Ready, Set, Go (and God have mercy on us all!)

I humbly submit to you, my few loyal readers, that this week may be entitled to consideration by Mike Rowe, and his hit Discovery TV show "Dirty Jobs".

Yesterday when my little 2 year old girl came to me, led me by the hand and said, "Me go potty now!", it was if the heavens opened, a bright spotlight shone down upon me and the deep voice that is theatrically portrayed as "God" spoke and said to me, "It is time".

And like the reluctant Biblical leader, Moses, I replied, "Lord...really? Me? Two of them? Right now?"

The voice responded, "I am only looking out for the best interest of your budget. Imagine life with 5 heiney's to change at any given time, and the cost of diapers that would involve."

And so what else could I say but "Yes, Lord...send me."

Ok....maybe it didn't quite pan out like that, but my daughter really said that to me. Thus, last night, you could have found a beached whale roaming the aisles of her local walmart, picking up an additional potty, several bribes/rewards (whatever you'd like to call them) and packs of character panties/briefs.

This morning, it's READY!

SET!

and GO!

As I'm sitting here, my daughter has been sitting on the toilet, on her second sippy cup of milk, and as I check every 3 minutes I find nary a droplet of pee in the potty...and I am thinking, Great! She has a bladder the size of Texas just like me!!!

Yep, folks....this is going to be a loooooooonnnnnngggg week...

God help me!!!! (and I'm not worried. He will.)

*****

By the way, last night before my Wal Mart stop, I ran into the mall to visit Vicky's Secret to pick up a little something for my wonderful cousin, Stephanie, whose birthday it was yesterday (and like it goes in the land of Motherhood, it was NOT her 'special day'...the children were extra whiney and fighty and her son was in and out of the ER twice for possible broken arm off the monkey bars...thus, I saw the need for some extra pampering attention). I cannot tell you how awful I looked, but I had very little energy to go out, let alone get ready to face the public eye. So I took my littlest lady and we just made a quick pit stop there. Once in the store, which is the epitome of 'sexiness', I realized just how extremely disgusting I would have looked in ANY of the peices laying around in lush, silky piles. There was man there laboriously deliberating over what to get his wife. The dear cashier, who looked no more than 15 years, was trying her best to sell him the store. He was confused by the small, medium and large sizes, saying he used to know his wife's size "before children". Of course, that perked my ear, and after saying he think's she's size 8, I assertively offered "oh...well, that's what size I am when I not so ghastly pregnant! (really, sir, I know it may not appear so...") Defintely get her a medium...you can't go wrong!" (otherwise implying, do NOT get her a large. Just don't. Let her exchange it privately if she needs to, but a gift of "medium" from the hubs is so much easier to accept! Anyhoo...as I am walking out of the store, I hear a cat whistle, or whatever you call those fetching, flirty cat-calls...that's it, cat-calls. Again, if you could have seen me, hoisting my little gal on my hip, wear a too-small maternity top, too tight of shorts(everything is becoming too small) and hair back in a ponytail, you would have wept at the pathetic, though flickering, look of hope on my face. Moi?? What that, per chance, for moi? Even though I'm no pregnant Cindy Crawford, I casually looked back...very casually...you know, just in case, miracle of miracles, I got a cat call walking out of Victoria's Secret at 7 months pregnant with twins, baby on my hip and a body that screams out for a polyester mumu as opposed to anything that could have been carried out in one of their pink on pink bags.