Unabashed Bragging

No coffee. Much brain cloud. Brewing not fast enough as I type.

I realized at midnight last night that I didn't drink a drop of coffee yesterday. It's a wonder I didn't die of withdrawals. Somehow I scraped by on what little caffeine lurks in a colosssal Matcha Green Tea Myst Jamba Juice smoothie, then later a homemade Trader Joe's version of the same.

But I don't want to drone on about coffee and my pot-a-day habit. Stop nodding in agreement, would you? Instead, let's talk about the fact that I NEVER HAVE TO BUY ANOTHER PACK OF DIAPERS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, barring Depends, of course, and I'm not brave enough to broach that topic yet. To those who are thanking me for sparing you the stomach churning visuals, you're very welcome.

I've probably already announced this here, but my "mom brain" knows no limits, so I'll do it again. About a month ago Pigtails up and decided all on her own that diapers are for wussies, I mean babies. Yes, she peed on the brand new neighbors brand new carpet last week, but she's been accident free other than that one party foul.

Though diapers are a thing of the past (for the first time in SIX years! Yip-freakin'-eee!) in my parenting universe, along with breastfeeding (flopping my lactating twins over the back seat to emergency nurse on the freeway), rectal thermometers (ancient infant torture devices) and nasal aspirators (fancy name for pediatric snot suckers), I'm not yet off the hook on wiping duty. I expect to be instrumental in that department for some time. Raw deal.

Pigtails continues to emerge from a successful potty experience with her underwear and pants/shorts/skirt collapsed around her ankles, open palm and arms exteded straight up in anticipation of a well deserved "high five." Hey, if she merely wants a skin-slap reward, I'm down. At least she doesn't expect a fistful of M&Ms or a lame Sponge Bob sticker that I'll end up picking out of our kitten's fur.

Pigtails seems to think I'm potty training too now that she's mastered toileting, and so what if I still am? She waltzes into my bathroom (the kids have their own, complete with primary colors run amuck and a urine stench I can't exorcise from the linoleum once and for all - blame it on my bad-aim boys) and asks, "You did it yet, Mommy? You knee a high five?" She gushes when the job's done, "I'm so pwoud of you. You are soooo big now, Mama. Wait til I tell Daddy you made a big poop!" I know. It's so wrong.

Well, the kids are begging me to make them smoothies "weally a lot like Jah-ma Juice, pwease!" Not until I've had my third mug of sugar with coffee and cream.