They Say…

Soooooo……ahem. Wow. Been a long time since I’ve been here. Well, not THAT long. April was the most recent. But given this past Monday feels like it happened three weeks ago? April might as well have been one year and two days ago. 

I use to write here everyday. And I loved it. It was an outlet. A place to document thoughts, events…life. And then Facebook happened. And blogging went to shit. Which sucks. I miss writing. I miss reading what others have written. 

Some say journaling/blogging can be therapeutic. I agree. I also agree that taking a baseball bat to something like an appliance or a car is therapeutic but, some tend to frown upon that. What? I didn’t mean I wanted to whack the shit out of YOUR car. I was thinking more along the lines of one in a junkyard. But fine. No bats. Blogging. 

I don’t know that I will have anything HOLY SHIT AWESOME to post here. I can’t promise it’ll be entertaining. And there’s a real good chance I’ll say “fuck”. But, I CAN promise it’ll be real. It’ll be me. And maybe that’ll help me. 

And if it helps someone in some way…a laugh, a snort, an AMEN, sister! Me, tooooo!…well, then that’s just icing on the cake. 

Mmmm….cake. I heart cake. 

And I Wonder Why…

Do the kids need hoodies? It’s a little cooler in the mornings lately. I’m really hungry. This is complete CRAP that I can’t eat whatever I want. Coffee. Need coffee. “So it’s gonna be forever or it’s gonna go down in flames you can tell me when it’s over if the high was worth the pain.” Sweet Jesus….Taylor Swift songs? I STILL haven’t called my Gram and it’s been entirely too long and I REALLY need to get up there and see her ASAP!  Thank God it’s Thursday. Shit. No. It’s TUESDAY. Ugh!”

That, my friends, is an example of my brain. All before I’ve even had that first sip of glorious, hot coffee in the morning. And by morning I mean IT’S STILL EFFEN DARK OUT AND THOSE BIRDS THAT ARE CHIRPING WHEN YOU WAKE UP? THEY’RE AWAKE BECAUSE I KICKED THEIR LITTLE BIRD HOUSES ON MY WAY OUT THE DOOR BECAUSE I’M UP AT 4:30/4:4:40. IN THE DAMN MORNING.

Ok…so that was clearly a lot of yelling. Ahem. I’m sorry. No, really. I am. Don’t go.

I have this thing where my brain doesn’t know how to STFU. Ever. Before my eyes even open, the brain has upshifted into sixth gear and isn’t slowing down. At any given time, the thoughts are swirling around in there like a cyclonic storm that can unleash at any moment. A friend once said “tell me what you’re thinking RIGHT NOW.” So, I did and his face..God, it was awesome. It was a combination of surprise, concern and fear all at once. I finally stopped talking and his response was “No wonder you’re always tired, dumbass.”

I’ve always thought of tired as a physical feeling; never really a mental thing. But, nope. It sure as shit is a mental thing. It wears you down. You become insanely tired and and you get grumpy and all you want is FIVE minutes of quiet except you can’t escape it like you can other things…you can hide in the bathroom/closet/dryer all you want but, guess what? Your brain? It’s RIGHT THERE! Not shutting up. Ever.

It’s seriously exhausting. 

Feeling Empty

A little over two and a half years ago, I posted about my struggles with endo and how I had decided a partial hysterectomy was the option for me. After a recovery that was entirely too long for me (read: anything longer than 17.5 hours is too long!) and that included The UTI from Hell and The Cold From Hell, I saw the unicorn and puppies side of it all.

After my partial, my doctor said given the left ovary was less than awesome, but he managed to save it, there was no promise that in two, three or five years I wouldn’t run into trouble with it. He called it. Two and a half years later, I found that trouble. Ironically enough, it was found by accident. I had spent an entire Monday with lower abdomen pain that, as the day went on, became more intense and had moved up to the middle of my abdomen and over to my right side. Given I have a broken/lazy gallbladder, I thought maybe it was finally losing its shit in there or it was my appendix. So, off to Urgent Care I went.

Long story short….after 8 hours and change in Urgent Care and 611 images being taken by ultrasound and a CT scan, I was told my gallbladder and appendix were fine (although..at first? They said they couldn’t find my appendix and had I had it removed? Uhhh…..nooooooo. I may forget some stuff, but things like where my shoes are and which organs I’ve had removed? No. Not forgetting.) They found a large cyst measuring 6.2cm on my left ovary. Odd, given that side wasn’t hurting me. They then told me that a cyst that large can sometimes be cancerous. So, dear friends, what do you think hearing THAT did to this anxiety riddled, worries about EVERYTHING girl? It was also found that I had a mild case of colitis in my intestines.

The next day (Tuesday), I saw my lady parts doctor. He said a cyst that big usually doesn’t go away on its own and it would either twist (painful and requires immediate surgery) or rupture (also painful). He did agree that it CAN sometimes be that dirty C word, but he did not feel it was. To ease my mind, however, he sent me for a blood test a few days later that checks to see if there’s a higher chance it is THAT. Options were to wait 6 weeks and scan it again or have it removed. He advised to have the ovary removed because, again, the chance it would shrink was small and he was concerned about it twisting. So, surgery was scheduled for the following following Friday (Halloween!!).

That same day, I also saw my GI doctor. He said given my history with stomach stuff, he wanted to do another colonoscopy. Even though I’d JUST had that and an endoscopy done in April (please….try to get a handle on your jealousy). THAT lovely procedure was scheduled for Monday. Yes. The Monday before the Friday that is Halloween. Yes. That means a colonoscopy AND the removal of an ovary in the SAME WEEK! (Seriously….get a handle on that jealousy, ladies. It really doesn’t match your shoes OR that sparkly headband you’re rocking.)

Colonoscopy was fine. Showed infection on its way out. Follow up appointment to discuss biopsy results and all that. Great. Fine. Good. Keep taking the 2000mg a day of antibiotics Urgent Care put me on. Bonus: my Mama, who I hadn’t seen in over a year, came down the day before this procedure to help with the kids and be with me. Totally makes it worth it!)

I now had four days til my surgery. And I was solo parenting my kids as their Dad was away for work. And he wouldn’t be back til AFTER I’d already come out of surgery and recovery. No, that’s not stressful or anything. With the help of a great friend, I worked it out. Kids were gotten ready for their day and brought to their dayhome and I drove myself to the hospital and did all that awesome pre-surgery stuff (read: freaking the hell out!) alone. But, it all happened so fast, there wasn’t much time to plan and I HATE HATE HATE asking people for help.

Anyway…I am forever grateful for the amazing nurse who would be with me during surgery. Just as they came to get me, I had the mother of all panic attacks. The  anesthesiologist, God love him, too!, was calming and said “my Xanax is better than your’s!” and stuck a needle in my IV line and HOLY SWEET HELL! He WINS! Surgery was fine. I enjoyed it. Well, I don’t know if that’s true. I was taking a nap. Was in my room by noon. Post-op care sucked wind. Saw my doctor the next morning and said there was no way that cyst would’ve gone away. It was large and dark and ugly and full of endo. He did leave my right ovary–it looked healthy and to be functioning fine and it keeps me from morphing into a hairy, sweaty, fire spewing ogre going into menopause now. He told me the blood test results came back and my one number was 71 (normal is in the 30s, but if it was THAT, the number would be in the thousands. We would, though, need to wait for the biopsy results. He sent me packing.

Recovery was ok. I’m inpatient so it never bodes well with me. At my two week check-up, he said to exercise caution with resuming my day to day stuff, assured me the aching and pain I feel is normal and said that just because the surgery is done with the help of a robot and my incisions are the size of paper cuts, it IS still major surgery. Mmmmhmmmm. Ok.

And now it’s hit me. While my surgery two and a half years ago rendered me unable to ever have children again (totally okay with that….two works for me), THIS surgery of removing an ovary and a Fallopian tube (hehe…say it. It’s funny. No, really. SAY IT! Out loud!) has hit me harder emotionally/mentally. Don’t ask why. I have no friggen idea. I feel empty. Like less of a woman. And I wonder if, because the weight of an ovary and….wait for it….FALLOPIAN TUBE…being removed will now cause me to tilt more to the right. Which will cause my shoes to wear unevenly and THAT would REALLY piss me off. No, I don’t really wonder that. Yes, I actually do.

(The biopsy came back and the cyst was benign. I cried. And thanked my doctor. And then told him I’ll NOW be worried the same thing will happen on the right side and I’ll never know given it happened on the left and if I hadn’t had the gut pain that night and went to Urgent Care, I never would’ve known that ugliness was in there and maybe we SHOULD have taken the right one, too, and what’s your schedule look like Friday? Go back in before it’s all healed! At this point, he patted my knee and said to go chew a handful of Xanax and shut the hell up already.relax and it’s something that will be checked at my yearly visit.)

Button Pusher

I’ve entered a new world of parenting. A world where tantrums are thrown on the heels of laughter and objects are being hurled across the room at a surprising speed given the offender is barely three and a half feet tall and not even two years old.

Morgan, God bless her, skipped by this stage. Sure, she pitched her fair share of fits, but it was usually because I dared move her gaggle of naked Barbies off the couch because I wanted to park my ass on it. Or, her fits were thrown because she dropped her sippy cup and she just wanted the world to know she was pissed.

Jonah….sweet, blond haired, giggly faced Jonah…I don’t even know what to say.

Oh wait. Yes, I do. HOLY EFFEN SHIT! This kid is six weeks and change from turning two and already giving me a run for my money. Seemingly overnight, a switch was flipped. We went to bed one night with a mostly agreeable, happy go lucky toddler and woke up to Satan’s Spawn. On speed. With a can of Red Bull as a chaser.

He will be laughing and screeching while playing with Daddy one minute and thirty-two seconds later, he is chucking whatever toy is within reach across the room, while giving you, what I can only describe as, The Look of Hatred. When giving you the look, I just know he is secretly plotting my demise.

His new love is throwing and hitting. While sitting with his sister last night, looking at a book, he glanced up at her and then stared at her. He then reached out and swatted her on the side of the head. Morgan, being a girl and riding the Drama Coaster, began bellowing as if her brother had clocked her with a cast iron skillet. Twice. Jonah, meanwhile, sat there with his hands folded in his lap, staring at her as if to say “Why you freaking out?” As I crossed the room to remove him from his spot and put him in a timeout, he heaved this big sigh and covered his eyes with his chubby toddler hands. He knew. He knew he was in trouble.

I admit…my first reaction when he decks someone is to crack his hand and tell him NO HITTING. But, isn’t that a little…um…contradictory? “Jonah…sweet boy…do not hit your sister. It’s not okay and I am going to teach you this by slapping your hand, mmmmkay?” What the what?! So, time out it is! And what is time out? I’ll tell you what time out is…

…it’s hauling a thirty-three pound (yeah..he’s a tree trunk…what of it?), almost two year old, who suddenly has bones made of Jell-O to the couch and sitting him down. It is then being IN HIS FACE and sternly telling him a) that whatever he did THIS time is NOT a good thing and b) he is now going to sit. This is followed by sitting in front of him, my back to him, and pretending the episode of Strawberry Shortcake that is on is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, all the while Jell-O boy is flopping around back there like a Beluga whale washed upon the beach. It is readjusting him so he is sitting up, while he screeches like a banshee (thereby causing my eardrums to vibrate and feel as if they will shatter) and removing his puffy baby foot from between two ribs because he is PISSED and you ARE going to be made aware of it.

After two minutes has passed (two minutes my ASS! Feels more like two weeks, two days, two hours and twenty two seconds!), he is AGAIN told that ______(insert original offense) is NOT what we do and to go apologize to his victim. This, my friends, is met with another huge, heaving sigh and his eyes closing for an extended blink as if he can’t even BELIEVE he has to deal with us jackasses! He is freed from his spot and I am left a sweaty mess with a sore rib cage.

Time out can bite it.

My boy, I believe, has decided to partake in a career for Major League Baseball. He, apparently, has heard there will be a shortage of pitchers in the year 2032 so, young Jonah has decided to work on his pitching arm now. When he takes the field at Yankee Stadium at the strapping age of 22, I will be extremely impressed when he hurls a curve ball at 98mph. Right now, however, at the age of almost 2, I am the opposite of impressed. In fact, I am so UNimpressed, I am no longer in the same State.

His favorite thing to launch his his pacifier. At first, I’d react by screeching informing him we do NOT throw. This would be met with the infamous heaved sigh of disgust (him) and the stomping of feet in the other direction (me). Now, when an object is launched, I retrieve it and put it where he can see it, but he can’t reach it. I mumble something about “now you lost it” and go about my business. This, too, is met with the sigh (him) and the stomping of feet (also him) in the other direction.

It’s like living with a crazy person! Morgan has decided to play in her room 90% of the time because she’s tired of him whacking her in the head and of him wrecking whatever it is she was playing with. For this I feel bad because she’s waaaaay upstairs and not with us. I feel bad that her brother’s reign of Hell is the reason for this. I also feel bad that it’s not socially acceptable to commence drinking at 9am. One never knows what kind of mood His Majesty will be in or what will trigger the jackassery behavior. I’m tempted to keep track of what happens when said behavior begins, but I know I will spend 99% of my time following the little heathen around and documenting everything from what he was playing with, to what show was on, to what he was wearing to what the barometric pressure was and where the planets were aligned at that precise moment and sweet hell…I don’t have that kind of time!

I am at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Apparently, smacking the nastiness out of him and being a closet drunk by 9am are not acceptable methods of handling this. Timeout and taking things away are my only weapons and this kid doesn’t give a SHITE about either of these. Timeout? Good, he says, two minutes for me to sit here and hate you silently! Taking away my pacifier? Have fun with that…I’ll just practice my lung strengthening exercises for a bit! Oh, I can’t play with the blocks anymore because I flung them across the room? That’s cool…I’ll play with my fire trucks, instead.

I love this kid so very, very much. I’m trying to remember this, too, shall pass and in the blink of an eye, he’ll be holed up in his room texting his stoner friend about how his parents suck. In the meantime, though, send wine! And earplugs! And perhaps a padded tank top to protect my increasingly sore ribs?

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Time

I am fortunate to not only have a job I love, but a job in which I have Fridays off. Up until recently, Fridays were spent working a second job. After returning to work, I struggled a lot with Mommy Guilt. My boy has never had the time with me that Morgan had the first five years of her life. It has never really been just he and I during the days. I was, literally, seeing all I was missing out on with him and to say it was breaking my heart is an understatement. 

Walking away from Job #2 wasn’t all that difficult. It had become more of a headache and stress factor than it was worth. Fridays are now less frantic in the mornings as we have an extra 25 minutes. After getting Morgan on the bus, Jonah and I return home and go about our business of laundry and Bubble Guppies; some cleaning and playing with his beloved fire trucks or Zig the Big Rig. We may run some errands or we may spend the day at home. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter what we do because it is just he and I. I am the one to see his face light up when his beloved Bubble Guppies starts or when the fire siren starts screaming and he races to the windows to wait for the big boy fire trucks to roll out of their cavernous bays. I get to dance around the kitchen with him or play the Who Has Stinky Piggies?! game (and laugh when he dissolves into uncontrollable giggles every. single. time!). His lunch is made by me, it is me he snuggles into on the couch for some quiet time before he goes down for a nap. I am the lucky one to sing him two rounds of his favorite song (oddly enough…the ABC song. It’s like Pavlov’s Dogs for this boy–he hears it and after the second round ends, he is ready to lay in his bed) and lay him in his crib for naptime. I don’t know who has the bigger smile when he wakes from his nap–him or myself. 

This afternoon, before nap, we were molded into the couch together. His belly full, his eyes getting heavy, we sat together. His soft hand was holding onto mine, his trusty stuffed Blue Dog tucked beneath his other arm. My cheek was resting on his tousled blond head, inhaling the scent that is my little guy–that sweet, intoxicating smell of sweaty head from a morning spent playing hard and the innocence that only a child has. I felt the sturdy warmth of his body nestled into mine and smiled when he heaved this little boy sigh of contentment.

It hit me, again, at that moment that I had missed out on a lot because I had to return to work. It slapped me in the face that there won’t always be moments like this; that time races on with no regard as we struggle to slow it down. In a couple of months, he will be two and it amazes me in every facet of the word at how fast it all goes. 

I look forward to Fridays. I love being the one to wave to my girl as her bus pulls away and the one to meet the bus at the end of her day. I love Fridays for the slower pace it brings Jonah, Morgan and myself. I cherish Fridays because of the one on one time I get with my boy. 

I am powerless to slow Father Time down. As long as I have these days, I am okay with that. 

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One Less Decision

Over the weekend, I was out running some errands. A few miles from home, I realized I’d forgotten to get diapers and there was no way in Hell I was going back to Target (the place where diapers apparently cost $100, minimum, because one can’t seem to leave that vortex without dropping a hundred bucks) or Wal-Hell (I could be in need of a foot transplant and Wal-Hell would be the only place to sell the foot needed and it wouldn’t be enough to get me to go back there on a Saturday afternoon. No effen way! I will gimp around with a bloody stump from the ankle down first). I whipped the car into the parking lot of Rite-Aid and decided to pay no mind to the fact that I would, within a handful of minutes, be paying more for a small package of diapers than I paid for my last pair of smokin’ hot new sandals. 

Weaving my way through the aisles of leftover Easter candy and Gifts for Mom! displays, I took a shortcut down the Feminine Hygiene aisle. Also known as the Aisle that WILL Cause You to Stroke Out and/or Want to Punch Nuns. It wasn’t until I was back in my car that it hit me….

…never again will I need to stand in the aforementioned aisle and try to decode the annoying pictures on packages of tampons and pads. You know the ones I mean…it shows the product you’re debating on buying with gentle looking…raindrops if you will…falling on it and varying lengths for the product. Or, it shows the cotton canoe you’re debating on expanded to different sizes within a glass of blue water. Don’t play like you don’t know. You SO know! 

Ha! Take that, bitches! 

Think about it…buying tampons or pads has become something akin to a child’s version of The Stare Down game. You stand there, eyeballing the goods available and they stare back….not quite making you feel like you’re a newbie at this game, but pretty friggen close. 

Long with wings…shorts with wings. Overnights with no wings or semi-heavy flow with extra long wings that wrap around and try to give you a Brazilian wax at the same time. Tampons with applicators or without? Scented or not? (Uh….what the eff? Scented means stuff smells purty, but it also means in 3 days…your junk is on fire because…wait for it…your lady business is NOT meant to have perfumy stuff in or around it for days on end. But, not scented means a walk through the neighborhood will have every dog in a four block radius howling at you or running after you.) 

Do you want the souped up, economy size package that offers a plethora of sizes for different days? Do you want the small box that will mean your ass will back in this very same spot, in two and a half days, because it wasn’t enough? 

Do you want name brand or store brand. Eh…tough call. Store brand is fine for things like canned carrots or frozen waffles. When it comes to making sure I am not going to want to die of embarrassment because my store brand tampon decided it didn’t want to play anymore, I’m not sure store brand is the way to go. And…AND…what in the fresh Hell is with the prices of these….accessories, if you will…??!! Last I knew it was catching stuff….not curing world hunger or helping flood victims. Seems a bit insane to me to pay 8 bucks and change for something that I will, in the end, flush down a toilet. Greedy heathens. 

And what the effen eff is with the products that come in cutesy shades of purple and orange or black with little designs on the wrapper? I never felt the need to have my weapons capable of stopping blood flow from a shark victim look cute and girly. I get the need to be discreet and not call attention to what you’re slipping into your pants pocket, but here’s an idea…don’t be all “heeeeeeyyyyyyy….see this? It’s a tampooooooon because I have my peeeeeeeriod!” I would think the bright orange wrapper would call more attention to what you’re doing than if a spot light was shone upon a plain ol’ white wrapped tube of cotton. But, that’s just me. 

So, anyway…no more debating on which brand, size of package, caliber of protection for this girl. No more standing in that aisle wishing the Fairy Godmother of Periods would materialize from the lube section behind you and JUST MAKE THE FRIGGEN CHOICE FOR YOU ALREADY! No more feeling like I just had a Brazilian wax all because I stood up from my desk (what kind of friggen adhesive do these companies use on those so-long-you-could-wrap-them-around-your-legs-15-times-wings?!). No more wondering if the reason the guy ahead of you at the deli is looking at you sideways because you didn’t opt for the flowery smelling tampons this time ’round or if it’s because you’re super cute that particular day and your rack looks bigger than it is in a certain shirt. No more doing the 100 meter dash to the bathroom because it feels like something is about to go horribly, horribly wrong. 

I shall now skip that entire aisle. Well, at least half of that aisle ;) 

Two Weeks of Not Awesomeness

If you know me, you know this much about me:

** I do not like being told what to do
** I have no tolerance for stupid people
** Bad shoes should require a time-out
** I have no patience for most things

My no patience sort of sucks when it comes to things like learning something new; waiting for a small person to get his/her coat on when we should’ve walked out the door 143 seconds prior and recovering from surgery.

First week of my recovery went as good as could be expected when a person has a body part ripped out of their body through their belly button (what? YOU’RE grossed out by that? Imagine how *I* feel. Actually…imagine how my poor button feels!). I had more discomfort than true pain, hated that I couldn’t do anything but be pissed at all I couldn’t do and wished I’d just hurry the frack up and feel better.

A week and change after my surgery, I was not good. Fever, chills, a lot of lower back pain. A call to my doctor resulted in him saying I had classic signs of a UTI and he called in meds for me. A few days later, I was no longer in pain, just more pissed off that I was still not feeling well.

And then came The Cold From Hell. I’m good for two colds each year. Lucky for me, I haven’t had a bad one, or one with a sinus infection, since my sinus surgery in 2009. But, Murphy’s Law will ALWAYS kick me in the ass. He saw I was already down from surgery and a UTI and swooped in to kick my already suffering immune system square in the face. The coughing damn near killed me. And then the pressure moved into my face, making it feel like it was *this* close to detonating. A trip to Urgent Care revealed a raging sinus infection and a double ear infection and MORE meds.

Somewhere…wherever evicted body parts go to die…my uterus is flipping me the bird and saying “I got alllll the blame, so you removed me. Now look at ya. A hot friggen mess!”

I’m slowly getting better. UTI wise, I’m fine. Surgery wise, I have some cramping and mild discomfort and some spotting. Which I promptly brought to my surgeon’s attention with a “What the fresh hell is THIS?! I have NO UTERUS! How can there be red stuff coming from down there?!” He assured me it’s normal. I assured him I was skeptical, at best. He assured me it’s normal. I assured him if it didn’t get better or go away, I’d be back. He assured me that was fine. A lot of assuring happening, but I wasn’t all that reassured feeling when I left.

So, there you have it. Surgery, UTI and the sickness from hell. But, on the plus side, I’ve been home an extra week and kept my little ones with me. It’s been nice. Even though we haven’t done anything but hang out, it’s been nice.

Like “make me super sad that I have to go back to work Monday and won’t be the one to put Jonah down for a nap or get Morgan off the bus or be the one Jonah runs to when he’s excited/sad” really nice.