Lucky for you, a Trojan virus has attacked my computer and limited my word vomit and screen time- there’s way too much to share.

My identity has been stolen and my credit cards have been recreated and used in Italy at several art dealerships to the tune of several thousand dollars.  The good news…  they were declined.   Good call CitiBank.  When they called and asked if it was me, I told them any charges that weren’t made at a grocery store in Missouri wasn’t me- I’m glamorous like that.

It’s official… to quote my doctor (and another reason I love him besides him looking at my chart wrong and thinking I was only 34)… “yep, you’re knocked up.” The heartbeat has been seen- only one- praise GOD!  ETA is sometime in November.

There is a bottle of Glucola in my fridge, insulin needles and lancets on my dresser- I’m ready to get my diabetic groove on (for the 5th time!) and the bad attitude that comes with not being able to eat anything that’s not a plant.

I’m retaining water and ballooning in not the cute pregnant way which makes me sad.   I’m a fashion plate wearing my husband’s t-shirts which are the only shirts large enough to encase my boobs- I wish I were kidding!

I’m pukey, but not the good kind of pukey that you get relief from- just the lingering pukey feel that hangs around in your throat ALL DAY AND NIGHT.

I have told my parents and my kids.  Well, my dad read my blog, hello inappropriateness.  Mom and dad were great about it- bringing me to tears and taking a load off.  Most of my kids were excited.  The eleven year old diva has been trying to soak it in.  She doesn’t deal well with life changes that don’t make her the center of attention.  My son is hoping desperately for a brother.  Although we said we we’re going to keep the news under wraps for a while, my five year old has told her teachers, preschool friends and their parents, and strangers in the park- so much for that plan.

Thanks for all the well wishes.  I am still a bundle of nerves about all the details.  I am freaked.  But I’m getting better.

Holy shit, 5?

This was my first thought.  I am going to be one of those people.  You know ‘em.  You wonder why they don’t get a hobby or watch more TV.  Next time you stare unapprovingly, I’ll smile and wave.  Or flip you off, whatever.

My second thought… condoms don’t onlyfail for 16 year olds in the back seats of cars.  Message received.

After that, my head got sketchy.  So many things to ponder.  Names, crib, so THAT’S why my boobs have been hurting, so much for losing weight, car seat, advanced maternal age, I will be pregnant at my class reunion (and sober), I can finally legitimately use the close parking spot at Babies’R'Us, and where do I put another human?   

The entire next day, I sat stunned on the couch, unable to form a recognizable sentence.  My kids assumed I was hungover.  If only.

Then God stepped in, in the form of TLC, and a marathon of a show called I’m Pregnant and…   First episode:  I’m Pregnant and 55. (I’m only 37- I’ve got it better than her!)  Next: I’m Pregnant and in Prison (well, clearly, I’ve got a leg up on her.)  I’m Pregnant and Have an Eating Disorder (girl was skinny and anorexic - yeah, not my problem!) I’m Pregnant and Homeless (I have a home.)

Maybe it’s not THAT bad.  Or maybe I can be on my own episode, I’m Pregnant With My 5th Kid Because of Fucking Make-Up Sex, Unable To Take My Xanax Anymore, In Debt, and Afraid To Tell My Family For Fear of Revolt. 

I’m freaked.  I’m in denial.  I haven’t told my family.  My doctor picked the WRONG time to take  a 2 week vacation.  Doesn’t he know that I’m unstable and knocked up?

I’m blaming it all on the fuzzy flip flop slippers. 

They’re so cute.  And in theory, a great way to show off my newly pedicured toes.

Except when you’re making your way down the dark stairway at 10:30 at night.  The mixture of the fuzz and the frieze carpet created a sort of Luge effect.  I was down.  I suppose I screamed or maybe it was my ass thumping down each step- thud, thud, thud, but the whole family woke and stared from the balcony.  They wanted to laugh.  So I cried.  That shut them up.

My left thumb and right heel caught my fall.  I thought the only thing that was bruised was my ego. 

Two days later, my throbbing purple thumb kept staring at me.  FINE!  I went to the ER to get an X-Ray.  Protocol…  How did it happen? Allergic to any medicines?  Any major surgeries?  Date of last monthly period?  Fell down the steps, no, no , and I have no idea.  I was told my eggs were drying up and that I was entering a wonderfully sweaty stage of peri-menopause.  I didn’t pay attention anymore. 

Well, because of radiation, liability, yada, yada, yada… pee in this cup.

The doctor returned and her next question was asked with a sense of pity and a tilted head, “Are you late?”

I knew what that meant.  Holy crap.  I knew what that meant. 

“Dude, seriously?”  Yes, that was my exact response.  I should have more kids, right?  If nothing else, to teach them appropriate surfer reaction to life altering news. 

Immediately, I felt no more pain in my broken thumb.  It was numb, like the rest of me!  I called my husband- I would not carry this shock alone!  If I had to suffer, so would he, damn it!  After a few “woah’s!”, I got a, “well, that’s great!” 

That’s what I needed to get me out the door without the embarassment of tears streaming down my face.

I’ve been stifled. 

Constant cliches running through my head… roll with it, every thing happens for a reason, make the best of it, some things are just meant to be… in an effort to help me rationalize and accept changes on the horizon.

I’m afraid of the impending judgement.  It’s ineveitable.  My insecurity has silenced me.  It’s going to be an uphill climb, no doubt.   A hill that I didn’t anticipate climbing.    

But I will make the best of it- there I go again with the cliches.

It’s been a while.  At least according to my dream last night that I was locked out of my blog because I hadn’t written something in so long. 

I’ve had too much to write. 

I’ve had nothing to write. 

You choose.  I could really expound on either and make each one perfectly believable.  The fact of the matter is that life has been going on around me.  For better and for worse.  And I’ve had to deal with it.  I’m still dealing.  Sorting things.  Losing sleep to a racing mind. Trying to balance things and figure them out.

On the bright side, the kids are back at school.  Spring Break is over after 11 days of co-existing with an overwhelming unbalance of  teenage testosterone, adolescent estrogen, mid life crisis, and MY hormones.  Thank God for small miracles.  And Wii.  There was a lot of whining.  There was more debating.  I’m happy to have survived and so were they. 

I got this comment this week…  

i’m more often than not scurrying across the net most of the night which means I have a tendency to browse considerably, which is not normally a beneficial factor as nearly all of the websites I visit are constructed of unnecessary rubbish copied from similar sites a zillion times, on the other hand I have to compliment you because this webpage is in actual fact not bad at all and even has got a bit of original substance, therefore kudos for helping to stop the pattern of only replicating other people’s blogs and forums, if you ever wanna take up a couple of hands of zynga poker together with me just send me a message.

I enjoyed it regardless of the high possibility of it being SPAM.  I am sadly flattered by being referred to as “not bad”.  I have no idea what zynga poker is and I’m pretty sure I have no desire to play, but thanks for the offer. Unless you are the same online poker person that stole my identity on Paypal… in that case… screw off. 

Expectations from me this week should be low.  Anxiety will be high. 

Four kids in 3 different schools.  What are the chances that ALL spring breaks fall together- this week?  When I’m PMS’ing?

Maybe I should play the lottery.

What’s worse?  I didn’t realize it until Friday.  The kids were abnormally chipper and bouncy. 

“We’re off for a week!” 

Sweet Jesus!  Talk about being caught off guard.

I suppose I could look at it as getting it all out of the way in one big swoop, but I prefer things in small doses, except Klonopin.

Home-school mothers… how do you do it?

Forget it- I don’t want to know.  I like them going to school.  Just know that I think you deserve big fat Saint awards and lots of booze.

I’m a hard nut to crack.  I’ll admit it. 

The good friends that I have will tell you.  I am in a holding pattern for about the first 5 years you know me.  I’m guarded.  I have walls up.   But when those come down- you’ll get the mother load- maybe some tears, hold back my hair while I puke, and my apologies.  I will be your friend for life- I just have a long hazing period.  I’m like the friend mafia. 

We moved to this town almost 5 years ago.  Five years of meeting other moms, going to games, activities and the occasional social gatherings- and nothing.  I can honestly say that I have not made one truly good friend connection… you know, the type of person that I can tell my boobs are sore and she wouldn’t look at me like I was hitting on her or hide her kids from me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met people.  Perfectly acceptable people.  Dare I say, NICE people.   I’m just not sure that they are people that would get me and my distorted brand of humor and linguistics.  I certainly haven’t found a person that I was willing to let my wall down for. 

I think that’s why finding friends online has worked so well for me.   There was no wall.  There was no threat of being judged.  I just typed.  And spewed.  I held nothing back.  My indiscretions were laid out for everyone to see.  If it was too much for someone to take, they went away.  But if there was a connection there, they stayed, they commented, they made me realize I wasn’t alone in being crazy. 

And I wasn’t alone! 

I have made so many good friends online.  They’re real and so are the friendships.  They get me, God help them, they get me.   And it didn’t take me 5 years to realize all the things we have in common and to feel comfortable enough to tell them that I have blood in my stool and text them when I have had too much to drink!  Like I said- good friends. 

Thanks to the Internet, my holding pattern has been lifted, and what could have turned out to be a very lonely, sad life in this new town, is now just a sad life in a town with a pathetic woman with all of her friends in the computer.   Yeah, that’s not weird at all.

My mom’s weapon against me and my bad attitude and smart ass ways growing up was “you’re grounded”.  I think it’s safe to say that I was grounded for 85% of my twelfth through fifteenth year.  

At first, it carried some weight.  I would be shattered that I couldn’t go out with friends- for about the first 15 times.  But after that, you just get numb to it.  I began watching more TV and talking on the phone more.  Essentially, my laziness is a result of my groundings- it’s practically scientific. 

The thing is, I remember being an over the top DRAMA queen, and verbose, and smart ass, and rolling my eyes, but as much as I wanted to, I could not control it. No matter how hard I tried, my emotions would always get the best of me.  I like to think I’m passionate.  My mom would argue that I was just a brat. 

Unfortunately, I’m learning that the divalicious, chemically unbalanced apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  My daughter will be 11 on Friday.  She’s been grounded since November- I shit you not.   She’s definitely ahead of my curve.

She’s been begging for a sleepover with some friends and a stay of execution from her grounding.  Yet, her behavior has not improved.  I’m hesitant, but then I’m reminded by my damn conscience of my emotions at that age  and my temper tantrums. 

Then she screams,” you are the worst mother in the world!”  And “this is all I want and then you can ground me for a year.”  Followed by, “I hate you and you’re always on the computer.” And the ever popular standby,  ”you don’t love me.”

So why have I given in?   Because it’s on my terms.  I am leading her to believe that the grounding sticks and there will be NO FRIENDS’ SLEEPOVER.  But secretly, I have e-mailed all of their mothers and they will be here at 6 on Friday for a sleepover. 

Then, starting at noon on Saturday, she’s grounded till 2011.

No, seriously.

If you must shave your lady bits, by all means, do it in a CAR

WHILE you’re DRIVING

TO your boyfriend’s house

With your ex-husband in the passenger seat- steering.

You can’t make this shit up.  Floridians- I bow to your brand of dysfunction.

I made the decision.  I’m sure it won’t come without some regret- eventually.  But I did what I had to do.  And, for now, I’m happy with it.  After all, I am the only person in this house that knows how to put the toilet paper roll onto the dispenser.  Skills like that are invaluable.

I turned down the job.  It was a decision I struggled over for the last week.   My stomach has felt the firey wrath.   I analyzed the pros and cons to death. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.  In my haze, I have wiped my kitchen table with laundry stain remover and washed my face with eye make-up remover thinking it was toner.  Twice.

The control freak in me couldn’t fathom needing to depend on so many people.  One person to drive this one home from preschool, another to watch them after school, another to drive her to her playdate, and another to pick this one up from choir practice and then watch her until I get home.  Composing the daily schedule kept me awake at night.

Ultimately, I decided,  it’s not my time.  The return was not great enough.  My kids still need me.

I think I made the right decision.

I was in the parking lot to comfort my son after getting cut from baseball try-outs.   He’s angsty and 15 and tried to hide the tears and disappointment.   But I was there to soften the blow with pizza and ice cream and pretend I didn’t see his tear stained cheeks as my heart broke for him.   

I was here to blow my sick 5 year old’s nose this morning and say God Bless You after she sneezed 18 times.   

I walked through the grocery store realizing what a luxury it was to have that time.  I did a load of whites and didn’t complain about the 7 socks with no match. 

I learned the dangers of my husband “liking his milk cold” and setting the temperature on the fridge to 32… broken Pellegrino glass and frozen chunks of mineral water.  And I cleaned it without calling him at work at ripping him a new asshole.

I will take my daughter to get her haircut and not bitch about her wanting short hussy layers and side bangs just because it’s breaking my heart that I won’t be able to put her hair in french braids anymore.

I will make my way to Toys’R'Us  to return a defective High School Musical doll that I got her for her birthday.  I won’t even whine to the cashier about both legs coming off as we took it out of the package.

I am grateful that I have the time to do this stuff,  to be present in their lives, for now.  I think  I’m going to enjoy it, while I can.