Carrying Crap

This is why I will never be voted Mother of the Year: I don't like to carry things. See, most mothers I know are constantly carrying things for their children. These mothers are martyrs. They are heroes. I remember piling my mother with so much stuff when I was a kid, and how she would always take it without a single complaint. (Much like how she takes my current behavior today: how I change her outgoing answering machine messages to something stupid every time I go to her house, how I wrap up a pair of her old underwear for Christmas and give it to my sister, how I create an account for her on facebook and write weird things as her, and how I add stuff to the TO DO list on her fridge... like "take up orienteering, read Barrack Obama book, practice blow jobs on bananas.")

But me? Oh, no. Not me. I'm not a martyr at all. When we were at the Night Before New Year's Eve thing the other night, the kids were collecting all sorts of crappy prizes as they went around playing the games, as well as balloon animals, party hats, and crafts. They needed help carrying all this stuff (you know, so they could play more games and get more stuff), so I ended up carrying it but then passing most of it off to my husband. And the stuff that I did have to carry? I either complained about it or threw it in the garbage.

Oh, no, carrying stuff is not my bag. (Get it? Not my bag?) I like to carry my baby, but that's about it.