NOT a Mommy Blog

But I do admit that I should never read Dooce before trying to type my own blog. I think it has the same effect as listening to someone with a thick accent for a few hours: after a while you just start speaking mush.

Yes, if you've noticed, I'm posting this at 4am Montana time. I think it's God's way of getting me ready to ignore man's laws of time and schedule in order to respond to the demands of the chicken that's right now practicing judo-karate moves in my belly. And, yes, we've been calling it a chicken.

If you've been pregnant (or lived with someone who has been) you might identify with the following story. If not, I'm giving you a glimpse of the chemical imbalance partly to blame for me being awake and eating raspberry popsicles at 4am:

About 12 hours ago I was very hungry and knew I needed protein. So I propped myself up in the kitchen to make tuna salad (only the second time in 9 months I've eaten canned tuna). Into the bowl went the tuna. Into the fridge went my arm to pull out the mayonnaise. Just to be responsible about it, I checked the expiration date. 3/11/09. I called my dad, a man who believes in coasting to a stop 1/2 a mile away from a red light to save just that much more money on gas: "How expired does mayonnaise have to be to seriously be bad?" The answer depended on how badly I needed the mayonnaise. Very helpful. But 6 months expired was too much. And that did it. There were tears. The mayonnaise was expired. No mayonnaise. No tuna salad. How was I supposed to be take care of an entire human being if I couldn't even make tuna salad? What kind of parent keeps mayonnaise 6 months past its expiration date? How on earth was I going to cope?

In the process of banging my head against the refrigerator door in agony (yes, agony. it's my story) I remembered the sandwich Stephan brought home a week ago that came with little packets of mayonnaise. The tears dried up. The salad was made. All was right with the world.

Moral of the story: seems parenting might be more about teamwork than I first believed.

Real moral of the story: WOW- I should really stay out of the kitchen.