how to take a wild animal to the doctors office

 You can tell that Katelyn was super cooperative in the taking of these photos.

Last week Katelyn had her fifteen month check up.  Ever since the doctor had to scrape some stubborn wax from her ear when she had an infection, Kate has been particularly wary of his office.  My mom actually had to remove her from the room last time so that I could hear what he was saying to me at the end of the visit.  Her reaction was so violent that when he passed her on his way out of the room, she screamed at him in passing.

This time my mom was out of town so I had to complete the visit myself.  It's alright.  Taking my child to the doctor without the help of my mom is one of those levels of motherhood I needed to complete anyway.

We got there half an hour early which really is inconvenient.  But I kind of have an anxiety when it comes to doctors and I am convinced that if you arrive early and are nicely dressed you will receive better treatment.  I like to show up to the doctor's office massively early and one step below church level fancy.

Kate didn't seem to mind.  The waiting room was the perfect location for people watching and watching people.  Kate loves to watch other people and she also loves other people watching her.  She spent her time alternately getting up in people's personal space to stare at them and parading around the waiting room like the beauty queen of the doctor's office.  At one point she was actually waving and blowing kisses.

"This is good," I thought.  "She has forgotten her traumatic 'Eargate' experience and is having a grand old time at the doctor's office."

When the nurse called us back, Kate happily charged on into the back hallway like the owned the place.  Instead of weighing her on one of the bucket baby scales, the nurse suggested that she stand on the regular scale like a big kid.  I figured that Kate would love that.  She has watched me weigh myself many, many times and we had even practiced a few times at home.  I was so proud of myself for being prepared.

Don't worry.  Kate made sure to knock me off my high horse pretty quick.

The nurse put a paper towel down on the scale and I took off Kate's shoes and placed her on the scale.  And then I had the nerve to let go of her hand.  She freaked out.  She collapsed in a heap while trying to scale my body at the same time.  She screamed so loudly that nurses from down the hall and at the front desk were craning their necks to witness the toddler meltdown at the big kid scale.

It only got worse.

We went into the room and decided that we would weigh Kate in the bucket scale.  Since she was already undressed and we had to walk back out into the hall to get to the scale, the nurse gave me a tiny little pediatric hospital gown for her.  Of course, Kate thought it was a dress and she went back to parading around like a fashion model.

However, her fashion show was short lived and soon anything the nurse did sent her into hysterics.  This poor nurse told me that she wasn't even in pediatrics and was only filling in for another nurse.  She put her stethoscope on and Katelyn screamed at her.  She tried to listen to Kate's heartbeat and was screamed at.  She washed her hands and was accosted by angry toddler screams.

By the time the doctor walked in, Kate had taken a moment to calm down.  She was back to marching around the room in her fancy gown.  When the doctor walked in, she carefully kept her distance but continued walking around as he and I were talking.  He asked me whether she had been weaned from the bottle and I had to answer honestly.  This girl loves her bottle.  A bottle is like a pacifier in our house.  It's calming and soothing and she needs one to get to sleep.  It's a serious habit.  I do try and limit it to nap time and bed time though.  As I was explaining this to the doctor, Kate thought of a new way to embarrass me.

As soon as the words "she only drinks from cups during the day" left my mouth, Katelyn found the bottle I had packed in case of the meltdown I was expecting and popped it into her mouth.  She then pranced around as if she knew the comedic timing of her actions.

Luckily, her doctor has a sense of humor.  "It's her emergency bottle," I sheepishly explained.  We both had a good laugh and then it was time to examine baby Kate.  I picked her up and put her on my lap and the moment she and the doctor made eye contact, she erupted into screams of terror.

I tried keeping her calm but the terror quickly turned into rage and the screaming only got worse.  Pretty soon, I thought to myself, "If she could talk, she would be swearing right now."  Seriously.  The volume and cadence of her voice in combination with the intensity of her screams made it sound like gibberish curse words.

Of course, the immunizations didn't help our situation.

By the time everyone left the room, Katelyn was covered in sweat from the struggle.  I was exhausted and felt unsure if I could muster enough strength to walk out to the car.  The worst part is I had to use the restroom.

Anyone with a toddler knows that there are a few rules of going to the bathroom that are quickly enforced when you have children.  One is that you will never be alone again.  Almost everything you do is a spectator sport to a toddler and using the restroom is no exception.  Don't even think about trying to lock them out.  They will find you.  The second rule is to never use a public restroom.  Parents and toddlers view everything from a different point of view.  To an adult, a public restroom is a breeding ground for germs, invisible feces, and other forms of general nastiness.  To a toddler, it is a magical wonderland of fun and excitement.  They are unsure why our mobility seems impeded by sitting on that porcelain hand splasher.  All they know is they've got a good chance of escape to lavatory freedom.  The last time I took Kate with me to a public restroom, she crawled under the stall.

I couldn't hold it this time.

We got into the stall and I sat down trying to hurry and entertain Katelyn all at the same time.  I spotted a seat cover dispenser.  Bingo.  I quickly pulled out one of the papery rings and handed it to Kate thinking she would love wearing it as a necklace or listening to the crinkle paper.  Babies love crinkle paper.

I thought wrong.

In my haste to entertain Katelyn, I forgot that those sanitary covers are made from the same material as the paper that covers the bench in the doctor's office.  Kate took one look at that paper and freaked out.  It was an epic freakout.  I was confronted with the choice of chilling on the toilet for the next fifteen minutes trying to calm her down or making a hasty escape with an angry terrorized toddler screaming in my face.

I chose the second option.

It's a wonder we made it out alive.  Luckily it was nothing a Happy Meal and a trip to the Dollar Store couldn't fix.

#tbt - schoolmarm

Last week, Lauren and Katelyn and I went on a shopping expedition to Kohl's.  Immediately, upon entering the store, I was hit with the fragrance of "Back to School" shopping.  The smell of fresh leather purses, squeaky clean rubber shoe soles, newly manufactured fabrics, and a strange mixture of perfumes took me back a couple of decades.

I was reminded of the hot August days, spent in the safety of air conditioned department stores, searching for a new wardrobe for the school year.  My mom would make us wiggle our toes in tried on shoes so she could determine "room to grow."  We picked out new shirts, new jeans, and new bags for our books.

While most kids are known for their propensity to complain during long drawn out shopping trips with their siblings and mother, I thought it was magical.

Before you get all, "Oh, how cute.  She's a natural born shopper," let me clarify.  I hate shopping.  I HATE shopping.  I always have and I always will.  To me, it was magical because it meant it was time to go back to school.  The excitement of stepping foot inside a new classroom with a freshly filled backpack and clothing still creased from being folded was so wonderful it outweighed the pure torture and misery of shopping for clothes.

I am that big of a nerd.

I love school so much I went to more school specifically to continue going to school.  I chose teaching because I love school so much, I wanted to be in charge at school.  One year, at the close of the third grade, my teacher told us we could take our textbooks home because they were being phased out.  I'm sure most of the books ended up at Goodwill or the trash, I brought mine home and set up a stuffed animal classroom.  Each June, when my friends were singing, School's out for summer!  School's out forever!, I was always glad that school wasn't actually out forever and I sort of wished it wasn't even out for summer.

Twenty years later, I had graduated from college with a freshly inked diploma and a license to teach in the state of Utah and absolutely no job.  I woke up the first morning of the semester to drive Dave to school and I held it together as I watched Dave walk across the campus lawn and into a classroom and then I cried the whole way home.  Then I crawled back in bed and cried for about an hour more.

It all worked out in the end.  I finally got a job teaching tenth and eleventh grade and I loved it.  When Kate was born, I felt at peace with the school chapter of my life finally coming to a close.  It felt right and, besides, motherhood is such a long and complicated chapter, I had plenty with which to occupy myself with.

Now that I'm past the shell shocked phase of being a new mom and into the always shifting ever changing toddler years, I am even more at peace.  I love being a mom and I love spending all my time with this beautiful, silly, funny baby girl.

And yet, last night, after a day of "back to school" shopping, I had the most wonderful dream that I was back in my classroom on the first day of school.

what's a motto with you

I am almost cringing as I write this post.  I know that within the next twenty four hours my mom will read this and think to herself, "I told her so."  Which, I guess is better than, "I told you so."  Although she might even save that for when she sees me next.

I guess I should explain first.

All outlets of social media have been flooded today with pictures and comments and accounts of kids going back to school.  I actually love the back to school season and am feeling kind of bummed that I'm not part of the fun this year.  I have been living vicariously through Facebook's back to school adventures.

One of the things I have noticed from a majority of the Mormon mommy blogs is a family theme or motto for the school year.  Parents choose a phrase or quote or concept to focus on throughout the school year.  It is a recurring lesson for Family Home Evening as the family focuses on improving whatever aspect or trait is the goal.  Mothers host elaborate "Back to School Feasts" complete with handcrafted glittery crowns personalized for each child and a gourmet dinner served on fine china.

I've always been attracted to this idea.  First of all, I love a good craft and I'm always looking for a reason to bust out the glitter.  Also, I love a good party and my mom always treated my brother and sister and I to a special meal on the last day of summer vacation.  I also like the idea of choosing a theme for the family to focus on throughout the year.

"I will do this when Katelyn starts school," I thought to myself and that was that.

I'll admit, I felt envious when I saw pictures from other "Back to School Feasts" and I kind of wished Kate was old enough to understand the concept.  But really Dave and I are much too old for that kind of thing.

Or so I thought.

Then the sun dawned on this morning, the first day of school.  We were out of milk which, as anyone with a toddler knows, is akin to running out of clean drinking water or toilet paper.  We were also out of toilet paper... and napkins... and paper towels.  I told Dave that we had no choice but to stop at the gas station on the way to the bus stop for such essential items.

Dave was nowhere near being ready.  He takes more time than an average female to get ready.  I have teased him about this many times but he never speeds up the process.  Dave has the speed of a snail trudging along a trail of corn syrup in the morning.  He had not ironed his shirt and I had not packed his lunch and we had to take a moment to search for the keys.

We frantically drove away and I watched from the car as Dave paced around the back of a long line at the gas station.  He looked like a caged lion.  It was tense.  I think babies have some sort of meter to detect the amount of tension in the air.  It's like once it reaches a few levels past discomfort for their parents, they activate the "crying for no good reason" sequence.

We pulled up to the bus stop only to watch the bus drive off.  Those drivers are ruthless, by the way.  They will see you running across the parking lot like it was the hundred meter dash at the Olympics and stare you in the eye as they pull the lever to close the doors of your finish line.

So Dave had to drive to work this morning.  Which isn't really that big of a deal unless you have anxiety and the thought of your husband driving to the Med Center in a rain storm gives you IBS.  Also, I don't know if you have noticed lately, but gas is getting pretty expensive and the cost of parking at the hospital for the day is twelve dollars.  Twelve!  That is like twelve Diet Cokes.  Also, now I am without a car and I'm stranded in this apartment and I just burned the life out of an empanada in the microwave and the whole place is filled with smoke and I would really love to just get out of here and walk around the dollar store.

I guess I should get back to my point.

Anyway, Dave helped me up the stairs with Kate and the gallon of precious, precious milk and the toilet paper that cost a dollar a square because it was from the gas station.  We collapsed on the couch because Dave had about half an hour before he needed to leave.  Out of breath and stressed out, we were both mentally reviewing the events of this morning.

"You should have ironed your shirt last night," I spat out like an angry old witch.

Dave apologized and I felt bad.

"I should have packed your lunch," I sighed, wishing I hadn't just sounded so nasty.  "And we really need to check the status of milk and toilet paper on Saturday.  This has just happened too many times."

Dave apologized again and I felt even worse.  That last one wasn't even directed towards him at all.

Then I came to the conclusion that perhaps we did need a family theme for the school year.

The Robertson Family Theme for the 2013/2014 School Year is...

"Be Prepared."

Unfortunately, I'm certainly not prepared to throw some sort of "Back to School Feast" or anything.  In fact, I was planning on serving leftover spaghetti for dinner tonight.  Perhaps I will strap Kate into the stroller and walk on over to Aldi's for a frozen pizza or something.  We're fancy like that.

Anyway, the point is, there have been too many instances where we are simply not prepared.  Not prepared for work, not prepared for church, not prepared for dinner, whatever.  It makes life feel crazy when we really don't have that much going on.  I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be enjoying these carefree days of only one child and a small apartment that's easy to keep clean.  Why do I always feel so out of control?

Here's the part where my mom breaks in and says to me, "I have been saying this all along.  I told you that you just need to get more organized.  I have some helpful hints and ideas to help you stay on top of things."  Insert eye roll.  She'll notice the eye roll and ask if I'm looking for my brain.

It is true, I guess.  I've been hearing the whole "you should be more organized" speech since middle school.  I am notoriously disorganized.  It does make me feel stressed out.  I probably should be more organized.

So here's to you, Mom.  I'm sending you an eye roll and a thank you for the many times you bailed me out.

Actually, just kidding about that frozen pizza.  We ate the leftover spaghetti.  I just wasn't prepared for a walk to Aldi's in the rain.

#tbt - sister sister

Today was a sad day because I had to say goodbye to my sister Lauren as she packed up to fly north for the winter.

I tried unsuccessfully to convince her to simply transfer down here and start going to UH.  She cut me off before I could explain that she could crash here.  The walk in closet is already occupied by Katelyn but I was pretty sure Lauren would be comfortable sleeping on the couch.  She could fall asleep to the soothing sounds of any of the five TV stations we receive.  We can't offer much in the way of social attractions but last night Dave and I played a pretty rousing game of Scrabble in which, at the end of the game, I flung the game board into the air, laughing hysterically as the little wooden pieces rained back down on us.  As I was cleaning Kate's toys this afternoon, I was almost certain I would find a lettered tile or two.

My family is historically bad at goodbyes.  We take it beyond a normal level of tearful sadness.  I think it's an anxiety thing.  The whole last day gets turned into a dismal "party" that we are trying to enjoy.  Each hour grows weepier than the last as the number of times the phrase, "This is just so sad" increases.  We really don't like saying goodbye.

Sure enough, as we stood around in my kitchen next to the front door, things got even more pathetic.  Saying goodbye in my family is like trying to remove a stubborn bandaid.  We each have our own method of choice.  When Jack went into the MTC and we knew we weren't going to see him for the next two years, he chose the "rip it off quickly" approach.  When the time came, we each got one quick hug and he was gone.  My goodbyes always seem to be drawn out.  I was the kid who was convinced that the easiest way to remove a bandaid was to slowly and painfully pull on the adhesive, bit by bit until you got to the end.

Kate, of course, was running around completely oblivious.  She kept trying to goad a tearful Aunt Lauren into another game of chase.  She was blissfully unaware and had no concept of a longer term goodbye.  All she knew was that Aunt Lauren was asking for three times as many hugs and kisses as usual.  When Aunt Lauren finally did walk out the door, I'm sure Katelyn's innocent toddler mind was expecting her to walk right back in tomorrow morning to go swimming with us.  Somehow, her complete ignorance of time and her inability to understand missing someone made the situation even more sad.

So forgive me if I'm a bit melancholy tonight.  It seems fitting to devote this Throwback Thursday to sister memories.

My first memory of Lauren was before she was even born.  I was five years old when my parents found out she was a girl.  I was so excited and imagine playing dress up and Barbie dolls with this new "baby" in just a few months.  Imagine my surprise when all the baby did was sleep.

When she finally did get old enough to play Barbies with me, my parents bought us a Barbie Fold n Fun house that I'm sure they deeply regretted every time we asked them to set it up.

At some point in our childhood, it was decided that we were going to share a bedroom.  This made for some epic late night screaming matches.  We slept on a blue metal bunkbed and I somehow was assigned the top bunk.  (To this day, Lauren claims that she falls out of bed frequently.)  Lauren would put her feet up on my mattress and kick me in the back for sport.  Sometimes I would laugh about it and think it was funny and sometimes I would be annoyed.  Sisters can be loose cannons like that.  The bed was pushed up in the corner of the room against one of the windows.  Once Lauren very quietly and very sneakily climbed up the side of the bed so that she was standing on the window sill and her face was right above mine.  There have been few times in my entire life when I have been that badly startled.  We laugh about it to this day.

When I was sixteen, I broke up with my first boyfriend.  I found out that he had lied to me so that he could secretly hang out with some other girl behind my back.  It was one week before the Homecoming Dance so I had no date.  It was very dramatic.  I remember sitting with my mom in the upstairs loft of our old house crying my teenage eyes out when I heard little ten year old sniffles and realized that Lauren was crying just as hard as I was.  I had no idea why she was crying because she hadn't been dumped.  I realize now that it was one of those rare times when you get to witness someone who loves you so much that they experience your pain and feel sad just because you are.

Years later, when I actually experienced a more serious and life altering break up, Lauren was crying alongside me with a fierce loyalty I have rarely ever seen anywhere else.

One time, we were watching TV and the most stupid show came on with some joke about two women who brought in the same coffee mug and kept yelling, "Coffee twins!"  As if it was some weird sisters dog whistle, we both picked up on some crazy strain of humor that no one else in the room could detect and we laughed, as my mom would say, like hyenas for days.  We still find humor in some of the same things that almost no one else laughs about and we have a nearly identical sister chuckle so that, when we really get cracking up about something, it sounds like one person laughing in stereo rather than two goofy girls.

Of all the people I told about the impending arrival of Baby Kate, Lauren's was the most extreme.  She immediate burst into tears and not the quiet one-tear-rolling-slowly-down-your-check kind either.  She nearly collapsed into a puddle of sobs and it was then that I knew that Aunt Lauren and Katelyn would always have a special bond.

I think that's what made Lauren saying goodbye to Katelyn the saddest part about today.  I am forced to remind myself to keep this in perspective.  She is going to BYU for four months, not crossing the Pacific on a sailboat, not boarding a shuttle for a moon landing, and not being exiled to Elba.  It has just been nice having her around.

Not everyone is lucky enough to have a sister.  No one but me is lucky enough to have one as good as Lauren.

mrs. robinson

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with this post but look at that big giant fish I caught!

When I was student teaching, I had a student who was incredibly intelligent but incredibly lazy.  He was a ninth grader after all.  He would arrive to my Geography class prepared with all the answers and then some but with no homework completed.

Maybe his dog ate it?

Anyway, the student was just very gifted.  He spent the entire semester attempting to do the minimal amount of effort required for an A.  He had learned, I'm sure, through an educational career of advanced level classes that he did not have to do everything to excel.  He could coast by without crossing every jot and dotting every tittle.

This worked well for him until the end of the semester in my class.  He had a ninety one percent.  A mere week away from the semester's end, he realized that he had an A-.  An A- is an excellent goal for nearly every student but, to him, it would be a black eye instead of a gold star.

So he did what every high school student assumes will work, he pestered me every day before and after school.  He begged and pleaded and finally, he cried.  And I just couldn't take it any more.  There is something in my neurotic and procrastinating personality that extended empathy towards this student and his plight.

So I cooked the books for everyone.  I offered a last minute extra credit opportunity to the entire class.  It was an onerous and annoying task.  It teetered on the balance between educationally beneficial and didactically irritating.  Only a few students completed the assignment but this student had an A.

On the last day of the semester, during a teacher work day, I noticed an email in my school account from the student thanking me for my academic assistance with a line from Simon and Garfunkel at the end.

"Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson."

My name is Robertson but whatever.  The reference to 1960's rock was refreshing in a classroom where the students stared blankly back at me when I had mentioned the TV show Recess.

(Coincidentally, Robertson is a difficult name for high school students to remember.  I heard all sorts of versions of my name including, but not limited to: Robinson, Robert, Roberts, Robins, and my favorite, Robitussin.)

Here's the point to my long and seemingly random story: I am a procrastinator.  I understood the problem.  He just kept putting it off and shuffling papers around and somehow disconnecting from the reality of the situation until it was almost too late.  I get it.  I procrastinate everything.  Because, you see, there is always tomorrow and tomorrow, I will be a better version of myself.  I haven't thought through how but I just know that tomorrow I will wake up craving carrot sticks and water instead of chocolate cake and Dr. Pepper.

A procrastinator's favorite word is later.   There is just always more time later.  Time to finish that pesky little task, time to mop the floors, time to exercise, time to lose weight.  But here's the problem.  Later never arrives.  Tomorrow is always a day away and the sun never rises on today.  Thousands of laters later and I am still overweight and miserable.

I'm still miserable.  A series of vacations and "staycations" and birthdays and date nights have set me off track and I have spent nearly a month waiting for later to start things up again.  I'm miserable because, while tomorrow is still in the future, today is right here and I'm sitting in it.  I'm fat today and that is the problem.  How good is the promise of a bright and beautiful tomorrow if I'm fat, tired, and miserable today?

This evening Dave and I took Katelyn for a walk around our apartment complex and I was just so moody and irritated and miserable.  I went through the list of usual scapegoats I try to pin the blame on.  Our apartment is too hot.  I couldn't find my grey leggings this morning.  We ran out of hummus.  The tag on my shirt is itchy.  I'm in the middle of a particularly unattractive break out.  There were people grilling super stinky food a few units away.

Before you point out that several of those issues are my own doing (too disorganized to find my grey leggings, greasy fatty food acne, not grocery shopping a single time over the past week, etc.), let me just say that I already know.  Procrastinators are really good at warping reality to fit our own needs.  I'm miserable because I've dropped the reigns of control in my life and I've stopped doing the things that make me truly happy.  I know.

So I gave myself a pep talk and said, "Good thing tomorrow is Monday.  What a great day to start.  I'll start tomorrow.  Tomorrow is going to be really really great."

And then I inwardly chuckled at the irony of it all as I caught my procrastinating habits creeping back up on me.  Day one starts right now.  I went back home and cleaned my apartment, tackled laundry mountain, and drank a glass of water instead of eating through the rest of the pantry.

Tomorrow starts today.

wordless wednesday - selfies

Okay, so I need to use a few words to explain these pictures.

Katelyn basically went on a napping strike today and decided that she was too big for her crib.  To be fair, though, she stayed in her crib for the duration of nap time while I sat out in the living room, serenaded by the musical stylings of Singing Kate.

This afternoon, we walked up and down every single aisle of Target and she all but fell asleep in the cart.  I took out my phone to catch a photo and this little ham perked right up, gave me a cheesy smile for a photo op, and then grabbed my phone to take some pictures of her own.

Really though, who doesn't want a picture of the Target ceiling in their family album?

wake up and smell the diet coke

 
I had a wake up call last week.

As in, wake up and pee on a stick because I thought I might be pregnant.

I'll suspend the suspense by telling you now.  I am not pregnant.

But for a weekend, there was that doubt and I was faced with facing the possibility of adding another human to our brood.

I thought and thought and thought.

I went through all of the "BUT WE'RE NOT READY!" exclamations that were signaling like flaming giant flares in my mind.  All but one were quickly answered.

Katelyn is still a baby!  Well, not really.  I mean, last Sunday she went to nursery (albeit three months early) and everyday she acts more like a grown child than a squirming infant.  Her latest act of adorableness is to carry around a baby doll and feed it and kiss it and then insist that I kiss it as well. (Does this make me a grandmother?) I have no doubt that Kate will make an excellent big sister.

We don't have enough money!  This is true but we also don't have enough money for one baby and we seem to be surviving.  Things work out, the chips fall into place, and somehow, at the end of the month, the bills are paid and there is food on the table.  Also, we have a solid support system that extends like branches on a huge family tree. (Who said money doesn't grow on trees?) Really, for the first several months, we don't even need to pay to feed it.  I'm a walking, talking, mooing milk dispenser.

Babies are a lot of work!  True again but that ship sailed two years ago when Katelyn announced she was on her way and, truth be told, I wouldn't have it any other way.

There was only one drawback that I just couldn't mentally maneuver.  I am too fat to be having a baby.

Let me be clear.  I was not that newly pregnant woman who had a meltdown over my expanding belly and the stretch marks that were creeping across it.  I got my first stretch marks in middle school.  I figured the new ones would just blend in with the mosaic of old stuff.  I didn't once lament that I would never get my body back.  That was another battle that had already been lost.  If I wanted to get my body back, I would have to hop into a time machine set for the early 2000s.  Once again, I figured this newly created fetus could do her worst and I would still pretty much look the same.

No.  I worried about things like gestational diabetes and the baby not having enough room in there because of all the preexisting fat.  I worried that my health would suffer because of my weight, or worse, that hers would.  Obesity is a frightening word. (Say it to yourself a few times in a menacing tone.  Obesity.  OBESITY!!!)  It's not a good thing to hear in conjunction with anyone's health, let alone a one ounce fetus.  I worried that there would be complications in the delivery.  I worried about the delivery in general but it seemed like carrying around an extra hundred pounds wouldn't make things any easier.

I worried about more emotional fears as well.  What if I never lose the weight and she learns my evil fat ways and becomes like one of those kids on Maury that eats an entire pizza for lunch and washes it down with a liter of Dr. Pepper?  What if she's a runner (she is) and I can't find the energy to keep up (I can't)?  What if I can't fit in with the other moms because they think I'm fat and lazy?  What if I never lose the weight?

As I spent the weekend pondering another pregnancy, the same familiar fears swirled around my brain.  When I found out I wasn't pregnant I was relieved and sad at the same time.  I was relieved because I really am too fat to be pregnant and I was sad because I was relieved and, to be honest, the thought of a brand new sweet smelling squirming infant sounded kind of, well, sweet.

I don't want this to be an issue forever.  I don't want it to be an issue right now.  I'm not saying I'm planning on adding to my sector the population quite yet but I don't want to be freaked out if I happen to be surprised with a wonderful gift.  It was kind of a sad realization but definitely a wake up call.