Tuesday, April 20, 2010


Tomorrow is the big day with the specialist.  I am officially a professional at getting my kid to pee into the tiniest little cup ever made.  I have no idea if they are running actual tests tomorrow, other than starting the petri dish grow.  I hope not.  This guy is the only pediatric urologist in the state, and his practice JUST went exclusively pediatric.  I can't tell you how much I want this guy to be good with kids.  I'm going to  need him to keep Layla loving the doctor.  And if they need to do some big time tests later, it will make it much easier for me if she doesn't need to be dragged into the office kicking and screaming.

I can't wait for summer.  I am so done with this freaking nightmare routine every morning.  Layla screaming because calling her 'not a morning person' is the understatement of my lifetime.  Evie mad because she just wants to be held and hang out while I have to get her dressed and set up for breakfast.  And then comes MY breakfast.  Well, it's supposed to be my breakfast.  The two of them are literally falling all over each other and pushing the other out of the way to get to me first.  It's like feeding some hungry baby birds.  It's all elbows and feet stamping and other impressive blocking out moves to jockey position for their big ass wide open mouth to be shoveled my breakfast.  My eggs.  My english muffin.  Being forked over to those gigantic begging mouths to get them to shut up long enough for me to think.

I'm turning old on Friday.  This is not a birthday or age that I'm looking forward to.  And this particular number, 36, has become the deciding factor for us to get Mike fixed.  We're done.  We couldn't afford 3 in daycare, which would push us back 2 years before trying for another.  That puts me at 38, having the kid at 39.  I simply can't do it.  I'm done.  We're done.  I adore my girls and Mike is blissfully happy with his little adorers.  So the big V is being scheduled and I will be relieved of my birth control duty that I've held for 17 years.  17 years of altered hormones and regulated periods.  17 years of not having a clue what my body's natural cycle looks like.  17 years.  And now it's Mike's turn.  Thankfully, he goes willingly.

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