Super Pooper, Feisty Girl, Sweet Angel and the Fish Killer

This is my first blog entry. Ah! What to say? Where to begin? I’ll start with the cast of characters in this suburban dramedy. Wait, I’ve got to make sure I spelled dramedy right. I’m super anal about having everything spelled correctly. (Talk amongst yourselves for a moment.) Okay, I’m back. Not in the dictionary yet. Give it time, all sorts of new fangled words end up there eventually, like blog for example! Wait, I just looked up blog and it’s not in my dictionary. When was this thing copyrighted? 1988. That makes sense. It was given to me as a gift for my 18th birthday. Not cool, I know. It came from the same woman who bought me tools and an interstate map for other birthdays. I never did like her. But here sits her lame gift after all these years. How did this all come up? Oh yeah, my suburban dramedy.

I’m going to use fake names to protect the innocent. Nah! They’re not that innocent and that’s not really why. Honestly, I’m going to use nicknames so no one Googles and finds my silly blog when they should be reading prestigious professional things by my hubby. (I just Googled him and found some great stuff! I’m so proud.) So, there you have it. If he wants to tell his colleagues about how he’s a serial goldfish killer that’s his business. He can’t blame the blog! So, his fish killing problem aside, let’s dub him Wonderful Husband. He truly is wonderful. Saintly almost. It gets annoying how good he is sometimes. Let’s see how even keeled (is that hyphenated? Let me check the twenty-year-old dictionary…nope!) he’d be if he had my hormones! He affectionately called my alter ego Hormona during my recent pregnancy. How many weeks postpartum can I blame my mood swings on my pregnancy? It’s been 10 weeks since I had the baby and he still appears to be buying it. I’ll milk it a little longer. Hmmm! Milk and baby, that brings me to my youngest daughter. I’ll use the name I like to call her after a succession of full body changes . . . Super Pooper (a slight variation on the mega 70’s hit by ABBA).

My six-year-old daughter, the middle child only until we have another to avoid her being a middle child, I’ll call Feisty Girl. What is it about second born children that makes them such a handful? Small girl - big emotions! She loves big though. Big hugs. Big kisses. Big cuddles. Hormona Jr. would’ve fit too.

When my nine-year-old daughter was born she didn’t even cry. She just looked up at me with the eyes of an angel. (Feisty Girl came into this world kicking and screaming!) She’s had the patience of a saint since the day she was born. She clearly takes after her Daddy. Luckily for me because she was my first child and I was totally clueless. I’ll call her Sweet Angel.

I know blog entries aren’t supposed to be too long, so let’s stop here for today. Not to mention, the school bus will be here any moment and how long is too long to let your baby suck the skin off her knuckles telling you she’s hungry?

P.S. I just spell checked this (of course!) and it didn’t recognize dramedy, blog or Google. Clearly, a work-at-home mom didn’t create spell check. I did have feisty spelled wrong though. Phew! I’m glad it caught that. Feisty Girl would’ve been pissed!