NAKED DAY AT THE RACES

So, each day in our household begins the same way. I am asleep in bed, Cakes is asleep on my left side (having arrived some time between midnight and 1:00 a.m.), Bean is asleep on my right side (having arrived some time between 3:00 and 6:00 a.m.), and the long-suffering Big Daddy is asleep on the couch, having been kicked out of bed by Bean's arrival. So, Big Daddy gets up for work, which usually wakes me up (this morning, he woke me up by taking some of my Peppermint Patties out of my diaper bag stash). Then, I lie trapped between the toddlers until they wake up, usually about an hour or two after Big Daddy has left for work.

And so, semi-rested, I begin the day with my cherubs.

Task One: get them out of their diapers and pj's. That's simple enough. They don't like being in diapers that are sagging to their knees.

Task Two: get food into them. Now, I'm not one of those mom's that believes only breakfast food may be eaten at breakfast; so, some mornings begin with cereal, some with eggs and turkey bacon, some with pizza and Cheetos. I like to give the girls some control of their breakfast choices, because that ensures they will eat at least a portion of their food.

And that brings us to Task Three: get them dressed. It's so much easier said than done. I usually target Bean first, because Cakes will more happily comply with clothing if she sees her big sissy is wearing something. So, I go into the girls' closet and get all required articles of clothing. Bean sees me coming, and the chase is on. My nudist elder child runs, laughing and screaming and completely naked, all over the house, with me in hot pursuit. When I finally catch her, it is a 15-minute ordeal of trying to corral naked, flailing limbs into leg holes and arm holes amid screams of, "I want to be naked!" That ordeal is compounded with the introduction of buttons, zippers, or strings that need to be tied (needless to say, we like clothes with elastic). I ultimately leave a fully-clothed Bean panting on the couch, watching Teletubbies, and move on to Nudist #2. The chase is not as extensive, because Cakes isn't as nimble as Bean, but getting her diapered involves both of my arms and both of my legs and, occasionally, my neck and armpits.

And that is our typical morning. We'll save toothbrushing and hairstyling for another day ....

ATTRIBUTES OF GOD

Here is a transcript of a conversation I had with Bean this morning:

Bean: "When I get bigger, I have boobies."

Me: "That's right, Bean. You'll be a woman and you'll have boobies just like Mommy."

Bean: "And Cakes will have boobies."

Me: "That's right, because Cakes will be a woman, too."

Bean: "And Daddy will have boobies."

Me: "No, Daddy won't have boobies. Daddy is a man, and men don't have boobies."

Bean: "And God will have boobies."

Me: "Well, God MADE boobies ..."

Bean: "But, God don't have boobies."

LESSONS FROM ODD JOBS

HighCalling Blogs is hosting a meme about odd jobs and what you've learned from them.

Here are the rules:

1. Write a post about some strange job you’ve had and what you learned from it.

2. Link to other “Lessons from Odd Jobs” posts around the highcallingblogs.com network, or quote them in your post with proper attribution. This isn’t a requirement, but it’s a fun way to get people moving around the network and reading each other.

3. Tag your post “lessons from odd jobs”—if you use technorati tags or another form of meta-tags.

4. Tag other bloggers by linking to them in your post and inviting them to participate in the meme. Tag as many people as you like—we’re not limiting this just to people in the network!

5. Link back to Lessons from Odd Jobs in your post and email this month’s host at “Marcus AT highcallingblogs DOT com”.

My odd job was the two years that I spent working for a pathologist. She was not a very nice woman, which is why she was in her 50's and still single. I mean, it was admirable and all that she worked her way from the ghetto of Philadelphia through medical school. But, she had an enormous chip on her shoulder, and looked down on her childhood friends and family as being "uneducated and ghetto." She had one great love in her life, her rat-dog - er, her Maltese dog - Mozart. So, half of my job was preparing food for, brushing, walking, and generally caring for this rat dog. Preparing food involved going to the basement full of body parts in buckets and cooking up an organic chicken breast, cutting it into small pieces, and hand-feeding Moze.

This pathologist, having nothing else in her life but Mozart and work, would work full-time during the day at a local hospital while I acted as office manager/dog sitter for her private pathology practice. This was comprised of a lot of data entry of pap smear results, biopsy results, etc. Almost every day, the couriers would bring a mole, a growth, a bunch of pap smear slides, and the occasional testicle in to the office to be tested for cancer and other things. The worst part of the job, however, was when men seeking fertility testing would come to drop off their "samples." First, I would have to prepare the bathroom for the men to obtain their sample, which involved lighting candles and placing out various gentlemen's magazines. Then, I had to greet the patients, explain the proper way to obtain the sample, answer any questions, wait for them to do their business, then label the sample they gave me once they had collected it in the cup I left out for them. I don't know who was more embarrassed, me or the giggly, red-faced men that sheepishly came and went.

And, so, the lesson I learned from this odd job was that I didn't want to be a career woman. Some women are able to balance a career and a family, and do it well; but, I am not one of those women. I didn't want to sacrifice love, friendship, children, or a kind attitude for the aggressive mien and lonely life I saw in my boss. Being a doctor didn't bring her the respect she craved, even though she wore her lab coat everywhere she went, and the only legacy she was leaving behind was her dog. I love staying home with my girls, focusing on relationships with them and other stay-at-home moms, knowing that I am leaving behind a legacy that will continue long after I am gone.

OUR NEW HOME

We are physically in our new house now. We are still living among boxes, though. It took me two days to find my deodorant. I've moved almost all the boxes into the spare bedroom, and organized them in order of importance. The goal is to unpack one box per day. I have not yet, however, attained that goal. Right now, I'm still busy catching up on laundry and trying to clear off all countertops, etc., where things have collected. We made sure the girls' stuff was completely unpacked, to help them with the transition from the only home they've ever known to this new and much larger house. It's easiest to keep them happy when I open the front door and turn them loose on the great outdoors. They come back covered in mud, onion grass - all kinds of nature. But, they're happy and they're getting along, which makes the mess worth it.

We have friends who also moved the weekend we moved. They are SUPER organized, and I would bet money that their house is already unpacked, decorated, and looking like they've lived there for years. We just hope we can get the house in working order by the time my parents move here in July! *grin*

ANIMAL CONTROL - ATTEMPT #2

So, we have all read about my wonderful relationship with Animal Control here in Williamson County. Well, the saga continues ....

Yesterday, I opened my front door to go check my mail and pick up my neighbor's mail (they're on vacation). When I opened the door, a large, beefy boxer (the animal, not the athlete) was sitting on my front porch looking at me. I didn't scream (after all, it wasn't a possum *grin*), but I did catch my breath and slam the door shut again. An hour later, the boxer was still, for some unknown reason, sitting on my front porch. So, call #2 this week to Animal Control.

Me: "A boxer has been sitting on my front porch for the past hour."

Animal Control: "Is he vicious?"

Me: "Maybe. I'm not about to go find out."

Animal Control: "Does he have a collar on?"

Me: "No." (Thinking, "But even if he did, I'm not going to try to go read it!")

So, they got my address and said they would dispatch someone. I thanked them, but I was thinking, "You will send out a truck for a possibly vicious dog, but not for a definitely-vicious-and-maybe-even-rabid possum in my trash can?"

After another half hour, Animal Control still had not shown up, and Big Daddy had begun tossing quesadillas out the front door for the boxer to eat. He eventually wandered away, and Animal Control showed up on my front porch with a leash 10 minutes later.

POSSUMS

So, my house has been in more disarray than the usual toddler-filled home because we're busy packing. Yesterday, I filled a trashbag with everything left over from packing up the bonus room, and went out back to throw the bag into our garbage can. As I released the bag, I thought I spotted fur in the bottom of the garbage can. So, I decided to take a closer look. I walked over to the garbage can, looked in, screamed, then soiled myself, because I had come face to face with the beady eyes and open mouth of an enormous, angry looking possum. I ran into the house, locked the deadbolt (just in case the possum knew how to work a doorknob), and told a wide-eyed Bean, "It's okay. An animal just surprised Mommy, that's all."

After changing my clothes (refer to the aforementioned soiling of myself), I called up Animal Control. The conversation went like this:

"Animal Control. How can we help you?"

"There's a possum in my trash can."

"So, tip the trash can over," said the Animal Control agent in a voice that suggested that I am a moron.

"Are you kidding me? What if it attacks me?!"

Pause. "Ma'am, it's not going to attack you."

"Seriously, it is looking pretty fierce."

"That's because it is scared and trapped. Just tip the trash can over, walk away, and it will leave." Again, spoken like I am a moron.

"Okay, thanks," I said, and hung up.

Now, there was NO WAY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH that I was going to go near that trash can, so I leaned out of my back door with a broom, and tried to push the can over. The possum's weight, however, made this trickier than I thought it would be. It was like trying to overturn a Weeble Wobble, and hissing noises kept coming from the can every time it almost fell, and then rocked back into an upright position. This of course, had me screaming again. When the can finally DID fall on it's side, I panicked, picturing a foamy-mouthed possum flying toward me like a missile. So, I tried to quickly pull the broom inside the house so I could shut and deadbolt the door again. But, the panic made it impossible for me to pull the broomstick through the railing of our deck. I finally left the broom out there and slammed the door shut.

Would you know that the stupid possum did not leave that trash can until Big Daddy came home at 7:30 p.m., picked up the trash can, and shook the possum out while I watched from the window (screaming, of course).

Needless to say, I will no longer be taking our garbage out. That is now solely Burnie's job.

PACKING

We'll be moving in two weeks. So, the mad packing has begun. Of course, after 17 boxes, the house barely has a dent in it. How did we accumulate so much in just four years living here?

Maybe when we move, we'll find that remote that disappeared sometime after Bean was born ...