Really? That's the best you could do?

The rant for the day is people looking like they just rolled out of bed. At 2:00 PM. Why, oh why, can't a person run a comb through their hair, wash their face, and maybe put on some lipstick before leaving the house? Don't nobody look that good that they should skip it.

I just don't get this "At least I'm here" mentality. Screw that. Pull yourself together and have some self respect. And buy some real clothes, not just the same ratty sweatpants you slept in. Did I mention that the person I'm thinking of also was wearing slippers? To college? Ick.

It kind of reminds me of the lady going to the grocery store with curlers in her hair. Her explanation is, "I'm going somewhere later." Hello? You are somewhere right now. Don't we all deserve the view of your freshly pincurled self rather than seeing the little curlers lined up in formation with the lovely sheer babushka over it all? If you have to have pincurls, that is. Or a babushka.

I'm just sayin'.

It's Potty Time!

Had fun in the public restrooms at school today. Normally I wouldn't talk about such things, but it's a choice between that and the pics of pressure ulcers we saw today. Egads! Restrooms, it is.

Anyhoo, for my first incident of the day, I walked into what I like to call the "Party Potty"-you know, the handicapped stall, where you just get a scosh more breathing room. But as I attempted to go in, a kindly fellow student warned, "Hey, there's no tissue in there!" Not wanting to be like Elaine on Seinfeld, begging someone to "spare a square", I went into the adjacent stall instead. No prob.

Later, after lunch, I saw a girl that I knew from CPR class waiting in the bathroom, even though there was an open stall. I asked if she was waiting to use the stall, but no, she was just waiting. I assumed it was for a friend. I took the available stall, then heard this chick say, "No, you didn't take it from me. I just didn't want to have to clean up someone else's tinkle on the seat."

Come again? You couldn't have told me that was the reason for your loitering BEFORE I sat down?!?

As I stood up, I felt that, indeed, there had been tinkle lying in wait for my thighs to wipe it up like a big sheet of Bounty. What a wench.

So those are my Postcards from the Potty for the day. The moral of the stories is: Wipe Before And After. You can thank me later.

OK, maybe I do know something after all...

It turns out that my queasy stomach and fluttering carotids were all for naught. I got through my Physical Assessment checkoff yesterday, and whouda thunk it? I passed! My clinical instructor said that I was very efficient, thorough, and professional, and I got through it within 27 minutes. Yay! Damp forehead and armpits notwithstanding, I was pleased.

I guess maybe I need to tell the negative harpies screeching in my head to shut the hell up, or get on my side. I am sick of feeling like I am on the verge of getting kicked out of this program. I want to actually enjoy it. So maybe I will. Enjoy it, I mean.

Frazzled

I am starting to get a little bit stressed with the pace of life currently. Today, I went to a golf outing for church, cleaned the house for the week, grocery shopped, and paid bills. I had an offer to go drinking with friends, but the thought of putting off all the other stuff I had to do just made it impossible.

Tomorrow, I need to get evaluated on Physical Assessments, so I will be at the lab for a few hours. Tuesday is the real checkoff-6 pages single spaced of things to remember to check on a patient. Pupils equal, round, reactive to light. Uvula midline...moves when patient says "ah". Etcetera. Did not do amazingly well on the blood pressure checkoff last week...thank God for kind evaluators.

Monday, I have Bible study with my girls...must make brownies to take with me. I will be making the Snickers kind...boxed brownie mix, sprinkle with peanuts, drizzle with melted caramel. Yum.

Friday, the kids' school is having a staff luncheon, for which I should make something. Saturday, we go to Tim's nephew's wedding, 10 hours away. Also, I have a math competency exam to do.

Hospital clinicals start next week, and I don't know anything useful.

I'm starting to hyperventilate.

A Large Step Forward

Yesterday was a big day for us. For the first time in 2 1/2 years, Joe and Nick slept in the same room together. Of course the monitor was in the hallway, but still, it's been a long time coming. 

It seems like as time goes on, slowly, slowly, we return to the way life was supposed to be before Joe came into it like a whirlwind. Now, there are still a few pieces of debris floating around, but the process of destruction and rebuilding is gone. It's a nice place to be in.

Our bedroom situation with a trach kid has always been a little wonky. For the first six months, Joe slept in our living room, with one of us on the couch. Then, for a little while, he would sleep in his crib in the bedroom he shares with Nick, and Tim or I would sleep there in the twin bed. This would involve shipping the other kid into bed with the off-duty parent. Finally, for the sake of our marriage, we just gave up and put Joe's crib/suction/mister machine/pulse ox in our room. Not much privacy, but still nice to sleep in the same bed at the same time. 

Joe's clothes  still reside in the dining room, where our M*A*S*H unit was headquartered for the last few years. Perhaps it's time to move them to the dresser upstairs.  It looks like maybe he's gonna stay.

Checkoff #1

Officially, I am now authorized to perform one activity in the clinical area: Washing my hands! It may seem simple, but it took me two tries to get it right. I accidentally touched the chrome handles on the faucet while using a paper towel to shut it off. But now I'm wiser. Plus, I figure it puts me ahead of at least half the personnel in the hospitals, both to know how to do it, and to actually do it. Apparently, I am supposed to narc on anyone who does not properly wash their hands before touching my patients. Somehow, I don't think that the long-time docs and nurses will appreciate my vigilance.

This week, we will be working on Vital Signs. I have been palpating the pulses of everyone in my house, much to their enjoyment. They seem to think that palpating pedal pulses (say that three times fast) should result in a nice foot massage. I comply only about 1/2 the time. I don't want them thinking of nurses as massage therapists, right? Tim seems to think that Physical Assessment gives him free rein to grope the student nurse. Try that in a hospital, and he'll be pulling back a bloody stump.

I did get my first lab coat though. I'm a little bummed that it wasn't presented in a semi-elaborate Coating Ceremony, but I think that's just for doctors. Already, though, my coat is longer than the baby doctors'. Hope nobody mistakes that for competence.

Power Seller

I am on top of the world! OK, maybe not like Leo DiCaprio on the prow of the Titanic, but pretty doggone smug and proud of myself. I have sold not one, but two books on Amazon.com this week.

It is my finger-in-the-eye to the bastards at the college bookstore who have the nerve to charge me $120 (dollars, American) for a science text and then turn around and offer me $20 (pesos, Mexican) at the end of an 8-week semester. Ha! I'm stickin' it to the man! So far, I've made about $100 bucks back, which is still not what my initial outlay was, but far better than the chicken scratch I would have gotten at the "textbook buy back" AKA "bend over and let us slip this into your backside".

BTW, today is Tim's birthday. If you know him, give him a call. He'd love to hear from you.

Jitters

I went to an all-day meeting of my nursing school yesterday. Sitting through the morning as the orientation packet was read practically verbatim, I had a sinking feeling in my solar plexus. I am suffering from an acute case of the jitters. Or, as they say in Latin, "jitterum nauseaum nervosum".

I don't know why I ever thought this would be a good idea. I am looking through packets of information and can't make heads or tails of it. I don't know what I'm doing, and I will be found out shortly. Ugh.

Unfortunately, I think it's too late to back out now. As they told Princess Diana, "Your face is on the tea towels, Duchess!" Maybe I can use one to wipe my sweaty brow.

Summer Breeze

Standing doing dishes tonight, I caught a whiff of the air outside. Even though it's August, and should be super-hot, it isn't. It's about 60 degrees and the breeze had the smell of cold and woodsmoke to it that reminds me that summer is winding down, and the seasons are getting ready to change once again.

Even though I like the Fall, it always makes me sad when it comes. Because I know winter follows right behind, that season that I hate with every fiber of my soul. It takes everything I have not to be depressed, and knowing that I will be cooped up again soon makes me edgy.

Also, I always do a mental review of the summer the kids have had. Were there enough trips to the pool? Playdates with friends? Ice cream cones and fireflies? Somewhere deep down, I feel like I need to make their summers really good, so when they're grown they'll have lots of happy memories to look back on. The problem with this is that I always feel like I have somehow failed in the "magical mom" category. I want to make it all great, but the reality is that some days are just plain, spent inside because it's too hot, and sometimes it's just too much trouble to pack up and go to a lake for the day. Most times, in fact.

But if we only remember moments, then I hope that the boys have had enough moments to be able to say, "What an awesome summer!"

Wake Up!

I have been awake since 6:00 am. Not because I have to be somewhere. Not because I had any trouble sleeping last night. Not even because the Joe woke up. No, I am awake because my husband has a so-called "job" and because he set his alarm and likes to listen to it for a while before he shuts it off. (OK, he does have a real job that should not be set off in quotes.)

But no matter how much I like Kid Rock, I really don't like to be jolted out of a sound sleep by "All Summer Long" being played for fifteen minutes that early in the day.

No Excuses

Since deciding to go back to nursing school, an undertaking that I realize will require a huge commitment of time and effort, I have struggled with a few twinges of Mommy Guilt. This is new to me, having been a stay-at-home-mom for lo these nine years. Even before that, I worked part-time at a job that was not very taxing, so I never felt that I was taking anything away from the kids/husband/family.

I have gone back and forth about leaving Joey with a sitter, and the guilt that accompanies that. The other boys are at school all day, and I don't think my school schedule will impact them much at all. I felt like, "OK, so now the trach's out, and I just dump him as soon as I can." Keep in mind that when the trach was in, NO ONE other than Tim or I was able to watch him (except Kristi, who is awesome!). As a consequence, I have spent more time with Joe than both of the other boys put together. But that doesn't exempt me from the aforementioned Mommy Guilt.

Then I decided, the heck with it. I am not going to spend the next four semesters torturing myself about this. I have worked hard to get here, I love to learn, and by God, I'm gonna enjoy it. So there.

Until a very nice lady from church and I got talking on Sunday. I told her my plans, and she said, "Oh, is Joey old enough for school already ?" Um, no, and at this point I don't really know if or when he will be able to go to school. But I didn't say that. What I said was, "Nope, he isn't, but I have found a great lady that just loves him who will watch him for me while I'm at school." And I didn't defend it, or feel guilty about it, or make excuses for it. There are lots of reasons that I want to go back to school. I could blame the economy, the desire to send Alex to a private high school, the need to help our family finances out.

But the real reason I want to become a nurse is because we have been through hell, but in going through hell, I have had wonderful people who have helped me down the road. Sometimes they were doctors, but most often they were nurses. And if I can take an experience that left me completely on my knees, as Joe's medical problems have, and be a blessing to other families, then that's what I want to do. So, no excuses. I've got too much work to do.

It's Not A Tu-muh!!

Well, thank God, the whatever-it-is on Joe's pituitary is not a tumor!" Which begs the question: what, exactly, is causing his central sleep apnea?  19 episodes in one night is apparently nothing to sneeze at. So while I am content to leave well enough alone and just leave the kid be, Dr. Rutter is having none of it. He threw out terms like "empty sella" and "LH/FSH tests".  Well, I'm no medical genius, but I have had not just one but TWO semesters of anatomy, and I know that an empty sella turcica is just bad. I also know that adding an endocrinologist and/or neurologist to my stable of medical lovelies was not on my short list of things to do.

Also, in the "Mom of the Year" category, guess what? The moderate hearing loss that Joe has in his left ear? The very small problem which we have never addressed because, well, he had so much other crap going on? The thing that I have not really taken seriously this whole time? Well, it turns out that the hearing loss is not only NOT moderate, it is conductive hearing loss, which means that at some point, he will have to have a titanium bone implanted to conduct sound in his left ear.  Some mother's instinct, no?

Good news of the week, though: Joe has been cleared for thin liquids! This means that, while the g-tube can't come out right now, it is definitely on its way out! Hip hip hooray for Vital-Stim therapy and his awesome therapist, Beth! You need to get throat and facial muscles moving, Beth's your girl.  Today, Joe drank four 8-oz glasses of milk and water, so hopefully getting sufficient volume won't be a problem. Just one more step toward tube-free living!!

But it was good to check "under the hood" on Joe, so to speak, and see all his awesome docs and nurses. I just wish that we could be done. I had hoped we were, but as with so many things with this journey we're on, the timetable is slower than I would like, but at least we're moving forward.

Above, see my birthday present from Julia! I also got a gorgeous pair of earrings from Kristi, but I don't have a picture of those.

They were given to me at our party on Sunday. We had Dave/Julia, Lee/Kristi, John/Kathy, Duke/Claudia, Russ/Ronda, and Tim/Janine. With all our assorted progeny, the total was 26 in our back yard.

I would include pics from the party, but I don't want to have to get permission from people to post them. So, screw it.

After all the water toys were put away, and the towels were drying on the deck next to the big bags of bottles and cans, all I could think was: "Man, are we lucky!" To have so many really nice, funny, wonderful people in our lives, how much more can anyone ask for? Plus, with the property values crashing the way they are, no one can sell their house and move away for a very long time!

I'm goin' back to Cinci, to Cinci, to Cinci....

This week I am prepping for yet another trip to Cincinnati Children's hospital to have doctors peering at Joe looking for still more previously undetected defects. Honestly, this poor baby has been under the microscope since our 18-week ultrasound. Just like looking at the word "usual" for too long, anything begins to look wrong if you stare at it long enough.

What we are looking for this time is whether the growth on his pituitary gland has grown, and if it has, then find out what kind of cells they are. On his list of stuff-to-do: Barium swallow study, hearing test, MRI of brain, Pulmonology consult, Broncoscopy, and I think that's it. All I know is that I just don't have time to deal with a brain tumor. Nursing school starts in less than a month, for pete's sake!

Joe has used Cincinnati Children's for almost all of his care since he was five months old. He sees Dr. Michael Rutter for his ENT needs (such as a crico-tracheal resection; laryngotracheal resection with rib graft (LTP, LTR); assorted broncs; tonsils/adenoids; and a aortopexy last summer {not done by Dr. Rutter, but by Dr. Alonzo, a heart surgeon there}). If you ever have a kid with a massively screwed up airway, and want a good laugh at the same time, Dr. Rutter's your man. Get thee to Cincinnati by hook or by crook. They're worth it.

However, while I love it in Cincinnati, I am looking forward to Joe being released from Dr. Rutter's care. I am sick of sitting in the little room hearing about more bad stuff just waiting to get fixed. Last time, Dr. R. threw out the term "Chiari Malformation" as a possible explanation for Joe's sleep apneas. Oh, thanks, let me worry about his spinal cord now. So here's hoping I get the "Have a good life" speech this time.

Ode to Julia

Here's a Julia with the middle name of "Louis":

Here's a Julia who can make a ratatouille:

Here's a Julia who's always named "Best Dressed":

Here's a Julia I love above the rest:

Pet Peeves

Today, I explore one of my pet peeves. It has to do with the laundry. {As an aside, I find the term "pet peeve" funny. I always picture a fussy Brit in a velvet smoking jacket stroking an inbred longhaired cat, saying, "Have you met my pet, Peeve?"}

Anyway, I am doing laundry again, it's a shock, I know. And what do I find but a bunch of rolled up, sweaty socks that need to be cleaned. Ick. I have mentioned this to my menfolk about how disgusting it is to reach into someone ELSE's dirty sock to turn it right side out, and could they please take care of this before it hits the laundry chute? Now I just throw them into the wash as-is and let them come out as a dirty wet ball of cotton if need be. Screw them.

This always reminds me of the part in "The Sparrow" by Mary Doria Russell where the poor broken sodomized priest is forced to work in the laundry after his rescue. He does just fine with most of his tasks, but the unballing of the socks is really troublesome for him. It seems that the aliens cut all the tendons in his hands to make him more appealing and needy and now his fine motor skills just aren't what they oughta be. While I can't relate to all of this (never having been sodomized by aliens-ok, just once, but I didn't like it), I can certainly feel his pain vis-a-vis the monumentally selfish, self-centered, entitled SOBs who compel him to push his poor useless hands into their wet stinky socks just so they can have sparkling white whites in their sock drawers.

Darned Food Stylists

Went out to our friend's cottage yesterday. It was totally fun! The kids tubed, attempted waterskiing, played badminton, ghosts in the graveyard, you name it.

This post isn't about that.

No, instead it is about the totally cute and completely asinine task I was given by my dear friend Kathy- make these:




It was all going really well until I picked the sticks up out of the soaking water. Apparently, the food stylists at Kraft or wherever predrilled the holes into the asparagus used for the above pic. I, in my ignorance, just attempted to jam them through the chlorophyll-laden cell walls all willy-nilly. For my troubles, I pierced my hand at least five times, and split the ends of the asparagus so they would not stay on the stick. Finding my mojo, I successfully managed to get the little buggers on right, except my sticks were about one inch apart at the bottom and five inches apart near the top. Grrr.

Kathy, in all her helpfulness, offered to finish up for me, as it appeared that I was thinking evil thoughts about the evening's side dish. With no piercing or splitting, she managed to make two lovely rafts in about 20 seconds. Snot.

Darned good asparagus, though.

Frankie Says...

I saw this bottle of wine at Costco to bring to a friend's cottage this weekend. My question is this:

Can anyone of a certain age (say, like around mine) see this word and NOT think, "Don't do it! If you wanna go to it. Relax, don't do it, when you want to come..."

Speaking of which, do you remember when they would play "Mony Mony" at high school dances, and everyone would scream, "GET LAID! GET F****D!"? Or maybe it was just me and my friends doing that. Anyway, I can't believe the school honchos would even let the DJ play that. Ha. Good times.

Please excuse me as I brush up on my moves for "The Bird". Morris Day was truly a forgotten musical genius, don't you agree?

"Come on now! Whawk! Hallelujah! Who-o-o-oa!"

Happy Birthday to Me!

Tra-la! I'm now thirty-eight! Yikes! That's getting really close to forty. Here is a pic of me in my birthday suit (the only one anyone would be willing to view, besides Tim!) It was my present from Tim and the boys.

But oh well, in the words of my fave coffee mug, "I'd worry about getting older if I weren't still so darn CUTE!" So there.

To celebrate (yesterday, the actual day) Tim's mom took all three boys for the day, and my friend Kathy and I trekked out to a very chi-chi part of town to tiptoe through the tulips at the Northville Garden Walk. (cue the Tiny Tim ukelele bit) We went through some truly amazing specimens of horticultural artistry, then went to lunch at a cool cafe in downtown Northville called Edward's. I had an awesome sammich with Havarti cheese, caramelized balsamic onions, tomatoes, and basil, along with tomato-basil soup. I enjoyed it so much I am attempting to recreate it at home today for dinner. The boys are gone with friends to their cottage, so we can have grown-up vittles. It is supposed to be vegetarian, but the Havarti cheese makes it not vegan. Bummer. I'm trying.

True Confessions

I will admit it: I don't really always like being around my kids. I just got in my almost-thirteen-year-old son's face at 9:30 at night (literally, I was holding his face and yelling into it). He was supposed to be practicing piano, and didn't want to. Now that I have that in print, I think perhaps I may have overreacted.

Whatever, I am sick and tired of the attitude and general snarkiness that rules my life since these kids have gotten off school. We all went away for a very fun weekend up North, and it was great, and the buzz from that should have carried us all for more than 12 hours, don't you think?
But no, if my children do not want to do something, then we all have to listen to much bellyaching and whining and pissing and moaning, and frankly, I'm just tired of it. If I ask you to help with dishes, then just do it. If you need to take a shower, do I really have to hear that you haven't sweat in the three days since your last one? If it's time to go to bed, I mean NOW, not in five or ten or fifteen minutes from now.

I realized today that I have been letting my boys get away with far too much crap that my mom would have beaten out of us. I need to go channel her now. Now, where did I put that Ouija board?

Happy Birthday, Nick!

Today's not the official day, it was yesterday, but here are all the highlights:

Nick woke up saying, "Hey Mom, guess what? I'm nine!" and repeated it for most of the day. Still can't believe it no matter how many times he says it.

So after yelling at him and Alex yet again for being unkind to each other, the rest of the day went pretty well. The party was at 4:00, and the guests were:

Aunt Doni and Caitlin

Aunt Janice

Aunt Doranne

Uncle Dan

Grandma

Mr. and Mrs. B, Alex, Emma, Jonathan, Lily

Mom, Dad, Alex, Joe



The menu was:

BBQ chicken

Mac n' cheese

fruit salad

green goop

pretzel jello

coleslaw

The presents were:

Catcher's mitt from Mom and Dad

2 "Michigan Chillers" books from Alex

A Red Wings t-shirt from Grandma, along with a check

A bag of t-shirts and some shorts from Aunt Doranne

A trip to Build-A-Bear Workshop from Aunt Doni

Cash from Aunt Jannie and Uncle Dan

Here's how cute his cake turned out:

All in all, it's good to be nine.

Are these not the most adorable baseball cupcakes you've ever seen in your life? I know, hold your applause, and I will look away modestly. I may not be giving Duff Goldman any competition, but in my house today, especially in the eyes of my newly nine-year-old son, I am the "Ace of Cupcakes"!

But like most things in life, if I only showed you the good stuff, you would have a false idea of my culinary talents, and that's sort of scummy. So, in the interest of equal time, let me share with you my lovely pretzel jello:

Somehow, I managed to get the jello UNDER the pretzel layer, the pretzels in the middle, and the cream cheese and berries laying naked and exposed on top. The potluck gods would have my head!

Honestly, I thought that by the time I had reached my advanced age and skill level in the kitchen, I would not have this type of outcome anymore. Maybe it's just God's way of keeping me feeling young and inexperienced, like adult acne or bad hair days. Boy, if that's the case, I think I'm regressing to about age 5!

Now, here are three things that I made that I'm positive will turn out well:

In the good ole summertime...

It's official: summertime is here. Do you know how I know? Because I locked the kids out of the house today after giving them $1 apiece, and told them to get lost. Maybe I was a bit nicer, and said, "Happy exploring!" but the thought was the same. They were not allowed to come home for at least an hour, and were required to be on their bikes the whole time.

Can you tell that I am getting a little twitchy with the Playstation/Disney Channel/general crap the kids have been doing so far this summer? I remember when cartoons were only played on Saturday mornings, so once we woke up in the summer, out of the house we went. To the library, to the pool, to the corner store.

Now my kids wake up at noon and lay like giant slugs if given the opportunity. Ugh.

Hence, my lockout episode. I will try to find them some cool things to do, but if all else fails, I'm locking their little unimaginative butts out.

Pop Psych

I finally finished A&P II! Yippee! I thought I was getting a "B" but somehow some way I managed an "A". So now I am trying to figure out what to do with all the room in my brain that was being spent in constantly feeling as if I didn't know enough to pass Anatomy, and needing to continually whip out "Martini's Atlas of the Human Body" at inconvenient times just to cram some more book learnin' in. I know what I know, and the professor says I know enough. Huh.

Tomorrow I start my Psychology class. The last time I took any Psych was when people were still saying "psych!" when they were messing with you. I know, I date myself. I began to read the first chapter of the book, and I am trying really hard not to get a bad attitude just from the introductory material. Such as, "When rearing children, it is always best to ignore bad behavior, since that is what will be rewarded when you give it attention. Far better to focus on the behavior you wish your child to emulate." Seriously?? My kid is throwing rolls across a restaurant or heaving himself onto the floor, and I'm just gonna look the other way? Umm, let me think about that...no.

I think, though, that this is where all the crappy parents have come from. (I know that was bad grammar, but tough tots.) Really, if everyone who has been college educated in the last twenty years has taken these classes, and believed everything that has been taught there, no wonder they are in a dither about when to potty train, whether to spank, allowing their kids to say "I hate you", or any number of other pitfalls. I'll tell you when my kids can express their hatred toward me: When I can reciprocate. Until then, we will all make nice even if it kills us.

It's a Grand Old Life*

My attitude lately has not been great. I have been feeling very overwhelmed with schoolwork, house, kids, kids' appointments, meal prep, life, etc., etc., etc. I have been really whiny and feeling the need to tell everyone how busy I am. Yeah, like everyone else isn't. And I've been stomping around the world feeling very put-upon and babyish and petulant. Most especially to Tim and the boys, since they live here, I own them, and they probably won't leave me just yet. But I shouldn't push it.

Anyway, I was praying about this, and trying to use "The Power of Positive Thinking" and getting rid of all my negative garbage, and here's what I've come up with: I have a great husband who is willing to let me take off during the busiest time of every weeknight so I can take required courses to get my nursing degree. He feeds the kids, takes all three to baseball practice, waters the garden, cleans the dishes. You get the picture. And I'm just mean to him.

I get to learn really cool things (even though I'm kinda done with the coolness of Anatomy) and all I have to do is make dinner to put in the crockpot so it's done when the guys wanna eat. Waaah.

I always hear people talking about God speaking to them in prayer. It's funny, but I always hear my mom's voice. As in, "It seems to me like some little girl could be appreciative about the good stuff she has." Or, "At least you don't have to go to school, work, and raise your kids on your own, like other people in your classes."

So, as I sat on the deck today, studying in the sunshine, I decided to count my blessings instead of my chores. Number one: sitting on the deck studying in the sunshine while my husband works to provide for all of us.

Number two: sitting right next to a big lilac bush that is stinkin' up my whole yard like Heaven.

Number three: Having a sweet bunch of little boys who need and want me even when I'm a raving shrew.

*The title of this post is a quote of my mom's: "It's a grand old life if you don't weaken."

I miss her.

Life's Messy...Clean It Up!

OK, so today, I have done something that I have overlooked for the past 18 weeks as I have exhaustively (or should I say exhaustEDly) been studying anatomy.

Lately, I have become aware of a certain, shall we say, funky odor in my house. I don't know what it's from, but there comes a time when you have to get rid of the stinky smell in the house. So, I made Tim and the boys move out. No, not really. Because as cute as they are, they really have no skills for survival that I have seen, so to throw them out would be really cruel. (Tim would probably do OK, though. He's a grownup.)

No, what I did was: CLEAN MY HOUSE. Again, just because I stay at home does not mean that this happens regularly. Today, I filled my little bucket with Pine-Sol and actually mopped the floors and dusted the furniture. I know, it sounds simple, but I'm not kidding when I say that I had dog-hair tumbleweeds blowing under my furniture the size of a Shi-Tzu.

So now I feel like I do after nookie: I wonder why it took me so long to do it again. Because although I could have done a lot of other things, it is strangely satisfying when you're done.

Although I think that having a two-foot human trailing after me chanting "Mama, Mama Mama Mama" (his only clear word; believe me, the magic of hearing "Mama" is gone) is part of the experience I could do without. My semi-mute son delights in standing on the step I'm trying to sweep, or standing behind me as I whirl around to wipe something off, then gets outraged when I scream, "Move!" Or he will try to dip the broom into the mop bucket. Or throw his cars under the dining room table that I just put back in his toybox. Sigh.

So now I'm off to Border's to buy a book that purports to explain why my husband and son think and read so slowly, and fix it. (Here's a thought: FOCUS! But that's just me being negative.)

Clean Living

So I'm reading a lot of stuff lately about organic food, and how good it is for you, how important to make life changes, blah blah blah.

My question is this: Why should I have to pay more for food to be grown the way it is supposed to be grown in the first place? I read a story a couple of years back about people getting e.coli poisoning from green onions that were tainted with soiled water in the fields. These were later sold, and got into salsa that the people ate.

I imagine a conversation something like this:

Veggie Guy: "Well, ma'am, we have two types of vegetables available for you to purchase. They both look green and healthy, but if you want the ones that did not get irrigated with water from cow feces, it's gonna cost you a couple of bucks more. So, which will it be? Fecal veggies or non-fecal veggies? Your choice.

Me: "Um, I guess the fecal veggies. The organic ones just seem to cost so much more..."

No, I don't think so. So now I have to go be a health nut and start shopping at the local Whole Foods store so I don't have to consume poop in my food, along with pesticides and other non-tasty comestibles. That sucks, if you'll pardon my scatological language. (Scat pun intended.)

I have a crazy idea! Why don't America's farmers get some of their pride back and just quit selling crap that shouldn't be broken down by human bodies? I don't want a bunch of rainbow-colored additives in my family's food. I just want to feed the little buggers a couple of meals a day that won't cause them to get cancer when they're 40. Is this too much to ask?

Until then, does anyone know how in the h**l to cook amaranth or quinoa?

Real Mathletes

I have been astounded lately by the stuff I hear while I'm quietly going about my business. The other night, I heard an Allstate commercial that was talking about the need for retirement planning and how they can help. The tag line was, "We can help with the third half of your life."

Huh?

By definition, there is no such thing as a third half. There can really only be two. At least, that's what the nuns told me at St. Alphonsus, and I have no reason to doubt their veracity at this juncture.

It's the same thing as people who proudly claim, "I give 110% in everything I do!" Good for you, pal. Maybe you could give 120% to learning math. You cannot give more than 100%. It's just impossible. 100% is the most that there is. What's so hard to grasp here?

I know that I'm being a nitpicking dork, and I am certainly no math booster (If you can't be a mathlete, you can still be a mathematics supporter.) but come on, people! Get a little specific with your figures, huh?

We Are Not the Osbournes, Are We?

So I'm trying to download a song that Alex wants onto my iPod. He wants Greenday's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams", but when I google the lyrics, I see that the f-word is included in them. I looked around for any downloadable radio edits, but there are none to be found.

This sent me into a quandary of moral relativism. Is it really so bad to allow my son to hear a song with only one bad word in it, when the rest of the song is really good? And really, he will hear it anyway, with me not having the cleanest mouth on the block and all. And he will probably hear much worse as he grows up. Why, I used to listen to Prince's "Dirty Minds" album, and it didn't kill me!

Then I called a friend of mine, who is very clear-headed, and she told me that it is one thing for him to hear it on the radio once, quite another to have it at his disposal whenever he wants it. Oh, all right. I guess I can't really send the kid to a Lutheran school, take him to church every week, then not follow through on his media consumption. Also, as his mom, it is different if I BUY it for him than for him to sneak it, like I did with Prince and my mom.

So, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" is not on my iPod, and I am bummed. Why do they have to wreck a whole song with just one word? They could have used "messed up" or "fluffed up" or any number of other words to fill that spot. Grrrr.

Wipe N' Dipe

I have decided that my real job description as a housewife should be this: WIPER. No frills, no flowery wording. Just what I do.

A normal day looks like this: wipe my teeth, wipe my face, wipe makeup off and put it back on.

Wipe the baby's bottom, wipe the baby's teeth, wipe the baby's face. Repeat as necessary.

Wipe the breakfast dishes, wipe the sink, wipe the counter, wipe the stove. Repeat as necessary after every meal.

Wipe the glass, wipe the dust, wipe the dog hair off the floor.

Wipe that smile off your face, wipe the slate clean, wipe the day off the calendar.

Repeat until you die, or get a housekeeper, whichever comes first.

Dirty Knees, Happy Mommy

So, yesterday I took Joe to the park for the first time to play on the jungle gym. He's two already, but last year he was not walking, and still had the trach in, so playing at the park with its dirt and pollen floating in the air was not high on my priority list.

But this year, he has learned to walk, and climb, and has no trach, so he is basically just a different boy than last year. I watched him climb the stairs, go down the slide, and scale a small incline (30 times!) that must have been like a mountain to him. A couple of times, he fell in the dirt, and ended up with dirty knees. I got a little teary-eyed, because two years ago I wasn't even sure if he would be alive at this point, and if he was, would he just be sitting in a stroller or wheelchair watching everyone else having fun? But no, that has not been his fate. In fact, to look at him yesterday, he was just like all the other kids, if a little tippier than most since he is a recent convert to the walking world.

I used to look at all the other little kids and be so angry and jealous that their moms just got to have fun with their kids, and I had to turn into a nurse for Joe. Well, yesterday I was just like the other moms, and it was sweet. I don't know why he has had to deal with all the pain and surgeries he has had, or why he can't just be "normal" like everyone else. But for a short time yesterday, there were no worries about the tests coming up, or the challenges he will face. It was just a mom, a boy, and a pair of dirty knees.

10 Years From Now...

I was carrying the groceries in today and was struck by how filthy my front storm door was. The handprints, lipmarks, and general yuck comes courtesy of my two year old little angel. He seems to think that glass doors are just not right unless there is a huge streak of Joe goo across them.

That got me to thinking...

In 10 years, I will no longer have any babies to leave handprints about two feet high.

I will find out whether Joe will be able to talk, sing, and attend school.

I will not buy diapers, wipes, or trip over a potty chair in my bathroom.

I will not have any more artwork made by clumsy little hands that practically seeps as much love as it does glue.

I will be living with my husband, and only two boys, as my oldest should be done with college about then. My middle son will be graduating high school.

I will have a couple of initials after my name. The first, I hope, is RN. The second is MSN (Master's of Science in Nursing), and the third is CRNA (certified registered nurse anesthetist).

I will be approaching my thirtieth wedding anniversary. 28 years, to be exact.

I will have a few stamps in my passport, which now is sadly lacking them.

I will have met people who may become good friends, and I will have lost others who mean a lot to me.

I will have changed my hair, my glasses, my weight, and my clothes from the way they look today.

What will not have changed is my love for the people closest to me, the faith I have in God, and the knowledge that no matter how much I plan, I have no idea what any phase of my life is going to bring. My children will have struggles, my husband and I will too, but we don't know what they will be until we step into the fire and emerge on the other side. I can hardly wait to see what God has in store!

"F" as in ....

Well, a big milestone yesterday. Not one that will get commemorated on a scrapbook page though. My eldest son, the one to whom the younger ones will look for inspiration, has just lowered the bar of family grades: he got his first F. In religion, of all things. Not to underestimate its importance, but really, how do you get an F in Religion? That's like failing an adult enrichment class. Sheesh.

So now, he has no other choice but to knuckle down for the next six weeks. No Playstation, no phone, no computer games. Man, my life is gonna suck. Those are all the carrots I use instead of beating him with sticks. Guess I'll have to go out back and cut me a switch now.

Let the fun begin.

Just Another Manic Monday...

When my husband and I decided to get married, we (meaning I) managed to pull together the whole thing within five weeks. Tim had, by then, already transferred to Wisconsin to start a new job. In those five weeks, I lined up a dress, a caterer, booked the church and fellowship hall for the reception, planned the cake, attended a shower, picked out my Maid of Honor's dress, ordered invitations, planned the menu and continued to work at my job at The Limited. Tim was responsible for: showing up. Oh, and he had to get a suit bought and tailored, but I went along on that trip too.

Fast forward 17 1/2 years, and not much has changed. This morning, I woke up at 6:20 AM, plugged the coffee in, answered emails, fed the dog, drank a cup of coffee, and hit the shower by 6:50. I was dressed and made up by 7:20. From there, I pressed Nick's pants for school, made two lunches and stuck them in boxes, reminded the kids to get their hair combed, teeth brushed, and eat breakfast. I then (about 7:30) got the baby out of bed, dressed him (including hair and teeth), fed him and tube-fed him a bottle. I let the dog out, got the baby's coat on, and pushed all three boys into the minivan by 7:53 to pick up our carpool buddies.

Tim's morning went like this: At 7:10, get in the shower. Shave, get dressed, walk out the door by 7:30.

There are times when I really wish I had been born with a penis.

There is a common fallacy about women who choose to be stay-at-home moms (SAHMs, in ‘net lingo). It isn’t about our commitment to our children or husband, it isn’t that we want to be able to provide warm nutritious meals for our families, and it isn’t that we LOVE running errands and driving on field trips. No, it’s that we love to clean. Tell someone that you stay home with your kids, and the first response is a snarky, “Oh, gotta work on that stubborn waxy buildup on the kitchen floor, huh?”

Let me be the first to say, I did not like to clean when I worked, and that feeling has not increased since I’ve been home. You cannot see yourself in my dishes. You cannot eat off my floor. Sometimes, it’s ill-advised to eat off my plates if you’re not sure what stage the dishwasher is in. So, let’s let go of the Donna Reed ideal already, huh?

I stayed home for a lot of reasons. The first of which was that I am essentially too cheap to pay my entire paycheck to a daycare center. The second was that my second son, had he been in a daycare, would have been booted out unceremoniously by the second week. Even at two, he would have been labeled “incorrigible”. I also like the fact that I do not have to rearrange my schedule if someone starts a fever, needs a ride to baseball practice, or wants me to go along on a really cool field trip.

So, while I used to wonder what women did who stayed at home all day, I now know that not all of us use the time to buff and polish the house. Sometimes it’s enough just to buff and polish my kids’ faces before their Dad comes home, you know?

The thigh bone's connected to the knee bone...

No, actually, I am all done learning about bones. This week, I will be working on the muscles of the back of the body. I know all the ones on the front. And no, Tim, I don't need any help finding muscles on a live model. I don't think that's a muscle anyway.

My favorite muscle so far is the orbicularis oculi. Say it a few times, and you'll see what I mean. This is the muscle that goes all the way around your lips and allows you both to kiss and also purse your lips when you suck a lemon (or just want to look prissy).

Still waiting for news about getting into the Nursing Program in the fall. I do, however, get to sign up for the 8-week session of Anatomy II. I am not looking forward to this at all. Anatomy I was a lot of info to process in 16 weeks, and now I'll have half as much time? Oy. Must get caught up on laundry, meals, and toilet cleaning now, as these will not be done for the 8 weeks starting May 1. "What, you want to eat AGAIN?! Can't you see that Mommy's trying to STUDY?! Here, just go play with this role of tape, ok?"

And in the background Cat Stevens is crooning, "The cat's in the cradle with the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man on the moon...when you comin' home mom I don't know when, but we'll get together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then."

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Today I taught the boys how to make pillowcases. I have been doing a bunch for Cincinnati Children's Hospital, so I asked them if they wanted to learn, too. Being the enlightened, modern men that they are, they agreed.

One day, their wives will be so impressed. I can hear it now: "You can cook? And you know how to do laundry? And you can SEW? Holy crap, I don't even know how to sew!"

So, it will either be a major selling point for them to get hot babes, or it will make the chicks question their masculinity. Hard to say at this juncture. But in the meantime, they will have totally awesome pillowcases to dream on.


Instructions:

Take a one-yard piece of fabric and lay it flat, selvage edges together, right sides together. Run one end through the serger, turn fabric and run long edge through the serger. Trim top with scissors to cut off fringy things. Fold over 1 inch and press to form hem for casing. Fold over 2 inches and press again. Sew with regular sewing machine about 1/4 inch from edge. Turn right side out and voila! You have the pillowcase!

**Note: Make sure the pattern on your fabric looks OK with selvages together. This works best with allover prints.**

How Connected Are They?

Last night, I was putting my two-year-old son to bed. I said prayers with (for) him, and as I was tucking him in, I said, "Joe, one day, you will speak. You will communicate with us, sing, and praise God. Just you wait." With that, he pointed heavenward with a smile on his face, and put his hands together in prayer. Yep, like that, Joe.

Funny how a kid who can't speak somehow manages to communicate his point just right.

Inaugural Post

Welcome to my blog! It is named "Missing Filter" because I am often accused of using my mouth first, then realizing that most people do not blurt out something just because it goes through their mind. Thus, I have concluded that my filter is missing.

This is not always a bad trait; although if I let it go too far, I will be like the crazy lady by my school growing up. We all called her "Scratch". She was always wearing a wool coat, even in the summer, and when you walked by, she was constantly muttering under her breath. I wonder if she ever got busted for a missing filter, too?