Heidi Klum and Fat Sticks

I want to look like THIS.

I mean, really. Hasn't she had, like, six kids by now?

This is why life is not fair.

COME ON. I'm German, too!

But I guess I must come from the lineage that tended to be chubby and feasted on bratwursts, potato salad and dumplings.

(Shakes fist at the heavens.)

Heidi Klum drops a baby and two weeks later, she models in a Victoria's Secret fashion show.

Meanwhile, I was hit with a fat stick and super taste buds and often need blocks of cheese and French onion sour cream dip to even get through my day.

Seriously. Not fair.

End of tantrum.

Thelma Minus Louise Moments and Broken Dishes

I wrote this earlier today, but had to set it aside and come back to it later. I was in the middle of a stressed moment, and I was worried that it had a desperate tone to it. I don't want to sound desperate.

I said the magic words super early this morning.

Usually they are reserved for mid-afternoon at the earliest, but I just couldn't do it anymore. By 9am you could stick a fork in me ~ I was SO done.

"Would you like to watch Yo Gabba Gabba, Maggie," I asked.

The response was wildly enthusiastic, as usual. She snapped to attention, did a pivot turn and ran (as much as a toddler can without bending her knees) towards the television set squealing with delight.

Parenting purists, or whatever those annoying people are called, are probably paling and feeling faint. But yes, at times I do use television as a babysitter. THERE. I admitted it.

And this was whole-heartedly, 100%, one of those times.

Chris has been out of town for four days, hence the lack of a "mental" break from the children. They are ALL mine. ALL my responsibility.

Some mothers revel in this kind of shiz and rise to the occasion, but honestly, it sort of freaks me out. I mean, it is totally up to ME to keep them healthy and ultimately, alive.

If I happened to check out and say "adios," or pull a Thelma-minus-Louise routine, there would be serious implications.

And folks, it's only 10:02 a.m.

And I am feeling a bit Thelma-ish day today.

I don't know how single mothers do it. Really. They are rarely given the props that they so desperately deserve. Seriously, they rock.

I was a single mother for a while and I fully believe that God blessed me with a dream of a child. Calvin was such a good baby and toddler. The "eleven and twelve year old" Calvin? Ehhh, not so much. But he has rebounded nicely and I couldn't be prouder of him.

Anywho, I hadn't necessarily recovered from yesterday. By the time Maggie went to bed at 7pm, my entire body was buzzing with the uncomfortable anxiety that precipitates the necessity of me popping a pill.

The anxiety was triggered by several things. For one, Maggie lost my driver's license.

I noticed how nicely she was playing with my wallet and made the erroneous decision not to mess with a good thing. Hey, she was quiet and occupied with something that wouldn't kill or maim her.

I let it go on for a little while, but when I looked at her again, I realized that she was taking each card out of the wallet and sliding them under the refrigerator.

"NO! No, no, no, no, no," I shrieked as I ran over and very quickly gathered the scattered contents as fast as I could.

Upon further investigation, I very quickly realized (as I got the wooden spoon out with the long handle) that there was no room to fit the handle. There was barely enough room to get a credit card under, no WONDER she was so quiet.

I fetched a long, serrated knife, slid it under the appliance and began fishing. I retrieved an insurance card, my hair stylist's business card, my Flagler County library card. I couldn't feel anything else and all of the credit/debit cards were accounted for.

It wasn't until later I realized that my driver's license was gone.

This wouldn't be SUCH a big deal, but I find that I am asked for my driver's license so much more in Florida than in Iowa. Got a doctor's appointment? Need your driver's license. Want to sign a kid up for something? Anything? Need your driver's license. They take proper identification seriously in Florida.

Oh, and I have "SEE I.D." emblazoned on the back of every single plastic form of payment that I carry in my wallet.

Shortly after the wallet incident, Maggie decided she was going to empty a cabinet so she could climb inside. Most of the contents weren't breakable, but she found the one thing that was and tossed it out onto the ceramic tile.

It was a large, Pyrex baking dish with a lid. Was. It is currently in our trash can in no less than 1,000 pieces.

Not even 30 minutes later, she had opened the dishwasher, found a salad plate to toss at the startled dog.

And so it went.

As I have been writing over the past hour or so, she broke another plate. As I was preparing her evening cereal, I heard the "clink" of a toilet seat and then some splashing.

"NO! No, no, no, no no," I shrieked, running to the boys' bathroom. Doors are supposed to be closed in our house, but the bathroom door was somehow left open.

But she was quiet for a moment.

Nothing good comes from a quiet 18 month old.

A Plump Wife and a Big Barn

I ripped this off from my cousin Missy's Facebook page because I think it is pretty freaking awesome.

Sorry for not asking before I snitched it, Missy.

To atone, I'll mention HER blog: http://primaryfood.blogspot.com/

Wonder Woman, Regressions and Digressions

The boys had Monday and Tuesday off of school this week.

As I mentioned in my previous post, Calvin went to stay with my parents in the Orlando area.

Grandmother fed him as much ice cream and red meat as his little heart desired. In return, he dug holes, trimmed crepe myrtle trees and moved various plants from point "a" to point "b."

Wesley spent the time, quite miserable, with me.

He was instructed to clean his room on Saturday.

It was clean by noon on Monday .

During that time, the uncooperativeness caused the Legos littering his room to be packed up and put away.

My reasoning was that if he wasn't going to pick those evil little buggers up, they would be taking an open-ended hiatus. The ones left on the floor in the common areas are regularly sucked up through the vacuum hose.

He doesn't know that, though.

The uncooperativeness continued through Sunday, so his action figures were also cleared out.

He cried. He begged for mercy as I threw the Star Wars, the Spidermans and the Fantastic Four characters in the large garbage bag that will be stored in an undisclosed location until I see fit.

So, basically the current entertainment in his room consists of three shelves of books.

I don't think that taking toys away is a bad thing ~ or mean ~ at all.

I'm not hitting him too much as of late, so given the choice of two punishments, I think he would happily accept the former rather than the latter. Totally kidding.

And good grief, in the old days, kids played with string or mud. Or rocks. Or a variation of the three.

The peer pressure on Monday finally broke him. His friends came to do the door no less than three times in less than 30 minutes, wondering how long it could POSSIBLY take for him to clean his room (if only they knew) and why wasn't he finished, already?

As they were waiting, they hovered and rode their bicycles and scooters in circles on the street in front of our house. They looked like deranged little Energizer Bunnies.

Yesterday morning I decided that we were going to Orlando.

I threw the Pack N Play in the back of the SUV and herded the cats. We arrived around lunchtime. My mother was at one of her numerous doctor's appointments.

I'm not exactly sure why this happens, but I regress the moment I walk into my parents' house. Chris comments on it all the time and asks why my ability to think for and take care of myself completely disappears once I walk inside my parents' home.

My brother and I sat in Mom and Dad's rocking chairs, looking at each other.

The kids tore through the house maniacally trying to tackle each other to perform wedgies. The goal: rip the underwear. Although I very clearly disapproved, this activity was highly encouraged by Tony. Thus, my authority was completely negated. I am not as cool as he is, nor do I buy them Abercrombie and Fitch clothing.

"What was mom doing for lunch," I asked. It was now 1pm.

We were all hungry and, upon walking through the front door of this house our brains had fallen out and we all forgot where to find sandwich meat and how to make ourselves sandwiches.

Mother returned at 1:30 with Chick Fil A. And she remembered the extra barbecue sauce for my waffle fries. Something not even Chris always does.

I had an unusual burst of energy (or, rather, lots of babysitters) so I vacuumed out my car. This is no small feat ~ let me tell you ~ as it hadn't been done all summer and we visited the beach at least once a week since July.

I then took the car to the local car wash and paid ten bucks for the "Ultimate" wash.

As we left after dinner that evening the heavens unleashed their fury, in the form of rain, on my freshly washed car.

GREAT, I just flushed ten more dollars down the toilet, in addition to the GI Joe Snake Eyes costume I bought for Wesley. He shows a great amount of enthusiasm for the costume, but it is too tight in the crotch area and I'm concerned that it is not entirely appropriate for him to wear to school on Friday.

He thinks it is just fine. What to do, what to do.

I wasn't going to dress Maggie up, but I recently saw pictures of a friend's daughter dressed up in a kick ass Wonder Woman costume that I believe I must have.

My daughter WILL be Wonder Woman, you know, in real life. I feel as if my opportunity to be rockin' and wonderful has passed me by at times, but I am totally not above living vicariously through her.

"You can do ANYTHING! You want to be the president AND a doctor AND a paleontologist? SURE YOU CAN! You are STRONG! You are SMART! You will take no sh**! TEAM MARGARET!"

She'll look back at pictures of herself dressed as Wonder Woman when she was 17 months old and will be all, "This is where it all started, folks. "

Alas...I digress.

It is back to life as normal for Calvin. Back to canned soup, the un-fun cereal (Raisin Bran). There is no ice cream for him to inhale. Wesley's room is still clean as a whistle, mostly because there are no toys for him to throw around.

Netflix finally sent a movie on the top of my queue, instead of my crappy fourth, fifth and sixth choices.

So we will all be watching Transformers 2 this evening and eating popcorn. I can't think of a better way to spend a fall evening.

Unusually Accomodating Grandmas and Needy Houseguests

I failed to mention earlier today that Calvin, my 14-year-old, is spending two nights with his grandparents in Orlando.

My 30-ish (and single) brother also showed up there on Sunday evening, with some sort of communicable disease that sounds beyond gross. My poor mother is trying to simultaneously feed Calvin while taking care of my brother, who completely pusses out at the first sniffle.

Anywho, I am receiving a 48 hour reprieve in the atrocious amount of food being inhaled at mind-boggling rates at my house. Zang ("excellent" in Cantonese)!

However, I received this email earlier today from my mother; I'm surprised she could get on the computer with Calvin there. I'm sure to be granted access, she had to do something drastic, like bake him a pie. Or sweet rolls with icing.

Oh, wait....that's exactly what she did.

Can't you just hear the desperation in her voice?

I sat down to write earlier in the day but was called away for something before I got it done. Been busy with the fam. Cal is here, and insists on putting food into his mouth 24/7, and Tony has been here hacking and blowing his nose so I have tried to nurse him back to health ...

Between that I made Cal get out of the house and help with gardening. I figured if someone was going to eat my food for 48 hours I better get something in return. He did quite well but I have a new name for him tonight, "Calvin, are we done yet? ________?"

WE did get a lot done before the sun beat down on us and we were both pretty much soaked through with sweat.

Tomorrow I want to get him out and help with one more big bougainvillea bush that is roof high and has needles at least 1/2 in long. I thought I would let him "help me" by doing the work as I feel it is really too hard for a grandma to do.

I made some rolls (Cal was hungry for those) and apple pie (also a favorite). He should be happy tonight or too pumped to sleep and sit in front of the t.v.watching horror movies all night.

Tony did go to meet some friends for dinner so it is just 2 boys and myself tonight. That should be easy as Cal eats anything or I should say, everything...

How fun. I'm so glad that Grandma is waiting on him hand and foot because he knows he can't expect as much at home. He eats a lot of canned soup for snacks. I don't provide baked goods, much to his dismay.

Between the unusually needy visitors and all of the gardening they are apparently accomplishing, I fear my mother will be wiped out and burned out on visitors (i.e. children) until at LEAST Christmas.

Ghost Hunters and Stories of the Supernatural

I'm torn between really liking and really disliking Halloween.

Actually, if I am at all honest, the list of "dislikes" probably greatly outweighs the "likes."

First of all, I dislike buying costumes.

This year Wesley wants to be Snake Eyes from GI Joe. Or a ninja. I think that Snake Eyes IS a Ninja, but I'm not quite sure.

It is my scrooge-like belief that the money spent on costumes is not unlike flushing $40.00 or so of hard earned money down the crapper. ( I believe I touched on this in last year's Halloween blog post. )

I dislike having to buy candy for other people's kids.

I don't even like to buy candy for my own kids because usually when candy is involved children turn into little beast-like creatures with only slightly better vocabularies.

It begins with crazed eyes in the check out lanes at the grocery store.

What ticks me off is that stores do this on purpose. They hire psychologists to tell them to set it up this way (I saw Dateline once). They put the candy that ONLY kids could possibly want at the very end of the grocery store journey, when the parents have been so beaten down and psychologically weakened that they are tempted to say "yes" just to get their kids to shut up.

"Mom! Mom, mom, mom, mom," they beg, tugging at some sort of appendage or various piece of clothing/accessory on my person.

"Whatever question you are about to ask, the answer is no." As usual, I'm ignored.

"Mom, can I get the Liquid Bomb Blasting Sour Puss Extreme Razzle Dazzle Raspberry Squirt Pop? I saw it on a commercial! It's actually really good."

I observe the concoction that has been thrust up to my eye level.

It looks positively wretched, both for the eyes and most likely for the health. The color isn't natural and probably contains no less than a hundred known cancer causing ingredients.

On the other hand, I like Halloween because presents the best television opportunities of the entire year. There is a horror movie broadcasted every single night.

Last night, I donated a sliver of my time to The Shining, much to Chris' dismay. He told me to turn it off because he was eating. He doesn't like to watch anything "out of the ordinary" while he is eating.

Best of all, there are Ghost Hunter marathons. My very favorite episode was last season when TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) investigated The Mt. Washington Hotel in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire.

A princess was a regular guest at the hotel and her original bed is still in one of the rooms. They performed the routine EVP's (electric voice phenomenon) in that room.

If you don't want to watch the 2 minute video on YouTube, I'll recap:

Jason (TAPS): Princess, are you in here?

Princess Caroline: Hello? Is there someone there? (This wasn't audible; it was only discovered after the replayed the tapes.)

Jason: Princess, are you in the room?

Princess Caroline: Of course I am in here. (Pause.) Where are you?

This interaction was positively brilliant and thought provoking. I watched it no less than a dozen times that night, thanks to my handy DVR machine. I also made Chris watch it. He hates Ghost Hunters.

Unlike some of my family members, I haven't had anything really supernatural happen to me.

My personal "ghost story" isn't nearly as impressive.

We were house hunting about six years ago, before we bought our first house. We had scoured realtor.com for all of the available listings in Des Moines.

One of the houses that showed up in our search was a turn of the century gem that boasted four fireplaces, 6,000 square feet and three stories, plus an apartment in the attic. The asking price was under 20K.

It was so intriguing, and probably SUCH a dump, that we had to see it. We talked our friend/realtor, Gina, into taking us there.

This was probably a mistake.

According to Gina, it had been a brothel. And a drug house. There had obviously been some serious crimes committed inside the house.

I had never, to my knowledge, been inside a house like this.

The first thing that assaulted me when I walked inside was the smell. It wasn't bad; it was different. It was a sweet smell. It didn't smell like air fresheners or detergent. It just smelled off.

The next issue was that it was freezing in there. We were house hunting on a overcast, fall day and we were wearing jackets, but the temperature dropped at least ten more degrees as we stepped into the foyer.

It was so sad. The once grand house had been completely stripped of everything of value ~ the fireplace mantles, the trim around the windows, the moldings around the doors. Everything was gone. The wood floors were bare and in terrible shape. Whoever bought this house was going to have to gut and replace EVERYTHING.

The smell was off, the temperature obviously dropped and the third thing that happened within seconds of walking in there was that I felt as if someone dropped a heavy cloak on me. My body felt a little heavier, my shoulders dropped. I felt a horrible, desperate sadness that made me want to cry.

"This place is haunted," Gina said. "I have been in thousands of houses and I can just tell by now."

"Okay then, let's go," Chris said. He could tell, too.

"Chris, I really want to just look around in here," I protested. I was morbidly curious.

Gina agreed with me. Chris turned to leave, but thought better of letting two women and a child walk around a house like this alone. He unwillingly joined us.

The rooms were choppy and bare. The sadness and cold followed me throughout the house. We walked upstairs to the fourth story apartment. There were hand prints on the walls.

As we left, the sadness stayed with me.

I wandered through the rest of the day feeling off and perpetually on the verge of tears. The dread I felt as I walked through that house clung to me like a wet rag. It was a horrible feeling and quite honestly, I felt as if something had followed me out of the house.

I did something that I had never done before. I asked if my husband would pray over me.

Now, we are Lutheran. We are not Baptists, or Pentecostals or any other denomination where this is regularly done. My faith is private, quiet. To ask someone to pray over me took a lot of courage to ask, but the feeling attached to me was serious and required some big guns.

Several years later, Chris asked me if I remembered that house.

I was like, hell yeah I remembered that house.

"Yes," I said.

Apparently a local Christian group bought it, renovated it and turned it into a homeless shelter for teenage boys. I was speechless. Here is the picture of the house:



To my dismay, Wesley is asking (read: pestering) me when we can go shopping for his costume.

I'm putting it off, but the money flushing is inevitable. No need to ruin a child's holiday just because I am the scrooge.

I'm sure when we go through the checkout lane, pleading will ensue for candy. Or a Pepsi. Or Goldfish. He becomes desperate after the first two "no's" and just starts asking whatever crap in the immediate vicinity that his greedy little eyes rest upon.

It should be a delightful trip. If not, I know that there will be great television on tonight. And that always cheers me right up.

Handel's Water Music v. Katy Perry

Today I accomplished something that I have been wanting to do for a very long time. Or at least since we moved to Florida.

I was able to sit on the beach completely by myself.

Well, not completely. There were the usual suspects around me: the fishermen, the pruned-out 40 year-old-woman who looks 60, the teenage girls in bikinis looking only how teenage girls can look in bikinis. (Yet we as women painfully yearn for that dream and work our asses off, quite frequently in vain, in our efforts to turn back the clock .)

No, I wasn't completely alone, but what counted was that I didn't have the responsibility of running after a deranged Maggie.

"Taking a one year old to the beach," my husband, Chris, explained, "is kinda like being on the edge of awesomeness. We are right there, but soooo not quite."

The responsibility of corralling a child whose only fear (apparently), is that of a terrified gecko on the handle of the shopping cart at WinnDixie, is quite a responsibility.

It's a piece of cake when she sits and plays with the sand and shells. The problem is that this lasts for five minutes. After five minutes she is tearing off into the surf hoping to take a dip. It sucks for her that this is the ultimate no-no for a 17 month old.

Calvin was easily bought off to sit at home with Maggie and watch Yo Gabba Gabba. Chris had taken Wesley down yonder on the beach and I sat on my little beach towel not really knowing what to do with myself. It would have been nice to have remembered to bring a book.

Because I am reading no less than six at last count ~ plenty to choose from.

I then decided to sit and watch the surf while taking deep breaths. Whatever ions were there, I was going to make darn good use of them for an hour or so. Perhaps this would help to bring down my blood pressure a little bit, which apparently is high-ish again. According to my new doctor, or rather, the blood pressure machine in my new doctor's office.

I tried to concentrate on chillaxing, but I couldn't get "Waking Up In Vegas," out of my head. Not a very relaxing or chilled out song.

Dang it.

I tried to adjust my internal soundtrack to Handel's Water Music, quite apropos whilst sitting and gazing out at the wide expanse of ocean.

But that stupid Katy Perry kept interrupting the horns and oboes of "Allegro," or "Air," or whatever movement I was forcing into my head.

I laid back and observed the clouds. I was enjoying the sun, the warmth and the sound of the ocean that people pay actual money for via sound machines and/or CD's.

But the sand was terribly uncomfortable and my back hurt. Shiz, I had laid down and I honestly didn't know if I was going to be able to get back up again. I felt a bit like a beached whale, belly up. I probably resembled one, too.

I wriggled around in the sand (inconspicuously, as to not draw attention to myself) trying to make a groove. Sand MUST be like Tempurpedic material, right? I would attempt to make an indentation of my body to eliminate stress points. Totally worth a try if done inconspicuously.

I laid back and watched an airplane fly south over me. It flew above the clouds and was red and blue. Southwest? It wouldn't make sense, because this is the Southeast. But you never know.

I speculated the jet's destination. Orlando? Miami? Cuba? Do they even fly planes into Cuba? Or is it just the United States that has a beef with the country? Maybe it was a Canadian jet.

I don't know and probably won't ask my husband because it is probably a question that will reaffirm his belief that he married left of the bell curve.

My "alone time" was becoming boring. I was ready for a burrito. Or the company of Chris. Both would be fantastic.

We returned home and I returned refreshed and somewhat rejuvenated. At least I felt as if I could be pleasant to those around me which was definitely not the case before we left.

I returned having learned the lessons to a.) bring a book to the beach, b.) leave the 1 year old at home.

Tomorrow we are going back and I have the luxury of neither.

Chris suggested we take the Pack-N-Play to set up in the back of the SUV so she can nap. But I am completely icked out contemplating the sand that permeates EVERYTHING at the beach and the implications of cleaning the bed when we return home ~ a task that will inevitably be left to me.

We'll figure it out.

I'm just delighting in the fact that it is 90 degrees and there is no possibility of snow. Not even an faint inkling.

I'm not going to miss it; not after days like these.

Sick Bugs and ......

It is quite ironic that in a recent blog entry I mentioned that I didn't "know what earaches felt like."

Later that same evening, I felt a sharp little twinge in around the vicinity of my left ear. And then another. And another.

I mentioned my concern to my husband and he expressed a diminutive iota of concern. He was probably have a silent meltdown inside his head that included much fist-shaking directed towards the heavens and wailing, "Nooooo, not her toooooooooooooooo!"

I thought the pain was just a fluke; unfortunately as I tried to sleep that night I repeatedly woke up to persistent series of twinges.

You must be wondering why I didn't truck it to the medicine cabinet for some ibuprofen. I wondered that, too, and came to the conclusion that I would rather just bitch and moan about things sometimes than to actually take action.

By the next morning I was in serious pain and had a microwavable rice shoulder bag, blazing hot, pressed to the side of my head. I was crazy eager for my doctor's appointment at 2pm, at which the doctor took one look up my nose and said "Whoa...do you have sinus problems?"

I wanted to say, "No, I didn't think I did, but since you took a gander up my nose and made a noise that indicated some sort of issue up there, I would guess that I do."

I think that it is going to be my personal mission to get everyone in this house shiny and healthy. By Christmas. Or Valentine's Day at the very latest.

The past few months have been rough and I have chalked it up to our family getting used to these new "sick bugs" in Florida.

After we moved from Minnesota to Des Moines in 2001, I recall that there was a regular parade of health issues as we acclimated to new germs.

2002 culminated in a tonsilectomy for Chris. And back surgery. He was a gimpy barrel o' fun that year, let me tell you.

It is most likely just a "running its course" type thing. As soon as we have blown through all of the sicknesses that our immune systems were not able to effectively fight off, we will be right as rain.

Hopefully right as rain come sooner than later and without too much pain.

Or invasive procedures.

Turkey Babies and Those Who Take Life Too Seriously

This is one of the "do it yourself" baby costumes featured on Martha Stewart dot com.

What makes it so funny to me is not that it it shows a cooked, basted and beautifully presented "turkey" baby but the horrified comments that follow the picture left by the contingency of Those Who Take Life Too Seriously.

Maybe I don't get it? But I think it is sort of cute. People dress their kids up as serial murderers and glorified prostitutes all the time and there is nary a fuss.

I think this costume shows creativity and a sense of humor.

And the kid looks warm, snuggly and comfortable on that serving tray. It's enough for me.

Various Rants About Medical Professionals and Our Health Challenged Family

If you have been following my blogs, you know that we have been a bit health "challenged" this fall.

The youngest two children were diagnosed with the nauseatingly hyped H1N1 virus in September.

I am suspicious that the oldest one had a bout of it, too. But he is the "healthy one" in the family, and rarely complains about being sick. It has to be a super bug to take him down.

He had felt sick for several days. Each day of which he would ask to stay home from school. My response was kissing him on the forehead, a la Glennda GoodWitch, to feel if there was any heat. There was not.

After the fourth day of this, much to his surprise, his request to stay home from school was granted by me as I was half asleep.

"You're staying in bed ALL day," I said, then rolled over and fell back asleep.

"Uh, did you tell Calvin that he could stay home from school today," Chris asked when I stumbled out into the kitchen an hour or so later to fetch me some coffee.

Hot damn. As a matter of fact, I did ~ the memory was foggy as if that of a dream.

"I told him he had to stay in bed all day," I told Chris.

He pointed to the lump on the couch with its feet up, watching Spongebob Squarepants.

"No," I said. "No, no, no, no, no! If you are sick, you go back to bed. There is no Spongebob when you are home sick!"

I was assaulted with arguments about what his 8 year old brother was able to do with when he was home sick. I pointed out that Wesley was home from school for a total of five days and after the first three, we were utterly broken and desperate. Thus, we were willing to fudge on the Xbox rules, just to keep him quiet.

Wes was home again one day last week after he stumbled into our bedroom at 2:00am one night, sobbing. Apparently his right ear hurt. I can't imagine what that must feel like, but I am sure it must suck monkey butt.

I gave him some ibuprofen and let him sleep on our floor that night. The doctor confirmed it the next day ~ he had an ear infection.

And then there was little Miss Maggie.

With each year that passes I am becoming more and more conservative about immunizations.

This is mainly because I am developing what I believe is a healthy skepticism about how much doctors really know. As in, I am not sure that they know as much as the general public gives them credit for.

In my opinion, people look at those individuals with the letters "M.D." after their names with an undo amount of veneration. Subsequently the words/advice that come out of their mouths are deified and taken with blind faith.

I think it is dangerous. I could go on and on, but I like to keep my blog light.

For this reason, I had been dreading Maggie's 15 month checkup ~ so much so that I scheduled it two months late. I was ready for a fight: the bare ass minimum on the immunizations, please, and absolutely no flu shots.

Although we are far from an "organic" family, I am feeling that the line between absolutely necessary and hype and hysteria has become rather blurry.

The stress that I had about the checkup was moot because the cough that had lingered since the H1N1 diagnosis was getting worse. The nose was starting to run and her little cheeks were beginning to flush. Indeed, she had an ear infection.

So, two of the children are currently on antibiotics.

Oh ~ we recently discovered that Publix does not charge for amoxicillian, yo. Take that and suck it Walgreens, spawn of satan and owners of the vaccuus drive thrus that cars get stuck in, only to pull up to the window 40 minutes later to find out they don't have the prescription ready.

This snippet of information has been highly, highly helpful to us this fall, both monetarily and stress-wise. We will never go back to the dark side, a.k.a. Walgreens.

It is my turn tomorrow and I am shi**ing bricks.

I am seeing a doctor that I don't know from a hole in the wall. Aside from a few favorable, yet vague, reviews online I know nothing about this guy except he is one of the few doctors in the area that a.) takes our insurance, and b.) would see me before December.

I am going to be praying that he doesn't say too much about my weight, which is never a helpful thing.

The weight battle was waged during two of my three pregnancies: the first and the third. It is ironic that the only pregnancy that weight was never mentioned once is the one that I gained only 30 pounds during. With the others I was hounded about the weight I was gaining, therefore, stressed, I gained sixty pounds with each.

I just believe that a doctor should never tell a fat person, especially a woman, that she is fat. She is already full aware of this every time she goes shopping for new clothes or stands in front of the mirror naked every morning.

She doesn't need a doctor to remind her of this. Ever.

Alas, I am needlessly worrying, which is something I do best.

I hope to report to you tomorrow evening that it was uneventful and pleasant. It already has a twinge of awesomeness to it because one of our members from church is coming over to watch Maggie.

Read: I am getting a mini break from the baby. A spa trip and/or a massage would be greatly preferable over a doctor's appointment.

But hey, beggars can't be choosers and I will take whatever I can get.