The Perfect Family-Starting Age

I received a comment from Sheri a couple of days ago that said the following:

I love your site. It's funny and helpful. I'm trying to convince my husband that the time is right to start a family. We're both 29...any witty thoughts or advice...or should I say forget it?

The thing about being me is, I have no life to speak of. That's why I bitch about things like running a daycare and being poked with needles at the hospital. And I regularly hang out with *cough* my mom. I mean, who kicks back with their mom several times a week? (People with wonderful moms, of course! <--- That was for my mom so she doesn't get sad). Anyway, the upside of being a loser is that if I had a life, I couldn't take the time to think about things like The Perfect Family-Starting Age. I have experience in this department, as our children, as of November of this year, will be 10, 4 and newbornish. That's a decade of making and raising babies. Don't blame me, blame the PCOS. It doesn't let me make and carry many babies to term.

We had our first child when I was 20 (Geekster was 23). Totally an 'oops' baby. But the thing is, the 'oops' should have happened sooner, as we had been doing naughty things with no protection for at least two years prior to his conception. Hey, I never said I was smart. A lot of my life is a cautionary tale to other young women.

I learned that 20 is not the perfect age to have a baby. There are pros, of course: I could live with less sleep (excellent when baby is screaming at 3am). I was full of energy and always wanted to do fun things with him. I wrapped myself around motherhood like nobody's business because I was young and new and had few outside influences (we essentially became attachment parents without realizing it. Just followed our instincts).

The downfall, however, was that I had no friends with children. Nobody to lean on and ask advice to. No support. People made assumptions about what kind of parents we would be based on our age and lack of experience. Basically, I was labelled the trashy mom just because I was young, even though I didn't fit the unfortunate stereotype. Being young=being shunned by older moms in many cases. It really sucked.

Then I had a baby at 26. Not a bad age, really. But not the perfect age. I was still significantly younger than a lot of the other moms. Plus, I already had a six-year-old. That set me apart right away. A lot of my friends were having babies, but I just happened to find a circle of women who were young. So it normalized it a bit and it was certainly better than 20-year-old-mom status. But not quite there.

I'm 29 now and expecting baby #3. 29 is the perfect age.

But why, you ask? For several reasons:

- Most people have friends somewhere around their age. Within a handful of years on either side. That means a 29-year-old couple have friends who are at the stage where baby-making is becoming paramount. Built-in friends with built-in babies. Perfect.

- People who are 29 are still technically in their 20s. Hence, young and hip. Those women who pretend to be pregnant on the cover of magazines are also young and hip. What better way to relate? So you can be the young mom, but not too young. You can wear all the cute maternity clothes and have people go 'Wow, she looks so vibrant and stylish!'. Get on that train while you can, sister.

- I just read that studies have shown that people who have their first child after the age of 30 are more likely to have children who do better in school (I should probably sit down and break the news to Intrepid: He needs to stop being a straight A student because I had him a decade too early for that. Fit the damn mould, child!). The theory is that you've had time to get an education and a lucrative career going, thus you're more inclined to set a good example for your child. So, if you start now and have your first child at 30, he or she will be an honour student and go on to Yale. Careful, though: don't have Little Jr. at 29 or he's in for a life of remedial reading and crime. Watch your timing.

But what about waiting until you're squarely in your 30s to have children, you ask? I'd be wary of that for two reasons:

1. There's that whole fertility-declining thing that goes on. I often wonder what would have happened had we waited. Some people simply can't start a family before then due to circumstances beyond their control (like, meeting your non-platonic life partner at 37, for example, or trying for years due to pre-existing fertility issues). But if you have the person and the stability in your 20s, get to baby-making. It's not worth holding out for the bigger house or the awesome promotion in many cases. Those things can come later, or not at all. In my life, they don' t matter. We thought we'd have no trouble conceiving baby #2 after baby #1. We were very wrong. And I was only 21 when we started trying. I think had we waited until our 30s - in my particular case - it would have been a lot more work and possibly wouldn't have happened at all.

2. I'm starting to see this now: the older I am, the more resistant I am to change. I'm no longer putty that is easily molded into something new. Nuh-uh. I sort of like my life the way it is. It's mostly predictable and solid. Had we waited until a few years from now to have a child, I think I would have gone through major emotional trauma. After over three decades of sleeping through the night, I'd suddenly have to get up and feed a needy little thing. After years of seeing my breasts as sexual objects, I'd have to get used to the idea of them being primarily a food source. After having nights out with the girls twice a week for forever, I'd be needed at home a lot more. My goals would change. My marriage would change. Everything would change. Like, overnight. I found that having my children young helped me integrate them easily into my life. Having a family has been part of who I am pretty much since adulthood, which I guess is a plus side to having a child at 20. I have absolutely no regrets.

That being said, I know a lot of great young moms and great older moms. Age pales in comparison to life experience that brings about wisdom and maturity. But 29 is a good age to jump into parenthood. You've had your 20s to get to know who you are and what you want out of life. If children are something that will bring you joy and fufillment, get on it (take those last three words any way you wish).

And with that, I have to go watch some more Dead Like Me. We're halfway through the second season on DVD. There is no third. Why are all the good shows cancelled? *pout*

Hey Maven! What did you do this morning?

Well, thanks for asking!

It was a lovely morning. Let's start at the beginning of the day - 12am, when I was nearly asleep. It's my fault, really. See, I had wanted a good thunderstorm for a while. I love summer storms; I'm a radar checker, a Weather Network fanatic and the person who will sit in front of the window and watch all the pretty lightning bolts.

When I asked for a thunderstorm, I failed to specify a good time for said storm to occur. I should have picked 3pm. Or a window between, say, 2pm and 4pm. Instead, I left it wide open, and the Powers That Be decided that around midnight would be a great time to pelt the great outdoors with near continuous thunder and lightning. I exchanged Geekster for Intrepid, who came into our room half asleep and quite afraid. Geekster went downstairs and slept in Gutsy's bed, to preempt a frightened preschooler episode. I must say that it's heartwarming when your nine-year-old still wants to cuddle you because he can't sleep. It doesn't happen often, but it did last night.

Problem: nine-year-olds take up a lot of room. Technically not as much as pregnant women, but they move more. This is how the division of the bed was last night:

[----------Intrepid 75%---------][-Maven 25%-]

Yeah, that pretty much sums up how I slept last night. Co-sleeping loses its flavour after they can kick harder than you can. I think I passed out around 12:30am.

I awoke to the alarm at 6:15am. "6:15?! Why, you're once again a certified, bon-bon eating, story-watching, pryin' bar-using stay-at-home-Maven! What's with the early wake-up time?" Even Mavens have actual things to do outside the house, sometimes. This was one of those times. I hauled my tired behind into the minivan and drove to the local hospital for 7:15am. Why? Oh, for many great things!

Anyone's who's pregnant in a developed nation and submits herself to routine testing will know all about the one hour glucose test. It's one of those hidden pregnancy gems nobody mentions until they've waddled you into a corner in your late second or early third trimester. "Congratulations on your pregnancy! By the way, did you know you have to drink the most gawd-awful sweet, orangy crap in under five minutes, manage tokeep it down and then wait an hour with other nauseated pregnant women until you can get your blood drawn?"

I drank down that nasty uberpop/megasoda/torture liquid at 7:25am. Come on, now. It's bad enough to expect people to drink it without vomitting. It's another thing to ask them to do it as they're normally crawling out of bed. Not cool. I had my blood drawn at 8:25am (I bet you could have guessed that) and then went home.

Actually... NO. I didn't go home. I would have liked to, but unfortunately I also have another hidden pregnancy treasure to contend with: I'm RH negative. And, silly me, I made the mistake of making babies with a guy who has a positive blood type. Do you want to know what the reward is? Adorable children and the joy of having someone inject me with blood products both in my third trimester and within 72 hours of my child's birth. Horray!!

I couldn't have that done until 11: 15am. Thus, I spent nearly three hours bored to tears before I could receive my next track mark (very close to my first track mark from earlier in the morning - that vein gets around like a record). I finished reading Freakonomics, so that was a bonus. Then I spent the rest of the morning hunting for English magazines in a French-speaking hospital (Well, the people inside the hospital speak French, anyway. Walls don't talk, silly. That's just an expression). I uncovered two Readers Digest magazines from 2003 and an O mag from December 2001; needless to say, the O magazine was rather bleak, complete with tragic stories and the like. Happy Holidays!

I then spent another half hour waiting for any potential adverse reactions after my shot. Even though it's, like, the fifth one I've had in my lifetime with no problems. I watched the clock like an anxious third grader. I snuck out two minutes early. Always a rebel.

I got home at 12:20pm. I just woke up from an hour long nap (did I mention how much I love my husband? Even though he's, you know... AB+. It's not his fault. He was just born that way).

I'm going to grab myself and The Madre a coffee and come back to respond to a comment sent in by one of my devoted (Bored? Insane? You'd have to be to read this garbage) readers. She asked me a question and I've had hours and hours this morning to come up with a good response.

No sugar tonight in my coffee

No sugar tonight or any night or ever. Sugar in coffee is disgusting. In fact, there is no better way to ruin my day than to put sugar in a perfectly good cup o' joe. Or urinate in it, I guess.

I'm not listening to that song right now, by the way. The incredibly bulky-yet-useful iTunes decided to play 'Roadhouse Blues' by The Doors first. Gooooooo, Doors!! Incidentally, I'm now nearly three years older than most classic rockers who died traumatically. The average age was 27. In fact, Jim Morrisson, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin all died at the ripe ol' age of 27. It's a bad age to be a strung out rock star, apparently.

It's 2:40pm on my second full day of SAHMdom. Life is grand, my peeps. Amazingly grand. I feel like the weight of two elephants (or roughly 1 1/2 pregnant Mavens) has been lifted off my shoulders. I have no strict schedule to adhere to. I wake up when my children need me to. I can stay up a little while later at night without worry that I will have a Daycare Parent pouding furiously at my door (not to be confused with 'pounding furiously with my door'. I swear, if I ever find someone pounding my door, I'm going to cheer them on and take some video footage to sell to a fetish site. Another great way to supplement our household income!)

I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer... Oops, sorry. Runaway lyrics. We woke up this morning and went to visit Mrs. Wailing and her children, Wailing Jr. and Baby Wailing. A big shout out to Wailing Jr. as it's his third birthday today! Happy birthday, buddy! Thank you for letting Intrepid and Gutsy flood your backyard with water in this awful heatwave we're having. Thank you for giving us copious amounts of watermelon and telling me Thomas the Tank Engine stories. Also, a big thanks to Baby Wailing for waiting patiently until I could be there before rolling over back-to-front for the first time. Also, it was nice to puke on me to get me used to curdled, breastmilk spit-up again. I needed the reminder of how lovely it smells after being in an infant's stomach for an hour.

Gutsy is currently running around the house in the buff, playing with a pen that also acts as a rocket (complete with launcher). I hope he remembers what The Maven always says: It's all fun and games until someone loses a testicle. Play safely, kids.

Intrepid is playing a computer game that he wasn't allowed to play when Daycare Boy was here. I don't mind exposing my own preschooler to PS2 violence, but not someone else's - especially when they're paying me. He was smitten with Baby Wailing this morning. I'm guessing he's going to have about 8 children with his non-platonic life partner (N-PLP) when the time comes.

I'm going to watch a rerun of Dr. Phil in a minute. I like watching him tell off other people for their stupid choices. It makes me feel a lot better about my own stupid choices, because at least I'm not being berated on television for it. I must confess that I'm not a huge Robin fan, though. What is it with all these people praising Robin for being such a good wife? Have you seen her teeth? Dude, that cost some cold hard cash. I'd sit and smile in the audience and read poorly from a teleprompter for yearly Christmas specials if it meant I could get my teeth to look like that. But she bugs me... I can't put my finger on it. She reminds me of that woman at a scrapbooking party who talks trash behind your back and offers you a cheddar bite off her beautiful serving platter to your face. I think she'd rather be out with her friends, but since her husband has scared all of them away she has to sit in the audience and listen to his grandiose speeches.

But she does have nice teeth. Robin: 1. The Maven: 0 and a bad karma for being a horribly judgemental person about someone she doesn't even know.

On the 'Celebrities Who's Food I'd Like to Spit in' list, I'd also have to add in Paris Hilton. Paris: You are scary looking. Yet you can basically do anything you set your mind to: modelling, television and now singing.

I'm also somewhat scary looking, but there's one big difference: I'm not an heiress. Hmph. No perfume line for me.

I suppose I should post some pictures soon. Maybe I'll do that later. Right now, I've missed the first four minutes of the Dr. Phil show. That means I've missed the clip for the biggest guest story they have on today. Damnit! I'll catch it later. Thank you, satellite.

Gutsy is still naked and Intrepid and is now off the PS2 and showing me how he can run on his hands. Who says being a stay-at-home-mom is dull?

Random pregnancy thoughts

It's funny how people treat you differently in pregnancy.

For one, people stare at me now. Openly. With no shame. They stare directly at my enlarged belly, then some move up to the mounds above said belly. Sorry to disappoint, people, but they're only a large B to begin with and they're probably a half-decent C right now. Nothing to write home about (I don't know how you'd right home about that, either: "Hey Maw, I saw a big pair o' titties on a pregnant lady today. Have you made any jam yet this year? How's uncle Ned's back?) I'm not carrying around double Fs. I'll get to a D when InUtero Boy is born, but that's probably it. I don't think I'll ever get a job on lactatinghooters.com (and if that's a real website, I wont' be surprised).

I was in the doctor's office yesterday and had yet another rude gender comment thrown about. I brought the boys to my prenatal and they were active, but not pull-my-hair-out misbehaving. This woman said to me, loudly 'I bet you're hoping this one's a girl, eh?'

Right in front of my kids, who stopped and listened. Grr.

I said 'It's a boy, actually' with the biggest smile I could muster and hiding my clenched fists behind my abundant waist.

'Oh NO!' she exclaimed. 'Next time, I guess'.

Did I mention she said this right in front of my beautiful boys? Look, I can deal with people's skewed views on gender and their wonky stereotypes (and I hear that people with all girls get similar comments), but I don't think my children need to hear about how bringing a third penis-carrying child into the family is somehow a bad thing.

People feel they can comment on absolutely everything to a pregnant woman. Probably because they know they can run faster.

Another thing... This morning I woke up, had a shower, got dressed and put on my wedding ring before going to Tim Hortons for a morning coffee fix. Why did I put on my wedding ring? Because people always look at my left hand when I'm pregnant. I got this a lot when we were unwed and pregnant with Intrepid. And while I tell myself that I'm not a traditionalist and that we got married because we wanted to celebrate our love and our new baby and that over half of marriages end in divorce and that I don't care whether people are married or not... I think that insecure part of me still wants to display the sign that I am, indeed, traditional on some level. Look! Look! I fit in with you suburban, classist people. Even though I don't want to join your elitist little group, I could if I wanted to. So there.

Must examine that part of me further. This is not a good thing. I am much too foward thinking for that. I'm the ex-welfare recipient, recovering alcoholic/addict, listen-to-rap-music-in-my-minivan, think-outside-the-box woman. Right? RIGHT?! What is wrong with me? Insecurity is ten shades of suck.

When I put on said wedding ring, I jokingly said to Geekster 'Oops! Can't forget this. Don't want people to hit on me'. And that's funny in itself. See, the irony is this: Nobody looks at me in that way when I'm pregnant. At least not openly. And you'd think in some weird way that I might get hit on more.

After all, I have an obvious sign that I put out.

Somebody should come up with a maternity shirt that says 'Dirty Girl: for qualifications, please see stomach'.

Hrmm... my idea + cafepress t-shirts = profit. Although it would be a small profit, because I'd probably be the only one who would wear that shirt. With my wedding ring on, of course.

Let the bonbon eating commence!

Tonight I shall have a Caramilk Bar. It will be my first official stay-at-home-maven bonbon! There is more "Dead Like Me" on the agenda this evening, if Geekster can keep his eyes open.

Personally, I slept hardly a wink last night. Fitful sleep disturbed by some mild anxiety and a preschooler with nightmares who took up the middle half of the bed. He might sleep on his own nearly every night now, but when he does come in he loves to snuggle. Pregnant ladies don't do snuggling well, I've realized. I couldn't get comfortable to save my life!

Today was supposed to be simple:

- Wake up well-rested
- Welcome Daycare Boy and Girl for a jolly good half day
- Wrap the goodbye little gifts I picked up for them last night with a tear in my eye
- Watch the children play happily in the backyard for most of the morning
- Leave Daycareville shortly after lunch when their mom picked them up
- Have a bath
- Head to my prenatal
- Go to Tim Hortons
- Come home and do a little jig


Instead:

- Wake up early feeling like I have 10 pound weights attached to my eyelids
- Get a half-decaf coffee at Tim Hortons because I'm tucking fired and I need some oomph to get me through my half and final work day
- Welcome Daycare Boy and Girl for what should have been a halfday, but ended up being until 2:15pm, and that was only AFTER she said she wanted to pick them up at 3:30pm, and AFTER I reminded her of my prenatal and how Geekster couldn't make it home because he had meetings and I had to bring my children and there was no way I could handle bringing FOUR children, and AFTER she told me she had a presentation and must have forgotten about my prenatal
- Called Thac0 and bitched loudly about how this was my higher power's way of ensuring that I never forget what a crap job this daycare thing can be (she gets extra karma points for dealing with my spazzy self several times today)
- Had Daycare Mom call me back and say that her friend would pick them up at 2:15
- Dealt with several children squabbles and much drama, including a few crying sessions from Daycare Boy and an outright fit from Daycare Girl because I woudn't put her shoe on
- Picked up after Daycare Girl as she emptied an entire box of tissue paper on the floor, all of Gutsy's flushable wipes into the tub and ran around the house with spools of ribbon
- Wrapped gifts for Daycare Boy and Girl in between the chaos, choosing to write them each a little note letting them know that I'll miss them (THEM, not the job. No, I didn't write that.)
- Stayed in Daycareville until 2:15, watching the clock and pacing like a hyena (and looking like a hyena, too, with my lack of sleep)
- Ended my day promptly at 2:15 when Daycare Mom's friend pulled up in the Minivan o' Estrogen (three girls! She's, like, the anti-Maven!) and said goobye to the sweeties
- Did not get my bath due to time restraints
- Took Intrepid and Gutsy to my prenatal, which was - you guessed it - incredibly chaotic as a result
- Came home, walked to Tim Hortons and had Intrepid buy us stuff with his money because I realized that I didn't have any of my own and I'm a really bad, selfish, evil mother who likes her coffee too much (thankfully he was really proud to be treating us because he's cute that way. And he gets more allowance tomorrow. Did I mention that he's smart?)
- Made a homemade pizza and kicked back to read and watch Oprah. No bonbons, though. Only a donut.

So the day turned out to be much crazier than anticipated. But it is OVER! And I can
relax and enjoy the rest of the summer with my boys. Then I have to do that whole, you know, writing thing that I promised myself I'd do. Supplemental incomes do help. Especially when the income tax people are asking for the, um, income tax that you still need to pay. Yuck. But that's not the important thing.

I'm a stay-at-home-mom again! A full-fledged mom who looks after her own kiddoes and gets to dedicate 100% of her time to them! Now they can be the only ones to drive me crazy. And I won't get paid to have them do it. And I can't write off the house anymore. Damnit, I'm starting to feel a bit ripped off, here...

Off for more decompression. Dead Like Me + chocolate bar. YES!

It's the Final Countdown! (Dar nar nar nar!)

Those were supposed to be air guitar sounds. Look, it's the best I can do after being in Daycareville all day long and being out with The Madre all evening. But she did take me out for dinner and we had a great time. Without children. Meanwhile, Geekster took the boys out as well. Apparently going grocery shopping yesterday was not necessary. Except for that whole toilet paper thing.

I have half a day left with Daycare Boy and Girl. I bought them each a little gift and will be making a card tomorrow (I make cards to justify the card-making-stuff craze I went on a couple of years ago. If Geekster doesn't see me whip out the card stock and stamps every now and then I get questioning looks). A simple 'Thank you' card will suffice. I'm going to miss their company, but I won't miss the nine hour days. I can't wait to be able to give my children all the love and attention I've had to spread around over the last year.

Festivities commence tomorrow afternoon. I hope to do all the things I said I would in this post

Donations of bon-bons are good. Also, I could use a good pryin' bar to get my preggo self off the couch. It's getting to be a difficult task.

When I was a child, I used to have a Weeble that came in a blimp. Imagine if you will that the Weeble - away from home and missing his Weeble wife's Weebly touch - had made sweet love to the blimp. Maybe they were having a nice picnic up on the air discussing barometer readings or what-have-you and had too much to drink... These things happen, you know.

Anyway, if their awkward encounter produced an awkward-looking love child, it would look like me right about now.

And so this Bleeble is going to go upstairs and watch some 'Dead Like Me' episodes with Geekster. Peace.

Meet The Madre

We purchased a used computer for my parents. Well, Geekster purchased it, actually. It was his (very thoughtful) idea. My contribution was reminding him that there was no way in Hades I was going to bring four kids - three of them under five - to a computer store for much of anything except a winning lottery ticket. So my sweetheart took his lunch hour and took care of bidness.

My parents now have a computer that, while not top of the line, gets the job done much better than what they were using before. However, this has one interesting side-effect: my mother not only can view my blog with more ease (read: without the computer crashing) but can also post comments. Yes, much to my surprise, my mom figured out how to post a comment all on her own, including entering the 'hieroglyphics', as she calls them (the just-verifying-that-you're-human-and-not-a-spam-bot letters needed to enter a comment on my blog).

She left me a little present this morning and called proudly to tell me about it.

Now, as I mentioned in this post, my mom really loves to flex her limited Spanish knowledge. And thanks to my mention of Babelfish in the same post, she is now able to write something out and have it translated into Spanish.

This is the comment she left me:

Hola...No puedo esperar tampoco. Amo el blog....Amo la computadora.Es tan agradable. Usted es una hija maravillosa.

I went to Babelfish and translated it:

Hello... I cannot hope either. Master blog....Amo computadora.Es so pleasant. You are a wonderful daughter.


First off, my mom gave herself the name 'The Madre'. That shall be her name.

So..

Dear, The Madre,

Thank you for the comment on my blog. I'm sorry you can't seem to hope. I just wanted to let you know that there are drugs for that sort of thing. When I couldn't hope, I went on Prozac. There's a light at the end of the tunnel. Hang in there, girlfriend.

I'm glad you think my blog is the master. I have to admit I'm rather fond of it, too.

I didn't realize you had called your computer "Dora". It's cute that you've given it a name and that you find it so pleasant. And thank you for your kind words. You're a wonderful mom, too. You also have a great sense of humour and I love that!

Ciao, Amiga!
The Maven.

PS: Please bring me a half-decaf coffee with two cream. InUtero Boy was kicking me at 4am and I could use the juice. Thx.

Also, I would like to give a shout-out to The Madre's friend, The Penguin. She's now one of my blog readers and pointed out a spelling error to my mom that I have now fixed (picky, much? *shakes head*) Incidentally, I didn't give her the nickname. My mom did. Do you want to know why? Because for some reason she thinks her friend resembles this hot number:




Isn't that sweet of her? Honestly, one might wonder why The Penguin still chooses to be friends with my mom. One might assume it's because The Madre is a wonderful person with whom anyone would like to spend a lot of time with. However, the truth is much easier to come by if you're looking from the outside:

The Penguin is a mental health professional.

And, as you can see by my mother's ramblings - and the fact that I'm a product from her womb... Well, let's just say The Penguin must realize that the solar panels are facing north in the sanity department. She recognizes how dysfunctional my family is and is doing a public service by keeping us all under her watchful eye. Including reading my blog. She's keeping the world safe, one messed up family at a time.

Thank you, Penguin!

Out of the mouths of babes' doctors

A woman on a site I'm on was just informed that her child's pediatrician doesn't approve of breastfeeding beyond one year.

Um... what?!

A pediatrician - who is supposed to be a specialist in, among other things, child nutrition - doesn't agree with breastfeeding beyond 12 months of age?

I often want to ask people about this magical cut-off date. 'I want to wean my child at a year because she won't need breastmilk after that'.

Hey, can I borrow a copy of whatever anatomy text you have? I would love to read the part about how a human baby's body suddenly stops needing human milk and instead requires cow milk at that point. Does the system mature overnight? Does something mooooove inside the digestive system at midnight on the child's first birthday that instantly cuts off any nutritional value in breastmilk?

I don't get it. Can someone explain to me how doctors can push dairy products for babies and toddlers - dairy products that can trigger lactose sensitivy issues, among other things - and frown upon extended breastfeeding? Human milk has everything that young humans need. Including antibodies and all sorts of snazzy things that nothing else can compete with. Cow's milk has some things that humans can find beneficial, but it isn't nearly as well absorbed and can cause discomfort and outright pain in people (hence the reason why the makers of Lactaid probably live in large homes by the water and play a mean round of golf).

I would become a pediatrician, but I might put this guy out of a job. And then who would play golf with me and the Lactaid guys?

2.5 days left

The Maven's recipe for "Chaos in a Box"

Take a boxy-looking home that is open-concept and allows for a lot of noise to run freely through the square footage.

Add the following:

- a nine-year-old and a three-year-old who slept well but get hyper easily
- an eighteen-month-old who makes strange and her four-year-old brother
- three siblings, ages eleven, five and three

Mix well, then add a hot, humid day that involves wanting to spend more time indoors than out, a lunch high in carboyhydrates and a trip to Tim Hortons for that extra sweet je-ne-sais-quoi.

Add two overwhelmed mothers and serve.

Makes two generous helpings of chaos but could serve four comfortably.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It's 1:26pm on Tuesday. My amazingly scarce but lovable friend and I just finished our helpings of Chaos in a Box. She just went home, as overhwelmed and nearly as tired as I am. I don't have a good name for her yet. She's an aesthetician, so I think I'll call her 'Pettycure' until I come up with something snappier. She'll forgive me for now. We'll have a vote sometime next week and pick her something more appealing.

I have today, tomorrow and Thursday morning left in Daycareville. I then have a prenatal, followed by a large amount of (inexpensive, due to a shrunken income) celebratory proceedures to go through.

First, I will walk to the Tim Hortons in the middle of the afternoon with only my children. Booyeah. That's right. That means only two. And one is nine and helps me look after the other. And I will buy something incredibly sweet and fattening for them and only them, because they are the only ones in my care. And I will not worry about what their mom will think of me buying them junk, because I am the mom of all children in attendance. It's practically a biological funfest.

Second, I will come home and take a bath before 4:30, which is the time Daycare Boy and Girl normally get picked up at. I will have one before because I can. No other reason. Well, either that or because I still have doppler goop on my belly. But even if I'm clean, I'm taking a damn bath.

Third, I will stay up late. It doesn't matter how tired I am, because I will spaz out Utero Boy by feeding he and I a cup of coffee in the late evening. I need to stay up late so that I can sleep in. I need to sleep in because usually I have to wake up at 7:15 to start my daycare day. I will not get out of bed before 9am. I will not. If I have to keep some juice boxes and Goldfish crackers next to the bed so I can serve my kids some type of morning sustenance without going vertical, I will. Mark my words.

On Friday I will do whatever the kids want to do. We will eat lunch at any other time than 11:30am. We will go to the park at any other time than right after lunch. Will will have a non-schedule because... well, because we can. Even just for a day. Just because we can. And on Friday evening I will go to my 12 step meeting with such a huge grin on my face that they'll think I had a few shots of shnapps before showing up. They can bask in my I-get-to-be-a-full-time-caregiver-to-just-my-children-again aura. It will be beautiful.

I must say again how much I love the kids I'm watching. It's just that I hate doing daycare. I love the kids and I enjoy their company, but I would like it more if their mom came with them and wiped their bums and noses instead of me and went home after three hours. Does that make any sense? I'm just not cut out for this job. I can admit defeat maturely and happily.

Three days, baby. Three days.

I must go put away the Chaos in a Box leftovers for later, after everyone is done quiet time. There's always time for seconds!