better now, thank you. I’m hoping beyond hope that I do not get what they had, because let me tell you (ya, I just did), it was not pretty. And not for the faint of heart.

When he was an infant and toddler, he would vomit 25 times a day or more – a lot of things would set him off. The way something felt on his skin, if he got a hair on his hand, touching his bare feet on the grass, a certain noise – you name it, he’s probably puked because of it. Even now, as a kid of almost 13, he can still have episodes of vomiting without much provocation, although it’s way less frequent now. So, when he’s sick and puking from a stomach virus, he gets grossed out that he’s thrown up, thus making him throw up some more. See where I’m going with this? Ya, welcome to my world for nearly 14 days.

He finally went back to school on Tuesday but still wasn’t 100%. He was pale and although his fever had gone, he said he still felt “funny.” He sometimes has a hard time articulating what exactly is wrong with him, so I have to play 20 questions with him to get a sense of what he’s feeling. That’s not always fun either. I get a lot of ‘I don’t knows’ lemme tell you. But, it’s been a little over 24 hours since he barfed, which makes me happy for him and happy for me and I’m sure my washer and dryer thank me, too. His appetite isn’t back to normal, but then his eating habits aren’t normal either, so it’s just another version of what are we going to feed the kid today? That’s another whole post, for which I’ll regale you with at a later time.

My kids will be done school tomorrow and then be home for the next ten days – spring break is here. Can’t wait, yay, horror… I mean hooray, I can’t wait to hear my daughter tell me how bored she is 350 times a day. So excited! Luckily, my son is very good at keeping busy and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say he’s bored, so that’s a plus. And I can sort of sleep in, which will be nice. So, I guess spring break isn’t all bad. Mostly torture for parents, but it has some good points – well, two. Sleeping in and not rushing around at the ass crack of dawn.

Let’s hope the break is barf free. Thx.

My daughter is very smart, sometimes wise beyond her years. She’s recently become intrigued by real-life ghost stories, and loves reading books on the subject.

I’m sure many of you are familiar with the author R.L. Stine and his children’s horror books – Goosebumps and Fear Street. My grown sons used to read them (Goosebumps) and watch the shows on TV. Well, for Christmas a family member bought my daughter a “ghost story” book, knowing how much she loves reading them. I saw the book at a glance, saw that it was by R.L. Stine, and my daughter opened the front page which had a nice note to her from the family member, telling her to enjoy the “ghost stories.” She’s been reading it for the past few days – she’s a strong reader and seemed to be enjoying it.

Fast forward to tonight. My son Matt comes over for a visit and he sits down at the dining room table, where I’m seated, as well as my daughter. He picks up the book and asks whose book it is. I tell him and said, “remember, she got it for Christmas?” He doesn’t really, but he’s 21 – he’s not going to remember what his little sister got for presents. Anyway, he asks if she’s enjoying the book – she said, yes. He opens the book and starts to read. Within seconds, he starts coughing, choking almost and asks me if I’ve seen the book?

Well, sort of. Read the note to Maddy. Why?

Uh, ya, but have you read the book?

No, why? It’s a ghost stories book, not really my thing.

Um, I don’t think it’s a ghost stories book.

Why do you say that?

He reads part of page one, the prologue, to me:

“The guy beside her stirs. She hears him muffle a burp.

You were heavy. I thought you were going to crush me. And what were the ridiculous walrus cries at the end?”

OH.MY.GAWD. My daughter’s been reading an ADULT novel! It’s not a ghost stories book at all, oh no, not at all. But, it gets worse.

As my eyes are bugging out of my head and Matt and I are looking at each other, he flips ahead a few pages, starts reading page four. I thought his eyes would pop out of their damn sockets. He hands me the book and says, “read from where it says Charlotte.” I do. I thought I was going to have a stroke.

Here’s what it read:

“Charlotte?

I don’t think so, John. I’ve got chapped lips.”

This is the part where I did have a stroke.

The next few pages talk about Charlotte and, then, she’s murdered by some serial killer. Super.

I’m sure it’s a great book – seriously, I might even read it, but uh, it’s really not third-grade reading material. Just sayin’. My daughter won’t be reading any more of the book – at least not for another 10 years. And I’m just waiting for the questions that I KNOW are coming my way.

My son Matt always says that when our family piles out of our vehicle, it’s like we’re climbing out of a clown car because we’re a family of six, which is considered a fairly big family. So when I think of TLC’s TV mom Michelle Duggar, I think of her vajayjay as a clown car that keeps on giving. I mean, not that I think of her nether regions a lot or even really at all, but knowing that she and her husband just welcomed their 18th child scares me. What scares me more, is they want more. More. Can you even imagine?

Sure, to each his own and all that shit, but how can one woman possibly enjoy being pregnant for over 135 months of her life? That’s how many months or there about, that Michelle Duggar has been pregnant. I was never a big fan of the whole pregnancy thing – of course I liked becoming a mother but uh, 18 times? No thanks. And they want more. More. Did I mention that?

Have you ever seen their show, which was called 17 Kids & Counting but will officially update to 18 Kids & Counting on Monday – it scares me too. I have four kids, two of them are grown and don’t even live with me but yet, there is still chaos in my home at times. Yes, I’m a fairly organized person but still, we live with noise, confusion, kids arguing, siblings not liking each other for at least 5 minutes of the day, someone stealing something of someone else’s, someone spilling something but yet no one did it, the cat’s food dish going empty for an hour, someone not flushing the toilet, and of course the occasional glass of spilled milk. There seems to be none of that at the Duggar home and there are now 20 of them – well oldest son Josh, is married and moved out – so technically 19 of them at home. That’s a lot of people and most of them are young – really young – and yet, everything seems to be so orderly.

I get the fact that you have to be super organized with such a large family but my god, do their kids ever fight? Punch each other? Dunk someone’s head in the toilet? Throw a tantrum? Call each other a stupid head? No? That must only happen in my less than perfect household.

When Michelle Duggar told Ann Curry on the Today Show (when asked if they’d have more and when is it ‘too many’ kids) that saying too many kids is like saying there are too many flowers, I thought I’d have a stroke. Does she know how many flowers there are in the world? Or does she mean just having lots of kids in the world is a good thing in general or did she mean she was going to pop them out until her womb closes up shop for good or runs away screaming. I’m surpised her uterus hasn’t said, “listen bitch, I’m done, I’ve had my fill, thank you very much, but I need a vacation. Over and out.” My uterus curls up in a ball and breaks out in a cold sweat when I mention the word ‘pregnancy’ and/or ‘Duggars’. I can only imagine what Michelle’s is thinking. It probably does a daily chant of “kill the eggs, kill the eggs,” or “let us pray that Jim Bob’s sperm supply shrivels up and dies very soon. Like yesterday already.”

Sure, sure, it’s wonderful that they have another beautiful baby girl and she’s healthy and blah blah blah, but does this woman ever get tired? She always seems so calm and collected and unstressed. You should see me running around in the mornings trying to get my youngest two off to school. And honestly, where in the bloody hell do Jim Bob and Michelle find the time to have sex? They don’t seem like the type to sneak off behind the barn for a noon quickie (assuming they have a barn somewhere on their property). Maybe they go off in the soup isle in their at home grocery store. I dunno.

Just once I’d love to see Michelle pulling her hair out because one of her ‘jaybies’ (all the kids’ names begin with J….don’t even get me started on that) has tried to flush the cat down the toilet, another has dumped a box of cereal into the bed of another child, one has peed on the floor in the closet, another kid is screaming that his crayon broke and he needs it fixed now or he’s going to keep screaming, one of the teens says that life isn’t fair because it sux!, another teen is not understanding why she can’t wear the hoochie skirt that all of her friends get to wear, and Jim Bob is feeling neglected and wants a little action but he forgot to take the trash out and Michelle is holding out until he gets the whole concept of ‘choreplay’ and then maybe she’ll put out, right after she puts away the 12 loads of laundry she just folded and gets the toilets scrubbed and does the floors. Why, oh why can’t I see that?

No instead, we get to see perfect order, no chaos, everyone is lovely to the other and birds chirp, choirs sing and harps play as the Duggar parents say how they’d definitely love to go for baby # 19.

Oh, there goes my uterus, getting all scared and cowering.