Gestated Cinco has graduated from the school of X-Man medicine taking. Therefore, I get Amoxicillin raspberried into my face four times a day now instead of the typical two. But I suppose I deserve it. I myself feel like squirting garlic oil, hot compresses and everything else homeopathic into the faces of all those who sang the praises of garlic curing ear infections. Nothing solidifies your status as a mediocre mother quite like sitting in urgent care with two babies and three ear infections. Well, four if you count the double twice. Natural cures my eye. Well actually more like my kiddos ears but whatever. Not awesome.

I'm feeling frustrated and thwarted at every turn. As the reality of the end of life has been starting us in the face for the last week, the father figure and I have had some important discussion. We need to solidify our plans and wishes for our children should anything happen to us. Unfortunately, I've been blogging for the last year, which makes finding a home for our five children that much more difficult. "Seriously, you won't even know they're there" rings just a bit hollow. Although I could try the tactic "hey you can't do any more damage than I've done!" Seriously, Cinco just took her diaper off and started eating it. Which is why my blogging is becoming fewer and farther between antics of my babies.

Anyway, I think we've settled on family to raise our hellions  offspring. At some in time we should probably alert them to this fact, although it would make the reading of our still non existent will much more exciting, everyone cowering in a corner bracing for an influx of a basketball team's worth of children.

But the father figure was incredibly insensitive during the more personal aspects of the conversation. I am not a demanding person. Ok, that's not at all true, but he knew what he was getting into when he signed that marriage license. Somehow he didn't seem at all impressed by my list of things that were important. I have some particular wishes for the kids, if he were to find himself raising them on his own. We covered those. But then we moved on to some particular concerns of mine. Most important, that should he hear that something serious has happened to me, please stop by the house first and make sure it's clean before coming to the hospital. Or telling any other family. The last thing I need is to be lying in a coma know that my house is full of people silently judging my housekeeping abilities.

He was slightly listening when I first started outlining my concerns. But I think it was about the time I started mentioning making sure the closets were clean and the drawers were organized before calling my parents that he actually started paying attention. In a "wow I'm sitting next to a real live crazy person" manner. He had a befuddled look on his face as he stammered "what, what huh? No!"

Now this might seem odd to some, but I'm the kind of person who likes to make sure my house is clean before I leave it so that if something happens, the police won't think I'm a horrible house keeper. The father figure's response to that was "Who thinks like this?" Uh, the mother of your children. That's who.

It's not that I have odd priorities. It's because this is what I am. A homemaker. And if I make a messy home, well that's not good now is it? The father figure fails to see the logic in this. I tried to point out that it was a random Tuesday that the news cameras showed up at our house. Of course that was because credit card companies kept sending six month old Baby credit card applications. And refused to stop because she wouldn't send them a letter requesting that they stop. I threatened to max them all out right before Christmas and declare bankruptcy, leaving Baby's credit plenty of time to clear up before she needed it, but that didn't seem faze them. So I complained to the local "On Your Side" reporters. And they came on over. Unannounced. To a home that the father figure had not cleaned up while I was at work because "what's the point, they're only going to mess it up again."

Talk about an "I told you so." You think that the father figure would listen to me when it comes to keeping the house clean. But not so much.

So, if anything does happen to me, no one can come to the house until Merry Maids has left. You would think that the simple solution would be to keep the house clean. And that is the simple solution, but I live with X-Man. Who was greatly outraged that I wouldn't hold him while vacuuming today, he wrapped himself around my ankles and howled "hold me, hold me mommy." X-Man isn't the sort of fellow to help you hold him. If you lift him up, you're holding him, all forty pounds of his dead weight. Which then makes vacuuming and sweeping and the like very difficult. And considering the guilt I had due to this conditions of his ears, the "hold me mommy" pleas won out. Not to mention Cinco is very uninterested in my holding her and very interested on seeing exactly how many things she can fit on the floor. Her personal goal is to take every item in the house and place it on the living room floor.

That and walking. Gestated Cinco just took two steps. I'm not ready for Ambulatory Cinco by any stretch of the imagination. This cannot end well.