This is also why the PH won't let me balance the checkbook...

In speaking with someone the other day, I mentioned my nephews and she asked how old they are. Forgetting that Peyton just celebrated his second birthday and trying to do the math in my head (carry the 1, divide by 16, add Pi...), I told her the boys are 18 and 10 months old. She looked surprised and said something about them being very close in age (and maybe something about kat's lil sis being a little nuts).

It wasn't until about three hours later that I realized the numbers I had given her-- numbers that are impossible unless Peyton was born a month early and my sister got pregnant, like, a week later (explaining why the lady looked surprised and thought kat's lil sis is a little bit nuts).

Explaining, also, why I now carry a calculator in my purse in case someone asks me pretty much anything involving numbers.

Confirming what I already knew...

Remember that "Seinfeld" episode where the gang went to see friends who had an ugly baby and had to come up with compliments even though they could hardly look at the kid? The Pretend Husband and I are aware that all parents think their kids are the cutest things ever and took our own feelings that FunnyKid is the cutest kid ever with a grain of salt.

But then we got it confirmed by a panel of judges. I stopped by my hair salon last week to introduce the FunnyKid to my hairstylist, a nice, nice woman in her sixties. I failed to realize that we were stopping by on a Friday, which is old lady day at the salon as they all get fixed up to last through the weekend.

So, not only did FunnyKid get complimented by my stylist, we were asked to walk down the row of chairs as each person paid him a compliment. "He looks like a doll." "Oh, he's precious." "Bless you, you are just perfect." Then we paraded back up the row, collecting compliments on the way. It was like our own personal parade.

I'm telling you; if you ever start to feel bad about yourself, pick a hair salon that caters to older clientele and stop by on a Friday. You will be showered with compliments (either that, or FunnyKid truly is the cutest kid ever. Yes, let's go with that).

Ack! I've been hit!

Yesterday, the pretend sister-in-law asked me if I had been pooped on yet. I proudly said no. An hour later, FunnyKid got me.

The Pretend Husband and I were standing behind our vehicle while I changed FunnyKid in the back area. I had gotten one diaper off and was wiping him down when all of a sudden, poop shot out of his butt and hit me up one arm and across my stomach-- which was more than two feet away at the time. Two feet!

The PH almost fell on the ground from the effort of not laughing at my predicament. I had mercy on him and told him he could laugh. I would have been laughing at the kiddo's talents myself if-- you know-- I hadn't been covered in poop and all (and me having used the last wipe in the diaper bag!)

I'm chalking this one up to rookie error and vowing it will never happen again (while secretly proud of my son's firing abilities!)

Can you believe FunnyGal KAT is a mom?!?

Neither can I! But the broken sleep each night, the poopy diapers that fill my days and the little one breastfeeding off of me are starting to make it seem more real.

My thoughts are scattered these days and if I were to wait until I get my act together to post, FunnyKid will be five before that happens. I just don't think I can manage a real post with a beginning, a middle and an end, so you get bullet points instead.

* The Pretend Husband was my hero during my stay in the hospital for a lot of reasons, including being completely awesome while I was in labor. But he really proved his worth when he stopped me from eating corn after I delivered. Knowing that my nether regions were a bit traumatized, he suggested eating a hard-to-digest food might not be in my best interest in the end (pun intended).

* While we have figured out how to get between two and four hours of sleep between feedings, we were complete newbies during our first night home. Did I say newbies? I mean "zombies." We tried to tag team the little guy with one of us sleeping and one of us holding him (he wouldn't sleep unless he was one someone's chest). It resulted in the PH and I each getting about four hours of sleep total. But the FunnyKid slept great so I guess that's what counts.

* I was probably one of those pregnant people who was like, "Newborns sleep up to 20 hours a day. Which will give me plenty of time to get things done around the house. I'll clean while he naps!" Uh, yeah. Not so much. Yes, he sleeps a lot. No, I don't get much done (I consider it an accomplishment when I get either a load of laundry or a load of dishes done in a day). Most days, I'm forced to choose between lunch or a shower (lunch always wins...)

Each day gets a little better in terms of the kiddo and I figuring out each other and a routine. So I should be back in no time with regular (funny) updates about being a mom (and, if I ever get my act together enough to leave the house, about the joys of Wal-Mart). Thank you for all of your good wishes and, if it sounds like any of this is a complaint, I'll leave you with this (which I call, "Worth It.")