I have a theory that Bruno Mars can cure addiction.

Quick story:  When Big J was in the NICU, and his little premature brain couldn't handle sleeping and breathing at the same time, his doctors HOOKED HIM UP with a straight I.V. of caffeine.  


Sign. me.  up. 


I am about 10 days in to what feels like a Nazi regime that only allows for one Diet Coke a day.  With lots of loop holes.  I still get a 32-ouncer before my bible study on Thursday mornings AND before soccer games on Saturdays.  And also before church on Sunday.  Throw me a bone here, people.  Phase one includes the annihilation of spontaneous runs to 7-11 at any ol' time of the day.  Gone is (most of) my free will.  Now it's just ONE tiny Diet Coke can per weekday (minus Thursday, and during shopping outings to Sam's Club). 


And water.  Ick.  Bleh. 


In all honesty, my ONE Diet Coke feels like the legal "medical" dose of heroine that's being given to an addict that's trying to quit.  It is NEVER enough.  Lindsey Lohan?  I totally get you, girl.  And I always *hoard* my daily Coke until late afternoon when my brain is absolutely failing to make any sense of the world.  For example:  requests by my children to play with the creme brule torch, weed whacker, Dad's golf clubs, straight bleach and a table saw (simultaneously) would most likely be granted.  So long as there is no arguing.  I have my standards for parenting, and in the absence of caffeine, I judge myself effective so long as there is no bickering.


Bickering causes aneurisms. 


You know, I was a real Coke drinker, until I gained that 65+ pounds in my pregnancy with G.  And when those pounds didn't *magically* follow G out the rabbit hole, well, I did some Weight Watchers.  And cried myself to sleep for a month, because Coke was no longer in the calorie budget.  At that point, I really hated the taste of Diet, but what's a fat new mom to do?? 


What I'm most concerned about is the aspartame, or whatever the stuff is that causes cancer in lab rats.  That stuff.  Which I realize makes me sound like I eat organic?  Um, no.  I'm full of preservatives, and I cook my vegetables in plastic bags in the microwave.  Yup, I am a hot mess of carcinogens.   So I'm trying to eliminate ONE of the many red flags that make me a prime candidate for spontaneous human combustion.


Which means I could go back to regular Coke?  And guarantee myself a solid case of the sugars (translation:  diabetes). 


The only thing that I have found that helps?


That Bruno Mars song.  Just the Way You Are.  LOVE it so much.  Like, SO much.  It is single-handedly responsible for my mood-regulation, as I hit repeat every time I feel a caffeine flash about to turn me green and muscle-y.  It works to, for 3.5 minutes.  Which is why L has learned all the words to that song in just 2 days. 


But I don't know if it's *acceptable* for me to like Bruno Mars? 


I am 34.  And I feel peer pressure to like artists like Michael Buble and Coldplay?  Like that one time in college when a date asked me who my favorite band OF ALL TIME was and I said Bon Jovi?  And he looked at me like I just gave birth to a baby who left it's 65-pound twin in my belly? 


Yep.  I QUICKLY corrected and said the  Indigo Girls.  Dave Matthews, Freddy Jones, The Samples--any of those would have been acceptable in Indiana during the years of 1994-1998.  Even though Bon Jovi is HANDS DOWN the best band of.  all.  time. 


What was I saying?


I don't even know anymore.  Cue Bruno Mars.  And tomorrow I will regale you with tales of what sweat glands and moldy cheese would smell like if they created a baby.