If I had a dollar for every time I said 'Sorry I haven't posted in a few days, but...' I'd have enough for my own morphine button by now.

But that's neither here nor there. I'm fed up with apologizing. Screw you, blogosphere. I have a life and I can't always post. Ok, so it's not an amazing life full of artistic friends, romantic trips and insightful new discoveries. It causes mystery stains on my shirts, dishpan hands and a few crying spells, but I have the ownership papers for it and I take pride in that. It's a life, and it's mine. Time-consumingly mine.

And right now I just had my very own revelation: I was trying to search out a blurb on 'overwhelmed parents' and poke fun at the comparisons between myself and the descriptions on various websites related to parental stress. I've been stressed out lately, in case it hasn't been apparent. Intrepid broke his leg. Meanwhile, Spawnling got in four teeth followed by the grossest, nastiest case of thrush I've ever seen. He was the clingiest of clingy babies at a time when he needed to be the most independent of independent babies, doing crafts and self-study courses and cooking family meals. Gutsy, meanwhile, was being his usual self but all attention-starved-like and therefore so much worse.

Well, ok, this is all still going on but now I've learned to pretend that it isn't for a few minutes a day. I wave my hand in front of my own face and say " This isn't really happening" in calmest, most convincing tone I can manage. It's a nifty Jedi mind trick that Obi Wan Kenobi taught me. But not the old Obi Wan. The younger, hotter, Ewan McGregor one.

Hey, if you're going to dream, dream big.

Anyway, so I typed in 'overwhelmed parents' and what did I get? Not sites with whiners like me. Oh, no. That would justify how I've been feeling lately and make me whine even more. Instead, I read pages about how not to get overwhelmed when your child needs heart surgery, or how a support group in Kentucky can help overwhelmed, bereaved parents.

Well don't I feel about five inches tall right now. The Powers that Be are laughing at me as they whack me in the face with the clue bat of life.

I can feel rundown, overwhelmed, frustrated, or whatever other nasty little mood I want to feel, but only for a little while. Then I have to put my big girl panties on and get the hell over it. I have three little men who depend on me. They need me to be not-short-tempered, afrustrated and any other grammatically incorrect terms I can come up that stress the importance of being more positive.

Don't get me wrong: Life with Yeasty, Beasty and The Gimp - my temporary names for the gremlins - has been anything but relaxing lately. However, I would say it's been far more like sipping virgin daiquiris out of coconut glasses than, say, one of them going through open-heart surgery, or planning a funeral for one of them. Things I don't ever want to do or think about, but that's life for many families out there. We are truly blessed to have our chaos, Geekster and I. We are truly blessed to have our yeasty, beasty, gimpy gremlins.

So enough whining, Maven. Time to get out of this slump. I've bought some makeup (although I have yet to wear much of it). I did my nails (the toes look lovely, but the fingers were peeling by the next morningb). I dyed my hair (a lovely shade of suck-the-light-out-of-all-living-things-black-hole-brown) and, happy of happy days, we managed to get some time to ourselves for the first time in nine months when the in-laws came down to throw a 'feel better soon, Intrepid' party (complete with party hats and toys, books and movies for all).

Today, The Madre surprised me by stating that she will tame the gremlins once per week during the day starting in September. She'll give me a little while to run some errands, get my hair done (no more black hole brown? Could this be!?) or - and this is where I'm trying to separate fact from fiction - just spend some time by myself.

Spend some time... by myself? Like, not at the grocery store or on the toilet? I vaguely remember a time like that... So very long ago, in a galaxy far, far away... with a hot Jedi and some weird alien named Jar-Jar who needed speech therapy.

Also, AAngel, Lushgurl's daughter, is hoping to be able to take the gremz on the 16th to Geekster and I can sneak away for our 10th wedding anniversary. I'd like to say we'll have a romantic meal, but I'd be happy with one where I don't to squirt ketchup on someone's plate or look under the table to find a missing family member.

Yes, things are definitely looking up. Also, I have to say I've been (temporarily) cured of my babylust. A baby? Now? Hell, no. No, no, no. I have a baby and right now he eats acidophillus every day and yells at me for boobie.

Tonight's dinner: cooked chicken from the deli counter at the grocery store (courtesy of The Madre, who watched 2/3 of the boy children so I could go get some grub.) Simple and delicious, just like me.

Tonight's plans: The water park Yeasty, Beasty and friend Astarte and son, HGTV's Realestate Wednesdays, more of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, maybe some essay writing. But I don't overextend myself or anything.

The title of this post: Comes from here . Candy Mountain! Candy Mountain!