On how babies are made…again:

Remember when I wrote about my youngest son asking me how babies are made? I can’t find the dang post to link to. But I told him that Mommies and Daddies have a special hug and it puts a baby in the Mommies tummy. That’s the story I have given all my children until they were old enough to know the truth…by learning it in school.

He was good with that explanation. For about a minute.

Until yesterday, when we were driving to school (which is when all our deep conversations seem to occur) he demanded to know what happens during a special hug that causes a baby to get into the tummy. I sputtered, snorted and grunted and told him that I couldn’t talk about it right this second. We were driving and I was unprepared with an age appropriate answer.

I looked at him in the rear view mirror. He looked back at me. And he ROLLED his eyes. With a snotty tone, he asked me if the reason I couldn’t tell him was because he is too young. I told him yes, that’s the exact reason. And he said OK.

Off the hook…for now.

But then, he changed direction. He moved on to asking me how babies get out of tummies.

I explained that sometimes the doctors have to make a little hole in the Mommy’s tummy to take the baby out and that’s called a c-section. Other times the Mommy pushes them out of the vagina.

He responded with a big EW that’s gross.

I told him that his oldest brother was a c-section. He was fascinated. He came up with this whole theory that when the doctors took his brother out of my tummy, that I could see all my other babies that were just hanging out, waiting to be born. And he wondered if they were waving to me. He also asked if I saw him and his sister in there.

It is going to be pretty hard to explain the whole thing to him because he is pretty content in this story that he concocted.

On Babysitters:

We are very lucky. We have a couple of really great babysitters. But there is one thing that drives me insane. More than not getting the kids to bed at a reasonable time.

The freaking mess.

My house is relatively messy. Not horrible. But slightly cluttered. I straighten it up a ton. But, it’s impossible to get it to perfection, especially when I have 6 other forces working against me.

Then, enter our beloved sitter.

It’s date night, although I NEVER call it that because, well…I just don’t. I guess I’m not romantic. Besides, going to Target or grocery shopping is hardly going out on a date.

We leave. We go on our…date. We come home. To a big freaking mess. Like WAY bigger than the one that we left.

And it’s left for me to clean up.

Pisses me right off. Like, buzz kill and mood kill alleging that I’d been drinking and was in the mood.

But really? I’ve had a bazillion babysitters over the years. And I’ve only had one that cleaned up the messes that the kids made. When I say cleaned up, I mean she cleaned my whole house after she put the kids to bed. Then, she’d spray her perfume, which I am SURE was super expensive except it smelled like an old folks home.

But coming home to a clean house that smelled like rotting old person corpse was better than coming home to a mess of a house that smells like…well…rotting dog shit.

And those, my friends, are the thoughts that I leave you with for today.

No problem.