What I did to get a shower

I hadn't showered in four days and was getting desperate. So this is what I did:

1) pushed Lily's crib up to the bathroom sink.
2) put BOTH kids inside said crib
3) gave them soap, washclothes, and instructions on how to work the sink.

The bathroom is a watery mess and the carpet will probably never recover and I will probably be dealing with mold/mildew/a variety of other things that are going to kill me.

But I got a shower.

I weigh less than 200 pounds!

198, baby! Woo hoo! I haven't weighed this little since . . . Oh, ack. I do NOT want to think about it. 35 more pounds till I weigh what I weighed B.L. (Before Lily.) Note to self: Never, ever, again gain 75 pounds in a single pregnancy.

Memories to treasure

Slow dancing . . . "My heart will go on," from Titantic . . . and my two year old . . . trying to feel me up.

Ah.

I am "promotable"

That's what my agent (ah, I love the sound of that . . . *my* agent) said when she saw my picture. That I was really cute and that she wanted to tell editors how promotable I am and maybe even send the picture along.

Two things:

First, maybe I should be disturbed that books are sold by beauty. But I am not. I just think it is hilarious. I can't stop laughing about it.

Second, I love, love, love, that she thinks that *I* am promotable. I've been saying it to myself all week. Every time I look in the mirror. "You're so promotable . . ." I say. I think it's maybe the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me. I am vaguely aware that this makes me probably a shallow, vain, horrible human being. But I don't really care. I am promotable!

[insert chuckling here, due to that aforementioned sense of hilarity]

my life is a confluence of other people's disgusting body fluids

My arms are covered in rancid smelling toddler spit. My face still has remnants of all of the snot my toddler sneezed on me. On the floor by my feet was just a vomitted chunk of goey *something.* On the footstool by the computer was diarrhea. That's right. Diarrhea. We're averaging four overflowing with poop diapers a day in my house. About three outfits covered in pee per day and another three smeared with poop. My car smells like rotted baby formula. In my closest we just found a molded-into-the-carpet fruit of some kind. (I am not the one who eats fruit in the closest, by the way.) And then there's all the arm pit sweat. Mine, not theirs. Running around and cleaning up their disgustingness is a sweaty business.

They tell you that motherhood is about joy and love and blah, blah.

The truth is, it's about disgusting smelly body fluids. All day, every day until you drown in them.