The pregnancy in some ways is flying by. I'm 24 weeks now - past the half way mark, and really and truly looking at all we have to do and thinking it will never ever get done in time.
I'm pretty much totally over the nausea - unless I forget to eat and then it comes back to remind me. But not being tethered to my Zofran is absolutely awesome. I'm exhausted, but obviously not as exhausted as I'd be if I was still vomiting all the time. My waist line is GONE baby GONE. I'm carrying this child wide - not in an adorable basketball like I remember carrying the girls (this is in memory only though - I have no photographic proof), but instead like a tire, wrapped all the way around me. My feet hurt and my legs hurt already - and I'm pondering how soon I can get away with flip flops at the office.
We scheduled a special ultrasound to determine gender and took our girls with us. As we waited, F asked our girls if they knew how the dr would be able to tell if it was a boy or a girl. Drama looked at him like he was crazy and said "Uh yeah dad. I got this". Mischief was less sure. F pulled her onto his lap and asked, "Sweetheart, what do little boys have that little girls don't have?" She thought for a moment and then her eyes got wide. She looked up at him and said "Cooties!"
The ultrasound tech found Cooties. We are having a boy. James Rucker Anderson. Writing that makes me tear up - a boy. Our two girls are perfect and wonderful and everything we've ever wanted, but imagining F holding his son . . .teaching his son to play baseball. .to fish. . to be a man. I can only imagine it will change F in the way that my daughters have changed me.
I'm also terrified. I know nothing of boys. I fear my bathrooms may never be clean again.
Drama is my worrier. She has worried about me from so very early in the pregnancy. We had to tell her when I was only 7 weeks along because I was so sick and she was so so worried. And since then, in her prayers at night she has asked God to make mommy feel better and to keep the baby safe and healthy. She loves to put her hands on my stomach and feel him kick. Recently she saw my stomach move with his kick and thought that was the coolest thing ever. She has declared she will teach him how to fight.
Mischief is less sure how she feels about having a brother. She is pretty sure boys are wild and crazy (which is more hysterical given how wild and crazy SHE is). I have told her she can teach him how to be sweet. But she asks me daily if he was kicking today, how he is doing, when he will get here.
She also asked me to swallow a 4" diameter toy ball. . .so that "Rucker had something to play with".
I have wild fits of nesting where I wipe down the baseboards with clorox wipes and get rid of every extra thing that isn't tied down. Followed by hours of total laziness, where I want nothing more than a pedicure and a nap.
F has been fabulous with this - letting me do whatever it is my hormones tell me to do, not complaining about the weeks where all I wanted to eat was soup, followed by the weeks where all I wanted to eat was hot peppers. Occasionally I've just fallen into bed at 6 pm and he has taken care of everything (dinner, homework, dishes, laundry, bedtime) while I slept like the dead. He sent me flowers at work last week. . .just because.
Rucker kicks almost constantly - and every night at 4 am he wakes me up with his kicking. I'm sure this will mean a 4 am feeding when he gets here.
Things I will forget if I don't write them down. Things I want to remember.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thirty three and a third
I haven't announced it officially here - I've just kind of assumed that the three of you who might read this, also see my posts on Facebook, but just for the sake of formality - I'm preggo again. Baby Tres should be making its debut in late February of 2012. And although it was planned, thanks to the crazy hormone stuff, I honestly wasn't sure it could happen again - had almost convinced myself it wouldn't - to the point that when the test showed positive I burst into tears. And not exactly tears of happiness at that point - but tears of shock. SHOCK!
And also fear. F and I have always thought of 3 as our magic number when it came to procreation, always wanted 3, but put it off - I was so sick with both of the girls ("first trimester morning sickness" is such a cruel name for a nausea that lasts all day for 9 months) and then after the birth of each of them, my crazy hormones went so totally off the rails that I just couldn't face the thought of doing it again.
And then. . .Mischief just turned 6, Drama will be 10 in a few weeks - it seemed like we'd waited to the point where we were second guessing that magic number. Could we really go back to diapers and sleepless nights? Was I ready to bid farewell to my waistline while spending my days sprawled out on the floor of the bathroom using the toilet as a pillow?
No one is ever really ready. Not for the first. Not for the second (though you tell yourself you know whats coming and are prepped - its always different). And I guess this time we still won't be ready. We have plans to get ready of course.
We'll finish the basement.
Replace the flooring in what will become the nursery
Save money so I can stay home a full 12 weeks this time (I'm not entirely sure how #1 and #2 work with #3)
But I'm already ready. Ready for the nausea to truly end. Ready for my energy to return. Ready for my emotions to even out.
Yesterday marked the beginning of week 14. The official end of the first trimester. I'm one-third of the way through this pregnancy. Thirty-three and a third percent.
Ready or not. . .time is flying through, and looking at my upcoming project schedule with work, and Drama's birthday and finding out the gender, and then its Halloween and then its Thanksgiving and then its Christmas and then. . .its practically here.
So I'm trying to not be too ready - willing the days to go by any faster than they already will - even though I hope to feel better as I progress. I'm trying to remind myself to enjoy the time now. Cherish the tummy. Cherish the pampering from F. Cherish the little excited questions from the little excited voices of my children.
Although in all honestly - right now - I'm cherishing naps. And food that stays down.
And also fear. F and I have always thought of 3 as our magic number when it came to procreation, always wanted 3, but put it off - I was so sick with both of the girls ("first trimester morning sickness" is such a cruel name for a nausea that lasts all day for 9 months) and then after the birth of each of them, my crazy hormones went so totally off the rails that I just couldn't face the thought of doing it again.
And then. . .Mischief just turned 6, Drama will be 10 in a few weeks - it seemed like we'd waited to the point where we were second guessing that magic number. Could we really go back to diapers and sleepless nights? Was I ready to bid farewell to my waistline while spending my days sprawled out on the floor of the bathroom using the toilet as a pillow?
No one is ever really ready. Not for the first. Not for the second (though you tell yourself you know whats coming and are prepped - its always different). And I guess this time we still won't be ready. We have plans to get ready of course.
We'll finish the basement.
Replace the flooring in what will become the nursery
Save money so I can stay home a full 12 weeks this time (I'm not entirely sure how #1 and #2 work with #3)
But I'm already ready. Ready for the nausea to truly end. Ready for my energy to return. Ready for my emotions to even out.
Yesterday marked the beginning of week 14. The official end of the first trimester. I'm one-third of the way through this pregnancy. Thirty-three and a third percent.
Ready or not. . .time is flying through, and looking at my upcoming project schedule with work, and Drama's birthday and finding out the gender, and then its Halloween and then its Thanksgiving and then its Christmas and then. . .its practically here.
So I'm trying to not be too ready - willing the days to go by any faster than they already will - even though I hope to feel better as I progress. I'm trying to remind myself to enjoy the time now. Cherish the tummy. Cherish the pampering from F. Cherish the little excited questions from the little excited voices of my children.
Although in all honestly - right now - I'm cherishing naps. And food that stays down.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Curly Monster
Every once in a while, I get hit with a wave of nostalgia and recognize how insanely fast my kids are growing up. Drama occasionally does something, or gives me a certain look that throws me for a loop as I recognize the adult in her tip-toeing out. Mischief as well, but with Mischief - it is different. Some of the things she does are definitely "big girl" things - she likes computers and video games and is reading well. She has grown taller and her hair longer. She enjoys school and her friends and recently performed in her first ballet recital.
But it is what HASN'T changed in Mischief that I cherish the most. . .
She is fearless and strong and independent. She firmly believes in herself, has no doubts and twirls in her dreams without concern of what others think.
She still ranks snuggling as one of her favorite things, refusing to get ready for day until she has her dose of "morning snuggles"
She quickly tells Drama that she loves her - without thought to the bossiness of which her big sister is quite capable.
She loves to give her toys away - to her sister, to her parents, to her friends. To any random person who comes by (yes. . .our plumber occasionally leaves with a stuffed animal).
She just as easily gives out compliments to others. "You are beautiful, mommy." "You are so smart, Drama", "Daddy can fix anything because he is awesome." She has not yet learned to pass out compliments like trading cards - only in response to one given to her.
She still laughs easily, loudly and with wild abandon.
She makes faces at the camera and then cracks up to see them. She tells jokes and can't make it to the punch line because she finds all of life so hysterical.
She blooms with eyes sparkling and crazy curls framing her face no matter how we start the morning with them tamed.
She is growing up - of that I have no doubts. And I also do not doubt that when she hits the teen years, she will not spare me from the snotty attitude and angst that comes standard with puberty. But I pray that her wild heart will always beat in her own rhythm, that her dance will always be on this side of funky and the sunshine she radiates will never fully be blocked out by the night of life's realities.
But it is what HASN'T changed in Mischief that I cherish the most. . .
She is fearless and strong and independent. She firmly believes in herself, has no doubts and twirls in her dreams without concern of what others think.
She still ranks snuggling as one of her favorite things, refusing to get ready for day until she has her dose of "morning snuggles"
She quickly tells Drama that she loves her - without thought to the bossiness of which her big sister is quite capable.
She loves to give her toys away - to her sister, to her parents, to her friends. To any random person who comes by (yes. . .our plumber occasionally leaves with a stuffed animal).
She just as easily gives out compliments to others. "You are beautiful, mommy." "You are so smart, Drama", "Daddy can fix anything because he is awesome." She has not yet learned to pass out compliments like trading cards - only in response to one given to her.
She still laughs easily, loudly and with wild abandon.
She makes faces at the camera and then cracks up to see them. She tells jokes and can't make it to the punch line because she finds all of life so hysterical.
She blooms with eyes sparkling and crazy curls framing her face no matter how we start the morning with them tamed.
She is growing up - of that I have no doubts. And I also do not doubt that when she hits the teen years, she will not spare me from the snotty attitude and angst that comes standard with puberty. But I pray that her wild heart will always beat in her own rhythm, that her dance will always be on this side of funky and the sunshine she radiates will never fully be blocked out by the night of life's realities.
She is my little mischief, my curly monster.
Getting Close to Quitting Time
I have never been a quitter. As one of my co-workers once told me. . .I am "too stubborn to fail". I hate giving up, I hate giving in, I hate not seeing something through to completion.
but it is almost time.
time to quit. time to walk away. time to let it go.
My insane drive (to win! be the best! just keep going!) has officially run out, and it is almost time to quit.
My belief that if I just KEPT going, worked a LITTLE harder - surely, surely, it would pay off and things would change, things would get better and I would prevail - that belief has died.
Loosing the studio 2 years ago felt like this. And to face it again - to face defeat - even in the knowledge that it isn't exactly MY fault. . .that it just IS - is killing me.
I want to scream and stomp and lie down on the floor and kick my legs out like a toddler's temper tantrum.
Because its JUST NOT FAIR. And it hurts to give up. And it hurts to know that giving it everything I had wasn't enough.
But it doesn't hurt as much as working 11 hour days and realizing that I still have a million things to do and no more time to do them. And that I could work all night and not be done.
It doesn't hurt as much as feeling lost and stupid with no where to turn all day, and coming home exhausted and stressed and crying.
It doesn't hurt as much as telling my boss that I'm overworked and overwrought and hanging on by my fingernails and then having nothing change.
It doesn't hurt as much as having my husband tell me "Don't give up everything for that job. Don't forget your kids, don't forget your smile."
It doesn't hurt as much as hearing my kids pray "Dear God, help mommy not be so stressed, please let her job be better."
Nothing hurts worse than that.
but it is almost time.
time to quit. time to walk away. time to let it go.
My insane drive (to win! be the best! just keep going!) has officially run out, and it is almost time to quit.
My belief that if I just KEPT going, worked a LITTLE harder - surely, surely, it would pay off and things would change, things would get better and I would prevail - that belief has died.
Loosing the studio 2 years ago felt like this. And to face it again - to face defeat - even in the knowledge that it isn't exactly MY fault. . .that it just IS - is killing me.
I want to scream and stomp and lie down on the floor and kick my legs out like a toddler's temper tantrum.
Because its JUST NOT FAIR. And it hurts to give up. And it hurts to know that giving it everything I had wasn't enough.
But it doesn't hurt as much as working 11 hour days and realizing that I still have a million things to do and no more time to do them. And that I could work all night and not be done.
It doesn't hurt as much as feeling lost and stupid with no where to turn all day, and coming home exhausted and stressed and crying.
It doesn't hurt as much as telling my boss that I'm overworked and overwrought and hanging on by my fingernails and then having nothing change.
It doesn't hurt as much as having my husband tell me "Don't give up everything for that job. Don't forget your kids, don't forget your smile."
It doesn't hurt as much as hearing my kids pray "Dear God, help mommy not be so stressed, please let her job be better."
Nothing hurts worse than that.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Schoolhouse Rock
This post might be a little whiny. I'm just throwing that out there at the start.
First - some history:
My girls have gone to private school for the last 4 years. Drama started in kindergarten as a homeschooler, and though we survived that year, it was not something we decided should be a long term solution for us and we found a private school that we were happy with. And she went there for first and second grades.
The next year, it was time for Mischief to start pre-k and that particular private school did not have a pre-k class schedule that worked with our real life job schedule, so we searched and found another private school that both could go to.
It was a hard transition for Drama, but one that we felt would work itself out with a bit of time and we felt good about what it meant for our family (the girls were together! I could actually work a bit! it was still a Christian private school!). Third grade was hard for Drama at first - new school, new friends, new lessons. . .but after a month or two - she fell into the groove and was happy. After the first semester we worried actually that she might not be getting enough challenge - but decided to let it go and give her a year to adjust. Mischief fell into that groove from the very first minute and loved school and friends and recess.
Then fourth grade came, and with it, an onslaught of issues and concerns for my little 9 year old Drama. To begin with, she was the only girl in her class. My petite, little, fun sized girl, in a class by herself with boys. But her teacher was awesome, and fun, and acutely aware of the social concerns I had about this, and so we decided to go with it.
About 6 weeks in to the school year, the PreK/Kindergarten teacher quit suddenly and to fill the gap in that classroom, Drama's teacher took over Prek/K and another teacher who had been working basically part time took over Drama's class. Instant concern.
I called the school administrator and we chatted. We talked about my social concerns, we talked about Drama's need for additional work and challenges and we agreed that we would let Drama move part time to the fifth grade class. The plan was: 4 subjects in 4th grade and 3 subjects in 5th grade (5th grade had some girls about her age). It seemed like an excellent solution to our worries.
However- shortly after this decision was made, several new students came into the school, and the 5th grade class no longer had space for Drama to come visit. And so - she stayed in her class, without girlfriends, doing her 5th grade work, without a 5th grade teacher.
Angry doesn't begin to cover it. And not angry AT anyone particular. Just general, maternal anger. My little girl, alone. . .teaching herself how to diagram sentences and do math. She is crazy smart and she worked crazy hard to learn everything without bothering anyone. . .and so she slipped through the cracks. She didn't cause problems like the boy she had to punch, she didn't act snotty like the older girls she had to learn to ignore; she did her work, she did it well, she did it alone.
Through the year we tried various things to expand her social group - she joined the middle school (5th - 8th) cheer-leading squad which then got taken over by the high school girls who treated my darling 9 year old like 16 year old girls are likely to do (ie. . .like trash. and i had to get my cranky pants on about that). We called friends from her previous school and our previous church, but it wasn't the same as having friends in class she could chat with daily.
and my heart broke to watch my little girl, trudging through school alone, putting on her brave face, working so hard
And so, at the end of this year, F and I begin to talk about options. And we struggled. And we researched. And we struggled. And we procrastinated. And we struggled.
And it boiled down to this: I couldn't stand the thought of my little Drama going through that again. I couldn't stand the thought of watching her continue to trudge, continue to be sad, continue to just survive. I want to watch her thrive.
It is possible that next year at this small private school, there will be a sudden shift in the demographics and the 5th grade class will be highly populated by females. But there is also the chance that this won't happen.
And so - next year, both girls are going to public school. And I'm relieved and thrilled (and a little stressed). Not stressed by public school itself - I went to public school and loved it - but by the sheer SIZE of the school.
Mischief responded to this news with a little "Cool!" and she went on her way. She had some tears the very last day of school as she realized she wouldn't see those friends as much, but in general she handled it very well.
Drama. . . the corners of her mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles. A little private smile that showed just how much she was keeping her unhappiness to herself - that she didn't want to give away her feelings. But the twitch was all I needed to know we had made the right decision. She is too young to have to guard herself that way, and I pray it isn't too late to break down the barriers she obviously built up this year. She later asked me about the size of the library, the size of the computer lab, the size of the classrooms. She said goodbye to her classmates without tears, but with tact and dignity.
And she walked out - with a perfect straight A average, with test scores of 73 "100" grades out of 84 tests, in subjects she had taught herself.
First - some history:
My girls have gone to private school for the last 4 years. Drama started in kindergarten as a homeschooler, and though we survived that year, it was not something we decided should be a long term solution for us and we found a private school that we were happy with. And she went there for first and second grades.
The next year, it was time for Mischief to start pre-k and that particular private school did not have a pre-k class schedule that worked with our real life job schedule, so we searched and found another private school that both could go to.
It was a hard transition for Drama, but one that we felt would work itself out with a bit of time and we felt good about what it meant for our family (the girls were together! I could actually work a bit! it was still a Christian private school!). Third grade was hard for Drama at first - new school, new friends, new lessons. . .but after a month or two - she fell into the groove and was happy. After the first semester we worried actually that she might not be getting enough challenge - but decided to let it go and give her a year to adjust. Mischief fell into that groove from the very first minute and loved school and friends and recess.
Then fourth grade came, and with it, an onslaught of issues and concerns for my little 9 year old Drama. To begin with, she was the only girl in her class. My petite, little, fun sized girl, in a class by herself with boys. But her teacher was awesome, and fun, and acutely aware of the social concerns I had about this, and so we decided to go with it.
About 6 weeks in to the school year, the PreK/Kindergarten teacher quit suddenly and to fill the gap in that classroom, Drama's teacher took over Prek/K and another teacher who had been working basically part time took over Drama's class. Instant concern.
I called the school administrator and we chatted. We talked about my social concerns, we talked about Drama's need for additional work and challenges and we agreed that we would let Drama move part time to the fifth grade class. The plan was: 4 subjects in 4th grade and 3 subjects in 5th grade (5th grade had some girls about her age). It seemed like an excellent solution to our worries.
However- shortly after this decision was made, several new students came into the school, and the 5th grade class no longer had space for Drama to come visit. And so - she stayed in her class, without girlfriends, doing her 5th grade work, without a 5th grade teacher.
Angry doesn't begin to cover it. And not angry AT anyone particular. Just general, maternal anger. My little girl, alone. . .teaching herself how to diagram sentences and do math. She is crazy smart and she worked crazy hard to learn everything without bothering anyone. . .and so she slipped through the cracks. She didn't cause problems like the boy she had to punch, she didn't act snotty like the older girls she had to learn to ignore; she did her work, she did it well, she did it alone.
Through the year we tried various things to expand her social group - she joined the middle school (5th - 8th) cheer-leading squad which then got taken over by the high school girls who treated my darling 9 year old like 16 year old girls are likely to do (ie. . .like trash. and i had to get my cranky pants on about that). We called friends from her previous school and our previous church, but it wasn't the same as having friends in class she could chat with daily.
and my heart broke to watch my little girl, trudging through school alone, putting on her brave face, working so hard
And so, at the end of this year, F and I begin to talk about options. And we struggled. And we researched. And we struggled. And we procrastinated. And we struggled.
And it boiled down to this: I couldn't stand the thought of my little Drama going through that again. I couldn't stand the thought of watching her continue to trudge, continue to be sad, continue to just survive. I want to watch her thrive.
It is possible that next year at this small private school, there will be a sudden shift in the demographics and the 5th grade class will be highly populated by females. But there is also the chance that this won't happen.
And so - next year, both girls are going to public school. And I'm relieved and thrilled (and a little stressed). Not stressed by public school itself - I went to public school and loved it - but by the sheer SIZE of the school.
Mischief responded to this news with a little "Cool!" and she went on her way. She had some tears the very last day of school as she realized she wouldn't see those friends as much, but in general she handled it very well.
Drama. . . the corners of her mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles. A little private smile that showed just how much she was keeping her unhappiness to herself - that she didn't want to give away her feelings. But the twitch was all I needed to know we had made the right decision. She is too young to have to guard herself that way, and I pray it isn't too late to break down the barriers she obviously built up this year. She later asked me about the size of the library, the size of the computer lab, the size of the classrooms. She said goodbye to her classmates without tears, but with tact and dignity.
And she walked out - with a perfect straight A average, with test scores of 73 "100" grades out of 84 tests, in subjects she had taught herself.
She is so. so. amazing.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Insomnia
I really used to not be able to sleep. I'd be exhausted, falling over, snoozing while standing up and then go to bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. HOURS. My mind would relive every moment of the day, every item of my to-do list pecking at my brain, telling me that I would never get it all done if I didn't get UP out of that BED this VERY instant and get to work.
Some nights I let the to-do list win, I'd get back out of bed and begin mopping or sweeping or whatevering. Some nights I'd stay in bed, defiant. I was going to sleep. . .I WAS going to sleep. . .I was GOING TO SLEEP!
Eventually, I would of course fall asleep - but often after only several hours of tossing and turning, frequently only drifting off after taking some medication to help me. The next day would find me exhausted, foggy and practically a hazard behind the wheel.
Thousands of dollars in doctors visits and sleep studies later, the culprit found and treated, and I discover that a good night's sleep is truly a marvelous thing to have in your life.
I'm a much more even-keeled person (despite the crazy stories I share here. . .you are all lucky you didn't have to deal with me back then. Dear F. . .I love you for putting up with me). I am more productive, more fun, more relaxed. I mean relatively speaking - but let's not get crazy and stop alphabetizing the grocery list or anything.
However, tonight I am awake again. My crazy mind is not keeping me awake tonight, but instead, a curly headed moppet in my bed - coughing in her sleep, turning fitfully, unhappy and pitiful. Leaving me longing for the days when my insomnia let my Mischief sleep.
Some nights I let the to-do list win, I'd get back out of bed and begin mopping or sweeping or whatevering. Some nights I'd stay in bed, defiant. I was going to sleep. . .I WAS going to sleep. . .I was GOING TO SLEEP!
Eventually, I would of course fall asleep - but often after only several hours of tossing and turning, frequently only drifting off after taking some medication to help me. The next day would find me exhausted, foggy and practically a hazard behind the wheel.
Thousands of dollars in doctors visits and sleep studies later, the culprit found and treated, and I discover that a good night's sleep is truly a marvelous thing to have in your life.
I'm a much more even-keeled person (despite the crazy stories I share here. . .you are all lucky you didn't have to deal with me back then. Dear F. . .I love you for putting up with me). I am more productive, more fun, more relaxed. I mean relatively speaking - but let's not get crazy and stop alphabetizing the grocery list or anything.
However, tonight I am awake again. My crazy mind is not keeping me awake tonight, but instead, a curly headed moppet in my bed - coughing in her sleep, turning fitfully, unhappy and pitiful. Leaving me longing for the days when my insomnia let my Mischief sleep.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Holey Moley. The End
Mischief's mole wasn't cancer either. But it was something that has "a cellular structure very similar to melanoma" and "possibly may turn into melanoma" and "needs to be fully excised".
I begin to sense a theme.
They refer us to a pediatric surgeon. Mischief and I go visit him. He is very nice - but she is stressed that he is going to start cutting on her right there in the office. He tells me it will be a simple, easy procedure. . .he can do it right there in the office without anything but a numbing shot if I want.
I decide he might be crazy. I tell him that. . .no. No. no. No. If the mole is coming off, she is going to be asleep. This is my child. . .mine. . .with my skin and my moles and she will need to visit the derm for the rest of her life on a regular basis and no. No. NO. . .she will not be traumatized by this.
We will schedule a surgery, she will go to sleep, she will wake up with a bandaid and some tylonol and NO memories of any pain or of being scared.
And so that is what we do. I am pretty sure he thought I was crazy. But he wasn't the first person to think so. . .and he won't be the last.
The day of the surgery, she is so brave. Drama Queen goes with us to the surgery center and is a fantastic big sister. We talk about the special mask and the stinky air that will make her go to sleep. She puts on her funny gown and I put on my funny gown and I walk her into surgery. She lays on the table and I hold her hand until she is asleep. .. I kiss her little cheek and tell her I'll see her soon. And then I walk out and I wait.
I know it wasn't more than 30 minutes before they come tell us she is out, and fine, and will be waking up soon. . .but it seems like forever. I sit there and try not to panic that something has gone wrong. . but everything is fine.
Except for the fact that she woke up with an IV port in her hand. . .She hated that. But once we got it out, she was good to go. And hungry. . .that child is always hungry. We stopped on the way home and she ate a cheeseburger and fries and a milkshake. Yes I know. . .nothing but the healthiest food for my child.
But Holey Moley. ..
I begin to sense a theme.
They refer us to a pediatric surgeon. Mischief and I go visit him. He is very nice - but she is stressed that he is going to start cutting on her right there in the office. He tells me it will be a simple, easy procedure. . .he can do it right there in the office without anything but a numbing shot if I want.
I decide he might be crazy. I tell him that. . .no. No. no. No. If the mole is coming off, she is going to be asleep. This is my child. . .mine. . .with my skin and my moles and she will need to visit the derm for the rest of her life on a regular basis and no. No. NO. . .she will not be traumatized by this.
We will schedule a surgery, she will go to sleep, she will wake up with a bandaid and some tylonol and NO memories of any pain or of being scared.
And so that is what we do. I am pretty sure he thought I was crazy. But he wasn't the first person to think so. . .and he won't be the last.
The day of the surgery, she is so brave. Drama Queen goes with us to the surgery center and is a fantastic big sister. We talk about the special mask and the stinky air that will make her go to sleep. She puts on her funny gown and I put on my funny gown and I walk her into surgery. She lays on the table and I hold her hand until she is asleep. .. I kiss her little cheek and tell her I'll see her soon. And then I walk out and I wait.
I know it wasn't more than 30 minutes before they come tell us she is out, and fine, and will be waking up soon. . .but it seems like forever. I sit there and try not to panic that something has gone wrong. . but everything is fine.
Except for the fact that she woke up with an IV port in her hand. . .She hated that. But once we got it out, she was good to go. And hungry. . .that child is always hungry. We stopped on the way home and she ate a cheeseburger and fries and a milkshake. Yes I know. . .nothing but the healthiest food for my child.
Holey Moley. Part 2
I go visit my derm. She does the routine check and circle of a few spots. In a given year, I probably have between 4 and 7 removed for biopsy. . .and they all come back normal smormal. . .so it is not a big deal for me. She picks 4 this year and cuts them off for testing.
Two are on my back in a nice little spot that I can't take care of on my own. My darling darling F quickly tells me how happy he is that our little Drama Queen is old enough to help me. And that she is not squeamish.
She does a great job of handling my wound care for the next few weeks. . .
And then the call comes. The call that you think will probably never come. The call that one of the spots is. . ."severely atypical" "I'm sorry, what? What does that mean, exactly? I'm 30!! This is not supposed to happen to me."
It isn't as bad as it could have been. . .it is still considered precancerous. . .but I have to come in and have it "fully excised". They believe they caught just in time.
I'm a bit shocked, and busy. . .and work and the holidays and can't this wait just a few weeks? I put it off as long as I can. . .and then go in and see the derm again. They do the full excision.
10 stitches in my back. I am in pain. And stressed. And it's on my back where I can't fracking see it or tell anything about it or. . .ANYTHING.
My drama queen takes pictures with my cell phone so I can watch it. I travel to a friend's house every 5 days or so (she is a nurse), so she can do a bit of wound care and tell me everything is ok.
About 4 or 5 days before I'm supposed to go back to have the stitches taken out, I call my nurse friend and tell her. . .something is wrong. . .I need you to look at it. I go see her and she agrees. It's not infected. . .it's just wrong.
I get in to see the derm the next day. . .she looks at it and tells me "mazel tov" - I am one of a tiny percent of the population that is basically. . .allergic to stitches. They have to take them out. . .all of them. . .the externals and the internals (the ones that were supposed to dissolve). My "tiny straight line scar" is now "one hell of a beautiful scar" (according to the derm)...that is a euphemism for "gigantic disaster on your back". I am in pain again. And stressed.(And probably slightly whiny. I refuse to comment on that one.)
And then the pediatric derm calls. . . .
Holey Moley. . .The End
Two are on my back in a nice little spot that I can't take care of on my own. My darling darling F quickly tells me how happy he is that our little Drama Queen is old enough to help me. And that she is not squeamish.
She does a great job of handling my wound care for the next few weeks. . .
And then the call comes. The call that you think will probably never come. The call that one of the spots is. . ."severely atypical" "I'm sorry, what? What does that mean, exactly? I'm 30!! This is not supposed to happen to me."
It isn't as bad as it could have been. . .it is still considered precancerous. . .but I have to come in and have it "fully excised". They believe they caught just in time.
I'm a bit shocked, and busy. . .and work and the holidays and can't this wait just a few weeks? I put it off as long as I can. . .and then go in and see the derm again. They do the full excision.
10 stitches in my back. I am in pain. And stressed. And it's on my back where I can't fracking see it or tell anything about it or. . .ANYTHING.
My drama queen takes pictures with my cell phone so I can watch it. I travel to a friend's house every 5 days or so (she is a nurse), so she can do a bit of wound care and tell me everything is ok.
About 4 or 5 days before I'm supposed to go back to have the stitches taken out, I call my nurse friend and tell her. . .something is wrong. . .I need you to look at it. I go see her and she agrees. It's not infected. . .it's just wrong.
I get in to see the derm the next day. . .she looks at it and tells me "mazel tov" - I am one of a tiny percent of the population that is basically. . .allergic to stitches. They have to take them out. . .all of them. . .the externals and the internals (the ones that were supposed to dissolve). My "tiny straight line scar" is now "one hell of a beautiful scar" (according to the derm)...that is a euphemism for "gigantic disaster on your back". I am in pain again. And stressed.(And probably slightly whiny. I refuse to comment on that one.)
And then the pediatric derm calls. . . .
Holey Moley. . .The End
Holy Moley. Part 1
I am a spot covered gal. Have been most of my life. . .My derm believes I am probably a poster child for being at risk for Melanoma. And therefore I do the annual body scan thing, I wear sunscreen year round, and I'm pretty vigilant about keeping an eye on the speckles on my skin.
And the speckles on my kids skin.
When Mischief was about to be 5, we noticed a mole on her arm that seemed to be growing. So we brought it up to her pediatrician. (Slight side note. . .we love our pediatrician. If you don't love your pediatrician. . .you should change. . .find one you love. . .so nice to trust your child's doctor completely). The ped looks at it and says. . yeah. . .lets refer her to a pediatric derm. It is probably nothing, but. . .it would be good to get it checked out.
We make the appointment to go see the pediatric derm. . . .And this guy is fantastic. He is funny, charming and makes my little Mischief totally forget why we are there. Until he says "Lets just take a little piece for testing." Mischief totally (quickly!!) figures out this means he has to cut a piece off. And she. . .FREAKS. OUT.
He numbs it, he talks her through it, I hold her hands and talk her through it. . .and she screams bloody murder while he takes "a little piece for testing."
Happily she recovers quickly. . .but it was not fun. A sticker and a band-aid a promise to call with the results, and we head out the door for our long trip home from Atlanta.
In the mean time. . .it is time for my annual derm check up. . . .
Holey Moley. Part 2
And the speckles on my kids skin.
When Mischief was about to be 5, we noticed a mole on her arm that seemed to be growing. So we brought it up to her pediatrician. (Slight side note. . .we love our pediatrician. If you don't love your pediatrician. . .you should change. . .find one you love. . .so nice to trust your child's doctor completely). The ped looks at it and says. . yeah. . .lets refer her to a pediatric derm. It is probably nothing, but. . .it would be good to get it checked out.
We make the appointment to go see the pediatric derm. . . .And this guy is fantastic. He is funny, charming and makes my little Mischief totally forget why we are there. Until he says "Lets just take a little piece for testing." Mischief totally (quickly!!) figures out this means he has to cut a piece off. And she. . .FREAKS. OUT.
He numbs it, he talks her through it, I hold her hands and talk her through it. . .and she screams bloody murder while he takes "a little piece for testing."
Happily she recovers quickly. . .but it was not fun. A sticker and a band-aid a promise to call with the results, and we head out the door for our long trip home from Atlanta.
In the mean time. . .it is time for my annual derm check up. . . .
Holey Moley. Part 2
Insanely Mortified
Work has been crazy as of late. And not crazy in a good way, although, I don't guess it has been all bad either.
I still do that thing I do. . .but due to a co-worker leaving unexpectedly - I've gotten the opportunity to step in and do some project management. And well. . .I haven't decided exactly how I feel about that yet.
A. Good for my resume.
B. A nice change
C. Parts of it - like new products that I get to help see through development are very cool
D. But Mostly just A. . .
However it also comes with downsides
1. The *other* thing I do certainly didn't disappear and I find myself just a wee bit (totally, completely, ridiculously) overworked, overwhelmed and on the edge of losing it.
2. There are parts of the "management" that truly suck. Dear Sales Weasels. . .REALLY? You promised the customer WHAT?!?!
3. Also. ..the documentation of process and the management of said documentation of said process. Vomituous. (I'm pretty sure that is a real word. It should be).
And all of those downsides worked together to bring me to one of The Most Embarrassing Moments of my career.
I was already covered up in work when I found out about a meeting with an irritated customer. That would be happening over my lunch break. That I was then told I needed to "drive" the call. "Driving the call" is management speak for "we think they'll be nicer to you than they would be to person X". I stress. I plan. Ten minutes before the call, everything changes and I get told I will not be "driving" (Thank. God.) but will still need to attend.
The call goes as poorly as possible. The customer is angry and threatening and posturing and it is Most. Uncomfortable. We are scrambling. I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out what to do about this wonderful wonderful customer. . .while also attending 5 more meetings (not related), dealing with 4 additional projects (only one of which is mine to really worry about) and come to the realization that I WILL NEVER get all this trash done. Never. Never.
At 4:35 I walk back to my desk after coming from a meeting that wasn't nearly as bad as the morning disaster, but was still not great (and was dealing with yet ANOTHER project. . .are you keeping count? because I totally don't know anymore) and am greeted by my very least favorite co-worker in all the land.
He truly grates on my very last nerve. This day he has decided to pester me about a document that. . I don't have. I don't have it. . .I haven't been able to get in touch with the guy who DOES have it. . .and I have told him that twice already in the last 26 hours. And He begins to stress to me the IMPORTANCE of this document, why we MUST have it (for a project that does not yet have sign off. . .) and I begin to feel my blood boil and hit that point where the stress of the day hits the hormones of the month and your heart begins to pound and it is either get angry or get weepy. . .
I take a deep breath. I tell him (AGAIN) that I know it is important, I am working on it, I have not forgotten about it. . .but Mr Person With the Document is still out of the office and I will get it as soon as humanly possible. There is a possibility that my chin quivers, but I cover it up by turning toward my computer and pointing out the fact that Mr Person With the Document is not available. I raise my voice slightly as I declare, "I. Am. Working. On. It" and then turn away and begin to work on something else.
Then another co-worker stops by. . .he has noticed me working like a feral chipmunk on speed previously and kindly tells me to "go on home. . .this stuff can wait. . .your kids probably miss you". I once again keep the chin quiver to a minimum as I tell him thanks. . .I'm just wrapping some stuff up and then I plan to head home.
It is now 4:50. . .and co-worker #3 walks up. He smiles and says "Hey Ordinary Idiot. . .you doing ok?"
.
.
.
And. I. Lose. It. Just break into tears at nothing. He looks shocked and tries to tell me "hey. . .its ok. . .I'm so sorry" and I stutter out that I really am ok. . .it isn't anything really. . .its just everything and then. . .I. Just. Can't. Stop. I'm sitting there in my cube, desperately trying to get myself together while he runs interference to keep anyone else from bothering me.
I'm embarrassed to admit that it took me a good 20 minutes to feel like I could breathe without breaking into fresh tears. I end up sending him an instant message that goes something like "I really am ok. . .thanks for the kindness and consideration. . .I am so sorry that I started crying for no reason. . .I swear I'm really not insane"
He was honestly way cool about it. And the next day I stomped myself around the office - back in my "I am strong and will make YOU weep" mode. . .but dang. Some days. . .the crazy just wins out.
Mortified.
I still do that thing I do. . .but due to a co-worker leaving unexpectedly - I've gotten the opportunity to step in and do some project management. And well. . .I haven't decided exactly how I feel about that yet.
A. Good for my resume.
B. A nice change
C. Parts of it - like new products that I get to help see through development are very cool
D. But Mostly just A. . .
However it also comes with downsides
1. The *other* thing I do certainly didn't disappear and I find myself just a wee bit (totally, completely, ridiculously) overworked, overwhelmed and on the edge of losing it.
2. There are parts of the "management" that truly suck. Dear Sales Weasels. . .REALLY? You promised the customer WHAT?!?!
3. Also. ..the documentation of process and the management of said documentation of said process. Vomituous. (I'm pretty sure that is a real word. It should be).
And all of those downsides worked together to bring me to one of The Most Embarrassing Moments of my career.
I was already covered up in work when I found out about a meeting with an irritated customer. That would be happening over my lunch break. That I was then told I needed to "drive" the call. "Driving the call" is management speak for "we think they'll be nicer to you than they would be to person X". I stress. I plan. Ten minutes before the call, everything changes and I get told I will not be "driving" (Thank. God.) but will still need to attend.
The call goes as poorly as possible. The customer is angry and threatening and posturing and it is Most. Uncomfortable. We are scrambling. I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out what to do about this wonderful wonderful customer. . .while also attending 5 more meetings (not related), dealing with 4 additional projects (only one of which is mine to really worry about) and come to the realization that I WILL NEVER get all this trash done. Never. Never.
At 4:35 I walk back to my desk after coming from a meeting that wasn't nearly as bad as the morning disaster, but was still not great (and was dealing with yet ANOTHER project. . .are you keeping count? because I totally don't know anymore) and am greeted by my very least favorite co-worker in all the land.
He truly grates on my very last nerve. This day he has decided to pester me about a document that. . I don't have. I don't have it. . .I haven't been able to get in touch with the guy who DOES have it. . .and I have told him that twice already in the last 26 hours. And He begins to stress to me the IMPORTANCE of this document, why we MUST have it (for a project that does not yet have sign off. . .) and I begin to feel my blood boil and hit that point where the stress of the day hits the hormones of the month and your heart begins to pound and it is either get angry or get weepy. . .
I take a deep breath. I tell him (AGAIN) that I know it is important, I am working on it, I have not forgotten about it. . .but Mr Person With the Document is still out of the office and I will get it as soon as humanly possible. There is a possibility that my chin quivers, but I cover it up by turning toward my computer and pointing out the fact that Mr Person With the Document is not available. I raise my voice slightly as I declare, "I. Am. Working. On. It" and then turn away and begin to work on something else.
Then another co-worker stops by. . .he has noticed me working like a feral chipmunk on speed previously and kindly tells me to "go on home. . .this stuff can wait. . .your kids probably miss you". I once again keep the chin quiver to a minimum as I tell him thanks. . .I'm just wrapping some stuff up and then I plan to head home.
It is now 4:50. . .and co-worker #3 walks up. He smiles and says "Hey Ordinary Idiot. . .you doing ok?"
.
.
.
And. I. Lose. It. Just break into tears at nothing. He looks shocked and tries to tell me "hey. . .its ok. . .I'm so sorry" and I stutter out that I really am ok. . .it isn't anything really. . .its just everything and then. . .I. Just. Can't. Stop. I'm sitting there in my cube, desperately trying to get myself together while he runs interference to keep anyone else from bothering me.
I'm embarrassed to admit that it took me a good 20 minutes to feel like I could breathe without breaking into fresh tears. I end up sending him an instant message that goes something like "I really am ok. . .thanks for the kindness and consideration. . .I am so sorry that I started crying for no reason. . .I swear I'm really not insane"
He was honestly way cool about it. And the next day I stomped myself around the office - back in my "I am strong and will make YOU weep" mode. . .but dang. Some days. . .the crazy just wins out.
Mortified.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Crazy. Mama. Bear.
We all know about Mama Bears. They are crazy. Insane. Insanely protective.
I have never been a mama bear. I mean, I'm obviously crazy. And protective. But not. . .growling, screaming, resorting to violence or throwing fish-type crazy.
I teach my children to stand up for themselves if necessary, to ignore people who are problematic if at all possible, to be proud and happy with the differences among us.
"Kiddo X at school is awesome at tennis and you aren't sure how to hold the racket? That's ok. . .people are different, you know how to do long division in your head."
"Child Y in your class is bothering you and calling you names? Make sure your teacher knows if he keeps doing it and just try to ignore him. No. . .don't try to help him with his math, that probably won't work."
However, as of late, the mama bear has come out and has come out with a vengeance. Like. . .I might just get awarded a "Mature Parent of the Year. . .FAIL!" award very very soon.
Let me preface this by saying: it has been a very hard year for my Drama Queen. She is the ONLY girl in her class at school. We have recently left our church of 10 years and therefore she is missing her friends there. She found herself trying to socialize with girls much older than her at school because that is THE ONLY OPTION SHE HAD. And I ache for her. Those concerns will probably be the topic of another blog, but for now. . .back to the mama bear-ness I have become of late.
Over the last two weeks I have:
1. Advised my Drama Queen to punch another child in the face.
WHAT?!? He totally would have deserved it.
I then also marched myself to the Principal's desk to tell him that I had given her said advice.
This is in direct opposition to my "you sign up for it, you finish it" philosophy.
3. Recommended she call an older girl STUPID. To her face. And then walk away.
TRUST ME. This one was also deserved.
4. And obviously (see earlier post), assisted in the miscommunication that would have resulted in her telling kids to take a dump in the lake.
ALL of this. . .is at a small, adorably loving, private Christian school. And as you can probably tell, I don't feel the least bit bad about it really.
The weirdest thing: I also don't feel like a bad parent. . .I feel. . .kinda. . .
awesome.
And like I might kind of like this mama bear thing.
Things my kids say. Part 6 of a zillion
Drama Queen is told that if some kids at school pick on her again to tell them to "jump in a lake" and then ignore them.
She repeats back to me in the car what she plans to say. . .
"Mom, I'm just going to tell them to go take a dump in the lake!"
Please my dear child. . .I want you to stand up for yourself, but if you start telling people to take a dump in the lake, we are probably going to get a phone call from the principal.
She repeats back to me in the car what she plans to say. . .
"Mom, I'm just going to tell them to go take a dump in the lake!"
Please my dear child. . .I want you to stand up for yourself, but if you start telling people to take a dump in the lake, we are probably going to get a phone call from the principal.
Things my kids say. Part 5 of a zillion
Mischief: "I learned about Zacchaeus in school today."
B (a friend of the family): "Really? What did you learn about him?"
Mischief: "He was a wee little man and he climbed up a marshmallow tree."
tick. . .tock. . .tick. . .tock. . .
Sycamore = S'more = Marshmallow.
Makes perfect sense to me!
B (a friend of the family): "Really? What did you learn about him?"
Mischief: "He was a wee little man and he climbed up a marshmallow tree."
tick. . .tock. . .tick. . .tock. . .
Sycamore = S'more = Marshmallow.
Makes perfect sense to me!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Coffee and Routine
So. . .life continues. I'm at work (and love parts of it and hate parts of it), the girls are at school (again with the love/hate relationship), and F is at work (I think today it is mostly a hate thing. . .but that is a long story for another time). I need to lose 10 lbs. I need a haircut and a pedicure and someone professional to attack my eyebrows. I've seriously been contemplating scrubbing the grout on the bathroom floor. And we need to paint the foyer. But mostly. . .life just goes on (oh blah di, oh blah da. . .).
However, sometimes the life just going on begins to bother me. Not the life itself mind you - I can whine about somethings, but for the most part, my life is excellent. But the "just goes on" aspect. We keep our nose to the grindstone, pick up the laundry, cook supper and collapse and every day blurs together in a wash of monotony. We aren't resisting change, we are just immune to it. And to keep going, to keep ourselves from falling further behind, we rarely seek out that change. How many times do we think we should do something different and yet we don't? Think we should speak up on an injustice and instead bury our outrage? Contemplate and then procrastinate? In the day to day we have a tendency to ignore things that make us uncomfortable, sweep past the things we dislike and just continue on with our life. It is only in the hours before sleep that those things come back to haunt us. . .keep us awake. . .we swear we'll deal with it in the morning. . .only to drown it in coffee and routine once again when the dawn breaks.
Coffee and routine. . .the two things that keep me mostly sane. . .and yet. . .keep me and my world mostly the same.
However, sometimes the life just going on begins to bother me. Not the life itself mind you - I can whine about somethings, but for the most part, my life is excellent. But the "just goes on" aspect. We keep our nose to the grindstone, pick up the laundry, cook supper and collapse and every day blurs together in a wash of monotony. We aren't resisting change, we are just immune to it. And to keep going, to keep ourselves from falling further behind, we rarely seek out that change. How many times do we think we should do something different and yet we don't? Think we should speak up on an injustice and instead bury our outrage? Contemplate and then procrastinate? In the day to day we have a tendency to ignore things that make us uncomfortable, sweep past the things we dislike and just continue on with our life. It is only in the hours before sleep that those things come back to haunt us. . .keep us awake. . .we swear we'll deal with it in the morning. . .only to drown it in coffee and routine once again when the dawn breaks.
Coffee and routine. . .the two things that keep me mostly sane. . .and yet. . .keep me and my world mostly the same.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Crazy about him
So. This post is about F. My lovely, darling, ruggedly sexy, crazy smart, and stoic F. Many of you know him. Or think you do. But I’ve lived with him for 12 years and it’s been 14 since our first date and I KNOW this man. And as awesome as you might think he is. . .you are wrong. He is more awesome.
I often blog (well, not too often lately – I’ve been a slacker blogger) about our children, or my subscriptions to crazytown. But the glue that holds us all together when I go off the rails. . .the cornerstone to keeping our kids happy and yet disciplined. . .the magic X factor that truly makes our family work. ..that is F. And over the years there are things I’ve learned about him, that I decided I needed to take the time to write down. Maybe not for your sake, my lovely readers. . .but for mine. To remember. To appreciate. To cherish.
F is a fantastic provider for our family. His job does not define him. His job does not even fulfill him. But he works at it diligently, his employer thinks he hung the moon, he treats those under him with respect and concern, while making it clear that his family time is not up for compromise. Vacation time? Not negotiable. And while I know that he doesn’t love his job – he works hard at it, to provide for us.
F is the best father and the best daddy our children could ever have. He often talks to them about the different roles he plays: the father who teaches, corrects, disciplines; and the daddy who plays, giggles, snuggles. And he is phenomenal at both. The girls love and adore him – not just because he is their father, but because of who he is, and his awesomeness.
F is not a good nurse. If you are sick, need someone to coddle you, clean up your vomit and wipe your runny nose – I suggest you look elsewhere. He does not do this. Just stop asking! He will however, take care of the dishes, the laundry, the trash, the kids and the pets while you wallow in your misery. I have never recovered from some illness to discover that the house went to hell in a handbasket while I slept. He takes care of everything else and I know to take care of myself. Do I think if I were bleeding from a gaping wound, that he would fail to try to help me? Of course not. But as long as I’m capable of stopping the bleeding myself – he’ll stop the bleeding that would have otherwise occurred in the household.
F keeps his word and sticks to his responsibilities and obligations. Even if it is not fun, not easy, not convenient. Even if it is decidedly hard, horrible, heinous. If F tells you he will do something, or be somewhere, or provide you with something – you can take that sucker to the bank – because F will make sure it happens. There have been times in our marriage where F keeping his word drove me crazy – because it made life hard, horrible, heinous for both of us – but the integrity that he carries cannot be outmatched.
F stands by his friends and loves them. F doesn’t use the word “love” very much. Especially not with anyone besides our kids. But he loves his friends – helps them when they need it, kicks their butts when they need it, stands beside them no matter what. Some people are fickle friends, and come into your life for a short while, before moving on. F does not do this in any way – if you become friends with him, a true friend – it is a lifetime commitment.
F adores it when I cook. Truly. Not just because it means he didn’t have to – but he understands the love that I put into cooking for the family. It makes me warm and fuzzy to watch him enjoy something that I’ve prepared and to know that he loves it. I don’t remember the last time I made something out of a box mix – all homemade and yummy goodness – because he doesn’t really like processed food. Truly. I once made a batch of cookies from a mix and didn’t tell him. I thought he wouldn’t notice. . .he took one bite and made a little wrinkly nose face and said gently, “eeeh. . .not your best. But thanks for the thought.” I don’t think he ate even one more of that batch of cookies. I swear, it is like he can taste something I’ve made and discern if it was made with love or haste. . .and those made with love taste much better to him.
F also knows when I’ve reached my limit and it is time to call in reinforcements – either help with the laundry and cleaning, or a call to have dinner delivered, or a night without kids. He sees when I start to get weary, and he steps in to keep me sane. He may not understand what it is that has made me weary at that moment, but he sees the warning signs and works to avoid the coming crisis. If for some reason, the crisis occurs anyway – he lets me process through it – crying if I need to, manically wiping the baseboards with a Clorox wipe if I need to, or huddling under the covers with a book and a beer if I need to.
F loves me. God knows why – but the man loves me. The things that he does (see above), he does largely out of his love for me. And while there are days when I wish he would take me by the hand, and look me in the eye, and tell me how much he loves me and how beautiful and marvelous and wonderful I am, I know that really – the things he does, speak much louder than anything he could ever put to voice. F loves me. And I’m just crazy about him.
I often blog (well, not too often lately – I’ve been a slacker blogger) about our children, or my subscriptions to crazytown. But the glue that holds us all together when I go off the rails. . .the cornerstone to keeping our kids happy and yet disciplined. . .the magic X factor that truly makes our family work. ..that is F. And over the years there are things I’ve learned about him, that I decided I needed to take the time to write down. Maybe not for your sake, my lovely readers. . .but for mine. To remember. To appreciate. To cherish.
F is a fantastic provider for our family. His job does not define him. His job does not even fulfill him. But he works at it diligently, his employer thinks he hung the moon, he treats those under him with respect and concern, while making it clear that his family time is not up for compromise. Vacation time? Not negotiable. And while I know that he doesn’t love his job – he works hard at it, to provide for us.
F is the best father and the best daddy our children could ever have. He often talks to them about the different roles he plays: the father who teaches, corrects, disciplines; and the daddy who plays, giggles, snuggles. And he is phenomenal at both. The girls love and adore him – not just because he is their father, but because of who he is, and his awesomeness.
F is not a good nurse. If you are sick, need someone to coddle you, clean up your vomit and wipe your runny nose – I suggest you look elsewhere. He does not do this. Just stop asking! He will however, take care of the dishes, the laundry, the trash, the kids and the pets while you wallow in your misery. I have never recovered from some illness to discover that the house went to hell in a handbasket while I slept. He takes care of everything else and I know to take care of myself. Do I think if I were bleeding from a gaping wound, that he would fail to try to help me? Of course not. But as long as I’m capable of stopping the bleeding myself – he’ll stop the bleeding that would have otherwise occurred in the household.
F keeps his word and sticks to his responsibilities and obligations. Even if it is not fun, not easy, not convenient. Even if it is decidedly hard, horrible, heinous. If F tells you he will do something, or be somewhere, or provide you with something – you can take that sucker to the bank – because F will make sure it happens. There have been times in our marriage where F keeping his word drove me crazy – because it made life hard, horrible, heinous for both of us – but the integrity that he carries cannot be outmatched.
F stands by his friends and loves them. F doesn’t use the word “love” very much. Especially not with anyone besides our kids. But he loves his friends – helps them when they need it, kicks their butts when they need it, stands beside them no matter what. Some people are fickle friends, and come into your life for a short while, before moving on. F does not do this in any way – if you become friends with him, a true friend – it is a lifetime commitment.
F adores it when I cook. Truly. Not just because it means he didn’t have to – but he understands the love that I put into cooking for the family. It makes me warm and fuzzy to watch him enjoy something that I’ve prepared and to know that he loves it. I don’t remember the last time I made something out of a box mix – all homemade and yummy goodness – because he doesn’t really like processed food. Truly. I once made a batch of cookies from a mix and didn’t tell him. I thought he wouldn’t notice. . .he took one bite and made a little wrinkly nose face and said gently, “eeeh. . .not your best. But thanks for the thought.” I don’t think he ate even one more of that batch of cookies. I swear, it is like he can taste something I’ve made and discern if it was made with love or haste. . .and those made with love taste much better to him.
F also knows when I’ve reached my limit and it is time to call in reinforcements – either help with the laundry and cleaning, or a call to have dinner delivered, or a night without kids. He sees when I start to get weary, and he steps in to keep me sane. He may not understand what it is that has made me weary at that moment, but he sees the warning signs and works to avoid the coming crisis. If for some reason, the crisis occurs anyway – he lets me process through it – crying if I need to, manically wiping the baseboards with a Clorox wipe if I need to, or huddling under the covers with a book and a beer if I need to.
F loves me. God knows why – but the man loves me. The things that he does (see above), he does largely out of his love for me. And while there are days when I wish he would take me by the hand, and look me in the eye, and tell me how much he loves me and how beautiful and marvelous and wonderful I am, I know that really – the things he does, speak much louder than anything he could ever put to voice. F loves me. And I’m just crazy about him.
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