Am I The Only One Who Is Freaked Out By This?

I don't often pay attention to those ads that pop up in the sidebars of my Facebook and Hotmail pages, but occasionally they can't be ignored.

Like the one that advertised a program wherein I could become a social worker--or maybe it was a nurse-- in only a few months. Now, aside from the fact that I can't think of any personal information about me on the web that would lead an advertiser to believe I have any interest in working socially. And nursing? Puh-leez. I think I've made my feelings about band-aids pretty clear a number of times on the www, so why any advertiser would think me a suitable candidate for a job that requires bandaging people is mind-boggling.

But even more mind-boggling is the picture included with the ad:

Because not only does that person have some weird fingers, but she also HAS A BABY IN HER POCKET!

And who goes to school to learn how to put a freakishly small baby in her pocket? I'm no nurse or social worker, but I'm pretty sure that's something one would be told not to do if she did want to go into one of those professions. I mean, are there really courses that teach people how to carry babies in their pockets?

The only place I can think of where this would be a possibility is Australia. Perhaps they have some kind of Marsupial Model Of Nursing /Social Work program wherein the students are given some kangaroo training. I've heard those Aussies are having some problems with an over abundance of roos. Maybe this is their solution. Train the kangaroos to train people--who are supposed to be professionals-- how to pack a baby around.

But have they not heard of Baby Bjorns? Cuz those people have figured it out without any help from giant rodents.

And what kind of person sees this ad and thinks to herself, Hey, I've always wanted to be a carrier of babies in my pockets. How do I get in on this? and then clicks that button?

Not this gal.

Quiet Makes Loud Even Louder

You know what the biggest problem with having all of my kids in school for most of the day is?

The quiet.

Sure it's lovely while they are gone. But then they come home.

They always come home.

And I am grateful for this-- I really am. And I know I should be happy to hear all  of their little voices after so many hours of silence.

But I am not. Because there is suddenly all this talking at the same time--where before there was just my voice, in my head (mostly).  And the talking gets louder and louder so that one can be heard over the other. Until finally, there is much yelling. Accompanied by loud banging of cupboards and drawers being repeatedly open and shut in the frantic foraging for "something to eat." Which is always followed by a collective moan of, "there is nothing to eat in this house" as three underpriveleged girls stare at a pantry barren of the Hostess products they so wish I would buy.

Then there is the fighting. Oh, the fighting. Which magically disappears when they are gone. And is never missed. Which is followed by more yelling. Yelling of things like, "WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SIT DOWN AND DO YOUR HOMEWORK?" (That one is me).

The whole thing reminds me of the time my last baby was born and I brought her home after spending two days in the hospital where the only sounds I heard were the beeps of hospital thingermagigs and the soft voices of nurses as they woke me to push on my stomach in an attempt to get my uterus back to its old un-stretched-out-to-smithereens self. And I should have taken the opportunity to ask them, "but what of my bladder? Will it ever be the same?"

Now-- of course-- I know their answer. I knew it the first time I couldn't make it more than one hour in the car without needing a potty break.

But even then I knew what the answer would be if I asked if my boobs would ever be normal again: Only with a good doctor and a lot of money.

But I digress.

When I got home with that sweet baby who only cried occassionally-- and didn't talk or yell at all-- we were greeted by two excited little girls with excited little voices who wanted to climb on me and jump on the couch where I sat with the baby wondering how they had gotten so much louder in only two day's time. Every word they said bounced from one side of my head to the other, until my head was so full of words and noises bouncing and bumping into each other that I thought it would explode. And I begged my husband to take me back to the hospital and convince them I hadn't really checked out.

Turns out I had a spinal headache from the epidural, but at the time I thought it was from my kids. After a few days the pounding stopped.

But the loud?

That's only gotten worse.