I broke my ass, but that's okay.

Jill is finally sleeping good. In a twist of fate, Emmi now is not. So I spent half the night up with a sick kid. When my alarm went off this morning, I stumbled out of bed, not quite ready to face the day. I shuffled into the kitchen, threw some pop-tarts (okay, they aren't real pop-tarts, as I don't let my kid eat those. But she doesn't know that.) in the toaster, and attempted to locate coffee all without opening my eyes. Except, Emmi woke up. I had to get her cochlears from up stairs, and then she insisted I carry her back down. All was good until the third to last step. I went down. Hard. On my ass. I have a huge bruise. I seriously am not sure I didn't break something. It took about two hours to figure out that I had also slammed my ribs into the stairs and knocked my head on something, as well. The pain in my ass was so intense it masked the other pains. I guess that proves Kenny's theory that stomping my toe will, in fact, cure other minor injuries.

Anyway, I have a broken ass. But it is all good. Why? Cause I am a winner. That's why! The lovely J gave me this!

Since she gave me an award and you didn't, she now becomes my favorite person. The rest of you must compete for second place.

I get to nominate up to 7 other people, who then get to post this lovely award and nominate some loves of their own.

1. Jill Don't bother clicking that. It's private. But, I have to nominate my own kid. And yes, my seven-year-old does keep her own blog.

2. Sheri

3. Shindig Cause not only do I like her, I am pretty sure our girls could team up to take down the world.

4. Rachel

5. Leah

6. Amy

7. Catherine

Extra Hot with Ice.

Emmi woke up this morning with a fever. And chest congestion. Which is bad news. She is low-tone, making it impossible for her to cough well. Chest congestion quickly becomes pneumonia with her. Bring on the breathing treatments. Again. Luckily, I got her in to the doctor this morning, and sure enough she already has bronchitis.

I called my mom to deliver the verdict from the doctor and talked as I drove to Starbucks. I paused my story long enough to order.

"Welcome to Starbucks. Would you like to try a Signature Hot Chocolate?"

"No Thanks," I said. "I'll take a Grande Iced White Mocha Non-fat and a Kid's Hot Chocolate."

"Okay, so that will be one Iced White Mocha extra hot?"

Um. What? An extra hot iced drink? "No. That was a Grande Iced White Mocha Non-fat and a Kid's Hot Chocolate."

"Oh. Okay. So that is a decaf Iced White Mocha?"

Seriously? "No, a Grande Iced White Mocha Non-fat and a Kid's Hot Chocolate."

"Okay. Gotcha! That will be an Iced White Mocha Non-fat. Your total is $4.28."

My mother, hearing only my end of the exchange asks what my problem was. I recap the conversation, while I pull forward.

At the window, I am greeted by a smiling Barista holding my Iced White Mocha. "$4.28 please."

I smile. I try my best not to laugh. "And my kid's hot chocolate?"

She looks confused. "Oh I didn't hear you say that!"

On the phone my mom starts giggling. And then, I lose it. I am pretty sure, even with my head turned, it was obvious I was laughing.

I got up at 5 something or another this morning to take Jill to Texas Children's. She finally had her appointment with the neuro at the Blue Bird Clinic. It took about 2.5 seconds for them to diagnose her with migraines. We FINALLY have medication. Plus some vitamins and a schedule to help prevent the migraines. Hopefully, with my fingers crossed, we will all start getting some sleep around here.

Your Kid Looks Like A Hooker.

My absolute favorite jeans are Guess Daredevil Flares. Except Guess went all skinny jean on me, and stopped carrying them except for those damn distressed ones. Look, Guess, the reason I am in your store is 'cause my damn jeans got a hole in them. I don't want to buy more holes, hookers. So I kept wearing the holey ones, because that just made me trendy and such. Then, it got ridiculous. There were practically no knees and the hemline was completely gone, plus the jeans were now a size to big.

I went on a search for jeans. As I tried on about the twentieth pair, Tiffany called me. I quickly announced that I was trying to wiggle my ass into jeans at the teenie bopper store to explain away all the loud music and the heavy panting. I chattered away, loudly while I changed, and the mother and daughter in the stall next door argued over the length of a skirt.

None of the jeans worked. Tiffany wished me luck in my continued search, and got off the phone with me. But not before we, in our typical manner, made comments that included her calling me old (hey I am younger than your hubby, woman) and me telling her she was jealous of my jeans size. And you know, giving her pointers for how to get to said jeans size.

"One cup of coffee in the morning. Starbucks for lunch. Nothing else. An apple later in the day. Eat nothing else." We laughed, said our good byes, and then I walked out of the dressing room.

And right into Momma From The Stall Next Door. She stood hands on hip.

"That is a horrible way to talk to your friend. Young lady, you are a very rude person, and your advice you gave to your friend was disgusting," she said. "If I were your mother, I would be very concerned about you."

Really. It wasn't even worth my time to answer. But, you know I can never resist.

"If you were my mother, you would know I was joking. Also, if you were my mother, you would never talk down to another adult like she was a child. And, if you were my mother, you would never have let me walk all over you and buy that skirt that makes your fourteen-year-old look like a hooker."

Stinky Soup

I haven't felt like blogging lately. Well, actually, that isn't quite the truth. I have felt like blogging, but I just can't seem to translate well into text lately. I mean, I am still doing stupid, rude things. I still stick my foot in my mouth often. I still catch people saying and doing stupid things. But? I am exhausted.

It comes and goes in phases. It isn't a depression. It is just a simple overwhelming, exhaustion. Jill is having ongoing issues with headaches. She is medicated day and night, yet nothing is helping. Although, I am praying for some reprieve after the appointment at Texas Children's next Monday. Emmi's implant situation continues to look bleak. Surgery is looming nearer. But before that we have CT scans, and meetings with Med-El reps, and this appointment and that. I spend more time at Texas Children's than I do my own home lately. Lump on the regular activities like gymnastics, dance, and Brownies, and cooking dinner and cleaning, and it is no wonder that I am out of steam.

So then I try to muster the energy to write, and I just can't. I mean really, I want to tell you about how Jill is right this very moment standing in the front yard, stomping her feet, refusing to come inside, because she doesn't like the smell of the soup I am making. So for fun, I am standing in the window, slowly eating chocolate that she refuses to come get some of, because, you guessed it, it is "too stinky" in the house. I, also, so badly want to tell you about Schnauzer lady, who has been driving me crazy by letting her dogs poo in my yard. And how I got into it with her when I caught her in my backyard. But everytime I try, I get halfway through, and I run out of steam. I leave the story half finished. I have at least twenty saved drafts of half stories from the past few weeks.

Perhaps soon, I will get some energy. Until then, I'll be on the couch watching episodes of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team and The Hills According to Me, while Jill stands in the corner holding her nose.

So not my fault.

I haven't slept through the night since approximately June. With the exception of one or two days here and there when the girls have visited my parents. It's those damn headaches Jill has. I am running on empty, and there is only so much coffee I can take before my body starts convulsing. Then last week, a lightening storm killed the computer that held Kenny's landscaping program.

You know, the program with the whole entire client list, all of the invoicing, the mowing schedule, even the employee contact information. Oh shit, I just realized all the work I put in straightening out what was taxable and what was not is all lost, too. Fucking grand. Anyway, I spent hours setting that system up. Hours. And now, I spending hours trying to recreate it from a haphazard set of mowing lists we collected from the trucks. Billing is going to be a nightmare, even though I wrote out the instructions (even highlighted them) saying to make copies of all of the invoices. Somebody didn't listen to me. That same somebody prefers to say it was my fault for not backing up the system for over a month. Whatever, I am still blaming him.

And backing up the system as we speak.

Nobody said it was quality.

What am I doing today? Well, Kenny is finally fixing the fence that was knocked by the hurricane, which for the record, according to Emmi is a monster that lives in our pool. Jill has a playdate with a friend. Emmi is supposed to be picked up by her dad. Riiiight. I'll believe that when I see it. So that leaves me with very little to do. Except, I just discovered that iTunes has Lifetime scary movies. 'Cause those are bound to be scary. But hello, it stars Leighton Meester. I mean, who doesn't love some Blair Waldorf as a sorority girl being chased down by a ghost in the halls of her sorority house? Thank you, Lifetime.

It is eight am, and already my child has spent thirty minutes in timeout, told me she hated me at least three times, and kicked Kenny. Meanwhile, her sister sat in the background, giggling, pointing, and saying, "Ohh. That naughty! She need timeout!" I am blaming the donut I gave them this morning. Stupid donut.

I don't care what you think.

Jill got a new pair of shoes. She loved them. Tennis shoes with brown to match her clothes and pink since it is her favorite color. Plus, Kenny took her to pick them out. She was proud of them. Until someone told her he didn't like her shoes.

I decided it was time Jill had some lessons in being a little more thick skinned. I mean, we spend all this time teaching our children to be sweet and polite, but really the world isn't always kind. We talked about how she shouldn't care what someone else thinks, that her own opinion should matter the most to her. We talked about how anyone who would take the time to say something rude is not a nice person, and that we should value the opinions of nice, helpful people, not hurtful ones. I coached her on some replies she could use. We practiced a cool, even tone of voice. I told her if someone is rude to simply say, "I care more about what I think than what you think." Sure it is a bit rude, but hey, it gets the point across. She seemed to get it. This morning she happily wore her new tennis shoes to school...and reminded me I needed to bring more medication to the school nurse.

Around ten, I made it up to the school to drop of the medication. The receptionist saw me enter the building, and immediately started giggling.

"What?" I look around and down at my clothes. Maybe Emmi had stickered me when I had been paying attention.

More giggles, then, "You are not going to believe what Jill said to her teacher today."

Oh. Shit.

"Her teacher told her she thought Jill needed to calm down and quit talking, and Jill said 'Well, I care more about what I think than what you think'."

Give me the Sudafed before I go postal.

I have a cold. Or allergies. Whichever. I needed Sudafed. The good kind. The one that you have to hop on one leg, spin three times, offer your next unborn child, and produce a government issued ID thanks to all the meth addicts out there. I long ago let my license expire. That line at the DMV is long, y'all. REALLY long. So I brought my passport with me. The same passport I used two days ago when I bought Children's Sudafed for Emmi.

The lady at the register scans the sudafed then asks for my ID. I hand over my passport.

"Ma'am, I need to see a government issued ID." She slides my passport back across the counter.

"It's a passport," I say matter-of-factly, as if that should explain everything. Obviously not.

"Ma'am, you can't buy this without a government issued ID."

I know I now have the "you are an idiot" look on my face, but I am trying to have patience. I need that Sudafed. I explain, "A passport is a government issued ID."

She looks at me like I am dumb. "No. It. Isn't."

"Okay then," I prompt. "Who issued this passport, if not the government?"

She smirks. She knows she is right, and I am wrong. "The. Post Office."

Oh yes. The Post Office, not the US Department of State. Silly me. In rain or shine. And also in charge of foreign travel. And by the way, the United States Post Office is a government agency. Just sayin'.