The Most Horrifying Place On Earth, Part III

Why do Jeff and I do this to ourselves?

During a moment of what could have only been total intoxication, we decided to take our children to Disney World this week. Not sure what my thought process was here: I know! What better way to celebrate my 30th week of pregnancy than to shlep our two young children around in the blazing-hot sun, weaving in and out of families who have a.) the personal bubble of a cheap suit, b.) three of their own kids, one of whom just dropped his chocolate-coverd Mickey bar on the sizzling sidewalk and is now having a DEFCON 2 meltdown, and c.) just purchased a fifteen-dollar princess balloon and are trudging along in front of us, their balloon banging us in the face and taunting our own daughter into thinking that if she screams loudly enough maybe we will buy her one, too.

And IIIIIII Will Always Love Yoooou-Tuuuube

Caution: The following blog entry may result in you getting a particularly irritating Whitney Houston song stuck in your head for the next several hours, which may in turn cause you to seriously consider taking a power drill to your frontal lobe. I cannot be held liable for any carpet cleaning bills you may incur from such procedure.

As Elsa gets older, one thing I've noticed about her (besides her amazing ability to speak to dolphins at the same pitch and decibel level) is that she loves to sing.

Perhaps this is a girl thing. Rollie isn't much of a singer. He'll sing once in a while, sometimes in a tune I can even recognize....as long as it's Happy Birthday. But for the most part he prefers talking. And yelling. And making unintelligible noises and sticking out his tongue and just being obnoxious. Which, as we've all recently learned, is definitely a boy thing.

It's Not You, It's Me

You ever feel like some days you just weren't meant to get a single f-ing thing accomplished?

Yesterday was one of those days.

I swear, sometimes I can't tell if my children are being exceptionally naughty on a given day, or if I am just exceptionally irritable. Or if I'm exceptionally irritable because my children are being exceptionally naughty. And yes, that was a potential drinking game--every time I write exceptionally you're supposed to drink. Have one for me. Or ten.

Rollie Suave

So Rollie has officially developed his first crush. 

I'm not even sure how it started. They were at a park together, and from what I could tell, she stood around with her hands on her hips a lot, and ran away from him when he chased her. I suppose that's how all great love stories begin: Boy meets girl, girl puts her hands on her hips, boy becomes smitten and chases girl around the playground to steal girl's headband. 

Preparation Anxiety

It's funny how now that I'm waddling around like an extremely tall and underdressed penguin, I've been getting a lot of those obligatory questions people are compelled to ask any expectant mother:

How are you feeling? Large. Slow. Like I can't possibly get any bigger, even though I have 12 weeks to go. I am also currently mourning the loss of my belly button. We had such a history together.

Do you know what you're having? A baby. Possibly male. Definitely enjoys sitting on my bladder in the middle of the night.

Do you have any names picked out? Yes. Unfortunately Jeff and I are failing to reach an agreement on any of them. This is the problem with being married to a man who went to high school with twenty thousand other people: every name I come up with has a negative association for him. Apparently there was a high concentration of a-holes at Lincoln High.