Silence, My Lambs

Many years ago my mom was called to jury duty and was picked and went through the whole trial shabang. On the final day of court, she came home and somehow we knew that it was over or a verdict had been decided on. So Daddy asked her what verdict they delivered. To which she very calmly replied, "I'm not allowed to tell you that, you'll have to read the paper tomorrow." No amount of persuasion, ridicule, etc. from all of us would make her budge.

So there was this big meeting at church last week. And the next day I'm like, "So what did they decide?" To which she replied, "I'm not supposed to tell." And she didn't tell me! I mean, HELLO! Jeb, contact the military and tell them about the valuable weapon they are not utilizing: BARBARA, THE VAULT.

And can I just say it's ridiculous that church is keeping secrets? Geez.

Prepping for the Big 3

Saturday is Elliott's birthday! And Friday I'm taking cupcakes to daycare for his class. So last night I was showing him the treat bags and favors, cups, napkins, etc., and giving him a rundown of the schedule over the next few days. So this morning we are still being lazy in bed and he's asking me questions and he references the party at daycare.

Elliott: "You stay with me?"
Me: "No, you'll go to daycare on Friday just like normal, and then after nap I'll come and bring the cupcakes."
Elliott: "My friends will be so excited!"

I mean, how freaking adorable is that! I hope on Monday I'll have lots of good and funny party details from Friday and Saturday to amuse you with, friends.

The Endo Army Marches On

Disclaimer: This entry contains details about my endometriosis. If you don't want to hear such details, don't keep reading!

(cue music from The Ants Go Marching; if you need assistance, check out this link: http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/antsgo.htm)

The Endo Army Marches On

The endo goes marching through my tum(my), pressure, pressure
The endo goes marching through my tum, pressure, pressure
The endo goes marching through my tum,
It captured my bladder and now I run
And I just keep taking different pills
But the disease just marches on, PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!

The first time I heard a doctor refer to it as a disease, I was offended. Then later, I was like, "Yeah, spread that around. I'm not a wienie who has no pain tolerance as many think. In fact, my pain tolerance is quite good. I HAVE A DISEASE. AN INCURABLE DISEASE." A disease which is driving me nutso nutso, yet again. Guess what that means! Volunteering for a second laparoscopy. And you know what? I'm crazy enough to want the pictures from #2 to compare to #1, and I would really like to hear my doc say, "Whoa, that's a lot of spread; no wonder you are in such pain." I then I will look around smugly. So hopefully pretty soon I will be saying, "Burn, baby, burn!"

What A Difference A Year Makes

Last year at this time we were dealing with the following:

• Doug had changed jobs
• Doug had lost an unexplainable amount of weight
• Doug had been to doctor #1 and had initial tests run
• Doug had been to doctor #2 and had a not so fun outpatient test done
• I had started my new job
• Elliott was turning 2
• I was working on Elliott's playroom
• The nightmare hospital visit and year of medical mystery was about to officially begin
• I had started initial contact about the reunion

And now:

• Doug not only has the new diagnosis but his kidney damage is reversed! Praise God! And I am so thankful for doctor #3
• Elliott is turning 3
• We are in a new (to us) house, which I never saw coming at this time last year
• The reunion is over, and I survived it!

Life is amazing. Surprises around every corner. Makes me scared, and makes me feel blessed. Maybe next year at this time I'll be thin!!!

If You Are Looking For My Will, It's On A Post-It Note

Much to Erica's dismay, my "record keeping" of addresses for the memory book was a little, how shall I say, Emily-esque. 90% of the addresses were on a printout of an Excel worksheet. Logical and ordered. The other 10%....post-it notes, scraps of paper, loose-leaf paper, etc. I could see the fear in her eyes as she hoped that I out live Doug. Because if not, go ahead and put all our possessions up for auction because no one will have any idea how to find items in what to me is a functioning system. This whole episode made me think of my dear Julianna, a classic organized Type A (I live to be an uncharacteric Type A), who I feared I would one day give a heart attack when we worked together. Though I did so enjoy handing her a note from a TORN piece of notebook paper..HAHAHAHA! And to my dear friend I say, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! MAY IT BE FULL OF BLESSINGS, AND MAY YOU WIN AT BOWLING!

Attack of the FWEEBS!

8+ years of marriage. 8 years this month that Priss has been with us. So 8 years of having at least one, at times as many as 3, inside animal. And this is the first time we've had fleas that are in the house not contained to the animals. In the carpet. On the bed and the couch. My poor baby is covered in flea bites. I might have 2. Apparently, like mosquitoes, Elliott is the blood donor of choice. He must be delicious. His tiny, brown body is now blemished with bites. I feel like a failure as a mother, housekeeper and pet owner. We've sprayed so much Frontline on poor Priss that I'm surprised we haven't made her OD. I'm afraid she may be slightly high at all times. We are currently trying two different sprays for the house, hoping we don't have to end up bombing. But E's b'day party is NEXT WEEKEND, so the battle must be won by then.

And Holly, "I just called....to say.....funny things...."

SHH! Stop Talking Now!

I'm a weirdo. My life would be improved if I could stop talking for 50% of it and could get braver and start talking for the other 50%.

And I hate medical bills, medical providers, and medical finance services. They need to get their acts together.

What Happened?

I'm sure the level of introspection that follows is due to the class reunion that is one week away. But I was laying in bed last night going, "What happened? How did I let myself go like this? Why did I not do something? Why have I not done something? Why am I so lazy and crazy in the head?"

I was born a healthy newborn. I was a fat toddler, but then I become a healthy, average child. Though I never felt thin since my older brother is a skinny freak of nature. Adolescence brought hips and no boobs, leaving me self-conscious about my odd proportions. But I was athletic and muscular and that helped. And I didn't exercise....I played team sports. Guess what? When you quit playing team sports, you have to figure out how to exercise on your own! And I failed that challenge. I went to college and DIDN'T gain the freshman 15, so I guess that gave me some false confidence. And then I got married. And then I purchased a fun house mirror which refused to let me see that I was gaining weight. It was like the reverse of what an anorexic person sees when they look in the mirror. And I know this sounds stupid, but it's like I woke up one day and was like, "Oh shit, where did all these extra pounds come from? Why is it that I'm at Old Navy with Sara buying a whole new wardrobe of pants in this size that is unimaginable to me?" And why did I let that pant size go up again. And then I had to switch brand and style of pants to stay in that size. WTF? What happened? Though with the weight did come the coveted boobs. And do you know what that is called? NEGATIVE REINFORCEMENT.

My list of excuses is pretty long, not that that is helping matters. And you know, all the 12 step programs teach that acceptance is the first step. I have accepted that I am fat. What I haven't accepted is that I have to take responsibility for it and do something about it. And it will be hard. And I will have to say NO. And I will have to FOREVER give up the Dr. Pepper. And then I will have to be locked in a padded room. I hope it has a view.

Trading M&Ms for Poop

I am ready for some hard negotiations. I am tired of diapers. I'm tired of buying them, and I'm really tired of changing them. So last night, I brought out the big guns: a jar of M&Ms specifically for the bathroom (you can just hold your "ew, gross" comments; desperate times call for desperate measures). Here is the deal:

• 1 M&M for trying
• 3 M&Ms for tee-tee'ing
• 5 M&Ms for pooping

I mean, this fat girl would take that deal. So far, only 2 M&Ms have been won. But, hey, that's 2 more times of trying than we've achieved in weeks...wait, maybe months. If only Ms. Kizzy had stayed at daycare. I believe we would be much farther down the potty road.

There Is No Cure for Bitchy

Just so you know.

Where Is That Damn Owner's Manual?

Apparently, there is a switch inside that kid which makes it possible for him to go from being the sweetest, most loving child who can climb up in the bed with me to watch Nemo while wearing dinosaur pajamas and eating garlic bread and yet can allow him to become an irrational, manipulative almost 3 year old the next morning. And sometimes the transformation doesn't even take 8+ hours of sleep. It can be, and usually is, instantaneous. He can flip that switch before I can form a cuss word in my head, which I gotta tell you is saying something. I'm wondering if Lucas could engineer me a universal remote which would allow me to force the switch to stay in the "I'm a nice boy who knows how to mind and be loving" mode.

Aunt Kathy was right. The Terrible Twos ain't nothin'. It's the "I thought it was over but guess what I had no idea what was in store for me" TITANICALLY BAD THREES that will really test your skills. I sometimes think I can hear God laughing when I think to myself, "I always thought I would be such a good parent."

In Memory of Carl Wheezer

The unthinkable has happened: Carl Wheezer is dead. Killed by my own dogs it seems. Lots of tears. My eyes are actually swollen. Elliott is not upset because he doesn't understand what I keep telling him. And yes, I opted for "he died" not "he ran away." Though we've only had him for a few months, he was a huge part of our family. I mean, he was mentioned in 15 posts since I started this blog in August. Even my dad, traditionally not a lover of cats, liked this cat. And my sweet daddy buried him for me. And I haven't even paid the bill from getting him neutered. Salt in the wound.

I'm so sad that I couldn't even laugh this morning when I had to once again wear swimsuit bottoms in lieu of clean underwear. But I did choose black this time to reflect my mourning.