I am not worried that playing with the Toy Story 3 Workout Barbie will give my daughters a poor body image. I am worried they will think they should work out in blue Lamé and heels. I call this Barbie "Stinky Snatch Barbie," so my girls will understand that trampy-looking synthetics and exercise are not a good match. The latest news, reported by my nanny this evening, is that Workout Barbie's head falls off if you don't push it all the way down on her neck. She ends up looking like a long-legged dwarf, but it stays on. This is now an important piece of information. If S.S. Barbie comes to the Y and her head doesn't come home, all hell might break loose.
The minutia is endless. Obviously I need to remember which kid eats what. JP loves olives and capers but hates red sauce. Steel hates sweet potatoes. Toby doesn't like avocado. The whereabouts of the sippy cups drives me mad, but there are other sippy-cup related facts: the Lightening McQueen sippy cup with the faded picture on it is the "dirty baba" and can only be given to Toby because she's too little to care. The yellow sippy cup is the only other one that doesn't leak, but the stopper comes off if they shake it hard enough which they all do intentionally.
Important clothes facts: you have to stretch out the arms on Steel's favorite sleepy suit to get her in it, and same for Jack Peter's favorite turtleneck to get his head in it. Tim doesn't know any of these facts, and he survives. He ignores them as they are wailing, "NOT THE DIRTY BABA!!!!" and he puts them in whatever clothes are handy chuckling through the protestations. I could probably do the same, but maybe I enjoy the games. Does keeping track of it all keep me from getting bored?
The only time it all gets to be mentally too much is when I'm pregnant. When people buy pottery I give them funny cards. The favorite is: "You're probably thinking this card is going to say that this piece of pottery was made by the loving hands of some underprivileged person...I hate to disappoint you, but it was made by an over-educated girl in Philly who is going to blow the money on some over-priced moisturizer." Another one says, "I'm pregnant. I'm also a potter. I'm not complaining, but pottery is mindless. It gives me a lot of time to think about how much I love Swedish fish." I've been pregnant 6 times in the past 4 years, so it's often true.
Pottery also gives me a lot of time to think the following: Is it a boy or a girl? Wait, what was that? (gas) Is something going wrong? What happens if it's not normal? When do I do the testing for that? What will we name it if it's a girl? When will we put him/her in daycare? Where will him/her sleep? God, wouldn't it suck if I had a colicky baby? There are more thoughts like this, and they go in a rotation. I come home to the sippy cup/Barbie thoughts, and by the time the kids go to sleep I am desperate for some escapism.
This is why Tim and I watched 3-4 episodes of "Friday Night Lights" every night for the past month. We could watch it instantly on Netflix, so there was no stopping us. It was like crack.
Sadly I lost the baby. Physically it was the easiest of my 3 miscarriages. It also happened on the day we were attempting to process the death of Ian, the 11-month-old baby of a friend of ours, who inexplicably stopped breathing. In the face of that, losing the beginnings of our 4th child didn't seem so bad.
Needing to watch "Friday Night Lights" is a poor excuse for not blogging. But how good would the musings of a hormonal lady consumed by her own bodily functions and Barbie's feminine hygiene be? It's best I spent the past month trying to decide whether I prefer Matt Sorensen or Tim Riggins.
