She Scratched Me!

Just a moment ago, my husband and I heard a rather blood-curdling scream coming from our 3 year-old twins' bedroom.  They were supposed to be going to sleep.  Daddy ran up the stairs and burst into the room in time to hear our son say, "She scratched me!"

My husband looked at our daughter, whose bed is across the room from her brother's, and said, "How did you scratch him from your bed?"

Our daughter didn't skip a beat when she very confusedly said, "I didn't scratch him with my bed."

I love my kids' language skills!    

Cornyhorn

The twins were lying down to take their naps when there was a brief discussion about a pink pony one of them received for Christmas.  My son was feeling sad and I held the pink pony up to his face and pretended it was licking him.  He began to feel better, so I turned my attention to my daughter.  As I was tucking her in, she said, "Mama, I thought it was a cornyhorn."  I chuckled and smiled so big that I nearly teared up.  She did the same and I gave her sugars.  I said, "Do you mean unicorn?"  We chuckled together for a few moments and the moment passed.  I don't know how many more of those I have, but I don't want to miss any of them.   

Toddler Epiphanies

Lisse says to Daddy.
"Daddy, I have a idea!"
Daddy, totally riveted, waits for an impressive piece of knowledge.
Lisse. . . "Your head belongs to your face!"

Sometime later. . .
Lisse runs face first into the hutch.
"Ouch!"  (Rubbing her head.)  "Daddy, I keep getting owies!"
Daddy. . . "Well, your head belongs to your face."

I will never get tired of observing 3 year-olds using language.  LOL

Revenge of the Apple Festival

Last night our family attended the Apple Festival and Campfire.  We headed out early thinking we would grab a nice dinner together before heading to Rock Creek Regional Park.  It was a good thing we left home early since the DC traffic was horrid.  By the time we got near the park there was little time to enjoy a leisurely dinner, so we opted to stop in to Chipotle for a quicker bite to eat, although it was hardly quick as we were stuck behind an apologetic woman who was placing an order for an army.  While waiting our turn, we had a spontaneous conversation with a lovely Irish lady with a great accent - a conversation that could hardly be avoided since the twins stood two feet in front of her, staring up at her with unblinking eyes.  For some reason, she was a spectacle to them.  Interestingly, I routinely find myself commenting to yet another stranger that they would think my children have never seen other people for how often they stare holes through them.  Thankfully, the twins normally receive a warm reception, which invariably yields smiles and giggles all the way around.

Upon inhaling our dinner, we were out the door, not quite sprinting to the van, but just nearly as we wanted to have as much time as possible to play before sunset.  Certain of my directions, I set out with Koen as my navigator.  My first indication of a problem came when "you have reached your final destination" only to find it was a dead end with only a bicycle path entrance to the park.  Scratching my head, I surmised that I had only to continue driving the park perimeter, which logically should reveal the proper entrance.  Yeah, well. . . this is a rather large park.  After ten minutes of testing my apparently faulty logic, I pulled over and double checked my address.  It turned out I had input the general park address, but not the park's nature center address.  Problem solved, we put on our racing caps and sped off (a whole 5 miles over the speed limit) to the correct address.  We were thrilled to finally get to the festival. . . and only 30 minutes late.

Everyone piled out of the car ready for fun and me with my camera in hand to capture it all.  First stop was the trunk, where I pulled out my handy dandy bug spray.  We were after all entering what appeared to be a 72 acre jungle.  I have to admit I was proud that for once I had remembered to bring the insect repellent.  My kids were finally going to be bug free!  Imagine how loudly my bubble burst when after fighting with the can of bug spray, I had to abandon my attempts at shielding my kids from the mosquitoes because the sprayer was broken.  Well, at this point no one cared because they heard the music spilling through the trees from deep in the forest.  Lisse would have it no other way than to sprint toward the music, which we did.

After clearing the ticket table and repeatedly removing the display apples from Lisse's hands, we headed toward the sound of the banjo.  The kids pointed out every little thing along the way.  They certainly are city kids, but they're fast learners.  Taking out across an open field, they were squealing with joy.

It wasn't long before the field turned into a forest path and Lisse learned her first lesson about avoiding tree roots.  She took a rather dirty tumble, recovered quickly, and still blazed the trail ahead of the boys.

Finding our way into the center of the melee, we looked around and plotted our course of action.  First step, apple-tasting!  Gala and Honey Crisps were among the variety, but the one that caught our eye was the Smokehouse.  It was pretty tasty, as are all apples in our humble opinions - we are just an apple-eatin' family - however, Honey Crisp took the prize.  We then tried our hand at pressing apple cider, making apple pies, eating caramel apples, and creating Johnny Appleseed hats, all while listening to a talented, live bluegrass band singing mostly hymns.

At this point I would normally move on in the story, but I have to pause to contemplate the caramel apple.  Whoever came up with the caramel apple concept must have been a twisted individual, or at least not slightly OCD like me.  It took all of five seconds of watching everyone else walking around gnawing rather unsuccessfully on their miracle grow, massive apples to realize there must be a better way.  Like the perfect marriage of peanut butter and chocolate achieved by the Reese's peanut butter cup, I snagged an apple from the caramel apple stand and stepped ten feet over to the young man cutting apples at the tasting stand.  Voila!  You would have thought I was developing the cure for cancer as people stared at my sliced apples.  No really, didn't McDonald's figure this out not so long ago?  In all fairness, when you have a child who loves apples, but is cursed with braces, you have to improvise.

After all the aforementioned fun, we made our way to the campfire for marshmallow roasting, smores, and a viewing of the classic, animated Johnny Appleseed.  Everything was going well until Lisse melted down over wanting to eat her "marsho" before it was roasted.  She truly never relented on the issue until I took the initiative to create the smore and shove it in her mouth.  At that point, she was like Stitch when he was destroying Lilo's room and she placed the lei around his neck, at which point he fell over backwards and began purring in contentment.  Okay, so Lisse was not quite purring, but I'm fairly certain she reached toddler nirvana.  Nothing like sugaring up your kids just before bedtime.

With the festival itself shaping up nicely, I was quite content that I had provided my kids with such a wonderful opportunity to make a warm memory with Mama.  Feeling quite accomplished that I had achieved my goal, I convinced the kids to leave ahead of the crowd.  We even stopped on the way out of the nature center upon Lisse's request to ogle at the farmer, which is oddly what she persists in calling any red barn she sees.  On the way out to the parking area, she then spied a sign that read "NO VEHICLES."  She was beside herself, "Mama, LOOK!  It's AB's!"  We spent a couple minutes letting her and Karter trace the letters with their fingers.  These were moments of pure joy.

 

Heading out of the park on a slightly declining sidewalk, Lisse began picking up speed.  "Lisse be careful, slow dow. . ."  My words trailed off as she tripped forward, landed on her knees, and rolled forward onto her face, screaming.  Only five feet behind her, I snatched her up with speed and cradled her in my arms, shoving the front of her shirt into her mouth, having already seen the blood pouring from her lip.  There was little light left to the dusky evening and I jogged to the van carrying her, Koen trailing behind holding Karter by the hand and carrying our goodie bags, camera bag, and my cell phone and keys.  Koen was one step ahead of me and had the side door of the van open before I got there with Lisse.  I placed her in her car seat and tried to get a closer look at her face.  I was just realizing the extent of her lip injury when Koen blurted out that one of the bags had torn open and something had fallen out. . . in the dark.

 

Strapping the kids into their car seats, I quickly surveyed the remaining contents of the bag and realized the missing item was my cell phone.  Like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, I began brushing my hands all over the tallish grass on the side of the road where we were parked.  By this time, there was nearly no light whatsoever.  Rather desperately wanting to find my cell phone so I could get Lisse home to doctor her wounds, I stopped a passing parent and asked him to call my phone, not realizing that Koen had his cell phone in his pocket.  As we all searched the grass, Koen called my phone, which was answered by a lady who had found it inside the park.  Koen sprinted back inside the park, secured my phone, and sprinted back to the van.  He had an even greater sense of urgency over the whole incident than I did, even gasping and recoiling with his hand over his mouth upon seeing the blood.  In his mind, we were experiencing an emergency.

Safely back in the van, he used my cell phone to navigate us back to where my internal map could take over and get us home.  Halfway home, Lisse began saying her nose and knee hurt as well, and I reassured her that I would be her doctor once we got home.  Karter quickly jumped on the doctor bandwagon, stating he was going to be Lisse's doctor too.  Minutes into that conversation Lisse stopped crying and said "I'm better now, Mama.  Can I be play a doctor too?"

It was all uphill from there as we finished our trek home, bathed the kids, and had some great play time before bed.  The looks on their faces tell it all.  They just love being together!  Koen adores them, they follow his every move, and they are all pretty much inseparable.  

In hindsight the whole evening could have perhaps been characterized as attending the "get stuck in traffic, shovel your dinner down your throat, get lost, rip your lip off, lose your cell phone" festival!  Thankfully, all these things were punctuated by warm, memorable moments. . . and the smores didn't hurt either.  Like many other days and circumstances, we lived to tell about it.  If such times can end in a photo like the one above of my three kids, I'll take whatever life throws at us. 

Flemmies, Soank Ateckers, and Yestermornings

I absolutely love the things my kids say. Over the years I have tried to document funny words or phrases as they've spilled out of their mouths. When they are using their English they are as serious as a heart attack, completely sure of themselves.

When my 12 year-old was about 3, he wrapped a chubby little arm around each of our necks (me and my husband) and pulling us close announced, "I love my flemmy." Flemmy has been a part of our flemmy language for nearly ten years now. More than any other word he ever said, that one will stay with us.

Each of the kids has contributed to our family speak. My 3 year-old daughter routinely talks about things that happened "yestermorning." I love it! It is her way of talking about anything that is past tense. It's adorable. In her honor, I have taken to referring to past events as having occurred yesterevening as well. :)

None of the kids ever really runs out of a word to share. Accordingly, my current 3 year-old son will talk your ear off. He actively grows his vocabulary each day. When he spouts off a sentence, he will sometimes get half-way and turn to me searching for the word to describe what he's talking about. He'll pause, smile at me, and say, "Mama, I don't know that word." That is of course my cue to fill in his blank. He then uses his new word repeatedly to reinforce his learning.

Recently, he has become quite interested in fire. It all began one night when he noticed a tiny green light shining down from his ceiling. "Wha's dat dreen yight, Mama?" I can hear him saying it. :) I told him it was the smoke detector. He tried so hard to repeat those words, but they simply would not roll off his tongue. For at least two weeks now he has been talking about smoke, fire, choking, and staying safe. No less than twice a day he talks with us about the "soank atecker" and how it will keep him safe from the fire.

Two nights ago Daddy pushed the test button so he could hear how loud it is. Now he's more interested than ever. We daily reassure him (and his twin sister, since she has not-so-spontaneously developed a like interest) that the soank atecker won't choke him and that Mama and Daddy will run to get him if it makes a loud beep.

Someday this conversation will pass. He will absorb this knowledge like all the rest.
Someday he won't look to me to fill in the words for him.
Someday he won't need me to reassure him that I'll rescue him from the fire.
Someday all the kids will says words I will have to look up in my dictionary.

Until then, I'm so happy to talk about flemmies, soank ateckers, and yestermornings. I just smile, hug their little necks, and tell them how smart (and cute) they are. :)

The smoke detector just happened to go off while I was cooking dinner the day after I wrote this blog.  It was fun to capture the essence of the soank atecker.  :)

The Doppler Effect of “No”

A few mornings ago I was sitting on the kitchen floor with my kids having breakfast.  (Suddenly that seems like something I never would have done as a kid myself.)  Yes, we were throwing etiquette out the window to enjoy our oatmeal and blueberries. 

We were all clearly loving every minute of it, as my son rested peacefully in my lap while my daughter danced playfully beside us.  She was somehow excitedly running in place and dancing simultaneously.  Perhaps she’ll be a famous choreographer one day.  Feeding her was quite a challenge since her mouth was a moving target.  With each bite, she would slow down just long enough for me to get the spoon in her mouth, then she’d be off again doing her unique jig.

Our collective euphoria was making for a beautiful morning, when our bliss was suddenly interrupted by the approaching whine of what sounded like a prop plane.  “Nrrrrrrrr…”  We could hear the Doppler effect as the plane flew away from the house.  Following a stunned moment of silence, my 20 month-old daughter ran to the door and peered up at the sky.  With eyes wide and raised eyebrows she looked several times at me and pointed toward the sky.  After a few moments, she returned to my side and as if to explain the whole situation to me, raised her hand into the air.  With a sweeping motion of her hand above her head, she let out, complete with her own fading Doppler effect, a loud, “Noooooooooooooo…”.  I live for memories like those…  

Echolocation

I’ve always said that one of the reasons I married my husband is because he makes me laugh.  Most people don’t readily believe me when I say how funny he is because they haven’t seen the witty side of him.  Thankfully he reserves that part of himself for those he knows and loves best.  It makes me feel very special that he shares it with me.  On occasion, his wit is so sharp that it would be unfair of me not to share it with the world.  Last night was one such occasion…

We had been in the bathroom preparing for bed and chatting.  All the kids were asleep and the lights had been turned off throughout the house.  He stepped out of the bathroom ahead of me and into our bedroom.  He was halfway across our room when I stepped out, shutting off the bathroom light.  As the room went pitch black he said, “I can’t see anything,” to which I chided, “It’s not my fault you’re blind.”  Suddenly a loud fart cut through the darkness, followed by the sound of my husband’s voice, saying, “Oh, I’ll use echolocation!”  We laughed so hard together that I was surprised the kids slept through it!

Filipina Hit and Run

When I was pregnant with the twins in 2008, there was a day I was standing outside the grocery store talking with a friend. We hadn't been there long when we were approached by a Filipina woman who left me speechless in a matter of moments.

The petite, dark-haired lady appeared old enough to be a grandmother and had a flamboyant personality. She stepped into our conversational space in a way that would suggest she was close friends with one of us. I naturally assumed she knew my friend. We continued our conversation, which had left off with my friend asking me about my pregnancy symptoms. The Filipina lady didn't skip a beat when she interrupted and said in a shocked and rather loud voice, "You're pregnant?" When I answered, "Yes," she reached out and ,while rubbing my belly, said, "I thought you were just fat!" I was stunned and could only smile awkwardly as my friend and I stared at one another in disbelief. In another moment, the woman had disappeared into the store, leaving me searching for words with my friend. Within seconds we realized neither of us knew the woman and we laughed with the realization that we had been victims of a verbal hit-and-run!

Caution: Slippery When Wet

In February 2009 I was approximately 4.5 months pregnant with the twins. It had been a long time coming - 6.5 years to be exact. Koen was then 9 years-old.

On that day we were walking through the community center on our base. We eventually came upon a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign where maintenance had just mopped. Koen said, "Be careful, Mama." He then reached out and wrapped one arm around my waist, while placing his other hand on my pregnant belly. As we carefully crossed the wet floor, he closely watched every step I took. I was chuckling at the cuteness and sincerity of his concern when I asked him if he was worried about me falling. He said he wasn't worried about me, but that he had waited a long time to be a brother and didn't want his siblings to get hurt!

Oh, the heart of my son! All I could do was smile.

My Son's Mature Moment

As a home school family, we're always looking for new and exciting educational opportunities, not just for our kids but for the whole family as well. Living in the area we are currently located has blessed us with access to an amazing home school support group. They are very active and provide activities such as P.E., a spelling bee, a science fair, a history fair, field trips, dance, and the list could go on. Recently, we've been attending a weekly co-op where my son Koen has been studying Bible history and (if you can believe it) cake decorating. He loves it!

This week, we headed off to co-op with the twins. It happened that I was teaching a Japanese culture class to elementary students this week and the twins would be in the nursery. With Koen's help, we got the twins into the nursery and they began playing under his watchful eye. I only had a few minutes before needing to set up my classroom. I asked Koen to stay with them while I was in the next room setting up for my class. I told him that there would soon be another mom come in who would be watching the kids and to please stay with them until then. He was happy to stay and play with his brother and sister. He loves that too!

Soon after I stepped out, another mom stepped in to watch over the nursery kids. Moments later a second mom arrived to help. The first mom told Koen it was okay for him to go to class and they would take care of the twins. Koen, being the young man he is, looked around the room and took stock of his surroundings before responding, "Well, there are five kids and only two adults. That's not a very good ratio, so I think I'll stay until one more adult comes." The other mom was slightly stunned at his response and thankfully shared it with me later on. It was a blessing to hear another parent comment on the maturity of my 11 year-old. That was a proud Mama moment! My son is such a cool person! :)

How Many Hands Does it Take to Rub a Butt?

My husband did a brave thing tonight. He overcame his apprehension about giving me a shot and took the plunge, pardon the pun. I was a bit nervous as he prepared for the task. I knew he and my sister were getting the syringe ready. They tried hard to hide it, but I'm fairly observant which consequently makes it hard to pull a fast one on me.

I was quite pleased with myself that I was better able to control my nerves and face the needle without tears or other signs of anxiety. In truth I've pretty much just resigned myself to dealing with it.

Without the usual fanfare, Arie dove right in and delivered the shot to the left side of my butt. Where the whole experience departed though was in the pain. Previously, I've not actually felt the needle. Arie however, had never given a shot before and moved just slow enough that it pinched. He definitely learned his lesson.

I'd like to give a nod to two people who helped him tremendously: my sister and my 17.5 month-old son. Because Arie was uncertain where to stick the needle, my sister grabbed a black Sharpie marker from the side of the refrigerator and drew a large circle on each side of my butt! I said, "Did you just draw on my butt with a Sharpie?" "Yes," she said. I'll spare you the photo she took afterward to show me. Our little boy, whom I affectionately call Bubba was even more helpful. After Arie pulled the needle out and began to rub my butt so as not to leave a knot, Bubba walked in the kitchen and reached up to help Daddy rub it in. He's such a big helper! :)

Progesterone Panic!

I tend to think of myself as a pretty strong person. I've held strong to Philippians 4:13 which says, "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." Therefore my strength is not my own. Tonight however, all that seemed to leave me. Let me recount the story . . .

We were running late for our Boy Scout meeting after going to the gym for a run and a swim. I bolted through the door and began running around like a crazy woman to prepare dinner - baked salmon. All was going well when I turned and saw a frightening sight - the syringe and vial of progesterone. I began having a fist fight with the air in front of me, looking quite like a schizophrenic person. My sister was concerned and asked in an alarmed voice, "What's wrong?" I told her, "You have to give me the stupid shot! I have to have it before I leave for Boy Scouts." To say I was slightly freaking out was probably an understatement.

I grabbed the syringe, prepped it, and set it on the counter. Val said she needed a minute to prepare herself. She's given lots of shots, but never to someone she cared about. I think she was feeling guilty about inflicting pain on me. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep moving making dinner, but getting more anxious by the second. When she was finally ready, I had Ritz cracker crumbs all over my hands and they began to tremble. I didn't cry, but I felt a surge of panic and thought I might hyperventilate. I washed the crackers off my hands and grabbed the counter as best I could. She pulled down the waistband of my running shorts and rubbed the alcohol on the upper part of my butt toward my hip. At first, she began to pat firmly on the skin. It felt like it was taking forever and I was getting more panicked and light-headed. I said, "Hit it harder!" She hauled off and smacked me hard on the butt and plunged the needle in. It was great! My butt was still stinging from her hand (which might have left a welt for all I know) so much that I didn't even feel the needle. Talk about a relief. I think over time this is going to get much easier. Now I just have to pep talk my husband into giving me the shot. He's a little apprehensive.

After the shot, we were joking about the whole thing. It really is ridiculous how anxious I get. I just can't stave off my healthy respect for needles. So much for having strength for all things. Thank God for sisters who are willing to stab you in the butt when the situation calls for it. I guess I'd still rather be stabbed in the butt than in the back. LOL

Does a Progesterone Shot Count as Nutrition?

The reproductive clinic called today and said my progesterone levels are too low. Since I'm going in on Friday to implant the eggs, they need my levels to come up. They said I'll have to give myself shots of progesterone suspended in oil. I nearly went into an anxiety attack thinking about having to stick myself with more needles. I was on the phone crying with the nurse. I wound up having to drive an hour back to the clinic to pick up the medicine and syringes from the pharmacy at the adjacent hospital.

I stood at the pharmacist's window and stared at one of the syringes. I even turned around and showed it to the lady behind me and said, "Do you see this?" She said she's not sure if she could give herself that shot and she's a nurse! The needle was so big to my eyes! I began to feel faint just thinking about having to stab myself in the butt with it! Thankfully, my nurse offered to give me my first shot. I've done the shots in my stomach in preparation for the pregnancy, but those were butterfly needles and fairly easy to do. Seriously doubting my ability to give myself this shot, I decided to head back to the clinic. When Beth, my nurse, came out to get me she hugged me and said she was sorry. I felt comforted.

We stood in a patient room discussing how the medicine is suspended in sesame oil. I started to cry and overheat when she was talking to me about how to give myself the shot. I blurted out that we had to shut the door so I could pull off my clothes. As the door shut, I was already throwing off my baseball cap, exposing my seriously flat hair. Then I yanked off my shirt and was beginning to sweat. Turning around to the bed, I stepped between the stirrups that were protruding from the end. I pulled down the waist of my pants, grabbed the sides of the bed, and began to cry. I said, "Let's just get it over with." She stabbed that needle into my butt like a dart. It didn't hurt at all! I was obviously relieved and began to relax somewhat. Then something strange happened. Right after she stuck me, I found myself wondering if I would need to log the calories from the sesame oil and how I would do that. How many calories are in 1 cc of sesame oil anyway? I couldn't believe I was having that thought! Man, talk about being dedicated to my nutrition! I mean who does that? LOL

Butterfly Needles & Anxiety Attacks

I've been giving myself shots of Lupron for the surrogacy for exactly two weeks now. Giving myself shots is something I never thought I'd be able to do. It was surprising to me how easy it was to do the very first one. All was going beautifully until a few days ago when I must have hit a nerve going in. Ouch! That one stung.

The next day I prepared my syringe and wiped my belly with an alcohol pad before pinching up the skin to administer the shot. As I held the syringe with the needle hovering over my skin, I suddenly had a hot flash and began to sweat. I began to see white spots and felt slightly light-headed. What was happening to me? Was I really on the verge of a panic attack over this little butterfly needle? After about five minutes of hesitation and telling my husband I wasn't sure if I could do it, I finally popped the needle in and called it done. I was relieved - and then came this morning . . .

I didn't start off feeling anxious about the shot this morning. I simply grabbed my supplies and headed to the kitchen to retrieve the Lupron from the fridge. After preparing the syringe, I once again stood frozen in fear with the needle taunting my skin. Again I was struck with mild symptoms of an anxiety attack. For nearly ten minutes I would put the needle down and walk away, come back and try again, then walk away again. Numerous times I tried to fake myself out by counting, 1 - 2 - 3. It didn't work. I tried to say, "I have to do it before the water boils for the oatmeal." Then I tried to say, "I have to do it before the timer goes off and the oatmeal is finished cooking." The oatmeal finished cooking and I was still holding that evil little syringe with one hand and pulling the pot off the burner with the other. "@&(*$^, sigh." Okay, I thought, I'll call my sister. Crud, she's not home. Well I'll try my mom instead. Thank God! She answered!

"Mom, I am standing here holding this needle and just can't do it! This is ridiculous! It's been two weeks. Why am I having such a hard time with this?" She encouraged me, though mostly I don't remember what she said except, "Wow, there's still some weenie left in you." Had I not been in such psychological distress, I might have pondered that comment more and even found it humorous. I'd already been crying on the phone with her for several minutes as the twins toddled around my legs, intermittently reaching up pointing to my belly and grabbing for the syringe. They were probably thinking some baby version of "Mama is losing her mind." They kept staring at me like they did when Koen fell on the floor writhing in pain after stubbing his toe. Clearly they were concerned. I kept telling myself to pull it together and just get it done. Dragging it out was only making it worse. Then, Mom asked if it would help if she counted to three. "Yes, I think so," I said. 1 - 2 - 3 - I hesitated perhaps a nano second after 3 and thrust the needle into my belly. Imagine my relief when I literally didn't feel a thing! Whew, it was over!

So what lessons have I learned from all of this?
1. Mom is always there for you.
2. Counting to 3 and stabbing yourself doesn't work because you know it's coming.
3. Babies are very in tune with the emotions of their moms.
4. It takes 5 minutes to cook oatmeal, but sometimes 20 to give yourself a shot.
5. I'm capable of willingly inflicting pain on myself, both physically and mentally.
6. It's easy to make mountains out of molehills.
7. Most mountains ARE molehills.
8. I REALLY love my sister! :)

Tomorrow has to be a better day for Lupron shots. After talking with my sister, I understand she has also been having issues with her shots. Commiserating with her made me feel so much better. It's nice to feel like you're in the boat with someone else - and we are most definitely in this boat together!

Oh my God, I can see!

For months my husband has been poking fun at me because he says I have to hold things too far from my face to read them. I have taken exception to the notion that because I can't read six inches from my face that I have a vision issue. What makes his distance any better than mine? I've been fairly indignant on the issue.

Two nights ago I traveled to Wal-Mart with my sister to pick up some prescriptions from the pharmacy. As usual, there was a wait during which time we began to browse the area around the pharmacy. I stared at some of the shelves contemplating that there must be some need I was having for which one of the products in front of me could fulfill. Really it was simple boredom as we passed the time waiting for the pharmacy tech to sort out my insurance.

Having exhausted the ace bandage and contact lens aisle, we shifted toward the reading glasses display. I recalled playing pretend with glasses as a little girl, wishing I had to wear them because I thought they'd make me look older and smarter. Suddenly I could hear my husband's chiding in my mind. I gravitated to the display determined to prove him wrong which I would promptly do upon returning home. Grasping the nearest package with smallish print, I also turned to grab the lowest level of reading glasses. I had practiced reading the small print on that package and found it to be readable, but blurry at the distance my husband said I should be able to see it clearly. Still holding the package at the same distance, I unfolded a pair of funky, leopard and green +1.00 reading glasses and slipped them on, perching them on the end of my nose. "Oh my God! I can read!," I said to my sister. I was stunned!

After several photos of me feigning depression while trying on various glasses, I settled on a red pair with stars and rhinestones on the arms. It seemed to fit my personality - and my face. Now it was time to make our way home and take it like a woman when my husband said I told you so.

The first person to notice was my ten year-old son. He asked me what was hanging from my neck. I pulled the glasses from their little "necklace" holder and slipped them on. He smiled and hugged me, telling me I looked like Memere (my mom). I laid my head on his shoulder and faked a boo-hoo while laughing and telling him Daddy might be trading me in for a younger woman with better vision. We both chuckled and he told me he was sorry. When I asked why he was sorry he said, "Because you had to get glasses and it means you're getting older."

Now in the last ten months I have undergone some major stress! There is no doubt my hair is much more gray. I can handle daily military life, schooling Koen, raising the twins, the transoceanic move, and two major surgeries, but something about having people ask me if the twins are my grandchildren and if my 35 year-old sister is my daughter is about to break me! But did I mention that I can see now? These glasses are meant to allow me to "see" a whole lot more than just what is in writing now. It's the beginning of seeing a whole new me, even if the new me is running head-on into a mid-life crisis precipitated by other people erroneously thinking I'm old! LOL And by the way, my wonderfully gracious husband told me I looked cute in my glasses and didn't even drop a hint of an "I told you so." I think he must have seen my fragile state. :)

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Colonoscopy!

The day of my surgery, my sister and I were sitting in the waiting room contemplating the early morning giddiness we both seemed to be manifesting. I'm not sure why but everything seemed funny. Both of us being military wives, it's nothing new that we are ID'd nearly everywhere we go. It's a fact of life we've grown as accustomed to as our daily underwear change. On that morning though it struck us as quite odd that I would be carded for my surgery. In essence, this is the conversation that ensued . . .

Why are they ID'ing you? I mean what person in their right mind would walk in and say, "Eeny, meeny, miny . . . colonoscopy - yeah, I'll have the surgery that guy over there is having!" Of course it was me checking in for my reconstructive surgery! LOL The fun didn't stop there as we found other silly things to laugh about.

At one point, I noticed Valerie looking around at the other patients in the room. She was trying very nonchalantly to glance out of the corner of her eyes at the feet of all the gown-garbed patients' hospital-issued socks. As it turned out, every other patient in the room was a man. Suddenly Val leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Do your socks have stripes on both sides?" Top and bottom is what she meant. When I told her yes, she laughed and revealed to me that she thought it was just that all the men in the room were dumb. We both got a big chuckle out of that one, especially as she looked down and saw the rubbery stripes on the top of my feet too! Actually, I was beginning to sound like Muttley. You know, the canine side-kick of Dick Dastardly in the Wacky Races cartoons from my childhood? (Yes, I sound like Muttley when I laugh hard, hence my occasionally used nickname.)

We just couldn't stop laughing. Why was everything so funny? I still don't know. One thing is for sure though - it made the waiting to go under the knife bearable. Thank God for my sister! We chatted the time away so effortlessly that I even came up with a new doll. When I was a kid there was a doll named "Chatty Kathy". I asked, what if created a new doll and called her "Chatty Natrix"? Somehow one of my sister's nicknames I've bestowed on her came from a blending of a previous nickname along with the Matrix movie as I had one day envisioned her dodging bullets like Keanu Reeves' character. The name "Natrix" was born and she is now lovingly referred to as both Aunt Ralph (Ralph was my childhood nickname for her) and Aunt Natrix (this is obviously the more "super hero" version of my kids' aunt, which of course she is to them).

I started to contemplate what characteristics the Chatty Natrix doll would have. Let's see . . . she would obviously have to have at a minimum:
1. obnoxiously white, straight, and cavity-proof teeth, and be a dental expert
2. eyes that squint really hard as she laughs
3. an accompanying canine companion larger than her and roughly the size of a Clydesdale
4. a built-in psychology manual and parenting manual capable of delivering timely insights at the pull of a string
5. and no doubt, a really cool Matrix-like black jacket and coordinated shades that would flow as she dodged life's bullets with grace like Nemo (if you haven't seen the movie, this isn't funny to you at all).

These don't even scratch the surface of all this doll could be based on the original, but I could never nail Valerie down to a fixed set of characteristics anyway. She's a polymorphous creature able to both leap tall buildings in a single bound and simultaneously blend in with the bystander. She's my sanity and my proverbial muse. She's both simple and beautifully complex - and she's my sister! :)

Being ever the extrovert, once my IV was placed and the staff began to grow in numbers around my pre-op cubicle, I continued to chat up the nurses when suddenly my whole world began to slur. Actually, according to Val it was the sound of my voice. I looked at the nurse anesthetist and said, "Did you just give me something?" Of course she had and within about 10 seconds I reached a place where no memories remain. I don't recall the bed moving or any sounds and afterward was sure that I had fallen into a deep coma until Val shared with me that I was still mumbling rather unintelligibly and attempting to carry on a conversation as they rolled me down the hall toward the OR. We had all been laughing together before they drugged me. I'm sure that's why I woke up laughing.

They say you wake up however you went to sleep. I'm glad my awesome sister and husband were there to greet me as they rolled me past the waiting room whereupon I was laughing and shouted out to the whole room, "I have BOOBS!" As the room full of people chuckled at my cheesy smile and obvious joy, my sister announced to them, "It's been awhile since she's had boobs." Apparently this was also a declaration I made several times while being rolled down the hall toward the recovery room. LOL

The Wisdom of an Older Brother

Yesterday I was standing in the kitchen talking with my husband when I heard my 10 year-old son Koen laughing intensely and sounding physically strained. The accompanying sounds of my 14 month-old daughter Lisse struggling gave rise to a quote from my son that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to document.

Koen called from the living room saying, "I like that Lisse won't quit, because she's persevering and that's a good lesson to learn . . . unless you're persevering against your older brother."

He's a wise one. :)


Big brother and little sister. They adore each other.

Don't Tell Me to Come Out of the Closet

When I was a little girl, I used to spend a lot of time in my step-mom’s closet. What took me there was as varied as the imaginings of a child. One day might have found me crying over an argument with a friend, while the next day I’d have been pondering my adolescence or maybe even “What do I want to be when I grow up?” No matter the reason, one thing was certain – Dad would always join me there if tears were involved.

There were several reasons I chose that particular closet of all the places in the house. First, it was a place I knew no one would come and interrupt me. There was simply no reason for anyone to knock on that door and ask if they could come in, like the bathroom. Second, it was large enough that it didn’t make me claustrophobic and I could conceal myself behind the hanging clothes at the farthest recesses of the closet. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly - I could turn off the lights and vanish. I spent many hours like that, wishing I could disappear. This was my haven; a place of refuge from the storms that brewed in my life, both real and imagined.

Dad and I like to joke about the times we spent in that closet, bonding. Sometimes we even moved a fan in to get some circulation going. It could get pretty stuffy. He gave me fatherly advice and listened when I cried. In many ways I grew up in there. I can’t recall the exact words of wisdom that emanated from that room and though there’s no doubt they helped to mold and shape me as I stumbled through adolescence, more important was the fact that Dad took the time I needed to see me through it. Thank God for Dad. (Of course thanks to Mom too. What she and I shared wasn’t a closet, and will be addressed in a later writing.) Thank God too for a place I could go to figure things out - away from my siblings and the other craziness of life.

Speaking of craziness. Today I was nearly a crazy woman. At first glance it’s going to be difficult to see how this day and the days of my closet adolescence are connected, but it’ll soon be clear.

We headed out to Virginia Beach to buy Koen’s Boy Scout uniform, looking forward to having lunch together at our favorite place, Chipotle. Everything was going smoothly until we pulled out of our driveway, and the tears began to flow. Karter and Lisse cried inconsolably for the first hour we were out. Here is where I will tell the story slightly in high gear so as not to mentally wear the reader out. I wound up sitting on the floor of the van between the front and middle seats feeding them their lunch while we were stuck in traffic. With me turned around backwards and on the floorboard, hence not navigating, Arie dislodged us from the traffic, only for me to realize he was going the wrong way on the interstate. After lunch, Koen spilled an entire soda on the floor of the van. Then we were off to the Boy Scout store where they didn’t have one item of clothing in Koen’s size after we drove nearly 1.5 hours one way to buy his uniform. We then made our way to run another errand, during which time my normally wonderful husband morphed into a jerk. Out of respect for my husband I’ll spare these details. We were sitting in a parking lot while Arie looked for directions to our final stop when I decided to get out of the car and walk over to a Starbucks. I needed a few moments alone and I was annoyed with Arie, so the thought of a frappuccino was consoling.

I was slightly steaming as I stood in the store contemplating the notion that I’d somehow got back at Arie by not offering to get him a Starbucks. If you know Arie, you know this would be a major letdown for him. I felt justified, even triumphant, and finally peaceful just getting away from the stress that was in the van. As the glow was just building in me, either from the triumph or from my previously noted steaming, I got a text message and photo from Arie. He said, and I’m quoting here, “:( I’m sorry I was a..."



I about died laughing! After chuckling at Arie’s photo and feeling like he had sufficiently apologized, I texted him back with an offer to buy him Starbucks. He responded with a request for an iced coffee and I patiently waited in line not realizing the horror that had begun unfolding in the van. Yep, it only got worse from there, just when I thought things were looking up.

I crossed the parking noticing that Arie was no longer in the front seat. As I opened the door he said something like “you have no idea…” Lisse, who had not pooped at all the previous day during our trip to Busch Gardens had had massive diarrhea while sitting in her car seat and blew out her diaper. Arie said he actually heard it. He might have even gone on mumbling something incoherent about a geyser afterward, but Koen distracted me with a request to go in the grocery store for something to drink. I think he was partly trying to get away from the smell. Climbing out of the van, Koen inadvertently kicked over my mocha frappuccino, spilling it on my floor mat. I could tell he felt horrible for spilling another drink, so after my initial ARE YOU KIDDING ME? reaction, I dialed myself back and told him to let it go and that it was okay. I handed him my wallet and sent him off for his drink.

Upon pulling out the mat to clean it, I unveiled a soggy floorboard indicating a possible problem with our a/c leaking under the carpet. Then Arie, while cleaning up Lisse, began to laugh hysterically. I turned thinking I was about to witness my husband’s nervous breakdown when I heard him say, “She’s peeing!” He could barely get the words out of his mouth from laughing so hard. Whatever parts of her clothing that weren’t covered by poop were at that point soaked in urine, as was a portion of the carpet where it had run off the pad.

The next thing I knew, Koen was opening the back hatch with no drink in his hand and he was crying. When I asked what was wrong and why he had no drink he said, “I can’t do anything right today.” I consoled him and had him repeat after me saying, “Today is the day from hell.” I thought I said it as calmly as I could and though I was giving him permission to say his first ever 4-letter word the day seemed to warrant it. His lips parted into a strained smile that said “I don’t really want you to make me smile while I’m trying to feel sorry for myself.” Once I told him about Lisse peeing on the floor we both fell into each other laughing. I told him, “I KNOW! IT’S A HEAVENLY CONSPIRACY! All the drama,” I said, “must be a heavenly conspiracy to keep us from going home.” Maybe God was keeping us out of some sort of trouble by stalling us with so many distractions.

There are detailed portions of the story I have left out, like Karter almost ripping the signal arm off the steering column, Arie missing our exit (again), and Lisse biting me, but you get the gist I’m sure. It really WAS the day from hell. At the time I could only imagine that short of an auto accident, an acute medical condition (each of us was already having an acute mental condition), or a death in the family, nothing could have made the day more stressful. I said as much to Arie, then thought better of it and acknowledged it could have indeed been much worse.

Speeding as fast as we could safely get away with, we bee-lined for home. After more screaming, all three kids finally fell asleep, leaving me and Arie with some much needed quiet time. For a time we sat silent or maybe I should say shell-shocked before I inquired, “How’s pizza for dinner? I’m not cooking.” Arie asked if I meant the frozen from the store variety. “I said I’m NOT cooking,” shooting him a playful, yet serious look while he laughed.

We eventually made it home, fed and bathed the kids and played until they were exhausted from repeatedly climbing onto the couch only to be dragged off again each time. After one last bottle and teeth cleaning, they went down without so much as a whimper. Here is where I was thanking God again.

After lying Karter in his bed I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth and carry on my nightly routine, which includes stepping into my closet so that my electric toothbrush doesn’t wake the baby if it rattles against my teeth. (He’s sometimes a very light sleeper.) I stepped in and out of my closet a few times before pausing inside. With the door pulled shut and the light on, I looked around and pondered the quietness of the space. Actually, it was more like I was soaking up the peace. I began having flashbacks of my childhood days in the closet and what it meant to me then. It occurred to me that at that very moment I was doing exactly what I did as a kid – taking refuge from the storm that was my day.

Thankfully, nowadays I have better coping skills than when I was a kid. However, admittedly there are still days when I step back into my closet, shut the door, turn off the light, and hope no one comes looking for me. Having kids can drive parents to get creative with their hiding spots. Sometimes you just can’t get away from all the noise, sometimes you don’t want to, but during those inevitable times when life gets to be too much or too loud - there’s always the closet. :)

Let's Be Honest: Reconstruction Sucks

The first four inflations of my tissue expanders were a breeze. I thought the rest of this process would be a walk in the park. Then the fifth, sixth, and now seventh inflations have come and gone. Well, gone isn't entirely accurate. The fifth created intense pain for three days and was similar to the initial pain of my surgery. The sixth caused that same level of pain that lasted for four days. As of yesterday, my seventh came and is still lingering. I expect it to last at least four days. I may have two whole relatively pain-free days before my next inflation since they are once a week. Thank God for my son or I would be in a much larger heap of pain.

Waking up is the worst part. As with anyone who suffers aches and pains, they are normally more manifest upon lifting yourself out of bed during the first moments of your day. Mine is no different. I find myself holding onto my left "boob" like it's in danger of falling off. I clinch my left arm across my chest under the breast mound and hold tight to the right side of my sleep shirt. Meanwhile my right hand finds it's way as far down the edge of our pillow top mattress as possible. As I tug with my right hand to pull myself up, I hold my breath to stifle any attempt my brain might make at registering the pain as a gasp, thereby waking my husband or a sleeping baby. This is how I wake up most mornings since June 17, 2010, and how I will function for the foreseeable future.

Making my way to the bathroom, still holding my left breast mound in place, I locate my dose of morning pills that includes a Valium (for the instant muscles spasms) and ibuprofen I hope will kick in before I'm called on to lift a 25 pound baby from a crib. It's funny how I used to resent having to take my daily Synthroid (I have hypothyroidism) because I've never been a pill taker. Yet here I am now with my little S-M-T-W-T-F-S container to keep them all straight. I look forward to conveniently "losing" that pill container in the not distant future!

My breast mounds, because I can't really begin to think of them as boobs to be honest, are beginning to take a shape I can recognize. Who would've thought this would be fraught with dangers? I've grown so accustomed to not having any boobs that I have begun to move differently through the house. I found myself cutting corners more sharply, or only opening one side of the pantry door because let's face it, my boobs weren't calling for me to open the other side to accommodate a wider load. Well, all of that is a thing of the past. In the last 48 hours my boobs have run into doors, walls, and the refrigerator door. Come on, really! I don't recall this being an issue before. The really funny thing is that I mostly can't feel it except that in that instant my forward progress is thrown off as I'm launched into an unintended rotation, thereby hitting my other boob on the pantry's door frame. It's just too odd not to tell.

See, someday I'll have all this over and done with and these memories will begin to fade. For now at least I can recount them and use the humor to help me over the hump that is this reconstruction process. Or would it be more accurate to say humps?

Ergonomic Boobs

Sharing a room with an infant can be a challenge, especially at bedtime. Our son goes to sleep hours before us and while we prepare for bed we have to pay close attention to not making an abundance of noise so as not to wake him. Tonight we were in the bathroom doing our usual prep routine, which recently has included rubbing lotion on my mastectomy scars. The lotion, Elta Lite, has helped to soften and smooth the scarred area. According to the doctor this should make my reconstruction look nicer.

Arie and I were joking around about something completely unrelated to my boobs, when we both began laughing and couldn't contain our noise. I leaned in to whisper something in his ear and when he stepped back he laughed even harder and told me he only heard half of what I'd said. The rest, he said, had sounded like swishing noises. I invited him into my office, a.k.a. my closet so we wouldn't wake the baby. We laughed so hard we fell into each other, hugging, and I told him how grateful I am that we understand each others sense of humor. Trust me, if I told you what had us laughing so hard you'd think we were quite strange. Some things are meant to be kept just between a husband and wife. Having said that, you are seriously going to wonder what I would feel the need to hold in such close confidence given what I'm about to divulge. . .

While we were hugging and laughing, I half jokingly asked him if he wanted to "feel me up". This has been a constant ritual since the inflations of my tissue expanders began. I think it's important that my husband really like the size and feel of my boobs since he's the one who will get all the pleasure from them once this whole reconstruction is complete. (Sounds like we're renovating, which I guess is sort of accurate.) This was his first opportunity to feel them since I had my last inflation. As he reached for my boobs with both hands - now mind you this wasn't a sensual thing by any means, but more like holding a peach firmly in your hands while contemplating whether it's the perfect firmness that makes you want to buy it - I told him he might want to feel the right one because it's more round. First he felt only the right one, then the left, and agreed with me that the right side was indeed more round. The left one feels slightly misshapen because the tissue expander has inflated somewhat more awkwardly than the other side. That's normal.

I said, "Aren't you glad the implants won't feel like these?" What I have now actually feels like rocks under my chest, a.k.a. (according to Arie) man pecks. I can actually make them flex up and down like Hulk Hogan, but I digress. Arie then reached up and put both hands on my boobs. He gave them a few good squeezes, then declared they'd be good for push-ups because they're "ergonomic". We both about died laughing! I never thought of having ergonomic boobs, but I guess that might be the best thing that comes out of this whole mastectomy. My husband will be happy and his hands will never grow weary because his wife's boobs are custom made to fit his palm size! I'd like to think he'd be equally considerate if he were having penis reconstruction. LOL