Brighton's first words...

Two weeks ago Brighton was only making noises.

“What’s a horsey say?” And he’d say, “EEE-ha-ha” and “Brrr.”

“What’s a rooster say?” “er-er-er-er-WOO!”

“What’s a monster say?” “ARRRRRRRRRGHGHGHGH!!!!” (By far his favorite noise to make).

He could say a few words- car, Paw Paw, Da da, Ma Ma, GO!, Bye Bye, uh-oh, ca-at (which he calls our rabbits), Cha-Chak (Charkley), hot!, and he’d express everything else he wanted/didn’t want with a powerful scream that communicated his point. PERFECTLY.    

Last week? Wa-la. He decided to OPEN his mouth and SPEAK. He shocked us one day when we DRUG him inside SCREAMING. (That isn’t the part that shocked us. That is ALWAYS his reaction to coming INSIDE. He would rather have been born a dog… a horse, a goat, an earth worm that spends its days crawling through mud.... And live outside. No tent. Just OUTSIDE). It was also NOT shocking when he THREW himself against the closed door and stretched his little arm up to the door knob and attempted to open it, getting more and more frustrated by the second. What SHOCKED us is when he yelled at us angrily, “WAN Fo-gi-ga! Wan FO-gi-ga!” That probably sounds like pure gibberish to you. BUT, to the expert ear of a parent of BRIGHTON, we immediately said, “You want the four-wheeler?”

He gave a nod that nearly toppled his head off his little neck. Starling opened the door (because who can resist a little dude’s FIRST spoken request??) and Brighton tripped three times RUNNING to the four wheeler. He was on it in less than two seconds yelling, “Wan RI-IDE!” Starling took him riding. At eleven thirty at night. (Our neighbors LOVE us. Really).

Perhaps he liked the reaction he got from us when he talked. Later that night when I tried to get him to lie down REPEATEDLY, (to which he kept refusing), Brighton finally yelled, “Wan Boot-lan!” So I let him go and he grinned as he tackled Brooklyn and climbed in the bed next to her, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Last night he pointed to one of Brooklyn’s besties and said, “Lay-la!” And Sunday, while we were TRYING to keep his little hyper bootie on the PEW instead of climbing the stairs in the front of the congregation, he kept reaching towards the back pleading, “El-das! Wan el-das!” (The missionaries live in our apartment behind our house. They have completely won my children over with popsicles and other treats they bring them. Brighton ALWAYS wants to escape Ma Ma in refuge of elders that play with him outside and push him around in his cars).

Today he kept telling me, “Ma MA! Wan ou-side!” and “Wan wa-da.” (Which translates to “want water.” And he didn’t mean to drink. He said this while being pulled OFF the bathroom sink where he had CLIMBED and was PLAYING in the “wa-da”). So that’s awesome that he’s decided to talk. EXCEPT, I am left wondering, WHY can he say “four-wheeler,” a word I have NEVER tried to teach him, but he REFUSES to say the word PLEASE, which I chant to him about 678 times. A DAY! When I say slowly and very articulately, “Pu-leeeeeeeese?” He cocks his head and laughs at me. Sometimes he’ll humor me and whisper, “puh. Puh. Puh.”

Brooklyn certainly tries to help him talk. She always prays that he’ll learn to talk. (Although she might regret that. Especially if he talks a fragment amount of how much SHE talks).

UGH! I must get the kiddos to bed. Brooklyn just ran to me in a panic and said, “Mommay! My eyes are turning BLACK!” I suppressed a laugh and told her to HURRY and get to bed and I’d come get her ready.

My little angel takes EVERYTHING so literal. When she doesn’t want to go to bed, I tell her, “We HAVE to go to sleep. If we don’t go to sleep we’ll get big, black bags under our eyes!” Which is the truth. She WIGS out at the thought of it, though, and it makes her go to sleep.

She just ran to tell Starling her eyes are turning black and we have to go to bed NOW. And she also ran to the back door because the missionaries just left and she wanted to go tell THEM her eyes are turning black. And Brighton is tripping backwards trying to get away from me because I asked him if he needs a bum bum change. I’m surprised he didn’t yell, “NEVER!!” back at me. Maybe tomorrow.  

The New Daddy

Today was just too disturbing and/or funny not to blog about. Sooo Starling and I took the kids to Louisiana to look at a little Maxima that Starling wanted to flip. He decided the car’s ailments were within his expertise, so he purchased it and was driving it home. He pulled over on the interstate to clean his windshield so he could see. (It was covered in white shoe polish saying ‘for sale’ and blab la). I pulled over behind Starling since I’m not brave enough to drive home without following him. (BEcause I still occasionally get lost driving to Petal).

Brooklyn was extremely fearful for her father’s safety. Cars were driving by him and she was about to have a panic attack. Finally, Starling finished his window washing, opened his car and ZOOM! An 18-wheeler passed.

“MOMMAY! Did DADDY just get runned over by a CAR?!” I was only half paying attention, using the moment of being parked to return a cuzillion text messages.

“No, honey.”

Well we continued on the road, singing “If You’re Happy and You Know It Clap Your Hands,” “Hi, My Name is Joe,” “Rudolph,” “Jingle Bells,” etc. Brooklyn was belting out the words with gusto and Brighton couldn’t stop giggling and shouting Hooo-Waaa, throwing his hands in the air even though we were long done with “Shout Hurray!”- that being part of the FIRST song we sang. (Better slow than never I say).

Brighton let out a soft Hurrah, then slumped over in his car seat unconscious. I turned my mirror to Brooklyn, who moments earlier had been ecstatic and merrily singing. I noticed her face was scrunched up in thought and she looked rather melancholy.

“What’s up, Brooklyn?” I asked her.

“Well, Daddy got runned over by a car and so that I am sad. But, well… I’m not crying. But my daddy is just runned over right now.”

 Bewildered at her little comment, I ask, “He got run over? Well where is he?”

“Well, just- he is gone. He got runned over by a car to go live with Jesus and that he’s not okay. He’s just gone.”

“How awful! You don’t seem too upset. What are we going to do without our Daddy?”

This perplexed her greatly. But finally she sighed.

“Well. But we have to go to Wal-Mert to get a new Daddy.”

My eyes bulged and I suppressed a giggle.

“What kind of Daddy will we get at Wal-Mart?”

“Well, I’ll just have to ask one of my friends at Wal-Mert to let me have their Daddy.”

“Which friend’s Daddy do you want to be your new Daddy?”

She thought long and hard.

“Well, I’m just going to ask Alayna’s Daddy to be my new Daddy.” (Alayna is Brooklyn’s cousin. Her daddy, Eric, is about as close to a clone of Starling as you can get). I tried not to cackle.

“Can you just call Eric so I can ask him that my Daddy got runned over and he can be my new Daddy?”

I called STARLING and said, “Hey- Brooklyn’s DADDY got hit by a car and she wants to ask uncle ERIC a question.” Giggling I handed the phone to Brooklyn. Not once did she consider the person on the other line to be her ACTUAL dad. Nope; she was talking to Eric and that was that. She told him ALL about how her daddy got “runned” over and that “she was sad but NOPE- not crying.”

Starling said, “Well, your Daddy can get fixed in the hospital and…”

Her face fell and she slung the phone at me. “Uncle Eric doesn’t WANT to be my new daddy.”

I hung up with Starling and said, “Don’t you want Daddy to get better?”

Brooklyn's arms flung to her sides and she yelled utterly destraught, “YES! I do want him to be my Daddy and get better. BUT HE CAN’T! He GOT. runned OVER. by a CAR!” As in DUH mom! Are you an idiot or are you an idiot??

She fell asleep and I had to meet someone at The Barn to sell something for $75 and then fill up my van at the gas station for $65. (I love making that dough). I had a meeting at the church, so I drug two sleeping kids out of the van and made them walk.

When I finally got Brooklyn to walk KIND of in the right direction, more TOWARDS the church and not toward the random field to the side, I footballed Brighton under my arm and we made our way through the doors. Every person that Brooklyn knows had to hear about her daddy getting hit by a car. People's reactions varied, but they were ALL video worthy. Wide eyes, dropped mouth, immediate gasp and turn to me. (My smirk was probably confusing to them).

Someone asked her, “Well where did he go?”

Exasperated, she proclaimed, “We can’t FIND our FRICKIN’ Daddy ANYWHERE!” Yikes! I’ve never heard her say freakin before and it sounded AWFUL coming out of those tiny, innocent lips. And that is a SENTENCE that’s exited my mouth like a thousand times. Yes, I am ALWAYS losing my husband. WHEN we are both home.

Then Eric came through the church doors and, of course, Brooklyn thought she’d called him on my phone. He was clueless. And it was a great interaction of his niece, out of the BLUE, asking him AGAIN to be her new daddy.

She was, no other way to put it, SHOCKED to walk into our house and see her daddy sitting at the computer. She just stood there. Staring. BUT, as soon as Starling spoke to her, she went into a ninety to nothing recount of her time at church and showed him her “treasure” box that she found that she’d left. NOOOO comment about, “OH GOOD! You’re alive!”

Later she climbed on his lap and said, “I really missed you while you were DIED.” 

I’m glad to know parents are so dispensable. I wonder how much they run at “Wal-mert.” I’d be interested in purchasing a parent that likes cooking.  

The Booger and the the Roach

I MAY have mentioned that I enjoy scaring my husband for kicks. WELL, he LOVES to get me back. (Unfortunately for him, I get him at least 5 times as much as he succeeds in getting me).
I’ve been due for one for a while. Especially after I got him the other night.

I was reading to Starling out of Nicholeen Peck’s book, “A House United.” It’s a parenting book that teaches parents how to self govern themselves and teach self governing skills to their children.  ANYWAY- Starling started yawning and declared his self exhausted. So I started turning out lights and made my way toward the bedroom. Starling had some EFY music floating out of the computer. (It’s essentially soft church music). He was sprawled on the couch half-awake, half-asleep listening to it. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, removed my contacts, etc. and Starling STILL wasn’t in our bedroom. Starling was dragging.  Sooo I couldn’t miss an opportunity to lift his heart rate. I turned off our bedroom light and, LEAVING the bedroom, closed the door. I waited in the hallway by the kids’ bedrooms in a monstrous pounce position. And I waited. AND I WAITED. Just when I thought Starling was going to start snoring from the couch I hear him stand up. And to my dismay, this dreadfully exhausted man, picked up his guitar and started strumming in rhythm to the song on the computer. Then he stopped the music and he took over singing and playing the guitar. I plopped down on my butt in the hall wondering HOW long he was going to play. WELL- I’ll tell ya. LIKE 45 MINUTES. So I just sat there waiting (figuring I’d invested this much time into my scare that I couldn’t stop NOW). After Starling went through ten different songs, he finally YAWNED and put the guitar back on its stand.

I groggily lay completely flat on the ground. I was practically asleep by this point. Starling walked in front of me, pausing at our door to EASE it open so as not to wake me. As he turned the knob, I grabbed both his feet while whisper-shouting-moaning in a terrifying voice, “STAAAAAAAAAARLIIIIIIINNNNGGGG!”

He, who had moments earlier been dragging his feet, let out a WHOOP and started high stepping and kicking at the booger wrapped around his legs. I’m a pro, of course, and had already moved out of danger’s way. He flipped on the hall light and grabbed my cackling self. “HOW LONG have you BEEN THERE!?”   

WELL, yesterday Starling made the great attempt to get me back.

I was busily folding clothes. I picked up a pair of jeans and a giant roach leapt out at me. I high stepped it, squealed like a pig, and flung the jeans AND roach across the laundry room. When the roach landed with a thud on its BACK, I realized it was made of rubber. Umm hmm. Starling. I stopped folding laundry, not wanting him to have the satisfaction of knowing I’d found his little surprise.

And even though I know good and well that I DESERVE a startle, I immediately sought revenge. I brought Starling some chips and salsa and we sat down to watch an episode on NetFlix. We were well into the movie. Brooklyn had salsa dripping down her arms, Brighton was standing up in his rocking chair which was threatening to dump him at any moment. Starling was completely focused on the t.v. with his hand in the chip bag. And it was at that moment that Starling found it. “AHHH!!!”
The kids and I looked at him. Brighton started giggling as Starling slung the plastic roach along with the handful of chips he’d grabbed, across the room.

“Took you long enough to find it.” I said. Starling picked the roach up and threw it at me. Brooklyn started screaming, completely clueless that it was a fake roach, yelling, “NoOOO!!! Don’t put it on mommy! Put it in the potty!!!” And Brighton, still giggling, rushed over to the chip bag and grabbed and handful of chips and slung them across the room in the same manner Starling had previously demonstrated.

We had to, of course, pause the movie so I could calm Brooklyn down, as she was crying hysterically because we were touching the roach with our bare hands, and Starling could vacuum. BUT. It was worth it.  

I just thought some of the pictures might sum up my life as the mother of Brighton Johnson.


Trouble.



I left Brooklyn's spagetti o's on the counter while I helped her find her purple princess shoes in her room. (It was of imminent importance. She was stuck only being a "BROOKLYN" until she retrieved her shoes to complete her princess transformation).  Left unsupervised for LITERALLY two minutes TOPS, Brighton found his way to the food. This is where I found him. KIND of to my HORROR. You can see the corner of his high chair, which he shoves around like a carpenter's scaffolding. He mounted the death trap and plopped himself on the edge of the counter to eat some grub. The fact that I haven't had a nervous breakdown is miraculous to me. 

And when I startled him by yelling, "BRIGHTON! What are you DOING?" This is the pic I took. All he said was, "HUH?" (I guess I should be glad he didn't jump and fall off. I didn't think that one through).

I picked him up, put him IN the highchair and let him finish Brooklyn's spaghetti o's. THEN it was, as you can see, BATH time.

Does anyone else have to BATHE their kid EVERYTIME they EAT?

IRONICALLY, I left this blog entry because I heard a HUGE bang. IN the KITCHEN. AND this is what I FOUND. (Since I mentioned me NOT having a nervous breakdown).

You'll notice Brighton doesn't seem too upset that he's covered in blood. That he bit through his bottom lip. Nope. He only got mad that I picked him up off the floor and wouldn't let him climb AGAIN; that I wouldn't let him reach whatever treasure he firmly believed lies on the counter. OH! And I didn't even take a picture of the HUGE knife he retrieved several days ago. (For obvious reasons). He just helped himself to half a tomato and the knife I'd been using to cut the other half. Luckily he let out his PROUD war cry of glee that sent me running. (He's never proud to retrieve rudementary TOYS, or objects that are dull instead of sharp). Woe with me. I better start looking into Major Medical Insurance. AND probabably some long term psychiatric care.

Requested DETAILS

The REST of the story…

OKAY, since I had twenty different people ask me who “broke into my house” and stole my truck and four wheelers- I better just clarify this whole ordeal.

I would’ve blogged about it EARLIER, but since we were in the mix of things I didn’t want to get ME in trouble. (In case we ended up following MY plan of action- which was to leave the cops out of the search for our missing property and introduce a young thief to the sound of a chain saw while tied up and blind folded in a remote part of the forest. But Starling is a bit more diplomatic than me).

So here is the SHORT version. (If you want the long, drawn out, minute to minute details- CALL STARLING- he has read people the 2 months worth of text messages from Jamie Saucier, the 22 year old con-artist. But “I” will spare you and just hit the HIGH points)!

#1- Starling had a nice F150 truck that needed some work. He decided he’d just see what he could get for it on Craig’s list as is/was because he was swamped with work and wouldn’t be able to get around to fixing it for a while.

#2- A NICE, good ole’ boy, friendly young guy and his “fiancé” (I’m putting lies in quotes), came to our house and looked at the truck. He loved it. He also loved our four wheelers. (One was for sale. TWO were NOT).

#3- The SHORT version: Jamey told Starling that he was getting an inheritance from his grandfather that passed away and that he’d receive it in two months. He asked if he could pay $500 a week out of his paycheck until his inheritance money came in. He wanted the truck and four-wheeler that was for sale. Starling said no the first couple of times, but since Jamey was willing to pay the full amount plus interest, Starling finally agreed.

#4- Starling created a contract agreeing on the terms and conditions of him purchasing the truck. Jamey was SO thankful for us helping out of a bind (because he had wrecked his vehicle and had no way to get to work without this truck) that he said he’d fix the front breaks on our two personal four-wheelers. (Or maybe that was how he got Starling to agree on owner financing the truck. Something like that).

#5- Jamey borrowed Starling’s work trailer to haul the four wheelers. He agreed to have the trailer and two fixed four-wheelers back by that Saturday.

#6- Jamey sent Starling a cuzillion REALLY good excuses for why he couldn’t meet up for the next month and a half. His best friend got in a car wreck. His fiancé died. The guy that killed both of his parents? That was his cousin. They were really close. BLA BLA BLA…

#7- Starling FINALLY gets suspicious. *Wendi’s already pissed and ready to rip the guys head off.

#8- We get cops involved. Marion County cops do zero. Civil stuff. Not their concern.

#9- We start our own investigation. We go to Jamey’s house and talk to his mommy who cusses us out and says we are harassing her because we asked where Jamey might hide our stuff. SO- we did what anyone would do. We knocked on every single neighbor’s door, told them what Jamey did and asked for their assistance in helping us find our stuff. EVERY neighbor had fifteen similar stories on Jamey. We discovered he steals, lies, cheats all the time non-stop. He is a compulsive liar and his mother is his wing-man. SOOOOO we made it our personal mission to get Jamey jailed. The police FINALLY started to cooperate when we got Lamar County police involved. The two counties both had jurisdiction over the case because Jamey took the stuff from Lamar and, we later found out from the good neighbors of Jamey, SOLD our property in Columbia. Knowing our stuff was sold, we set out to find out WHO bought it. (Mind you, we did a LOT of praying during this time). We made trip after trip to Columbia, each time gathering pertinent information.  We were questioning people we stopped on the side of the road. We found an address on our four-wheelers and a separate address on our truck. We told the cops the addresses. THEN we went and got our four-wheelers because the men who bought them didn’t want a felony for possession of stolen goods. The truck- we don’t have back. The people who bought that were given a title by Jamey, though it had to have been forged, and they sent off for a quick title and have one. So that is a gray area that the cops are dealing with.

Jamey was still running around with a warrant on his head, hiding from the cops driving a different stolen truck every time he left his house. Apparently the ENTIRE time we were trying to pin him for the crime he committed against us, he was off committing MORE crimes! (Totally not worried about getting caught. His text to Starling, because he’s too scared to talk on the phone, which is great bc we have EVERYTHING he said as evidence that Starling turned into the cops, was “Just file it in court. It’s all civil and I do this all the time. I don’t have a job so you ain’t ever gonna get any money out of me.” He has 7 civil suits already filed against him. But we were able to get CRIMINAL charges put on him. False intentions and grand larsony. BOTH felonies.

Starling had people reporting to him with every move Jamey made. When Jamey went home, someone called Starling, when Jamey left, someone called Starling. The neighbors were just as, if not MORE, angry with Jamey. (He screws over friends and family as much as strangers). Starling called dispatch to pick up Jamey when he went home. They ignored him. He called again. They said they hadn’t sent anyone to Jamey’s residence yet. Starling called AGAIN at 3 a.m., relentlessly wanting them to arrest the little twit. The dispatcher said, “Mr. Johnson, we got him.”

So that is that. He is in jail, but up for bond tomorrow. But since he was already OUT on bail, we hope a good sound-minded judge will REVOKE his bail. (Jamey obviously can’t learn a lesson). And we have our three four wheelers and trailer back. And we know the location of our truck. So we are happy as leeches on an elephant. NOW we can GET ON with our LIVES! And THANK you to everyone who HELPED us!

Dream Drama

Like sleeping isn’t difficult enough with two kicking kids, a cover- hog husband, and a dog that likes to sleep on my head- let’s interrupt the FEW moments of sleep I DO get with INSANE dreams.

My dreams are so vivid I wake up with my heart racing, I’m short of breath, and I absolutely can’t go back to sleep. My LAST dream?

There I am. In my yard. It’s a nice sunny day and Brighton is in his normal perch on the four wheeler growling like a possessed  gremlin (because that’s the noise he makes instead of Vroom Vroom like a NORMAL child). Brooklyn is on the pool deck worrying over putting her floaties on so she doesn’t DIE. (Because she’s convinced that if her very FOOT touches the water without her floaties being securely fastened, she will indeed be swallowed up and drowned in a matter of seconds. I have no idea why. Surely I didn’t scare her to death into believing that nonsense).  And I am standing in my normal position (bent over like a tornadoed pine tree eyeing little ant mounds and throwing poison over them, watching gleefully as the little black biting dots twist into tiny black DEAD dots). I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt and no shoes. (My stay at home mom uniform). I feel a slight kick in my stomach and look down. A little bulge pokes out. The little alien form isn’t unusual as all of my children like to try to climb out of my gut before their time. But then, a tiny little hand juts out. Actually OUT- like completely in the air waving around- OUT. That’s not the weird part. My reaction is what’s weird.

“AWW! A little hand!” I stick my finger beside the hand and all the fingers grasp it. How adorable. Except for the fact that the hand is just STICKING out of my stomach. And THEN, once the tiny hand gets a grip on my finger it tugs and out emerges an ARM. And then a FACE. Again. NOT the weird part.

“Oh my goodness! It’s a girl! That’s a little girl face!” And I’m scrutinizing the face trying to see if it resembles Brooklyn and Brighton. And then the rest of the baby comes on out and I’m just holding this LITTLE baby. (That’s the part when I should have known it was a dream. Johnson babies are NOT little). So then I start to worry. But not about what you would think. No. I have the baby in both hands and the umbilical cord is still stuck in my stomach like a straw stuck in an orange and suddenly I don’t know how I am going to buckle Brooklyn and Brighton into their car seats AND hold this baby while I DRIVE myself to the hospital. THAT is what I am worried about. So I just walk over to my neighbor’s house and use my foot to kick the door until she opens it. Her face, filled with all the horror that should be expected from someone who comes face to face with a woman holding a naked, slimy baby still attached to her startles me. And THEN, and only then, do I realize how absolutely creepy and grotesque this little occurrence is. And my heart begins to race and my neighbor starts to scream so naturally I start to scream and…

I bolt upright in my bed with a scream stuck in my throat. And I just go ahead and get up because I’m certain the pounding of my heart is going to wake all the inhabitants in my BED. And as I stand up I feel a little kick in my gut. (Remember I am Fourteen weeks- that means I shouldn’t feel kicking yet). I jump out of the bed and realize I can’t RUN from my stomach. So I just give up and watch my stomach move around wondering when a hand is going to jut out and grab my finger. And I guess I fell asleep waiting.

I’m happy to report it never happened. But I’m not convinced yet that it won’t.

Without getting into any personal drama that has been happening in my life… wait. Who am I kidding? Personal drama is ALL I have to write about. So I watched a few episodes of some show on tv with a blond headed chic that is pregnant. She made comments like, “Wow! The second trimester makes me look THIS good?!”- referring to the extra junk in her trunk and her ginormous boobs. And then every man that she has ever met or NOT met is like, “YOU look BETTER than EVER! WOW!”

My reaction to this, as I watch sprawled out on my couch in sweat pants, no make-up, and leg hair that would make Tarzan run screaming for his neat and orderly jungle, was a gigantic snort. As I finished up my chocolate shake.

Perhaps I have simply forgotten what my first pregnancy was like… Oh- no. I didn’t. It was a replica of the second one. Oh. And the THIRD one I’m now experiencing. My movie- if someone was so desperate as to cast me into stardom, would have scenes like,

     “OMG… do you have a DISEASE?! Is it CONTAGIOUS??- Oh… sorry… you just stopped wearing make-up… and fixing your hair… and tanning… and… shaving….”

And I loved where that chic was so giddily and merrily DATING and WORKING and strutting off her NEW body… The only thing that got close enough to rub up on me during ANY trimester was the TOILET. We were pretty much inseparable. Are. That and my bed. I kind of feel like I’m half awake- half in a coma. Truly empowering. I feel very accomplished if I get a shower and blow-dry my hair in the same day. And if I take time to put in my contacts- we’re bordering awesomeness.

So Starling pretty much comes home to his beautiful queen made up in three day old pj’s, bed head, and barf breath. No wonder he works late almost every night.

Anyway- enough grossing people out. I am happy to report that my doctor actually told me to, QUOTE, “GAIN more WEIGHT.” Omg… I was actually told during my first pregnancy that “some women just let their weight get away from them.” I did gain fifty pounds with Brooklyn. And forty-five with Brighton. What’s funny about this pregnancy is that my doctor thought that I was LOSING weight. Well- the scale did show that but what she didn’t realize is that I quit working out. Completely. So what REALLY happened was that all my muscle fell off. So my arms and legs are back to twigs. And then out pops my cute little GUT. (That is sarcasm). I look like an Ethiopian.

Starling got strep throat. Then Brooklyn got strep throat. I have the crud and BETTER NOT get strep throat. But anyway- my perfect child Brooklyn has turned into this WHINE machine that wants to be HELD all the time. And coupled, or quadrupled, with the fact I’m pregnant, sick, and chasing Brighton from room to room screaming, “NO!!!”,  my patience level has been… hmmm… in the negative digits. I find myself staring at the ceiling secretly hoping it caves in on top of me. And, Starling is working late even though he’s been sick as a dog, and so we are both exhausted. That would warrant a GOOD night’s sleep. Except our CHILDREN wake up EVERY two HOURS and I have horns growing from my skull and fire coming out my ears by morning. And STARLING is the one that gets up with them. I just have to sleep between them (because Starling dumps them on me on goes back to bed usually because they are screaming, “I WANT MOMMAY!!!”). And I endure the kicks and shrill whining until I join Charkley at the foot of the bed and lay fuming at the ridiculousness of my LIFE.

I can’t WAIT to have a new born in the house.