Ah, Sunday. Sweet, sweet Sunday.

Pete left here at 4:30 am to meet his buddy and go fishing. I happen to think that is so cute...to see that little boy in him get so excited that he can actually muster the energy to get up and out before dawn to go lure fishies to their ultimate demise.

On my high note today, I woke up at 6:30 to a quiet house, came down to my already-brewed pot of coffee, flipped on my computer, applied for grant writing jobs, Facebooked, emailed and am now blogging. By 8:00 am it was still quiet, and I felt like I'd had a mini-vacation in my favorite chair in my favorite room in a house I love like I've lived here my whole life.

I'm figuring out how to manage this whole asthma thing much better and am finally taking Lizzy to an allergist on Wednesday. While I'm skeptical about whether or not we'll actually get any reliable results from the tests, I guess I'm hopeful, too. It would be enormously helpful to figure out what is actually making her sick rather than continue to guess and hope we get it right. Watch her be allergic to dogs. Buh-bye, Seamus?

Off to watch Baby Mama for the seven-hundredth time. Night.

Because I didn't have all day to explore the various facets of the Train Wreck, I was unable to put it all out there about the other side of things. I'm not going to do that now either, but I will say that while my position is anti-Kate, it is certainly NOT pro-Jon. I think they're both immature and selfish, they got married too young, were in too much of a rush to have kids...and until recently, he's been too spineless to have an opinion and NOT be led around by the nose by her. It's the perfect recipe for family implosion. Only now it's happening for the world to see. Mortifying.

My last post evoked quite a response from readers according to my Facebook status. What a great discussion! I love that people are thinking about these issues and stepping back to use the Gosselin's "how-not-to" examples as a vehicle to possibly improve upon their own character strengths and weaknesses. If you read this blog, please comment here! Let's keep the dialogue going. Don't be afraid to comment, to disagree, to get fired up. It's the way we all learn and ultimately improve our lives, regardless of the individual circumstances and experiences we may bring to the round table.

Today is a beautiful Saturday in suburban Philadelphia, and I am going to enjoy it with family and friends. Pete is going fishing tomorrow and I am genuinely excited for him. One weakness in our relationship is our respective ability to take time for ourselves as individuals. Pete loves to fish, and he never, ever does anymore. But he is actually going tomorrow with a good friend of his, and I can't wait to see him walk back through the door with a lighter step and a smile on his face. A rejuvenated Daddy is what I hope he'll be by tomorrow at dinner.

Have a wonderful weekend. And thanks for reading.

Since the Gosselin Train Wreck (as I am affectionately referring to it these days) began, I have been mesmerized. Utterly mesmerized. I waited with bated breath to see the much anticipated Season 5 premiere this week along with the rest of the planet. I admit that I initially believed that this whole scandal erupted at an all-too-convenient time. Between the appearances on every talk show known to man and the unending plugging for the new season and her new book, it all fit too neatly into place. And while the media blitz unfolded, Kate began her appearances as an icy diplomat who rapidly transformed into the Ice Queen. What better way to boost ratings? It was all so juicy, and a great way to get people to tune in and then show us that while things may get difficult, love and family will triumph. I really believed we would see them move past all of the rumors and refocus on each other and their babies. But after watching the premiere, I believe that Kate Gosselin just needs a serious bitch slapping. And that the fabric of the American family is becoming more and more frayed with every reality TV show that hits the airwaves.

My take will not be popular. But it's mine. And I'm sticking to it.

When I (and my kids, for that matter) fell in love with this show, I admired Kate for her organizational abilities and the way she could keep a clean house with roughly 2.69 times more kids than I have. I admired their normalcy in the face of an anything-but-normal-sized brood of kids. I can remember watching DVR'd episodes of the show while we were still living in Maryland, while I was struggling to get through the first few months of having Lizzy at home with all of her special needs, and Kate Gosselin inspired me to strive for order, peace, and routine in the face of complicated circumstances. If she could do it for eight, I could do it for three, regardless of Lizzy's needs. But she has become someone who is unrecognizable to me (and I imagine her family, too). I am now, after watching this transformation and the premiere, 100% anti-Kate. And so, so very sad for their children, who are obviously aware of the strain on their family. (Did anyone else hear Alexis ask Daddy not to go away anymore? Ironic that none of the kids are asking Mommy to stay home.) Having come from a divorced home, I can tell you that the kids get it, right away, and parents can tell themselves that the kids don't know. But they do. They always do.

I wonder if Kate Gosselin (or whoever this person in her skin now is) has ever stopped to think about something: What if TLC had never picked up their show? What if she didn't have book deals and public speaking engagements? What if they weren't raking in $75k an episode for pimping out their family? What if no one was impressed by or drawn to their big family? What then? How would they have made it work with all these kids?

They would have had to deal with massive financial strain and strife. They would have had to figure out ways to make ends meet. They would have been like every other non-televised family in America. I guess I buy it that they wanted to provide a more comfortable life for their family. Honestly, I would have wanted the same. But I have to admit that I've been cringing watching her yell at him about every little thing since the beginning of the show, and if I treated Pete that way and then left to plug my books, etc., I can totally see him checking out like Jon did, too. I think she has an enormous ego and need for attention, and that very little in her life has ever been about anyone but her and those two pieces of her psyche. We've watched various people come in and out of their lives in the past couple of years. Where did they go? Did they disagree with her about something (like her hair) and were sent packing? She has gone through family, friends and staff like disposable diapers, and I see something similar emerging as this conflict with Jon has become public. He doesn't want this anymore. So rather than fight for her family and the sanctity of her marriage via sacrificing her new lifestyle, she'd rather dispose of another person. Only this time it's the father of the eight children she claims to love more than herself. Who knew a mother of eight could be so selfish, yet believe her own crap when she says that everything she does is for her kids? (Hellooooooo? Try staying home with them once in a while. Like you used to!)

Too much money and greed. The poison in our waters. And on top of it, she's indignant that her emasculated hubby has had enough of her treatment of him. She takes no responsibility for her driving him out the door. After he turned himself into a stay-at-home dad while she travels the country without any kids in tow and sports that ridiculous hairdo. (Seriously, doesn't she have any people? Or has she fired everyone who told her how dumb that hair is??) That man, in my opinion, has been pretty plain in the past year about not wanting all of the craziness that came along as a result of doing this show, as well as having demonstrated his very long rope of patience in putting up with her treating him like a eunich in nearly every episode. But I think she likes all of this hoo-ha. The paparazzi, the attention, the fame, the money, the big white glasses, the staff, the huge house. The dumb hair. She's there, she wants it, she loves it. It has clearly never been about caring for her marriage (despite the farce of a vow renewal not too long ago). And it's no longer about her kids. I'd argue it was never about them, either...but we don't have all day here.

Marriage is so hard. Making it work is the hardest job other than parenthood. And I have to be honest here and acknowledge that I see some of myself in her. I think many women do. Women are controlling. (Me.) Men are aloof. Women are bossy. (Me.) Men don't want to know how to do anything (sometimes), and when they try, it's not done to our standards. (Yep, that's me, too.) But I can tell you that watching her treatment of him has made me seriously step back and check myself with regard to the way I treat my husband, not only in front of others but when it's just the two of us, too.

(The former law student in me realizes that she has a defensible side, too. And it would be much easier for me to side with the girl in this whole thing. He's not been a saint and I'm sure he's a pain in the ass, too. But this a blog and I don't have to be objective.)

I don't know why this has struck such a chord in me. But it has. I guess in the end it might do everyone some good to turn the train wreck off and let the show come to an end. That might be the best thing...for family-based reality TV to get on its horse and slink away into the dark night, so that crazy housewives like me can get back to basics.

Because it's all about me. Not to be too "Kate Gosselin" about this or anything.

I have discovered a new definition of fun. Fun is watching my toddler turn into a 17-month-old version of Randy "Macho Man" Savage in the throws of what I can only describe as a combination of a bad crack trip (is there a good crack trip?) and massive roid rage. Liz received an asthma diagnosis from the pediatrician yesterday and has started on a barrage of medications the likes of which I haven't seen since I came down with a nasty case of asthmatic bronchitis several years back. She needs a steroid twice a day for the next few months as well as a rescue medication to attack her bouts of wheezing and respiratory distress. She was already capable of death-defying feats of great strength before starting regular uses of inhaled steroids, so you might be able to use your powers of imagination to visualize what it's like around here right now. The only place I haven't found her is actually running across the mantle. But that's about it. She's spinning like a top, totally pissed off at everyone and everything, and is looking to break things and fall from as high a height as her twenty-three pound frame can find and scale.

In the meantime, I've had the other two on a medication (that shall, for the moment, remain nameless) for their allergies and I am now taking them off. I haven't been able to understand why they are both behaving as if they are two bipolar children suffering from massive PMS. Lizzy's doctor wanted me to start her on this medication yesterday in addition to the allergy medication that she is already on, and I was a little nervous. I started talking to my girlfriends about this knowing that they have dealt with asthma and severe allergy issues with their kids, and the light bulb came on...their kids were on this evil shit, too, and their kids acted the same way. They took them off and viola...sanity (sort of) returned. Needless to say, the evil meds are being purged from this residence.

So what are we to do? This is one more example of the diligence required to care for our children in a day and age where the prescription pad is mightier than the sword. We are to trust that our health care providers will prescribe what is necessary and safe and then we are to put these medications into the bodies of the babies we created when we actually know nothing about what they are and what they do. We are accustomed to the quick fix of a pill or potion for ourselves, and now we can get the same type of instant gratification for our children. But the truth is that most of these drugs are new and no one, including the doctors, has any clue about what they do to people who take them on a short or long-term basis. Look at Tylenol, for God's sake. Only in the past couple of years did the drug makers begin to think that it was pertinent information that that drug is processed in the liver...so peeps popping a bunch to combat a hangover were winding up putting themselves into liver failure. Who knew? The drug companies knew. And they don't tell us the truth.

So now I'm pumping my baby's body full of drugs in the hope that she will get better. Soon. And in my gut, I'm doubting whether or not it's safe, whether or not it's the best course of action. But in an effort to relinquish my gut instinct to distrust and also enable her to breathe with greater ease, I am doing as I'm told. A little bit. Except for that one med. And then I'm asking my friends all of my questions instead of the doctors.

Baby steps.

I realize that I get nuts about this issue, but this is just another feather in the advocacy hat. It's another visit to my soapbox where I will continue to yell about remaining vigilant and committed to protecting the health of our children and ourselves. No one will do it for us. And our kids certainly cannot do it for themselves.

On that note, it's been nearly a month since my biopsy and as such it is time for me to remind myself and you to FEEL THE BOOBIES!

Next post: my take on the insanity of Jon and Kate + 8

Ah, the summer has begun and with its inception comes the dawn of a new pool season. We have joined a new swim club this year and we went yesterday afternoon for a few hours to check it out. One of Pete's sisters and her family are also members, so my kids were psyched to have their cousins to play with and we had such a good time hanging with our sis and bro.

Lizzy discovered the baby pool for the first time, and her favorite part was either letting her legs go into spaghetti form so she could fall back under the water or just throwing herself face-first into the pool. I think I will be spending my summer hunched over like Quasimodo hoping that she doesn't drown herself.

Erin and Meghan went straight for the big pool with Pete, and they loved it! They are allowed to wear swimmies and vests in the big pool (God bless the management), which I am hoping will mean (at some point) that they will be comfortable enough to go swim in the shallows while I'm supervising the Maniac. Otherwise, it's going to be rough because no babies are allowed in the big pool at all. Unless they are completely potty trained. So there's more incentive for getting it done this summer.

We had such a great time last night. We brought all of our dinner things to the pool and grilled with Sue and Marty and it was a blast. We wound up staying until about 8:00 when the kids actually started to run out of gas. Erin and Meg ran so free from playground to ball field to ping pong table to pool, while Ms. Liz literally walked about three miles over the terrain of the club. At one point she just laid herself down in a dirt spot and looked up at the sky, hands over her belly, giggling, as if to say, "This summer thing is pretty cool."

I counted my blessings last night as I climbed into bed. I counted and kissed three precious, exhausted, sleeping little babies on the head, and climbed into bed myself. I ended my day, as I get to do every day, with my best friend and favorite person in the world, Pete. And I couldn't help thinking to myself that if this life is wrong, this life of motherhood, parenthood, marriage and partnership, with all of its ups and downs...well then I don't want to be right.

My third daughter is turning out to be the finest form of birth control for which I could have ever hoped.

Holy crap this kid is wearing my ass out!

She naps once a day, anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour and a half. Other than that, she's up and doesn't stop. She doesn't play with toys. Has no interest in TV (other than occasionally going into a trance while watching DJ Lance Rock on Yo Gabba Gabba, and frankly that whole show scares me.) All she wants to do is climb, particularly on the ridiculously tall bar stools at my kitchen island, enabling her to climb onto the island itself so that she can teeter perilously close to the edge and nearly fall off backwards, giving me a simultaneous heart attack and mess in my pants. And I literally spend all of her waking hours saying, "Don't climb," pulling her off of dangerous perches, moving chairs away from anything climbable and you can be sure I am accomplishing nothing else.

But...with this craziness comes a firm and certain frame of mind telling me that my baby-making days are O-V-E-R, over. The exhaustion that comes with each one increases exponentially, and honestly, I am not in the mood to be tired anymore. So there.

Elizabeth is back to not sleeping through the night. I am hanging on to the rapidly dashing hope that this is because of her last molar that is making its debut. But the reality is that she is probably going to be an awful sleeper for the rest of her life and that's just the way it'll be.

I JUST WANT TO SLEEP.

Guess I shouldn't have so many kids then, huh?

The weather has been beautiful this week which has been a great gift. We've been doing a lot of walking and going to parks, which has been great for all of us, but only having an effect on the big girls' ability to sleep soundly. No amount of activity seems to wear Ms. Liz out. I'm spent.

This child amazes me. She has, in the past week, begun to show an interest in using the potty. I am not kidding. But now, with this new-found talent comes a higher-order level of thinking, and subsequent booster charge to the motor in her ass. I spend all day pulling her down off of tables and counter tops. She will not play with toys, she will not watch any sort of video on TV. She just wants to climb. So I've been trying to get her to the playground as much as possible in the hopes that she'll burn some of this energy off...this is, after all, where she should climb. She gets there and picks flowers.

WTF?

So I'm at a loss, and also terrified that she is showing more and more shades of her eldest sister, who decided that naps were unnecessary at the ripe age of 19 months old. Lord help me. I've got another wingding on my hands.

More coffee. Need more coffee.

Afterthoughts

Should I take a certain message away from the following?

All of the ads on the bottom of my blog are for breast cancer ultrasounds and depression meds.

Mommy needs to lighten up.

(Yes, I hit my own blog. Sue me.)

You know that feeling you get when you've been awakened several times during the night and then you wake up again and realize the sun is up and the night is over and you have no more time to sleep and you have to start your day and make it fabulous for several people other than yourself and your limbs are numb and your eyes won't focus and you know what being run over my a truck feels like?

Yeah, that's where I am today.

Life is good and grand and great. No doubt. But sometimes, do you ever feel like everyone around you has expected and taken so much from you that there is literally nothing left for you? That's also where I am today.

I don't begrudge my family their expectations, otherwise I would not try so hard to meet and exceed them. But there are certain moments where I'm left wondering when I'm going to be able to do something that I'd really like to do. And the answer with which I am usually left is: "You're blogging and writing. That's it! You've fulfilled your "me-time" quota for the day." And while this answer is satisfactory, to a point, because I truly love my time that I sit and write and let it all fall out, it's usually very early in the morning when no one else is yet awake. Which means that I am trading sleep for writing. Always a trade-off in motherhood.

For instance, I would like to exercise today. Like go for a run and sweat like crazy while listening to my own definition of "Glorious" from my iPod, where no one can complain about the music or the volume or the fact that they have to go pee. I might get to do that. I'd also like to get my haircut and maybe wash that grey right out of it, too. It hasn't been tended to since January. I am a sight. That probably won't happen. I'll probably take the girls for haircuts instead. Similarly, I noticed yesterday that I have not given myself nor received any version of a pedicure in months. And I don't say pedicure in the luxurious sense of the word, necessarily. I kind of mean like anything resembling care of my feet and toes. But yet my two older daughters are enjoying life in flip-flops and open-toed sandals with perfectly painted digits. Now granted, I must give props to my mom who pedi-ed them last Saturday while Pete and I enjoyed food and libation on a date night. So I guess that example doesn't exactly transfer. But do you know what I mean?

My constitution improves dramatically when I realize, though, that our ridiculously high property taxes have paid me back tenfold because for the small fee of $120, I will be able to send my big girls to a Morning Fun day camp for seven weeks this summer. Five mornings a week I'll just have Lizzy from June 29th to August 14th. I have to be able to get a little "me-time" during that reprieve. Even if all I do is write and slap on a little nail polish.

I'm off to lace up my really old running shoes (that have no shocks left in them) and sweat a little. Happy Saturday!

Meghan's graduation was so perfect. Nearly one hundred children participated in the program, and year after year I am amazed by what these amazing teachers are able to accomplish with them. They stood when cued, they sat when told and they sang from their toes. Then there was a slide show featuring every child at least once, accompanied by the kind of country music that makes you cry from the first instrumental note. It was a beautiful night.

Meghan was nervous beyond belief, complaining of "nervous belly" (our term for butterflies in the stomach)before we even left for school. So it was not surprising when she came out with her class to the bleachers and immediately started to cry. Her teacher carried her off the stage to sit in the front pew while the rest of the children filed in to their spots. Having seen this kind of stage fright from my oldest daughter many moons ago, and having suffered terribly from it myself, I knew the best thing to do was to just let her teachers handle it. I had my heart in my throat and wanted to go to her, hug her, tell her it was okay and that she didn't have to do it...but I knew that would never help her get over her nervous belly. So I stood and had faith that she'd get up there and sing when she could.

What I never expected was to look over at Erin, who looked like a teenager last night in comparison to the preschool kids, and find that she was silently crying with her hands over her mouth because her sister was upset up front and she wanted to help her. I've worried about Erin's ability to be compassionate and empathetic toward her sisters. She has often been jealous, callous, spiteful and mean. She never likes to have the spotlight taken from her, especially by one of her sisters. But last night, she was genuinely excited for Meghan. They got dressed together, made themselves look beautiful...and Erin held her hand, walked her to her classroom before the program and gave her a kiss. I was amazed.

But even with all of those kind gestures, I never expected to see such real emotion come from her. I could see the energy that connects the two of them across that church sanctuary and realized that they do have what I have never had...the true love of sisterhood. With all the refereeing and interference that I've run trying to diffuse the bombs of sibling rivalry in this house, it's plain to understand why I've worried that they'll never be close. That the jealousy and competition will always trump genetics and I'll be watching the rift between them grow for years to come.

But once again...I was wrong. Their bond is so true and real you can see it connecting them across the room, and I think once it's there, it's probably there to stay.

So it is with great pleasure I announce that my second daughter will be attending elementary school in the fall with her very proud big sister. And while I know the years of bickering and sparring are far from over, I also know that they will always be sisters and best friends, even when I'm not there looking on and playing referee. And that will probably be one of the greatest sources of pride and joy I'll ever know in my life.

Since I have consciously become less nuts, my kids have been dreamy. This is a picture taken this past Tuesday morning and I took it for a few reasons:
1) They were all smiling at the same time! No one was crying. This fact, in and of itself, is nothing short of a miracle with all of the estrogen swirling around this house.
2) It was the first morning of the entire school year that all of us were dressed and ready to go to take Erin to school and I had not raised my voice even once.
3) It was a moment where I looked at my kids and couldn't get enough of them.

So the camera came out and the picture was snapped and I am fairly certain that it will forever be one of my favorite pictures of my girls.

Tonight, Meghan graduates from Pre-K. She is so excited to go to Kindergarten and not be in "baby school" anymore (her term, not mine), but she and I both know that this is bittersweet. She started as a baby at this preschool when she was eighteen months old and I was teaching there. And even though we were in Maryland for a school year, she has finished off her preschool years in the same halls where she started and in the same way as her idol, Erin. She has had such an amazing year and the gratitude I feel toward her teachers is immense. She has grown and changed in countless ways, and while I love seeing each of my kids grow up, I am a little sad to see this part of her life end.

So off to start another day. Thank goodness we're actually having a little spring! Finally!

Another Glimpse Into My Craziness

While we were in South Carolina, I had a moment. It wasn't the first, but it was the worst moment I've had in awhile. Pete, Lizzy and I went to pick up pizza for dinner. It was a little, tiny place called Jersey Joe's or some nonsense like that and Pete had gone inside to pick up what we'd ordered. I was in the car with the baby, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for Pete. Minute after minute went by...and I became frantic. I was sure something had happened to him, something terrible. I was sure that someone had killed him. Seriously. I mean it. I was sure of it. And then I began to go through all of the different scenarios about what would happen when I went in to try to help him...but I couldn't leave Liz in the car alone. But with each minute that I watched tick by, I was so afraid and needed so much to know that he was ok. When I was in the process of dialing my father's cell phone to come and help me, out came Pete with our two pizzas and a smile on his face.

I have never been so relieved to see him in my life.

This is just an example of the insanity that has been plaguing me for the last couple of years. I guess it's always been there, this ability to be a complete mental patient, but since Elizabeth was born and was so, so sick, my crazies have reached new heights. I am constantly living in fear of the next horrible event that will try to take someone I love away from me. I won't watch or listen to the news while Pete is on the road for fear that the car accident being reported has him in the middle of it. Swine flu hit and we went on lockdown. I hardly left the house and didn't want to let Pete back in after a day of meetings because of all the people with whom he'd had contact. I've been told, by several people with whom I've discussed this, that I suffer from Separation Anxiety, Germaphobia, Catastrophic Thinking and Intrusive Thoughts.

Yep. Sure do. All of the above.

I know all of these things about myself. And I know that all it takes is one little thing, like my love taking too long to pick up the pizza, and I am in a downward spiral of the aforementioned psychobabble conditions. I knew all of these things about myself before I was told that I might, for lack of a better description, have breast cancer. And once I was told that there was something questionable living there, I stopped living and switched over to waiting and waiting and waiting some more. I waited to hear that I did indeed have breast cancer after the surgeon removed a lump of breast tissue from me to be biopsied. I was waiting, just waiting, for the next horrible event to occur. I was waiting to be told that I would be leaving my girls and the love of my life behind to forge on without me. Because that would be the best irony...after worrying about something happening to one of them incessantly, it would happen to me instead.

And then the shoe didn't drop. My biopsy came back clean.

Maybe all bad things don't necessarily have to happen.

So yesterday, after receiving the news that I do not have breast cancer, I took a breath, deep into the bottom of my lungs, for the first time since I saw the words "breast mass" written on my gynecologist's paper a month and a half ago. I hugged my babies and looked into the future, realizing that it was still there and wasn't being prematurely taken from me or my family. The sun was finally shining after days and days of relentless rain, so Meghan, Liz and I got ourselves dressed in summery wear to go run errands.

And then, as we were about to walk out the door, the heavens literally opened, and the rain teemed down. The thunder crashed and the lightning flashed and I froze like a stone statue at the front door.

I started to panic. I was so afraid to walk out that door with my kids. I was afraid we'd be struck by lightning or get into a car crash. I thought the next horrible event was about to happen, because it didn't happen when the surgeon told me my biopsy results were fine. So it had to happen at some point. I was watching the rain storm rage through my front door, with my girls dying to get out and be in the middle of it, and I was letting life continue go by without me.

So I did something bold. I didn't change our shoes. I pulled us together and we all ran through the rain storm in our flip flops out to the car, daring the lightning to come and get us. I drove through the monsoon, ran my errands, and even treated myself to a tall latte in the process. And we all survived. Not a scratch. No worse for the wear.

So maybe, by refusing to stay home in the rain and instead running through it, I let it wash away a bit of my Separation Anxiety and Germaphobia and Intrusive Thoughts and Catastrophic Thinking. Maybe I made a decision to live without being afraid.

Just maybe.

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

So, there's been a ton of stuff going on around here but I made a promise. And I just can't bring myself to break it by revealing all the other mundane nonsense before letting you in on the hideousness that took this family by storm last week.

Worms.

Not in the garden.

Not in the driveway.

In my kid's poop.

If your gag reflex has set in, you might want to close out. If you are either a) intrigued (because you are sick) or b) want to feel better about the hygiene level in your home as opposed to mine, read on.

Last Tuesday night, my brother, Kevin, and his new girlfriend, Leigh, came to my house for dinner, along with my grandparents and mom. We had an amazing evening...that culminated with Kevin and Leigh reading the girls their story and tucking them in to bed. I thought it would be an easy, pleasant bedtime...until Meghan started complaining of perineal pain, for lack of a better description. Nothing seemed overly irritated or red, so I put some hydrocortisone on her "area," gave her some Benadryl (my drug of choice as of late) and sent her to bed.

Fast-forward to the middle of the night, when she's up, crying hysterically because of the pain and because she had wet the bed. (God, and daughters, forgive me years from now when I sorely regret posting this stuff on the Internet. I digress...) Again, having no clue what was wrong with her, I was able to get her settled and back to bed.

The next day, Meg is still complaining, so I convince her to go into the bathroom to try to get a good "wipe" and make sure all systems are go.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I'll summarize the next part by saying that it ended with me holding a baggie and a a pair of BBQ tongs (that were immediately thrown away), fishing samples of matter out of the toilet bowl that had previously been excreted from my daughter's backside to take to the pediatrician.

Needless to say, in all of her digging in the garden, hunting for worms, she'd made them her own. The doctor, thank heavens, was so nonchalant about the whole thing. He said it was super common at this time of year, especially for allergy sufferers (which she is), because they dig and they get stuff on their hands, and then they wipe their faces because of the itchies and the rest becomes history. But seriously, did I ever expect, in all my years, to be removing worms from my daughter's backside?

Nope. A big, fat, resounding nope.

So, if you have no children...keep this in mind. Because at some point, there will be something ridiculous that will happen, that will have you shaking your head, wondering, "How in the hell did I get here?"

And the answer might wind up being as simple as: "I let my kid innocently dig for worms in the garden."

And now, you can feel better about your life because you most likely didn't have to do what I had to do last week.