Friday, January 09, 2009
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
What is it about boobs?
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!"
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!"
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Preparations
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Not Enough Time
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.
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.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Older Than Older Than Dirt
"Because when you were little things weren't so colorful."
"What?"
"Well, you know, they hadn't invented all the colors yet."
"What?"
"Well, you know, they hadn't invented all the colors yet."
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
First Snowball
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.
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
January
(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?
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?
Thursday, December 04, 2008
More Waiting
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.
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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Talk
"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."
"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)
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.
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.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Damn
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?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Thankful
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Waiting, Updated
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.
Surgery has been moved up to Thursday, 9am PST. It's also my Dad's 65th birthday.
Monday, November 24, 2008
F is For...
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.)
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.)
Monday, November 17, 2008
Saturday, November 08, 2008
My Boy
"So tonight you're in Arizona, and tomorrow you'll be in New Mexico? Hmmm...I think you're where John McCain lives..."
Saturday, November 01, 2008
That'll Learn Ya
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.
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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
How I Get My Kicks
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!
"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!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The One About My Boobs
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Smitten.
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
Five months, three weeks, and one day old. Unbelievable.
Soaking in the babyness
Five years (and seventeen days) apart
My Little Cracker
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Letters Home From School
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?
"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?
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