Females

I don't have any boys, so I really can't compare boys to girls, temperamentally-speaking. But holy hell, I gotta believe that raising boys is easier than raising girls.

I am so worn out and mentally frayed from dealing with my almost-five-year-old. She is so freakin' emotional, and...angry? Where does that much anger come from in a 42", 38-pound four-year-old? I mean, seriously, what hard times has she weathered that she feels she's got the right?

Yes, I know how ridiculous that just sounded. She's four, she doesn't know any better, she's still learning, I should be modeling behavior, blah, blah de freakity blah. I refuse to walk on eggshells around a PRESCHOOLER.

Here's what I don't get. I would never have DREAMED of saying, "I hate you, you stupid mom" or "I hate you, you idiot" to my mother. And certainly not to my father. I was too scared. There was fear there. Real fear. The scary kind.

No fear with this kid. And she really doesn't have any "favorite" things that I can confiscate when she spews forth foulness.

Oh yeah, I'm ready for Vegas.

By the way, this post is NOT an invitation for all you well-meaning folks out there to send me comments in which you will gently detail all of the wrong approaches I am taking with my child and offer alternative, feel-good suggestions. Not that you will. I just wanted to save you some keystrokes if you were considering it.

I'm venting here, people.

Crappy Luck and I'm Not Even in Vegas Yet

So I leave for Vegas on Friday, and lately, I can think of nothing else. I daydream about sitting poolside, sipping a 100 oz. pina colada. Complete with the slice of pineapple and the requisite umbrella. I am pulling on that one-armed bandit in my sleep.

And then I woke up this morning sneezing my brains out. And now my nose has turned into a neverending faucet of snot.

Yes, I'm getting sick.

Seriously, WTF? We just got done with the plague a mere month ago. And surely, the gals will come down with it again the night before I am to leave. Which will cause waves of mother-guilt, because how can I possibly leave them when they are sick and want their mommy?

The thing is, Elvis wants me, too. He's calling for me, and we only get to see each other twice a year.

The girls will understand, right?

Wave Your Mouse Ears In the Air Like You Just Don't Care

I'm a fan of the Mouse. Mickey Mouse, that is.

Yes, we just returned from our first family trip to Walt Disney World. That's in Florida, for those not in the know.

I figured that a trip to Disney with two kids under five would be loads of fun for them, and not so much for me. I was partly right. The girls had a hootin', hollerin' good time. But surprisingly, I did, too. I think I had as much fun as they did, if not more.

I didn't go so far as to get a lined, embroidered Mickey Mouse jacket (you know what I'm talking about), but I did thoroughly enjoy having money ripped from my clutches at an alarming rate. We had so much darn fun, I can't even hold it against those Disney masterminds who have thought of every scheme under the sun to separate wide-eyed folks from their hard-earned cash.

I have to say, though, navigating the retail landmines that pop up every three feet in the Magic Kingdom proved a bit difficult. My girls usually are not ones to ask me to buy trinkets and such everywhere we go, but I heard a lot of, "Mom, can I puh-leeze have this?"

We came home with a plastic pirate sword and a light saber and not much else.

I declare, that is no small victory.

I also decided that Disney's current advertising phrase, "Year of a Million Dreams" should be changed to, "Year of a Million Meltdowns". I saw many of those, and experienced more than a few myself, from my little one.

All in all, though, we made many good memories.

I have not written much lately because I have been busy making out with my Lifetime Fitness membership. I worship that place, and I cannot believe that I did not catch on to this exercising thing long ago.

They have a lovely child center there, complete with a gi-normous climbing structure and rows of computers on which the little ones can play games to their little hearts' content.

AND they can stay in there for two hours a day! Not that I ever leave them there for the full two hours. But there is glory in the knowledge that I could. If I wanted to. Just because.

It's like having a babysitter for two hours a day at the bargain-basement price of six dollars per month, per child! Crikey, I'm starting to sound like a spokeswoman. But seriously, folks, you can't beat it. And I'm exercising, and that can never be a bad thing, right?

So I had to go and have a personal trainer conduct a "body-age assessment" on me. What this assessment seeks to determine is how old your body is in relation to your actual age. He had to use those caliper, pincer deals to see how much fat I had on my body. Slightly depressing. But I suppose it gives me something to work toward.

I also had to do as many sit-ups as I could in a minute. The friendly, unsuspecting personal trainer held my feet while I did the sit-ups. Suddenly, I had a flashback to freshman gym class in high school. I had an extremely untimely attack of, well, for lack of a better word, flatulence. I had to feign fatigue and stop doing the damn sit-ups so that I didn't have an accidental discharge.

Friendly fire, if you will.

The good news is, my body wasn't any older than my actual age of 32. He told me that, best case scenario, I can be 23 again. Or at least, my body can be.

I was hoping for 18, but I guess I would take 23.