Confessions of an absent mind.

I guess I should just let the cat out of the bag. Probably enough people have been wondering why I suddenly died.

The answer? I died.

Actually, I am pregnant. But I might as well be dead because the effort it takes me to get Oliver and Colin to their preschool classes is all I have in me. I can do no more. I celebrate if I manage to arrive on time. Never mind that I forgot to hand in a field trip permission form and I wasn't wearing real pants, I MADE IT TO THE SCHOOL ON TIME and I am a rockstar.

I don't know how I got this way. Okay. I know how. But why. Why did I do it!?

I used to think that the temporary insanity plea was just a thing made up by lawyers, but people, I'm telling you: It's real. Only a bout of temporary insanity could have made me listen to Jared and even agree when he said, "One more wouldn't be so bad. We could have one more. Maybe it will be a girl!"

Ha. Hahaha.

"Wouldn't be so bad."

Ha. That's funny.  In case you forgot (like I did, for a while), being pregnant is like a terrible, grueling 9 month long quest. A quest that involves barfing. And wearing ugly, ill-fitting clothing. And stretch marks. And growing to the size of a snow plow.

I remember that all quite clearly right now. It's amazing how a little barfing can jog your memory, no?

In my incapacitated-pregnancy state, I'm starting to realize how screwed we really are. You can't walk through our house at night without stepping on at least 2 different toys. Three times last week I threw a box of cereal to the kids and said, "Enjoy your lunch." I once asked Oliver to change Colin's diaper for me. I'm considering switching to paper plates and cups, because the dishes breed in the sink while I'm curled up next to the toilet.

I am lucky that Colin is still alive, really. In the few hours that he's been awake today, he has already:

1. Tried to eat my deodorant.
2. Spilled out an entire box of Cheerios.
3. Hit Oliver on the head with a die-cast truck.
4. Run away in a parking lot.
5. Gotten his head stuck inside the couch.

If I had two Olivers, I think having a third kid might be okay. Oliver is at an age and of a disposition that he is helpful and self-reliant. Having a baby with two Olivers might even be kind of fun. But I don't have two Olivers. I have an Oliver and a Colin. My wild child. The child that his teachers euphemistically call "spirited" and "active." I love him, but I swear that the kid is feral.

I decided that Colin counts as having 3 children, so if anybody asks me I'm going to say that we have 5 kids.

Then maybe they'll judge my sweatpants, stained t-shirts and the glint of panic in my eye less harshly while I amble through Target semi-conscious.

Wish us luck, people. We're going to need it.