I've already dissected today's main event for Parenting (tomorrow). I liveblogged it, even (and delay posted). In summary: it's tough being three. AND IT'S TOUGHER PARENTING A THREE-YEAR-OLD. There. I said it. Also! I need to be sent to Remedial Mom School because some of the threats I leveled at Jack this afternoon were, at best, on a three-year-old level. So. No gold stars for me.
But there are cookies! See, a week or so ago I got this super duper heavy package in the mail from Annie, who I met In Person at the Blathering last year (gratuitous Blathering registration linkage!). Inside was this cute little wall hanging that weighed about three ounces, and the rest of the package was a giant, and I do mean GIANT, sack of flour, sugar and chocolate chips. With instructions. And the instructions said: Add 4 eggs. Also a pound of butter.
Did you get that? A pound of butter?
I have been baking these cookies for about two hours now. THAT'S HOW MANY COOKIES. Some of these are definitely headed to Phillip's work and heads up if you know me in person: I'm about to send a pound of butter your way!
It makes me very glad I decided to make these this afternoon, since I already got my Yearly Doctor Visit out of the way this morning. And you KNOW I closed my eyes when I stepped on that electronic scale (wearing a long sweater, post-breakfast, post-post-breakfast-snack). I am not up for discussing Body Image today folks, suffice to say all indicators are looking dismal.
THAT SAID. My doctor is an absolute DOLL. I mean, she's a happy cheery gal to begin with, as evidenced by the nonstop chatter (which ordinarily bugs me, but sure takes my mind off Doctor Visit Unpleasantness) AND she will answer your questions forever and a day. Also, she is in a new office and I don't have to deal with the Nurse I Suspect Is Really A Disgruntled Man. (Anyone remember her?)
But then I started complaining about how I have lost and gained my Selling The House Weight about fifteen times in the last couple months and woe is me and I cannot possibly go on with my life and she says, "Why are you worried about THAT? You look GREAT!"
If I'd been in proper clothing I might have plastered her with a nice sloppy kiss. Even though the last time she saw me was six weeks postpartum. I BETTER look great.
THEN she started talking about all these OTHER things it could be and I kept saying, "But it's probably the cookies" and she would say, "But wouldn't it be nice if it were your thyroid?"
I mean, not that it would be REALLY nice but that's exactly the sort of thing you want to hear when you are in the midst of Body Image Woes, am I right? I must also remind you that this is the woman who said not one single word to me about weight gain when I was pregnant with Molly, when I gained Six. Tee. Pounds.
ANYWAY. I said I wasn't going to talk about this. It makes me unhappy. MOVING ON.
Other Things I Am Feeling Sort Of Bad About:
I think I was supposed to vote. Well, the ballot is sitting here on my desk, so that's a clear indication. And now I am reading Twitter updates about voting and it occurs to me that I have missed the deadline and you GUYS. I am ordinarily SUCH a Model Citizen! I don't even know what's ON the ballot!
I'm reading all these BlogHer recap posts and it appears there was no drama, which I find mildly disappointing since I was looking forward to reading about it. (WHAT?) (In this case, the 'You're just jealous!" accusation totally applies.)
My garden. OH MY GARDEN. All the green tomatoes. The weeds. The money I spent FOR NAUGHT. I might get a few zucchini if I'm lucky, and usually I have more zucchini than I know what to do with. The pumpkin I planted for the kids is growing. Sure, the one thing I had no intention of EATING.
That I have no idea if I've missed a third Mad Men episode or if it hasn't yet aired. My TV cred is swirling down the drain.
My hair. It's getting really long. And I don't have thick luscious hair either. Hmm. What are your thoughts on Thirty-One-Year-Old Mothers With Really Long Hair. I think I have this idea that Moms should have shortish bouncy hair and dudes, I would chop it all off if I thought I had ANY hope of bouncy hair. But I don't, so I'm AFRAID.
OMG! I just heard a woman in the backyard next to mine say, "I love your hair." I SWEAR! I mean, I know she was saying it to someone else, BUT STILL! A SIGN?!