We're Raising Big Babies

This week in my hometown we had a big scandal.  We don't get many of those here, thankfully, so this one blew up pretty big.

At a high school hockey game, the goaltender had a temper tantrum.  It was senior night, which I believe is where they celebrate the seniors and showcase them more, since they are nearing the end of their high school hockey career.  It should have been a fun time, with some bittersweet emotion and some memories made.  I guess some memories were made, just not the right kind.

Apparently, the young man tending the goal for our team was angry.  He felt he had not been given enough play time over the season, and the coach was putting out a lowly sophomore at his position instead of him all too often.  He decided prior to the game that he would certainly show him what's what by displaying his emotions for everyone to observe.  How generous of him.

The game was tied up, and I'm sure quite exciting, when a play left the puck behind his goal and the rest of the players on the ice hurried toward the other side of the ice to wait for the goalie to hit the puck away from his goal.  Instead, this young man at goal decided to casually skate around to the front of his goal and tap the puck in, scoring against his own team.  He then displayed his distaste for his coaches (and also his own team, the fans, and his community) by removing his gloves, flipping off his own bench, doing a big sarcastic salute, and then skating defiantly off the ice.  The word that keeps running through  my mind?  JACKASS.  Yes, he's just a kid acting out.  But he's a senior.  Pretty much a man, by definition, but obviously still just a child.

It caused quite the commotion.  It was all over the local news.  Radio programs talked about it.  It was all over Facebook.  I personally became a bit obsessed about it, for a number of reasons.  Primarily because I'm raising boys, and I was so disgusted that this kid acted out like that, and with what appeared to be SUPPORT from his parents.

Right now my feelings for this kid have shifted, and I was curious how everyone else was feeling about this.  This kid has been suspended from school and kicked off the hockey team, appropriately.  In that few seconds, with that one stupid tantrum, this kid changed his life.  His future has been altered--he will always be that kid.  And from the looks of the comments on the internet, and how everyone has been talking about it, the feelings about what he did are 99% negative.  He has a handful of supporters, but they really are few and far between.

My thoughts are this.  What he did was not a spur of the moment decision.  He had planned it.  He had told a buddy to be ready with his phone to film it, so the whole crappy thing was plastered on YouTube.  This was not just a temper tantrum.  We've all seen those in our kids.  They are hardly planned out.  So in his mind, he felt justified to act out this way.  Because this sophomore who obviously wasn't as good as him (in his mind) got to be the starter most of the time instead of him.  He felt entitled to be the starter, and this was NOT FAIR.  boo hoo.

Our culture is causing this.  Kids are being brought up in large part to believe they are entitled.  To trophies.  To awards.  To an equal amount of time on the field, the court, the ice, whatever.  They believe they are amazing, not just in the eyes of the parents, but in general.  We are telling them that they are!  But they're not.  The are our kids.  They are amazing to us.  But to the world, they are just another person who is going to have struggles.  Who is going to need to overcome them.  They don't deserve ANYTHING for just showing up, it should be their responsibility.  When did we stop caring about that?  There will always be a kid that is better than them.  There will always be a kid that is tougher than them, more popular, smarter, funnier.

I think our job is to teach them about this reality.  When our kid gets a bad grade at school, we need to help them deal with it.  Not by going to the teacher and telling them how ridiculous their grading system is, or calling the school and chewing them out, or by telling the kid it's okay, they're still amazing and smart and perfect.  We need to help them figure out what happened and find tools with them to do better next time.  When our kid doesn't get the lead in the play, we can't act like they should have, and that the people just didn't know what they were doing, or the kid who got the part must have a parent that made it happen.  How about there was a kid who fit the part better?  When our kid doesn't get to be the starter or make the top team in a sport, how about we teach them that this is life in competitive sports?  That the coaches job is to build a winning team, and sometimes that means other kids will get positions you wish were yours?  And how about teaching them good sportsmanship in the face of disappointment?

Here's an idea.  How about if kids are brought up to learn that we love them UNCONDITIONALLY.  We love them so much no matter what talents they have.  But not every one will, nor should they.  If they don't make the team, it's okay.  As long as they try their best.  If they don't get the part in the play? It's okay.  We are proud they were brave enough to help out.  (And painting sets is important too.)  If another kid starts as goalie more than you, well, son, maybe he's proven himself to the coaches.  And if you think that's unfair, maybe you should work harder to prove yourself.  And guess what?  If that doesn't work, maybe he's a better goaltender than you.  And that's okay.  It's life.  Congratulate him on his success and set an example as a senior on your team.

I mean, for God's sake, people.  What are these kids going to be like when they need to let go of our apron strings?  We need to think more about that.  Prepare your kids, don't coddle them.

Crazy Train

I have often thought my life is like a ride on a crazy train.  I've never taken a trip on an actual train, but if it's anything like my life, I would imagine it's a long trip, with mostly just prairies and fields outside the window, but once in awhile you pass a natural disaster in progress.  Or the train gets robbed by armed bandits on horses.  Or all of a sudden gymnasts from Cirque du Soleil are performing in the aisle.    Or the elephant from the animal car gets loose and starts running around all rabid-like through the cars.  But mostly it's just prairies and fields.

None of those things happen in my actual life, although I might like them to.  That's just how it feels sometimes.  Except the prairies and fields.  I grew up in Wyoming so I've seen my share of them.  Also, keep in mind that I have a fantastic talent for exaggerating, so you must take everything I read with a grain of salt.  (See?  I just used the word "fantastic", when I should have said "somewhat competent".)

Over all, my life is pretty darn quiet.  I am a stay-at-home mom, a "SAHM".  I don't know if that would be pronounced Sam, rhyming with BAM!, or Sam, rhyming with bomb.  I think of it as SAHM-I-Am, therefore it would be BAM!  But my day-to-day life usually consists of laundry, mundane errands, figuring out meals, loading a dishwasher, catching some TV, and wasting time on the internet.  I don't mean to belittle my job--I am an AMAZING (okay, "pretty good") mom, and I keep my household running.  I just mean that days seem to get sort of Groundhog Day-like sometimes.

But these days are punctuated with crazy days.  Like when the elephant came crashing through my house.  Ha!  Kidding.  But I do have a dog...  I actually mean like when you get in a car crash and end up in the hospital (seven years ago).  Or you go to a doctor's appointment with your parents and find out that one of them has cancer (both my mom-in-law and my dad).  Or your kid breaks his arm.  Or you bring your dog home for the first time.  Even when something happens like you make a major purchase or decide to go on a vacation.  These are all big deals.  They don't happen often, but they are the events life is made of.

I'm babbling on like this just because I sort of had a couple of those crazy days this week.  Keep in mind my supernatural ability for exaggerating as you read about my yesterday, by the way.  The story may not be as exciting as that group of acrobats that robbed my house that one time...

In case you aren't aware, we live in an old farm house.  It's charming, but a constant work-in-progress.  Hubby is very handy, so we VERY rarely hire anyone to do work here, as he is capable of doing most projects on his own or with a buddy (or occasionally with my inept help).  There are usually four or five projects going on, some stalled for years, some done from beginning to end without stall.  Over the years we have installed drain tile in the basement, re-done our hardwood floors, painted almost every room at least once, re-tiled a bathroom, put in new toilets, installed new ceilings, added a wood-burning fireplace, carpeted a couple rooms, finished a big basement room into a family room, removed old siding and replaced it with new, put in new windows, and I'm sure other projects I have missed.  Not to mention we have 8 outbuildings that need constant work.  And hubby does have a full time job.  It's sort of scary that we live here, actually.

Occasionally he has complained about our entry-way.  It's small, and it drives him batty.  It's always super congested with shoes and jackets and "hubby stuff"--my word for the random tools and implements and metal pieces or musical gadgets or whatever that I don't know what they are but I know he brought them in and they probably belong in a different building.  phew.  It is an annoying room.  Imagine all four of us coming home on a winter evening.  In coats and hats and stuff.  As we're unlocking the door, Freddy is whining and dancing RIGHT on the other side of the door, as if he'll DIE of he doesn't see us in three seconds.  We get the door open, and then we have to shove Freddy in, and each person needs to get all the way in and out of the entry, all the way into the kitchen, to fit the rest of us in.  It's ridiculous.  We have two giant cabinets in there to try to store all the crap that goes in that room, and it just doesn't work.

So the other day, out of the blue, he decides to change it.  This is very typical of the way projects begin in our house.  He just empties Every.  Single.  Item.  out of the cabinets and hooks in there, moving it all to the kitchen.  Rendering my kitchen almost useless, but hey--I'm all on board, since I love change and improving.  And then the banging starts.  He busted off the inside plaster wall, all the way down to the studs.  Then he started removing the ceiling boards.  And then he started chiseling the tiles up.  So this is no small job.  I should not be surprised, no job around here ever is, but still.  Our ceramic tile floor extends from the entry way, all the way through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the main bathroom.  I hate it.  It's white with gross dark gray grout.  Who the hell puts a white tile floor in the entry way and kitchen of an old farmhouse???  (Not us--it was here when we moved here.  FIFTEEN years ago.  I didn't say we do anything fast, mind you.)  So my entry way--well, actually my kitchen--is now a construction zone.  Good thing I don't have any big dinner parties planned.  Like I usually do.  You know, my weekly cocktail hour?  HA!

So in the middle of all this, the night before last the hubby had mentioned to me that he wanted to see Gangster Squad.  Ryan Gosling is in that, so of course I'm all for it.  I told him maybe we could go to a matinee the next day while the kids were in school.  So yesterday, I woke up, got the kids off to school, took a shower and made myself presentable, and then sat down with my iPad to wait for hubby to wake up, not sure if he still wanted to go to a movie.  I kind of thought he would change his mind and decide he should work on this craziness.  But he must have a soft spot for Emma Stone the way I do Ryan Gosling, because when he finally got up he wanted to go.  So we did.  We got home shortly before the kids got home from school.  Then he says, hey, I saw this mattress that's on sale, and I thought you might like to see it.

People, I have been telling him we need a new bed for years.  We have had the same bed for almost 17 years.  And to make it even worse, it is a soft-sided waterbed.  Does anyone even know what that is??? When I was dating my hubby, he had a waterbed.  The actual kind all the cool kids had in 1977.  With the stuffed vinyl padded frame.  Awesome.  It even had the blue paint-splatter printed sheets.  But after we got married, we needed a grown-up bed.  He was pretty attached to the waterbed, so we got this new fangled thing (new fangled for the mid-90's, at least) called a soft-sided waterbed.  It looks like a regular bed.  You can use regular sheets.  It's basically a really strong frame and box with a mattress on top of it that's made of a foam frame with a water mattress inside that's about 4 or 5 inches thick, and topped with basically a pillow-top mattress.  It was very comfortable when we got it.  But NOT ANY MORE.  The "pillow top" had flattened over the years, and the foam had broken down so it looked like a big inner tube.  But we are slow to change.  My back would hurt so much in the morning, it was hard to get out of bed!

So in the middle of all the craziness yesterday in the house, we just left the kids at home for a bit and took the truck and got a new bed.  Then we got home and had to hurry up and get ready to take the kids to a high school basketball game, where my 11-year old was singing the anthem with his class.  Darling!  And very fun.  But we didn't get home until pretty late, and we had the bed issue.  In our excitement, we had already stripped the old bed before we left.  So we get home and have to begin the nightmare of draining our bed.  That shouldn't be a thing.  But we had to.  It took forever.  Longer than watching our DVR'd episode of the Following.  CREEPY.  Then we gathered up all the pathetic old pieces of the old mattress and tossed them off the upstairs porch.  We're classy that way.

And then, near midnight, hubby is outside in the ultra-cold, lifting the queen sized mattress over his head, and handing in to me, standing like an idiot on the upstairs porch in my PJ's and old Crocs.  That's how we got it inside.  We have super-human strength when we're that cold and tired.

Anyway, we got the thing in.  And set up.  I got fresh bedding on it.  It's very tall, and I hoped I wouldn't stumble off of it and crash through my bedroom window in the middle of the night when I would surely have to get up to pee, but it's super awesome.  And I didn't have a sore back this morning.  Now today the kids bowl, and then it's back to work on the entry way.  I'll keep you posted.  Maybe I'll even post some pictures.

And this is how we roll.  I love this train.

It's Never Lupus.

I think I'm going mad.  Like the old-fashioned, crazy-train mad.  My body has become a foreign thing to me lately.  I've been absent from my blog, and that's mostly because of how nutty things have been.

Those of you that know me or have stopped by here before are surely aware that I had a hysterectomy a couple months ago.  It was a big deal, made even bigger by my lack of pain tolerance or patience, and my general fraidy-pants type personality.  But I have emerged from the shadow of my former uterus-containing self, and am now a happily uterus-free woman no longer in need of tampons.  I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.  Sorry, Playtex, you've lost a loyal customer!

Anyway, since the surgery my body has completely gone awry.  The recovery from the surgery was longer than I anticipated, and lately I can't tell what's wrong with me.

After Thanksgiving, I was feeling pretty good.  I was four weeks post surgery, off the pain meds, and slowly getting some energy back.  That lasted about a week.  Then, during about the second week of December, I got smacked with a vicious fever.  It was pretty high, at one point I hit 103.  I had the fever for two days.  NO other symptoms.  No sniffles or sore throat.  Just that icky "holy shit fevers suck" feeling that you get with a fever.  Then it went away.  A couple days after that, all my muscles tightened up as if I had just completed an Ironman triathlon without stretching (which, I assure you, I did nothing of the sort--the triathlon, that is.  Not the lack of stretching.  But I didn't stretch either).  The sore muscles, from the tips of my fingers, my hands and feet, my arms and legs, lasted for I think more than a week, getting progressively worse.

I was starting to Google stuff, which is NEVER a good idea.  I had decided that I was at the beginning phases of Rheumatoid Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, some rare blood cancer, and possibly Lyme's disease.

And this is all while the hubby and I have been trying to plan a few days away for an extended date.

Then mom called me and invited my sister and I to an overnighter at a casino hotel up north.  Sounded like fun, and I hadn't let on to anybody the fact that I was slowly dying, so I figured I'd go.  Surprisingly, the morning we left my muscles felt a little less tight.  By the middle of the day, the pain was almost gone.  The swelling in my hands was better.  I felt looser.  Yay!

And then it was time to go to bed.  I went up to the room to go to bed around midnight.  As I was washing up, I noticed that my Entire.  Body.  Itched.  A burning, angry itch.  I chalked it up to the disgusting smoky air in the casino, and went to bed, scratching myself to sleep.

Woke up with a hideous rash.  It was on my neck, chest, arms, legs, belly.  Awesome.  So we went to breakfast and I got some Benadryl at the gift shop.  We decided maybe I ate something the night before that I was allergic to.

The Benadryl took the itch away, or maybe the fact that I won $200 playing penny machines took it away, but I felt a slight relief.  So we went home, and I was joking around that I must have Shingles.  But I was only acting like I was joking.  Because in my brain, I knew that this was just a symptom of the disease that was slowly killing me.

And then I got home.  The rash had spread up my neck, was burning my ears, and was creeping up my jawline.  So last night we went to Urgent Care.

Here's where it gets weird (ha!).  The doctor checks me out, and says it's an allergic reaction.  And that it's most likely from contact rather than food, but it definitely looked like an allergy.  He prescribed me Claritin, a steroid cream and a steroid pill (in case the rash continues to worsen).  I was so relieved!  Until we figured out what I'm most likely allergic to:

Christmas trees.

Folks, Christmas trees!  I LOVE Christmas, we always get a real tree.  And my tree was slowly killing me.  Crap!  But I was the one that put the lights in it.  Right before I got the fever.  And I was the one crawling under it to water it.  During the time I was getting the horrible muscle cramps.  And I was the one that took all the strings of lights off of it, undecorated it, and dragged it outside.  Right before we left for the casino.  So that definitely seems to be the culprit.  Augh!

So here I sit, all rashy and itchy, sticky from the gooey steroid cream, and wearing a scarf to hide my neck so I can go to the grocery store without people thinking I have leprosy.  Which I also considered that I might have for a while.  Hopefully stuff will start working.  Because if it doesn't, then I have to really get serious about finding out what kind of flesh-eating virus I have.  I'll let you all know.

Finding the Spirit Anyway

I can't tell you how many times I have sat down at my computer over the past few weeks wanting to write.  Needing to write.  But the words don't come.  I don't know if I can explain why.

Maybe it's Mom Syndrome.  It's such a luxury to take the time to sit at my computer and pour my brain out, that it feels too selfish.  I sit here and think I should pay the bills.  I should put the laundry away.  I should exercise.  I should get the Christmas shopping done.  I should get some wrapping done.  I should cook something to feed my family.  I should CLEAN, for God's sake.  And when I sit here, alone with my brain and my keyboard, to write, that's all I do.  At least when I watch TV I can fold laundry or iron or wrap or dust or whatever at the same time.

Maybe it's just too emotional sometimes for me to write.  Maybe I fear that I don't have anything important to say, that nobody cares anyway.  Maybe it's a combination of all of this.

Whatever it is, here I am, again.  I'm writing anyway.  When I started this blog I did it for myself.  I still write for myself, so I need to not care if nobody else thinks it's important or even reads it.  I try not to worry about that, but there is a bundle of people out there that actually read this little blog, and I really want to make it worth their while.  It's an arrogant thing, really, to write a blog and ask people to spend their time reading what you say.  So thank you for indulging me.

Sandy Hook.  What a punch to the gut.  I cannot begin to comprehend what happened in Newtown, those babies.  Those parents.  Those families.  That town.  The devastation is something that is impossible to understand, yet we try anyway.  It could have been anywhere.  It could have been any of our babies.  It is affecting me, every minute of the day.  I have a constant stomach ache, and I know it's because I can't stop thinking about the horror.  There is no right answer, no logical solution, because what happened is not logical.  There are steps we can take to try to feel safer.  We can talk to our kids and help them feel safe.  We can argue about gun control, mental health, politics.  But the thing that really shakes us, that nobody really talks about, is that there is no real way to protect people from this kind of horror sometimes.  This can be an evil world.  We just have to do our best to survive it, and try to remember that the world is also a beautiful place, filled with love and peace.

I will put these families in my prayers every night.  I will ache for them over this Christmas.  But while I do that I will live my life, even though it feels a little bit wrong.

It's Tuesday.  A week from today is Christmas Day.  A Very Merry Christmas to all of you.  I'd love to know how you all are doing this year!  My preparations have been slower than normal this year.  Thanks in part to the late start due to my hysterectomy, but also because I am not hosting the family this year at all.  Add that to the trauma in Newtown, and it's been a little more difficult this year for even me to maintain my Christmas spirit.  I channeled Buddy the Elf this morning, in an effort to get my sparkle back.  I was alone at home, so I figured, "the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear."  I plugged my iPod into the radio in the bathroom and sang along to Christmas songs in the shower as loud as I could, got dressed, put on my sparkliest Christmas jewelry, and got a few presents wrapped.  It really did help.

You know what else helps?  All the lovely Christmas cards that come in the mail every day!  I swear, they bring me more joy than presents.  I absolutely LOVE all of them.  The old-fashioned greeting cards, some even just with a signature, no note, no picture.  Long letters filling me in about what's happening in the lives of people that I maybe haven't seen in a while.  Pictures showing me how big everyone's kids are getting, or how nobody other than me seems to age.  Ha!  I treasure each and every one, and the fact that somebody keeps me on their list.  And maybe it's old fashioned, the whole Christmas card thing, but here's why they mean so much to me:

We send out Christmas cards.  I don't do a long letter.  Mostly because I'm sort of lazy, and I'm so open on Facebook and my blog that my cards would seem redundant.  I used to take a family picture, make lots of prints, and enclose it in an old-fashioned card that I would sign.  I recently switched to the new-fangled photo cards where you can design them on line, pick them up at the store, and send them out.  I made the switch to those simply because they're cheaper.  Envelopes are even included!  Anyway.  When I sit down to sign them, stuff the envelopes, address and stamp them, I think about every single person or family that I send one to.  Whether it's on purpose or not, I do.  I remember a moment or two that we shared.  I wonder how they're doing.  I hope they're happy.  I admire their cute kids.  I spend a moment with them, in a way.  And if that's what happens when others fill out their cards, then that means that the card I'm opening in my kitchen is filled with more than just a photo and a name.  It's a greeting, a little love.  And I devour it.  It feeds my spirit.  So thank you to those of you that send them, whether I'm on your list or not.


So here's to another beautiful holiday season.  I hope we all can put the families that are in pain this year in our prayers and our hearts, and have a happy Christmas through any tears we may shed.  It felt good to write this evening.  I feel calm, I feel like I've had a successful visit to my therapist.  If you read this, thank you.  And feel free to prod me if you feel like I'm hiding from you again.  I need this outlet.

Hellooooooo World!!!

Just over 4 weeks since the surgery, and I am pretty much back to my normal self!  Still putting up with some restrictions, and still waiting for the disfiguring swelly belly to go down, but other than that I'm back!

Hellooooooo World!!!

It has been a crazy month, folks.  The Christmas Season is officially upon us, and I have vowed to be present in all of it, and breathe every sparkling moment in.  My house is pretty much decorated, but I have some finishing touches yet, and I still have to do the deep clean.  The restrictions on my still-healing body make that difficult, but not impossible.

I hope you all had a blessed Thanksgiving.  I know we did.  It really was one for the record books.  We went up to a ginormous old log cabin that my mom rents out for the whole pile of us.  There were 26 family members there this year, and it was Heaven to be with them all for three whole nights.  It was loud and peaceful at the same time.  We had the best Thanksgiving meal I have ever eaten.  We not only decided to do an ugly Christmas sweater contest, but every single person there participated, and wore their sweater the Entire.  Day.  This proved my self-held theory that we all secretly LOVE the Christmas sweater, and if there were not such a social stigma attached to them, we would all be wearing them.  I know I will be wearing mine more this year.  Even if it is in the privacy of my own home because I'm not sure the hubby wants to be seen with me in it.  So there, Miss Ebony, you had me pegged!

One of the best things I took away from the little excursion was a renewed love for extended family.  I obviously love my family, but there are things I tend to take for granted.  I am blessed to be near a large extended pool of kin, and I see them all regularly.  So regularly, in fact, that I think I forget how special it is.  But one of the nights up at the cabin, I stayed up until 3:30 a.m. chatting with my aunt, my cousin, and my brother.  About everything and nothing at the same time.  It felt so good to be with them.  Not worried about how I look or what I say, safe in the knowledge that they love me no matter what.  And not even aware that I felt so safe or why, just comfy and cozy with them.  And how remarkable it is to know that there are people in your life that love you like that for no reason.  It's fun to talk about the past with extended family, get different but related viewpoints and stories, or complete holes in your knowledge of your own heritage that you didn't even know were there.  It was just really cool.

Except for the fact that we were up waiting for one of my cousins to get back from the emergency room where he was getting stitches on his middle finger from a pecan pie incident...

It really was a great, memorable time.  My boys brought a buddy which made it even better for them, and my hubby had no work conflicts this year, so having him there made it perfect.  Already looking forward to next year.

So I am in full-on, manic Christmas mode now.  I have started my Christmas shopping, slowly.  Many of you who are aware of my obsession with Christmas may be surprised that I am not one of those people that get all my shopping done neatly and calmly before the month of December is upon us, but no, no, no.  You see, I have such a love for all things Christmas that I EMBRACE the insanity of Christmas shopping.  Part of my joy is waiting to make sure that the stores are decorated before I do my Christmas shopping.  I need to make sure that the coffee shops are serving the Christmas drinks.  Like the Fa la la la la la latte at Caribou.  I need to wear a Santa hat when I shop.  I want the stores to be a bit busier.  Christmas music over the loudspeakers.  Bell ringers at the kettles outside the doors.  And if possible, snow in the parking lots.  That makes it perfect.

I have (mostly) decorated my house.  This is a bit of a sticky wicket for me this year.  I can't lift anything 20 pounds or heavier yet.  You'd be amazed how much that limits me.  But I'm working around it.  I have slowly been working through my bins, getting all the regular stuff out.  This is a monumental chore each year, as I have around 50 bins of Christmas decorations.  Seriously.  I am not exaggerating.  Hubby says I have a disease.  I jingle when I walk this time of year!  But in the spirit of full disclosure, I have never used every single item.   There are a few bins of lights that might not make it out, maybe some garland I didn't have a place for, maybe a few damaged items I don't have time to fix or the heart to discard.  But the majority of the collection gets displayed.  And my hubby has some Clark Griswold in him, believe me!  He loves exterior lighting, and me, enough to actually drive his lifter out so he can put lights in the trees higher than the house!  I love that man.

Okay this is getting way too long.  I could go on and on about this junk, but I'll save it for another day.

Just one more thing--

Yesterday I was in the car, and I had an experience that I have many times a year during the Christmas season.  From Thanksgiving on, I pretty much only listen to Christmas music.  I have a ridiculous collection of it, and it truly is my little soundtrack.  I have many versions of "Oh Holy Night".  And several of them get me.  Along with a couple of my versions of "Little Drummer Boy".  And by get me, I mean all the way into my core.  I start with goose bumps, move to having difficulty singing along because I'm getting emotional, and end up actually crying.  Because I feel it.  I feel that Jesus really is the reason for the season.  And I am deeply grateful for Him and for this gift of Christmas.  And "Oh Come, All Ye Faithful."  I am so comfortable and so happy celebrating this season with my glitter, my red and green draped all over my house, my shopping, my singing, my baking, my general good mood and too much food and cocktails.  This is a season for celebrating the birth of Jesus, and that is a JOYFUL occasion.  It is a time for generosity and for giving.  For loving your family and friends and singing for no reason.  Smiling at strangers and over-tipping your servers.  Believing in Santa.

And wearing ugly beautiful Christmas sweaters.  

TMI. And a Little Thank You.

Eighteen days ago I went to the hospital to get a hysterectomy.  Did you know that?  Oh, yeah, I guess I have mentioned it a time or two.  It has been sort of frustrating.  The recovery has been much slower than I anticipated, I have been rendered more helpless than I was prepared for, and I am still feeling really weak, slow, old, and uncomfortable.

But I'm on the way back.

Last night we had J's 10th birthday party with some family.  I had to let my mom and sister help with the cleaning and food preparation, and aside from the twitchy feeling I had from that, the party went off really well.  I made it the whole day, only taking about an hour to rest, and I was either on my feet or sitting up all day.  Progress!  And I'm down to one 600mg Ibuprofen in the morning, and sometimes one in the evening.  Which leaves room for the beer I've been neglecting the last few weeks.  Ha!

So the surgery.  Holy cow, I'm a wuss.  I'm sure many of you have had major surgeries before.  If not, I hope you never have to.  If so, I hope you'll never have to again.  It's so horrible!  I have no memory of it, obviously, since I only made it to the second "sedative" before I was checked out.  Apparently I called the hubby shortly after I made it back to my room after recovery, but I have NO memory of that.

Is it just me, or is the general idea of anesthesia creepy?  I mean, don't get me wrong.  God bless 'em for discovering a way to do these surgeries that way, obviously.  But the idea of me being  knocked out, stripped down, gutted like a fish and being reassembled, stitched, patched, moved onto another bed, re-dressed, and re-positioned, all while I'm a floppy corpse-like thing, is horrifying.  I mean, I'm sure they're unaffected by it all--I'm just another body on the table to them.  But I can barely think about it without feeling queasy.  So I guess I shouldn't.

After I woke up and was able to process conversations, the doc came in to talk to me about the surgery.  She was really happy with how it all went.  She described my uterus as being "football-sized", when it is apparently supposed to be slightly larger than a golf ball.  She also filled me in on the delightful details of how she had to shave it off my bladder and my colon, so I should be expecting some discomfort.  But she would make sure to manage it with medication.

Then I laid in the hospital like a ragdoll for the next few days, with these horrible white knee-highs that I thought were reserved for elderly diabetic patients, as well as these things wrapped around my lower legs that would inflate and deflate over and over with a pump, all to help me avoid getting clots.  Every couple hours they'd come in and do my vitals and give me pills and new ice water.  They were so nice. I've never felt so vulnerable, self-conscious, and uncomfortable.

I was there from Tuesday to Friday.  So not so bad, I know.  But like I said, I'm a wuss.  And I don't have the highest threshold for pain.  I was on my feet for the first time on the Thursday.  God bless the hubby, he had the honor of holding my pee bag since I was still catheterized, and I shuffled about 10 feet up the hall and back, all the while terrified that all my internal organs were about to just spill out of me.  I still have that feeling, but at least now I'm confident it won't actually happen.  Oh--and my pee was bright-smurf-blue, by the way.  A benefit of having to have it died for some scan they did to make sure my bladder wasn't punctured during the surgery.  My husband's a lucky, lucky man.

I had to have the catheter inserted and removed twice because I apparently could not pee without it after the first try.  That was sort of hideous, but there was a small relief that I would have to worry about getting to the toilet for another day.  So aside from the current bladder spasms I experience every time I "void" (as they like to say in the big house), I am grateful for that medical discovery as well.

Thursday I was subjected to a sponge bath.  Before I knew what the hell they were going to do (pain med haze or just emotional overload), there were two young ladies in there trying to WASH me--oh, the horror of having strangers wash your inflated, uncomfortable body--and put some goofy hat on my head that supposedly contained shampoo and conditioner.  Then they took that off and handed me this little COMB to fix my hair.  People, if you know me you've seen my hair.  There isn't a comb that will get through it without a proper conditioning and a great deal of time and patience.  I ended up in tears, sitting there feeling vulnerable, ugly, pained, and furious that not only could I not get to my bag to get my brush out, but that I didn't have the strength to get said brush (not to mention that damn 10-cent comb) through my matted hair.  It was one of the worst experiences I can remember.  I made sure they knew I wouldn't be needing one the next day, but that I certainly appreciated the offer.

The amount of people that had to come in and pull off the covers to inspect my incision seemed crazy.  I mean, I'm laying there naked under that stupid gown, and they have to just lift it off to check it all out. I know this is their job.  I know they don't care what I look like.  I know all that.  But it's very difficult for me.  There just isn't much dignity, and it's so hard to let it go.

And the incision!  Wow!  I was really gutted.  I thought it was going to be the same as my C-section scar.  It's TWICE as long!  They could have removed my rib cage.  Now for some reason I can't stop visualizing that scalpel cutting along my belly like a fisherman with a whale.  I'm a touch melodramatic.

I came  home on Friday and lived on my couch for two weeks  Just me, the remote, and my iPad.  Sounds lovely, in a way.  But not being able to get to the bathroom without excruciating pain, or turn your body to reach the remote that fell on the floor, or needing some more water and having to wait until someone comes in the room to ask them to fetch it for you, that all gets real old.  Real fast.  I ended up with crushing headaches and back pain from the inactivity.  And again, poor poor hubby.  I had a couple mental breakdowns for him.  I'm sure he was happy about that.

I'm going way too far with this.  On Tuesday it will be three weeks.  Tomorrow I'm going to the store.  I'll have to bring the kids to help me, since I'll be restricted from lifting much for a couple more weeks.  But I can drive!  I can walk in an upright position!  I didn't lay down today at all!  I can have a drink!  I can shower almost normally!

I can't wait until I feel normal again.  Because I've heard that my "normal" will be better than my old normal, since the culprit uterus has been removed, dissected, and discarded.  Good riddance.  For now, I still have pain, but it's better every day.  I still have a VERY swelly belly, like an extra inner tube around my lower abdomen.  Just what I've always wanted.  But apparently that is normal and I can expect it to go away.  My back aches.  I can't sleep on my stomach, which is the way I like to sleep.  But I can tell it won't be long.  I have little to no appetite still, but I'm still deciding if that's a good thing or a bad thing.  For now I'll say it's good, because that column needs some help.

For those of you out there that have had this procedure, am I really as much of a wimp as I think I am?  Was it horrible?  Did you know what to expect?  I'm glad I didn't, as I'm sure I would have chickened out.  It's so comforting to hear about how much better most women feel after they've gone through this. Lots of stories on line.  I know this because I had two weeks on the couch with my iPad.

I've had lots of help.  I can't imagine having to go through this without the support I've had, mentally, physically, and electronically.  So I know how blessed I am.

But I have dozens of bins of Christmas decorations in my basement, and I'm DYING to start decking my halls.  This is the latest I've been in years.

I will have so much to be thankful for this week.  My health.  Doctors and Nurses and Medical Professionals.  Family support.  Friends with big hearts and senses of humor.  Good TV.  My sweet, sweet Freddy who has been so worried about me and has not tried to jump up on me ONCE since I got home.  My baby boys who have stepped in to help take care of me.  My upcoming Thanksgiving celebration with some of my nearest and dearest there to celebrate with me.  Vicodin.  Cranberry juice.  The app store on the iPad, as well as online shopping.  The sweet people who sent me cards to cheer me up.  The flowers I got at the hospital.  Christmas music in early November.

And all of you who read my little blog and make me feel like I'm not that crazy.

Happy Thanksgiving.  I am so thankful for you!

Baby Steps

Hellllllooooooooooooo!  Anyone out there anymore?  I feel I have abandoned my people and abandoned my blog therapy, but I am slowly crawling back.

This will be short, as sitting here in my desk chair gets uncomfortable after a while, but I can tell I am on the mend.

Hysterectomy.  Not something to be taken lightly.  Had I known how tough the recovery would have been, I surely would not have agreed to go ahead with it, so I am deeply grateful for my ignorance.  I know that when I am healed and back to normal I will feel better than ever, and be so happy I did this.  But holy cow, I have been hit by a truck.

I need to thank all of my family and friends for all the kind words, help, patience, and support.  It is very difficult for me to ask for help, but I truly have needed it lately, and it has been offered in abundance.  My mom has helped SO much, and hubby is a trooper.  My kids have grown up and stepped up all at once, and all of a sudden.  I am so proud.

I will be writing again very soon about the whole craziness of the procedure and the aftermath, definitely about my new admiration for anesthesia and Vicodin (which I'm almost not needing anymore-yay!), and how I realize that my job really does matter.  I am a stay-at-home mom.  Sometimes I find myself quietly demeaning my role, or the skill with which I perform said job.  Not being able to do my job for these past weeks has made me realize something pretty amazing:

I am damn good at my job.  And when I'm not doing it, people, it's obvious.

So I need to get back to it.  And to do that, I need to get a couple things accomplished right now:  I need to send out a couple e-mails.  I need to make a couple phone calls.  And I need to get back on the couch before I'm hurting again.

Hang in there with me, friends, and I'll be back again soon.

xoxoxoxoxo