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I got to see my wonderful longtime friend Eleny this past weekend.  She brought her two beautiful boys….twin two year olds, Zack and Vincent.

All women reading this now groan a collective “eeeesh!”

Is she tired?  Heck yes.  Is she up to the challenge?  Heck yes.  Does she want a break?  HELL YES.

Her boys are really sweet, even during their mandatory 2-year-old-bucking-the-system-“No”-ness.  I watched her handle them with a combination of empathy and humor.  My kids are only 18 months apart, and they nearly killed me at that age.  I can only imagine her own frustration and fatigue.

But watching her orchestrate their day made me think of an old joke:

What do you call a dog with no legs?

It doesn’t matter, they won’t come anyways.

Ba dum bum.

So there is my new analogy for 2 year olds.  They are like dogs with no legs.

I don’t know why more people don’t come to me for parenting advice.

As I sat in class all day today, I was uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons:

I was hot. (Blame the pre-menopausal hormones.)

I was the least experienced and knowledgable medic in the room. (Though, inexplicably, that fact didn’t keep me quiet.)

My knee is still painfully bothering me, despite my cortisone shots. (I fear I am looking at arthroscopic surgery in my very near future.)

I’m so fat my hips were pressing against the sides of the cheap classroom chairs.  (Does this chair make my butt look big?)

And something kept pricking me just under my right boob.

I couldn’t figure out what the heck it was.  It was like a needle scraping along my tender under-boobie flesh (that’s a medical term, by the way, much like Pubic Synthysis).

I kept trying to nonchalantly move my bra around in case it was a cat hair or something that was poking through the material.  But nothing I did fixed it.

Then I had a horrible idea…what if it was a bug caught in my bra?  What if it wasn’t a pricking sensation, but a biting sensation??

I couldn’t wait for the next break so I could disrobe and see what the problem was.  I couldn’t concentrate on the lecture because all I could envision was a brown recluse spider injecting its venom into my under-boob. I began imagining the class discussing the protocols for Morphine as I slowly necrotized waiting for the next coffee break.  Then that fear morphed into me envisioning my boob falling off.

I have a healthy imagination.

Finally they called a break. I limped (see knee pain above) over to the bathroom, violently ripped off my blouse and began rummaging around in my bra, bracing myself for the horrible venomous insect I was sure to find.

My fingers found it.  I pulled out…..

…a crumb from the McDonald’s Bacon, Egg, and Cheese Biscuit I’d had for breakfast.

My relief was palpable.

Now, you’d think I’d be so mortified that I eat with such wanton abandon that food ends up in unlikely crevices on my person. You’d think that I would hesitate to post it on Mamaboe for anyone to see.

The way I see it is this:  That was a damn good breakfast.

I’ll be wearing turtlenecks to class from now on.

I went to go see a colo-rectal surgeon last week.  I didn’t need to.  I just wanted to pass the time.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Look, when you are my age, you end up going places you never thought you would.  Some people go to Paris, I go to a colo-rectal guy.

ANYWAYS… without going into any more detail about my personal issues… I was sitting in the office…and sitting and sitting and sitting.  The doc was running way late.

After a bit, I had to go to the potty.  So I went up to the male, twenty-something receptionist and said, “Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom.”

He said, “Do you know the number?”

I paused, “Um, I think it’s going to be number 2.”

He paused.

Other people in the waiting room snickered.

A moment or two passed by.

Then he cleared his throat, “No, I mean, do you want the combination?”

And I said, “Whatever combination it is, is fine with me, son.”

I got called in to see the doc very soon after that.

Maybe one day I’ll get to Paris.

I went to Medic Recert today…all…stinkin….day.  We were re-familiarizing ourselves with the “Trauma Patient” and all of their medical/protocol idiosyncracies.

I sat in the back.

I always do. I hate the feeling of eyes on the back of my head.  Some people call it paranoia, I call it heebie-jeebies.  Plus I am always afraid my underwear is showing.

I have issues.  We’ve already discussed that fact.

So, we’re starting the class, My Captain’s oldest and best friend is beginning the lecture, and he introduces himself to a gentleman who none of us recognize.  Apparently this medic is from another county, but needed our class for his own Paramedic recertification, so he joined us.  He looked a little uncomfortable.

Understandably.  Medics are often weird birds.  Except me.  I’m perfectly normal, except on days that end with ‘Y’.

One of the other instructors tried to put this new guy at ease and started to say, “It’s ok, they won’t bite.”  But then she corrected herself and said, “They’ve all had their shots.”

And we wonder why it’s hard for us to make friends.

It was a long day, filled with multi-syllabic words and strange smells.

I’m not sure why there were strange smells, and I’m not entirely sure they weren’t coming from me.

I don’t do well with long days filled with copious amounts of information.  I tend to get a little spacey towards the end.  And, true to Murphy’s law, we had our practical at the end… our Mega Trauma Practical where we are presented with a dummy who has had rather unfortunate things happen to it.  We are asked to treat it as a normal call, and the instructor watches, critiques, and grades while we try to save the poor latex bastards.

In front of our peers.

Remember the part about worrying if my underwear is showing?  Yeah, it’s not a problem during these practicals because I’m so uptight my undies are crunched way up high by then.

Suffice it to say that by the end of the day I was so tired and discomboobulated I didn’t know my Belly Button from my Pubic Symphysis.  Or anyone else’s for that matter.

My Captain promised he would tutor me tonight……

My Varmint and Critter will be at their Dad’s house this weekend, so we had a mini-Mother’s Day this evening.

Varmint made dinner ….she insisted… and cooked home-made Sloppy Joes.  They were, in a word, aMAZing.  I’ve only had Manwhich Sloppy Joes.  Me! The complete foodie!  I’ve never had home-made Sloppy Joes before.  And my 10-year-old Varmint is the one who introduced them to me.  They were so goshdarn good we’ve instated a “Sloppy Joe Night” to be tradition at least once a week.

Look at my munchkin:

She’d chopped up the onions, celery, garlic, added the beef, mustard, ketchup, brown sugar, Worcherchestershiresheriiresre  (I’m not entirely sure on that spelling.), and then threw in pinches of kosher salt like ANY Food Network star would.

I was so proud of her.  And frankly, it was fun to watch!

I don’t know who was more pleased: Me, for receiving, or her, for giving.

Hallmark has got nothin’ on Varmint’s idea of celebrating.  She gave me a very personal gift of food and love.

Ain’t no greeting card that can top that.