Not Fancy Dinner

You know what's not fancy?

Waiting until 4:00 PM to look at the dinner recipes for that night's dinner and realizing you need several hours of soaking for ingredients.

Fartknocker.

We'll eat knock-off Chik-fil-A nuggets and sweet potato fries tomorrow night.

Yep, I'm a Mother of a Boy

How do I know?

Who else is greeted in the morning by a child who says, "Mama, you'll never guess how long I peed."

Um, yeah.

Musings of an Elementary Mom

We have lived in this neighborhood since its infancy.  My children have gone to the neighborhood elementary school since about the time it opened.  We have had at least one child in that school for the past six years and expect to be there several more.

This morning during drop-off, it occurred to me we have been here a long, long time and as a result, I have a handle on things (kinda).

For instance:

- When my oldest was in Kindergarten, I always (always) looked dressed and made-up before going into the school.  Now I make sure there is no spinach in my teeth and at least try to have bathed in the last 24 hours.

- I have road rage in the drop off line.  I do.  Truly.  I turn into one of those yelling people from "Mr. Mom."  Seriously, pull all - ALL - the way up to the end of the line and let out your kid.  If your small Kindergarten or 1st Grade baby can't handle the weight of your monster SUV doors, do us all a favor and jump out and open your doors to let out your baby while we're all letting out our babies.  We do not mind waiting.  If you wait until you get to the teacher to unload your baby, you're holding up the long line.  If you really need the help of the teacher, please, please drive all the way to the end of the drop-off lane.  You're causing a logjam behind you.  Most of us would rather see your sweatpants-clad bum walk around the car to let out your child while all our children are unloading than wait for you to get the teacher to unload your child.  Don't feel embarrassed about your clothes.  Most of us look the same way and most of us have yet to brush our teeth.

You have nothing to worry about.  A couple years ago a mom pulled over and PARKED in the line, jumped out in curlers, a robe, and slippers to sprint after her child to hand him his forgotten lunch.  We all died laughing, even the teachers.  It never occurred to the poor thing that she could easily have handed the lunch to the kind-hearted teacher standing next to her.

- Also, it's obvious which teachers have a clue about the line.  Stand at the end of the drop-off land, please.  Three more car can fit in if you stand at the end.  The K and 1st parents are relying on you to let out their babies.  If you stand halfway down the row, you STOP traffic.  I adore the good team of teachers out there every other week.  They are flipping awesome.  They run that line like clockwork.  It's fast and efficient.  I love that.

- And, there is no left turn out of the school parking lot during drop off or pick up.  Catch a clue.  There's a sign.  If you get a ticket, I'm happy.  We all are.  All of us veteran moms with our hair askew and coffee in hand know you totally deserve that ticket.  You're causing havoc, blocking visibility, and putting the walking/bike riding kids in danger.  You earned that ticket.

Breathe...   >>>>inhale<<<<   <<<<<exhale>>>>  Ahhhh... Better.

- Ahem.  I have lost all interest in PTA programs.  My kids are the shy ones who will not do the gestures to the songs or smile or do anything but look as if they would rather crawl under the risers.  I have the pictures to prove it.  Alas, every year I paste on a smile and look proud as my children squirm and look as if they have entered one of Dante's Circles of Hell.

- I used to put myself together for the performances.  Now, I wear my "staying at home" clothes and remember to put on shoes.  I thoroughly enjoy watching the difference between the Kindergarten PTA performances and the upper elementary PTA performances.  C'mon, I used to be a rookie Kindergarten mom.  I, too, had my camera out and taped the whole thing.  I, too, wore my make-up, jewelry, and cleanest clothes.  I, too, did my hair.  Now I look like all the other seasoned mothers.  I'm a mom.  I ran out the door as fast I could shove food in the kids and get them in the car in time for the deadline.

- Some of the moms and I have been at the school multiple years, too.  There are a few who were rookies the same year as me and we're still there with our youngest babies.  I notice the new cars.  I notice the new bumper stickers.  I notice the woman who was the rule-breaker back then who is still a rule breaker now who built a monstrosity in her yard - against HOA guidelines - that I have to see every time I walk out my door.  I don't like her.  I am not a fan of rule breakers.  She makes left turns out of the parking lot, too.  See?  Road rage.  Sigh.

- Bad attitude about drop-off and pick-up and PTA programs and rule breakers aside, I do firmly believe that the teachers, administrators and I are a team working with my child.  When we have a team-player teacher, I am all in and supportive of them.  When we don't, you better believe I'm up there advocating for my child.  For years I worked hard to not be "that mom."  Eh.

Regardless of my hard-earned wisdom in the elementary world, I'm the newbie at the middle school.  I have no clue how the drop-off and pick-up lines work.  I do not know the ropes there, yet.  I'm just trying to keep my head down and not piss off anyone.  I'm probably doing it all wrong.  Oh, well.  By the time our youngest gets there, I'll have a blog post ready to roll.  Hee.

And, yeah, I kinda wonder what they notice about me.  Kinda.

I've Grown Up

In the past two years I've graduated from having a splash of coffee in my chocolate milk to screeching if anyone dares dilute my coffee.

Guess I've grown up.

The Problem with Blood Thinners

Being on coumadin (blood thinners) this year and being prohibited from taking anti-inflammatory medicine (ibuprofen) stinks.  That means when I need pain medicine, I can either take acetaminophen (Tylenol) or big gun meds (narcotics).  The word picture for this is I can either make ugly faces to remove a mosquito from my leg or I can blast it to Kingdom Come with a shotgun.  Neither response seems entirely appropriate.

How I'm Really Doing

A year ago September 1, my friend Mindy died.  Cancer kicked her ass.  I remember when she called in late January 2009 to tell me she had stage 4 melanoma.  I knew something was wrong by the tone in her voice.  She sounded far away and as if someone had unexpectedly slapped the shit out of her.  That is what cancer does.  It unexpectedly slaps the shit out of you.  She called and I cried and we talked and we cried and she told me the general plan and we cried some more.  When we hung up, I called a dear friend and sobbed for what felt like hours.

It turns out I was the last one she told.  I was the first of her friends to hear she was pregnant with her third baby and the last one to hear she had cancer.  I guess she really loved me.  How does one go about telling her friends and loved ones she has cancer, anyway?  "Check it out, I have cancer!" seems rather callous.  "The chick with cancer gets the first turn, that's me."  "Back up bitch, I have cancer and you're in my light."  "Hey, how about we spend the next untold amount of time doing fundraisers for me? Why?  Oh.  Uh, turns out I have cancer."

Yeah.  Not so much.

I miss her.  Of all the things I miss about her, the one thing that overshadows it all is her brain.  She was one of the few people who could keep up and contribute to my wildly inappropriate sardonic diatribes.  We would laugh until our sides hurt.  She could also "go there" in conversation and not back down when the subject got too sensitive or personal.  We really talked.  We talked.  I always felt better after talking to Mindy.  Well, "always" with the exception of the whole "I have cancer" phone call.  Talking to Mindy was cathartic.  Even when the conversation was full of tears and emotions, hanging up the phone always felt like something had been exercised or fulfilled in me, like some very important moment occurred.  I miss that.

September 1 came and I was in the hospital (general anesthesia kicked my ass).  Over the past couple of weeks, Mindy has been on my mind a lot.  Mindy did all the right things before her diagnosis. She ate healthy food.  She exercised - she even ran a marathon.  Still, cancer.  She had a cough she ignored and ignored until finally one of her friends beleaguered her into seeing the doctor.  Many tests later they had a diagnosis.

One of the things we talked about was there is no excuse for putting off taking care of yourself.  She would rail at me to take care of whatever issue I might have.  For the past two years I have had one thing after another wrong with me.  Mindy was the one who started the ball rolling and wailed on me to get my protesting self to the doctor.  She would say, "you have a man to grow old with and children to raise, you have no excuse to not take care of yourself."  Yes, ma'am.

Since Spring 2010, I have had: a colonoscopy which yielded a pre-cancerous polyp, a badly sprained right ankle, a CT which showed Pelvic Congestion Syndrome, pelvic angioplasty to correct the PCS which turned into going to the ER on Christmas and spending four nights in the hospital, a sore left foot which yielded several x-rays, a CT, a bone scan, and an MRI all leading to a diagnosis of it's-not-a-big-deal-after-all-this-testing melorheostosis in my second left metatarsal, and then finally, more surgery to ligate and strip some pelvic veins - which, by the way, are huge thanks to PCS + multiple pregnancies. Oh, and I'm not done with the poking and prodding, because I am due for another colonoscopy in a few months and, hey, while I'm visiting with my colo-rectal surgeon I need to mention some lingering vein issues.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

I am over being examined, poked, prodded, scanned, scoped, sedated, medicated, and observed.  I am over seeing specialists. I am over being stuck in a chair, on the couch, or on my bed.  I am over not being able to exercise the way I want, when I want.  I am over having to ask for help from my parents and friends.  I am over having to lay down my control issues to let others do for me and mine.  I am over my kids asking when I'll be back to normal.

And then I think about Mindy.

And then I think about all those conversations about how she was really doing.

And then I think I might have a smidge of a better idea of how she was really doing.

And then I cry.

And I know I will get back to normal.

And that only makes me cry harder.

Hey, Fancy Lady! Where Ya Been?

Where have I been?  I have been in a cloud of Vicodin, that's where I've been.

Why so loaded, you ask?  Surgery.

What on earth?  Is there always something wrong with you and your body, Fancy Lady?  Evidently.

Because my father, father-in-law, various siblings and siblings-in-law, and Giles' friends read this blog (despite only two whole people listed as "Members" in the right side bar), I shall refrain from giving you the vivid details.

In a nutshell, I had "Pelvic Congestion Syndrome."  Basically, one of my pelvic veins was pumping blood the wrong way and caused congestion in my pelvic veins.  Multiple pregnancies caused those veins to enlarge, which caused significant swelling, pain and discomfort.  I had surgery to correct the blood flow last December and the heaviness in my upper thighs was alleviated.  While December's surgery certainly helped matters, it did not entirely eradicate them.  Six months after surgery, we (my vascular surgeon, Giles, and I) determined it would be best to remove the varicose veins that remained in that area.  We also determined it would be best to fix the umbilical hernia (thank you, 10 lb baby).

I spent the two weeks before surgery running around and prepping.  The kids' bathroom is mostly done.  It only needs a sanded, then painted, vanity.  Er, it also needs a framed-out mirror.  I cooked and prepped like nobody's business, putting 33 dinners in the freezer.  I also made a master menu so everyone would know what's for dinner.  I also had carpool and kids and lots of family logistics to figure out.  I cleaned the house - company clean, I'll tell ya.  I did all the laundry.

On Friday, August 31, I had outpatient surgery to ligate several veins on my left, strip a vein on my right, and repair the umbilical hernia.  Surgery was about 90 minutes and I should have been able to go home that afternoon.  I, however, am a cheap date.  Rather than curling up in the fetal position in my own bed, I was stuck retching and quivering in the hospital, completely incapable of proving I could walk, eat, and (appropriately) void.  The on-call surgeon (finally) ordered some fantastic anti-inflammatory meds just before midnight and about 15 minutes after they hit my blood stream (thank you iv), misery left and I started to turn the corner back to health.  Soon after that, I proved I had more bodily control than a toddler and was cleared to head home.  Giles brought me home on Saturday.

My parents had the kids and granddog at their ranch over the weekend.  The house was blissfully clean and quiet.  I have spent the last week recuperating.  The kids and my mom came back Monday in time for school Tuesday.  My belly feels better, though sometimes super-tender, even to the barest whisper of fabric.  My navel will be nearly as cute as it was before kids.  Seriously, I had a cute navel.  I have several incisions below-the-belt that are not entirely comfortable and are taking their sweet time healing.  They are actually healing just fine and as expected, but nowhere near fast enough for my liking.

Many, many thanks to my friends who have stepped in the gap for us and carried the load for awhile.  And many, many thanks to my parents for taking the kids for the weekend and to my mother for coming back with them and nursing me back to health.