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.

What A Difference Three Inches Makes

I caught your attention, there, didn't I? And you're undoubtedly thinking, three inches? She's excited about three inches? Her situation is worse than we thought. Yes, I am excited about three inches. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Of course, the three inches to which I am referring are the three inches of hair that my stylist cut from my trashy mane last Thursday. I treated myself to a pedicure and an eyebrow wax, as well. There is nothing like spending a little money to make a girl feel just a bit brighter and lighter in her Pumas.

I needed some sort of intervention. I have been finding gray hairs left and right lately, and it has really turned my little world upside down. I always imagined that I would age gracefully and peacefully. Not so. It's pissing me off, in fact. Every time I spy one of those coarse, silver, renegade hairs taunting me from the mirror. Anger.

I suppose I needed a reminder that I can still look hot when I need to.

Recovery

We are still recovering from the plague. It has been over a week and I still feel like I could lay down and fall asleep at any time of day.

On a more positive note, I signed us up for a membership at Lifetime Fitness. We need something to shake up the monotony around here. I figured I could stand to have my ass whipped into shape a bit, too. I figured it would give me some "me-time", since the girls will be in the play area while I work out. And it never hurts to exercise. Well, it hurts a lot. But you know what I mean.

More snow tomorrow night. I'm pretty sure this is the snowiest winter I can remember.

Spring, get your ass here. Like, as in, yesterday.

What's REALLY Wrong With Healthcare in America Today

Dying. Am I.

I went to the doctor on Saturday because I could not take the ridiculous coughing fits. He told me, very gently and kindly, that I had a cold. Colds sometimes take a long time to go away, he said. But then he gave me a Z-Pak. You know, just in case it's not a cold. So is it or isn't it?

If this is a cold, I've never encountered one like this. I'm hacking so much that I can't sleep at night. My little one is just a puddle. Her fever has been over 102 for the past four days. I took her in to the pediatrician today. Same story. It's a cold, the doctor said. Of course, her fever was gone by the time I took her to the doctor. It promptly shot back up over 102 this afternoon. Nobody swabbed us to test for the flu, but that's what I'm guessing we all have.

Dishes are piled up in the sink. I have not showered since, well, I'm actually ashamed to say how long. The house is a certified disaster area. It probably qualifies for FEMA assistance. I don't even have the energy to fix meals for my own kids. They have been existing on frozen waffles, Chee-Tos and ice cream sandwiches. Luckily, whatever this is zapped their appetites. Mine too. I managed to eat some toast today.

And speaking of government assistance, here's what SHOULD be happening. Nannies, and not just any nannies, but certified pediatric nurse-nannies, should be sent to my house to care for the girls. A team of cleaning ladies (or men, we're EOE here) also should be dispatched to sanitize this den of disease. A personal chef would be good, too, for when the girls feel like eating again. I should be admitted to the hospital where I would have narcotics administered intravenously, and continuously, until such time as I no longer feel like crawling in a hole and disappearing.

I think I should run for President.