I’m sure this will be the last word on it.

Yesterday I was complaining to Mr. French about some new weird leg pains I’ve been having (they’re worse today).

I was saying, “They’re not horrible. It’s not like labor, but I definitely have to stop what I’m doing. It’s really annoying.”

“But this is a new pain? You’ve never had it before?”

“Yeah. It’s weird, but I’m sure it’s “normal”.”

“It must be a girl then,” he teased. “Since you’ve never had it before.”

“Yeah, like the gender of the baby determines what kind of pains you have when you’re nine months along, instead of, say age or position.” I said rolling my eyes.

________________________

Today, I was at the grocery store. I was getting some samples for the kids and the lady behind the counter noticed that I was pregnant.

“You’re having another boy?” she asked.

“We don’t know.” I said. “We just have about a week to wait.”

“Oh, you’re having another boy. I can tell.” She said confidently.

Oh, right.

Of course.

What with your X-RAY EYES and everything.

I wished I could have rolled my eyes then.

The question that strikes fear into the heart of a parent-more than the question of where babies come from.

“Mom, how do you make fire?” asked C.

“Well. It’s really quite hard. Sometimes if you rub two sticks together you create friction, which makes it hot and then you can get a spark and it can cause a fire. It’s really hard to do though. Why do you ask?” I tried to sound casual.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Really? You’re not thinking of starting a fire, are you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want to know?”

At this, S pipes in to ruin it for him. “We found some thorn trees.”

“Okay. You can just put them in a pile for Daddy to burn later. You should never start a fire by yourselves.” I said. “Ever.” I added.

“Why?” they asked.

So I launched into scary stories about what happens when fires get out of control and how dangerous they are and how if a fire started in the woods it could move up to the house and if the house caught on fire we wouldn’t have any place to live. How you can die just by breathing in smoke and that getting burned is one of the most painful types of injuries you can suffer. I think I made a compelling argument. And I’m glad my older boys aren’t terribly impulsive.

“Hey, Dad?” said C.

“Yeah?”

“How do you make fire?”

So, you say it’s July now?

When I was brainstorming ideas for the blog this week, I thought, I should post about J turning 4 this month.

Only that happened last month. Like at the beginning of last month.

But, is it ever too late to say Happy Birthday?

Happy 4th Birthday Junebug!

I hope you continue to keep us laughing for years to come.

If my children are dirty, you’ll know why.

The boys all got dirty outside and when they came in, I sent them down to their bathroom to wash their legs and feet in the bathtub. They were all down there for quite awhile and I eventually had to tell them they were done.

About 15 minutes later, I noticed that J’s legs and feet were still filthy.

“J, why didn’t you wash your feet?”

Looking down at his feet. “Tuz. I wike it.”

And then he smiled.

The moment you’ve all been waiting for…

Or, maybe not.

Yes, the baby is still inside.

But now you can actually tell.

(37 weeks)

And the side shot.

And in case you’re curious, no, I’m not wearing maternity clothes. I don’t like maternity clothes, so I try not to wear them.

I get a lot of comments about my belly size from my kids.

A recent conversation:

S: “Your tummy is getting bigger.

Me: “Yes, it definitely is.”

J: “It’s bigger, bigger.”

Me: “Yep.”

S: “I think you look like a fat man.”

Okaaay.

You’ve still got a lot to learn before you get married, bud.

The price I pay to have children who independently dress themselves.

Conversations with my 6-going-on-21-year-old

I should probably start paying him for all the material he provides this blog.

Months ago, it was just S and I at the library together. We were heading towards the check-out desk when S asked, “Where is my Mom?”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You know. Where is my big Mommy?”

“Like me? I’m your Mom.”

“No, like who am I going to marry?”

“Oh.” Wow. “Um, well… you probably haven’t met her yet. But, S, you have plenty of time. There’s no rush. You’ll meet her when you’re ready to. You’re too young to get married right now.”

“Oh.”

____________________________

The other day S asked me a question.

“How do you get married?”

“Oh,” I said distractedly. “You usually go to a church and say your vows in front of a bunch of people and then the minister marries you.”

“But, how do you find a girl to marry?”

“Oh, well… you usually meet at school or work or church. Something like that.” I said, wondering why my 6-year-old little boy has to worry about this right now.

“I want to do that.” he said matter-of-factly.

_________________________

We pulled into the library parking lot and I overheard the two older boys talking.

“I like girls a little bit.” said S.

“Yeah, a little bit.” agreed C.

As we were getting out of the car, S said to me, “I need to find a good girl. To marry.”

___________________________

I’m just hoping he can learn how to shower and multiply numbers before he meets “the one”.

This oughta be interesting.

I had a dream the other night.

I had a baby girl with blonde hair and brown eyes (a combination we’ve haven’t had yet). She looked about 9 months old when I gave birth to her.

Only, I didn’t really give birth. I was supposed to just take her out to see the gender and then put her back. But I really, really didn’t want to put her back once she was out.

And then in addition to my three boys, I also had three stepsons (one of which was on his way to Togo, Africa) with….

Barbara Walters. Who had a really nice loft apartment in downtown Denver, by the way.

Also, Mr. French decided to take a bath in the kitchen sink. But the weird part was that he actually fit.

Let me just say, for the record, that I don’t think it means anything.

Except that my bladder was a little too full.

And the Worst Blogger of the month award goes to….

Finally!

A contest I could win.

I know it’s bad when even Mr. French complains about the lack of posts.

I do appreciate the comments though. It simultaneously encourages me to post and makes me feel really quilty for not posting. Both are quite motivating.

I have my excuses, of course. There’s the whole-I’m-pregnant excuse. I can only use that for another 4 weeks or so, though. Then, there’s the fact that I got a really, really bad splinter.

Stop laughing, it’s true. It was really deep too. And it took a while to get it out. I’m just saying, typing isn’t easy when you’re digging into your finger with a pin and tweezers.

Okay, if that’s not good enough, I cut my finger. Pretty bad. Or so I thought. The very next day, using the very same knife, chopping vegetables on the very same cutting board I sliced into the digit just next to what I thought was a really badly cut finger. Except this time, ten times worse! It was the kind of cut that you stare at in disbelief because you can’t believe you just did that!

I told Mr. French about it on the phone and he was sympathetic. Later though, when I showed it to him he almost had a cow and thought I should’ve gotten stitches. Maybe I should have but by then it was too late. And now it’s pretty much healed. (As an aside, I think there was some nerve damage because it doesn’t feel quite the same.)

I think that’s enough excuses.

For now, at least.

So here’s the plan for next week: I’m going to post everyday three days and see if I can’t get back into the habit. That will be a good lead-up to the baby too. There’s been some requests for baby belly shots again. I think I can safely do that now, since everyone asks when I’m due that I’m pretty sure I’m showing. I’ll let you decide though.