How did I get here and why am I covered in Drool?

I ask myself this question at least several times a week.

My 4 year old and 7 year old have held my gut lately under much speculation. Sadie keeps wanting to know if there is a baby girl in there. No, there is no baby girl in there. She has asked this question several times now. Each time, I tell her no. Finally, she asked if there was a baby boy in there. I told her no. No baby boy either. I guess she was feeling a bit unsatisfied with this answer because she then asked "Just what IS in there mommy?" Look, I am not really a vain person - but six csections and several pregnancies just doesn't leave you with washboard abs. I am the Barca Lounger of moms - plush, cushy with ample lap space. Most of the time this does not bother me. Though, I do get tired of fielding the "when are you due" queries and other variations on that theme - particularly because I ain't due or any other variations on that theme. I find that it is especially pernicious at Walmart. Why the state of my belly is public domain there, I do not know. There is one lady in particular, unfortunately a door greeter - so we see her just about every visit, who can't seem to remember me from the last time I was there (which is practically every other day - gotta love living in a small town!). She asks me the same questions every time. "You ain't having another baby are you?" "How many kids you got now?" "You're getting fixed aren't you?" I didn't know I was broken. Fortunately I am a forgiving sort - otherwise, after about the hundreth exchange of this kind I would probably let loose with a beat down. Personally, I think the lady is a bit senile - or at least working on some form of dementia marked by memory loss. She literally cannot seem to remember that we have had this conversation more than several times already. Also, the hat. She wears this bizarre craft project gone seriously awry hat perched precariously atop her head. Crazy things are always sprouting off the top of this hat and she changes the decorations often to match any up and coming holidays.

Last night I get asked by Sadie yet again - is there a baby girl in there? I think she wants a sister. Sorry kid, two tries and two boys later, I think that you are going to be baby sister-less. Garrett comes to my rescue with "No Sadie - mommy is just F-A-U, um, F-O-U-T, errr - F-O-A-T" What?? I ask him if he is trying to say "fat". When he affirms this, I ask him why he is spelling it to which he responds. "Fat is not a nice word. You always spell words that are not nice." About this time, the baby who has been sitting on my lap chomps one of my fingers with his newly acquired fangs. "OUCH!" I yelp. At this, the baby puckers up. Lower lip begins to quiver and then the tears begin. "MOM! You made him sad!" hollers Sadie. I try to explain that I am the wronged party here, proffering my mangled finger as proof. Of course they are not buying this. I am mommy and obviously no match for Nathan's pouty quivering lower lip in garnering sympathy. "Is ouch a bad word? Maybe you should spell it and he won't get sad." So now I am contemplating yelling "O-U-C-H!" next time I get bit. Fifteen years ago I wouldn't have been contemplating spelling words that were "bad". Come to think of it - fifteen years ago I could still look down and see my feet . . . .