Little Bits O'Cracker

Heavy Hearts

2012-01-16T23:54:00.000-08:00

(Part One)

The verdict is in, and I believe it is right.

Lessons in Olive

2012-01-15T21:37:00.000-08:00

At Olive's glowing parent teacher conference last week we were told, "She can read," and we were all, "Yeah, she has a lot of sight words," and they were like, "That's not what we mean." Apparently she has also already reached many end-of-the-year goals for the pre-kindergarten program she will attend next school year. (They are NAEYC accredited.) This, they emphasized, is especially mind-blowing since she only goes two mornings a week and has missed more than two months of school due to illness and her mother being a mysophobe. They asked us for goals, and we were like, "Can you make her scream at us less? Be a little more reasonable about, say, everything?" And, of course, they were like, "Whaaa? She's a delight! We've never seen her cry! Or have a tantrum!" She also doesn't swear, or yell "Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining!" Oh, I see, she's not comfortable there yet. No problem, we'll stick our apologies back into our pockets and save them for next time.

Tonight Jason pulled out a book she'd never seen before, buried deep from her brother's learning to read days. She read the first 4-word sentence with 100% accuracy, and then the 5-word sentence that followed, and so on, until she realized Jason and I were making holy shitballs our 3 year old can read faces at each other.

She immediately threw the book aside and bellowed, "I don't know how to read!"

It sure was fun while it lasted.

Burn Notice

2012-01-12T21:40:00.000-08:00

Olive has a doll that we are to refer to as her baby. It goes everywhere, except school.

"I was talking with your teacher today. I told her about your baby..."
Horrified whining. "MOOOOOOOMMM!"
"Wha?"
"SHE'S A SECRET AGENT!!!"

Fuck invisible friends. We've got spies, y'all.

That's My Daughter

2012-01-12T21:36:00.000-08:00

So I'm getting out of the shower and over the baby monitor I hear 3 year old Olive raging @ "Gwam":

"YOU'RE A BABY! AND YOU'RE A DUMB-ASS! YOU'RE A BABY DUMB-ASS!!!"

Forget my strict no name-calling policy. Way to raise the insult bar and rip him a new one, dear.

Disclaimer:
I say a lot of things, but she didn't get this one from me.
(I think.)
And my 3rd grader thinks "darn" and "heck" are punishable by death naughty.
(He doesn't swear at all. For reals.)
Just finds ways to casually mention that he has a penis.
(All the time.)
(Like his father.)

My hands are full.

(Jason, not with penis, but I thank you in advance for the offer that I know is coming.)
(I know...hehe...coming.)

Fin.

My Little Licker

2012-01-12T21:33:00.000-08:00

Know what else she licked that week? Bugs, off the front grille of my dirty minivan.

Finally one of my children gives a frick about penmanship.

2012-01-12T21:30:00.000-08:00

And so declares Olive "I am going to practice my s's!"
"Knock yourself out."

Blessed quiet for 3 whole minutes, suddenly interrupted with mad scribbling.
"What happened?"
"I don't like this one! It looks like a dumb 5!!!"

Tears. The end.

I'm 34 now. Send crutches. And condoms.

2011-12-08T00:09:00.001-08:00

You missed it? No worries, it just happened like an hour ago.

So on the eve of my 34th I sat down, knee fine, stood up, knee not fine = fell down, in a most ungracious manner. Now I can't walk. What a great reminder that I'm getting older. Did I mention that the sitting down/standing up/falling down thing happened on the toilet? With a sober stomach? Cause yeah, that makes me feel so much not better.

My dear husband assures me it's a late onset injury from last night's sexcapades, because we found a new style of condoms at Target last night, weeeeeeeeee, and because our over-sized garden tub has not grown with us. And all that last chance sex with one of us not being a mid-30-something.

Sad.
Really.

Us: "Ooh! Look at those! Jinx! Get those! Jinx!"
Third grader, again: "What are condoms?"
Me: "So there's like...30 in a box. One or two?"
Him: "Duh. Two."
Me: "It is a great value, but really?"
Him: "30...that's like two weeks worth, and they expire in...2014."
Me: "But we come to Target every day..."

More wine, please. And condoms. Because we're down to 56. And it's not even bedtime yet.

Watch Your Tone, Mister

2011-09-28T21:10:00.000-07:00

An Olive storm blows in from the other side of the house and makes a screaching halt right in front of my dad and me. Arms outstretched by her sides, elbows bent, palms up, she emphasizes her point with exaggerated up and down action.

"Momma! Gwam is talking to me like he's a dult. But he's not a dult, he's a kid like me!" (Shaking little fists of fury.) "ARGH!"

A Sorta Epilogue

2011-09-28T15:08:00.001-07:00

When I look back at my life over the last year all I can say is "Wow, I didn't see that coming."

In September 2010 I was preparing to mark six months since my mom's death. Slowly I was shedding all the stress and tension that came along with cancer, the stuff that had changed me into a person that I didn't recognize or like. Have you ever been 100% conscience of your bad behavior but unable or unwilling to stop yourself? That was me. And while the journey back continues to be longer than I ever would have expected, one year ago I was on the road and headed in the right direction. Approaching six months down without her I patted myself on the back for a job well done. That was until I realized that all the big firsts, like her birthday, my birthday, my dad's birthday, their wedding anniversary, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, blah blah blah were all going to be back-loaded into the second six months. Fuck.

So I started getting myself all worked up, because of all the firsts that had not yet passed. I was back to counting exactly how long it had been, though honestly, I'd never really stopped.

The plan was to give myself a year to grieve and breathe and recover, to find a new normal before plunging back into fertility treatments. I did not want to jeopardize a pregnancy with fresh grief -- I knew it would be hard enough to have a baby my mom would never hold.

And then one year ago today, the day before the six month anniversary of my mom's death, I found myself pregnant by surprise, from baby-making the good old fashioned way. It wasn't that getting pregnant on our own was impossible, just not very likely. Thirteen married years without birth control + an active sex life + lots of figurative standing on our heads trying to make a baby and here I was with an unplanned pregnancy. It was as funny as it was welcome.

And in the moments that followed the stick screaming pregnant I heard my mom saying she'd given me my silly six months and enough already! You want something to count? I'll give you something to count! Count how pregnant you are, and then when that's done, count how old he is.

This is Callum. Today he is 4 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days old.

He has blue eyes that everyone agrees look like the kind that will stay blue, the blue eyes that my mom always teased about.

"Why don't my grandchildren have blue eyes? Our family all has blue eyes!"

"I married a redhead! Okay, a redhead with brown eyes, but still...what do you want me to do? He's English, he's Irish, maybe even Scottish. Hell, we're practically inbreeding here."

Fourteen pounds of delicious blue-eyed baby love. Funny how you make plans only to have them tossed right out the window, and the life you didn't orchestrate turns out so much better.

For those of you trying to figure out the math he was born straddling the prematurity line amidst mucho drama. But that's a story for another day.

As My Husband Always Says

2011-09-07T18:06:00.000-07:00

she's gonna be a hit in college.

Let's Play "I Spy"

2011-09-01T10:16:00.000-07:00

I spy sperm. You?

(I am so glad I ordered two pairs.)

Too Much Chicken Run

2011-06-16T22:55:00.000-07:00

Loading up in the Target parking lot

"That" she says, pointing to oil on the pavement in the empty parking space next to us, "is the stain from when we killed the chicken."

Look to husband. Did she just say...? Husband nods. Yes she did.

"It's okay Mommy. We made him into a pie."

Oh. Well then.

PC Olive

2011-01-07T09:06:00.000-08:00

"Gwam, it's kinda funny, but it's NOT cool!"

Hey Asshole, Get Over Yourself

2010-07-28T01:00:00.000-07:00

"Half the bloody world is going through a divorce, more than that are having children. All of us have parents who are dying, or have died. It's just the life cycle."

-- Sarah McLachlan in the L.A. Times

I recently learned that the parent of a friend has been diagnosed with early-onset dementia. My friend packed up her husband and kids, sold her house, left a job she loves in her chosen field, and moved 2,000+ miles back into her childhood home.

Brain cancer and dementia are two very different diagnoses, but they have a lot in common, among them loss of function, personality changes, and having to take the car keys away from a parent against their will. And death. Almost like brain cancer, but without the radiation and chemo.

...

I spent a long time trying to wrap my head around the fact that my grandmother, my mom's mom, had died at the very early age of 74, but my mom? 59 at diagnosis. If 74 was young, what the hell was 60 or 61? Here I was in my very early 30s and my friends were now losing their grandparents. What the fuck?

And then I read the above excerpt and it hit me. My college roommate lost her dad from a sudden heart attack our freshman year. At least four girlfriends, all a few years older than me, lost their moms to breast cancer a few years back. Plus my old Jazzercise instructor, and another woman from our class, who is now losing her dad, too.

I wasn't that young, and neither was my mom. I was not alone, just temporarily blinded by grief.

...

I can look back now at the seventeen months on that damn emotional roller coaster knowing that the hard part is over. With the stress of my mom's illness gone only the sadness remains. I cannot begin to put into words how much easier and uncomplicated my life is now vs. a year ago.

I think of my friend. Her mom's expected life expectancy? Six to ten years. Forget the uncertainty of will it be six years, or ten, or maybe just four? How much time will they have? My friend has an average of six to ten years of slow moving hell in front of her. All of it, for years, and the majority of her children's childhood.

As it turns out we got off easy. Who knew?

Lives, Lost

2010-06-10T21:49:00.000-07:00

We met in a college French class, and during my 5 years in Colorado she was my best friend. To this day she remains the kindest, most gentle person I have ever met. I don't know how to put it into words, except to say that even in a place as granola as Boulder, she was the embodiment of Mother Earth.

I have a million wonderful smiling pictures of her, but this one of her and my son has always been my favorite.

She was so excited when I became pregnant with that little guy that she came to visit us in Phoenix just so she could put her hands on my 4 months pregnant belly. When he was 3 months old I brought him up to her. All I remember from that trip is laying on a bed, the two of us spending hours pouring over his little body and soaking up his babyness.

I hadn't seen her face to face in two years, but in our short exchanges through email and facebook I sensed she was having a hard time adjusting to motherhood. Caught up in my own family drama, I didn't reach out the way I should have, despite the fact that she had reached out to support me when my mom was dying. Even though I had yet to meet him, I loved her son fiercely through his pictures. His round little face and perfect boy hair reminded me so much of my own son as a baby.

According to the media the fact that she was suffering from post partum depression wasn't a secret -- her family knew, medical professionals knew, her neighbors even knew. And she was trying to find help.

I know I'm angry and hurt and devastated and irrational, but really, it never should have happened, not in a million years.

RIP sweet baby.

According to Olive

2010-04-16T07:22:00.000-07:00

"Bunyees go RAWR!"

Two Weeks

2010-04-13T17:37:00.000-07:00

Two weeks to the day after losing my Mom we spent the night at the vet, very unexpectedly putting our cat to sleep.

Back to raw.

Rest in peace, Belle. You were a little shit from day one, but in a super cool kind of way. You and your naughty antics will be missed.

(Tinker)Belle, 2001-2010

Day One: Trying to Use My Words

2010-03-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

What I really wanted and needed today was have some quiet time to myself. Quiet time, by myself, uninterrupted.

Strike one, husband had to work. Strike two, my little guy's birthday. Strike three, stay at home mom of an easily angered 23.5 month old. Strike four, I don't want to turn off my phone because there are people I want to be able to reach me: my kid's school, my husband, and my dad.

First thing first, after being told explicitly by her brother last night that I wanted a day without phones, and then reading on Facebook this morning that I wanted to have a day without phones, my sister-in-law, who last year didn't call, didn't send a present, or even a frickin card for either of my kid's birthdays, sends me a Facebook message wanting to know if it's okay for her to call. Right, because when your brother said, "The one and only thing you can do for Heidi right now is NOT CALL" he totally didn't mean it. It's opposite day, y'all!

In the 35 minutes that I was in the Cracker's classroom this afternoon I received 7 unsolicited text messages. The kids actually stopped singing happy birthday to my child to yell out "YOUR PHONE IS BEEPING AGAIN!" I don't have a text plan because I am a stay at home mom. If I can't talk then I can't text either. Seriously, if it isn't need-to-know-right-now-or-the-universe-explodes information fucking e-mail it to me. I promise I will enjoy your non-time-sensitive messages a few minutes (or, gasp, hours!) later when they don't cost me a quarter each. Really, seven BEEP!BEEP!BEEP! texts during a 35 minute party? No, not disruptive at all.

BUT HERE'S THE CAKE!

Scene: The Cracker's classroom. Enter Carmen's mom.

"How is your mom?"
Whispering. "She's gone. (Gulp.) But I'm here to celebrate the Cracker's birthday and he doesn't know."
"HIS ACTUAL BIRTHDAY IS TODAY?"
"It is."
"When?"
"What?"
"When did she die?"
"Yesterday. But the Cracker doesn't know. I can't talk about it right now." And the kid is 5 feet away. Pretty sure this was the point at which I put my sunglasses on, cause you know, welling up now.
"When yesterday?"
Lady, I don't even know your first name. Fuck, I don't even know your your last name.
"Early afternoon. Excuse me, I need to go set up."
She follows. The Cracker comes over and attaches himself to my leg.
"Oh I think he knows. He was so sad yesterday. When are you going home?"
"We're not."
"Is she being cremated?"

What the fuck is wrong with people?! I am using my big girl words. Why can't they listen?

Rest In Peace

2010-03-29T16:22:00.000-07:00

The End of the End

2010-03-28T01:07:00.000-07:00

When we first had to tell my son that his beloved grandmother was dying he was 5 and a half years old. The only way I could think of to express maybe months, maybe a year, was to tell him that while she would probably live to see him be 6, we didn't have much hope that she'd make it to see him turn 7.

When Christmas 2009 passed March 30th became her new goal.

We never told my mom about what we'd told him, though I suspected she knew. More than once he broke down and tried to get her to promise that she'd come to his 7th birthday party. It was obviously more to him than regular birthday milestone.

After she made it past the hurdles of mid-February, the days where we thought she wouldn't make it through the night, I found myself worrying about the worst case scenario.

Please not near his birthday. A two week cushion, minimum, is not too much to ask for, right?

On Saturday the hospice nurses volunteered that my mom has taken a final turn, one that suggests she has reached her final 48-72 hours.

On Tuesday my little boy turns 7.

Please let them be wrong.

Life Interrupted

2010-03-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

It's been a month since I returned home from saying goodbye to my mom. It gets harder every day.

People call constantly -- they want to know how she's doing. When I don't call back instantly they call more. Ring, ring, ring, leave a message on my home phone. Ten seconds later ring, ring, ring, leave the same message on my cell phone. Repeat. People I hardly know ask me at school. Everyone wants to be informed. What's the latest? Do you want to spill your guts to me?

Thank you, but no.

How about now?

Nothing like trying to calm your mom down while you are both crying during yet another seizure or changing her diaper. AND THE FUCKING PHONE IS RINGING THROUGH IT ALL.

It's a lot like having a newborn for the first time. The needs are basic: clean, diaper, and feed. They sleep constantly but there's too much laundry, always an errand that needs running, and no time to shower let alone catch up on the sleep you didn't get the night before.

...

I feel like I've been honest with people all along, and it's just biting me in the ass. The more I give the more they want. "This is a death sentence." I told them that it would be a year or so. "There is no hope." I continue to give details like the fact that she's bedridden, sleeps 23+ hours/day, can no longer communicate, can't drink, can barely eat, etc, that I am waiting for "the" phone call. I tell them that I'll let them know when she's gone. I tell them that we think days, maybe a week, maybe two, but we don't know. I tell them we were 100% she wasn't going to make it through the night on February 17th. Then again on the 18th. We don't know, but I promise I will let you know when it happens.

And then they ask again, they call again. "How is your mom?"

Same as yesterday. Still dying. Thanks for asking.

She is so young! I really need to express to you how hard it is on me that you are losing her. I don't know what I'd do if it were my mom. Do you want to talk about it because I want to talk about it.

...

The truth is I lost my mom some time ago. Life is moving forward without her. I did not choose this, I am not ready for it, nor would I have been 20 years from now, but I am powerless to stop it. For more than a year I was consumed by cancer and death. And now, even though she is still here, she is gone. She can't talk, she can't respond, she can't swallow, she can't anything.

Ready or not, I am already having to find my way in the world without her.

The sadness? It's there, it's always there. There are times, like right now, when it's overwhelming and I do need a shoulder to cry on. Thank you for your offers, I will come to you when I need to, like I am now. But when I'm laughing and having a great time please stop interrupting to ask again. To tell me again. To remind me again.

Ring, ring, ring.

...

While I was gone my two best girlfriends ran into each other. They shared what they knew, had a good cry in the middle of a public library, and then made a pact to go home to call their own moms. They both told me about it later, each in their own ways, when the time was right.

I cannot even begin to express how much I loved hearing it.

I need you to talk about it with others. I need you to call your own mom. I have a whole lifetime ahead of me; there will be so many opportunities for you to be there, and I will need you.

I also need to be Heidi again, more than your friend with the mom who is dying of cancer way too young.

Saying Goodbye

2010-02-15T21:44:00.000-08:00

The Middle of the End

2010-02-07T00:11:00.001-08:00

When my parents left 3 weeks ago I found so much comfort in the fact that I knew it wasn't goodbye. Not yet. Because my dad had asked me again to come, and I agreed.

On Wednesday I got the call I'd been expecting, the one that said start thinking about making your goodbye trip.

Soon.

***

I saw a dress recently that I really wanted for my girl Olive. It was way above my price range, but something I knew I could sew, and in a fabric I actually already possesed.

(How I deal with my mom's pending death? By buying way too much fabric. Not sure it's cheaper than Crack. Or any less addictive.)

My mom and I talked about the dress I was hoping to make. I sent her a picture of the inspiration, modeled by a 4ish year old girl. A girl with blond big girl hair.

Thursday morning, before coffee, I got a message from my dad.

"She thinks the model in the picture is Olive. I cannot convince her otherwise."

(Light but still) brown haired, short haired, petite 22 month old Olive? The same girl who just last week started sporting her very first pig tails? It was almost all we talked about the week before. Yay! Pigtails! Almost two and she finally has pigtails! There had been pictures emailed, discussions over how to best harness them, and a ridiculous amount celebration.

Maybe she meant that the dress itself was "so Olive"?

Later that night when we talked on the phone she brought it up. "I am so mad at your father. Can you belive he doesn't even know his own granddaughter in a picture when he sees her?!"

Remember last week Mom? The pigtails? Do you remember?

And to then hear her voice at the other end of the line... Heartbreaking.

Cancer is cruel.

***

So I'm making plans to make plans. With every day that passes she seems two days closer to death.

But when? If I go too late it will be like I'm not even there. If I go too soon she knows that we've given up on her. I don't have the answers and I don't know how or where to find them.

But soon.

What the Fuck

2010-01-25T22:48:00.000-08:00

Somebody, and by somebody I mean the Cracker, placed the bathroom trash can next to the toilet and then peed ~~in it~~ all over it.

I fuckin hate six. Six is bullshit.

You can read more about six here. And here. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Nana

2010-01-12T23:35:00.000-08:00

I don't have it in me to lay it all out right now, but the news on my mom -- it's complicated, it's bad.

Olive has a lot of words, the majority of which we don't understand, but her newest favorite, one of a select few which even a complete stranger would understand is "Nana."

I'm so grateful that my mom got to hear her say it.

2010

2010-01-01T19:51:00.000-08:00

A few weeks back I got a voice mail from my mom. Her voice was all wrong, her words made no sense. She talked until the system cut her off, about what I’ll never know. I saved it so Jason could listen to it, tell me that I was mistaken, because maybe it was subtle and only I would know because we share 32 years of mother-daughter history, versus their 12 years as in-laws.

But it was wrong. Even he could not deny it.

My fight-or-flight response kicked in. Lala lala la...I can’t hear you. And for a few days it actually worked. I can honestly say that I forgot about it.

...

A box arrived. Two pairs of Hanna Andersson tights for Olive, purchased in a brick and mortar HA store, unreturnable by me, mailed USPS by my mom. Two tiny pairs of tights that might have fit my daughter a year ago, but certainly not now, from a woman who always buys everything two sizes too big. Two tiny pairs of tights sent all alone in the biggest flat rate priority box money can buy, completely missing the point and any savings alltogether.

I called my dad. I’m not sure really why, probably so he could help run interference when she asked to see they way too small tights on my daughter. Mistake. The flood gates open, he immediately began ticking off a long list of all of her new not-quite-right brain tumor behavior. And there's been a lot.

...

She does chemo every two weeks now, until a scan shows that she is no longer responding. Yesterday she had a scan, with the results expected next week.

Seriously, you will be able to knock us over with a feather if she's allowed to go on.

I know I'm not looking for it, it's just there. While she is not nearly as angry as before, more like seriously annoyed, she grabs hold of a topic and won't. let. go. This last month it centers around air travel, airports, the TSA, x-rays, pat-downs, taking off your shoes at security, pets on planes, pets in the luggage claim, overhead bins, and why luggage with wheels are destroying our once civilized society. In 10 days she is due to fly here. She is convinced that she will not be allowed to board the plane, detained as a suspicious person of interest, because she doesn't look "alert" enough. Huh. The more I think about it, maybe that last one isn't all that out-there after all.

...

2010. It's everywhere today, yesterday, last week. Hope, change, possibility...

And the year my mom is going to die.

Leaving Beta, Going Live

2009-12-17T14:32:00.000-08:00

Without really intending to, I started a teeny, tiny side business with my sewing. I did a few craft fairs, completed a few custom orders, and figured out pretty quickly exactly where I want to be, which is....really, really, no, really part-time. All of the fun, none of the pressure. I sew what I want when I want. I have an excuse to buy fabric. Maybe if I'm lucky random strangers continue to occasionally give me money. A creative feast or famine! Just like this blog, actually.

Ta da! I have an empty Etsy store and a new craft blog, Modern Olive.

I think I'm more of a show girl, especially since I have a terrific girlfriend I show with. We split the cost, catch up on gossip, giggle, and get our craft thang on. The Etsy market seems so hopelessly oversaturated that I expect nothing, but with only 20 cent listing fees, why not?

Oh, Etsy! Just the other day I was thinking how unique this dress is, I mean the fabric was discontinued long ago and only one Etsy seller even has it, when I accidentally stumbled upon its big sister. WTF?

So I've come to the conclusion that I've never, ever had a unique idea, but I can still have a new blog. And maybe an empty Etsy store, too.

Black Friday 2009

2009-12-06T22:20:00.000-08:00

Infamous

2009-11-22T22:20:00.000-08:00

Her: I swear I know you from somewhere.
Me: Hmmm. I don't know.
Her: I've got it! You were at Costco the other day with your husband and your daughter. She was wearing a long sleeve black dress with white birds?
Me: We were.
Her: Haha! She was laying on the floor in the food court kicking and screaming and you were yelling at your husband "OMG THE FLOOR IS NASTY PICK HER UP!" You guys totally cracked me up!

Yay us.

Revelation

2009-11-19T07:13:00.000-08:00

There are two stuffed bunnies. She wants me to hand her one. There is no right answer, but still I choose wrong.

Suddenly she is screaming at me, hysterical, crazed, completely oblivious to everything around her, overly emotional to the point of utter ridiculousness.

And then I get it.

"This," I say to my husband, pointing at our still tantruming daughter, "this is how men see women, isn't it?"

"Yup!"

HOLY SHIT.

Olive Goes Green

2009-11-18T20:25:00.000-08:00

All by her little self Olive repurposed crawler tracks into John Deere jewelry. Totally bad ass, doncha think?

Anger Management

2009-11-18T08:54:00.000-08:00

"Hey Mom?"

"Yeah buddy?"

"I hope that when Olive grows up she can find a husband who will be willing to pick up all the things that she throws at him."

Sigh. Me too.

Single White Male

2009-11-04T09:02:00.000-08:00

Code name: The Cracker
Age: 6.5 years old

Interests and Activities:

museums
literature
transportation
collecting sticks and other forms of nature
dressing up/role play
good guys vs. bad guys
play fighting
weaponry
6 year old male humor
all money making schemes
fundraising prizes!
party favor junk

Turn-offs:

bedtime
being asked to pee before a long car trip

Favorite food?
Pink Lady apples

Favorite animal?
My cat Corie

Favorite books:
Mr. Putter and Tabby (series)
Skippyjon Jones (series)
Chicks and Salsa
Eight Animals Bake a Cake

Aspirations:

To sell random free ~~shit~~ treasures I find, like leaves, to strangers.
lose a baby tooth

Anything else?

I am as sweet and loving as I am energetic. I am known for being that kid who is nice to everyone; I will never be mean to you or put you down. For this reason I am always given the role of ambassador to new students. I am loved by the ladies and find myself the only male at many (intimate) birthday bashes, and if I don't stop getting invited to everyone's party my parents will soon go broke. I love life, my family, and especially my little sister. My parents are so proud of the young man I've become.

So Big

2009-10-27T08:55:00.001-07:00

A few of the Cracker's newest shirts are falling off the hangers. The necks are too big for kid hangers.

Sniff.

(Olive's 18 month stats: 20lbs, 14oz and 30" tall)

Single White Female

2009-10-18T22:02:00.000-07:00

Name: Olive
Age: 18 months

Interests and Activities:

climbing
trying on shoes
meowing at cats
sand
pretending to make smoothies in my toy blender
pushing my doll stroller
the words naho! and me!
"decorative posable bat with 8 foot wing span and battery operated LED eyes" (available at Costco, limited time offer)

Turn-offs:

pants
not being allowed to wear my Converse high-tops to bed
pants
delayed gratification
pants
when my parents don't understand me
pants

Favorite food?
E-ewe-ees (smoothies)

Favorite animal(s)?
Dogs, bears, and bunny rabbits

Favorite music:

Favorite Books:

Aspirations:
To be able to climb everything my brother can climb, especially onto the giant no-net trampoline that sits 4+ feet off the ground at C and S's house.

Anything else?
Yes, pants are okay for bed, but NEVER for leaving the house, unless my mom lets me wear a dress over them. Then maybe, depending on my mood, but usually not.

Siblings Without Rivalry

2009-09-29T17:01:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, I am an only child. Can someone explain to me why when you are trying to keep a potentially sick child off of a potentially healthy child they suddenly can't stop licking each other?

Lick-ing.

The baby I can understand. Our Olive is a licker. Her favorite "I'm going look you straight in the eyes and do exactly what you just told me not to" activity is licking. And biting. Well, not exactly biting. It's either pretending to bite or threatening to bite, the jury's still out on that one. She assumes the position but doesn't chomp down.

But why is my should know better six and a half year old licking back? Giggle giggle giggle. "She licked me first."

And now they're both laughing at me.

On the plus side, twenty-four hours of at home driving me crazy later, I am fairly certain that the Cracker's nausea + upchucking last night was a result of hyperactivity or the 30 minute flu.

But still. Eew.

Three Strikes We're Out

2009-09-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a family, a small family, but a close-knit family.

The family was made up of a grandfather, a grandmother, two daughters, two son-in-laws, and three grandchildren. The family agreed on very little: not money, not politics, not religion, and certainly not on a definition of family values. But it didn't matter. They bit their tongues and kept most of their opinions to themselves, and so despite their vast differences and great geographical distance, they loved and cared for each other very much.

One winter's night, when the grandchildren were still little, the beloved grandmother died quite unexpectedly in her sleep. The family never really recovered from her death, certainly not her sons(-in-law), to whom she'd been more of a mother than any other woman. Her death left a void that time would never be able to fill.

Years later, just as the grandchildren were entering adulthood, the grandfather fell ill. Liver cancer came on hard and fast and ugly. Diagnosis to death was measured in a handful of long, cruel weeks. The grandchildren were still too young to have children of their own, but old enough to understand and witness the immense physical pain and suffering of a death by cancer. The family relived it over and over again in their nightmares.

Years passed. Eventually it was the youngest daughter who was the first to become a grandmother. Mother to one miracle daughter, fulfilling her new role as a grandmother became her life. Five years later she was ecstatic to become a grandmother again, as the family welcomed the first and only female of the newest generation. It was when her granddaughter was only seven months old that the youngest daughter was diagnosed with stage IV of the most aggressive form of brain cancer. Treatment would be palliative. She would endure radiation and chemo just to have more time with her grandchildren. When six months and six rounds of one chemo drug failed she bravely embraced starting over with a new one. Last week the family found out that after four months of the newest aggressive chemo treatments the youngest daughter's tumors had shrunk a little. Not much, only a little. The family hopes that a little is enough that the youngest daughter will be allowed to continue treatment for just a little while longer. The family waits.

The oldest daughter and her husband would become grandparents of four boys, the oldest of which just turned five, and the youngest of which was only four months old as of yesterday. Yesterday, when the family found out that the oldest daughter's husband has prostate cancer, and there is reason to suspect that the cancer is elsewhere. The family waits.

We wait.

(PS Please do not mention anything on my fb profile, as my cousins do not yet know.)

I Ate Chicken and Then It Burned When I Peed

2009-08-12T23:12:00.000-07:00

In early June I was feeling super exhausted and having super bad icky feelings so I hauled ass to the doctor with screaming daughter in tow while son with big ears was at a summer program.

My doctor and I both assumed I had a UTI. My symptoms were not quite textbook, and my initial test results a little odd, but whatever. As he pointed out I've been under extreme stress too. I was sent away with a rx for antibiotics.

Six days later his nurse called.

"We got your final test results back. And may I just say wow! Talk about rare! It's like really, really rare! First case ever in our office! And it doesn't normally show up this way either. That makes it even more rare!"

The diagnosis was a little scary and way confusing. I called one of my bestest friends, who besides having been a nurse just knows everything. She already knew I'd gone in and about all my symptoms, even made me a special tea to drink. (Insert warm fuzzy smile.) Now with my new surprising diagnosis we went over it again because it just didn't add up. Why wasn't the doctor asking questions to find out how I'd gotten a rare typically food-borne illness in an even rarer place?

My amazing friend Dr. Googled a few key items, translated a few medical articles back into English, and took a moment to think.

"Okay, so you totally know you don't have to answer this, but have you and J recently done it doggie style?"

OH. MY. GAWD. Just like two or many more times a day for the last solid week before getting sick! HOW DID SHE KNOW? Last time we'd talked silly girlfriend sex I'd still been a fuck me in a bubble bath phase. Stupid 30-something hormones and buzzy cock rings.

SALMONELLA. Confirmed on two separate occasions by two separate labs by four separate tests. And let me just tell you that nothing will make you feel like a skankier ho than having the state Health Department call and grill you. The nurse was really nice about it, but c'mon, salmonella as an STD?

And because everyone always wants to know: bbq chicken. At a friend's house.

But not the sex. That was at home.

Dear Olive,

2009-07-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

At some point in the recent past I blinked and suddenly here you are, nearly 15 and a half months old. If I had the power to keep you this age for more than a month I certainly would. Simply put you're a damn hoot.

You still really love dogs and Lady Gaga, but I think you now love smoothies even more. We let you have your first one a couple of weeks back when you were really sick (reaction to the evil MMR) in a desperate attempt to get something/anything into you. But really if can be sucked through a straw you're down. Your brother still won't drink soda, even Yoda soda, but you've gotten your mittens on my Diet Coke more than once and thought it was awesome. Heidi 2004 would be shocked and horrified at all the things you've ingested thus far.

With food you are far pickier. Your absolute never refused favorites are guacamole, bananas, bean beans, yogurt and soup. Savory lentil, minestrone, veggie, tomato, carrot, and clam chowder - you love them ALL. You adore grilled chicken and tofu 90% of the time. The other 10% you're right, we are totally trying to kill you. You're down with eating raw onions for funsies just like your mother, and you'll also inhale pico as an entree like the native New Mexican you are.

Size-wise you're petite. (18lbs, 11oz and 29 inches) Throw in your short hair and you wow complete strangers everywhere we go because you look way too small to be walking, running and talking as well as you do. Currently most people peg you at 9 months, even parents with kids around that age. You just moved into a size 4 shoe, or as you call them FOOFS! which leads me to believe your feet might be bigger than the rest of you just like your big brother. It's really hard to find pants that fit so I continue to put you mostly in dresses, which you now seem to prefer. The last few times we've put you in jeans has elicited a "what the hell?!" reaction. Your hair is still far too fine for barrettes, but you love soft headbands and floral tiaras. You have this divaesque "I know I look good!" beam that's priceless when your head is adorned.

You are still a sleeper. You go to bed around 7:30p, sleep until 8:30-9a, eat like a madwoman for 45 minutes, and then go back down until 11:30-noon. Later in the afternoon I can count on at least another full hour, more often than not two if we are at home, other wise you cat nap while we're out. At night, if you decide we're taking too long getting you to bed you actually start waving goodbye, the first part of your bedtime routine. It's a big hit when we have friends over.

When you're tired and you have your beloved blankie you suck your left thumb. I had a bunch of waffle blankies that you liked just fine until your grandma, my mom, gave you one she had knit especially for you, and then it was all over. She spent months making it a twin, in part because of the oh shit what if it was ever lost factor, and in part because you're never awake long enough for me to wash and dry it between naps. Three weeks ago it was finally finished and ready for you, along with a more portably-sized sibling I named the potholder. We were all worried that you may not accept a newer, slightly larger, and less smellier version of blankie but you surprised us by nearly exploding with happiness. Of course now there are times when only the entire collection will do. Since it was such a hit your grandma has made two more potholders, which you also welcomed to your collection with love. You seemed to realize instantly that potholders + walking = the end of blankie tripping. Smart girl.

At least a hundred times a day you grab my finger and pull me to the computer demanding DUCKS!

You call your big brother Gah. When he gets in your way you do not hesitate to give him a good shove or five. Your father and I will never forget our last plane ride, when we had boarded and were waiting at the gate and you realized that your brother's window seat had some good viewing. Your ineffectual little fists, shrieks of "Gah! Gah! Gah!" and steam blowing out your ears -- something only a mother, or father, could love. And you have this new smile, one that uses your whole face and jutts out your chin. I'm still trying to catch it on camera. Something about it really reminds me of my own dad.

I could go on for days. You will never know how much we love you. Thank you for being just who you are.

xoxo Mom

Drowning in Bad Memories

2009-06-14T22:46:00.000-07:00

My parents arrived last Wednesday for a week long visit, most likely my mom's last. She is suddenly going downhill so quickly that even my dad has been left somewhat stunned.

The worse she gets the more I find myself pulling away, and I truly hate myself for it. I so badly want to have a few more good laughs, a few more real moments, but what she needs is a daughter who can listen endlessly to her every grievance. I wish I could just be there for her and listen, but every prick and every jab drives me right to the edge. When J is around I simply get up and leave the room when I can't take it anymore.

Eight weeks ago, when it was time to say goodbye at the airport after Olive's birthday, she couldn't stop hissing in my ear about how much she hates my dad long enough to say goodbye, or tell me she loves me. I finally took her on like I would a tantrumming three year old. "Mom, I know you're mad. I understand your anger. But I love you, and I'm going to miss you." It didn't work.

I'm 31 years old, with nearly 30 years of normal memories, yet this is all I can remember anymore. When I close my eyes I never see her once full head of hair or a smile, just my mom as she is today.

When they get back my mom will try 3 quick rounds of a different type of chemo, Ava.stin, which has a positive response rate of 40%. 20% of the 40% make it to a year. Last month it was given accelerated approval for patients with progressive disease despite treatment of other therapies, which is huge considering it is the first new drug approved for this type of cancer in more than a decade.

But honestly I'm pretty much out of hope.

Six Months, One Week

2009-06-04T00:33:00.000-07:00

I planned all last week to make a six month update. I was going to write about how my mom had decided to continue on with chemo despite her earlier plans, how her terrible allergic skin reactions had become somewhat manageable, or at least tolerable compared to the alternative of stopping treatment.

Six months. Six months. I couldn't stop trying to wrap my head around it. Six months ago we'd all begun planning for her to be gone by now. We never thought she had six months. But her she is! I suddenly felt like I'd been given the gift of time all over again. Time to start fresh, forget what I thought I knew, and just enjoy. Invincible.

Six months, one day brought a big scan. No one expected the results until this week, because that's the drill.

Except that her Neuro-oncologist called within a few hours. And he canceled her chemo 36 hours before she was to start. And he told her to get an appointment asap @ UCSF. And while he didn't mention the two shiny spots that appeared last time, he did say that there is regrowth at the original site. And that he was leaving for vacation the following day and he'd see her when he got back.

She told him that she wanted to continue with chemo, that she'd made plans around it, that she didn't want to just sit around doing nothing, that she had a lot of fight left in her.

No.

And so now for a week I've been walking around in a daze. I'm trying to process it, but my mind can't wrap around it. I was energized. I had a new game plan. And now that's all gone.

I'm lost.

Uh Oh

2009-06-03T08:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I learned that Olive can drink out of a straw. I learned this after she drank a good third of my venti Tazo "Awake" iced tea.

We had a very cranky afternoon but her heart did not explode.

Good times.

Not Fine

2009-05-29T13:48:00.001-07:00

Please excuse me while I vent.

An individual's journey with cancer is as unique as the individual. Stage IV brain cancer is not the same as stage IV some other kind of cancer.

FACT #1 My mom knows her name.
FACT #2 She knows mine too. And the kids. And J's. If she knew your name at some point, she still knows it now.
FACT #3 She can walk.
FACT #4 She can feed herself.
FACT #5 She can use the bathroom by herself.
FACT #6 She is not bedridden.
FACT #7 She can travel in cars and airplanes.

FACT: Brain cancer can kill a person without ever leaving the brain.

The above is amazing and wonderful, but it does not mean she is fine. There are many other shitty ways cancer can fuck with a person. I know how incredibly cruel it can be to watch a loved one die of cancer, to be bedridden and incapable of taking care of the most basic of needs. I've been there, as an adult, just a few years back with my grandfather in his final weeks. What my mom is going through is not that, at least not yet, but that does not automatically mean her journey is full of rainbows and cheery birdsong either.

She is not okay. She is not fine. Trust me.

Steps

2009-05-14T23:46:00.000-07:00

She turned herself around, let go of the wall, and took two steps into the middle of the room. And then she just stood there, prairie-dogging for a good 15 seconds, before dropping down and crawling over to me with the biggest grin on her face.

And then I cried.

It's Not a Penis, It Just Looks Like One On the Internet

2009-05-12T08:20:00.002-07:00

For Mother's Day my amazing son wrote (in Kindergartenese), illustrated (in green highlighter*), and bound (with staples) a book for yours truly. And quite the egocentric flip book it was.

Awww...he made a flip book!

"This is me! And this is me! This is still me too!" Flipping, flipping, flipping. Uh oh. This page no writing.

Phallic art! My favorite!

"And this is our house!"

Ehh...

This is our house. Where do you live?

Somehow my dear husband senses that I'm thinking about peni and comes running.

Seriously dude, there's no fire. Go on now and run back to wheres youse cames frum.

"Look at this beautiful representation your son made. OF OUR HOUSE."
"Our house?"
"OUR HOUSE."
"It has grass! See the grass! Hahaha! Grass! No wait! No wait! I meant bush! See the bush! Hahahahahahaha!"

Whatevs. You're a penis.

*Highlighters are still so banned for being NOT washable and having been used as late as 4 to draw on the furniture purposely and more than once. If not drawing with highlighters keeps him out of an ivy league school I'm okay with that.

The Cracker '09 Recap

2009-05-07T17:17:00.000-07:00

JANUARY My first time ever out-of-town without my Cracker, J gets this call. The Cracker has stuck a pencil up his nose. J wants to know "How do I get a surprising amount of blood out of a school uniform shirt?"

FEBRUARY Reminder that plastic tools = real damage. The Cracker dismantles the whatchamacallit that encloses the gas shut-off for the living room fireplace. How he managed to unscrew a hollow male shaped part that is flush with the wall with pliers and then pry off the caulked-on plate in less than 5 minutes is still beyond me.

MARCH Off apparently. Or more likely blocked out.

APRIL School nurse calls. "You need to take him to get x-rayed." He tripped over his own (big ol' puppy) feet while walking in a single file line to lunch and his a finger is very swollen, very discolored, and no longer bendy. Oy. Dx = "Minorly sprained, badly bruised."

MAY Instead of brushing his teeth, the Cracker takes an oral syringe, fills it with water, and injects it into the bathroom electrical outlet. I hear there were alarms, crying, smoke, and water sizzling in the wall and shooting out of the outlet. (cough I-was-at-Target.)

At the bus stop this morning my question for the more seasoned mothers was "When will common sense and knowing-the-fuck-better finally prevail?"

"It doesn't. And then you hand over your car keys."

Insurance, people. Medical, dental, home, and auto. Make sure you have great insurance.

Our First Oliversary

2009-04-17T07:29:00.000-07:00

We started the day with our weekly pilgrimage to baby storytime. Instead of participating (she has stomped her feet and flapped her arms on occasion in the past when she was happy and knew it) she poked a gigantic 5 foot stuffed black bear that lives at the library in the left eyeball for much of the 30 minute program. There was also squealing, and pointing pointer fingers that proclaimed over and over "DOG!" "No baby, that's a b-b-bearrr." "DOG!" Pappy, aka my dad, came along too.

Olive was hungry (because the girl still eats no less than bi-hourly)(and poops thrice daily) we decided to bagel, because if you're turning one and your mean parents won't let you have pizza, what else would you want? (Play along and don't say cake.)

While we waited for our food, Pappy presented her with her first flower from a boy.

(Did you know that Olive, at a mere 8 months old, inspired us to invent a new term? Bagel booger. It's just what you're envisioning, only stickier. And boogeryer.)

Our bellies full of carbs, the girls (my mom, Olive and I) headed off for more carbs at high tea. My mom always comes up with great excuses for us to go. Olive's first birthday was one of her better ones.

(PS My mom wants me to share with tea-goers of the world that the high tea at Neiman Marcus (where we took Olive for high tea in January) at Union Square in San Francisco now sucks. It used to be way cooler when I was a kid, but now it "sucks." It was even acceptable a few years ago when we took the Cracker. But now it "sucks." PSA over.)

From the tray I shared with my daughter a slice of radish. She looooved it. Score me! While my mom and I ate the good stuff, Olive had her very favorite, banana sucked through a mesh bag. Now, I am not crazy, I do not think she is going to choke on a squishy banana. But Olive? She has this thing about bananas. In a bag? HER FRICKIN FAVORITE OMG NOM NOM! Outside of a bag? Not to be trusted. Poke, poke, launch!

I am not totally mean. I did give her a few tastes of clotted cream. "Do you think she likes it?" "Mom, SHE'S CLAPPING. Yeah, I think she likes it just fine."

Outside she had a blast petting a fake dog. Olive is obsessed with DOGS. The girl has this crazy squeal that is reserved only for DOG spotting.

(Too bad we are not dog owning* (insert your own more PC term here) people. We love dogs, but we are not up to sharing our home with one. We love your dog, but we do not want our own dog. Our house is plenty full with cat gak and piss and I have more crazy than I can handle right now. But! if your dog would like to go for a walk, Olive and I would love to take him. Or her.)

The hat is hiding banana bag hair, her shirt is untucked, and her skirt is too long even though it's 12-18 mos. But her shoes are peep-toed and silver = awesome. (Not to be confused with her silver ballet slippers. Totally different. The toe-peeping is totally better in the dog picture.)

We did some boring stuff and then picked up the Cracker from school and went to eat a-gain! This time it was my choice, since I did birth her and all. (Okay, so really she kinda birthed herself since her head was already out and no one KNEW IT and I didn't push, just didn't sneeze or cough because OMG she's on her way and people needed to gown-up and put on gloves actually don't even breath because we don't want her to land on the floor. But I should still get to pick the food.)

Olive signs "all done!" Yes, we know this isn't the official sign that deaf people use, but it is the sign her big brother used back when, and we have chosen to pass it on to her as well. So we've broken two children. Deal.

Happy birthday my little Olive. Believe it or not, having you to keep me company all day long keeps Mommy sane. Not only do you love me in that special way that babies love their mommies, you crack me up. Lately I especially love watching you try to cram yourself into the Little People house. I think it looks fun in there too! But for your second year of life I will try to teach you about scale.

I love you. xoxo

Q & A with Heidi II

2009-04-09T00:07:00.000-07:00

What about your mom's health?

There are signs. I see them, my dad sees them too. I still ask myself if it's just the stress of it all. Maybe it's stress. People under extreme stress are not themselves. Is it stress? Or is it tumors? It could be stress, right? But even my stupid heart know that stress doesn't make you go from wide awake to SNAP! bent in half at the waist, nose at your knees, in a mini coma. I have made myself sick and crazy, and the only conclusion I have been able to draw is that it's inevitable. Impressive, eh? I'm not a doctor, I don't know when, but things are not getting better and they are not even staying the same. They are worse.

I'd like to say that thankfully she has no idea, but I think she does.

Today, Thursday, she will take her last dose of chemo round three. The scan taken after radiation and the first chemo round showed two new spots. Officially they aren't cancer until you have them biopsied, but you know, patient with aggressive brain cancer is sporting two shiny somethings. Yeah, that. Turns out my mom is allergic to the chemo drug of choice (Tem.odar) and breaks out in a horrible, itchy as hell rash that persists for weeks, the likes of which even her doctors (*top* experts in the field of this very specific type of tumor at UCSF) have never seen. The only other option she's been presented with to date is the gamma knife, which is a big hell no nuh uh not even gonna consider it. The drug they've been giving her (Hydro.xyzine? or is that something I've taken?) to combat the rash is not cutting it. Standard chemo protocol would be 12 months/rounds and then reevaluate IF you make it that long. Before she even took the first dose there was a lot of I'll give it three months and then I think I'll be done talk.

My mom's goal was to make it to Olive's first birthday, April 16th, 2009. One week from today.

Q & A with Heidi

2009-04-07T14:10:00.001-07:00

How's your mom?

In a word? Angry. No, wait, I take that back. She is fucking angry. Two worder.

In March her favorite topic was how unfair it is that people with DUIs can drive and she can't. April's topic is how unfair it is that people can take Claritin and Benadryl and drive and she can't.

Not. Kidding. Not even exaggerating. Hour after hour after agonizing hour.

No matter how much she pleads, do not tell her the truth. You know, that a few months ago she had a craniotomy, that they removed 15% of her brain, or that just like before she can technically see but not process things on her left side, or gently suggest the possibility that most patients will eventually have seizures again despite antiseizure medication even though you know she won't, because OMG do not go THERE.

Have you talked to a tumor lately?

Yesterday, as I pushed Olive around in a cart at Target, (ignoring her cuteness, shopping, and agreeing over and over again on the phone with my mom that people who take allergy medication and drive should be beheaded,) I kept crossing paths with another mom who had a baby close to Olive's age. She was carrying her baby in an Ergo, and it seemed like every time I ran into her she was kissing the baby's head. I had this ridiculous urge to tell her that I have an Ergo too! In my car! That I also love absentmindedly kissing Olive's head as I shop! But that I can't do that and talk to my mom on the phone at the same time because Olive is all about phones and buttons and will not leave them alone and that I am not the shittiest mom ever just trying to be a good listener to my mom who has cancer. Do they make signs for that?

(Olive has declared nap time over. More to come, because there is so much more...)

Old MacDonald Revisited

2009-04-01T21:00:00.000-07:00

For the longest time the Cracker's word for farm was E-I-E-O. Me = pile of goo.

Oh Olive. You go girl.

A Very Happy Birthday

2009-03-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

Now you are six.

I Poke You

2009-03-30T20:56:00.000-07:00

Little Big Man

2009-03-30T20:54:00.000-07:00

"Dad, do you have a broom? The Cracker wants to sweep."
"Do I have a broom?!"

She Speaks

2009-03-09T23:54:00.000-07:00

On the day she turned 10 months old our little Olive pointed right at the neighbor's dog and proclaimed "da!" Oh, I thought, how weird; it was almost as if she was trying to say dog or something. The dog's owners, parents of four, including twins a month older, flipped. "Oh my God she totally said dog! She's talking already???"

Nah.

And in the three weeks since it has become clear that Olive IS talking, and that she is not only understood by us but also others. WTF?

"Ah da" is, of course, all done. It is most commonly used to express that her high chair tray is empty. It has also been used, very sadly, on more than one occasion during wiping when she had diaper rash. That'll break your heart, your 16 pounder crying "Ah da! Ah da! Ah da!" The girl is cursed with my crappy super sensitive skin and the diarrhea her brother brings home from Kindergarten. Sad Ollie.

"MmmmmmmmMA!" means more (food) or "I see that you are eating and haven't offered me any. Dude!" Sensing a pattern here? Anyone?

She says "ma/mama/mom" a lot, mostly when things aren't rosy, and of course her favorite happy caretaker word is "da/dada." I swear to God she bats her eyes and has this "you're my hero!" look as she breathlessly slo-mo whispers "da" at J and then lunges from my arms to his. It's so disgusting it's actually cute. But disgusting.

Speaking of crappy skin, my traveling eczema recently took up residence in my belly button, which is especially itchy since I have scars there from surgery. Olive has decided that my reddened innie is a third nipple and keeps trying to nurse from it. Watching her dive bomb it is deeply disturbing. Experience with this? Anyone?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Three Months

2009-02-28T20:47:00.000-08:00

Last week marked the three month anniversary of it all; the realization that something is wrong, my mom's collapse, my dad taking her to the ER, the scan, the initial diagnosis, and yesterday, the surgery.

On the mindfuck continuum I think three months? That's all? On the we can hope for a year timeline, three months are gone and never coming back.

Predatory Lending Hits Home

2009-02-23T20:43:00.001-08:00

Here are a few words I never imagined stringing together: MY FIVE YEAR OLD NEEDS A BAILOUT.

We get a "final notice" from the school breakfast/lunch program today. Funny, I don't remember seeing a first notice. Seems the Cracker, who, by the way, has breakfast at home every day and takes a sack lunch every day has ***unpaid*** breakfast bills.

It's gotta be a mistake. Right?

"Have you been having a second breakfast at school?"
Mumblemumblemumble.
"What?"
"Nothing." Looks at his feet.

Let me try this again.

Excitedly, "So whadya have?"
"Oh! It's great! They always have toast, and oatmeal...one time we even had pancakes!"
"How did you pay for it?"
"Well, I didn't have any money soooooo Gaige taught me how to charge it."

Excuse for a moment while I choke.
Charge? It?

Face drops, guilt-ridden. "But they don't let me anymore, because I didn't pay my bill."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Some details:

He knows now that it was wrong, and he feels bad.

From what I know, it isn't the school directly, but a private contractor that runs the meal programs.

But then again, we've never used these programs before, so what the fuck do I know.

It's definitely breakfast, not lunch. He's not pitching his lunch and playing if you don't give me school lunch I won't eat today.

What if he had food allergies? Like eggs or something? Dairy? Gluten? Wheat?

When this is happening is a mystery to us. He gets on the bus at 8:41. The bus arrives at 8:50. Kindergartners are escorted off by their teachers, who then take them to line up and enter the school no later than 8:55. School officially begins at 9. So...? We'd always assume the breakfast program took place during before care hours, you know, the before school child care program for kids whose parents work. I don't work. But again, what the fuck do I know? Apparently, not a whole lot.

Yes, I am PMSing right now. Thanks for noticing. I am so friggin bloated.

The bottom line: We, his parents, did not authorize it.

I should add right here that we live a cash only lifestyle and have since 2003. We do not charge anything, not for the miles, not for the rewards, not for the cash back. Nothing. Airplane tickets and other higher priced items go on our debit cards. We have extra cash in our easy to get to savings for emergencies. We do not even have charge cards in our names, initially because once paid off we didn't want to be tempted, but now because we haven't found a reason for needing them.

The grand damage is a whopping $3.15, 3 meals at $1.05 a piece. But never before has there been so much principle involved! Principle people!

You can bet your sweet ass I'm going to the school about this. Assuming it is an independent contractor and not his school that would take a loss, the Cracker can fork over $3.15 in previously owned Matchbox cars. You go around allowing kindergartners to open a new charge account without their parent's permission and I think you deserve to be burned.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

It's Good to be Home

2009-02-03T16:11:00.000-08:00

(Audio only. Transcript follows.)

Why yes, yes he did.

Answering machine message:
"Hi, this is XXX, the school nurse at XXX Elementary School. Just wanting to touch base with you in regards to the fact that I saw [the Cracker] today. Nose bleed. Ummm...I think he may have, possibly, put a pencil up into his nose..."

A Night Without Fog

2009-01-26T22:27:00.000-08:00

seems kind of creepy and wrong. Guess I've made most of my visits the last few years closer to the summer months.

PS No tourists tonight.

Details

2009-01-25T19:16:00.001-08:00

My dad told me today that he thinks I should be here when she dies.

My Friday Night

2009-01-23T23:31:00.000-08:00

Greetings from California.

Tonight, for the first time this trip, I finally got my lazy ass down to visit the bridge. It's something I usually do every night.

Hello bridge.

It was foggy and rainy and damp but surprisingly warm, and the smell of wet eucalyptus was everywhere.

It would have been a much needed clear my head moment had there not been a group of super annoying loud tourists who just would not leave. I guess I still think of Ft. Baker as for locals only, and the Headlands for everyone.

Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.

Caught

2009-01-19T22:11:00.001-08:00

in her brother's room.

Signs

2009-01-18T11:08:00.000-08:00

As I was talking to her on the phone, two nights ago now, she was zoning out, more out than in. If I didn't know any better I'd assume she was tired, or doing something else while we were talking that temporarily focused her attention elsewhere. But I do know better now because we've seen this before, a lot, in the months before her diagnosis.

Believe it or not, there is an upside: she has no idea. The zoning out, the mini comas, the strange behavoirs...she is neither aware nor remembers afterwards.

Cancer...woo hoo.

The Very Bad Daughter

2009-01-15T21:00:00.000-08:00

My mom is dying. I don't have hope. I want to, but I don't. This is going to happen. But I can't grasp it. I cannot imagine not having a mom anymore.

Do you know how much it sucks to not even have faith in her that she can overcome it? That I've already written her off?

...

They never see tumors that big, except on people who are already dead.
Her steroid regiment (for lupus) most likely kept them from finding it sooner.
Not that it would have made any real difference anyway.
There wasn't one tumor, there were multiple tumors.
Except the rest were smaller, and more importantly, inoperable.
They told her this the day she started treatment.
She started treatment, radiation and chemo, late, because they were closed during the holidays.
She has radiation burns on her face.
She won't take the pneumonia medication, because she's afraid of seizures, because she wants to drive again someday.
She won't be able to drive again, because while her left field of vision is intact, her brain can't process things on her left.
My dad and I saw this first hand in the weeks before she was diagnosed. When she was driving smack down the middle of a 4 lane, 55 mph highway at no more than 20 mph, with the Cracker in the back seat while my dad was screaming at her, cars honking and flashing their lights.
For, like, 10 minutes.
I was watching it in my rear view mirror; she was supposed to be following me.
Why didn't he grab the wheel and force the car over?
She has always said she can't imagine life without books; she is an avid reader who no longer reads.
The radiation and chemo are starting to really kick her ass. She's on week three of the initial six.
When they start the maintenance phase, chemo will be 5 days on, 23 off.
But the amount of chemo drug they give her then will be triple what she's on now.
She's having headaches again.
Which may mean a lot of it has already grown back, or that the other spots have grown.
Headaches = increasing pressure from growing tumors.
It is not uncommon for this type of tumor to grow back to pre-surgery proportions, or even bigger, before starting treatment.
Which she started late.

And the worst for last: she is having left side weakness. BAD!BAD!BAD!BAD! BAD!

...

What's going to happen when I call her cell phone? How long until it stops ringing, disconnected? My mom and dad are on a family plan, they share minutes. Is he seriously going to have to call and tell them he no longer has anyone to share minutes with?

...

I'm a planner. I need to plan.

I have no California appropriate funeral clothes. I start looking online. Spring is hitting the stores, so everything is bright and obnoxious. Black is gone. So I order a dress, online, from Black House White Market. And I haven't worn anything from there since middle school back when it was just White House. And I usually have to try on a gazillion dresses before I find one that fits my ill-proportioned body. And I'm cheap. But I want something nice. But fuck if I'm ever going to wear the dress I wore to my mom's funeral ever again. So I find this dress that looks just okay online, down from $178 to $59.99, and they have random free shipping, and I can return it in Albuquerque if it doesn't fit. But I can't handle actually driving to a store to try it on with bright lights and mirrors. I want it anonymously delivered to my doorstep. I just order. I don't measure. I have no idea what size. And it comes. And it fits, like it was made for me, or at least me wearing with muffin sucking underwear. I don't even try without. I even already own the perfect shoes, though as Jason pointed out, I have to go bra shopping. Blech.

Ollie has several options if it's in the next few months before she grows out of them. yeah us for thinking black and other dark somber colors are "cute" on a baby. The Cracker has a shirt that works if it still fits, and I bought him pants two days ago that he has yet to try on.

We are going to work on Jason too, soon.

You know what? I don't even know if there is going to be any funeral, or any service. I just assume there is. Because that's what people like us do. But I can't ask her. And getting my dad on the phone alone is nearly impossible. She doesn't want us talking about her, and so she makes sure we can't. We have to sneak phone calls, and lie, but I don't blame her. I totally understand it, because I inherited that from her.

My friends are aghast. I am buying clothes for her funeral now, while she's still walking around. But I explain it's inevitable, and I need it to be done. I do not want to be doing this on her deathbed.

I'm trying to be ready...for my mom to die.

...

I am flying out to California on Tuesday for 10 days. I am taking Ollie, leaving the Cracker with Jason. I have never, ever left him before. There are a million reasons why I can't take him. I want to but I just can't. I'm too tired to list why right now.

All of this...surreal doesn't even begin to describe it.

Happy (Belated) New Year

2009-01-09T22:05:00.000-08:00

I will return with heavy, depressing posts soon.

Sweet!

2009-01-08T08:08:00.001-08:00

Skip Hop's Hare Baby Comb & Brush Set

What is it about boobs?

2008-12-24T21:25:00.001-08:00

The Cracker has a runny nose, which he likes to pick and rub and share. I am a reverse germaphobe. I don't want my kid infecting others. I'm totally insecure and I worry about what you'll think of me.

So he has this stupid runny nose cold, and OMG he's so whinny and overtired. Finally, we have to go out, because you know, holidays, gifts, stores being closed for a day...gah.

J, "Stop picking your nose!"
Me, "Stop touching things! And if you have to touch something use your sleeve!"

...

The Cracker walks up to a female manequin bust and pokes it right in the nipple like he's ringing a damn doorbell.
Me, "CRACKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Him, "WHAAAAT? I USED MY SLEEVE!"

Preparations

2008-12-23T01:05:00.000-08:00

I've spent the last week in holiday overdrive, giving it my all to make up for lost time. I started with cards, finished the shopping, did the mailing, and am now making a last ditch effort to celebrate what's left of the season with the Cracker. Friday night I declared "fuck bedtime! Let's decorate the tree!" Saturday and Sunday I provided support as the Cracker painstakingly hand painted 24 double-sided ornaments for friends and family. Monday morning we wrapped and tagged them. After that we started an art memory book for my parents. He finger painted, watercolored, cut and pasted, rubber stamped, collaged, journaled, illustrated with pens and crayons, and then covered every square inch of it all with glitter glue. After 6 long hours, just as the Cracker was dreaming up a colored sand mural, I declared craft day over. I hauled ass down to Walgreens, in the dark, in the snow, where I learned that 1 hour prints that were due to be done 5 hours ago were not done, because the machine was broken, has been broken, and will be broken indefinitely. Fuck me. Tomorrow, I will try deal with getting the photos printed elsewhere so we can finish the book, and then move on to decorating gingerbread houses. I also hope to get an assload of laundry done as we plan to spend Christmas with the in-laws in Colorado, which is like two days from now. Ha!

More than one good friend has told me that I don't need to do this, more or less that I shouldn't because I need to give myself a break. What they don't understand is that I have to do this, and that I did take a break, and now it's time to rejoin the world. There will be more breaks later, but not this week. I have this amazing 5 year old who has been really good this year, who doesn't yet understand why his mom has been so off the ball lately, who is beyond excited about Christmas just like every 5 year old should be, who is about to have his whole world shattered just as soon as J and I can get together one evening after the kids are asleep and outline the discussion, make sure to list the key points, and prep for his questions, this discussion I hope to have after Christmas but before school starts but not at the in-law's.

...

In other news, Ollie is non-traditionally crawling. It very closely resembles traditional crawling...but it's not. Also in other news, Ollie *loves* shoes. No, really, little girlfriend *really*super*duper*hearts* shoes, and laces have nothing to do with it. While we've known about her shoe fetish for quite some time, it seems to be surpassing cute and heading for the unknown. Over the weekend Jason set her down in her room and she shot off in the opposite direction like an arrow with an obvious purpose in mind. "What's she doing?" "Looking for shoes." "No, really." "Watch." Shoooooz! Tonight when Jason got home from work he absent mindedly kicked off his shoes in the kitchen and got to work. Ollie saw his shoes, squealed in pure delight, and hauled ass like he'd never seen. A minute later, from the other side of the house I heard the most pissed off shriek ever heard in the history of the world followed by lots of screaming. "What did you do to her?" "I took my shoes back when she started to lick the undersides." "Oh, okay then."

...

My mom is making plans that include her not being here next holiday season, at least if in body not in mind. It's hard. We've talked about next year's holiday cards, and how I will make sure everyone knows why she is not sending them herself. I cry as quietly as I can on the other end of the phone. Slowly she is letting the people she cares about know, but there are so many old Vietnam-era Navy friends, etc, that they have not seen in years and never plan on seeing again, with whom they still exchange holiday wishes. Those are the people who will need to know.

I have been slowly telling my own friends, and asking the friends who I am in the most frequent contact with to spread the word to other good friends. I just cannot keep telling the same story over and over. Talk about it? Yes, sometimes I need to pour my heart out. But start from scratch? No no no no no no. It's just too much. There is another issue: I suspect one or two people, who are less friends and more acquaintances, that heard it through the grapevine, are people that I need to part ways with. They seem less interested in us, and more interested in having a front row seat for the inevitable train wreck. Thanks, but no thanks.

I am lucky to have some really wonderful friends. A card, an e-mail that says I'm thinking of you, those are the things that count right now. And the funny things they are doing to make me smile, like posting "Have you seen my underwear?" on my FB wall. But the phone won't stop ringing, and it makes me want to take a really big hammer to it Office Space style. Occasionally it's people I want to talk to, but most of the time it's not. The phone needs to shut the fuck up. We used to have caller ID, but canceled it as almost everyone was "unknown." I suspect that all these years later it's even worse. But if it's not, sign me up.

Tonight my mom reiterated that my dad is having a really hard time. Then she proceeded to tell me that he has decided he doesn't want her things around once she is gone. That I can have what I want, that she's shown him where all her jewelry is, what family heirlooms she wants to see stay in the family, etc, but that he is going to want it out of the house quickly, so that he isn't constantly surrounded by her. It's not that I think this is wrong, but I do think he may regret it later. It's also that I cannot even imagine taking this step right now -- please don't ask me to. It's all too fast. I hope he changes his mind.

Wordless Wednesday

2008-12-17T00:12:00.001-08:00

Not Enough Time

2008-12-15T22:09:00.000-08:00

The pathology is in: stage IV Glioblastoma multiforme, otherwise known as GBM, the "most malignant" of brain tumors.

With successful resection plus radiation and chemo the median survival rate is 12 months. The two year survival rate is nuh uh, rare, under 3%.

I can't swallow.

Older Than Older Than Dirt

2008-12-11T20:24:00.000-08:00

"Because when you were little things weren't so colorful."
"What?"
"Well, you know, they hadn't invented all the colors yet."

Waiting, Revisited, Again

2008-12-11T20:22:00.000-08:00

No results yesterday. Now Monday.

I think I'll leave it at "No comment."

Farolito vs. Luminaria

2008-12-10T15:49:00.001-08:00

Since posting about Santa Fe's Farolito Walk in 2006 I have noticed quite a few hits based on searches on farolito vs. luminaria during the holidays.

A lantern made from a brown paper bag, weighted down with sand and illuminated with a votive is called a farolito in Santa Fe and a luminaria in Albuquerque.* Usually the top is folded over an inch or so to give the bag strength. They are set up in rows and light paths, top stucco and adobe fences, and line the rooftops of flat roof homes and businesses. They are only lit on Christmas Eve. Electric versions are also available and a popular choice. In Albuquerque they start popping up mid-November before all other holiday decorations and stay up through New Years.

In Santa Fe a luminaria is a type of bonfire, pictured below. I do not know what they call them in Albuquerque, although you do see them. < / knowledge >

If I remember correctly, other parts of New Mexico tend to go with the Albuquerque definition, but don't take my word on it. Over the next few days I will be meeting up with friends who are natives of Las Cruces and Farmington, and I will try to remember to ask them about it.

*Wikipedia has good info on both luminarias and Las Posadas.

The above was supplied from a 100% Caucasian, non-native agnostic, who greatly appreciates your critique and input.

First Snowball

2008-12-09T23:44:00.000-08:00

This is eventually not about cancer, if you can get that far.

Last night, in what I can only assume was the universe trying to make nice, our area was gifted with first snowfall of the season. I seriously heart snow. But snow, even first of the season on my actual birthday, does not trump moms with brain tumors. Denied.

In the one-thing-I-have-to-get-done-today-or-I-will-go-mad errand, we dropped by the Cracker's old preschool, to drop off...wait for it, wait for it...our contribution for a family who was with us there last year, who has the most beautiful and sweet 6.5 year old twin boys you will ever meet, who just lost their father to cancer. Good times.

While there Ollie and I were invited to join them for a snack of snow one of the teachers had collected early this morning. Armed with a big ice cream scoop they were dishing out the most perfect snowballs of "ice cream" and dusting them with cocoa powder. Ollie, of course, passed on the toppings, but was delighted nonetheless. Turns out snow is totally something she digs, and she doesn't dig much in the way of food these days. Finally, fed up with the tiny bites at a snail's pace I was offering off of a spoon, she lurched forward and grabbed the snowball out of the bowl with her own two little hands. For a good solid minute and a half she chomped away as happy as could be, a squirrel with her nut. But then she abruptly stopped, took a few seconds to reassess, and produced one of her blood curdling screams. I couldn't stop laughing as I tried to pry it out of her hands while she looked up at me through the rage with eyes that said "It's not the snowball that's the problem, it's that my hands are really fucking cold."

And then we all laughed some more. My Ollie, seven months and three weeks old, the ability to do and think independently, but not always at the same time.

Yeah...That

2008-12-09T23:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was another step forward towards rejoining the world, acting like a normal person. With it I found myself in a new stage of grief/acceptance/denial/whatever. Today it was even more evident.

As I sat and talked with my best local friends, most of whom were hearing the news for the first time, I did not cry. I hardly showed emotion at all. Robotic, even.

Yet they were crying. My friends have all met Nana and Pappy, the Alpha grandparents, many times. Heck, my parents laugh about getting recognized and greeted while out on their own here.

All I could think about was how cold-hearted I must look.

Later, back at my friend L's house, she and I talked some more. We often joke we're soul sisters, because she has this way of putting what I cannot into words, and vice versa. We have these deep long conversations that go incredible places and I always leave her feeling like I've just figured out the meaning of life. Oh...and she's a die-hard crunchy con Republican, btw.

"I've cried so hard that I've made myself ill. I'm so stressed that my period has been 5 days of spotting, so light that I'm not sure I can even call it spotting. That has never, ever happened to me before. But mostly, I am so tired. I cannot believe how tired I am. And I do still cry, just never at the appropriate times. It happens when my mind is blank, and before I can even register what is happening I'm sobbing hysterically. And I have zero idea what the fuck triggered it."

"You're so tired that you're numb."

Thank you.

Tomorrow we are expecting the pathology from UCSF. Pretty sure I am about to miss tired but numb.

January

2008-12-09T22:28:00.000-08:00

(I know not everyone lives in the Northern Hemisphere or celebrates holidays in December, but go with me here...)

You know how in January, after the New Year's festivities have passed, and the holiday decorations are down, and things are suddenly looking so bland, and colorless, and barren, and the bills are starting to come in, and it's too dark too friggin early, and too cold, and too windy, and things just kind of seem, for lack of a better word, yucky?

I feel like that now.

So what the hell is January going to feel like?

More Waiting

2008-12-04T13:48:00.000-08:00

Wednesday was The Big Oncology Appointment. The results = inconclusive.

Upon examination during surgery they thought it (the tumor) was an astrocytoma. It was then sent off to pathology to be graded, stage I-IV. Turns out there are two tumor types present: astrocytoma AND lymphoma, just from the one biopsy.

Dr. Google never mentioned that possibility.

So off it's been sent to UCSF, where in a week they hope to enlighten us on which is the bigger battle. I've been told to cheer for lymphoma, which has a brighter though still terminal outlook and would mean only chemo instead of a chemo/radiation combo. I will be the first to admit that I don't exactly understand all of this, and as much as it makes me crazy itchy to keep my mouth shut, I just can't bring myself to ask my mom to elaborate until the final diagnosis is in.

No matter which way you spin it the outlook is grim: there is no cure, just the possibility of buying time.

Happy fucking holidays.

Talk

2008-11-30T22:59:00.000-08:00

"The tumor is right near the surface" he said. "It's highly accessible, but they still expect the surgery to take 4 to 5 hours."
"And?"
"I'm just surprised. That seems like an awfully long time."
"It's brain surgery. Obviously you haven't been watching ER and Grey's with Mom."
Chuckling, "No, I haven't."

...

"The anaesthetist just came out to let me know that they're done with the resection and are beginning to close. He said they think they got it all, they think they got it all."
"They think they got it all."

...

"The surgeon said that the surgery was a complete success! They did everything they hoped to do, and there were no complications."

...

"The surgeon came by today, and while we were talking he said that the goal was to remove eighty to ninety percent of the tumor. He thinks they got close to ninety."
"Ninety percent? That's not 'all of it.'"
"Yeah."

(Mwah)

2008-11-30T22:43:00.000-08:00

On Friday Ollie began giving kisses, and so far I am the only lucky recipient. The girl has got timing.

Unlike the Cracker's early "Mmmmmmm-ah!" smoochies, Ollie's are silent: just two baby hands and a wet, wide open mouth lean-in. And as if that weren't already enough to make my heart melt, she lingers.

Damn

2008-11-29T13:47:00.001-08:00

Every time I think of this picture my mind immediately envisions a scene from Grey's Anatomy. Cristina and George are goofing around when they see my mom's scan begin to appear on the screen. Cristina talks first, with some version of "Holy shit, would you look at that" to which George asks aloud "How could she have even been walking around?"

Pretty fucked up, eh?

Thankful

2008-11-27T21:06:00.000-08:00

Today I am thankful that I am going to have more time with my mom.

Surgery went as well as it could have today. They removed a 5x6cm astrocytoma. They think they got it all. Because of the type of tumor they know or are fairly certain that it is the origin tumor. It was located in an area where they hope her memory and speech will not be affected, though she will likely continue to have vision and processing problems on her left side. The short term prognosis is positive even with her lupus. Understandably, until the pathology is back is 4-5 days they don't want to speculate on the long term, though my dad is getting the impression that it's not good and that the rate of recurrence is high.

My mom is a fighter -- she always has been. I got a chance to talk with her tonight, and already she sounded so much better, like herself again, not the woman she's been the last few months. She wants to live. She wants to fight. I think today was a good day.

Waiting, Updated

2008-11-26T20:04:00.000-08:00

My mom has a brain tumor. The only thing we know is that it's big. Surgery is scheduled for Friday.

Surgery has been moved up to Thursday, 9am PST. It's also my Dad's 65th birthday.

F is For...

2008-11-24T21:49:00.000-08:00

Since August I have baked, from scratch, and sent in no less than 5 separate recipes on 5 separate occasions. I could have purchased Walmart bakery crap like the majority of the other parents, but I didn't. Nope, not once. And I even liked doing it.

Last week the Cracker's teacher sent home a family project: "prepare a recipe of bread" that represents your culture to be sent in and shared with the class Turkey Day style. (The kids are making butter -- I sent it heavy whipping cream for that already.) Discuss with your student ahead of time why this bread is important to your heritage, do a little write-up, and make sure your student is prepared to present it to the class.

I'm sorry, but did you just ask me to bake bread? Do you know how much I find active dry yeast a royal pain in the ass? Culture? Heritage? The same week as Thanksgiving? Seriously?

My mom suggested Swedish Limpa bread, which I have made, but it's a Biotch.

My dad suggested I go out and buy a loaf of Wonder Bread. Because, yeah, we're white. (Tee hee hee! Dad!)

Have I mentioned the altitude? That I live a mile above sea level and I assume that all sea-level recipes will fail the first time around because they always do? That standard tweaks need recipe specific tweaking? That every Texan who has ever visited the metro area has a "I went to New Mexico and got altitude sickness from hiking a quarter mile" story? That edible won't happen on the first try? That I'd have to try, like, more than once?

Someone finally suggested (San Francisco) Sourdough: I think it was J, and I think he was joking, but I took it and ran. I ran all the way to the store and bought a loaf of not San Francisco, not generic either, but "Swiss" Sourdough, whatever the fuck that is, sliced for sandwiches by a machine and obviously not homemade.

Now for the write-up = J's problem. He has the Cracker write "Sourdough bread is from San Francisco and so is my mom." Done! J doesn't even remind him to write his name. Grrrr. So I help add that it makes us think of fog and goes nicely with clam chowder, blah blah blah.

F is for FAIL.

Proof I bake! (And a super cute picture of O-Mo as well.)

Discuss Amongst Yourselves

2008-11-16T23:07:00.000-08:00

My Boy

2008-11-08T20:09:00.000-08:00

"So tonight you're in Arizona, and tomorrow you'll be in New Mexico? Hmmm...I think you're where John McCain lives..."

That'll Learn Ya

2008-11-01T19:32:00.000-07:00

Cracker takes jacket A to school and doesn't bring it home. Mom lectures and sends note to teacher. Mom sends Cracker to school the next day with jacket B, and explicit instructions to bring home jacket A and B and OMG it's Friday and jackets need to be home for the weekend. So, naturally, Cracker comes home jacketless. Mom loses her shit. Mom lectures, a lot.

Fast forward two weeks.

Jackets *always* come home. And for good measure, Cracker now brings home other kid's jackets too. Friday Mom sent him with one and he came home with three. I shit you not.

How I Get My Kicks

2008-10-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

Me, holding up a shipping box that would fit my very large head if it were ever to become detached from my body: "Guess what's in here!"
"What?"
"My DivaCup™! Size 2! Because I'm not only not under 30, but I've birthed you some big-headed babies!"

(Anyone else wondering about the circumference difference?*)

(The box also had these, and this in purple, and finally this, which is what I came for because everyone else is out of ribbit. Must have another ribbit. And maybe a pair of Zutano pants for O in red bird print. I've always been a sucker for birds. Sadly this is what I got for myself with my birthday money, and yes, my birthday is still weeks away, but my mom is weird. And I'm actually going to spend a portion of it this year instead of saving it all, because being in trouble for saving money meant to be blown sucks.)

Anywho, ta da the DivaCup™, a surprisingly thick silicone funnel made in Canada, eh, with gradations to measure your flow in ounces AND milliliters. Jackpoooooot! Also included: a kicky DivaCup™ lapel pin, score, and a purple DivaCup™ pouch that I assume is for storage rather than transport as it is not...um...liquid proof. Yeehaw!

*God bless the internet. A size 1 is 42mm wide vs 45mm, though according to Wikipedia, other brands vary by as much as six gaping millimeters! Crikey!

The One About My Boobs

2008-10-16T13:59:00.000-07:00

I am not a tall woman. I am also not a toothpick. A package of toothpicks? Yes. A single toothpick? Nooo.

What I'm trying to say is that I am not a six foot tall woman who weighs 110 bitching that a size x-small is too short in the torso; I am a 5 foot 6 woman who is not going to tell you her weight but will admit to being a size large, sometimes x-large, and when they fuck with the sizes to make you feel smaller than you actually are, a medium.

Are we clear?

Ahhh...fall! Fall is my favoritest season of all, not only because of the pretty colors, and the pumpkins, and apples and their by-products, and the pumpkins, and the crisp air, and the pumpkins, but because I can begin to hide my body in layers if I so choose. You know, it's not that I'm carrying around a more than a few extra pounds of people, it's the fabric yo! And maybe, just maybe, after some Jazzercise and a little dieting I could emerge in the spring from my black fleece cocoon all skinny and shit.

So I totally splurged on this cute jacket back in early August when it was still 85 degrees that was totally admittedly frivolous because I thought it was sassy and maybe even stylish and it gave me hope that fall was really coming because cold weather clothes had been in the stores here in the desert since June and that this amazing jacket might distract from my ill-fitting frumpy mom jeans and make me feel sexy because it fit ever so nicely over my boobs and elegantly and deceptively made it look like I was wearing a size large not because of my gut flub but because my boobs are bigger than yours and it was so interestingly stylish that you couldn't help but notice it and not my ass and not my thighs and it's brown and I'm trying to infuse some color into my black, white, and gray wardrobe and hot damn was I really excited about this jacket. Now fast forward through the conventions and Sarah Palin and debates and the freakiskly late fall weather finally arrives and I rip off the tags which I had left on just in case I got flu and lost 15 pounds and then kept it off or because the flu had killed me and J could return it for cash and buy formula and have a pizza delivered because he would have no use for a women's sassy brown jacket in size large because he's been such a good husband that I wish for him in such a scenario a new wife two-thirds of my current age and half my current body weight without cellulite that loves to swallow and has big nonleaky boobs. I threw those tags in the trash and washed my sassy jacket which you know means it's not that sassy or that stylish because it isn't dry clean only and then it wasn't returnable because it had been washed and I put it on and fuckity fuck fuck fuck gotcha because if you thought Tina Fey's Palin impression was spot on you haven't seen yet seen her do it in my sassy jacket. (I would send it to her but she's probably a small.) So I immediately started whining to J who assured me that it yes he remembered the jacket and no it wasn't a Sarah Palin jacket and that a jacket is just a jacket which meant jack shit since he is even more clueless about fashion than I am but only because he is a boy. Determined to continue the funk, I went and put it on. "See?" Bahahaha, yes it is a Sarah Palin jacket! OMG! It totally is! You're not going to wear that are you???

This is actually not the story I meant to tell, but it naturally found it's way here, and as you can see it needed to be told.

Going back...me, anxiously awaiting cooler weather because my arm fat looks better when my tank top is covered by sleeves. However, I had conveniently forgotten that last fall I was preggers, and the fall before that I was in a short lived lowish BMI phase. (I will always have hips, thighs and ass at any weight. Yeah me!) So I don't have any clothes that fit. Throw another "fuck" on the pile.

So I try shopping. Because finding pants isn't hard enough, finding tops is even harder. If it fits the breast feeding boobs and doesn't cling like saran wrap to my muffin then the shoulders are about a gazillion times too big and would also fit a 300 pound man. It's hard not to feel like the most disproportioned woman in the world.

My problems became intensified when I went shopping for an off-the-rack (stunned, I know!) and very specific Halloween costume. In retrospect, sewing one would have been easier, even though I'm quite busy these days screening my MIL, writing check after check after check to the PTO instead of selling breakfast burritos at the ass crack of dawn, teething an infant, schlepping to Saturday soccer, Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday swimming, Wednesday hockey, tearing my brain and the house apart looking for kindergarten-worthy sharing that begins with the letter X (seriously, 3rd week! obviously retaliation for 1 week one: the letter O producing a classroom full of Optimi Prime, and week two: the letter M is for Megatron!), running into town to Costco to buy fully cooked just reheat meals that I don't even try to pass off as my own anymore because my husband is just glad that there's food period, Facebook time suckage (which I know I'm supposed to hate and throw virtual tomatoes at since you are not allowed to post breastfeeding pictures for random people you went to high school with, but whatever, honestly I'm okay with that because being friends and exchanging pleasant twitter commentary and (Lil) Green Patch requests with someone I had sex with pre-husband when I was young, horny, experimenty, and a 32A and being all mature about it is enough for me), scrubbing cat barf stains off the carpet because you know how fish-shaped red/yellow/brown dyed food is all they'll eat... Seriously, taking up learning to sew for a Halloween costume would have been totally easy.

Here we go again, this time with the Halloween costumes, with my long ass torso trying to fit a poorly made one piece. And again, my boobs are always in the wrong place. But I've found a costume, and it's not perfect, but I know I will not do better, and the price, while outrageous, is less outrageous as everything else. So I pivot left, and I pivot right, and I'm sucking it in, hoping that somehow I can make it work.

And then my light bulb moment...

I reach in from the top, grab a boob, lift, pull top of dress down, and release. Repeat.

And wouldn't ya know, it's not that I have a long, hard to fit torso, it's that I have sad, super saggy boobs.

I'm guessing that if I go out and buy, like, a bra that it might be easier to find tops. Two years and counting a breastfeeding leads me to believe that the damage is irreversible.

Yeah, I don't feel so much better now.

Smitten.

2008-10-07T23:01:00.000-07:00

Thirteen Pounds of Personality

Five months, three weeks, and one day old. Unbelievable.

Soaking in the babyness

Five years (and seventeen days) apart

My Little Cracker

Letters Home From School

2008-10-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

From the Cracker's teacher:

"If you are sending something in your child's lunch that requires cooking in a microwave, please note that we only have time to heat things up that take a minute or less. We cannot cook noodles or other meals. We can only heat them."

Noodles? Other meals??? WTF are people sending? Hot Pockets?

Harder Than You'd Think

2008-09-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

I am looking for a Heidi costume that does not include the words ho, wench, sexy, or Playboy-licensed in it's description.

Ollie's First Greens

2008-09-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

Peas? No. Green beans? No.

Fistfulls of grass. At soccer.

Lovely.

Is it too late to add a few more wallets to my order?

2008-09-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

Quick! It's picture day! You're a 5 year old boy. What do you do?

You trip over your own feet, land on your face, on the way to school, at the bus stop, that exact morning. Your nose swells up and you bleed and bleed and bleed.

Oh yeah, it's picture day alright.

(This was taken this evening, swelling gone, second ~~clean~~ shirt of the day. Wanna do my laundry?)

Ollie on Rolling

2008-09-11T14:00:00.001-07:00

Rolling from back to tummy is fun, until you realize that once there it's self-imposed tummy time. Scream. Like. Hell.

(Don't try to roll back or anything.)

I Give Him Credit for Trying

2008-09-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

I am not buying that when the Cracker's teacher said to dress up for picture day she meant wear your Halloween costume.

It's a good thing we found each other because no one else gets us

2008-09-09T06:36:00.000-07:00

Me: Flossing.
Him: Drawing himself a ~~man~~ bath.

Me: "Are you using lavender baby wash?!"
Him: "It's all we have. AND much better smelling than stewing in my own sweaty ass juice!"

Someone really needs to add bubble bath to the shopping list.

Wordless Monday

2008-09-07T22:53:00.000-07:00

Proud Mama

2008-09-06T19:21:00.000-07:00

Cracker: "I'll be the Dad, you be the Mom, and you be the kid."
Boy @ park: "But I'm a boy. I don't want to be the Mom."
Cracker: "That's okay, we can be a family of two Daddies!"

Jason on Ollie's Squealing

2008-09-06T19:20:00.000-07:00

"Somewhere bats are saying 'Whaaaat?'"

To Know Her is to Love Her

2008-09-05T12:12:00.001-07:00

Beeeeeep.

"Hi honey, it's Mom. Your father and I just wanted to let you know that we'll be sending off more of your inheritance to Obama later today..."

Recycle, Reuse, Renew!

2008-09-04T20:18:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I think I'm rather clever. Sometimes I crack myself up. This is totally one of those times.

Amidst a sea of McCain minivans in the pickup line at our (public) school (that has uniforms...gah) (that refuses to teach evolution, even though it means they lose government funding...double gah) I brand this my own crazy politico version of Intelligent Design.