A conversation that my girlfriend had with one of my godsons.

((no I wasn't there, although she has seen me naked!!))

 

I was in the shower on, I believe, a Saturday morning (although that's not relavent to the story) and I can hear Aidan poking around in the bathroom.  Now that he can undress and redress himself, when any of us are in the shower, he just gets naked and hops in with us.  He has this facination with my, ahem, chest, but this day the topic of conversation turned to boy bits and pieces.  (Breast-fed child!  Feels the need to point out to every female that he's comfortable with that they have 'boobs."  Other stories, another time!)

Aidan - Mommy, I have a penis.  (Anyone who has heard the child speak may insert his little lisp that he seems to ha ve with his "Aidan accent.")

Me - Why yes, Aidan, you do.  (Anyone who has heard me speak may insert slightly cheeky undertone to conversation.)

Aidan - My daddy has a penis.

Me - Yes, daddy has a penis.  (Mental note to self - the birds and the bees questions with boy number three will likely come before I would like it.)

Aidan - And my brothers have a penis.  (Like they share one between the two?)

Me - Yes, Bug and Newt have penises.  (Just in case he didn't know that they each have their own?!)

Aidan - Mommy, you don't have a penis. (Telling me something that he thought I apparently didn't know . . . )

Me - No, Aidan, I don't have one.  (Hard to have a conversation at this point as I was stiffling laughter.)

Aidan - Mommy, you need to buy one.  (Insert all jokes here!)

Eph:  Momma, where does your boob milk* come from?

Me:  Where do you think it comes from?

Eph:  Well.  ((very seriously))  First I think when you drink some milk, the milk goes into your tummy.  Then it goes on a conveyer belt, then it goes on another conveyer belt.  Then it goes in a pool, then in a tube, then in Talya's tummy, then out Talya's bum!

 

He's going to be a doctor, I tell ya.

 

*yes we do call breast milk 'boob milk'.  Gotta problem with that?

 Bah.

I am sick. The baby is sick AGAIN. I am tired because did I mention that I am sick AND the baby is sick AGAIN???

I tell ya, I've been coughing so hard that I think one of these days my lung is actually going to come up and fly across the living room. And then I get hot. Really hot.

and the baby is coughing too, and wants to nurse, but doesn't want to nurse, and wants to be picked up, and wants to be put down, and wants to be picked up, and wants to nurse, and doesn't want to nurse, and wants to be put down.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Thankfully, Ja took the older two to church so that I could wallow at home in my misery.

sniff.

snork.

I actually like Mondays.

Mondays are generally good to me.

Monday is the day after Sunday, the day that I get to stay home, re-group, dig us out of the mess from the weekend.

Monday is the day for staying in pj's.  For watching movies, for drinking tea.

Monday we might go for a walk, build a tower, find some worms.

Monday is good.

I like Mondays.

There's a huge difference between what I want to write and what I do or will write.  I think that I haven't been posting much these days is because there are things I WANT to write that probably shouldn't be read.  It's like a little internal censor...  beeping out anything that might not be appropriate for people other than those closest to me.

I really want to write about how left out I feel when one of my sisters seems to always be chosen over me.  I want to write about how much it sucks that no one from my family called to wish us a happy thanksgiving even tho we had to stay home with a sick baby.  I want to write about how sometimes I'm faking it.  Holding it together, but on the inside just wanting to cry and cry.  I want to write about how much it hurts that I get the silent treatment and non-response when I choose to do something that's best for MY family instead of catering to everyone else.

I want to write about those things, but I won't.

Instead, I will write about how my baby, my now ten month old, is bloody sick again.

I mean look at that little face...  couldn't you just eat her up?  She looks so sweet... so snot free... she almost looks like she may sleep through the night even.

Yup.  A baby that anyone could love.  Quietly watching her siblings play outside.  Easy going. 

Impish smile, eating cheerios without throwing them on the flloor.

Ah yes, the perfect baby, right?

Except that now she is a screaming coughing banshee who will not let me put her down.

Except she doesn't want to be held either.

And she's mad that she's not nursing.

But she doesn't want to nurse.

sigh.

She's had pneumonia twice in her short life, and we thought she was getting it a third time until we nuked it with pro-biotics and immune booster.  This would be time number four.  More pro-biotics and more immune booster.  It's usually worse before it gets better, I just gotta remember that.

Maybe one day she'll sleep.  And that day maybe I'll sleep too.  Sleep.  Ahhhh.