I'd forgotten how easy one kid was.

Easy and boring.  Papa B took Girl C to the farm for a few days.  Since I have stated my position in that I will not return to the farm until there is running water, I got left at home with Boy C.  Four whole days of no princesses, My Little Ponies, Littlest pet shops, and Mr. Potato head.

Instead, I had 4 days of peek a boo, chasing a baby up and down the steps, cars, and blocks. It was great spending time with my youngest, but I really was bored.  Maybe it was because I was used to going 94 miles an hour all the time when both of them were awake.  I had two glorious naps from Boy C a day, I could just toss him in the car and go and not have to worry about making sure Girl C had pottied, was dressed, and somewhat presentable to the public.  I got loads of laundry done, I weeded the garden, I made scads of jams, I cleaned the house and I made a big hunk of cheddar cheese.  I was so productive!

But, they came home in one piece.  Smelly and grimy, but in one piece.  I'm glad she had fun with Papa B and he enjoyed spending time with her as well.  I'm so happy to have my baby girl back and even though the house was pretty much trashed within 6 minutes of her being home, I wouldn't have it any other way.

UPOTD

If for some reason I'm filming a movie and my scene is a waterslide - I'm likely to screw up the takes on purpose so I can slide over and over again.

Of size and jeans

All throughout my formative years, I can always remember my mother insisting she wore a size 8.  If it wasn't a size 8, it really wasn't considered as a clothing option for her.  SIZE 8 FOREVER.  My sister, mother, and myself all were slim women when all was said and done.  Our body shapes differed, but the mass and volume was about the same.

I've been on a quest for jeans that fit me for a while now since I've put holes in a few pair in recent months.  I usually would find jeans in resale or thrift shops and that suited me fine for a while.  But no pair was perfect.  One pair would fit in the waist, but not the thighs.  Or yet another would be fine lengthwise, but the crotch would be riding up uncomfortably high.  I settled on a pair or two from Aeropostale from a resale shop.

But they were a size 0.

Size 0??

In high school, I was a 6.  In college I was a 4.  Then 2.  Now I'm a 0.  My age is increasing, but my waistline is like a countdown to a shuttle launch.  Now, I'm no Twiggy, but I'm slim.  I have no caboose and my hipbones protrude.  But there are women out there slimmer than me with no curvature.  What size are they?

Are women really that vain that they care so much about the number on their tag more than they do the fact that the clothes actually fit?  I really don't care about the label.  I care that my pants fit, don't drag on the floor, don't show my ass crack, and make me feel as good as possible while wearing them.  If the tag says 8, then fine.  If it says 10, then fine.  But I wish manufacturers were held to a standard like shoes or bras.  Sure - there'll be variants from retailer to retailer, but at least I know what general size I am or should be.

Back to being a size 8.  My mom has lost weight (probably due to her mild anorexia, but that's a whole other novel in and of itself).  She needed new pants.  Badly.  So I bought her some pants that looked about right.  Guess what size?  0.  She took one look at the tag and said, "There's no way I'll fit in those!"  Lo, and behold - they fit her.  Of course she won't wear them because for some sick reason she likes wearing baggy ill-fitting clothes.  She seems to think that martyring herself by wearing clothes that don't fit, all while sighing, "I went so many years without buying clothes for myself so you and your sister could wear new clothes..."  Right.  then why do I remember size 8 so vividly?

I hope that retailers don't eventually go overboard on the vanity sizing.  We'll all be some variant of size 0.  Or 0 to the negative power.