to tweet or not to tweet

So I know I'm a "blogger" now, and therefore super techy and modern, but I still insist on remaining old-fashioned about some things.  Or just really, really behind on the times.  Example:  I JUST got an iPhone.  I know, right?  I'm pretty sure I was one of about three people left in the civilized world who did not have one, the other two people being your parents.  Another charmingly old-fashioned thing about me is that I refuse to tweet.  It's not like a boycott or anything - I don't have anything against Twitter or tweeters.  It's just that when it first hit the scene all I could think was, isn't that what A) Facebook and B) text messaging is for?  Also, I don't really care that you're eating a turkey sandwhich at 2:17 in the afternoon.  If I did, I'd come over. 

I guess I just haven't been able to let go of my initial impression.

That said, sometimes I do wish I had a Twitter account, because it would give me an outlet for my leftover thoughts.  See, throughout the day I usually jot down a dozen or so random thoughts that pop into my head, to use as seedlings for my blog.  But some of the thoughts never make it into my writing.  These are my leftovers.  I hate to just waste them, but what should I do with them?  I can't very well clog up my Facebook feed with a bunch of snarky quips about being a mom - nobody wants that.  And since I refuse to weet for no good reason at all, I've decided that every now and then I'll just use my blog as a dump site for my leftovers.  Isn't this blog just one big dump anyway?

Behold! The first installment of

I Should Probably Get a Twitter Account

Never say to a pregnant woman, "Wow, you don't even look pregnant!"   Because no matter how you MEANT it, all she hears is, "Wow, you just look lumpy and bloated like you always do."

Your gynecologist should never refer to an instrument that he is about to jam into one of your body cavities as "my little pinching friend."  (Swear to God.)

I have Estie strapped to me in a Baby Bjorn while I clean the house.  She is drooling into the path of my mop, and I'm just pretending I don't notice.

Said Baby Bjorn has a "Fall Warning" label inside it.  I know it's refering to the baby, but I read it as, "If YOU fall, you fatass, you're going to CRUSH your baby."

Sometimes it's tempting to bathe Estie in the shower with me, just for convenience sake.  But every time I see a picture of an adult holding their wet, slippery little baby in the shower, aside from being creeped out, I always imagine the caption

 

 

Taken three seconds before Junior
wiggled out of Daddy's arms and onto the tile floor. 
RIP Junior

Pacifiers should come with homing pigeons.  They should also come with an extra pacifier, for when even the homing pigeon is like, "Dude SERIOUSLY, where the HELL did she drop that thing?!"

Women teach their children not to be tattle tales, not so they won't be jerks on the playground, but so they learn not to blurt out "Mommy bought three pairs of shoes!" when daddy gets home from work.

A sleeping baby only means "be quiet" to the person who got that baby to sleep.  To everyone else in the house, it's door-slamming, foot-stomping, pot-banging time.


Alright guys, those are all my leftovers for tonight.  Thanks for letting me get them off my chest.