HAPPY FACES (AND OTHER KINDS, TOO)

What, exactly, constitutes a happy face? Well, here are a few examples from our vacation, in case you aren’t sure:

PS. I'm sure those of you without high speed internet do NOT have happy faces right about now, as you realize this is less of a journal entry and more like my own personal vacation photo album. And you dial-up people are basically screwed.
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Although you can’t really see it, Brayden has a happy face here, since she is enjoying her life’s passion -- collecting every single solitary water bug from the pool:





The happy faces here are pretty evident:





But just in case you can’t see them, let me show you a close up:





And not to be outdone, here are a few more happy faces:






Here, we’ve pretty much crossed the happy line, into “gleeful” territory (Well, the girls anyway. I think their cousin was getting a little bored):






Here, not so much. This is more of a “Crap, now that I’ve gotten up, how do I keep from falling?” sort of face (and on second thought, the look on my face right now is pretty much horrified, as I realize I've just shared a photo of myself in a bathing suit on the internet):






Here, the face isn’t happy, but trust me, the spirit was. Overjoyed, in fact. But the face was concentrating, really really hard:






Here, there is slight anticipatory happiness because we think it will be fun. Quickly, we (and by we, I mean ME) realize our error:






Ok, this was basically a look of sheer terror that my brother in law was going to flip me right off the innertube. I wasn’t worried about my daughter at all. At this point, it was all about self-preservation:




Oh, wait ….. now I remember, this is fun!





And here is the happiest face of the entire vacation. You think she isn’t proud of herself? Think again. Neither her brother nor sister had gotten up yet in their attempts, and she wasn’t about to let us forget she was FIRST TO SKI, BABY, FIRST TO SKI!!! Essentially, we didn’t need to worry about a life preserver, because her head was swelling up so big I have no doubt it could have served as a flotation device in the event it was necessary. Which it totally wasn’t, because not only did she get up, she didn’t fall either.






And here’s another close up, in case you had any doubt:





Two thumbs up, everyone!!! (Which is sign language for "I totally rock, people!"):





And although there is no picture, you should see the smile on MY face, now that it appears I have (finally!) figured out the webspace/host issue and can once again play music on this site. Not only play music, but store both music and pictures on a site with plenty of bandwidth. The happiness I’m feeling has no equal. Picture me doing the cabbage patch around my office, spinning in happy circles, arms outstretched, throwing myself a ticker tape parade, giddy with joy …. No, wait, that’s certainly not an image you need burned into your retinas. Just trust me that I’m SO glad to have it all figured out finally. And if you’re here, and not hearing music, and not seeing any of the pictures above, then just forget the whole thing, because I will formally give UP!!!!!

Kristie

PS #1: Close your internet ears, please.

&**$#^$(^$#^$#^$&#*^$*&#^$&#^$ !!!!!!

IHATETECHNOLOGY!!!! I spent hours, HOURS, figuring out (and by "figuring out", I mean "harrassing the tech support people at my new web host server") until I got the music to work. So you'd think, wouldn't you, that the pictures would be done the same way? But apparently they are not. Or maybe they are, and I'm just too dense to make it work. Because heaven forbid it make sense, or work in a logical fashion. NO, that would be too easy. Because then what would I complain about, if not for the level and depth of my hatred for internet technology that is over my head??? But I can tell you I'm not wasting another minute’s sleep trying to understand it. Oh, no. Now, granted, I'll waste all the sleeping time in the world, logged on here, bitching about it, but as soon as I'm done loading the photos up the OLD way, it's off to bed for me!!!

PSS. Really? There are that many of you that watch The Real World? Well, ok, if you say so. I have no idea who it was, since I stopped watching MTV about fifteen years ago, when they stopped showing music videos!!! :) But according to the guy next to me, it was a male participant (sorry, I just can't bring myself to say "actor" or "celebrity") from the San Diego series. (Was there a San Diego series?) He looked to be medium to big build, with short, curly dark hair. From the back, he totally looked like Peter Brady. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and say, YES, it was Peter Brady!!! (except I think he's on a VH1 reality show, so what the heck do I know?)

THE JOURNEY HOME….

As we drove to the airport, and I dribbled chocolate almond ice cream down the front of my yellow t-shirt, leaving a huge brown blobby stain on my right boob, I thought to myself, “Well, this is unfortunate, but at least it will give me something to blog about.”

When we arrived at the airport, only to discover our flight was delayed by two hours, leaving me to entertain three bored children who thought having a peanut war would be a fun way to pass the time, I thought to myself, “Well, this is unfortunate, but at least it will give me something to blog about.”

When I realized a boy I had gone to high school with was sitting across the waiting area of the terminal from me, and I was too embarrassed to say hello, for fear he would see the big stain on my boob and remember what a slob I am, or worse, pretend not to remember me at all, I thought to myself, “Well, this is unfortunate, but at least it will give me something to blog about.”

When we crowded into the subway-train-thing at the airport, the one that starts and stops incredibly quickly, and I was so busy yelling at my children to grab hold of the rail before the train takes off and throws them to the ground ….. so busy, that I forgot to grab hold of the railing myself, and the train took off, and threw me to the ground, and I managed to knock a few suitcases over on the way down before landing on my face at the feet of a total stranger, I thought to myself, “Well, this is unfortunate (and extremely freaking embarrassing) but at least it will give me something to blog about.”

And then we got on the plane, and I sat next to the nicest young man ever. He was kind to my children, visited pleasantly, happily summoned the flight attendant for us, graciously got out of his seat so we could visit the restroom, pointed out the MTV Real World celebrity sitting three rows up, and even passed our empty cups and trash to the attendant with a smile on his face, and I thought to myself, “Damn. What am I going to write about now?”

But we are home, and unpacked. Final photos of the trip in a day or two, since I’m sure you’re waiting with baited breath.

SIMPLE SUMMER TRAVEL SUGGESTIONS # 11 - 20

AKA. SURVIVING A DAY AT THE AMUSEMENT PARK

11. When climbing on the first ride of the day, a frontward-backwards loop-de-loop roller coaster with your son, it might be a good idea to take your cell phone out of your pocket so as not to lose it on the upside down portion of the ride. It might NOT, however, be a good idea to take it out of your pocket while you are simultaneously boarding the coaster, otherwise a person -—not a coordinated person like me, of course, but a person-- might drop the phone between the car and the railing, causing it to fall thirty feet to the platform below. That could POSSIBLY happen. To an uncoordinated person. Not like me. PS. If you happened to call me on Thursday and leave a message on my cell phone, you might want to call back, as apparently being dropped a distance of thirty feet will knock the battery off and erase all messages. Not that I would know or anything.

12. Make sure your travel companions have all eaten breakfast before arriving at the park, otherwise someone, just say, for example, your sister or somebody like that, might try and use the “Are you kidding?? I can’t ride those wild kinds of rides on an empty stomach” excuse, and you’ll be stuck braving the MindBender seven times in a row with your oldest nephew.

13. Remember that no part of your body is as young as it used to be, including both your stomach and your equilibrium, and that riding the tilt-a-whirl three times in a row is no where near the thrilling, madcap adventure it was in the past. Now, more than once on a ride that spins around like that, and it’s a sure-fire recipe for nausea and headache, causing you to exclaim in wonderment to the other adults in your party, “I don’t understand; when I was younger I could ride these things all day long!”

14. The suggestion for keeping your feet dry on the log ride by raising them slightly in the air (while riding in the log) is not only ineffectual, but will in fact result in nothing more than an unseemly cramp in your hip, which you will be unable to do anything about for the duration of the ride, due to the “No standing while ride is in motion” rule.

15. In the event the children do not get wet enough on the log ride, be prepared to ride the river rapid ride as many times as it takes until every person in the inner-tube boat is completely soaked. One single, solitary dry inch of skin or clothing is cause to ride again. Afterwards, be prepared to referee animated discussion amongst children about who is “the most soakeder!”

16. Be aware that, for whatever reason, all rides from your youth have been re-named. The Tilt-A-Whirl is now the Tornado (perhaps a nod to our Oklahoma weather heritage?); the Mexican Hat ride is now the Casino; and the Scrambler is now the Sidewinder. Not sure exactly why these changes have been made, but they can cause great confusion between the adults about where the group is to meet later.

17. The most definite way possible to vault yourself into “Favorite Aunt” status is to ride the Mexican Hat ride Casino with your four-year old nephew twice in a row, since his puny, weak, non-breakfast-eating mother can’t do it. Trust me, the motion-sickness you feel initially will be worth it to see the smile on his face.

18. Be prepared to take out a bank loan in order to pay for lunch. Apparently it requires the equivalent of the national debt to buy three hot dog baskets and soft drinks.

19. A ratio of nine children to three adults looks easier on paper than it actually is.

20. Remind yourself that the happiness of your children is worth every wet ride, hip spasm, and nausea-inducing moment. The giggles, the shrieks of laughter, the joy of spending time with their cousins ...... and if nothing else, console yourself with the fact they will be exhausted by the end of the day and go to bed without any fuss. And really, isn’t that the ultimate parenting goal, not only on vacation, but all the days of our life????

Dear Mr. Business Traveler in Seat 17C:

Dear Mr. Business Traveler in Seat 17C:

Because it appeared to me, based on your grumpy demeanor, and incredibly ugly shiny black suit, that you must not have a very happy or cheerful personality, I thought I would take this opportunity, in the Land of Positive Feedback, to tell you a few things you did on the flight from Atlanta to Oklahoma City last Thursday that did NOT bother me. Then you can take this information, and constructive criticism, and work a little harder on your Happy Traits, and perhaps forge a better, friendlier bond with the next Mom Who Happens To Be Flying With Her Children that you encounter. Because I seriously suspect that you don’t have many friends, and of course my ultimate goal in life is to help Crabby People Like Yourself improve themselves. So here are a few pointers, from me to you, with love:

It did NOT bother me when you saw my children and me walk down the aisle to the empty seats surrounding you on the airplane, and your face immediately transformed into that of a person who just found a three-month old dish of soured yogurt in the back of his fridge, or someone who just stepped in dog poo-poo with their bare feet. I would like to point out to you, however, that there were only three of them. Not ten, not twenty. Three. And please take note for next time of their ages. I had no crying newborns, fussy babies, or demanding toddlers. Really, it shouldn’t have been so horrifying for you. My children, with the exception of the Fart-Knocker episode, were actually pretty well-behaved. As were the three young children sitting in front of them, in case you didn’t notice.

It did NOT bother me when both you and the equally grumpy man across the aisle refused to change seats so me and my kids could all sit somewhat together. (I’m lying, this totally bothered me, but I’m trying to be positive here.) But perhaps next time you should realize that if you insist on sitting between me and my children, (I can only assume because you are not willing to give up the aisle seat) that it is inevitable I will reach across you to hand things to my children, or talk across you to tell them things. Perhaps next time, instead of spending all your money on that ugly shiny black tie, you could spring for a first class ticket and avoid families like ours.

It did NOT bother me when you rolled your eyes and harrumph’ed under your breath the fifteenth time my children turned around to ask me if they could put down their trays yet. Perhaps you didn’t realize it, but they wanted to color and needed a flat surface to do that. It’s not that they were being stupid or obtuse or pestering me for the fun of it. Plus, to be completely frank, I don’t see where they were hurting you anyway. But just as a suggestion for the future, you should try to keep your opinions (and your obvious hatred of children) to yourself.

It did NOT bother me, when you asked in a sarcastic tone, if Disney World was running a free airline special, as “every flight you’ve been on this week was full of kids.” Comments like this, while perhaps intended to convey your disdain at having to travel with us, simply re-affirmed my original suspicion that you (thank goodness) do not have children yourself. Otherwise you would know about a little thing called “Summer Break Vacations” that families take this time each year.

It did NOT bother me when you pretended to be asleep and not hear my youngest daughter turn around and tell me she needed to go to the bathroom. Or when you pretended not to hear me tell her that there was a line for the restroom in the back of the plane, and that I would walk her up to the restroom at the front of the plane. Not that it’s any of your business, but she had an upset tummy and needed to go to the bathroom right then, hence the reason for our urgency.

I’ll admit, it bothered me a little bit when I repeated myself, more loudly, so you could “wake up” and move out of my way so I could get out of my seat. And it bothered me a little more that you still pretended to be asleep, so I had to tap you on the shoulder and ask you to excuse me, so I could get out of my window seat and take my daughter to the bathroom.

No, all of these things I could overlook and forgive.

WHAT BOTHERED ME was when you refused to get your lazy self out of the seat for two seconds to STAND UP, STEP INTO THE AISLE, AND LET ME OUT OF MY SEAT TO TAKE HER TO THE RESTROOM. Are you kidding me????? Yes, I’m talking to you, Mr.-Turn-Your-Knees-To-The-Side-And-Lean-In-Like-People-Do-In-A-Movie-Theater-Man. For Heaven’s sake, we weren’t in the middle of a church pew …. YOU were the aisle seat, and you refused to get up!!!

Forcing me to grab hold of the seat in front of me for dear life, suck my stomach muscles in and squeeeeeeeeeeeze my rear end past your head, duck-walking to the aisle so I wouldn’t hit my head on the overhead bins, worrying all the while I would step on the toes of your astonishingly ugly shiny black shoes, or hit you in the head with my big fat butt. Which, of course, would have totally served you right, but my mother brought me up to have better manners than that.

So while many of these “endearing” personality traits of yours I was able to overlook, or ignore, that was pretty much the one (especially considering we repeated the duck-walk-stomach-in-butt-squeeze-dance when I returned from the restroom) that made me want to punch you in the neck. Repeatedly. You do NOT mess with a mother whose six-year old has an upset stomach on an airplane.

I think if you can remember that one simple rule, you’ll make lots of friends on your upcoming flights. Fortunately for me, we're flying home on a weekend, so I doubt we'll encounter you, Mr. Grumpy Business Man, but I do wish you luck in the future.

Best wishes,
Kristie

GIFTED PROGRAM RECALL

I’m not sure if it’s the sunshine, or sunscreen vapors, or chlorine, or lake water, but some part of this vacation appears to be sucking brain cells directly out of Kendrie’s head. This weekend my nephew had a ball game and afterwards our entire family went out to eat. The six grown ups sat at one end of the table, and the seven grandkids sat at the other end, eating and laughing and (believe it or not) behaving pretty well. After the meal was over, Kendrie needed to go to the restroom, so I went with her and we had the following conversation:

Kristie: “Are you having a fun time with your cousins?”

Kendrie: “Who?”

Kristie: “Your cousins.”

Kendrie: “Who?”

Kristie, wondering if maybe she’d been out in the sun too long: “Your COUSINS. You know, the four boys sitting with us at the table?”

Kendrie: “Oh, those aren’t my cousins, those are my friends.”

Kristie (laughing slightly): “Well, of course they’re your friends, but they’re also your cousins.”

Kendrie: “How’s that?”

Kristie: “Well, since Aunt Kelly and I are sisters, then all of our kids are cousins.”

Kendrie: “Says who? I don’t think that’s right.”

Kristie: “Of course it’s right. If two sisters or two brothers, or a brother and a sister, have kids, those kids are cousins. That’s the way it works.”

At this point, Kendrie gave me the most Oh-my-gosh-you-are-so-stupid-look, practically snorted in derision, and said in a completely condescending tone: “Uh, yeah. That’s only if you’re JEWISH!!!”

Whaaaaaaaaaaat????

We’ve got to end our vacation before the gifted teacher at her school rescinds the offer.

SIMPLE SUMMER TRAVEL SUGGESTIONS, NUMBERS 1 - 10

1. Early morning flights should be avoided at all costs. Waking children up at 5am in order to drive to the airport in time for a 9am flight can be tricky. There is always the chance that one child will wake up enthusiastic and agreeable, embracing rainbows and unicorns in her excitement; one child will be a mute zombie who doesn’t speak or acknowledge your presence in any way for three hours; and one child will manage to cry at least five times before leaving the house that morning. Only scenario #1 is pleasant, especially before sunrise, although scenario #2 can be tolerated.

2. It is suggested that you have all children try on their tennis shoes the night before you leave for vacation. If you wait until that morning, you will discover your oldest daughter has outgrown every pair of tennis shoes she has since school ended last month and be continuously subjected to her very loud, very whiny complaints about how you are forcing her to wear shoes that are too small and extremely uncomfortable and she will most likely be a cripple after this.

3. Allow plenty of time for the drive to the airport. Just because it is “normally” an hour and a half drive, do not assume it will be so every time. On some occasions, you will have forgotten to put gas in the car, the children will have extremely important last minute decisions to make, such as which stuffed animals get packed and which get left behind, traffic will be worse than normal, everyone will decide they are starving only half way there, and there is always the possibility that one of your children will suddenly get diarrhea and require a twenty-minute pit stop, just outside of the city.

4. The later you are for your flight, the harder it will be to find a drop-off parking space, the more crowded the airport will be with early-morning flyers, and the majority of self-check-in kiosks will be non-functioning. Also, the more children and carry-on bags you have with you, the farther from the escalator your gate will be. Or, if you are running extremely late, your gate will not only be at the end of the terminal, but it will be at the VERY end. Down a flight a stairs. Out a side door. Fifty yards down the tarmac. Which you will have to run to, through a maze of orange cones, dragging all the carry on bags behind you.

5. Do not feel smug about the way you oh-so-smartly packed snacks, books, and the portable DVD player in your carry-on bag, because when you are the last people to board the plane, you will suddenly realize that you are flying on a plane not much bigger than a puddle jumper and without any warning whatsoever, the flight attendant will take your smartly-packed bag and put it underneath the plane, rendering all your stay-busy-activities-for-children completely useless.

6. When you are unable to purchase seats together on the plane for you and your children, do not assume that the kindly strangers around you will be willing to change seats so your children do not have to sit alone. In fact, more on this later. It’s deserving of a separate journal entry, all to itself.

7. Always pack a long, pointy stick of some sort in your purse so when your child, seated one row up and three seats over, is misbehaving while the plane is in the air, you have something adequate for hitting them in the head and getting their attention. Finger-snapping and furious shushing will be worthless once you are in the air.

8. Threatening children with promises of strapping parachutes on their little bodies and then pushing them out the exit door, so they can float down and find new families to live with, are generally not met with approval by fellow passengers.

9. First line of defense, upon hearing your children gleefully yelling at one another on the plane, “You’re a fartknocker!” “No, YOU’RE a fartknocker!!” and then laughing hysterically at themselves, is to excuse yourself and hide in the airplane restroom for the remainder of the flight. In the event the restroom is occupied, simply stare intently at your Redbook magazine and pretend you don’t know them, as (see rule #7) finger snapping and shushing have already proven ineffectual.

10. In the event you are unable to follow any of these travel suggestions, wonder aloud if a 9am flight is too early for alcoholic beverage service.

OK. IT’S OFFICIAL. I AM CERTIFIABLE.

Kendrie -- 181 Days OT

Blaine -- Two and a half weeks out from radiation; finally not looking like a burn victim, but still not growing any hair on that side of his head or face. He said the good news is that it’s cut way down on his shaving time in the mornings.

First of all, thanks to all of you who wrote in the guestbook (have I mentioned lately how much I appreciate you guys for not only visiting our site, but leaving us messages? I’ll admit it, I’m an attention-junkie, and for a post to elicit that many responses ….. I LOVE that!) telling me that the “drowned rat” look was actually working for me, because due to whatever storm front moved through here, I did it again last night. Only the second night it was even **more** special because in addition to the rain, we had gale-force winds blowing … causing more than one parent’s (but thankfully not mine) umbrella to flip inside out in the stands. I’m telling you, it’s a miracle someone wasn’t blinded. (Yes, I made sure I had an umbrella in the van before leaving home this time.)

But, since it was the final game of the season, I’m not going to complain about the weather, although I do have to admit that while the first time was funny and exhilarating, the second time it was just wet. And after driving myself, Brayden, and Kellen home, soaking, dripping wet (the kids tried to dry off before sitting down, but all I could offer them were some Sonic napkins in the glove-box and a maxi-pad that I found in my purse) and then parking the van in the garage all night, where it was at least 90 degrees with 3000 percent humidity, the entire van reeks of mold and mildew. It’s like driving around in a soured milk carton. Ah, detailing it last month was certainly money well spent.

Anyway, I’m way off on a tangent now. Back to tonight’s topic: me, being insane.

Check out the number above, regarding Kendrie’s time off-treatment. One hundred eighty one days. That’s basically, six months. Six MONTHS, people, (technically, six months tomorrow) since we “formally” ended her chemo journey. Six months of eating ice cream before bed; (maybe that’s the *real* reason I still look pregnant?) six months of not planning our vacations around clinic visits; six months of living a relatively normal life. Six months of knowing we can give her Tylenol if she runs a fever without having to call her oncologist; six months of letting her catch frogs and tadpoles; six months of thankfulness for her continued good health.

And believe me, we KNOW that those are all good things, and we are grateful for each and every one. Especially the last one.

So why is it, when I took her to her follow-up visit at the clinic in Atlanta last Friday, I found myself feeling wistful? Dare I say, feeling nostalgic about the “good ole’ days”?

(It’s because I am insane.)

Please don’t get me wrong, I have no wish for her to EVER be sick again, or to return to the times of illness, stress, chemo side effects, worry and fear. NO, all too happy to be done with that part of it, thank you very much.

But the COMFORT of it all, I didn’t realize I had missed it, until we visited it again.

(Because I am insane.)

The comfort of walking into the Aflac Cancer Center at Scottish Rite and knowing we “belonged”. All those other bald little kids watching Toy Story in the waiting room while they waited to be called back for their appointments? Been there, and after awhile, felt comfortable doing that. Being greeted by name by Glitter Princess Kati at the check in desk, and running into two families that we had met at Camp Sunshine; good grief, do I actually miss the SOCIAL aspects of Kendrie’s cancer-life? Well, yes, I do.

I miss the friends we made while we were on treatment, and that we were able to see and visit when our paths crossed at the clinic. Catie, Keegan, Brandon, Madie, Jake, Brady, Mary Grace, Chandler, Gwen, CampJack, Jacob M, Joshua, and others; so many wonderful Atlanta families, and I miss them all.

Flashes of Hope had set up a portrait session in the clinic the day we were there and offered to take photos of Kendrie and me. I was excited for the chance (you should visit their website and see the quality work they do!) but a little flustered that I didn’t know about it ahead of time. I definitely would have dressed Kendrie in something nicer than her “Baseball is Life” t-shirt and cargo shorts. And maybe, if I’d gotten really ambitious, brushed her hair before leaving the house?? Dare I dream so large? They had a make up and hair artist there to primp everyone before each session. Perhaps not aware that Kendrie’s photo is in the dictionary under the word “tomboy” she asked if Kendrie would like a little lip gloss, or maybe a clip or bow in her hair? Kendrie just looked at her, I kid you not, with a total “What is this madness of which you speak?” horrified expression on her face. It was actually very, very funny.

Anyway, back to the fact I wasn’t aware they would be there ---- then I thought, how would I have known? We haven’t been to the clinic since April …. Do I expect them to call me every time they have something special like that planned?

(Yes, I do. Because I am insane. And high-maintenance.)

When we pulled into the parking garage at the hospital that morning, I noticed a new parking-pass type system set up, a sort of credit card for people who park there often. I felt a little indignant, like, when did they install this? How come no-one told me? How dare they make changes while I am away???

I’m like the pathetic girl who graduates from high school, only to return for a visit at a later time and feel surprised that life has gone on in my absence.

(That or I’m just insane.)

And it’s only going to get worse … Kendrie’s doctor has extended her follow-up visits from every two months to every three months. So we won’t even go back until September. She’ll continue to get monthly blood counts at our local lab, but still, after going to the Atlanta clinic two or three times a week at the beginning, and never less than monthly, no matter when, it often felt like our home away from home --- three months between visits will seem like a lifetime.

(To an insane person.)

And logically, in my head, I know that’s a good thing. It’s a GREAT thing! She’ll miss less days of school, and I won’t have to make the drive to Atlanta as often. Every day moves us farther and farther away from that dark period, and closer and closer to a time when Kendrie won’t have to go back at all. At this visit, her oncologist told us we could discontinue not only the two allergy pills she’s been taking every night for the last eighteen months, but also the nasty-tasting Bactrim antibiotic she’s been on this whole time. Did you hear that? NO MORE MEDS!!! AT ALL!!! We even let her take off the medic-alert bracelet she’s worn for over two years. (But naturally I saved it because again, you know me with the nostalgia!) Those are all great milestones!!! So why did it feel so bittersweet to pack away that bracelet?

(Still insane.)

Most of it, I’m more than happy, nay, THRILLED for her to be able to let go; steroids, port accesses, shots, chemo, steroids, nausea, fatigue, hair loss, steroids, worry over counts, lifestyle restrictions, steroids, did I mention steroids? And for the most part, ever since the bulk of her treatment ended in December, we’ve gone on and not looked back. I’ve never missed the “safety net” of chemo like I hear about other parents doing when their child ends treatment. I’ve never panicked that she’s going to relapse because we’re not pumping her full of toxins to keep the cancer at bay. Until Friday at the clinic, I had never really looked back.
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Well, I’ve been staring at this screen for twenty minutes, trying to figure out some way to wrap up this journal entry and make it into something comprehensible. I appear to be failing miserably. I’m not even sure what it was I was trying to say here ….. and whatever it was, I’m saying it poorly.

(Probably because I’m insane.)

But I can't help but wonder, if you polled other cancer parents whose kids are off treatment to see how they feel, if perhaps I’d also be perfectly normal. In an insane world, which pediatric cancer certainly is. Maybe that’s why a small part of me, misses a small part of it.

PS. Wish me luck tomorrow. The kids and I are flying to Oklahoma City to visit the grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins for a vacation. Me, flying with all three kids by myself …. Getting up at 5am in order to catch our flight, the carry-on bags full of stuffed animals and puzzle books and Chips Ahoy, and my purse full of socks for all of us for getting through the Atlanta airport; wrangling the suitcases by myself through the airport because God forbid any of my children offer to help me. We bought tickets at the last minute and none of our seats are together …. Hello, Delta? Please be flexible tomorrow and re-assign us. You just KNOW there’s a journal entry here someplace, and we haven’t even started yet. I think the aspiration of the entire trip is further proof that I’m insane.

A MOTHER’S LOVE CAN OVERCOME ANYTHING. EVEN VANITY.

So, after listening to myself kvetch and gripe about how everyone still thinks I am pregnant because apparently I am a big huge fat ass, I decided it was time to take some action. Time to make some changes in my wardrobe that would allow me to walk about in public without constantly being asked when my baby is due, and overall, feeling slovenly and unkempt. You know, put up or shut up about the way I look.

“Wardrobe” is in fact a very generous term for the clothes I have hanging in my closet. Styles have changed the past few years and needless to say, I haven’t kept up. I’m a Stay-At-Home-Mom … a What-Not-To-Wear, just waiting to happen ... it’s not like I need high-end clothing to drop my kids off at school each morning. The majority of my summer clothes were purchased for my last class reunion in a desperate, “Oh-my-gosh-my-class-reunion-is-this-weekend-and-I-have-nothing-to-wear!” trip to the mall several years ago. Apparently, it was the geriatric section of the mall, since all the blouses make me look like a 72 yr old woman preparing to take a bus tour with her church friends. All that’s missing is the fanny pack and big straw hat. Trust me; it was time for a change.

So today, armed with my Visa card and the resolve that in some cultures, hundreds of years ago, my body shape would be revered, off I went. I was fully embarked on a mission to find clothes that would show off the hip, stylish, groovy mom that I am. Or that I think I am. Or that I would like to be, or like to at least fake others into thinking that I am. Maybe. If I'm lucky.

As everyone knows, the most sure-fire way to ensure a shopping trip will fail is to leave the house with money to spend and ample time to spend it. But believe it or not, I actually found some shirts that I liked! That fit! That made me look NOT eligible for an AARP discount!

And thanks to Kathy, from Gainesville, GA, and her tip in the guestbook about Lee Relaxed Fit Jeans, I found two pair of jeans that I liked, too.

So then I was like a crazy person and decided well hey, if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right, so I went ahead and splurged on three pair of sandals because everyone knows you can never have too many pair of brown sandals (and to any man who might be reading this who doesn’t understand that, trust me when I tell you I bought one pair of auburn, one pair of chestnut, and one pair of mahogany, and YES, there is a difference.) Seriously, I was like a shopper on speed and the only reason I stopped then was because I couldn’t carry another bag without throwing my back out.

I came home and gleefully unpacked all the packages, congratulating myself on my fashion-savvy and thinking about how chic I would look wearing my new clothes. And I decided, you know what? Kellen has a baseball game tonight. Granted, it’s nothing more than hot dogs and sunflower seeds at a dirt field, but by golly, I’m wearing my new clothes and showing off my trendy self, so everyone can admire the new, modish me!

And so the dressing began. New shirt (one of those little strappy numbers that all the “in” crowd is wearing these days) new jeans, new sandals; I even put on jewelry, brushed my hair, touched up my makeup, and spritzed a little perfume in the air -- woohoo! Truly, I was a fashion diva. I practically left lipstick-kiss marks on the mirror from where I was admiring myself so much.

Blaine and Kendrie stayed home tonight, and as I drove Brayden and Kellen to the game, she asked, “Does that big cloud in the sky mean the game is going to be rained out?” I was so busy winking at myself in my rear-view mirror that I hadn’t even noticed a cloud. But I responded, “No, it’s not a rain cloud, just a cloud-cloud”, all the while thinking that the cloud was great news, because then I wouldn’t need my sunglasses and more people could admire my smoky-kohl eyeliner. I’m telling you, I was WORKING IT, girl!

When we parked the van, Brayden asked one last time, “Are you sure we don’t need an umbrella?” That was when I remembered I had taken the umbrellas out of the car last month when I had it detailed and never put them back in …. Oh well, I was still positive it wasn’t going to rain. So we got to the game about half an hour early, set up our chairs, and waited. The two teams in front of us were finishing up their game, while I chatted with some other parents and skillfully flipped my hair around, sucking my stomach in all the time, thinking truly, I am hot stuff.

Then our boys took the field. And I felt a “plop, plop” on my arm. Then another. Oh dear, looks like it might rain.

Before five minutes had gone by, it was raining hard enough that most of the parents had taken sanctuary under the snack bar roof. *I* didn’t, because by golly, my boy was on first base and I wasn’t going to miss a minute of it. I wasn't going to let a few little sprinkles run me off ---- Kellen was playing ball, and I would stay there and cheer for him until the bitter end, that's how much I love him!! Until it started raining hard enough that it was running down the back of my new, stylish pants and the crack of my heiny. That pretty much did it for me and I joined everyone else under the snack bar.

Before ten minutes had gone by, it was raining so hard they stopped the game to see what the weather was going to do. For another ten minutes, I stood under the snack bar roof, with a hundred other wet, sweaty parents, amazed at how closely-packed bodies in 100 percent Georgia humidity can feel sticky, even when you’re not actually touching one another. And also spent those ten minutes watching the sky for lightning, because the team was huddled in the dug-out, under a metal roof.

By the time twenty minutes had gone by, they had called the game. So what were we to do? The rain obviously wasn’t letting up, the game had been postponed until tomorrow, we didn’t have umbrellas, and the van was parked a hundred yards away at the other end of the parking lot. Naturally.

So what *did* we do? Well, we gathered up as much dignity as we could, stepped out into the pouring rain, packed up our chairs, and walked to the van, jumping in puddles and trying to catch as many raindrops as we could on our tongues.

Tonight was *supposed* to be trophy presentation night, so lucky for you, I had a camera there to capture the moment.



You tell me --- baseball mom, or Alice Cooper look-alike?

And you know what was really funny? By the time we got to the parking lot, I was so very soaking wet, and my new strappy blouse was completely plastered to my mid-section, causing not one, but TWO parents on the way out to say to me (that’s right …. Everyone together …. Say it with me now…..) “Haven’t you had that baby yet????”

Oh well. “E” for effort, right?

FILE UNDER “VILE”. AND “UNFORGIVABLE”.

Do you know what the six most vile and unforgivable words are in the English language? Well, technically, I would imagine that there is a wide variety of choices, depending on your personal situation. But for a woman (oh, I don’t know, say, for example, a woman like ME) who is three weeks post-partum, the six most vile and unforgivable words in the English language are “Haven’t you had that baby yet?”

Not to be confused with the four most vile words: “When are you due?” This question implies the person doesn’t know you (ME) and might make the mistake, from looking at your (MY) still-poochy tummy, that you are (I AM) indeed pregnant. So while annoying, and a little frustrating, three weeks after you (I) have given birth, this is an honest mistake and forgivable.

But the six words: “Haven’t you had that baby yet?” implies a sort of casual relationship between the asker and the askee …..say, like the relationship between me and my local Kroger cashier --- again, just for example. Obviously, the person asking the question *knew* I was pregnant recently, and what they are saying to me, in essence, is that it doesn’t matter that I am actually fitting into non-maternity clothes and thinking that I’m all fabulous and hot stuff and that in my own warped mind I am looking surprisingly decent, but that in reality I am still a big fat-ass with a stomach that is so incredibly poochy they can’t even tell that I have already given birth, to a 10-lb baby no less. Having a toddler vacate my midsection ... that ALONE should make my stomach look smaller!

You know what? This entire thing is too depressing. I blame it all on the makers of these damn low-waist pants. Sure, if I were a teenager and had the stomach muscles of a Russian gymnast, I could wear pants that hang around my hipbones and offer absolutely no support whatsoever in my midsection. But I’m not. I’m a 39 yr old woman who has been pregnant five times, had a c-section, is slightly overweight, and by golly, I need a pair of pants with a waistband that comes up higher than my belly button! If I no longer have the stomach muscles necessary to suck in my own gut, then I would like to be able to purchase a pair of denim Capri’s that can camouflage it, or suck it in for me.

Is that really too much to ask?

TOO BAD I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP

Photographic proof that maybe it’s time I found something that pays a little better than this stay-at-home-mom gig:






Blaine’s reply? “Hey, I’m not cheap, I’m resourceful!”

*************************

Further proof that maybe it’s time I reconsidered my status as stay-at-home-mom?? --- The phone call I made to Blaine from the paper towel aisle at Wal-Mart tonight at 9:22pm.

Me: “I’m not coming home until they are asleep; I don’t care how long it takes or how much money I spend waiting here in the meantime!” (Wait, maybe that money comment is the reason my husband is repairing the soles of his tennis shoes with a vise.)

Blaine: “They’re in bed, you can come home now.”

Me: “But are they asleep?!?!? I’m not coming home until they’re asleep!”

Time spent in Wal-Mart: 37 minutes

Money spent: $122.91

An hour where I didn’t have to listen to the ungrateful little shits whine and fuss and fight and argue: Priceless.

THE FAMILY THAT PLAYS TOGETHER…………

Kendrie -- Day 174 OT

Blaine -- home, recuperating, watching a lot of the girls’ College World Series from his position on the sofa, which is actually very much NOT like him, so I know he still doesn’t feel very good.

The family that plays together, or in OUR case, makes a team effort out of Daddy’s narcotics injections, stays together.

KRISTIE’S JOB: Draw medication up in proper syringes, with proper needles, and administer. Complain that Blaine doesn’t have enough fat on his ass for me to grab properly. Secretly feel envious. Do NOT complain when he wakes me up at 1 am to give him a shot, because at least he has the decency to wait to turn on the overhead light until I am partially awake. Convince neighborhood kid, who walked in while I was giving Blaine a shot in the thigh a few days ago, that this is perfectly normal and we are not, despite appearances to the contrary, hard core drug addicts.

BLAINE’S JOB: Stand or sit stoically and receive injections without complaint, even when I did something wrong that one time and the medicine burned like the dickens going in. Take advantage of the pain-free period afterwards (well, it’s not pain FREE, but it’s pain BETTER) to go around the house collecting Sonic cups and mumbling swear words under his breath about his wife’s addiction to Diet Dr. Pepper.

BRAYDEN’S JOB: Avoid the entire situation until we are done, at which time she collects the used needles (protective safety caps on, of course) and deposits them in the proper Sharps container. Not sure *why* she has claimed this job as her responsibility, but it saves me from having to do it, so I just say thank you and move on.

KENDRIE’S JOB: To stand by intently, eyes averted, with the Kleenex in her hand, ready to staunch whatever wound appears when I withdraw the needle. She is the official “Kleenex-applier-muscle-massager” and quite proud of herself, thank you very much.

KELLEN’S JOB: Squeal like a girl and run out of the room whenever he sees me get out the first needle. I guess there’s not exactly a career in neurosurgery in his future.

THEN I SAW HER FACE ….. NOW I’M A BELIEVER

(aka.. THE JOURNAL ENTRY THAT’S REALLY CHEESY BECAUSE WE HAD TO RE-ENACT THE WHOLE PICTURE THING)

Although I hate to be a person who stereotypes, it’s my opinion that parents can frequently be placed in one of two categories: obnoxious, or normal.

The obnoxious parent is sometimes the parent of a first born or only child (although on occasion, you’ll find parents who are obnoxious about ALL their offspring.) The child is often still fairly young (reality hasn’t come ‘round and smacked the parent in the face yet, at least that’s what I think!) These parents truly believe (erroneously, although they don’t know it) that their child can do no wrong. That no child smarter, prettier, more handsome, or more endearing or charming has ever been born or walked the face of the earth. To put it less tactfully, to the noses of the obnoxious parent, their child’s shit don’t stink.

Surely you know someone like this? Someone, whose baby pulled up, sat up, crawled earlier than anyone else’s baby? (For you see, *that* is the truly obnoxious part. These parents are competitive, secretly think *your* kid is an idiot, and make sure to tell you about every Herculean feat and Socrates moment their kid has … YAWN!) Someone whose toddler is going to completely skip pre-school because they can already read and do complex algebra? Someone whose child can run faster, skip better, jump higher, and in all ways, is more coordinated than your own?

A playground conversation amongst obnoxious mothers might sound something like this:

Mom #1: “Can you believe that when we went to buy Timmy’s t-ball uniform, we had to buy three sizes larger than the other kids because he’s so tall? I guess that’s the reason he’s the best player on the team, because he’s physically superior to everyone else.”

Mom #2: “Well, be glad Timmy’s problem is physical and not due to sheer genius. I don’t know what we’re going to do with our little Johnny. His kindergarten teacher says he’s already too advanced for all the workbooks she has in her classroom, and even his private Latin tutor admits that he’s way beyond the basic level of her lessons. She says he could *teach* the older kids!”

Mom #3: “Oh dear, you know, our little Susie’s problem is both physical AND due to genius. She is so far advanced for her age, and what “should” be her skill level in her violin lessons, that there isn’t a violin on the planet small enough for her dainty little hands. It’s simply a case of the musical brain being too advanced for the beautiful, petite fingers at this point!”

Mom #4: “Well, I have to admit, our problem is financial. Considering James (currently, four years old) will be getting his undergraduate degree in political studies from Harvard, then his medical degree from Yale, and then his second doctorate in global technical relations from MIT, I’m just not sure we can save enough to put him through school! Good thing for total academic scholarships, which I'm positive he'll get!”

{Tinkling, self-satisfied laughter all around}

Then, there are the normal parents. Parents who, although they adore their kids and deep, deep down, think they are also the most beautiful, clever, intelligent, delightful kids on the planet ….. these parents also have enough backbone to face a healthy dose of reality about their little angels.

Like the fact their two year old is obsessed with shoving beans up her nose, or eating play-doh, or that their four year old shows more interest in Dora than in potty training. That their six year old daughter is the biggest whiner on the planet when she doesn’t get her way, or that their eight year old son finds farting hysterical, or that their nine year old daughter is a pack rat who can’t keep her room clean to save her life. You know. Parents like that. Not that I *KNOW* any, or anything.

Kidding, of course. These are the kind of parents I much prefer to hang out with, and the kind with which I feel I have MUCH more in common. Our playground conversations are more along these lines:

Mom #1: “Well, we got an authorized notice from the principal yesterday that if Timmy head-butts one more kid on the playground, they’re going to ban him from recess for life. Can they do that?”

Mom #2: “Don’t feel bad, you know it’s just a stage, like when our Johnny went around stealing everyone’s dessert out of their lunch boxes. He finally stopped, but only after we threatened to take all of his Star War toys to Goodwill.”

Mom #3: “Yeah, well, I’ve got you both beat. Despite being five years old and knowing better, Susie threw such a tantrum in Toys ‘R Us yesterday when I wouldn’t buy her a Cabbage Patch stroller to go with her Cabbage Patch doll that the manager came over and asked us to please vacate the store because her screaming was setting off the Pound Puppies and the entire aisle was howling.”

Mom #4: “Sorry, no sympathy from me. I came home yesterday to discover James had shaved a four-letter word into the cat’s fur.”

See? *Those* are the kind of moms I prefer to hang with. I second guess my parenting skills often enough without “friends” making me feel worse because my kids are (gasp!) normal.

So ---- What is the point of that little tangent, where I try to prove to you that I am a normal parent, and that I recognize my children and their annoying idiosyncrasies? Because for a brief moment, I’m going veer off the path and be an obnoxious one, and I don’t want you thinking that is the way I normally behave!

Announcement, Please --- We just found out that Kendrie was accepted into the gifted program for first grade in her elementary school!!!! Gifted, people, GIFTED!!! The fruit of MY loins, gifted!

She was so excited when she found out, this was her reaction:



(This is the part of the journal entry that is totally cheesy because we had to re-enact it. I got the notice from the school almost two weeks ago. But what with the delivery, and the chaos that followed, I completely forgot to tell you guys, so I’m pretending that its news to us now!)

And here, basically, is the thing. I wouldn’t even say anything, let alone brag like this, under ordinary circumstances. Shoot, telling you pretty much ensures she’ll flunk out the first week of school next fall, and then I’ll have a big ole’ egg on my face, won’t I?

But you see, her circumstances AREN’T ordinary. Between the ages of four and six, she was diagnosed with cancer and underwent two-plus years of chemotherapy to get rid of it, including her entire year of Pre-Kindergarten, and half her Kindergarten year. She missed so many days of school that if it weren’t for her Exceptional Student (Medical) Status, she could have been held back due to the school’s absence policy. Days where she was in Atlanta getting chemo injected in her chest and her back and her legs; days where she took a nap in the Nurses Office, or came home early; even days where she felt too crummy to get out of bed and attend at all.

So to know that despite her challenges, she not only attended school, and passed, but THRIVED ---- it’s so exciting for me that I want to shout the news out to everyone! I’m so proud that I’m considering renting a marquee somewhere, or tattooing my forehead with “Kendrie Rocks!”

I also tell you this because I know there are other cancer parents out there who follow our site. Many of their kids were diagnosed after Kendrie, so are still in the thick of treatment. I want them to see that there are kids who do well, despite the trials all these young patients face. Sure, who does well and who struggles more than their share ….. a lot of it is bold-faced luck and I won’t deny it. But if your child is in still on treatment, or facing challenges, and you need a face to look to for inspiration, well, today I think that face is Kendrie’s …. Frog chaser, scooter rider …. Gifted student.

I might be her mom, and this might sound incredibly corny, but when I see her face, I’m a believer. It is possible.

I love you Kendrie,

Mom

PS. But could you please just knock it off already with the whining, ok sweetie?

PSS. Can you even believe, after me publicly professing my love for Sonic cups and rabbit pellet ice (you people who have never heard of rabbit pellet ice … you have been severely deprived and need to get to a Sonic right now) that I got up tonight to make myself my nightly DDP ….. AND I DIDN’T HAVE A SPARE CUP IN THE HOUSE? OR THE CAR? OR ANYWHERE????

I was searching all over, getting all grumpy and angry and testosterony, and griping to Blaine about how he had thrown out eight cups too many the other night, when I suddenly remembered that my girlfriend Jadine (yes, the one from Pflugerville that I mention all the time) who knew about my Styrofoam cup obsession already and had sent me a care package recently with several dozen cups and lids in it!!!! Jadine, you are a lifesaver! Smooches!

PPSS. Speaking of kids who are struggling right now, two of the boys on my list-serve have relapsed and could probably use a note of encouragement: Cameron has had a long, difficult journey for quite some time and I can't help but believe this brave kid is more than due for a break .... but he just doesn't seem to ever get one. He has relapsed ... again ... please stop by his site and say hello. Also, Tyson finished his treatment for ALL last summer. This past May 24, almost a year later, doctors discovered he relapsed. Tyson is just beginning his relapse journey and I'm sure it would make him and his family feel great if you could leave a note of support in the guestbook.

I SHOULD JUST COME CLEAN …..

The time has come, I feel, for me to bear my soul and clear my conscious. So, I’ll confess to you now: I’m having a love affair. And sadly, Blaine is the one who found all the evidence and made me face the cold hard fact that my passion is out of control …. My obsession apparently knows no bounds.

The one in question? Well, he’s one of the medical profession; a doctor, in fact. His full name? Diet Dr. Pepper.

Now, I’ve long been a connoisseur of The Diet Beverage, and had long, healthy relationships with both Diet Coke and Diet Sprite in my younger, more carefree days. Then I discovered The Diet Dr. Pepper. Truly, the one that tastes most like its calorie-laden original. But until recently, I was still in control. Or so I thought.

I don’t drink diet beverages while pregnant. Silly, perhaps, but the thought of ingesting all that nutri-sweet and passing it on to an innocent lima bean bothers me. But something happened during this last pregnancy that is so sinfully, wickedly wonderful, it should have been outlawed: Sonic started carrying Diet Dr. Pepper.

HAVE-YOU-EVER-HEARD-OF-SUCH-YUMMY-WONDERFULNESS???????

My obsession with the Styrofoam (ie, sweat-free) cup from Sonic, and their fabulous rabbit-pellet ice, combined with Diet Dr. Pepper? Did any of you know that such syrupy goodness existed, or was even possible?????

I greedily eyed the signs at my local Sonic throughout the pregnancy, calculating the exact day and moment I would be delivered of the baby and able to indulge my decadent fantasy of diving headfirst into a Rt. 44, goggles and fins attached.

And when the day came, I found myself -- shamefully -- completely unable to turn back. And now, I am so in love with DDP that I would divorce Blaine and marry it if it were a person. Unfortunately, in the majority of US states, it’s still illegal for someone to walk down the aisle with a soft drink beverage.

Much like a bulimic hides candy wrappers, I thought my secret was safe. Until Blaine, damn his very neat-freak soul, came home and started cleaning house again.

He came into the living room last night holding nine Sonic cups. Nine. NINE, I tell you! Nine empty vessels, proof of my love affair with the doc. He asked, “Kristie, just how many times have you been to Sonic this week? I found three cups in your car, two in your computer room, one in your bathroom, two in the kitchen, and one in the closet, of all places ….. what’s up with this?”

What could I say? How could I deny it? It was like an intervention, only without the rehab … and I don’t want to change!

Now, before any of you local readers try to comment about how Chick-Fil-A has carried Diet Dr. Pepper for quite some time, let me remind you that fast food restaurant is easily four or file miles from my house. Sonic, on the other hand, is most conveniently located across the street from Target, Kroger, and my local bank. How can I *not* drive-thru in a regular (twice-daily … yikes!) basis?

And before you make any snide comments about me spending the equivalent of the national debt (at $1.70 a pop ---- Ha! Get it? POP!) I will, in my defense, tell you that I often pour DDP from home into the cups and re-use them …. But RABBIT PELLET ICE, PEOPLE, SONIC HAS RABBIT PELLET ICE!!!

I don’t drink coffee, but found myself driving through Sonic at 8:45 the other morning for my DDP fix. I don’t know whether to be proud of my devotion, or embarrassed.

And since confession is good for the soul, here are two more things I am in love with recently:



My jumbo-sized griddle from Wal-Mart, upon which I can cook nine large or twelve (TWELVE!) medium chocolate chip pancakes at a time! This way, my Saturday morning cook-a-thon, during which I make enough pancakes -- usually about a zillion -- to last my children the week (or at least three or four days) no longer takes half the morning. Bearing in mind that there is no way to speed up the process, for if you turn up the heat on the griddle, in an attempt to cook the pancakes more quickly, said children will turn up their noses at the “burned” pancakes and all the cooking will be for nothing. Unless you feel like eating a zillion brown pancakes yourself. Which I have been known to do …. the ungrateful little brats. But with my new Walton-family-sized griddle, problem solved!!



And, the person who came up with the Oscar-Mayer Ready-To-Serve Bacon!!! (Please, no hateful vegetarian guestbook entries … my arteries are too clogged to deal with replying to you. And yes, I really need to get a life because I took a picture of BACON this morning!) My kids love, love, love bacon. And these slices are already cooked and ready to go; you just pop them in the microwave for ten or fifteen seconds, and viola! Pork heaven, without the grease splatter and disgusting mess to clean up afterward. Truly, it doesn’t get any better than this.

Aaaaahhhhhh. I’m going to go pop open a Diet Dr Pepper and think about how fabulous my life is and how it's good I was never a prairie woman.

PS. If you're reading this update and there's no music playing, it's because my web space server is an incompetent boob of a provider. Apparently, after using them for almost three years, they no longer (as of today) recognize my user name or password. My web space, where I store music and video, seems to have disappeared. And I am not allowed to access it, because I don't know the password. When I called tech support, they referred me to the online faq, which oh-so-helpfully suggested I type my password correctly. CORRECTLY. Yeah. Because after three years, I suddenly forgot how to spell it. So the tech support girl reset my password to "password". Which the site still didn't recognize. So now I'm waiting for a return call, to determine if there is a glitch in *their* system, or if the problem is all mine. Which I am sure it will be all mine, according to them. If, however, you are reading this and there is music playing, forget every hateful thing I just typed, and I heart Cox forever..

WHO? WHO? {looking around wildly} ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?

Well, apparently the definition of “Home Health Care Nurse” means something different to the medical establishment, than what it means to Blaine and me. *We* assumed “Home Health Care Nurse” meant that a person, called a Nurse, most likely a woman not that I’m being sexist but still, would be coming to our Home, to provide Care, to Blaine, to help him improve his Health.

Then we found out that what the Air Force meant by it was that a Person, named Kristie, who has absolutely no Nursing experience whatsoever, would be providing Care of some kind, in our Home. I’m still not sure where the Health comes into play.

But I am now responsible for giving Blaine all of the Demerol injections he needs for break-through pain. It’s always enjoyable to jab your husband in the thigh or the ass with a Habit Forming Narcotic …. adding fun to the mix is the doctor’s order that if 50 mg doesn’t work, try 75! Then go to 100!!! It’s like a limbo in reverse! And me, getting to do my Robert Downey Jr impression!

I actually don’t mind. Blaine used to give me shots during the surrogate pregnancies, so perhaps this is a bit of turn about being fair play? Then I got tired of waking him up at night, so I started giving myself the injections. (Not too difficult, except for the nights you try to give yourself an injection in the left butt-cheek, and you’re right handed …. A contortionist, I am NOT!)

Then, I gave Kendrie shots during her leukemia treatment. Hands down, the hardest shots to give, even though the needles were the smallest. Watching Blaine hold her down and listening to her beg me not to do it ….. {shudder} …. I never want to do that again. I will GLADLY jab Blaine instead.

Just don’t ask me to change any bed pans, because I tell you, I am NOT a nurse, and you are NOT talking to me!