Not Suitable for those without a sense of potty humor

I am BM obsessed. I always have been. It runs in the family. My brother and dad are similar in their enjoyment of BM's. Not Mom, though. She thinks it's inappropriate to talk about going to the bathroom and J is very uncomfortable about the whole subject so I'll leave him out of it. Anyway, Master P is constipated. It's awful. I discovered it a few days ago. I had just gotten out of the shower and my hair was wrapped up in a towel. I looked at him and he had this awful look on his face and then he erupted into this horrific scream. I thought that it was because he didn't recognize me with the towel around my head. Wasn't the case. He's constipated and uncomfortable. I tried to get him to drink water but he just spit it out. I need to get some Karo syrup and prune juice before I go ahead with the glycerin suppository. Anyway, all of this constipation talk got me reminiscing.

When we finally ended up in Baton Rouge after Katrina we had to share a house with another couple. S was pregnant and the LB was 1 month old by the time we all moved in together. I found a kindred spirit. She too likes to talk BM's. Can you imagine the conversations between a pregnant lady and one with a new baby who like to talk about BM's? There was never a shortage of conversation. It was fabulous. Now that we both have 2 children we spend countless hours on the phone discussing and analyzing their habits. It's great.

It almost reminded me of college. When I first transferred to U of Alabama my roommates drank a lot of purple Koolaid. One of the first things they told me. It makes your poo green. But you probably already knew that.

And then I started thinking about Uncle RaRa and his potty humor. It was actually Jazz Fest about 10 years ago when he taught me the phrase "dropping the kids off at the pool". The memory couldn't have come at a better time. I used to be as obsessed about Jazz Fest as I am about BM's. I went every day from beginning to end. and never failed, someone always had to drop the kids off at the pool. I know, disgusting. The port-o-lets are hot and steamy and not an ideal place for doing that but when nature calls... Thank goodness Jazz Fest is not my thing anymore. Because although the thought of schlepping around in the hot sun with sweaty people getting my feet dirty (I hate getting my feet dirty. That was the one thing I always dreaded about JF) sounds awful, the thought of having to drop the kids off at the pool at the Fairgrounds during JF is worse.

But don't get me wrong. There is a little piece of me who is dying inside to go to Jazz Fest despite the hot, sweatiness of it all and the despite the $50 ticket. (I remember when it was $12. I think I was in high school. That was a lot for a highschooler who got something like $40 a month in allowance) I would love to bring W just for a morning. He loves music and I know he would dance until the day is done but it's not going to happen. So for all of you Jazz Festers eat a falafel sandwich, a crawfish strudel and crawfish bread for me. Sit in the Gospel tent and sing out loud and don't forget to bring lots of toilet paper.

Greyer and Greyer

I’m going grey. Really grey. My eyelashes, eyebrows and hair. and I feel like the more pregnant I become the grayer I get. I don’t really know what to do about it. I love my dad’s grey (white) hair , But his is very soft and shiny it’s very distinguished looking. I have a feeling that’s the way I’m going since I have his hair. But it doesn’t look near as good on me. It’s not soft and shiny like his. It’s just plain wiry. I’m only 36 for goodness sake. So I’ve given in. Yes, I’m an advanced maternal age and I’m grey. I’ve dyed my hair twice in my life. One time I got very subtle blond highlights, not even enough for anyone else to know the difference but expensive enough to make me want to throw up and just recently I tried to cover up the grey and the hair dresser used a sort of auburnish red, since I have that tendency. Again, not enough that anyone would notice the difference unless a. I told you about it b.you were me or my mom and this time it was so expensive I surprised myself I didn’t throw up. And I didn’t even like it. So what’s a girl to do?