Why do I sometimes love to write and sometimes feel like my journal is this old aunt who talks too much that I owe a visit to?
What can I write about... This weekend the girls (the real girls, not as in my women friends who are clearly too old to be addressed as such) are having a Disco party in honor of Peyton's birthday. I will be attending as "hired help" (makeup artist) and the only reason our son and Peyton's brothers are allowed to attend is because Peyton said "they can be the waiters".
I love my kids, I love my friends' kids and I have finally realized that my great idea to be a Kindergarten teacher when I was 17 was actually a moment of sheer brilliance, but as with everything that would have been the right choice for me, I ignored it.
I still want another baby with an unwilling husband. I'm one of those pathetic women who oogle at babies in church, at the supermarket, and anywhere people take babies, and as much as I wish I wasn't like that I really, truly cannot help myself. Just yesterday I saw a 3-year-old little girl at this birthday party who had spina bifida and was just the cutest thing I've ever seen. She had the cutest smile, was so full of life and just amazing...
...and as with most people I've met who have children with disabilities, they considered Mary a perfect blessing, and deemed themselves incredibly fortunate for having her, as she is so wonderfully precious...
Sperm bank recommendations, anyone?
G
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