Way Better Than Vomit

I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I did not win anything in the Fall, Y'All giveaway this year. I know this sounds pathetic, but I still check my email hoping someone forgot to let me know that I've won something fabulous. Or even something slightly less-than-fabulous, like dental floss.

In true Navel-Gazer fashion, I started to ponder why I wanted to win. It wasn't the stuff that I really wanted (although a new blog design would have rocked). What I really wanted was to be picked, even by a random number generator for a pack of dental floss. It's all just a massive high school gym class field hockey flashback, really. And volleyball. And basketball.

So imagine my surprise and delight when I saw that the ever-generous T had nominated me for this!:




She nominated me based on this post about my little chatfest with my hormones, and, really, I don't know if you can imagine my surprise and delight. Sadly, the human mind may not be able to encompass all the delight.

I've seen these little award badges on other blogs, and, although I know what ROFL stands for, I've always thought of it more as an onomatopoeia than an abbreviation. To me, it sounds like the noise my kids make when they are busy throwing up on the carpet and not in any one of the strategically placed "spit-up buckets," trashcans, or, heaven forbid, an actual tiled, wipeable bathroom. Not that we have problems with that or anything.

I am very tickled by this. Almost too tickled, to tell the truth, but let's face it: this job is not known for it's glowing performance evaluations. Sometimes it seems like the better mother you are, or try to be, the more your people despise you. At the HomeFront Corp, eye-rolling is tantamount to a 3% pay raise. You know, if you got a paycheck. The more huffing and stomping, the more I am assured that I am on the right track. It's annoying.

To hear that someone, especially a lifelong friend, was fleetingly amused by something that I spouted off on a whim -- well, that just makes me smile, my friends. Especially since I spend some portion of each day washing off fluids that my own body did not produce. Motherhood ain't for punks. Or sissies. Or the squeamish.

Thanks, T.