Three C's for Me

Aiming for nothing

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 00:01:00 +0000

It has been a long time and I decided I need to get back in the swing of things. I got some really big news right after week 4 of my treatment - I became UNDETECTED. This means that the viral load was negative and is the first step to achieving sustained viral response (SVR). If you achieve SVR for six months after your treatment has ended then you are clear of the virus and can officially declare yourself HEALED. Although the HCV has had lots of fun with my liver, clearly I am ready for the party to be over. Speaking of parties ...

A group of wonderful coworkers threw me a surprise "way to fail a test" party. It really was the sweetest, and quite possibly one of the nicest things anyone has done for me. We had some yummy goodies and a cute poem written by our resident poet laureate, and the best part, drum roll please:

Shirley Temples! Some of them had never had a Shirley Temple before but I do think they were impressed. Maybe not so impressed that they want them to be their signature drink, and some of them did or did not discuss how they would be even better with an adult beverage added, but I still think they were a hit. Seriously, I can't say enough about how nice they have all been and what great people they are. I would gladly toast a ST with this bunch any day.

As far as treatment goes, I am currently in week 11. Since this is my third go-round, I totally expected this to be easy breezy. I wish I could say that this has been the case. The addition of the Incivek has really thrown this ol' girl for a loop. Let's just say my CBC numbers are consistently low, I have been prescribed one "rescue drug" so far and this week I added an antibiotic into the mix. I also take folic acid to help keep the hemoglobin as high as possible, and diaper rash ointment has become a new best friend but I will spare you the details of all that fun. My mouth and nose bleed so much I think I should be in the next Twilight movie. Last week I even noticed I am bleeding under my toenails. Take that OPI, I have my very own shade just in time for Halloween. I am moody, weepy, sleepy, spacey, basically the seven drawfs rolled into one.

However, at the end of week 12 my love affair with Incivek will be over. I will not be sad to see it end. I will still have 36 weeks left on the other medications, but I really think it will get a little easier. They will recheck my viral load on Oct. 5. If it is still negative at that time then I will continue will the treatment. If for some reason the virus is detected then all bets are off and the treatment is stopped. So keep your fingers crossed, we are pulling for a big fat ZERO.

Before treatment, I really had intended to keep running. Oh silly, silly girl. Before treatment I thought running made me sound like an asthmatic oompa loompa, now just leaving my cube to get to the bathroom can do the same. If some of the other people that share my cube walls weren't so loud, some of the other office workers might think I have a nasty two-pack-a-day habit thanks to my lovely smokers cough. No, I don't smoke, except for the nine months in utero courtesy of my mother, it is just a side effect of the medicine that the doc calls riba cough. So the running shoes are collecting dust in the closet for now. They have been traded for a bathrobe and flip flops - which is my standard dress code when I get home in the evenings. Adam is such a lucky little fellow.

Now that you are completely caught up in the medical life of this hypochondriac, I plan to do another post soon. All of this pity party throwing reminded me of a funny story about my mother's grandparents that I want to share. It involves a blind man, a gun, and even when you think you are on the bottom you can still hit just where you are aiming (well, almost).

A Vapor

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 19:07:00 +0000

I heard a verse last week that I have never heard before -

Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. James 4:14

If I had to sum up this year, I would say this verse does an excellent job. As far as life lessons go, I have definitely been reminded that we are all just a vapor.

In April I said goodbye to someone that I admired and respected very much. He was a voice of reason, a confidant, a counselor, and a mentor. He was someone who talked me down off the ledge more than once and put up with way more nonsense than his paycheck was worth. He really was the kind of person you wanted to be when you grow up. And just like that he was gone and I miss him. Every day.

Last week a friend, you know the kind of friend you have known so long you don't remember a time in your life when you weren't friends, called to tell me her brother had died. Just like that - here today and gone the next. I was shocked. I grew up with these people. Her brother, who was a year younger than me, was gone. I thought about our childhood days and the memories we had shared. I thought about my friend and her parents and I prayed for God to give them mercy and to provide them with comfort during this time.

I also selfishly prayed that I never have to walk in her parents' shoes. I am reminded of sickness, and even death every time I go to the doctor. It is the part I hate and dread the most. I can handle the needle sticks, the icky medicine, the endless tests, but the one thing I can never get used to is seeing a parent wheeling their sick child down a hall or watching them wait for their name to be called at the lab. It breaks my heart and every time I close my eyes and pray I am never in that situation. I truly cannot imagine.

But, the truth and the reality is that life is like a vapor. We are all here one minute and gone the next. I think of my friend and can hear him laugh and sometimes I even think I can see him coming down the hall at work. I am reminded that it's not his death that I should focus on, but his wisdom and warmth he gave during his life that I should remember. I hope my friend and her parents can find a way to do the same. I have also learned to focus on what is really important in my life and to try not to get caught up in the things that don't matter.

On a much lighter note, I also decided that maybe I need to provide some instructions in case I am ever, you know, here today and gone tomorrow. Seriously, I told Adam if he had to make the plans then my final farewell would be a hot mess. Plus, since I didn't really get the wedding of my dreams, he at least owes it to me to send me off with a grand affair. I also thought I may even go ahead and write up the obit. You know if there ever was a time to brag on yourself, I dare say this would be it. Seize the moment people.

So, I am kind of thinking of something along these lines - She is survived by the luckiest man on Earth... I think Adam would agree.

Record breaker

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 19:13:00 +0000

Because I have been so inspired by a group of coworkers and their dedication to fitness, well, that and the fact that most of my pants no longer button, I decided to jump on the running bandwagon. It was my intention to jump into this with the heart of a champion, the strength of a fighter, you know the whole float like a butterfly, sting like a bee mentality. However, you know what they said about good intentions, it paved a road straight to somewhere and as hot as it has been I think I may have been running on the threshold.

I am about a month in and I haven't exactly been screaming I am the greatest, or swinging like the champ, instead I have been waddling, wheezing, and puffing out every move like an asthmatic Oompa Loompa. As delusional as I was before, I can tell you this has not been easy for a out of shape chunky runner wanna-be like me. It has been hard, hard work and there has been more than once that I have thought to myself forget this, I would rather be fat. For a while I even felt like I wasn't making any progress. Until this morning...

I realize this is extremely, extremely slow to you seasoned runners - I finally took my 16 minute, yes 16 minute mile and at 5:45 this a.m. I saw the number 12:58 mark my mile, I felt like Rocky on top of the stairs. Cue the music.

Although it has been a long process, I am glad I joined this train. It is a goal of mine to complete a 5k this fall. It might be a pipe dream, but I am going to keep wheezing my way through it and see what happens. As hard as it is, I really do feel better after my feeble attempts to run. I am thankful for my coworkers who have been so encouraging and have put up with my many questions and many complaints. I am inspired and hope I can be just like them one day and do five miles and live to tell about it.

So, here's to my quest to get ~~skinny~~ healthy. May I be able to keep the laces tied, the wheezing to a minimum and sweat through another mile tomorrow.

Do who??

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 13:22:00 +0000

In addition to signing your life away, and by that I really mean signing your life away, one of the many things you have to agree to before going on certain types of medication is to swear that you will not intentionally become pregnant or impregnate anyone. So after I wrote my name in blood, pinkie-sweared, spit and shook on it, I completed the necessary requirements for proving that I was aware I could not, should not, would not try to get conceive while highly medicated.

Although they want you to agree to use at least two forms of birth control I quickly explained that I have been married for a long time which really is almost the same as abstinence, and the husband had a vasectomy years ago. We came to that agreement after I agreed to grow, birth, and care for our children and in return he agreed to cut off the supply. It really was the very least he could do, but also quite possibly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. I mean what says I love you more than I am willing to end my God-given right to create another human just on the off-chance that you might continue to have sex with me until we are dearly departed. Now that's love.

So after she went through the whole well-that-is-really-his-birth-control-method-not-yours speech, she said there was yet another form I could fill out stating this information. So instead of agreeing to a tubal or purchasing a chastity belt, I agreed to the form. It was quite simple and asked the basic questions. I quickly checked the appropriate boxes, signed my name once again, and handed the form to her.

She smiled and said I should have warned you about this one. You will have to scratch it out and initial here. I looked at the paper and saw that she was pointing to this question:

Same sex partner to which I selected - yes.

Duh, this was a form about my husband's vasectomy remember. Of course I have the same sex partner, otherwise that whole vasectomy thing wouldn't mean a hill of beans now would it.

She said don't worry people do it all the time, but this means same sex partner as in, you know, same gender. Now I am no doctor, but I had no idea that two women or two men for that matter could conceive. Plus, since this whole form was vasectomy-related, I had no idea lesbians even got vasectomies. Geez, what rock I have been living under? Obviously I should get out more.

I had to go home and break to Adam that I could not try to get pregnant anytime soon. I think he was relieved especially since he can no longer have children. I also had to tell him that I informed the doctor's office that I am sleeping with a woman. I think he was excited at first, but deeply disappointed when I told him that the girl I have been intimate with is, in fact, him.

On another say what note, the big C, who is now 13 and full of questions asked me if dogs could get STDs. I don't know who I should be more worried about - him or the dog.

Lucky number 3

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 15:53:00 +0000

You know what they say - the third time is a charm, but on the other hand, they also say three strikes and you're out, so I don't really know what end of the stick I will end up on this time! Thursday night I started my third attempt to treat the Hep C. I have been not-so-patiently waiting for the new medications to be approved by the FDA and in May the dream became a reality. So after much debate and a failed attempt to get into an even newer drug therapy that is still in clinical trial, I am using the Incivek triple therapy along with the Pegasys.

The last two times I went through treatment my side effects were very minimal and I really felt just fine the entire time. Unfortunately, the treatment did not work and I became known as a null responder. So, I know the odds are stacked against me, but I feel very hopeful. Three is a good number - I was born in March, I am the third daughter in my family, and of course there are the Three C's. I think it's a sign for sure.

What I did not expect this go-round, was the yucky weekend I just had. I woke up Friday just fine but by mid-afternoon I was starting to feel it and by the time I got home that evening, I was spent. Saturday started off ok, I had promised the kids we would go to a local children's museum and the mall. Plus, I was meeting an old friend that I haven't seen in way too long, so that was enough to get me motivated and out the door. Five hours, one movie, watching the kids zip line lots of times and three pairs of "toe-shoes" later, I again was totally spent. By Sunday I was much, much better and hopeful that the worst is behind me. I don't know if it was Thursday night's shot that got to me, or just the medicine getting into my system but let's just say whatever went down came out quickly.

The only other part I don't really like about this new medication is that I have to take it every 7-9 hours along with a high-fat food. I know eating ice cream in bed at 10 or 11 every night might sound not that bad to some, but believe me it has not been as fun as it sounds. Especially when the sight of food makes you gag. Not to mention the fact that I really don't want to be as big as house when this is all over. The rash that all of the other patients seem to be getting sounds lovely enough all by itself.

But hey, if I have to gain a few pounds, get a splotchy and pasty complexion, deal with a little nausea and potentially a few bald spots and end up with a virus-free, healthy liver then I'm game. Bring it on. :)

Family vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 07:43:00 +0000

Recently we headed off for a little family vacation to the gulf coast. We left in good spirits, anticipating long days on the sunny shore and lots of time pool side. OK, so maybe we don't have the exact same misfortune as this family, but after six hours in the car with my bunch I did begin to think the whole family vacation thing was way overrated. Now don't get me wrong, six hours is nothing compared to the 14 hour trips I endured a child every summer during our annual trek to see the grandparents in Texas, so I really should not complain. I have told you I am the youngest of SIX, right?

While our short ride was nothing compared to all those good times, we did have several move your feet, this is my pillow, game, drink, etc., and you smell bad arguments. Not to mention the 5,000 knock-knock jokes, at least half an hour of you want to hear the most annoying sound in the world, one traffic jam, two u-turns thanks to the husband who insisted the GPS was wrong, and lots of potty breaks. My personal favorite was the gas station super gulp cup incident when the little C, who inherited his father's pea-sized bladder had to pee REALLY REALLY bad. Enter Styrofoam cup here. Yes, we did. Don't judge. We were 15 minutes away, in heavy traffic, had already made SEVERAL stops and it was raining. During the remainder of the trip the older C's kept referring to the little C as Harry from Dumb and Dumber. You remember the scene...

After all that drama we still managed to have a great time. We spent lots of time in the water:

we rode go-carts, bumper cars, kayaks, a big boat and a banana:

had a picnic bay side and got our faces painted:

saw fireworks and caught crabs (sand crabs, people, this was a family vacation not spring break):

ate lots of good food:

and just hung out:

Time crunch

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 03:40:00 +0000

Unlike the Rolling Stones I don't know if time is really on my side, or anyone's side, for that matter. For some reason even more than before I have spent a lot of time obsessing over how I spend my time or lack thereof. Like most working moms I constantly question the amount of time and energy I spend giving to my job and always wonder if the time I spend away from my kids helps or hurts them. Don't get me wrong, I don't see the big C at 12 years old robbing a string of liquor stores at gunpoint and saying that his mom was a, a working mom - as an excuse or anything.

But there is that twinge of guilt that runs across me when I can't attend a field trip or a class party because of work, or that sadness that fills my heart when I see a child with their mom while I am out during the middle of the day on a lunch break. I think any mom, or dad even, can relate to this feeling.

I also commute an hour each way to work which means I am up and gone before the kids are even awake for the day. I can't tell you many times I have agonized over this, but at the same time on the days I am home with them rushing through the morning routines, scrambling to get out the door on time, I find myself feeling guilty for being late for work. I get home around 5 in the evenings which isn't so bad, but I also miss out on a lot of the things other moms do on a daily basis. I don't get to pick the kids up for school very often and before the husband was home full time there were several times when I found myself rushing in at the very last minute to pick up the kids from daycare.

However, since the husband is able to be there for them when I am not it has really been nice. I told him if I had known how nice it was to have a wife at home I would have gotten one years ago.

Note to self, I don't think he likes that joke.

So yes, it is nice that they have a parent at home, but to be honest I am a little jealous. More than ever before I have started to realize that the time is coming that all the Cs will soon have lives of their own and it makes me sad to think I may have missed out on something. But of course, on the other hand, I am extremely grateful to have a job that allows me to provide for my family and allows me time to be there for them. I may have not attended every school or class function, but they have always had someone at every event, not to mention how many evenings or weekends I have spent at various sporting events cheering on my favorite athletes.

All time well spent.

Then there is this other pressing matter of time I have been focusing on lately:

How much time before the old liver really decides to call it quits?
Will it ever really happen or can I continue to mentally wish it away?
How will I know it is time or will I just feel sick one day and never feel better?
If I ever make the list will a new liver be found in time?
Will it last until I am at least 125, old, cantankerous and ready to go?
Basically, how much time do I really have?

Isn't that the million dollar question for us all? I could just as easily get hit by a bus tomorrow as I could wake up sick. I always wonder why people use that expression. I don't know, or haven't heard of anyone that was ever hit by a bus - a car , yes. Even a train, but never a bus. So until the time comes, whether it be a failing organ, or Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock on an unstoppable bus out to get me, I guess I will just continue to do the only thing any of us can do - live.

Spot check

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 04:39:00 +0000

Recently I went for yet another round of spot checks to make sure that my liver was still being my friend and not growing any tumors. I am happy to report that, once again, everything aside from the liver's statuesque appearance all is well! According to my CT scan results not much has changed in almost three years. I know this because each and every time I have any kind of lab work done I pick up a copy of the report for my own file and my own sanity. This may seem very strange to some, but I have seen lab results get mixed up, lost and have even had doctors not tell me results for weeks at a time. Now call me crazy, but there is just something that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside when you know as soon as possible that you don't have cancerous tumors in your liver.

This time in addition to picking up my lab report I also picked up a CD with the images of the scans. I am not so far off the deep end to think that I can even begin to read these scans. To be honest, I couldn't tell what any of those white blurs on the screen were. The last time I looked at anything even remotely similar was when I was looking at images to see if the latest addition was a boy or girl and thankfully, there were no other humans in these images or the husband's urologist would be in big trouble.

I only got a copy of the CD because one of the many latest ridiculous rules that are in place, you know the rules that are supposed to protect patients from having their medical records violated, but all they really do is make you have to move heaven and earth to obtain a copy of the results of the stuff that was taken from your own body, and make you have to argue with the lab workers and insist that as a patient you have a right to your own records no matter what the lab manager says, those rules. Can you tell I was more than a little annoyed???

The latest rule at this particular lab in this hospital said that I could not have a copy of the CT scan report unless I picked it up from medical records on the 2nd floor, which supposedly closed at 4:30 but the door was locked and the lights were off at 4:20 when I arrived. I went back down to the radiology lab to explain to the lady behind the counter that the records office was closed and she stared at me like I had five heads rolling down my back and asked if I was sure because they didn't close for another 10 minutes. I nicely tried to explain that unless they were scared of intruders or were chanting in the dark I was certain they were closed. She said there wasn't anything she could do and I would have to wait. I started to walk away when I just happened to notice a sign in the window that said CD images picked up here. I asked if a copy of the report came with the CD and once again, I got the head-rolling glare as she said yes but it costs two dollars, over emphasizing the amount like she totally expected me to say WHAT?? OH MY GOD DID YOU SAY TWO DOLLARS WHERE AM I GONNA GET THAT KIND OF MONEY and then all five heads down my back would repeat the phrase over and over.

Then I had to go to yet another floor to cashiers office to fork over my life savings and bring a form back to the ~~bitter shrew~~ kind lady at the window and wait patiently as she took her sweet time and hit print on the computer after she had to go through the complicated task of typing in my last name and date of birth to access the record. Oh yes, and she also had to pick up a blank CD and insert it into the computer and I am sure press at least another two buttons to burn the images to said CD. It was incredible, I am telling you she had some mad skills, I can totally see why it costs TWO WHOLE DOLLARS.

In addition to gaining the image CD, I also did one other thing differently this time. I did not have my MELD score checked. Since my last score was 8, technically I don't have to have it checked every six months like I have to have the CT scan. According to UNOS standards people with a score less than or equal to 10 only have to have their labs checked once a year. Normally though I usually ~~beg and plead~~ ask my wonderful doctor to indulge me and go ahead and check everything out so I can keep some sense of sanity. This time, however, I decided since I had a good report and I feel just fine (still convinced my liver is playing tricks on everyone and really isn't sick at all!) that I should have a little faith and wait until March to see if my score has changed or not.

So it looks like I am all in the clear and good to go. Yippee! I am going to try to do a better job of keeping up with the blog, I really stink at doing that. Also, I do want to add, that while I may have gotten and great report and I feel totally fine, there are those who do not. Please remember them in your thoughts and prayers and give your thanks if you are blessed with good health.

New commandments

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Sun, 16 May 2010 14:55:00 +0000

I can only tell this story as it was told to me since I was too young to remember the actual event. However, I feel this is an important piece of our family history and should be shared. It pretty much sums us up and it proves that I have always had a great sense of humor.

One fine Sunday morning the parents rounded up all six of their children and headed to church. The mere thought of attempting to get six children ready and off to church makes me shudder. I simply can't imagine. If I had six kids we would probably turn on the gospel radio station and watch an episode of Veggie Tales and call it even.

Regardless, there we were, the whole brood, ready to get spiritual. I am sure my parents were pleased and felt all holy and stuff right up until the moment it happened...

someone in the family let one.

My two-year-old self, who was seated up on my dad's lap did not want to let a golden opportunity such as this pass by so I loudly proclaimed, "DADDY FARTED!"

Now who actually passed the gas has been a great debate amongst the family for years, some say I was the guilty party, but I believe it could have been any one of the suspects. I lived with these people for years, I know they are capable.

Needless to say my outburst caused great commotion and everyone turned to look at my poor red-faced father who had thrown me onto my mother and was doing his best to slide out of the pew past his laughing family. I guess they never read the commandment - Thou shalt not laugh at thy father or thy husband.

By this time the service had come to a complete halt and everyone was in hysterics watching my poor father who was insistent that my mother get the kids up. I can only speculate but I am pretty sure that neither the Father, the Son, nor the Holy Spirit was going to be in the conversation taking place in the car ride home.

My poor mother was laughing so hard that her poor after children bladder could not take it and you guessed it, she wet her pants. A fact that I used to think was hilarious but now that I have had three children, I unfortunately can relate.

By now I am sure even the church leader was silently praying God come down and take this poor family out of their misery or at least get them out of his church. So my mother managed to get herself up, still holding the culprit, and situate herself in between two of the tallest children in a pitiful attempt to cover her mishap and walk out of church with her head held high and probably cussing my father, who was long gone and hiding in the car, under her breath.

I can't so say for sure but I am fairly certain it is situations like this that started the whole nursery and children's church concept. If your church does not offer such a luxury, simply remember this commandment - Thou shalt not hold the baby in church.

Potty mouth

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 22:31:00 +0000

Hi, how are you?

A common phrase, we all use it and is normally followed with, fine and you? At least we hope it is. But there is always that one person, and we all know one, that you dare not utter those words unless you want to stand there and get a full play-by-play of their medical history. This is for you, and the people like you, who love to share all of that personal information like how often your bowels move or how often they do not, so take a note and remember this the next time you are in this situation.

How many times have you stood their providing your medical background to some poor soul who simply asked how it was going and their response has been - Well, bless your heart...

Let me help you out here and explain what most of you southerners are already aware of. The phrase, "Bless your heart" is what all nice southern people say when what they are really thinking is Oh sweet Jesus, please save me and get me away from this person.

It is the southern version of if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

My mother is the world's worst for sharing too much information. She is a repeat offender of the worst kind. Case in point, she was supposed to go to a baby shower and was not going to be able to make it. If memory serves me correctly the phone conversation went a little something like this -

Expecting mother: Hello

My mother: Hey hun, I just wanted to let you know that I am not going to be able to make it to your baby shower this afternoon. I am sick.

Expecting mother: Oh, I am sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon.

My mother: Me too, I have had the worst case of diarrhea, I have been up and down all night, I tell you it is just awful.

Expecting mother: Well, bless your heart...

Do you see how this works?

First of all, you should never discuss your terrible case of the runs with anyone whose name is not followed with the letters M.D. No one wants to hear that. So for the love of all that is good in the world, please quit sharing too much information about your bodily functions with the rest of us. We don't really need to know that you have been on the commode all night and now your hemmoroids are so flared up you can barely walk. Do us all a favor and get some Tucks and keep it to yourself.

So remember the next time you are posed with the question simply say these three little words - fine and you, and instead of hearing bless your heart, I guarantee you will hear a sigh of relief.

Leavin' on a jet plane

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 20:08:00 +0000

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have always been close to my dad, you can read more about him in this post. The older kids had already left home and began making their own way, and it was just me and Dad, so it was inevitable that we would have a stronger relationship. The joke between the brothers and sisters is their dad and my dad are two different people. Now as an adult, I didn't see him every day or anything, but we talked at least several times a week and if I needed him to come by or pick up a grandchild or let me borrow a tool, or whatever the case may be, he was there and I knew it.

Dad has been married a few times, like neck and neck with Larry King, but who's counting? I don't want to embarrass him or anything, let's just say I have been through the whole dad's new wife routine at least a time or two.

So sometime around Christmas of last year when he informed me that he was considering moving to Alaska with the latest missus I didn't really think it would happen. However, as time passed and he knew he could no longer avoid the conversation I began to realize he was probably going to go. Without me. Yes, of course, I know that I am married, with children, and have all these other trivial things like a job and a house to take care of, but that is besides the point. He was moving to ALASKA. Which, in case you didn't know, is no where near my house in Alabama.

To fill you in a little and give you a better understanding of my dad, he is very good at only sharing the information he wants you to know. You know, the mundane, unnecessary events of every day life, he will tell you at a moment's notice, but the important stuff, like I am moving to ALASKA and I am leaving on this day and I will or will not be back on this day, he will conveniently leave out of the conversation in case you have, you know - questions.

It's kind of like selective hearing, except in reverse. In his defense, I think it's more like trying to make everyone happy but you know you really can't so you just tell people what you think they can handle and try to avoid all the rest.

So when the day finally came and he was set to go, there wasn't a long visit or a party to say goodbye, there was only time spent with the wife's family and a quick call to me to say goodbye. While this may all sound a little absurd, it was a song and dance that we had spent all week perfecting, I had intentionally avoided going to his house so I wouldn't have to see packed boxes and feel the sting of reality, and he had not come by mine so he wouldn't have to see how much it hurt me to see him go.

So the night before I was restless and could not sleep and decided at the last minute to go the airport in the wee hours of the morning and make him say goodbye. The flying sister, went with me and since she is the emotional one, I spent the entire drive down talking to her about not making a scene. We arrived and intended to say a rushed goodbye, ~~hope you hate it and come back soon~~ wish them well and then the sister and I would head back to the house.

What happened next is a rare event and I am truly sorry to all of the early-morning, groggy, rushing travelers who were minding their own business and just trying to catch a flight that you had to witness such a scene. I got to the airport and saw my dad and cried like a fool. I mean twisted-face, running nose, sniffling, snorting, crying like a baby. And although, I certainly did not save face in the airport, I said my goodbye and that is what truly mattered.

It was the first time I had ever felt sorry that I left home and started my own family and left him so soon. All those years before I felt all grown up and was so caught up in my own plans and moving foward that I never stopped to think about how my dad must have felt to see me moving on without him. I had to learn what my dad had already witnessed at least a half a dozen times before. He didn't try to stop me, or talk me out of it, or beg me to stay because he knew it wasn't fair to me and that part of loving someone really is letting them go. He is much smarter than me, and probably less shelfish too.

So my hope is that my children will forgive me one day when I stand there with the twisted-crying face when they follow thier own dreams. As much as I don't want it to, it is bound to happen, and thanks to my dad and his journey to Alaska, I might be a little more prepared. And even though I know he's not just down the road anymore, I hope, that he, and one day my kids, will still remember the way home.

How does your garden grow?

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 01:36:00 +0000

I am not one of those lucky girls who barely has any arm hair, or naturally thin eye brows, or light hair on her legs that allows you to go weeks without shaving and it not be noticed. Oh no, that is not me. I can wax my eye brows and a week later they need to be done again. I am total mustache denial. I don't only have to shave my legs, I even have to shave my big toe.

Don't be a hater, you know you do too.

So with bathing suit season right around the corner, not my favorite time for many reasons ~~cellulite, stretch marks, jelly belly, thunder thighs~~ that shall remain unnamed, I am once again faced with the daunting challenge of the bikini line. Or in my case, the lack thereof. Let's be honest, I would have unwanted hair down to my knees if I wasn't careful.

Laugh all you want, you know you have been there.

Of course there is always the first option, the plain and simple one, the razor. The razor and I share a love/hate relationship because while it does get rid of the squirrel tail, it also leaves behind a horrible case of what looks like teenage acne on the top of my thighs. And no, not the kind Proactiv can clear. Of course I have tried all the creams, the alpha hydroxy, the Bikini Zone, the powder, the bend-over-backwards and turn-three times to prevent razor burn method.

Nothing works.

I have seen the commercial that shows all the skinny tramps, I mean lovely ladies, prancing around in their shorty shorts with their smooth legs and I have dared to Nair. Sure the hair washed down the drain. So did the nasal hair that has burned out of your nose from the horrendous burnt plastic smell of the toxins you have just smeared into your skin to get rid of a little unwanted hair. It works fine until the next day when the stubble returns in full force. Are we sure Nair and Rogaine aren't made by the same company?

I have even dared to try to use a home waxing kit. Of course I know I can go to a salon and pay some poor soul to do this for me. I refuse. I can't bring myself to do it. No one deserves that kind of torture. If you think you are having a bad day at work just think about doing that job for a living. The nightmares. I can't imagine.

Back to the home project, I bought the kit with the best of intentions, followed the directions and heated up the wax, made sure it wasn't too cold or too hot, and then I proceeded to rip the skin off of parts of my body that will never fully recover. Not to mention the wax got cold a lot faster than I expected and I thought I was going to have to take a trip to the ER to the have crack of my rear end surgically reopened. Saying it did not get well is an understatement. A huge understatement. I still break into a cold sweat when I see a jar of wax or a popsicle stick.

So until I come up with a viable solution, there will be no string bikini here.

Anyone know where I can find a nice wetsuit?

The facts of life

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 18:18:00 +0000

The husband I decided it was time to have the big talk with the big C and tell him all about where babies really come from. He turned 11 and we knew it was time, so we did what every good parent does - we put it off as long as possible. Then he turned 12 and I told the husband we could not wait any longer. Nor could we continue to live in the ignorant bliss that our oldest child had no interest or knowledge of the grown-up subject.

Come on, I know what is right around the corner. I had three teenage brothers in '80s so I know what tube socks were really used for.

After much discussion and preparation (flying by the seat of our pants and praying for it to soon be over) the husband and I teamed up on the poor unsuspecting child. At first I didn't think it was going to be so bad and then the husband, this boy's father - leader, mentor, teacher, began to speak.

Son, sex is when a man and two women...

Holy mother of god, what is he talking about? You mean a man and woman, I said. One woman, two people, one boy, one girl.

Yes, that's right. Son, one boy and one girl. See they get together and then he proceeded to try to explain things using big, grown-up, clinical terms like private place and lady spot. Clearly, our son was now well aware of the trap he had just fallen into and was balled up on the couch with his hands around his knees and his face pointed downward.

I know about this, ok, I know, please just stop, he begged.

I felt sorry for him, I understood this torture. My poor husband was still rattling on about girl spots and boy spots sounding more like we were having a discussion with a kindergartner about strangers than trying to tell a half-grown boy about sexual relations.

I tried to help by explaining that we just want him to know the facts, to know that he can talk to us. Then the husband starts in -

Husband: You see, son, in the Bible it says...

Me: The Bible, why are we talking about the Bible?

Husband: Yes, the Bible, the story of God, we like God, you know the Bible says to wait until you are married.

Oh, aren't you slick, I don't remember you talking about the Bible and the importance of saving yourself when we were dating.

Me (desperate to save face): Of course we like God, I love God, God is great and while I do think you should wait until you are married, or at least grown, the sad thing is many people today don't wait (in my best motherly voice, mind you).

Then the husband, father of my children, life partner, supposed best friend, totally hangs me out to dry.

That's right, take your mother for example...

Me? Me? You want to talk about me? Um, excuse me, you want to use ME as the example here? This coming from the boy who put his address on the bottom of the chalk board in high school with the words Sex Shop above it.

Me (again desperately trying to rescue any self-respect I have left while not exposing traumatizing secrets about his father) loudly said: This is not really about US, son. This is about you and making sure you understand things.

Then I went on to tell him how we knew he would talk about this with his friends but not to really listen to them because they would be confused and misinformed but that it was ok to talk about it with them, and to not send naked pictures of anyone with his phone because it would make someone's daddy very unhappy and if he were older he could get in serious trouble. And on, and on.

So basically I rambled and fumbled my words just like the poor husband who was trying to explain the horrible, evil world of porn and I thought was doing a good job until he followed up with - it would be awful for you to see it now because it would probably scar you for life but man, when you get in college have I got some things to show you. Nice.

When we were done and the poor boy had left the room and his humiliation was finally over, I looked over at the husband who at this point had his face buried in his hands. It wasn't so bad, I said, except for maybe the menages a trios, the whole your mother is a whore, and your dad is obsessed with porn, part. I think he will recover. Besides, you will be better prepared when your daughter starts her period sometime in the next couple of years, we will be old pros by then.

The look on his face said I had gotten all the revenge I needed.

Meet the C's

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 19:57:00 +0000

Ok, I know, it has been a long time. So long, I debated on if I should do this again but I have been thinking about and thinking about it and have decided that it is time, so here we go.

If you have ever read this blog before, then you have probably gathered that the three C's are my children. They are the most important C's and they provide me with lots of funny material to share. I plan to continue to do that, but in the meantime, if you wish, you can learn more about them here.

Now this is the part I have been really thinking about. The other C's in my life. I have debated and debated over whether or not I should share them because not that many people know about these C's. I have Hepatitis C. No, I didn't not get it from a prison tattoo gone array, or by doing a string of x-rated movies in the 70's. I simply received a blood transfusion when I was born and thus the love affair with my liver began.

Out of 6 children, I am the only one who has never smoked, I don't drink, and I have never done drugs. See, it took my parents six times to get it right. Anywho, it is very amusing to me that out of the whole brood, I would be the one to end up with cirrhosis. I mean, there was the one time back in 2005 when I had a sip of a pina coloda while on vacation, and once I drank a half of a wine cooler at a friend's bachorlette party, and in high school, I may have drank less than a handful of times. LIVING ON THE EDGE, I know. But there it is, me, the one who walked the straight line, except for the whole pregnancy thing, is the one who ends up with a drunk liver. Go figure.

However, I decided to let you in on it, because it is a part of my life and at times, it can also be funny. Like this for example -

Thanksgiving a few years ago -
Sister- my head is killing me.
Me - really, it is my liver that's getting me.
Sister - not funny.

Liver biopsy 5 years ago -
Radiologist - if you don't mind me asking, how did you get cirrhosis at such a young age?
Me - middle school rocked.

Endoscopy last year -
Doctor - All I am going to do is put this tube down your throat, all you have to do is open wide.
Me - Why do I feel like I have heard this line before?
Doctor - laughed but turned 10 shades of red

It took me a long time to decide to do this because for people like me there is no pink or red ribbon and no one wears red for us on a Friday. There is a stigma attached with having something like this, but there should not be. You can't catch it unless you were thinking of asking me to be your blood sister or you like illness and carry needles in your pocket and go around jabbing people and then sticking yourself. I will assume you are not a needle-carrying maniac with a death wish. The truth is, there are lots of people out there just like me and I thought this would just be a good way to talk about it. So, if you would like to know more about me and the C's visit here.

Next post I will have to tell you about the recent birds and the bees talk we had with the big C. He's 12 and I hope we didn't scar him for life. So come back if you want, I am not going to turn this into a sad blog or anything. My liver may be jumping ship, but I am certainly not.

Granny get your broom

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 13:41:00 +0000

The thing I like most about older people is that they will tell you exactly what is on their mind with little regard to feelings or appropriateness.

Growing up I lived very close to my great-grandparents so I spent a lot of time around them, especially my grandmother. She was a very sweet woman who was at church every time the doors were open. Sure she was there to read the Bible and praise the Lord, but she was also there to catch up on the latest gossip and swap stories with the other ~~ol' biddies~~ sweet Christian ladies. One of the things I remember most is the way she would slap her knees and say, Theeeeey Looooord, you don't mean it, with her thick southern drawl every time she heard the latest rumor going around the neighborhood.

Now my grandfather, Curt, was a different story. By the time I came along he was half-deaf, could barely see and spent most of his time sitting on the front porch chewing tobacco. Whenever I would walk up on the porch he would always call me by my mother's name and say, Terrie, is that you? Which would inevitably send my grandmother into a fussing fit that ended with her calling him a crazy old bat and slamming the screen door. The amazing thing about his hearing is he didn't have your typical case of elderly hard-hearing, oh no, he had selective hearing. He could hear a whisper a mile away if it was about him, but couldn't have a decent conversation if you were standing right in his face.

So one day, when I was around 10 years old, I walked down to the grandparent's house with the intention of sneaking one of Grandma's lemon juice packets out the of the fridge. For the most part I was usually unsuccessful because as soon as I would get in the kitchen and open the refrigerator door she would always yell, Girl, you better not be getting my lemon for my tea or I'll get a hickory and whip your ass. So I always had to settle for some Diet Rite cola and a Fudge Round.

On this particular day Grandma decided she was going to vent about the crazy old bat sitting on the front porch and my poor unsuspecting little old self was just going to have to sit and listen. So, she started fussing and he started hollering, Virgina, I hear you in there, don't make me get up woman, and she looked at me and we laughed because we both knew the man couldn't move fast enough to catch a snail even if his pants were on fire.

So dear sweet Grandma, with her Bible sitting on the bedside table probably with freshly turned pages from her morning devotion, decided she was going to tell me about the time she came home and caught ol' Curt in bed with another woman.

I came home one afternoon and there he was with some hussy right there in my bedroom. I was madder than old wet hen.

Me, having no idea what they would have been doing in the bedroom and thinking she probably just didn't want company in her room because that is where she threw all of the clutter and shut the door like my mom did when we had company, asked her what did she say to the lady.

I grabbed my broom and I started beating the hell out of that girl and she took off running out of the front door and she was whooping and hollering and didn't even have her brassiere on when she went running down the road.

Of course, I was sitting there wide-eyed and thinking she was trying on Grandma's clothes, no wonder she was so upset. My God, he was giving her clothes away.

She went on to say that she came back in the house and took her broom and beat the hell out that drunk old fool she was married to and made him get up and wash her sheets because back then they didn't have a washer and dryer and she wasn't about to break her back cleaning up after his mess. All of which went right over my head and I wasn't sure if she was trying to tell me to be sure to get a washer and dryer when I got older or to make sure my husband knew how to make up the bed.

Although I am still not sure why she felt the need to share that wonderful and inappropriate story with her young, innocent, and naive granddaughter that day, but I am glad she did. I just love it every time my husband asks me why I keep a broom in the bedroom closet and I tell him just in case he ever decides to give my clothes away.

Thanks, Grandma.

More like crazy crazy

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:48:00 +0000

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed the Pop Tart commercials lately? First, let me say I love me some Pop Tarts. In fact I would even go so far as to say that I could qualify as a Pop Tart connoisseur. Yes, I start many mornings by popping these yummy pastries in the toaster and then spritzing them down with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spray.

Clearly, I am a health nut.

Considering my long standing love affair with the Pop Tart you can imagine my horror at their latest ad campaign. You know, the one with the talking Pop Tarts. It is not the talking part that really bothers me. Aunt Jemima has been talking for years and I have no problem smothering my pancakes with her sweet goodness, so the talking isn't the problem.

It is the fact that there are people there, who are the same size as the Pop Tart, trying to befriend the Pop Tart and trick it into getting into the toaster so they can then EAT IT. Then you see poor Pop Tart scared and running or whatever when it realizes it is about to be killed and eaten. This is all wrapped up by a voice-over saying crazy good.

Um, no. It is not crazy good, it is just crazy, crazy. I don't know what kind of meth-laced Pop Tarts the Kellogg's folks are eating but I am hating the commercials. So thanks, Kellogg's, I now feel like a murderer every time I throw my Pop Tart in the toaster.

What's next, Ronald McDonald beheading chickens to advertise the next Mcnugget Happy Meal. Better yet, just have him chase down Big Bird. Hopefully he doesn't know how to get to Sesame Street.

You're welcome for getting that song stuck in your head.

Since I have talked about hamburger places, let me just go ahead and say obviously the folks down at Burger King are smoking some rocks too. The King is creepy. I mean, like the It clown creepy. If I woke up and he was standing at my window I don't think I would rush right out and get a crossianwich and coffee. Clean sheets maybe, but not breakfast.

Okay, so maybe it is just me, or maybe the Pop Tart from this morning is already wearing off. Is it lunch time yet?

Need a ride?

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 16:32:00 +0000

When I first got my driver's license I drove about an hour to get to school each day so my dad offered me lots of pointers to keep his daughter safe. Like the time when I still just had a permit and he decided that I should drive to school in the pouring rain because the sun wasn't always going to shine just because I was driving. That was a wonderful experience that lasted about 15 minutes and ended with him telling me I drove like an old lady and we didn't have all damn day to get there.

Way to build the new driver confidence, thanks Dad.

Also, there was the time when I went to actually take the driver test and as we were practicing driving in the neighborhood near the exam center, my dad actually told me to run a school bus stop sign because the bus was on the corner of the next street. It just so happened that there was a police officer behind the bus and he pulled us over and told my dad he was a moron for telling me to go and that he would get the ticket because he was the licensed driver (and did not have boobs).

Needless to say I failed the test later that day.

The best driving advice he ever offered was that he didn't want me driving on the intestate too long. Since a large portion of the trip to my school was spent on the interstate my dear old dad devised a different path that had me take the back roads and required I drive right by the local STATE PENITENTIARY. He told me traffic was not so bad this way.

Really, you think? Perhaps that is because the scenery is barbwire and guard shacks and in case we forget, home to lots of murders and rapists.

Good thinking, send you poor 16 year-old daughter down that road. I am sure that I looked really cute flying by every day with the windows down, radio blaring, staring at all of the inmates getting their sunshine time for the day. It was probably a lot like the rabbit on the fence at the dog track.

One afternoon I was heading home and had just exited off of death row onto the highway when I saw a van, otherwise known as a serial killer's trademark, on the side of the road with three men standing there and another one coming on to the road waving his arms. At first I wasn't sure what to do and then I remembered I had a secret weapon that would protect me.

I had a cell phone. Not just any cell phone either. Mine was a flip phone and was very high-tech. It was about the size of a small cooler and had a mouth piece that flipped open at the end. I am sure my service wasn't worth a grain of salt, but I probably could have beat someone in the head with it if the 911 call didn't go through.

So seeing that I clearly thought the situation through, I put the car in reverse and stopped to see if I could help these large and scary men with their situation. I placed my smoking gun, aka cell phone, on my lap so they would be sure to see I was armed and dangerous and I rolled down the window. The man explained to me that their van was broken down and they needed to get the nearest store to meet their friend who could help and asked if I would give him a ride.

Now remember these are called the back roads for a reason, NO ONE lives there and the nearest store was at least 5 miles. Being the smart and sophisticated teenager I was, I gladly agreed to help this poor man especially since he said his other friends would wait at the van so I didn't have to let all of them go.

See, that sounded reasonable, I just let one in the car, what could he possibly do?

Off we went, me and jack the ripper, heading to the nearest gas station when suddenly as a car approached, he started waving his arms like crazy and said, that's my friend, there he is. I honked to get the driver's attention and pulled over like he told me to do.

Really, I might as well have just tied my hands together and gotten in the truck and saved them all the trouble at this point.

He got out and started talking to crazy friend number two and explained that the rest of the crazy bunch was back at the van about a mile back. I really don't know what else was said because smart little me wasn't really paying attention. Obviously, I didn't fit the bill for the catch of the day because he walked over and thanked me for the help and told me to have a good day. So I drove away and didn't even give a second thought to how lucky and how incredibly stupid I was.

Now looking back, I think maybe I should have spent a little more time on the interstate. Who knows, I probably would have helped a trucker to two.

Hanes so not my way

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 14:58:00 +0000

I am facing a major dilemma and I thought I would share this problem. I do have to warn you before you continue reading, especially those of you who actually know me, please forgive me for the mental image these words may create. I am not responsible if this causes you mental damage beyond repair.

Lately I have been having some major problems with my panties. I remember when I bought them they worked just fine and seemed to be just your average, run of the mill, pretty comfy cotton pantie. However, over the past couple of months these panties that used to cover my derriere now only want to hang out and gather smack dab in the middle of my behind.

Thank God for the cube wall because nothing says classy like digging your panties out of your butt every time you stand up.

I opted to purchase the bikini brief not the thong for a couple of reasons. One, I don't like the feeling of something in my booty crack all day. Two, thongs are not attractive when you stretch the string across one side of your cheek so it can no longer ride your crack (just the mere thought that my butt cheek is big enough to be a wedge is scary in itself). Finally, I am trying to hide my cellulite not showcase it.

Think of the children people, if I did not keep that stuff hidden they would probably vow to never EAT AGAIN.

So after discussing in great detail my problem with a dear friend she came up with a brilliant solution. Did she tell me that my butt had expanded and I probably needed to go out and buy some under garments that actually fit? Well heavens to Betsy, of course not. I said I was talking to a dear friend not my mother. Geez. So my sweet friend went out and purchased me a pair of Soma panties.

Now these little things are made of magic and will not crawl no matter what you do. For those of you who are also in denial when it comes to pant size and continue to wear yours after they are maybe just a little too snug (forget buttons, that's why God invented rubber bands, so we don't have to change pant sizes) - they don't show a granny pantie line either.

However, if you are anything like me you will think the same thing I did. Soma panties are nice but they cost soma MONEY. Similar to the other store, you know the one with the secret, these can add up quickly.

Speaking of stores with secrets, I no longer buy my panties there either because I can look in the mirror at my big ol' hippo butt FOR FREE. I don't need to accentuate it with lace and pretty string, it is quite noticeable with out adding decor thank you very much.

So here in lies the problem, keep wearing the crack riders or take out a loan and purchase some of the good stuff. It is sad when you have to finance your underwear, or accept the fact that you have gotten larger, just to be comfortable. I mean the the lengths a girl will go to.

Since we are on the subject of underwear I also have a bone to pick with the whole Calvin Klein boxer ad campaign from a couple of years ago. Remember the one with Mark Wahlberg? Yes, that's the one. I bought the husband some of those boxers and I didn't get Marky Mark, it was a lot more like the funky bunch.

But hey, I am no Heidi Klum either.

Got milk?

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 03:07:00 +0000

On my way home today I saw a state trooper attempting to pull over a PT Cruiser on the interstate and the car just would not pull over. He had his car crammed full of junk and there is no way he could see out of the back window so I don't know if he just couldn't see or hear the lights blazing behind him or if he was some kind of outlaw making a run for it. Although I didn't see the driver I am pretty sure it was a man because if it were a smart woman she would have pulled over and used her secret weapons.

The first time I realized the importance of being a girl was on the night I graduated from high school and was driving home to pack for my upcoming graduation trip. I was going through a small town, doing about 75 in a 25 mile per hour zone, being very cautious as all teenagers are, when I saw the blue lights come up behind me. So I pulled over, panicking and praying that if I did get a ticket I could at least hide it from my dad until I came home from the beach. After all, I wouldn't want a silly thing like a little ticket to spoil all my future fun. Of course, I had never heard the phrase reckless driving before either so I really had no idea just how bad the situation could be.

As the state trooper approached my car I was fumbling through my purse frantically searching for my driver's license and hoping he would not ask for my registration. I had always seen on TV when people were pulled over they were asked to show their license and registration and I had no idea what in the world registration even was much less where I would find it.

Thankfully as he walked up he just asked for the license as he shone a flashlight into the car. I guess he noticed my cap and gown in the passenger seat and asked if I had been at some kind of a graduation. I told him yes, I had just graduated and explained that I was on my way home to get my stuff because I was leaving for a trip in a couple of hours. He then proceeded to shine the light at what I thought was my face, and asked if I had been drinking. That's when I realized just exactly where the light was shining.

Of course officer you would be looking there because all teenage girls hide their flasks in their bra.

I told him I had not, as I stuck my bottom lip out trying to look all helpless thinking maybe that would help me get out of the predicament. Then he hits me with the phrase reckless driving and starts talking about court, tickets, blah, blah, blah. All I could think of was my upcoming vacation, my first ever parent-free trip, going up in smoke when I had to tell my dad about all the money this was going to cost him.

His light was still searching for the bottle of liquor he assumed I had shoved down my dress when I just slightly leaned forward and begged for mercy. I would like to say that I was just very persuasive but I am sure the fact that I was much younger, thinner and my wardrobe still had the theme less is more didn't hurt either. He let me go with a stern warning and a valuable lesson.

Never underestimate the power of the boobies.

Pimpin' for paint

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 18:32:00 +0000

I have officially decided that I am going to paint the cabinets in my kitchen and I am a little overwhelmed. No, I am not concerned about all of the sanding, painting and reassembling, that stuff should be a breeze considering I plan to get my husband to do the majority of the work.

It is my part of the deal that intimidates me just a little because I know that it has to be well planned and implemented correctly in order for things to go my way.

Now, I have already planted the seed by telling him this morning what ~~his~~ my plans were for the weekend. That conversation went something like this:

Me: Guess what I am doing this weekend?

Him: What?

Me: I am going to paint the kitchen cabinets black.

Him: The hell you are.

Can't you just feel the love? I think we are off to a great start, especially since it ended with me telling him how great it would look and how I was going to do most of the work myself and it wouldn't really cost that much and (I can't leave out the most important part) how I would be sure to thank him later.

Yes, that is right, I said I would thank the man later. I am not beneath prostituting myself out to my husband to get a little work done around the house.

So the plan is for me to go buy all the stuff which shall include paint not only for the cabinets, but the walls as well, a new light fixture, and possibly some tile for a new back splash. I just can't wait to see the look on his face when I walk through the door and crush his plans for a lazy weekend.

I know that I promised him that I was going to do most of the work myself and I plan to. Don't you know construction management is tough work? I plan to oversee each and every project. The same way I did when we installed the new lights in the dining room.

I read the instructions, and even stood on the table and held the light up as he attempted to get the wires in the right location, over and over again. The project that I told him wouldn't last more than an hour, turned into a day and a half and finally my brother had to come over and to fix everything he had done. I guess you can say my husband is no Handy Manny. I laughed so hard at all his bitching that I almost peed on myself while standing on the table ~~bossing him around~~ helping out.

Three kids people, the bladder is not what it used to be.

And, since I am not one to break any promises, if things go right I will possibly even shave my legs. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, really it's the least I can do.

The flying sister

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 02:28:00 +0000

When I was a child we had a wonderful tire swing on the hill beside our house. It was perfectly placed at the top of the hill so you could swing super high into the air. One of the games we loved to play was to grab the tire on the inside of the tire ring, pull it back as far as it would go, and then run and swing out over the hill. Yes, it was good times and good fun until the day it killed my sister.

My dad was outside cutting grass that afternoon and my sister and I went out to play on the swing. We decided to play that particular game even though we had been warned in the past by my parents not to swing that way because we could get hurt. Of course we did not listen because, really, what did they know?

So everything was going along fine and dandy until my sister took the tire up really high and went tearing across the hill. I guess she under estimated how high she was going to go until she was in mid-air and she panicked. She let go of the tire and hit the ground like a ton of lead.

Now I freak out and run toward her, praying that my dad didn't just see what had happened, when I noticed that she hadn't really moved since she hit the ground. She was lying there on her stomach with her face turned toward me with one arm sprawled out and the other arm tangled somewhere beneath her body. Then I see it. She has blood on her face.

So my nine-year-old self quickly assesses the situation and I realized if someone on TV is dead, they usually have blood coming out of their mouth.

Oh shit. She's dead.

I rack my brain and try not to panic, desperate to figure out what I need to do. I changed directions and decided not to go towards her but to go get my dad who is still cutting grass, unaware of the tragedy that had just taken place.

Dad, she's dead, she's dead. Hurry and get over there.

I ran toward him screaming like a wild banshee, pointing at my sister's crumpled body on the hillside. He finally noticed her and ran to get her as I zoomed past him for the safety of the house.

I must admit the thought of seeing my sister on her deathbed was a little scary, but I had much more important thoughts going through my mind at the time. I did not want to get my ass whooped for swinging on the bottom of the tire swing after we had been told not to. Hell, she was already dead what could they do to her? That meant I would be facing the wrath ALONE.

As the youngest of six children this had never happened to me before. I had never watched a sibling fall to their doom before either, but more importantly I had never had to face punishment alone and I was petrified. Normally by the time the parents got done punishing all of the other children, they usually had their frustration out and spared me. I believe the line went something like this, how old are you? Now how old is she? Alright then - you should know better.

I barely reached the top of the stairs when I hear my dad and my very-much alive and wailing sister come into the house. She is holding her obviously broken arm up to her chest and limping beside my dad who is screaming for my mother to get the car keys.

Praise the Lord, she was alive and better yet, he didn't know what we had been doing that had caused the fall. They were too caught up in the moment and only wanted to get the poor child some help so they didn't even ask how it happened.

Of course, she did break her arm in several places and cut up her mouth and it was summer time so she did have to go ALL SUMMER in the heat with a cast. I'm sure she probably has some fear of heights now and I bet it's safe to say she'll never go sky diving, but at least I didn't get a whipping so I think it all worked out just fine.

A basket case

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 14:36:00 +0000

Dear Three C's,

I would like to take a minute to introduce you to this wonderful item we have in our home. They are not new, we have had these for quite some time even before any of you were even born, but I don't think you properly understand how they work so I am taking the time out of my busy day to explain to you in great detail what these items are and how they should be used.

This is a laundry basket. Contrary to popular belief around our house they are not wagons, toy boxes, boats, or a cage to trap the dog. They are called laundry baskets because they were designed and even purchased with the sole purpose of holding laundry. You see kids, when you take your clothes off at the end of the day or change early in the morning you should remove the items and place them in said laundry basket. I know this will come as a shock but the floor isn't really meant to look like this:

Now, these items are centrally located all over our house in hopes you will soon grasp the concept. There is one in each bathroom, and brace yourselves, there is even one in each of your bedrooms. Yes, it is true. Believe it or not, but I have taken photographic evidence to show you children where you might find these handy baskets.

Yes, son that particular laundry basket was found right in your closet. I think you must have confused it for something else which is why I also found a pile of laundry located on your bedroom floor.

Now I don't want cause confusion or mass chaos but there is another reason besides keeping the floors clean that I want you to become acquainted with the laundry basket. There is a room located off of the kitchen that is called a laundry room. Inside you will find a washer and a dryer that keeps our clothes clean. You see your father and I have wasted lots of time picking up your dirty laundry and putting into laundry baskets so we can take it to the laundry room to spend more time washing your clothes.

If you open this door for a reason besides hide and seek, you will see I even have mesh laundry bags hanging on the wall for your convenience. You can put your laundry in the basket, carry it all in one trip to the laundry room, and then transfer the clothes to the bags on the wall and they never have to touch the floor.

AMAZING, I know. Then you have an empty laundry basket that you can carry back to your room with you and start the whole process over again.

Now I need to talk to your dad for a moment regarding his use of the laundry basket. Although I really, really appreciate your efforts, dear, when it comes to doing the laundry I just wanted to let you know that laundry baskets are not exactly the same thing as dresser drawers. Yes, that's right once the laundry has been washed and dried you can actually fold it right there in the laundry room and immediately put it away.

Maybe if the kids start noticing empty laundry baskets instead of you digging through them for clean clothes, they would start to understand the concept a little better. It would probably also improve the appearance of our living room if we didn't have a collection of laundry baskets filled with clothes surrounding the couch. That's not really what I meant when I said we needed a coffee table.

I have faith in you guys and know you can do this. It may be a little overwhelming now, but you will get used to the newly discovered laundry basket.

In high hopes,

Mom

P.S. You know that tall container in the kitchen? Yes, the one that gets filled with stuff. It is called a garbage can and believe it or not, you can actually take the bag out and remove it when it becomes full. You don't really have to cram as much stuff as possible inside it until it overflows onto the floor. Someone even comes to our house and picks up the bags each week if we set them near the end of the driveway. That is what the big cans in the garage are used for. AMAZING, I know.

No medication needed

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 05:34:00 +0000

When I was much younger and newly married I clearly did not have a thorough knowledge of how the male mind works. That was until I came down with a stomach bug and my darling husband tried to comfort me in my time of need.

I had been puking all evening when he came and laid down beside me and said I know what will make you feel better. Naive and not knowing what he meant, I was almost flattered when I realized that he was coming on to me.

Man, I must be really good if you would risk catching a stomach virus.

I barely got the words out of my mouth when he responded, Oh I didn't want to kiss you or anything, I just thought we could do it.

How romantic. Let me just hang my head off the bed in case I puke.

I think it took him a minute before he realized I was being sarcastic because, he would never admit it, but he was looking around for a garbage can.

Then there was the time I came down with the flu and really thought maybe I was dying. I tried to wake him so he could get me a drink, but it was like waking a hibernating bear so I practically crawled to the kitchen out of sheer desperation, and was shocked when he woke up as I climbed back into the bed. I told him how sick I was and even contemplated on whether or not I should go to the ER and he lovingly suggested I give him a wet willy (and no, I don't mean a wet finger in the ear).

Really, you really think that will work? I mean I was thinking something along the lines of intravenous fluids and antibiotics, maybe some Tami flu or something but my God, I had no idea I had a magic stick here all along. I mean if I had only known that would make me better I would have woken you up hours ago.

Of course how could I ever forget when I had a terrible eye infection and he suggested that I take my hand and walk through the garden of love...

No thanks. I heard there was a snake there that bites.

Somehow, I don't think he was amused.

Needless to say this theory works both ways. If the man ever gets sick he can barely move, is totally helpless, and really thinks he is sicker than anyone has ever been before, but if he thinks he stands half a chance, you know what would make him feel better.

I just thought I would share this theory with you in case you ever come down with something and are open to suggestions. However, I bet if you are married, or dating, or know a man, you have probably heard this all before.

Lift me up

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 15:20:00 +0000

A couple of years ago I was sitting in church on a Sunday morning minding my own business and trying to focus on the important stuff like praying and getting closer to God and all, when I witnessed a man get more excited about praising God than anyone I had ever seen.

On this particular Sunday a singing group had been brought in to sing some good ol' gospel music and everything was going along perfectly just like any other service. The music leader of the church got up so he could sing a song with the band, at the lead singer's request, and the music starts, then the clapping begins, and everyone is up there singing and having a good old time when I suddenly notice something a little different about the music leader.

I lean in and focus my eyes to see if I am really seeing what I think I am and sure enough, the choir director was really getting in to the music. Yes, he was praising the Lord in a whole new way. As he turned to the side, it was clear as day shining right through those khaki slacks - he was definitely lifting those praises up, if you know what I mean.

Now I can feel my face getting hot with embarrassment because I am staring at this man's crotch while in the house of the Lord. I might as well have had smoke coming out from under my seat as the gates of Hell opened so Satan could call my name a little louder.

I couldn't help but chuckle to myself at the show that was taking place right on the pulpit, but I had no one to share the laughter. I had kids on one side, the elderly on the other, what was I supposed to do? So I sat there in disbelief as this man moved all about the stage like nothing is wrong while his Christian soldier was at full salute.

I mean, for God's sakes man, get behind the podium or something. Help a poor sinner out here, I am begging you.

By the time the song ended, I had my eyes closed and my lips pressed tight and was trying to think very solemn thoughts about flames and damnation and where I was surely heading if I didn't get my mind out of the gutter. Thankful it was finally over, I jumped to my feet to join the other members of the congregation to show my appreciation for the beautiful singing that had just taken place when one of the ladies beside me leaned over and said I enjoyed that so much, didn't you?

I couldn't resist, it was quite an uplifting experience.

Yes, I know, the devil probably has me on speed dial by now...

Dear old dad

noreply@blogger.com (Mom2theCs) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 13:04:00 +0000

Since Father's Day is right around the corner I thought I would share some of my favorite childhood memories of life growing up with a dad like mine.

First of all, I think my dad has a pretty good sense of humor although I don't really share in his love for the whole pull my finger or did you see that mouse on the motorcycle bits like the grand kids do. No, I think he passed that trait on to my older sister. It's just not Thanksgiving until she passes gas at the table.

However, looking back there are a couple of times I can remember when he really outdid himself at my expense.

Like the time I was in the eighth grade and desperately wanted a pair of Reebok Pumps, you know with the little ball on the side that you could press and it would pump air into the chamber of your shoe so you could, well, look cool. They were white with pink and purple and all of my friends wanted them so I was over the moon when he took me to get a pair. I do remember that they were pretty expensive at the time, but since I was the youngest I usually got what I wanted because all of my siblings had made the mistake of being born first which meant they had to share and stuff, but they had all grown up, scattered and moved away, and left me alone to reap the benefits.

So we went to get the shoes and I gleaming when we got to the register to pay and I was thinking that I had the BEST DAD EVER and couldn't wait to get home to call my friends. Then as he was paid the cashier my dad looked over at me and said very seriously, well we might not have power next month but at least you will have these shoes. Thank goodness I already bought groceries so at least we can eat. I hope you are happy now because that is all that really matters.

I could feel the disgusted eyes of the cashier glaring at me as my dad chuckled under his breath and slipped his wallet back into his pocket.

Thanks, Dad.
Then there was the time when I was in high school and he took me to the mall to buy school clothes dressed in a T-shirt that said I fought the lawn on the front and the lawn won on the back, a pair of plaid shorts and my personal favorite, his black military socks with SANDALS. Not to mention he hardly ever wore shorts so he had very tan arms, and pale, lily-white legs. I tried to convince him to just wait in the middle of the mall for me, but oh no, he had to come into the junior section of every store and insisted on making small talk with all of the sales people as I tried on clothes.

Good times, good times.
How could I ever forget the summer before my senior year when he took me to get a cell phone. The very young and attractive sales girl was filling out the application and when she got to the sex question, instead of just checking M for male she made the big mistake of saying sex? to which my old dad answered, quite frequenty, how about yourself?

Oh. My. God.

I could have died right then and there.

So thanks, Dad, for all the fun and good times. I won't forget this when you are much older and helpless and need me. I will be there for you, just like you always were for me. Happy Father's Day!