Need help finding it?

Friday, December 6, 2013

No, I Don't Want No Anal Probe...

It's no lie, we're big on games.  And silliness.  We try to keep the laughter in between the psychotic outbursts of everyday parenting.  It's no different when we adventure outside our home.

On the rare and special occasion that the five of us pack up and hit a restaurant, I expect my kids to be on their best behavior.  They do not bring toys into a restaurant, and we don't check our phones repeatedly.  It's a special occasion for the love of God...we need to treat it as such.  To keep little ones entertained, we rely on some good old fashioned fun while waiting for our meal (and therefore learning patience while fostering our imaginations).  Normally we play I spy, but Wednesday we ventured into new territory: 20 Questions.

Since I was explaining the game to my older two while the hubs took our youngest potty, I got to think of 'the thing'.  I should have seen it coming, as he's a little less skilled in the art of herding cats than I (his strengths in our duo lie in other avenues...such as patience).  This is the Cliff Notes version of how the game went (all in the span of approximately two minutes).

Thing 1: Is it big?
Me: Well...No.  One down.
Hubs: OMG, you can't ask that, you need to start more general, like is it bigger than something you think is big, because size is relative.
Thing 2 [BLURTING]:  IS IT BIGGER THAN AN ELEPHANT?
Me: No. Two down.
Hubs: Ok, it's smaller than an elephant, but how small, we need to pick something...
Thing 3: Is it smaller than a tiny mouse?
Me: Haha: No.  Three down.
Hubs: You have to slow down!  We need to be more specific, we don't even know...
Thing 1: Is it bigger than a bike?
Me: Whose bike?  And is the bike standing normal or up on its tire?
Thing 1: Mine [suddenly cut off]...
Thing 2: Is it a dinosaur?
Me: No.  And it's about the size of a bike on its tire.  Two more down for five...
Hubs: Please!  Stop, we need to work together!
Thing 1: Is it in our livingroom?
Hubs: NO!  We first need to determine if it's an inside or outside thing.  We may not even have it in our home, and that question just got wasted!
Me: It is not in our living room, six. [I begin to chuckle at this point]
Thing 2: Is it in our kitchen?
Hubs: [FACEPALM]
Me: No, seven.
Thing 1:  Oh, I get it, Daddy.  Is it outside?
Me: Yes.  Eight.
Thing 3:  IS IT AN ALIEN?!?

Crickets.  I swear there were crickets.  Where on earth did that come from?  I suppose Aliens are smaller than elephants and larger than tiny mice...but who is to say?  She looked around as if we didn't hear her and shouts one more time, "AN ALIEN, YOU KNOW LIKE OUT IN THE UNIVERSE?  IT'S AN ALIEN!"  At this point, she looks around the table as her family is ALL staring at her mouth agape.  She shrugs her little five-year-old shoulders, "What?  I just wonder about the aliens, you know?"

Some how, the game resumed after the awkward silence and they all banded together to figure out a snowman on their 20th and final guess.  But still...I've started to wonder about the aliens now, myself.

Friday, November 29, 2013

That Smell Takes Me Back

My childhood was far from idyllic.  I was raised by a single, bi-polar, struggling and hard working mother.  In the upswings, we were happy; but in the downswings - well...it was difficult.  I never got a sense of what normal was, save for 'looking into someone else's front window' and imagining their life as mine.  In ways, I suppose I was very normal in the sense that when I grew up, I was going to be nothing like her.

What really happened is that while I've been able to patch the holes that were missing in my childhood for my children (they've never known what it feels like to be really hungry, or to eat the same meal four nights in one week, or to not be able to get new shoes when the ones you are wearing hurt so bad you want to cry, or to be ridiculed in school because a classmate - someone I thought was a friend - saw food stamps on our kitchen table and told the whole class, or the awful names I got called because I owned two pair of ill-fitting jeans...from the Salvation Army); I kept the part of that tattered broken home...her love.

I didn't always know it then, but I sure do now...how much she really loved and knew me.  We didn't have much, but she gave me everything I needed.  Much of my childhood and teenage soul soothing came in the form of her baking.  We must have eaten goulash (and not the Hungarian kind) a minimum of three nights a week for God knows how many years - as it's one of the cheapest meals to make - so she could compensate.

When I was hurt, my favorite cookies would appear.
When I was lost, muffins magically showed up.
When I wanted to die, low and behold there was a lemon meringue pie.
And when we had something to celebrate, there was always applesauce cake.

And until literally, just this moment, I never realized that at the time it always fixed those things that were broken in our lives.  A kind of life super glue.

Pondering, I realized I've done this for my family.  When I'm overwhelmed, I bake.  When it's good, I bake.  When it's bad, I bake.  And when words just can't tell them how much I love them, I bake.

This morning on a rare four day weekend, while others are out shopping and pushing through the masses, my family sits.  Happily eating away on their Snickerdoodle muffins, hot out of the oven.  I gazed at their sweet, smiling faces and silently thanked God for my mother, and everything she ever did for me...and I put the next batch of muffins in the oven.


Friday, November 22, 2013

I Love Old People...

Yesterday I had to take my youngest in for her yearly check up.  She was filled with trepidation.  She wanted to know what her doctor looked like and if her doctor was a he or a she.  And if her doctor was nice.  And if her doctor...  all things I took for granted that she knew.  Little did I think that she wouldn't remember because she hasn't been since her yearly appt. last year!  I'm very lucky in that I have healthy kids.

I was informed that she'd need some shots.  Oh boy.  I needed to distract her from this thought.  So, here, my five-year-old was, sitting in her undies up on the table.  I decided a nice little conversation would be just what the doctor ordered.  

It starts out pleasantly enough, when I think, "Whoa, she's loud"...I have no idea where she gets that from.  The below is the exchange that then took place.

Me: So, can you sit still for just a minute?
Thing 3: MOMMY!  THE DOCTOR IS TAKING FOREVERRRRRR....
Me: Whoa, hush it down would you?
Thing 3: MOMMY...IS IT WEIRD THAT THE DOCTOR WANTS TO LOOK AT MY UNDIES?
Me: [sigh] She's not coming to look at your undies; she asked that you be in your undies to... (at this point I see she's no longer paying attention and starting to roll around on the table).
Thing 3: HEY!
Me [starting to whisper]: Yikes, can you keep it down?  You're going to scare the babies here.
Thing 3: WHAT?
Me [whispering]: Please, tone it down.
Thing 3: BABIES?
Me [whispering]: Yeah, and old people.
Thing 3: WHAT?
Me [whispering]: The old people.
Thing 3: WHAAAAT?
Me [whispering]: Oh MY Gawd...the old people. Quiet down!
Thing 3: WHAAAAT?
Me: Kid, you are pure comedic genius [I begin laughing] The. Old. People.  You'll scare them.  And the babies.
Thing 3: MOMMY, OLD PEOPLE ARE HILARIOUS, [she begins shaking her head] SO, THEY CAN'T SCARE BABIES!  YOU'RE OLD, AND YOU DO NOT SCARE BABIES...

At this point, the doctor walks in and is trying to stifle her laughter.  I'm guessing most everyone heard at least one side of this exchange.  Suddenly, I feel old.  And, like scaring a baby...

Thursday, November 14, 2013

One Amazing Little Girl

I have to believe that there is at least one singular moment, as a parent, where you are able to look around, take stock and realize you've done right and raised one outstanding little human being.  Mine came this morning.  I might never be the same again.  It was that momentous.

My oldest is a people pleasing, studious, quiet and quirky little girl.  She tries so hard to make everyone happy, and I hope she understands sooner rather than later, that the way to make folks happiest is by making yourself happy first.  She's often overlooked by family and friends because she's beyond her years and doesn't have much of that bubbly kid magic that my younger two children have.  She's an old soul and struggles with fitting in.

What she has is a brilliance of mind that is dumbfounding and a purity of heart that is truly a rarity these days.  She is my pride and joy in so many ways that I struggle to convey it to her, because it is not for tangible reasons.

I've been very nostalgic and melancholy lately.  I miss my Grandmother very much.  She passed away near Thanksgiving and one of the only regrets I have in life is not listening to my inner voice and immediately flying 800+ miles to hug her one last time.  It's a long and complicated history I had with her (for a post some other day)...and I treasure everything of hers I'm able to hold onto to this day.

My mother, this week, found a necklace I long thought lost.  It holds no monetary value.  In fact, it's a piece of junk...but it's my piece of junk from her.  And it means more to me than words can describe.  With it came a long forgotten jewelry box that was dirty as all get out and some other costume pieces.

My husband and I had discussed buying our oldest a special jewelry box for her birthday this year.  Instead, I chose to hand along Grandma's jewelry box.  You'd have thought I had given this kid the Holy Grail.  She ran off and immediately moved the jewelry she had into this 'new' box.  That night I held my necklace and cried.

The next morning, I sent her an email to tell her what I was feeling right then, because I knew if I didn't - I would never remember to tell her by the time I got home [we set her up with an email address for this reason.  I'm out of the house before they get up in the morning, and rarely when I return home do I have the time out of our dinner-life routine to remember these feelings and to act upon them].  I told her she made me proud.  I told her my grandmother was poor and didn't have nice things...and that she broke my heart in a good way to see how she wanted that box.  I told her that I was sad my grandmother never met her, as I know they would have been friends.

This is what I was greeted with in my email at work this morning:
From: Thing 1
Sent: Wednesday, November 13, 2013 4:11 PM
To: Me
Subject: RE: You Amaze Me.
Mommy,
Thank you for giving me your Grandma’s Jewelry Box. I love it. I think it’s cool that I got after someone in my family.
I found out that it can lock, but if you slide the lock hole, it opens! That’s  cool.
I really love it. I wouldn't replace it.
Thank you,
Thing 1

She's eight.  EIGHT! This eight-year-old just showed more insight and maturity and beauty of soul than anyone else I know.  I know that for all my faults, I've at least done this right.  I will never know what I did in life to deserve her, but she makes me proud and thankful every day.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Move Over Oprah, Now There's Someone Meatier...

Weight has been a constant struggle in my life.  I feel you, Oprah.  I've been a 220lb size 18 and I've been a 125lb size 7.  I'd like to find a happy medium somewhere in between.  The last 10 years have been a struggle especially; as I got married, moved 800 miles, changed jobs twice, sold a house, freeloaded with family, bought another house, got pregnant, got pregnant again, got pregnant yet again...  Whew, it's been a whirlwind tour!

This year I finally said enough.  I started to realize that I needed to give my kids an even healthier foundation than just loving their father and them...I needed to love myself.  First.  It's taken me countless years and not just a little bit of therapy to love who I am, but I've never really loved the girl looking back from the mirror.  She's cute, sure, but she's not been something I'd have been proud to show off to my mom in well over...well, maybe ever.

I'm tired of looking in the mirror and criticizing myself...like way too many women do.  I've started to look at me the way my kids do.  They think I'm beautiful.  They've told me so: unprompted.  I've cried.  Their voices have conflicted with all the others that lurk in my dark recesses that tell me I'm not.  The spiteful voices that tell me I'm chubby. That tell me I'm not good enough.  Well, screw that.  I'm done listening to those voices.  And I've vowed to never repeat anything those ugly voices have said - aloud or in front of my children.

I've started a walking regiment.  Regiment?  Not even.  I sat down & did some numbers math...I eat right (mostly...but hey - who the hell eats perfect?).  In fact, I eat healthier than most of the ppl I know.  I have a slight portion control issue.  Done.  Let's take smaller first helpings and limit my second helpings to when I really need it.  So, it's not my eating.  What could it be?

I got a pedometer.  The things I've learned?  Shocking!  I walked about 3000 steps on a good day.  Holy shit!  On a good day!  25 years ago and beyond, the standard/norm was to walk 10,000 steps a day.  And that wasn't from working out, it was part of our manual labor society.  I'd discovered the problem, I had become a slug.  No more.

With the help of a $100 purchase that is literally changing my life and my attitude...every day, my Fitbit and I started a journey.  I walk.  I walk 10,000 steps every day (or damned near close to it).  I've made friends on the Fitbit app.  I've rekindled old friendships, long ignored.  I've talked junk to my best friend and created little competitions.  And I've lost weight.

Weight I'm saying goodbye to.  And the weeks I don't lose, but maintain, I've seen inches come off.  From merely walking.  And when my kids ask why I'm walking so much, I tell them that I do it to be healthy and to become more of the Mommy they think I am.

So, Oprah, while you're pretty amazing...it is my goal to never be in your company again.  Adios.

Friday, October 11, 2013

My Kitchen Psychosis

After much ado, my husband and I decided to re-do our kitchen.  It's a bold move.  It will (when added to everything else we've updated) out price our house right out of our neighborhood.  We're ok with that.  We decided our first home is going to be our forever home...I brought my babies home here.  Let's just say I have attachment issues.

There are a few things I've discovered in life.  One of which is: that the only two things that can easily and single-handedly destroy a marriage are babies and house renovating.  See, with the babies, you have no sleep.  Your partner has no sleep.  You're frazzled and living in an altered reality.  It changes when they start sleeping through the night.  You need to be mindful to say things like, "I'm sorry."  "I didn't mean that."  "That came out wrong."  Not easy to do when you've got spit up on your clothes, smushed crackers in your hair and you've not slept for 6 days...

...And then there is remodeling.  Your stuff is moved.  You can't go in places in your own home.  There are strangers making noise all the time.  I've found it to be stressful, and they weren't even in my kitchen.  My sanctity.  Oh boy.

I call designers.  I'm getting estimates.  I'm working on layout and counter choices and all that fun stuff.  And I don't find it fun, but it occupies my time.  What do I find the funnest?  Funnest?  Most fun?  AHA!  Ridiculously entertaining!  ...is terrifying these designers!

"And we could put a Lazy Susan here."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it will lead to my inevitable divorce..."
[blank stares]
...sigh

I'm a realist.  I know my limitations as a human being.  A Lazy Susan is beyond my self-control capacity.  No.  Let me enlighten you.  I'm an anal neat freak.  I live with a full grown closet slob (means he looks put together to the ppl outside our home) and three small children.  I'm fully aware that I'm a PITA to live with.  But we have a system, and it works for us.  There is harmony.  It will end with YOUR Lazy Susan.

"Here's how a LS goes down:  I will spend five+ hours organizing it to perfection.  There will be some alphabetization.  Possibly sorting by size and/or color.  Day two will see my husband pulling out the peanut butter and putting it back where the hell ever HE wants.  Kids will enjoy the spinning.  SPINNY SPIN!  Things will get knocked over.  One day, three months from now, when it takes me seven hours to find kidney beans, I will lose it.  I will sit on the floor to remove everything from the LS.  I will swear to myself.  I will begin to swear increasingly louder with escalating boldness and each utterance will be more colorful than the last.  I will begin to yell at my family.  Megalomaniacy will set in.  My lunacy will terrify the children and my husband will have to shush them & leave the house.  I will restore the LS back to its former original glory.

This cycle will repeat itself every three to six months.  It's the sad reality of our natures.  For the preservation of my marriage NO LAZY SUSANS!"

I've taken perverse pleasure in their stunned and wide eyed faces.  It almost makes me giddy.  I begin trying to see their notes to see what-else I can frighten them over.  Is that so wrong?  It's honest.  I can't have a LS.  Single Cathy can, but Super Mom & Wife Cathy cannot.  It's a horrible tragedy.

So, in case you were wondering what I've been doing to while away my time the last month or so...there you have it.  Anything else you'd like to suggest for my kitchen???

Friday, September 27, 2013

Hey Wait! I Read That Book...

This week was a shit show in my house.  My husband went a-travelling for work.  Not uncommon.  And while I'm not a fan of the single life for a week, I make do.  That is, I make do when I'm not vilely ill.

Each night dragged on and my illness got worse.  I had no energy.  I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone *make* something for my lovely children to eat.  They were left to brush & floss their own teeth, as who wants Mommy's "snot hands" in their mouth?  Yuck.

Monday started out well enough.  I was bullied into picking up Taco Bell.  These kids felt empowered.  I was too worn down & tired to care.

Tuesday saw some Wendy's drive through action.  The salty taste of victory was upon their little fingertips, and they liked it.

Wednesday night reached the boiling point.  I had no voice left, and couldn't even muster off the couch.  I ordered Papa John's online with my phone.  A few things suddenly occurred to all of us.  They realized they were in control, and I realized they realized this fact.  I was frightened, they were emboldened.

The oldest steps up to the plate, "Do I really have to go to bed early just because you are too sick to stay awake?"

Are we going there?  I've read this book.  I know how Lord of the Flies ends [caution: spoilers coming]...This mutiny is not going to end well for any of us.  With the last vestiges of my strength, I collect and squawk out - remember that I have no voice - as menacingly as possible, "Yes.  And if you would care to consider, I will not be sick forever, and I am capable of tightening up your bedtime from now until kingdom come should you really feel the need to challenge me..."  She backs down.  Good, I've effectively kicked Ralph back into place.  There will be no ritualistic murder dance on my watch...even if my eyes are swollen & weepy.

My sweet son tries next.  Now, I'm not too certain if he was genuinely concerned and trying to take care of me or if his plot had sinister motives, and I wasn't too keen on finding out just then either.  "Mommy, you look so sick.  I don't want you to die.  Just close your eyes and it will be ok.  I'll take care of you.  Close your eyes....close...your...eyes..."

OMG!  NO!  I've read this book!  You people murder Simon!  He was sick, and had a seizure or some shit...and I'm sick.  And while I may not have a seizure, THAT kind of chaos is not going down.  I'm aware of the ugliness that will ensue should I just 'rest my eyes' for a moment tonight.

This book does not have a happy ending.  Piggy dies in this dystopia.  Since I've already discovered who Ralph and Simon are...I look to my littlest.  Poor Piggy.  NO!  I can't let this happen.  As the wolves begin to circle, I decide that NOW is the perfect time for bed.  Much longer and all hell is going to break loose.

I usher the kiddies to bed and take my temperature.  100.5, nice.  Not too bad though.  I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a sick day.  And it is.  My fever reached a 101.3 pitch, and I downed more NyQuil than a human should consume in a 24 hour period, but I come through the ordeal sweaty and slightly bewildered, but my reign on the deserted island is still in tact.

Friday, September 20, 2013

A Tribute to Jerry...

Growing up, I likened my father to Bill Cosby.  He could tell these glorious stories about every day life that innately made you laugh.  And if they didn't make you laugh, his own mirth over his story (imagine that closed & teary eyed laugh that is completely silent, head thrown back and no sound coming out until the laugher gasps for air) would infectiously make you laugh, until you had no idea what you were even laughing at to begin with.  Jerry can spin a yarn (albeit the same yarn 15 times over in his old age) that was so magical, you felt you were a player on the stage - even though you knew no one in the tale.

Over the years, I've come to wear my "Jerry's Daughter" badge proudly.  I've perfected my righteous indignation for any time someone tells me that I'm exaggerating.  I'm not!  I'm merely ad-libbing to enhance the storytelling purpose.  Tell me, are you not entertained?  ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?

What was I talking about?  Oh, right.  Jerry.  His lavish stories....His GRANDAUGHTER.  That's right folks.  His beautiful little tow-headed granddaughter.  And the apple tree she fell from.

This pint sized little imp, at the ripe old age of four is already casting her magic with a velvet tongue; stories told with the utmost seriousness that the unsuspecting listener may just take for fact.  Let me explain.

Yesterday, I got to spend an unexpected day with my children.  That means, I got the older two on the bus, and hung out with 'the baby' until her bus came to take her to afternoon kindergarten.  As I was brushing her hair she began to tell me about the horrors of bees and why she hated them so.

"And so yesterday, Mommy...I put my finger in my ear and I did it because I felt something HUGE go in there...so I put my finger in and I pulled out a bee!  There was a bee in my ear."

"I'm thinking you're confusing a bee with ear wax, lovie.  There wasn't a bee in your ear.  Your ear isn't big enough."

"You're wrong.  It was a bee.  A teeny tiny bee.  (Remember a few moments ago it was huge?)  This itty bee was trying to sniff me to see if I was a flower and I hate that.  It makes a loud buzzing sound when it is in your ear,  and I was like 'GET OUT BEE, GET OUT!', so that's when I stuck my finger in and killed it.  Even though it stung me in the inside my ear first..."

Apparently, this was her story and she was sticking to it.  So, I rolled.  "I hate when bees fly into my ear."

"I know.  It's terrible.  All this buzzing and then sometimes [her eyes get wide at this point and she whispers while cupping her mouth]...sometimes they pee in there too!  And when they pee in there, it all oozes all over the place.  And, it stinks!"

Jesus...who knew bee pee was such a vexinig issue?  By the end of her wonderful little tale, I was in tears.  She's good.  Knowing her as well as I do, I knew not to believe a word of it, but I'll bet $5 that my mom would have looked in her ear to treat that 'sting'...I know her brother & sister would have been mesmerized into awe and dumbounded wonder over her great experience.

So, the next time you encounter a gifted story teller...just ask yourself, "Is this Jerry's kid?  Maybe a grandkid..."  Shake your head, sit back and enjoy the ride.

Friday, August 2, 2013

In The Blink Of An Eye

Recently, I was out for a jog.  Well, it's more of an ugly walk, but that's a story for another day...jogging, right?  I was jogging and thinking to myself. Wait?  I had time to think?  I had time to jog?  I looked over my shoulder to make sure there wasn't some kid trailing behind me screaming, "MOMMY!  WAIT UP!" I was alone.

It then dawned on me that I was alone for the first time in years.  The kids were at home, happily playing in the driveway I just ventured from.  Their father was in the kitchen (which overlooks the driveway) doing the dishes.  [Yes, he does the dishes!  It was a stipulation of marriage...if you're not married, I'm happy to tell you my secret some other day]  I was alone.  No one was crying out for my assistance for basic needs.  No one was waiting for me to get this, do that, say this, go there.

It was liberating!  It was fantastic!  It was depressing...  I stopped mid-stride and choked back a few tears.  Over the past few months, I've been coming to grips that I would never again have another baby.  No more sleepless nights blurring into zombified days.  No more endless snuggles and falling asleep on the couch together.  No more powdery baby smells.

I've watched as my 4YO daughter asserted her sense of self and chose a sassy haircut that was totally "her", and anything but baby-ish.  I've stood aside as my 8YO has struggled with friendships and finding her place in the world, stepping in only when she's chosen to involve me.  I've sadly smiled at my 6YO's quirkiness and my heart has broken when he realized he's different from the other kids.  But this Momma-bird has let her babies fly freely since they were able (but still been attentive and mindful of what's happening).

I've made jokes.  I've dreamed of this day.  I've planned and plotted and excitedly wished it would come.  And it's here.  And I take it all back!  I TAKE IT BACK, I TELL YOU!  I miss fat baby feet that beg for me to bite & kiss.  In their place, stink and grody toe jam have taken over.  I long for the feeling of sweet baby fuzz to nuzzle, because now I've got grown up hair, hair cuts and shampoos.

Over the course of the last few days, these things have taken their toll and I've found that men may have a corner market on the mid-life crisis, but that as Moms, I think we might take the cake on the growing up blues.  Don't get me wrong...I want them to grow up.  I can't wait to see what awesomeness these three are going to achieve.  I can't wait to experience the rest of their lives with them...I'm just sad it's happening so quickly.

So, if you would be so kind: let me hold your baby for just a moment, stop telling me how big my kids have gotten since you've last seen them and most of all - be patient with me when I randomly stare at you with teary eyes...I'm growing into my new self too.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Stress-Free, And Proud To Be!

I recently told a friend that I try to live stress free, and that I think I'm pretty good at accomplishing this.  Intrigued, she asked what my secret is...and then listened transfixed as I told her my dumbfounding secrets to having what I perceive as a pretty unstressful life.  You too can be stress-free!  All for the mere price of $9.99 plus S+H.  Just kidding; there's tax too.  No seriously, it's free.  And simple.  Read on.

One day in 2003, September to be exact...I decided what was truly important to me and my life.  I've spent most every ounce of my energy in life seeing that this one thing was nurtured and given my utmost attention.  It was my marriage.  My husband and I would provide the sound and solid foundation for what I one day hoped was a happy family and a loving home (I was right).  As long as I have that, nothing else matters...it's that simple.  Really.  REALLY!  Here's how:

We're simple.  I don't need fancy things.  Sure, they're nice, but not even remotely needed, so anything past our basic necessities is super!  And we treat it as such.  My kids and I have clothes.  They suit our needs.  When we're able to get something special (such as water shoes this summer) the kids get excited!  And they should be...those are niceties, not necessities!  We're all set - the stress from wanting more is gone.  Keep it simple and revel in what you have, not linger over what is unattainable.

We're simple.  We have a budget.  We live by it as best we can.  And if we can't afford to go out, we don't.  If my mom or sister-in-law decide to give us a night out, and it's not in the budget...we go for a walk.  A nice, kid-free walk.  We hold hands and smooch and make each other laugh.  And it's good for my soul. And it's a relief to just be us and still enjoy each other.  Ask me my favorite thing to do, and I'll tell you with 100% sincerity, "Curl up on the couch with BJ, put my feet in his lap and try not to fall asleep (or blab away) while he watches some crap show I can't stand."

We're simple.  I learned a long time ago that nothing good will ever come from comparing myself, my situation or my life to yours.  Nothing personal, I don't want your life.  I want mine.  So, when you win the lottery or are able to splurge on a great vacation...I don't envy you.  I am proud you could do something nice for yourself!  How awesome for you!  I can't wait to see your pictures and hear your smiling tales of your exploits.

We're simple.  We don't have many friends...but those that we have, we're certainly lucky to have!  They enhance our life.  They don't bring drama to it.  And they can be counted on when push comes to shove - by offering good advice, a sane and logical sounding board or two solid arms to move furniture (or to hug with).

Don't get me wrong.  I'm passionate and can quickly get worked up about things...but I'm just as quick to let them go.  Life's too short.  It's way too short!  If we can sneak out for dinner, we do.  If we can't?  I'm good with dancing in my kitchen after cleaning up from our standard family dinner at the dining room table with no TV on.  If we can save for a vacation, we'll go.  If not, we'll spend our staycation exhausting ourselves doing things our whole family enjoy.

So, as a recap - for those that know me, and know I mean it...the keys to a stress-free life are that simple: Know what you need, and see that it is tended to.  Know your limits, and stick to them.  Know who you are and don't waste time trying to be someone else.  Know who to trust, and give them everything you've got...it'll come back 10 fold.  And let it go.  Shake it off. Keep it simple.  Good luck!

Friday, June 28, 2013

Richard Simmons is a Jerk

Endorphins create happy people.  Exercise releases endorphins.  Therefore: people who exercise are happy.  What crap!  I'm firmly convinced that Richard Simmons is either deranged OR a play-acting jerk hell bent on the bottom line.

It's no lie that weight has been a constant struggle in my life.  I make goals, I work hard, and after a few months with no visible results (either on the scale or in my clothes), I give up...just to repeat the nasty cycle again.  I don't want to be chubby.  I'd like to be fit.  I'd like to look nice in that form flattering dress I've been pushing to the back of my closet.  I'd like to *FEEL* like my husband is proud of me (keep in mind, he's totally supportive and very loving and assures me he's always proud of me - it's me).  So, I get back on the horse and try, try again!

This time around (as with every other) I try something that seemed to work a little - if only I kept with it longer, as well as something new.  It really should be a matter of energy in vs energy out, right?  [sigh]  So, I track my calories consumed best I can via Loseit and I started back up on exercising.  I bought a FitBit (which deserves its own whole blog posting)  I dusted off my couch to 5K app, and revisited an old friend: Billy Blanks.  Yes, I said Billy Blanks and his unitarded (haha, unitard) Tae Bo awesomeness!

I can honestly tell you that not ALL people who exercise are happy people.  In fact, I think it has the reverse effect on me.  I'm angry.  I'm bitter that I have shitty genes and that all (well, maybe not 1 or 2 cousins) the women in my family battle weight (attest: I'm THE tallest blood relative female in my family, both sides - and I'm only 5'7").  I'm incensed that I work so hard and it doesn't melt off.  I'm indignant that I'm tired and sore.  And mainly, I'm chafed that Billy's unitard doesn't give me the same satisfaction that I'm sure seeing Josh Duhamel in a unitard would elicit.  GRRRR!

I've tried so many different exercise routines and all yield the same results: Cathy swearing in her head while doing the activity...well, except one, but that one while being at the top of my list doesn't burn nearly enough calories .  Oh well...  In any case, a larger problem has now erupted: I'm fairly certain my swearing isn't contained in my noodle any longer.  I've gotten the stink eye while at the Y.  I've been chastised by my children when I emerge from the basement, sweaty and exhausted, that I said too many "grown up" words for my own good.  And mostly, I catch myself calling Billy some very colorful names when he tells me, "One more time now, make it burn."  I've actually imagined finding something of his...and burning it.  Maybe that unitard.

So, if I inadvertantly bite your head off in the next coming months, or I seem an even bigger ass than normal...know that this is the price of me being healthy.  Yes, that is it.  And rest assured - it's Richard Simmons fault.  All of it.  I'm not going to sweat happily into any newness, let alone the oldies.


Monday, June 24, 2013

Forget Wearing My Heart on My Sleeve, It's Been Through The Blender

We never know the love of a parent till we become parents ourselves.
~Henry Ward Beecher

No one can ever truly prepare you to become a parent.  Sure, you can take classes and read books and gather advice and sage wisdom.  What doesn't happen through all of that is that you actually, I mean ACTUALLY realize that to be a parent is to forever have your heart walk around outside of your body. [I heard that once somewhere, and the quote by Elizabeth Stone - quite possibly - is the most honest truth I've ever heard]

It's precisely this type of love that can make grown men prone to public embraces, and for strong women to weep silently in their cars, where no one else can see.  No one can prepare you for this.  No experience can ever compare.  And no matter how much you think you're equipped, you're really not.  Not by a long shot (and even when you are a grandparent, I hear; it's not much different).

Largely, parenting is an achievement of common sense, compassion and a bit of dumb luck.  Some times, you just have to throw some shit at a wall and see what sticks.  We've all done that for ourselves.  Not knowing the answer and relying on a "We'll See" for a small human being 100% dependent on you is a totally different ball game.

When your children are happy and healthy, life cannot get any better.  And when they're hurting, upset, distraught, sick or frightened - it's unbearable.  And not just for YOUR kids!  I can't even watch Sally Struthers on TV any more without sobbing and wanting to scoop up all those babies and kiss their woes away.  I've cried for friends' children too!  For Pete's sake...I still can't watch How To Train Your Dragon without wanting to curl up and die (over both the tragedy AND the triumph in that story).

My son is hurting, and I'm going to go kiss away the pains that I can...but to the parents out there: I know you know what I am talking about.  For the parents yet to be, you may think I'm crazy, but one day - you too will understand.  And if any of you can ever figure out how to soften the blows...let me know.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Revoked Commissary

A changing wind blows, and my sweet son is suddenly filled with naughtiness.  My Aunt, who has been doing hair for over 25 years says that hairstyles can change your attitude.  If this is the case, I'll never shave his head, at his request, again.  The moment he became bald, his badness level rose to astronomical heights.

A coworker of mine had the brilliant realization that my son is a disgruntled inmate.  Let me explain:

Recently, his head was shaved bald.  At his request.  The closest I could get to bald without breaking out the Bic...and he loved it.  A sparkle appeared in his eye.  Uh-oh...

This convict's first line of business was to go on a hunger strike.  Not unheard of for the child who is commonly referred to as "Ghandi" in my house.  He's prone to getting in a tiff about something and refusing to eat...for at least two days.  This kid is six!  The civil disobedience starts young with this one...

The next criminal activity that took place was him slamming his bedroom dresser drawer to the floor with enough force to break it!  This isn't cheap furniture.  It's solid wood!  It's beautiful.  It's broken.  I flip out.

The rampage continues.  Our toilet gets clogged.  No, he's not a "growing boy" where these things happen...He purposely clogged it.  And it isn't the first time.  This toilet is purported to be able to flush two dozen golf balls...and this child stuffed it with enough TP to have done someone's front yard a great injustice. The worst part was he was thrilled to see plungers in the bathroom.  Delighted even.

Most recently, he socked his sister in the face.  My Sweet Son!  Now, I'm not saying she didn't deserve every ounce of puny child muscle walloping her in the kisser...what I am saying is that he should not have done it (or at least, not so loud enough that it was heard in another room).  While part of me beams with pride that he can give a solid thumping, I have to cringe at the poor decision.

While reliving this drama to my coworker, who is former law enforcement, he shakes his head and begins to chuckle, "Cathy, what you've got on your hands is a disgruntled inmate.  First, they're shaved & tattoo'd.  Then they clog their toilets and start prison riots.  I'd watch out if I were you.  Flinging shit always comes next..."  On that, he turned back around to continue working while I contemplated his astute observation in dumbfounded silence.

You'll know what happens next, if and when my son winds up "in the hole."  There for certain will be a dead man walking...

Thursday, June 6, 2013

How Do You Make A Hankie Dance???

Sadly, many of the things I say as a parent no longer shock me.  There once was a time when the words, "Your finger was where?!?", "Don't put that near the cat's butt..." and "Can you explain to me why you'd put those rocks in your mouth?" used to make me actually stop and ponder my situation for a few moments...not any more.  Don't get me wrong, I can still be amused by these scenes, but I'll never more experience that briefest of pauses and wonder to myself, "Did I really just say that aloud?".

One of these days, I'll actually strike an event off my bucket list and compile these wonderful stories into a book of sorts.  It's my dream actually.  I grew up reading Erma Bombeck.  That lady was funny!  I loved how she had this brilliant outlook on every day life.  I hope I bring that kind of warm hilarity into our household.  It's with that type of fond memory I'd like to relay my most recent non-cause for pause.

I was sitting on my throne...doing what all queens do: taking five seconds to power pee while I was ensured I'd have some privacy (meaning everyone was still at the dinner table).  In my hasty grab for the TP, my eyes laid upon what I think might qualify as the world's biggest booger (I think Guinness will be hard pressed to beat this sucker out).  Wiped. On. My. Wall.  Really?  I sigh.

As a mom, I know most of what happens in my house...even when the kids think I'm not looking and my husband thinks I'm not listening.  What I've not picked up on first hand, I can usually deduce fairly accurately.  I have my suspicions...and I march back into the dining room with them.

I sidled up to my oldest, who is a habitual non-nose blower.  "Sweetheart, I'm not saying you did or did not stick your finger up your nose, pull out a giant booger and wipe it on my wall.  I'm not looking for any remark or any explanation, in fact - I implore you not to provide any.  What I am looking for, or maybe I should better say, what I hope to NEVER look for again is a booger of giant or any other proportions wiped on my wall or any other surface in this house.  I would then suggest that if nose picking is a hobby of choice, that it is probably best done in one's own room, with the door closed and where the fruits of one's labor can be carefully wiped inside the Kleenex that might have been used in lieu of blowing."

I walked out on my daughter and husband staring at me, dumbfounded and went off in search of my younger two Things.  I found them conspiring to overthrow our parenting tyranny in the hallway.

"Yo.  Either of you hear what I just said to your sister?"
"Yes, you told her not to pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the bathroom wall."
"Astute translation of my tirade.  Same goes for the both of you, with the addendum - everything I said before and then wash your hands."
"YUCK!  Who would pick their nose and NOT wash their hands?!?!"
"Indeed.  Carry on."

It's only now, that I can sit and appreciate that in my quest not to angrily blame anyone for said booger painting, I at least discovered my kids wash their hands after they dig for gold.  Nice to know some of the life lessons you impart stick.

Friday, May 17, 2013

Oh, That Man Of Mine!

Most recently, I posted an exchange between my husband and myself as my Facebook status.  For those of you not on good ole FB, it went like this -

Me: Want one?
The Hubs: No, I'm bloated.  I need to burp...or shit, or fart...or something.

I received various replies, ranging from laughter to dumbfounded wonder that I would post something like that about him.  This made me feel compelled to share a few things (things I think of all the time, but rarely put to voice).  So, here are my reasons for sharing that specific post (first on FB and then once more on my blog).

1. It made me laugh.  It made me laugh when he said it.  It made me laugh when I thought about it and posted it; and it's still making me laugh at this precise moment.  My husband's sense of humor is quiet and 'off', but I get it and that's all that matters.

2. Ever go out with your friends and someone says something stupid/outrageous/insane and it sort of becomes the theme for the evening?  Imagine if you would: he's my best friend, and I'd rather sit on the couch with him than do anything else, even 'go out'...and this became my theme that evening.  [think now a kid asking me to do anything...I could respond, "No, I'm bloated.  I need to burp...or shit, or fart...or something." and then just sit staring at them.  The possibilities for me to reuse this suddenly became endless.]

3.  I would have expected this response from the boy I first met on New Year's Eve 1998 [Tugger - seriously, I'm so sorry I bit you. Get over it already.]  You see,  he's exactly the same.  Nothing's changed.  Well, not nothing (he's got some chest hair now and I've bullied him into no longer tucking in his t-shirts) but you get the point.  He is who he is, and while sometimes infuriating...it's mostly glorious.  Dorkdom at its finest, and I adore it.

4. We've been together for fifteen years now.  And *nearly* everything about him makes me giddy.  And people wonder how we've gotten that, how we've held onto it and how it works.  It's simple.  I can be me, and he can be him and it's safe.  And we laugh.  We laugh over stupid comments about being bloated.  We laugh over spilled milk and we sure as hell will laugh about any other random thing that befalls us in this life.

5.  I shared it because I could.  See the above.  It's who I am.  I'm an ass.  I make no qualms about it.  You say something stupid and I'm probably going to tell the world you did.  Merely because I can.  And he still loves me for it (and sometimes I might even venture to say because of it).

So, as part of this backhanded homage to my bloated & gassy husband...I love you.  Even if you stink.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Hello Operator! Please Give Me Number Nine!

Most recently, our home has seen an influx in its fascination with the telephone.  The younger kids are becoming chatterboxes and want to talk to everyone, and my oldest, my pride and joy; Thing 1 - is starting to call her girlfriends.  If this is a preview of what my next 10 years are going to be like counseling on social issues...we are in for some big trouble.

This child banters away with her father while he is out of town.  Calls both her grandmothers.  Conversation full of what is important to the typical eight-year-old: we did this at school, I read this book, we're eating this for dinner.  No problems, right?  Wrong!

[phone rings]
Me: Thing 1 answer that, please?
Thing 1: [picks up phone, puts to ear]  blink, blink.
And she just stands there.  Mouth agape.  Saying nothing.  Nada.  Zip, zero, zilch.
Me: Baby, you have to say Hello.
Ultimately, I take the phone from her, and if the person on the other end is brave, they have endured this silence patiently.

Onward, right?  It has to get better from here...

Thing 1: Mommy, I want to call Lucy.
Me: Ok, do you know what you're going to say?
Thing 1: No.
[we do some role play, so she can better understand, we even discuss the terrifying voicemail beep]

Thing 1 dials.  The phone rings.  I can hear someone answer.
Me: [whispering] Baby....ask 'Is Lucy there?  May I speak with her?'
Thing 1: [panic stricken] LUCY!
I hear talking on the other end, but cannot make it out...
Thing 1: LUCY!!!
Me: OMG, honey...tell them who you are, ask to S-P-E-A-K to Lucy.
Thing 1: IT'S THING 1, LUCY?

Her eyes get huge.  I think she might be about to throw up.  Suddenly, she hangs up the phone and pretty much throws it back at me.  This whole exchange passed within the span of maybe 2 minutes, tops...I must act quickly!  Before she bolts from the room, I seize her elbow.

Me: Honey, was Lucy home?
Thing 1: I don't know, I just couldn't wait any more, so I hung up.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Ride Like The Wind, Bullseye!

There is no denying that kids are fascinating little creatures.  And, while I love being in the thick of things with my Things; arguably my favorite moments come as a quiet bystander.  Thing 2 and Thing 3 are as thick as thieves.  I see them as Tweedle-Dee & Tweedle-Dum, Frick & Frack, Abbot & Costello...most everyone else thinks they are twins - being only 18 months apart, and the same size is very deceiving; and growing up attached at the hip with their foreheads constantly pressed together in play and plotting definitely gives that impression.  But, make no mistake these two are BFF.

Yesterday was no exception.  It was truly the first nice day of the season.  Bike riding in the driveway was on the menu for the kidlettes while I washed my beloved jeep.  They blasted up and down the pavement, splashing through puddles and making up their adventure as fast as their training wheels would turn!

Thing 2: Sissy - we slayed the dragon!  Now, onto the top of the tower where they've hidden the kidnapped doctor!
Thing 3: We can't ride our bikes any further.  Did you hear that?!?  I think they're after us!
[There is a brief moment off the bikes while they run to and fro in the front yard]
Thing 2: Quick!  Get on your rocket bike!  The good doctor will ride with me!
Thing 3: Wait!  How do you know he's a good doctor?
Thing 2: Dr. Pepper???  There's no time!  Quick, Dr. Pepper, get on!  The devil dogs are after us!  And unless that giant over there [pointing at me scrubbing away] eats one, we may not make it out alive....

At this point, I had to go inside because I could no longer contain my mirth.  My husband is finishing up washing the dishes (a stipulation of marriage, folks).  I laughingly shout to him, "Quick,   Dr. Pepper - the devil dogs are after us!"

He stops mid-scub.  He stares at me mouth agape.  "Seriously, Cath...and you say I watch too much tv.   You really have issues."

I can only shake my head and chuckle at my life.  My husband is missing the best game of pseudo-cop & robbers I've ever witnessed and he thinks I randomly stopped cleaning my jeep to come inside to shout nonsense at him!  I go back outside to see my son & daughter paused in play.  I take the moment to get them back on track, "On Dasher, On Dancer, On Prancer..."

Thing 2: OMG!  The giant has eaten Santa Claus!  We HAVE to get the good doctor outta here!
Thing 3: Dash away, dash away, dash away all!

Monday, April 22, 2013

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake...Baker's Man...

I love to bake.  What I love even more is when my children take an interest and want to help.  This weekend, it was my son.  My son...who is a chocolate fiend.  We made a three chocolate, flourless torte. Here is how the baking went:

Me: Wash your hands
Thing 2: Why, Mommy?
Me: Because no one wants to eat your germs...or your dinosaurs' germs...or....

He reluctantly washes his hands.

Me: Unwrap this chocolate, please.  And then put it in this pan.  And thank you.
Thing 2: ALL this chocolate?  Can I have a bite?
Me: Yes, all the chocolate, and sure you can have a bite...if you want our dessert to taste rotten and not chocolatey. [his eyes get all huge]

He puts the square of UNSWEETENED baker's chocolate that was 1/2 way to his mouth down.  His face is just pathetic.  Needless to say, I should have let him eat a big old bite out of that square.  That would have been hilarious...

We continue on our baking way...  We add more chocolate - dark cocoa.  We mix, we melt, we stir.  We add a third chocolate: dutch cocoa.  His eyes are wide and shining with wonderment.

Thing 2: Mommy will we really be able to eat this?  I do love chocolate!
Me: Sure thing, baby...just as soon as we bake it...
Thing 2: YAY!
Me: and you eat all your dinner!
Thing 2: BOO!

Needless to say, my little man finished off all his dinner and proudly announced to his sisters with his chocolate rimmed mouth that our delicious dessert that night was his creation, and that he just knew it would be delicious b/c of all the chocolate we put in there.

Thing 2: Man!  You should have seen it all....

Thursday, March 28, 2013

She's No Toni Basil...

I think I must have done something right with my children.  They're happy little elves; such charming sprites.  Somewhere on the corner of Crazy Avenue & Neurosis Street, these kids stand positive and shining and good humored...and dancing.

It's understandable, I suppose.  We have random dance parties.  You *could* be one of the few & proud to have driven by our home, with our blinds up, while we Get Down, Get Down to some grooving beats after dark.  My husband and I arbitrarily engage in bad ballroom dancing in the kitchen whenever we have a moment.  And our children love it.

Music.  We definitely need music!  I've sung to my kids since they were babies.  We sing in the car.  And, most recently, we've encouraged lip-syncing (due to multiple ppl listening to different music at the same time).  Bad. Bad. Lip. Syncing.  Which they get from their father, who can never remember the words of his beloved favorite band, let alone whatever happens to be hip at the moment.

In a rare moment, my youngest slid off the couch from where we were snuggling, and she was enjoying the musical stylings of Katy Perry's "California Girls" (she's a bit obsessed with CA, btw) - and burst forth into full performance.  I can only hope this makes you smile as much as it makes me.  Prepared to be wow'd - and just know, she gets it ALL from her father.  Look out white girls everywhere...this kid can break it down....


Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Do You Kids Ever Sleep?

This past weekend, we took a road trip.  Stayed in a hotel.  Ate out.  Went swimming in a hotel pool.  Ate out.  Went to a museum.  Stayed. In. A. Hotel.  Did I mention that we stayed in a hotel?  Hmmm.  We did.  All night long.

We had a few days off, and wondered what to do.  Let's do something special for kids!  There's this wonderful museum a ways away (two hours-ish, give or take, but with three small kids, that is not an easy road trip to make) that we've always wanted to venture to, but didn't think it was a good day trip.  AHA!  What if we go the night before, stay in a hotel...do the things our kids have never done before - you know: swim in a hotel pool, jump on the beds, use those little annoying shampoos that never have enough for my insanely thick hair...  YES!  And so we did.

We traveled successfully.  We swam swimmingly.  We ate heartily.  And then we went back to the hotel.   Worst night of my life.  Everyone had their jammies on.  The girls shared a bed.  My husband and I shared a bed, and my son got the roll-a-way cot.  At around 9:30pm, we all climbed into bed.  And then it began....

Whispering.
Talking.
Complaining.
Rolling over.

45 minutes later, I yell, "GIRLS!  CUT IT OUT AND GO TO SLEEP!"

Rustling sheets.
Rolling over.
Moving.

Two hours later I yell again, "OMG, LADIES: GO TO SLEEP!"

Moving.
Rustling.
Sighing.
Fake yawning.
The pitter patter of little feet?

Another hour later I freak out, "WHAT THE HELL, GUYS?  GO TO SLEEP...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I'M TIRED!"

Rolling.
Frantic rustling.
Groaning.
THE PITTER PATTER OF LITTLE FEET....

Another hour passes, and God-so-help me, I must be the worst mother ever.  "WHAT THE SHIT ALREADY?  CAN'T YOU GUYS JUST GO TO SLEEP?!?"

At this point, my poor sweet son blurts out, "THE SHIT'S IN THE POTTY, MOMMY!  I HAD TO POOP AND DIDN'T WANT TO FLUSH AND WAKE YOU UP!"

I roll over and cover my face with my pillow.  Somehow, amidst the best laughter of the day, we all fall asleep...only to wake up about four hours later; exhausted.  My three wee ones are bright eyed and smiling.  I inform them it's time to leave the hotel.  I'm sure they'll be thrilled to know we're not coming back after barely sleeping last night.  Right?

Wrong!  I've decided my children must be the undead as they never sleep...and had to be dragged out of the hotel.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Yield To The Right Of Way

My oldest and I went to the store the other evening.  It's wonderful how children grow and change and form their little personalities, isn't it?  She's eight now, and very smart, and veeeery precocious.  We were discussing music.

Musically, I'd like to think of myself as pretty eclectic, listening to a bit of everything, and I'm trying to expose my kids to the same.  In any case...I'm driving along, just enjoying the moment.

"Mommy, who is your favorite singer?  Billie Holiday?  Adele is mine.  What is your favorite Billie Holiday song?"

Whoa.  This question caught me off guard, I admit.  Interesting, "Hmmm, baby - I'm not sure.  I have to think about this one.  Can I give you more than one? [she shakes head]  Ok...lemme think..."

At this time I approach a three-way intersection.  I love math games: Three cars approach the intersection at the same time - who goes first?  NO!  You are wrong!  The guy who doesn't even bother to stop at his stop sign gets to go first.

"NICE STOP DICK FACE!"

I hear giggling coming from the back seat.  Inside, I am shuddering at my outburst right as she pipes up, "Wow, that sounds like such an interesting song!  I'm going to make sure to play it as soon as we get home..."

Who is last to go at the intersection?  The mom in the minivan, head on steering wheel, laughing her face off.

It's NOT a Tumah...

So, it's been a while.  I know, I know.  So much has been up lately for me on a personal level that I just couldn't post again until I was comfortable with my results and talking about it.  You know me, I have to talk about everything: the good, the bad...the leaky plumbing.

So, about nine months ago, my endocrinologist decided to pull me off my meds.  What was the worst case scenario she asked?  I could get my symptoms back, which could prompt for insurance to cover additional testing and better treatments.  [spoiler alert - I'm about to post a TMI - if you're not interested in learning something personal, don't click any links].  See, I have Hyperprolactinemia.  No big deal right?  Except that the ONLY known cause is a tumor of sorts.  A. Brain. Tumor.  But...whatever.  This is old hat to me as I've been undergoing treatment for eight years now.

Here's where it gets interesting: normal levels should read about 10-ish.  Mine is about 130 and no one knows why.  So, Doc pulls me off meds, my once controlled prolactin levels once more sky rocket...and I'm immediately put back on meds and sent for MRIs.  They're sure it's a tumor this time!  Guess what?  It's not a tumah.  Good news, right?  Nope.  Not for me.  Seriously, could I be the only person on earth who PRAYS that I have a brain tumor?  Probably [shaking my head]...

So, eight years later, I'm back at the drawing board.  I'm on such a low dose of a medication that the doctors have no idea how it is lowering my levels and stopping my symptoms...but I'm on a medication that has no known long term effects; indefinitely.  No long term effects you say?  That must be good.  Nope.  Not for me.  There's no *known* long term effects, b/c it is not meant to be taken long term.  It is meant to be taken in a high dose until that pesky tumor is shrunk and has vanished then stopped completely.  But, I have no tumah...so on my circle goes.  I can't come off the meds, b/c who on earth wants *those* side effects?

The worrisome part, the part that I've had to take some time for me to come to grips with is that while I'm being labeled as 'Atypical Hyperprolactinemia' (Fancy, huh?), that it could be something else completely that I'm not exhibiting symptoms of.  What all that really means is that there's something wrong and causing my issues, but no one knows WTF it is, nor can they test for it (as it is, insurance doesn't cover my bi-annual blood work, b/c some presumed pimply faced intern deigned that it was not needed.  Thanks, and your medical degree is where?  Oh...).  It's hard for me, the planner, to rectify that something *may* or *may not* surface in 15 years that could be detrimental to my health, that could have been easily prevented.  [sigh]  It's not easy for me.

But all things considered, I'm happy.  I don't have a tumah.  And I guess I should be thankful that the faucets are in place; even if they have a slow leak....

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

I Resolve Not to Make Resolutions!

For years, I've marvelled at those who make resolutions.  They start the year with the best of intentions to accomplish some specific task or achieve some specific goal.  By the end of the first three months, most are usually defeated.  I have to shake my head, because at this point, those folks can only feel worse about themselves than they did to start off the whole horrible cycle.

Each year, I resolve NOT to make resolutions.  Instead, I spend the year focusing on all the things I need to to change my life in a positive direction.  I know I'm going to fail...but hey!  If I can just do an eensy ounce better than I did last year, BONUS!

My goal as a wife, mother and individual is to provide for my family a bit better than my mom did for me (hey, it's called progress...and I hope my kids attempt this standard and put my methods in the dust!).  Some days, this is super easy to accomplish and some days there is no way I can even compare to her.  But, with all this in mind, I'd like to share with you the items that I resolve not to make a resolution over, but will struggle with every single day until I've perfected them (which, will be: Never - in case you're keeping score):


  1. Yell less & hug more.
  2. Tell my husband every day that I love him.
  3. Tell my kids every day what is special about them.
  4. Communicate better (see #1 for elaboration).
  5. Be patient.  [ok, let's be totally honest with this one...I'm never going to be a patient person.  Maybe I should strive to practice deep breathing for 10 seconds and no longer utter the words, "Reverse, Reverse" under my breath]
  6. Swear less. [OK: this one, I'm feeling pretty confident about.  I figure that if I can eliminate one curse word from my general conversation & rants every day - this is a super huge improvement.  Next year, I could be so bold as to work toward removing one per hour.  NEXT YEAR - YES!  I know what you're thinking...What the fuhk?  Cut me some slack...and don't judge!]
  7. Find some time for me.  Somewhere between worrying about #'s 1, 2 & 3, I typically forget who I am.  And what I'm doing here for me.  It's something important I have to remember so that by the time September rolls around I don't feel lost and alone.
So, with that.  I wish you all good luck in your New Year's Resolutions and will trudge down the road of my non-committal and happily mess up, trip, fall, pick myself up, dust myself off & try again tomorrow.