Apparently from clouds. That’s not quite how the lower half of my body remembers things but is how Ben chooses to relay the story of Ellie’s arrival to Ellie. Granted, at the tender age of two, going into detail about those things is overkill. However, between eventually having to correct that small bit of information and me holding twenty hours of labor and two hours of pushing over her head every time she thinks about smart mouthing me as a teenager, we might be lookin’ at some serious therapy bills.

One Halloween when Ben and I lived in Champaign, we were winding down the trick-or-treat portion of the evening with festive pumpkin beer. The doorbell rang. When we answered it, there were two dads holding onto their exhausted small children or at least portions of their costumes. They immediately commented that we had the right idea and that they had been duped by their very wise wives.

Anyway, I totally gushed at the cutest, tired, two-year-old lamb and a three-year-old shepherd who was way too exhausted to carry his shepherding accessories. One of the dads commented to the other, “See?! Their costumes aren’t obscure.” Apparently, the old lady three houses down answered her door and remarked “What a cute kitty and Arab.”

One of the best art professors I had in college looked like an ancient, leather-bound book and smoked camels, unfiltered. He was a real sidler. Life Drawing was another name for a course where you draw live naked people (not as in the opposite of dead, just that the naked people are in front of you). Preference was always given to art majors and if seats were available, any Phi Beta Dooda could sign up. Thankfully, they were weeded out pretty quickly for gawking and not drawing.

Hour two into one class, I heard my professor whisper in my ear, “Your tits look like headlights”. I dropped my charcoal and covered my boobies. I then heard the unwavering voice say, “Not yours. The ones you’re drawing.”

When I was in grad school all of my classes were in the evening. Not a bad gig until it started to get dark at 8pm and class was finished at 9pm. I had a three block walk from the parking lot to my dorm. Having watched my share of Lifetime tragedies, I was armed with knowledge and a set of keys in my fist looking much like a Freddie Kruger rookie. I surveyed my surroundings like a CSI expert and walked as if I were late for a flight to the Cayman Islands.

One particular evening, campus was very still. Not another soul in site. I proceeded as usual on my trek. Shortly after I started, I heard footsteps behind me in the distance. I quickened my pace and felt my adrenaline kick in. The footsteps were getting increasingly louder and faster. Seconds later, I could feel my heartbeat in my ears and the breath of the person behind me. Without hesitation, I spun 180 degrees, dug my feet into the concrete with fists up in a true boxer stance. “HiiiighhYaaaaah!!!” came from the bottom of my lungs.

The jogger grabbed his chest and I’m pretty sure, shat his pants. I apologized profusely and recommended for health reasons and the possibility of future children, he may want to consider a lovely daytime run.

The name “World Cup” makes me giggle.

Ellie: Mom, I’m gonna make Grandpa soup.

Me: Well honey, that’s so nice. I think he’ll really like that. What kind are you going to make him?

Ellie: No. I’m going to make GRANDPA soup. He has to take off his shirt and diap and then get in the pot so I can stir him.

This was a stay at home in our jammies kind of day since it was 95 flippin’ degrees out and they don’t make arctic freeze wonder bras. Finally, at 3pm I had to make a big decision. For what can I muster the energy to make for dinner? Ice cream? Blueberry vodka and lemonade? In the end, grilling won over. I agreed to plan and shop. All Ben had to do was take Ellie with him to exchange our depleted propane tank for a new one. Oh and yeah, change her out of her pink “Five Little Monkeys” pajama top and non-matching forest green knit capris that are covered in paint. Upon my return from the store, Ellie was still donning her worst-dressed.

Me: You guys haven’t gone yet?

Ben: Yeah. We did.

Me: [mortified] You took her like that!?

Ben: Yeah. And, we have to be sure to watch the 6 o’clock news because the fashion police were at the hardware store. We TOTALLY got busted.

I didn’t even have the stomach to ask if she had shoes on. This is why mothers are in charge of “accident underwear”.

A few months ago, I paid a bill, online to Missouri Water for $29,543.71. Surprisingly, it bounced. I can’t look at that number and even begin to figure out how I messed up that entry. At this rate, it’s just going to be a few short months before I’m wearing my underwear outside of my clothes, drooling into a cup, and shouting at squirrels in the yard to stop talking about me in Chinese to the neighbor’s french bulldog. For those who will be left caring for or visiting me, just smile and nod a lot, and please make sure the gown covers my hoo hee.

I didn’t know Bea Arthur was dead!

My worst nightmare (next to being doused with gasoline and set on fire) is coming true. It’s the end of the afternoon nap which is going out like a true-to-life Linda Blair exorcism. We returned our little urchin to bed several times today. Over the course of forty five minutes. The point at which the napping demon left Ellie’s body, we heard the following – through sonic wave, deafening, beating the door down with feet and fists, someone just stabbed me in the eardrum with a sharp pencil, fits of rage:

AAAAAaahhH! I am FREAKING OUT! [slight pause]

I GIVE UP! I GIVE UP! [slight pause]

SOMEBODY! HELP ME!

Then, the napping demon was gone. Ellie, very calmly through huge tears, simply stated, “Mama, I don’t think I’m very good at sleeping.” She then got out of bed and began playing like nothing happened. Meanwhile, I searched my closet for my black pill box hat and lace veil, black dress, sensible black pumps, and ultra-soft tissues to begin my three weeks of mourning. In lieu of flowers, please send tequila.