Bursting at the Seams

I have a doctor's appointment this morning, and so during breakfast, we took bets on how far dialated I was. As disgusting as this sounds, neither of the kids appreciates what this means, and the reward for guessing correctly was ice cream. Nobody in my house can turn down that incentive.

I gave them the perameters (between 1 and 5), and Anna guessed 20 centimeters. I started to retort, "Do you know what I would be walking like if I was diala . . . ," but was stopped by the sad realization that perhaps I do walk like that.

My feeling of overbloated-pregnant-lady-ness did not end there. (You know me. This story had to get worse.) Every morning, Sean gets into his car to drive to work and I pile the girls into the van to take Anna to school. This is a familiar routine, usually accompanied by the familiar sounds of "We're late. Hurry! Buckle up!" Today, as I leapt into the van, I heard the unfamiliar sound "rrrrriiiiiipppppp," as the seam of my pants literally disintegrated into oblivion. Sean, in a (shocking and out-of-character) display of complete un-sympathy, said, "I've really got to go. Don't worry about it. You don't get out of the car to drop her off."

True, but the 2 foot split down the crotch of my pants was visible from the moon. Can you imagine if I was pulled over?

Officer - "Please step out of the car, Ma'am."

Me - "You really don't want me to."

Officer - "I said, 'Please step out of the car, Ma'am.'"

Me - "And I said, 'You really don't want me to.'"

Officer - "Ma'am, we're going to have to bring you down to the station."

Me - "Do you have a change of pants there?"

But I would like to pause and express gratitude to the sticktoitiveness of that seam. You made it seam, until almost the very end of two pregnancies. Its not your fault that I have worn you beyond what most pant seams have to endure. Thank you, pants seam, for not giving out at the doctor's office. Thank you, pants seam, for not ripping when I needed to look put together. Thank you, seam, for not disintegrating when I bent over at the park. Thank you, children, for not laughing until you fell out of your car seats.

If bad things usually happen in threes, I'm terrified to see what else this day holds.

Just Check Under the Tail

We now have an unofficial pet. Not the kind you have to feed, clean, play with, and dress (heaven forbid), but an animal we are fond of nonetheless. It has no name. It lives under the boulder by our townhouse. It digs holes in our yard and eats all of the ripe strawberries from our strawberry plants. (I guess that means we're feeding it. Dang it.) It is a chipmunk. Sean has voted to name it Alvin, Simon, or Theodore. Anna was concerned that we give it a gender-appropriate name. Since nobody else has seen the little guy in action early in the morning, Anna referred to me for help.

Anna: Mom, is it a boy chipmunk or a girl chipmunk?

Me (never considering that this would be important): I don't know.

Anna: Didn't you look?

Me: NO.

Anna: You know you just have to look at its bottom to tell if its a boy or a girl.

Me (thinking): Thank you Kindergarten sex-ed classes. Now I have to identify the gender of small rodents.

Me (out loud): I don't want to look at the bottom of the chipmunk.

Anna: All you have to do is pick it up by the tail and look.

Me (thinking): For crying out loud. Who has the sense of mind to check for gender if they could catch and hold up a chipmunk by its tail?

Me (out loud): I don't believe I am well-versed enough in Chipmunk privates to know even if I could (or wanted to) catch a wild rodent.

Anna: Oh. Well, at least we'd know.

So, we've named the chipmunk Pat.

LaVar Burton and Me (the old guys)

This morning, Anna made the mistake of saying the word "rainbow," which is always followed by Sean's and my chorus of, "I can fly anywhere . . . ." (Who are the children in this house, anyway?)

I explained to Anna that when I was a little girl, Reading Rainbow was my favorite show. She interrupted my out-loud reverie by asking the wrong question. "Mom, is the guy on Reading Rainbow really that old?"

*gasp - stunned silence*

My answer - "Anna, I'm not that old, and neither is he." I pretty sure can't sit there and allow her to slander the likes of LaVar Burton, on whom I have had a crush since the age of four.

But I think I am going to rock her little everyone-on-tv-is-as-young-as-they-look fantasy this afternoon. Guess what, kid? Maria from Sesame Street is that old, too (60). So are Luis and Gordon. Hee, hee. And I'm just getting started. Let's see if she can wrap her five-year-old brain around that one.

Katy vs. the Cricket

Last week when we drove Anna to school, I was struck with the beauty of the trees in full bloom, grown so large that the tops touch other trees across the street, forming a canopy of color akin to Anne of Green Gables' "White Way of Delight." I felt something like a romantic poet as I appreciated my surroundings. This area of Virginia is covered with trees, and in full bloom they are quite lovely.

But here is the problem with those lovely trees. In a word - critters. Now I understand why they use that term in the south. It is an all-encompassing word that describes all of the nasty little insects, spiders, unnameables, and rodents that you don't want in your house. Those nasty little things live in and love trees, and I'm afraid some of them view my house as an extension.

And now a new enemy has encroached on my turf. These nemeses were unnamed at first; I simply referred to them as mutant-spider-cricket-roach-frogs. Needing a faster reference to them, I spent hours on the internet staring at pictures of bulgy-eyed southern insects before being able to finally classify them. Cave crickets. ewwwww! They like dark, warm places, and my basement has become a hangout for the local teen crickets. I have only seen four and killed three, but I just know that there is a whole herd of them laughing at me, mocking my attempts.

This morning I went downstairs by myself to do laundry, something that I have made Sean accompany me to do since seeing the first new visitor. And there he was, bulgy eyed, perfectly still, and slightly out of the reach of my shoe (apparently there was a warning in the cricket gazette informing the potential hanger-outers of the limits of my reach). I grabbed the readily available weapons - lysol disinfectant spray, one shoe, the broom, and whatever courage I could muster.

I need not elaborate on the process. I'm sure you can all visualize the screaming, chasing, broom slashing, shoe stomping, bug-slaughter (I wish. I didn't catch him. Those things can jump). The aftermath - a one-shoed, wild haired, crazy-eyed woman standing alone (as if) in her basement, knowing that this one will definitely make the cricket gazette. The escapee is probably bragging to a swarm of interested girls by now - "You should have seen her. Huge. Armed. Aggressive. And I showed no fear. I have lived to tell the tale."

We will meet again, you nasty bug, and next time I will prevail.