I took Girlfriend to the McDonald’s today for our fortnightly visit.  While there, I realized that I have an irrational hatred of grown men who wear their baseball caps backward.  I wouldn’t say it’s a great look for a man of any age, but I find it excessively annoying on grown men, specifically grown men with kids.  I mean, that’s how I know they’re grown men–the fact that they’re carting kids around.  I just want to walk up to them and say, “Dude, you’re a grown-ass man with kids.  Put your hat on straight, get clothes that fit, and for the love of Mike, stop piercing crap.”  It’s funny because in theory I’m reasonably indifferent to headgear positioning, ill-fitting clothing and body piercings.  I mean, to each his (or her) own.  In theory, it is none of my business.  But in practice, it actually kind of makes me nuts.  My life must be strangely unfulfilling.

Speaking of kids, a few weeks ago I got a box of free formula from Enfamil.  This was unexpected because the “baby” in our house is four-and-a-half years old, and this wasn’t some new-fangled “Pre-K” formula, but actual formula for actual babies, of which I have none.  Upon some mathematical reflection, though, I realized that if I were holding true to the pattern established by the first eight years of my marriage, then I would currently be pregnant with my sixth child.  I suspect that were I to undergo regression therapy, I could probably remember receiving a similar gift of formula a couple years ago, back when Theoretical Baby #5 was due.

In related news, yesterday I received a free diaper from Pampers–and not some new-fangled “grammar school” diaper, which would actually be useful in our household, but a “newborn” diaper for an actual newborn–which, I reiterate, I don’t have, nor am I expecting (in any sense of the word).  Now, the point is not that I don’t appreciate getting unsolicited babystuffs in the post.  I don’t appreciate it, but that’s not the point.  The point is that Enfamil and Pampers obviously have me typecast as some baby-birthing machine, and I’m going to have to take a high-profile role that represents a dramatic departure from my previous work in order to get off their mailing list.  Maybe a crack-addicted hooker.  I don’t know.  But this can’t go on.

Speaking of things going on–specifically, of things that must go on, e.g. “The Show”–my tap recital is next week, and there is much work to be done between now and then.  For one thing, I should make sure I know what my feet and hands are supposed to be doing.  For another thing, I need to buy some things for my costume, for which I have done no shopping at all.  I simply haven’t had time or inclination.  If only someone would send me a free gift in the mail.  But I digress.  I have about a million practices to attend before next Thursday–at least three–and they are conflicting with all manner of family obligations.

Tonight I have practice at the same time as Mister Bubby’s cub scout pack meeting.  On Sunday I have practice at the same time I’m supposed to be in church (so I will miss out on my scheduled nap time).  On Tuesday I have dress rehearsal at the same time as Princess Zurg’s spring choir concert.  I am not remotely thrilled about that last one, but there is nothing I can do about it.  If I skip the dress rehearsal, my tap instructor will ensure that I never see another pack meeting or spring concert again.  There Will Be Blood.  On the other hand, she will also secure me a permanent nap time, so I can’t say I’m not conflicted.

Well.  I could probably type more, but I think I’ll just save something for next time instead.  Mostly because I’m tired.  I didn’t sleep well last night.  I slept well the night before–I guess that was Destiny’s birthday present to me–but last night was business as usual, by which I mean that I didn’t sleep well, which I already said.  According to what I’ve read, hormonal changes in perimenopausal women, i.e. women who are NOT expecting Baby #6 but rather are gearing up for grandmotherhood (which doesn’t require pregnancy), can interfere with sleep cycles.  That last sentence just gave me an idea.  Maybe Enfamil and Pampers are not sending me belated gifts for (Actual) Baby#4, but just extremely-premature gifts for Grandbaby #1.  I’m not sure which is worse.  But I was going to end this thing before it got too weird, so I guess I’ll do that.  Au revoir, mes enfants–until I blog again.

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