Wait...What?

First the good news: Willow and Wesley had a baby . Interesting name, I kinda like it. I hope mama doesn't resent having her on her birthday. I was born the day before my mother's birthday and let's just say, birthdays were not fun for me. That's if I can recall even celebrating one before I moved out. Hmm, good times. And the bad: No more karaoke from Lorne . I want to go out and buy the rest of Angel on DVD just to see the episodes with him in them for the husband to complete his set. That character really made the show so much fun. Mr. Hallett will be missed by those of us who admired him and his work so much.

So I have a fetal MRI tomorrow and then I'm going in to see my OB. I left work early tonight with some tightening in the belly and some pain that I can't describe. I honestly don't know what the contractions would feel like at the beginning. I was induced and had drugs. This all feels funky to me. I'll keep ya'll updated.

The niece, once again, has slayed me with her wit and how quick on the draw she is. Baby Girl: The snake is eating his own tail Me: Um why is he doing that? Baby Girl: (again with the duh voice the girls have mastered) It tastes like chicken! Me: (trying to recover from the laughing and almost peeing myself) Baby Girl: Is this going on your blog too? End Act Two

My MIL and 5 yr old niece were watching ice skating. The following is a true story. Baby Girl: Why is that girl skating when the boys are supposed to be playing hockey? End scene

Once again, I've proven that I'm shameless. You're shocked, I know. The evil Girl Scouts were back at my store today. Gah. There's crack in them there cookies, I just know it. They were only there until eight and I worked until ten so I told them I would be back before they left. I almost forgot and two of the girls actually came looking for me. They hunted me down . I was an easy target. A caged animal . I bought nine boxes of cookies. Hey, don't judge me. Only 3 of them are exclusively mine. Mine = a box in the car, a box by the computer and a box in my locker. Just in case. Good thing I don't work Sunday. There's another troop coming in. Evilness I tell you. Pure and simple.

Mama: Um why is your hair wet? Red Headed Dictator: Because I was chewing on it. M: Why were you chewing on it? RHD: (said in the duh tone closely followed by an eye roll) I was pretending it was chicken.

Dearest 6yr Old Boy Of Mine, I know you come by it honestly. Really. I know I talk a lot. And I realize that's an understatement of damn near biblical epic proportions. I get that from Papa. He gets that from Gramma Lulu. So on and so forth (back forth?) I am also aware that mostly it's the Aspergers, the ODD, the other crap that came with your AD diagnosis. That being said..... Holy hell child, please stop talking so much when it's time to go to bed. I know people will get on my case saying that's what kids do, they procrastinate, they do all in their powers to derail that nighttime train of zzzz's. Seriously though? These people have never spent an hour with you trying to get you to just lay down. Just. lay. down. already. I know you have "big news" as you put it and I'm so happy that you want to share that news with Daddy and I. It's just that, well, we've heard the same "big news" all evening and well into this ritual that we g...