Poor Baby Brother.

Brother races motocross.

Race, Brother, race.

Brother falls off his motorcycle.

Fall, Brother, fall.




Physics, 1. Brother, 0.

And that was my weekend.

...and stay off my lawn!

When did I become the crazy hermit lady yelling at hooligans? Seriously -- when in the hell did this happen?

A and I live in the heart of the "city," meaning, we don't have much of a yard. Well, we do, it's just deep rather than wide. I can reach out our bedroom window and practically touch the neighbor's house. The side of the house where our bedroom and The Punky's room are borders the next-door neighbor's driveway. Which is quite funny, sometimes, such as last summer when we'd leave the windows open and I'm sure the neighbors heard a few bouts of afternoon delight.

The neighbors have a son who's actually my age, 22. A and I call him Kidney Boy because he has a bumper sticker on his car about being a kidney transplant recipient. He's weird. Not because he's Kidney Boy, but just because he is. I've caught him peeking around their garage when I'm mowing the lawn, which is just creepy and weird. To add to the weirdness, he likes to drive his car with his music cranked as loud as his little factory speakers will allow -- usually death metal. This was just mildly annoying when it was just me and A here. However, now he pulls into the driveway with the death metal blaring feet away from slumbering Punky. Which have I mentioned it takes me FOREVER to get her to sleep in her crib?

I just want to step out onto the porch and shake my fist angrily at him and yell at him to turn that racket down. When did I become that person?

Oh yeah. When I became so totally sleep-deprived that I savor -- SAVOR!!! -- any opportunity I have for a nap. I'm not just tired. I'm not just kinda cranky. I am at the point where FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET FREAKING TAP-DANCING CHRIST LET ME HAVE MY DAMN NAP...haha, hahahaha, heeeeeeeeee!

Damn kids. And next time his Frisbee comes into our yard, I'm keeping that, too.

Five hundred twenty-five thousands, six hundred minutes...

It's amazing how much life can change in a year. It makes me dizzy sometimes thinking about it. Today I got one of my friends' college graduation invitations in the mail and it sent me into my own little walk down memory lane.

A year ago I was graduating college. A and I had decided to up the relationship to the next level and move in together, so bit by bit I was moving my own stuff into his house and getting ready to wrap up the lease on my apartment (which I was never in... since I was always over here anyway). I was completely stressed with senior thesis presentations, final papers, studying for exams, and finding the ambition to actually go to class in the senioritis haze.

My weekends were spent dancing on tables/bar counters and getting drunk out of my mind. I remember my graduation celebration girls' night out... okay, I really don't remember it. At all. I do remember being hungover for two days following it. My three best friends and I would pre-game at AH's apartment and walk to the bars, getting even more falling down drunk, dance in the cages, hit on guys for free drinks only to diss them five minutes later, and stagger back to AH's apartment, where I'd pass out on the living room floor, or occasionally in bed with her.

A and I would go to the bars to watch bands. We'd stay out ridiculously late, somehow make it home, and.... anyway. We were boyfriend and girlfriend and we were the couple that everyone envied, but at the same time baffled everyone because we were the two people that nobody ever thought would settle down, much less with each other. But we had, and have, a chemistry that works for us. Probably wouldn't work well for many people but it works for us.

And then the bomb dropped. Exactly nine days after my graduation, on my 22nd birthday, the jelly bean that would eventually become The Punky started partying in my uterus. Six months later A and I got married in a Vegas semi-elopement (everyone knew we were getting married and just let us go do our thing). Three and a half months after that The Punky was born.

In less than a year, I went from party-obsessed college senior and live-in girlfriend to wife and mom. It was a harsh adjustment... it still is. I remember preparing to walk out at graduation and looking at Irwin, my favorite professor ,who was in charge of herding the Arts & Sciences graduates, and half-jokingly saying, "I'm not ready to grow up. Can I just stay out here in the hall?"

Okay, so I grew up. It's not as bad as I thought. Some days I really miss the things I did a year ago, but I don't miss the person I was. I feel like I had a mental and emotional growth spurt. I just hope the stretch marks don't show.

The new shaken mama

So last night I got to cross one more thing off my list of things to do in this lifetime:

I survived an earthquake.

I say "survive" like it was a harrowing tale of drama and tragedy. All reality, it wasn't. It was just enough of a shake to wake me up, but nothing fell off shelves, walls were not ripped from their junctions and fires and chaos did not erupt. But it's definitely something of note when you live in...ahem...the midwest.

(Don't know what I'm talking about? Read yo' news, fool.)

It was another awesome night of No. Sleep. Til Brooklyn! with the Punky, so she and I were sleeping on the couch. I had just gotten her to sleep and had barely fallen asleep myself when I woke up to the house shaking. These are the following explanations I then rendered up in my sleep-deprived mind, in the order in which they occurred to me:

1.) Wind.
2.) A big train. (Our house is about 200 yards from tracks.)
3.) The ghosts that inhabit our house are fucking with me. I've seen Poltergeist, I know it's possible.
4.) Somehow A is fucking with me.
5.) Armageddon... maybe I shouldn't have been so adamant against the existence of a god?
6.) I am so sleep-deprived that I am imagining this. I have finally, officially lost my mind.

Notice, "earthquake" does not appear on the list -- but the possibility of ghosts does. That is how rare earthquakes are in these parts. I will suggest unproven supernatural phenomenon before I suggest natural occurrences.

A. came out of the bedroom and went to the bathroom, then peeked into the living room to see if I was awake. By then I had decided that whatever forces exist and abound, they just don't want me to sleep. First, I have a screaming infant til 4 a.m., and now the house is shaking for reasons yet unknown? Are you fucking kidding me?

"Is it just me or did the house just shake?" I asked him.
"Okay, you felt it too. I was just thinking I imagined it."

With that, we went to bed, content with our various explanations (none of which involved "earthquake") until the next morning when A read the news online before he left for work. He peeked into the bedroom to til me the news.

"Argarblegrabackgrahahhhhh," was my response. Because, you know, I never sleep. But somewhere in the depths of my sleep-starved mind, I found the news intriguing.

Best left unanswered.

Lately we've been introduced to the glory that is projectile baby vomit. It's not very often that The Punky decides to send all the contents of her stomach flying at an impressive speed and angle, but it does happen. And whenever it happens, I'm not sure if I should be concerned, angry, or just plain impressed. I mean, hey, if she can clear my shoulder and hit the wall on the other side of the room, whatever. It's one less puked-on t-shirt I need to toss in the laundry.

The other night she was feeling especially saucy (and again, "saucy" is code word for "incredibly pissed off at the world and everything and everyone in it, for four solid hours"), the only remedy for which is to walk around the house. I was bouncing/walking/burp patting, hoping to get a burp out of her and, for lack of a more delicate term, get her to shut the hell up. Suddenly I hear a "splat" behind me hit the hardwood floor. I knew what it was before I even turned around, but I turned around nonetheless -- with the same amount of dread as Janet Leigh in the shower in the Bates Hotel -- and there was the milk/bile/phlegm puddle on the floor.

Fucking great.

I'm drenched down my back in puke, The Punky has managed to get it on herself, and simultaneously she had, and I'm totally serious here, managed to take a giant dookie. *sighs* Off to the changing table we went. A, who had seen the whole gory mess, was left to deal with the puddle of awesomeness.

Or so I thought. I realized, in mid-diaper/onesie change that he was in the nursery with me, hoping to provide any assistance he could to his puke-covered wife and daughter. I finished up the changing and cleaning and wiped most of the puke out of my hair and came out to deal with the puddle.

The puddle was gone.

The floor was almost completely dry. It wasn't even sticky. It was like the puddle had never happened. I know what I saw. I know it was there. And I know Bodhi was sitting next to where I swear I saw the puddle, licking his chops like he'd just had filet mignon.

Sometimes it's really for the best that you just don't ask certain questions.

A is for Abnormally Huge

My boobs. They're magic, ya'll.

And not in the way that creepy guys in the dance clubs would tell me. No, they've taken on a whole new magical wonder to them. They cause my child to grow at freakish rates.

The Punky had her two month checkup today and is growing by leaps and bounds, according to the benevolent nurse practitioner (BNP, for future reference). Our newest stats stand at:

24.5 inches long, 98th percentile (up from 22 inches last month)
13 lbs., 13 oz., 95th percentile (up from 10 lbz., 1 oz. last month)
Head is 15 inches circumference, up 13.5" from last month.

Holy hell. Two inches and damn near four pounds in a month?
She's growing like a damn weed. I mean, I'm pretty decent sized (5'10 and 140 lbs.), so it was assumed she'd probably have my build since she was skinny and tall when she was born (7 lbs., 7 oz. and 21 inches). But seriously... baby growth spurts are amazing to me. Based on her percentiles, she'd get an A for growing. Go baby go. My kid is by far superior to most.

97% of children her age, to be exact.

Not funny.

Why, oh why, am I surrounded by people who do things they think are funny but AREN'T? First I had my husband tricking me into juggling a pair of period-stained panties that, mind you, did not belong to me. Now my mother has joined the ranks (or reaffirmed her position on the public enemy list) by handing out my cell phone number all willy-nilly.

Yesterday I had a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. Based on the area code, I knew it was coming from my hometown (it's not the same area code as the anal passage of the world state where I presently live). But I'm anti-social, and I was just about to go clean up another diaper blowout, so I let it go to voicemail. I come back, check the voicemail, and it's a guy that I will call Jimmy.

"Hi [Prego], this is Jimmy Whatshisname, from [hometown.] I ran into your mom today at the mall, and we got to talking, I asked what you were up to these days and she told me how you're married now and have a little girl, congratulations. Then she gave me your cell phone number and said I should give you a call. I'd love to hear from you, so give me a ring, my number is [whatever], and I'll talk to you soon!"

Okay. Nice enough. But let me tell you about Jimmy. He was THE biggest dork in school. Which there is nothing wrong with being a dork. I was a dork. But he was one of those loser dorks that has absolutely no clue of his status, and exists with the same cockiness of the most popular guy in school -- and he thinks the popular crowd is his friends. He wound up dating -- and knocking up -- girls much younger than us, because they were too far behind in school to know that he was completely rejected by people his own age.

I was with the same boyfriend through all of high school, and we were notorious for the on-again, off-again. We were "off" for about one week. During this week, Jimmy asked me out. I politely declined. He then -- and I'm completely serious here, and so was he when he asked -- asked me if we could just "hook up." Jimmy was repulsive on top of being a dork. And he was serious. Want to talk about creeping me out? I was creeped out. And he asked me out almost every day leading up to prom, despite the fact that I had a boyfriend I'd been with for years, and it was assumed we'd be going together.

He was an oblivious dork with a superiority complex who just would NOT GET THE POINT.

And now, five years later, he has my cell phone number thanks to my mom.

This is like the adult version of your mom making you take the geek to the school dance. I know I've discussed with my mother about Jimmy (small town, everyone knew everyone, so I know she can't claim ignorance here). And she agreed that he was creepy and a skeez. And I know Jimmy. I know he will keep calling, whether I talk to him or not. I could ignore the call altogether but he will just keep calling. This is why I don't hand out my cell phone number all willy-nilly. I will sit here and tell you about my taint stitches, my bowel movements, my sex life, my menstruation, whatever you want to know... but my cell phone number is sacred.

This is payback for something I did, I'm sure.

Outed.

Well, it has happened again. I was stupid enough to mention my blog in conversation with my mom, so now she knows that I started another one. A little backstory for anyone who's only known me as Prego -- my mom hates the fact that I blog. Prior to starting up 6 Easy Steps, I had another blog that was, in its own right, pretty cool. The major difference between then and now, however, was that I was not anonymous. Pretty much everyone -- friends, family, etc. -- knew about it. And it came up when you'd Google search my name. Which is cool and funny when you're in college. Not so much when you're out of college looking for a job in journalism or PR, and a simple Google search brings up your blog that is... well, pretty much just like this one.

This was especially distressing to my mother, and considering how much money she and my dad poured into my college education with hopes that I'd find a career... I guess I can't blame them. But it was funny at the time... and even now it's still sort of funny. I'd get FURIOUS phone calls from my mom, screaming at me in what would become legendary voicemail messages. We're talking "You have four new voicemails" and all four would be a consecutive rant where I'd be told she and my father didn't raise me to be so narrow-minded, that I'd never find a job, that I was inappropriate and my humor was spiteful and uncalled for. Eventually I shut down the blog, took about a month-long hiatus, and 6 Easy Steps was born under a completely anonymous pretense.

But now by a slip of my own tongue, she knows this blog exists. She doesn't know the address. She doesn't know the title or anything about it besides the fact that there is a blog on the internet and I author it. But that's enough for her. She will find it eventually. It's like Bodhi when I bring home treats. They can still be in the bag from the store. They could be on the counter, or shit, still in the car. But he knows they are there and damnit, HE. WILL. FIND. THEM. It's like watching monkeys learn how to use tools. It's a slow process, and you're not even sure if it will happen. But it will. Given time and resources, it will happen.

Not that it will particularly stop me. In fact, just as it did in the past, it will probably just spur me on. My mother's opinion of me or my life has never really stopped me from doing anything, much of which eventually came to bite me in the ass, but anyway.

That's really all I've got right now but I will offer a cute story of the ongoing relationship between Bodhi and Baby E. OH, sidenote, I've decided that from now on, Baby E is going to be referred to by her household nickname, The Punky. So a recap: Baby E = The Punky. Okay. Moving on. Bodhi is a two-year-old papillon. He's little, he's yappy, he is spoiled. But amazingly, he has fallen completely in love with -- or at the very least, is completely fascinated by --The Punky. His newest thing is whining and coming up to A and/or I when she is crying, as though to alert us.

Yesterday I had her propped up on our bed and I was getting dressed and making a hurried attempt at makeup when she decided she wasn't having it. She's screaming, thrashing, etc. She's just pissed. Bodhi, sitting on the floor, starts whining at my feet. Only being half serious, I looked at him and said, "Bo, could you take care of that for me?"

I turned around and he's sitting on the bed licking her hand. And she had stopped crying. Totally shit you not. My dog was the superstar of the moment.

He also likes sharing his toys with her during "tummy time," when she is laying on the floor. He will bring them up to her, set them beside her, and wait for her to play. I've caught him violently shaking the toys in her face a few times, too... well, I'll take what I can get. This is my version of older/younger sibling bonding. I'll take it.

Late night rambles.

It's 2:30 a.m. in Casa de la Prego. The world is asleep. The dog is asleep. A is asleep. I am perched on the nursery floor with my laptop, playing the Cardigans. Not asleep. Baby E is asleep in her little vibrating chair, which is vibrating loudly... and we're in here because I know as soon as I move her from said vibrating chair she will wake up, wail, and it will be another hour and a half before I get her close to sleep. It crossed my mind a while back to move the vibrating chair into our bedroom and set up camp in there, but I know when I turn it off to move it, and incidentally, her, she will wake up. And we've discussed where that will leave us.

And so I'm camped in the dark, praying for any one of my late night IM buddies (since that is the closest interaction I've had with my friends in over two months) to get online and humor me til I fall asleep on the floor, next to the vibrating chair.

I'm really glad I decided to carpet the nursery (previous hardwood, like the rest of the house) at the last minute.

Did I mention I have a job interview at 8:30 in the morning? Because I do. It's a good thing I don't particularly care if I get the job or not, because I have the sneakingly cynical feeling that tonight's going to be another one of those nights -- rare as they are, but still occurring -- where if I'm lucky, I might possibly get enough sleep to function tomorrow. Maybe, but probably not.

There's something strangely comforting about going into a job interview when you don't really care if you get it or not. It's like going on a date with a guy you don't particularly like, or dislike, but hey, it's a free meal, you get to get any flirtation you might have out of your system, and maybe you'll get laid. But it's okay if it doesn't turn into a relationship, because it's not really anything you're necessarily looking for anyway. Especially when you're running on two hours of sleep.

The gods are punishing me for bragging about our eight hour sleep night, aren't they?

You want helpful advice? Try this.

Because of the title of my blog, I get a lot of people wandering in here looking for help on various topics. I mostly write about being pregnant, having a kid, caring for a newborn and dealing with a neurotic little dog. I also write about boobs, taints, poop, and various other bodily fluids. And I have a bit of a potty mouth. Put it all together and it makes for some rather interesting Google searches that land people here.

But what amazes me is what people will Google search while looking for legitimate help for legitimate problems. The one that grates my nerves the most is people who look for searches such as, and including, "How to make dog stop shitting in the house." OKAY, let's discuss here. I'm sorry your dog is defecating, pooping, relieving himself in the house. See what I did there? I used a socially acceptable term for "shitting." Guess what? If you're looking for actual help and advice for how to make your dog stop "shitting" in the house, I can guarantee it is not going to be on a web site that refers to it as such. You are a moron. Your dog probably "shits" in the house because you are too stupid to train him, or he recognizes that you are stupid and "shits" in the house because he hates you.

How about Google searching "house training my dog"? Yes, I refer to it on my blog as "shitting" because I long ago house trained my dog (mostly), and because I'm not a moron. You're probably the exact same people who go into restaurants and swear up a storm while loudly complaining, after eating an entire meal, and demanding your meal be comped. NO. No, it doesn't work that way. Society doesn't work that way. LEARN HOW TO GOOGLE SEARCH AND LEARN HOW TO ACT IN SOCIETY.

Seriously. I never realized it, but your Google behavior is a pretty good indicator of the type of person you are. If I ever go back for my master's, I'm going to do my thesis on Google. I think this is even more brilliant than my bachelor's senior thesis on the communication implications of bathroom stall graffiti.

If you are here because of such a Google search, know that I know what you Google searched, and I think you are an idiot.

Oh, and other idiots that land here that I really wish wouldn't: people who search things like, "How not to become prego." Guess what, moron, it's called PREGNANT. Search for something like BIRTH CONTROL. Or, I don't know, STERILIZATION, because if you're Google searching by called it "prego," then you have a LOT to learn before you should even begin to do something that may put you in charge of the existence of another human being. Just get a dog. And learn how to make sure it doesn't "shit" on the carpet.

Then we get the usual icky-icky-poo's, the disgusting people that somehow get here by searching for "how to become an adult baby." YOU PEOPLE ARE DISGUSTING. I work to the point of exhaustion every day changing diaper, after diaper, after diaper, and having a seven-week-old child screaming in my ear. And here are disgusting pervs who sit and shit themselves on purpose, and people who enjoy changing adult diapers on people who sit and shit themselves -- all for a sexual thrill. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?!

Gaaahhh... people. People are just wrong. Just wrong, I tell you.

Just when MySpace couldn't get any sadder...

I was bored and wasting time on MySpace when I stumbled across the MySpace page of a girl I knew in high school. She went to a neighboring school and I played sports against her, and being from two neighboring rural schools, we inevitably ran into each other at parties, dances, etc. Whatever. Anyway. She's apparently an MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) fighter now and fights for a team called "Team Truth". They like Jesus a lot and like to glorify him by beating (or attempting to beat) people up. Damn, if I had known religion was that fun I might have to drop this whole agnostic shtick.

But then looking at pictures of some of the fighters, I thought maybe I'd just join MMA under like, an agnostic team, and beat them up really bad. That way I could look at all the downtrodden Christians in the crowd and say, "See? You still haven't proven anything to me!" Well, maybe kicking their asses wouldn't prove me right, but it would prove that I'm pretty much a badass.

I bet I could beat the following fighters:

(Besides MMA fighting, he also moonlights as child molester.)


(This guy looks like he's preparing to pose for his senior picture and the camera was snapped just shortly before he rested his chin on his fist.)


(This guy has two fists. See?)


(Ol' Hunchie, the team's hunchbacked mascot, was caught by surprise by the camera during picture day.)


(Nothing says hardcore like swimtrunks and male-pattern baldness.)


(Ever wonder what happened to the stinky kid from third grade?)


(His hoodie was chaffing his nipples.)


(The folks at the developmental center think this is really good for Jimmy.)

Yeah, I know I know, I'm going to hell for making fun of Christians, child molesters, the stinky kid from third grade, hunchbacks, bald people, and people with dry nipples. But joke's on you, because I don't believe in it. So there.

Calling the divorce lawyer

He thinks he is just damn hilarious.

Fear not, A and I aren't getting divorced. But he's taking that fine line between funny and asshole and doing a vigorous tap dance on it. Oh, surely it can't be that bad, you tell me. Yeah, well, you weren't the one who ended up holding a stranger's size XXXL, period-stained granny panties.

A buys used DVDs, CDs, and video games at his used "stuff" store. Well, used media, whatever, anyway. People often bring in stuff to sell in mass quantities, and they bring it in such receptacles as laundry baskets, large bags, etc. A will give the customers a price for their stuff, they take the cash, and oftentimes will leave and forget their receptacle. After a week, A will throw anything unclaimed away.

So imagine my glee when A told me there had been a large, unclaimed Vera Bradley diaper bag that someone had brought DVDs in, and had long forgotten. I am a purse whore, particularly Coach and Vera Bradley. So after a long, giddy tard-style "Squeeeee!" I told him I'd be in to pick it up. (A couldn't just bring it home because he didn't want his underling adolescent minions thinking it was okay. So I was to come in while he was working the store by himself.)

I arrive at the store and he hands me this huge, gorgeous Vera bag, dark green and begging to be filled with every possible necessity I may need while being out with my infant. Cue another "Squeee!" and I'm on my way out the door when A mentions: "Yeah, we couldn't buy everything she brought in."

Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever, I'm playing with my new toy.

So I get home and am looking forward to transferring diaper bags, as I am holding a handful of diapers to stick in a side pocket, I find them.

By now you know what I found. But being the tard I am, I took the green cloth ball out of the pocket to investigate, thinking perhaps I had found another bonus treasure. Kids, I have never in my life seen undies so big. And I would call them granny panties, but grannies definitely don't menstruate, at least not enough to create the HUGE FUCKING PERIOD STAIN in the crotch of the panties. Panty liners, ya'll, they're a wonderful invention.

Yeah, A knew they were in there. That is the stuff they couldn't "buy". And he let me take my pilfered treasure, knowing the discovery I would make.

So in the end I put on dish washing gloves and took the panties to the trash outside like they were nuclear waste, washed the bag in hot water and on two cycles, and I kept the bag -- and refusing to use that particular pocket. And A apparently has very large, menstruating female admirers leaving love tokens in bags for him. Bret Michaels he is not...

Holy shit.

Holyshitholyshitolyshitolyshit...

Baby E slept eight hours last night. It only took us seven weeks to get to this point -- though I say "only" as though seven weeks' worth of sleepless, up-til-5 a.m.-screaming nights were absolutely nothing. They weren't. Those nights sucked, and still suck, because I'm sure we're still going to have them. But I haven't had a night of eight hours of sleep since I was probably about five months pregnant. This is huge, people. HUGE.

It wasn't eight hours uninterrupted, but she only woke up twice for boob call, and even then, she ate and went back to sleep. I'm really not sure how it happened, but it happened, and I'm in such a state of euphoria today that I'm actually cleaning the house. I haven't cleaned the house like this since I was on nesting overdrive. It's amazing.

AND... AND!!!... she stayed asleep in her crib for a two-hour nap. Jesus Christ. I don't know what I did to make the Mommy Karma Gods so happy, but I'm banking on it like you have no idea. I'm working to transition her into her crib from our bed. Baby E has spent every night in bed with us since she came home from the hospital. I love the closeness of cosleeping, but I also miss snuggling with A at night (though we manage a three-way mommy sandwich type spoon, which makes me happier than you know), and I also miss having sex at night as opposed to the "Quick, she's asleep in the swing, I'll grab the lube, get your pants off. NOW, DAMNIT! GO GO GO!!!" We used to have spur-of-the moment, throw-me-on-the-bed, let's go kind of sex because it was spontaneous and hot. Now it's like that because we know we have roughly seven minutes before she wakes up.

You may or may not have wanted to know that last part, but I'm just so damn happy that I got a real night's worth of sleep that I don't care either way. It's not like it would surprise you to learn that I have sex.

Maybe I'll get myself a glass of wine and finally start on that scrapbooking I've been meaning to do. I don't know. The world is my oyster today.

Do-it-yourself

I wonder if Marilyn Monroe or Cindy Crawford ever had this issue.

I have a small freckle/mole thing just above the right side of my lip, not unlike these two beauties. It's been a point of pride in my vanity since childhood. And for some reason, it's infected.

Can moles even get infected?

At this point it looks and feels like a zit, but when I try to pop it (I'm neurotic, remember?), it just made the zit angrier. So now I'm left to sit in a dark corner of the house, clearly too ugly to be out making public appearances, with my gigantic angry zit/mole thing, which also hurts like hell.

Then you get deep inside your head about things like this when you're up at 3 a.m. with a screaming baby, and I started wondering if maybe it's a cancerous mole. Isn't this one of those warning signs they tell you about when it could be skin cancer? I don't remember, I didn't pay a lot of attention in health class in high school, but it probably wouldn't have mattered, I don't know if our health books even detailed skin cancer, or if it had even been discovered yet. My school system was rural and poor -- when I was in high school in the late 90's, early 00's, our health books still featured an article on Arthur Ashe and his triumph over heart bypass. Yes, I am serious.

Anyway. I started wondering if maybe I had skin cancer growing on my face, and once that thought enters your brain, it's impossible to get out. The last time I was this health paranoid was when I took an HIV test for my life insurance policy. You just start wondering. There's probably no way it is, right? I mean, seriously? It probably isn't. But what if it is? Who am I? The top of the TV is dusty. My boob hurts. Are there any horse socks? Is anybody listening to me?

Unfortunately I don't have health insurance at the moment and my state-funded pregnancy coverage is up since, well, I'm not pregnant anymore. So going to a dermatologist to appease my paranoia is more or less out of the question. Maybe I could just cut the mole off myself. I mean really, is it that hard to do? A little Orajel on the mole, grab one of those expensive jujitsu-style, shoe-cutting knives we got as a wedding present, and do my own nip-tuck? Is it really that hard?

These are the kinds of thoughts you get when you're up late with Super Colicky Baby E. And I thought the pregnant dreams were crazy...