I be.
I have three gorgeous boyos, who are happy, and mostly healthy, a rock solid marriage to my bestest friend, a tight-knit circle of a few sistas that would bleed for each other, and a wicked sense of humor (most days).
Which is why I know I'll be okay.
I went to the doctor last week, for extreme period pain. Mine was never very bad, until I had Lucien. Then, it got closer together, and started hurting, quite a bit, on the first 1-2 days. I went when he was a year old, and they found nothing, after scaring the crap out of me, and telling me it was probably cancer.
Fast forward 6 years ( I know, yell at me, I deserve it, LOL), and I finally went back, because at this point, I'm almost in tears the first two days, and hurt for a week before my period actually comes.
I picked my doctor in a very scientific manner. I looked up my insurance, who was close, found their websites, picked the all-woman practice closest to me (don't know about you, but my days of allowing strange men to stick things in my vagina have passed, long ago), and went to the "Biography" page.
"Lets see....skinny...skinny...skinnier....chubby....chubbier! Bingo!"
"I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Fluffy please"
Very scientific.
She was awesome, totally set me at ease. For as much of a slut as I was as a teen, I'm usually a bit traumatized by trips to the GYN for days afterwards. This was almost easy.
Until she said she could feel a mass, and told me I needed an ultrasound, and a pelvic scan (for those of you in the know...there is a difference?). I couldn't get an appointment for a few days, and as my period was imminent, I postponed until after it arrived to make the appointment.
The Man is freaking OUT. My mother is FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.
I'm pretty zen about the whole thing. I'm really not all that worried. Most things in my life that seemed catastrophic in the beginning, have worked themselves out, most of the time, leaving me better off than I was beforehand.
As long as I don't die, I'll be fine (Captain Obvious!). And really, I am way to busy to have that happening right now.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Stride baby, stride.
I have yet to hit mine.
The beginning of school always throws me. We go from sitting by the pool all day during the summer, with the only activities planned involve how many times that week we plan on hitting the library, to GET UP! YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE! Don't forget your lunch, homework, shoes, brush your teeth, get your clothes on, "No, you cannot wear that, it's dirty, I don't care that it's your favorite", "Where are your cleats, soccer starts in 6 minutes!", "Get your flashcards, tutoring today after school".
It's exhausting!
IT also coincides with my busy season, shows almost every weekend, and The Man's busy work time as well.
Currently, my house looks like a bomb went off it, of the very messy kind, my children were very excited to have dinner last night, that I cooked, not just heated up, and I desperately need a haircut, LOL.
How do you adjust to all the changes in schedule once school starts?
The beginning of school always throws me. We go from sitting by the pool all day during the summer, with the only activities planned involve how many times that week we plan on hitting the library, to GET UP! YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE! Don't forget your lunch, homework, shoes, brush your teeth, get your clothes on, "No, you cannot wear that, it's dirty, I don't care that it's your favorite", "Where are your cleats, soccer starts in 6 minutes!", "Get your flashcards, tutoring today after school".
It's exhausting!
IT also coincides with my busy season, shows almost every weekend, and The Man's busy work time as well.
Currently, my house looks like a bomb went off it, of the very messy kind, my children were very excited to have dinner last night, that I cooked, not just heated up, and I desperately need a haircut, LOL.
How do you adjust to all the changes in schedule once school starts?
And counting....
Only a few more days till my dad's birthday.
I chose to have Caleb's birthday party with the family, on it. I invited everyone I could think of, in terms of family and family friends. It will not only be a celebration of my absolutely fabulous son's 13th birthday, but a celebration of my dad's life. I'm still spending some days figuring out how to breathe in a world that he's not in anymore, but I'm getting there.
We'll all crack a Natural Light Beer, and toast, while playing Inna Gadda Da Vida, his favorite song.
Then, I'll get shit faced, and sit in Baby and cry for a few hours, after everyone leaves.
I miss him.
I chose to have Caleb's birthday party with the family, on it. I invited everyone I could think of, in terms of family and family friends. It will not only be a celebration of my absolutely fabulous son's 13th birthday, but a celebration of my dad's life. I'm still spending some days figuring out how to breathe in a world that he's not in anymore, but I'm getting there.
We'll all crack a Natural Light Beer, and toast, while playing Inna Gadda Da Vida, his favorite song.
Then, I'll get shit faced, and sit in Baby and cry for a few hours, after everyone leaves.
I miss him.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
ABC's of Sassy.
So, my oldest son, is in his final year of the seventh circle of hell, also known as middle school. Middle school was quite an adjustment for me. I mean, him. Each individual teacher, sends home a letter on the first day of school, outlining procedures, how grades are configured, etc. Parents must sign these, along with the spawn.
Caleb is, virtually, a straight A student. His two younger brothers are dyslexic, so how he won the genetic jackpot is beyond me, but he's totally picking my lotto numbers next week. I saw him crack a school book maybe 7 times last year?
I digress. As usual.
He's concerned about one of his teachers, his social studies teacher. Caleb was in a class across the hall from this teacher's room, last year, and everyone could hear him screaming at his class all the time. Most letters sent from teachers, are a page, maybe front and back, of expectations.
This dude had a 3 page letter, front and back.
Now, some of them, I completely agreed with. He expects eye contact when he speaks to someone, "Yes Sir" and "No Sir", all totally acceptable. The one that caught my eye?
"When given a gift, you have 3 seconds to say thank you. If you do not, I will take back the gift. There is no excuse for being ungrateful."
Three seconds, dude? Is that 3 seconds from when it leaves your hand? Three seconds from when it hits MY hand? How often do you give gifts, that a timed rule is required?
After that little gem caught my eye, I started paying more attention. I discovered, to my horror, that while he may have firm ideas about behavior, he has no idea how to use punctuation.
None.
Run-on sentences, no commas, quotation marks where they shouldn't be, none where they should be. No capitalization.
I, absent-mindedly, began to proofread it. Five minutes later, Caleb comes over, to retrieve the papers I was only supposed to sign, and starts laughing. He begins helping me, when it hits us both.
I was using a pen.
The paper was covered in corrections.
The paper that had to be returned to the teacher.
The one that yells alot.
Whoops, LOL.
What's the worst first impression you've ever made on a new teacher?
Caleb is, virtually, a straight A student. His two younger brothers are dyslexic, so how he won the genetic jackpot is beyond me, but he's totally picking my lotto numbers next week. I saw him crack a school book maybe 7 times last year?
I digress. As usual.
He's concerned about one of his teachers, his social studies teacher. Caleb was in a class across the hall from this teacher's room, last year, and everyone could hear him screaming at his class all the time. Most letters sent from teachers, are a page, maybe front and back, of expectations.
This dude had a 3 page letter, front and back.
Now, some of them, I completely agreed with. He expects eye contact when he speaks to someone, "Yes Sir" and "No Sir", all totally acceptable. The one that caught my eye?
"When given a gift, you have 3 seconds to say thank you. If you do not, I will take back the gift. There is no excuse for being ungrateful."
Three seconds, dude? Is that 3 seconds from when it leaves your hand? Three seconds from when it hits MY hand? How often do you give gifts, that a timed rule is required?
After that little gem caught my eye, I started paying more attention. I discovered, to my horror, that while he may have firm ideas about behavior, he has no idea how to use punctuation.
None.
Run-on sentences, no commas, quotation marks where they shouldn't be, none where they should be. No capitalization.
I, absent-mindedly, began to proofread it. Five minutes later, Caleb comes over, to retrieve the papers I was only supposed to sign, and starts laughing. He begins helping me, when it hits us both.
I was using a pen.
The paper was covered in corrections.
The paper that had to be returned to the teacher.
The one that yells alot.
Whoops, LOL.
What's the worst first impression you've ever made on a new teacher?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Conversations on a school lawn...
Lucien: "I wanna ride the bus! Why do have to pick us up from school this year? Jason is on the blue bus now! You let Caleb ride the bus home! Why does Caleb get to ride the bus home from HIS school, but you pick up Aidan and ME?"
Me: "Because I love him more*. Now get in the car."
Lordisa, they're gonna need some therapy.
*Just to clarify, I followed this with a big fat kiss and tickle, so he knew I was joking.
Me: "Because I love him more*. Now get in the car."
Lordisa, they're gonna need some therapy.
*Just to clarify, I followed this with a big fat kiss and tickle, so he knew I was joking.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Little Update...
subtitled: Big news!
Which, for a change, is good! Baby A turned out NOT to have the genetic metabolic disorder, but apparently had a stroke. Hold your horses, it IS good news. The area that shows damage is in the portion of the brain that controls vision, but they do not think that he will be blind, more likely have issues with depth perception. Perhaps that's my problem as well? He was released from the hospital yesterday, and has tons of follow-up appointments, but everything seems to be looking up.
I, apparently, *should* have looked up last week. I'm in mad-crazy organization mode. In other words, until I'm done, I'd be ashamed to let anyone into the house, as it looks like it's been ransacked by messy bandits.
So, in the spirit of organization, I decided to hang shelves in the dining room closet.
C (my oldest son): "Don't you think you should wait for Dad?"
Me: "If you were an adult, I'd probably be giving you the finger right now, butthead"
C: "I'm just sayin'..."
Me: "Get in the car, NOW"
I drove to the HO-me de-pot, bought what I needed, and came home, determined to prove just how handy this chick is.
LSS, while hanging the bottom shelf, the one on the top, which had boxes on it, fell, making the second shelf, also full, fall, which fell onto the bottom shelf, which fell onto my head.
Giving me a concussion.
TA-DA!
Which, for a change, is good! Baby A turned out NOT to have the genetic metabolic disorder, but apparently had a stroke. Hold your horses, it IS good news. The area that shows damage is in the portion of the brain that controls vision, but they do not think that he will be blind, more likely have issues with depth perception. Perhaps that's my problem as well? He was released from the hospital yesterday, and has tons of follow-up appointments, but everything seems to be looking up.
I, apparently, *should* have looked up last week. I'm in mad-crazy organization mode. In other words, until I'm done, I'd be ashamed to let anyone into the house, as it looks like it's been ransacked by messy bandits.
So, in the spirit of organization, I decided to hang shelves in the dining room closet.
C (my oldest son): "Don't you think you should wait for Dad?"
Me: "If you were an adult, I'd probably be giving you the finger right now, butthead"
C: "I'm just sayin'..."
Me: "Get in the car, NOW"
I drove to the HO-me de-pot, bought what I needed, and came home, determined to prove just how handy this chick is.
LSS, while hanging the bottom shelf, the one on the top, which had boxes on it, fell, making the second shelf, also full, fall, which fell onto the bottom shelf, which fell onto my head.
Giving me a concussion.
TA-DA!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Momma-hood. Sometimes it sucks ass....
subtitled: And somedays, it really, really, REALLY doesn't.
Most people who get knocked up at 19, don't really consider themselves lucky. Unless they're *me*, who has a tattoo to remind herself (literally) of it.
I've been ridiculously fertile, to the point where NOT getting pregnant, is more of an issue, that getting that way in the first place. Which is, in and of itself, pure awesomeness, having read and known women that have struggled, desperately, with conceiving.
My cousin, L, is the youngest of us that live on the upper East Coast. In fact, I live across the street from her parents, my aunt and uncle. She was always odd-(wo)man-out, with her two older siblings, whereas my brother straight-UP didn't like me. She's 6 years younger than I am.
Do the math and I'll cyber-smack you, lovey.
Three years ago, she got *whoops* pregnant. I was the first person she trusted enough to tell. She eventually told the whole family, and settled in to await the coming spawn. She miscarried, very tramuamatically, at 13 weeks.
In the last few years, she's dropped out of college, which is not as bad as it sounds. She just didn't have a passion for anything. She wants to be a wife and mother. She claims this makes her feel very un-PC, but I think it's just something that she says, to cover up for the fact, that to her, that choice seems so right.
She met a man who loves her, and makes her happy.
They bought a house.
They got pregnant. Well, really just L got pregnant.
They had their baby last weekend. Cord wrapped around his neck, double-knotted.
He recovered.
He went home.
He's back in the hospital with what appears to be an exceedingly rare, genetic, metabolic disorder, that will kill him. Probably in the neonatal unit. If he survives the hospital, he'll be profoundly retarded, and only survive a few years.
No, I don't have the name of the disorder. If I did, I wouldn't be blogging, I'd be looking it up using every search engine available.
Once you have a child with this, you have a 2 in 4 (someone, please explain how that is different from a 1 in 2? I mean, I'm no math whiz, I have trouble balancing my check book, which only requires addition and subtraction skills, but really? ) chance of subsequent children having it. There is no way to test for it, in utero.
So today, if you've got some squishy littles, who smear their boogies on the wall, or worse, eat them, demand that you "Wipe my BUTT, mama!", and generally make you want to drink heavily, squish them into a big old, messy, boogie-filled hug.
Just don't take them up on their offer to share their snotty snack.
Most people who get knocked up at 19, don't really consider themselves lucky. Unless they're *me*, who has a tattoo to remind herself (literally) of it.
I've been ridiculously fertile, to the point where NOT getting pregnant, is more of an issue, that getting that way in the first place. Which is, in and of itself, pure awesomeness, having read and known women that have struggled, desperately, with conceiving.
My cousin, L, is the youngest of us that live on the upper East Coast. In fact, I live across the street from her parents, my aunt and uncle. She was always odd-(wo)man-out, with her two older siblings, whereas my brother straight-UP didn't like me. She's 6 years younger than I am.
Do the math and I'll cyber-smack you, lovey.
Three years ago, she got *whoops* pregnant. I was the first person she trusted enough to tell. She eventually told the whole family, and settled in to await the coming spawn. She miscarried, very tramuamatically, at 13 weeks.
In the last few years, she's dropped out of college, which is not as bad as it sounds. She just didn't have a passion for anything. She wants to be a wife and mother. She claims this makes her feel very un-PC, but I think it's just something that she says, to cover up for the fact, that to her, that choice seems so right.
She met a man who loves her, and makes her happy.
They bought a house.
They got pregnant. Well, really just L got pregnant.
They had their baby last weekend. Cord wrapped around his neck, double-knotted.
He recovered.
He went home.
He's back in the hospital with what appears to be an exceedingly rare, genetic, metabolic disorder, that will kill him. Probably in the neonatal unit. If he survives the hospital, he'll be profoundly retarded, and only survive a few years.
No, I don't have the name of the disorder. If I did, I wouldn't be blogging, I'd be looking it up using every search engine available.
Once you have a child with this, you have a 2 in 4 (someone, please explain how that is different from a 1 in 2? I mean, I'm no math whiz, I have trouble balancing my check book, which only requires addition and subtraction skills, but really? ) chance of subsequent children having it. There is no way to test for it, in utero.
So today, if you've got some squishy littles, who smear their boogies on the wall, or worse, eat them, demand that you "Wipe my BUTT, mama!", and generally make you want to drink heavily, squish them into a big old, messy, boogie-filled hug.
Just don't take them up on their offer to share their snotty snack.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Books are sexy....
subtitled: and so is shameless self-promotion!
New in the Etsy shop:
www.BitchenStitchen.etsy.com
New in the Etsy shop:
www.BitchenStitchen.etsy.com
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Please welcome...
subtitled: Drumroll Please!
...Ben, at: http://www.alittlepregnant.com/
I've been reading Julie's blog, for a few years now, and I'm thrilled shitless for her!
...Ben, at: http://www.alittlepregnant.com/
I've been reading Julie's blog, for a few years now, and I'm thrilled shitless for her!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
The Boy Who Cried Puke.
Subtitled: I'm like, the best mom, EVER.
Last week, also known as the week where mom lost her shit, we had to replace the main drain line that runs from the kitchen to the basement. What does that mean? For me, it meant, doing dishes in the mother fucking bathtub. Lo, the suckage was mighty.
While the boys swam in the pool, my lovely, lovely pool, that I adore, with perfect water temperature, and sunshiney-ness...sprang a leak. In the mother fucking wall. The metal wall, not the liner. This commenced mass panic on my part (hey, I'm massive all by my lonesome), and screaming "GET OUT OF THE POOL! I'M NOT KIDDING! GET THE HELL OUT OF THE POOL! NOW! LUCIEN, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU DON'T GET OUT OF THE POOL RIGHT NOW, I'M GONNA KILL YOU!".
Yes, my pool looked like it was taking a piss.
I found all the paperwork for the damn thing, with the exception of the receipt from the pool store, called the company, found out that even though it's only 3 years old, it's considered the 4th season, and as such, is only 70% covered.
Of course.
So, I called the pool store where we purchased the pool. Some lovely fellow named Rob, looked through all their files by hand (his emphasis, not mine), and made me a copy of the orginal receipt. Now, it's about a 30 minute drive to the store, who, apparently, doesn't believe in all that fancy-scmancy stuff like computers, scanners, or fax machines, though you can buy a hot tub that will do everything but actually fuck you. This includes a trip through, and back, the harbor tunnel, that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I load up all 5 kids, and hit the road.
We're pulling into the parking lot, when Lucien starts.
"I have a very bad head-ick, so everyone has to be quiet"
"I mean it guys"
This was emphasized by huge long sighs on his part, the back of his hand to his head, and attempting to lay on the exceedingly dirty, pool store floor.
After about 20 minutes, Rob comes out with my receipt, and we head out. We hit the library on the way home, and Lucien again starts.
" I feel VERY badly, momma"
"VERY badly"
"I just may have to trow up"
"REALLY"
While attempting to roll all over the floor in the library, and then hanging, literally, on my hand, bent in half, while moaning dramatically.
Now, for those of you unfamilar with my charming, youngest son, Lucien complains about not feeling good, at least once a day. Usually when it's time to do something unpleasant, like clean up his toys, brush his teeth, or wait while someone else does something he finds utterly boring. I've taken him to the doctor, to rule out any physical problem, lest it be thought that I'm just mean.
Caleb, Aidan and I pick out our books, and head for the checkout. Now, while I self-checkout, the kids usually go into the kiddie section and play. Lucien LOVES the kid section, so as soon as I scan my card, he perks right up, and says:
"I'm feeling soooo much better! I'm gonna go play"
Whereupon he skips (literally!) off to the kid section.
Fast forward to that night, when it's time to go to sleep. He's been tucked in, read a book, sung a damn song, etc. and still been down the steps approximately 5 times.
"Momma, I feel very badly. I think I'm gonna puke".
"Lucien, I swear to christ, I'm so damn tired of listening to you complain about not feeling well. You are full of crap. Every time you don't want to do something, blah, blah, blah..."
You get the idea.
He shuffles off to bed, and I returned to watching something educational on TV, that was certainly not Most Extreme Elimination Challenge(don't know what it is? Check it OUT).
I finally go to bed, walk into my room, turn on the light, when I hear a little voice behind me.
"momma?"
His little face was as green as a damn pea. He then proceeded to throw up and run a fever for 2 days.
End Scene.
Last week, also known as the week where mom lost her shit, we had to replace the main drain line that runs from the kitchen to the basement. What does that mean? For me, it meant, doing dishes in the mother fucking bathtub. Lo, the suckage was mighty.
While the boys swam in the pool, my lovely, lovely pool, that I adore, with perfect water temperature, and sunshiney-ness...sprang a leak. In the mother fucking wall. The metal wall, not the liner. This commenced mass panic on my part (hey, I'm massive all by my lonesome), and screaming "GET OUT OF THE POOL! I'M NOT KIDDING! GET THE HELL OUT OF THE POOL! NOW! LUCIEN, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU DON'T GET OUT OF THE POOL RIGHT NOW, I'M GONNA KILL YOU!".
Yes, my pool looked like it was taking a piss.
I found all the paperwork for the damn thing, with the exception of the receipt from the pool store, called the company, found out that even though it's only 3 years old, it's considered the 4th season, and as such, is only 70% covered.
Of course.
So, I called the pool store where we purchased the pool. Some lovely fellow named Rob, looked through all their files by hand (his emphasis, not mine), and made me a copy of the orginal receipt. Now, it's about a 30 minute drive to the store, who, apparently, doesn't believe in all that fancy-scmancy stuff like computers, scanners, or fax machines, though you can buy a hot tub that will do everything but actually fuck you. This includes a trip through, and back, the harbor tunnel, that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I load up all 5 kids, and hit the road.
We're pulling into the parking lot, when Lucien starts.
"I have a very bad head-ick, so everyone has to be quiet"
"I mean it guys"
This was emphasized by huge long sighs on his part, the back of his hand to his head, and attempting to lay on the exceedingly dirty, pool store floor.
After about 20 minutes, Rob comes out with my receipt, and we head out. We hit the library on the way home, and Lucien again starts.
" I feel VERY badly, momma"
"VERY badly"
"I just may have to trow up"
"REALLY"
While attempting to roll all over the floor in the library, and then hanging, literally, on my hand, bent in half, while moaning dramatically.
Now, for those of you unfamilar with my charming, youngest son, Lucien complains about not feeling good, at least once a day. Usually when it's time to do something unpleasant, like clean up his toys, brush his teeth, or wait while someone else does something he finds utterly boring. I've taken him to the doctor, to rule out any physical problem, lest it be thought that I'm just mean.
Caleb, Aidan and I pick out our books, and head for the checkout. Now, while I self-checkout, the kids usually go into the kiddie section and play. Lucien LOVES the kid section, so as soon as I scan my card, he perks right up, and says:
"I'm feeling soooo much better! I'm gonna go play"
Whereupon he skips (literally!) off to the kid section.
Fast forward to that night, when it's time to go to sleep. He's been tucked in, read a book, sung a damn song, etc. and still been down the steps approximately 5 times.
"Momma, I feel very badly. I think I'm gonna puke".
"Lucien, I swear to christ, I'm so damn tired of listening to you complain about not feeling well. You are full of crap. Every time you don't want to do something, blah, blah, blah..."
You get the idea.
He shuffles off to bed, and I returned to watching something educational on TV, that was certainly not Most Extreme Elimination Challenge(don't know what it is? Check it OUT).
I finally go to bed, walk into my room, turn on the light, when I hear a little voice behind me.
"momma?"
His little face was as green as a damn pea. He then proceeded to throw up and run a fever for 2 days.
End Scene.
You WERE paying attention!
Older posts, until I find the magic button that will allow me to import 107 posts from Ramble Bramble, will have to remain there.
Stubborn Assholes.
Stubborn Assholes.
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