I went shopping yesterday, and found that our Osh Kosh outlet was having sales ranging from 40-70% off. Their jeans were $10. TEN DOLLARS. I bought a green shirt for Two Bits at Walmart the day before St. Patricks and paid $7. Seven dollars for a shirt that will shrink, roll at the bottom, and look 52 years old after the first washing. It really goes without saying that outlet stores are sent from heaven (and also that if you spend $100 while there your husband should really not get mad because the sales were so worth it.)
I have a spot on my stomach that has no feeling. It used to constantly be on my mind. Sometimes I still think about it and poke at it with my finger just to make sure I still can't feel anything. I still can't, in case you were wondering. I guess that's what repeated c-sections will do to you.
I have egg breath.
I am an excellent mother ALL OF THE TIME. For every second of every day, in fact. If you don't believe me, here's an example of my mothering awesomeness:
Monkey was throwing food at dinner, like usual, which caused me to call him a booger. A common name for him around here (and for those of you sensitive to that word, like UKer's, just pretend that I said bogey, because it's the same thing.)
Two Bits and Opie immediately defended their brother by telling me that he was NOT a booger, but that he was a boy. So then I rebuttaled and said that he was in fact a booger because one day I stuck my finger up my nose and dug around in there until I successfully pulled the baby Monkey out of my nostril, and that was how he was born.
See what I mean about the great mothering? I should really receive some kind of honorific award for such a sentimental reference to the birth of my third child.
I have been recently watching episodes of old BBC series made from Charles Dickens and Jane Austen books on Netflix. Some of them are really great. I have to say though, that the version of Mansfield Park from the 1970's was a bit of a snorefest. But I made it through. And then I watched Bleak House and David Copperfield (that one was on PBS sunday night) which were very non-snorefest-y. But that's not really the point - - the point IS that now I feel like a total pauper. I don't have a single servant, I have to raise my own kids, we own zero horses and I highly doubt my old minivan can pass as a barouche. It's a little depressing. I think I at least deserve a cook.
Opie told me yesterday that his favorite princess was Ariel. I was thinking about how Husband would react to this news. I'm sure he would say that boys shouldn't have favorite princesses and then worry about the orientation of our little man. But then I would remind him that Ariel is the one that only wears seashells. I think that this would cause the worry to cease, because clearly Opie has the right priorities here.
And now I need to clean my house, because I have someone coming over. I should be more embarrassed at how messy it is here, but I'm having a hard time finding the right level of devastation.