It's been the kind of day where you get an email at 7pm letting you know "oops, we read the soccer schedule wrong. Tomorrow's a double header and the first game's at 7am." Yeah. So this is short and sweet.
It occurred to me that I might need to introduce my children. The internet is forever, and I'm not exactly the kind of person you want to admit you know. And I figure that my children will feel the same way. One day they will google their names, and I'd prefer them to not remember large segments of their childhood. Or that their mother was so completely in over her head. I'm sure they have their suspicions, but I don't want to confirm them. And then there is the issue of their future employers. I certainly don't want to open up the whole can of worms that comes with background checks. I can see it now "well you are fully qualified for this position, but man, that's a whole can of crazy you came from. Have you overcome your childhood?"
My oldest child is a girl, nearly ten. I call her Baba. Why? Because there was a point in time where Baby, my second child, also a girl, didn't speak English. Oh, she spoke. But it wasn't English. However, she did have names for both her sister and herself. Baba and Baby. So I kept them. Baba has red hair. Baby has brown curly hair. Baba has blue eyes, Baby brown. Baby looks Italian, you can see through Baba's skin. Genetics don't make sense to me.
About ten minutes into my pregnancy with my oldest son, I started getting sick. Repeatedly. Sooner than I would have liked, I told my four year old Baba and two year old Baby, that there was a baby in my tummy. And then I vomited. Baba brought me a cup of water and Baby brushed my hair, with the wrong side of a toothbrush. And as Baba watched me drink my lukewarm water in a sippy cup, with no lid, she said "I am glad I am having a baby brother Mama, and I'm going to call him Mac." She also told me that Mac would have brown hair. Not so much.
Then there's X-Man. That's a play on his name, and the fact that he's my parents' tenth grandchild. While he was still in utero, I referred to him as "Spare Heir." I was highly amused by that. I figured my son might not be. And since he's about the size of a truck, I'm thinking there's nothing spare about him. I give it a good two weeks before he's able pin Mac. Mac's five, X-Man is eighteen months. Mac has Baby's brown eyes and Baba's translucent skin and red hair. X-Man looks like Baby, if she were a linebacker.
And those are the lives I am damaging as we speak. Did I mention I met their father in a McDonalds?