RIP Bambi

I hate getting up.  I loath getting out of bed.  I detest morning. 

My undying hatred of anything that is not sleeping thrusts me into the same internal debate every morning: 

My strong desire to lay on the couch, and go back to sleep while Henry watches Mickey Mouse Clubhouse all morning versus my guilt.

Before you call Social Services, I'm happy to report that MOST mornings my guilt wins and I stay conscious and endeavor to do things with my children... 

Like try and teach Henry how to act like a normal human. 

By doing simple things, like getting him to say a word other than "blue."  Not put his finger in his nose.  Not use the cat dish as a car wash for his trucks.  Not feed Addie goldfish.  Not use screaming as a primary form of communication.  Not laugh at me from time out.  Not lay on top of the cat. 

The last one is actually negotiable because Fatty likes it.

But I digress,

This morning being no different than any other, my guilt won out; I decided to take the kids for a walk.

Before we got out of the driveway, two out of the three of us pooped our pants...

I thought to myself, "No worries, just a small fly in the ointment.  This is going to be great. Just a quick change and we're off."

As you can tell by Henry's face, the excitement was nearly overwhelming.



The perfect morning for a stroll; overcast, 120 degrees rather than the usual 250 degrees we're used to.

The humidity was even cooperating at a mere 99%.   

Luckily, we live at the bottom of a big hill, so I get to really work up a good sweat before we even get off our street. 

We were really cruising when I saw a runner approaching some distance away;

All tan and six-pack abs, I thought to myself, "Maybe we should take strolls more often..."

But then, as Tan-Six-Pack Abs got closer I realized I recognized this man.

The grocery store...mmm...No.

The Y...mmm...No.

Work...mmm...No.

Oh yes, I've got it!

The last time I saw this man was four short weeks ago, when he was stitching up my hamburger vagina. 

My obstetrician. 

The man who delivered both my precious babies. 

The man who has faced the belly of the beast and lived to tell the tail. 

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I am pretty much incapable of modesty; I will show you my boob right now if you want.

But there is something about having a small-talk, chitty-chat, how's the weather conversation with someone who has stared up your VJ (quite literally) and sewn it up like grandma's quilt, not once, but twice, whilst he is all shirtless, tan, glisteny and good looking;

That makes even me feel awkward. 

I guess the upside is I confirmed my follow-up appointment with him next week, so I won't get one of those annoying automated voicemails.

So that's nice.

I figure, we're a mere two blocks from home, it can only get better from here...

No, your eyes have not deceived you. 

Bambi died on the side of the road, three blocks from my house. 

Toe up.

I had to convince Henry that, "Mr. Deer was sleeping, so we shouldn't pet him right now."

I knew I should have just stayed in bed.