Tonight I went dancing. Not the "fellas at the club" type of dancing, but the "promenade and swing and try not to run into anyone and onetwothree onetwothree will the room ever stop spinning" type of dancing. It was amazing. It was uplifting. It was refreshing. It smelled a bit, but I loved it. I had no idea that my calves could sweat. One apple and some peanut butter later (how many days now without an Extra Value Meal?), I lay here in my bed, head throbbing, listening to GreenWarrior snoring, and experience, for the second Saturday in a row, the exhaustion that comes from pure exhilaration. Pure, absolute-my abs hurt from laughing and my legs hurt from dancing-exhilaration. Why on God's Green Earth didn't I do this before? I seriously need to go contra dancing again. No one ever told me that I could feel this completely and utterly tired and yet happy at the same time. I could completely pass out yet I am still high from all of...
"I am a terrible mother." So very many of us mom-people freak out all to often and actually believe this statement. Until the Supermommies strike and piss us off. And here's how it happened: Pattergirl had a snotty nose, the tail end of what was a couple of weeks of germy HELL in my house, and was going out in public, which included playing with Other People's Children. I called Pattergirl over so I could give her some decongestant. As my little blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pigtailed Pattergirl bounced over to me, this "Person-I-Once-Liked-turned-Supermommy" looked at me with horror...the scene changed to a dramatic slow-motion...while I squirted what I thought was a relatively "safe" OTC cold remedy into my little girl's mouth...end of slow motion...and Supermommy began her interrogation. SM: "Did you ask your pediatrician before you gave her that?" Me: "No. The dosage on the bottle for ages four to six says 2 teaspo...
Dear Self-Righteous Wench at the Library, As I stated in our brief conversation, thank you for telling me what you needed. I will say this one more time: While I respect your right to quiet, I do not appreciate you telling me how to raise my children. You are lucky I didn't bitch-slap you. I am rather proud of myself for not even yelling. Allow me to elaborate: I brought my children to the library to offer them a developmentally appropriate educational experience while spending (please forgive the cliche) "quality time" with a parent. We haven't been to the library as regularly as we used to, and were very excited to be able to make the trip on this particular evening. My ten year old mildly autistic son requires help finding books because the number of choices on the shelves is completely overwhelming. He reads at least at a twelfth grade level, yet possesses social understanding that is far below that of his peers. This makes finding book...
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