There are some things in life that you just have the convenience of knowing that you are pretty good at. You don’t want to be cocky, you just have the confidence or experience and know that you usually have no problem tackling that obstacle. Until the middle of December, I thought that I was really good at healing/recovering. Heck, I had major surgery in September, left the hospital in a day and was pretty much up and around in less than a week, and back to work shortly thereafter. I have a job, and 3 kids, and don’t have time to waste on pain meds and lying around.




Just to back up a bit. On Sept 26, 2012 I had a pretty massive surgery, RNY Gastric Bypass. No lap band for this chicka, I wanted the whole kit & caboodle. Go big or go home, right? Anyone reading this blog knows that I was pretty fat. Unhealthy fat. Not a good example for my 3 daughters fat. I don’t really know what events led me to laying on that operation table, but I got there. And I needed it. On the day of surgery I was 5’10” and weighed 250 lbs.



I bounced back from that surgery just fine, and within 11 weeks had lost 42 pounds. It was life changing.



As things progressed with my body, I made the decision to have a 2nd surgery, and on December 4, I had pretty much a full front body lift. The surgeon removed all of the hanging skin from my abdomen, and lifted and reduced my breasts. I thought that once again, I would be sore, and have to take it easy for a week, but would bounce back no problem. I left the out patient surgery with two painful surgical drains, 4 prescriptions, one for pain, one muscle relaxer, one anti nausea to help with the pain meds, and one anti biotic.



Everything went ok for about a week. And then the nausea hit. Apparently the anti nausea meds had the reverse effect for me. And heaving with my new golf ball sized stomach against my new hip to hip incision was enough to see stars. It went on for about 2 weeks until I just stopped taking any medicine altogether. I finally got in to see the surgeon where they confirmed that the meds were making me sick. It was a rough couple of weeks. I went from 210lbs to 185lbs. I was scared to even drink water.



Meanwhile, it was Christmas. Stuff needed to be done. Work needed me to come in and get things accomplished. And now, thanks to my heaving and poor circulation, I had a hole about the size of a clementine little sweetie right above my incision that looked not only alarming, but disgusting as well. It literally looked like I had been shot in the stomach. Apparently that complication is common in patients who have lost a lot of weight. Ugh. At that point I still had my drains in, which meant I still couldn’t take a shower. 24 days of it. Most mornings I wanted to cry. But that is the thing about elective surgery, you can’t cry. You chose it, and people are anxious to point that out. No room to feel sorry for yourself. The surgeon felt sorry for me though. Armed with his sincere apology, personal cell phone #, and an endless supply of oxy and muscle relaxers, he sent me home to try and celebrate the holidays with my crew. Greg, as usual, was a saint. He did all of the Christmas duties, from wrapping to baking Santa’s cookies, to cooking Christmas dinner while I continued along in my drugged state. Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to take the pain meds that were too big for my now tiny tummy. I can only sleep on my back, so even my butt hurts. I was sleeping too much, so I would find myself staring outside, starting to hallucinate. I hated being bed bound, and not able to do any of the tasks/lists that I was starting to accumulate in my head.



It is now about 6 weeks later and I still hurt. I still have a huge hole. Dr says it will heal, and he will go in and preform another tuck to get rid of what will surely be a heinous scar. My boobs look great though! If I look at myself in the mirror and only gaze from the new belly button up, I want to do the Toyota jump for joy. If I look waist down, I want to pass out.



In the past few weeks, I have learned a few things though.



A) The people/family/friends that you assume will be there won’t necessarily be there. I had in my head that certain friends would be kicked back with me in bed watching dvds and laughing the days away. And it just didn’t happen like that. Some people never came by to visit; some came only after I pointed out how lonely I was, and some people who I would have never expected to dropped by, which was a total surprise. You just never know. I had a former coworker/husband of a friend drop off cookies. Totally random. But still a much needed surprise.



B) No matter how gross you are, your husband will still be “your husband”. Don’t get me wrong, Greg was a total champ. He emptied drainage bulbs, changed bandages, gave me meds every 4 hours, helped with sponge baths and so on. But no matter how much I smelled, how miserable I felt or how gross I was, he still found something that was a turn on. I still can’t make it thru a bandage change without being worried that he is going try and cop a feel. It is still almost daily that I am reminded “you didn’t have surgery on your mouth”. Boys will be boys I guess.



C) Drugs are crazy. I have never been a fan of narcotics. I don’t like not being able to drive; I don’t like feeling unsure of what I said, etc. And while they have been a life saver this go around, the hallucinations are something else. It has given me true perspective for people with genuine mental health issues. I have seen animals, relatives, moving figures, etc all as real as can be. It would blow your mind.



D) Showers are amazing. Going 24 days without a shower can really mess with your head. I did my best, washing in the bathtub as high as I could go, washing my hair in the sink daily, but still. Sometimes you just need to have that water pouring on you to feel better.



E) Being not fat is amazing. Not having your every thought be about food is so liberating. Even though I feel like hell, I cannot believe how different I feel. Never mind the appearance part. It is strange that I don’t recognize my own hands or feet. Being able to take a deep breath, not having my back hurt every single day. Being able to dance with my girls without running out of breath. And having ta tas that stand up on their own is pretty dang nice too.



F) Your kids don’t care. Big baby knows that I have a hole in my stomach, and while she is very concerned that Greg doesn’t do it any further damage, she is primarily concerned that my boobs and my butt are ok. Which for her, makes perfect sense. AB is a little hurt that I am home all the time, but not playing with her during that time. Tessa is, well Tessa.





It has been life changing.

It's a real pisser~

I’m a lucky gal.  I know quite a few people, who do quite a few nice things for me, because they are good people, but mainly because business is business and some folks are still smart enough to realize that what goes around comes around.

One of the many perks I get from my side job managing rental homes is that whenever someone moves out of our neighborhood, like the most recent departure of our Sister Wife/Husband, Soul mates, Once in a Lifetime Besties, the neighbor who you could literally borrow their last roll of toilet paper (or at least poop at their house if need be) – this will eventually be an entire blog in itself, departs, is that when the carpet cleaning company comes by to clean the vacant home, the awesome carpet cleaner dude always stops by my place and cleans my carpets as well.  Fan freaking tastic!

As many of you know, G was lucky enough to get a new boxer puppy for his birthday.  Well, in all honesty, G was lucky enough to have his super duper wife bring home a $500 puppy that he had no desire to have, during the 2^nd week of June, so technically for his birthday.  Our agreement had been that once everyone was out of diapers we could discuss bringing something else that thought it was perfectly appropriate to defecate on the floor into the house.  Big baby had just dropped her 1^st deuce in the toilet instead of one of her $0.45/ea Huggies, so I figured what better time?

Priscilla is a lovely, very calm, beautiful pup, and for the most part great with the minions.  She isn’t much of a barker (yet), doesn’t really jump up on people, and sleeps thru the God Damn night, which apparently in the Mongrain household is enough to qualify you for life long amnesty.  She even holds it all night long.  Daytime, however, is a totally different story.  Miss Priss pretty much treats the main floor of the house as urine utopia, feeling free to let it rip (and drip) whenever and wherever her pretty little heart desires.

So, needless to say we were VERY excited for the carpet cleaners to come by and rid us of the stench that is starting to become the signature Mongrain Baby Farm scent.

One of the worst spots in the house is our master bedroom, which after having the luxury of being the upstairs room that hosted the diaper genie for over a year, and being Prissy's toilet of choice, is really, really due for some “fresh air”.  Being the stellar mouth breather/sleeper that I am, combined with the steam from the en suite bathroom shower, and having the side of the bed located dangerously close to the master toilet, this Mama was oh so eager to have those carpets restored to their original state of only harboring mold and mites.

Even though I am pretty sure we all realize how this blog will end, it’s important to realize the frame of mind that a 34 yr old working Mama is in on a daily basis.  Nobody is whining, or looking for sympathy.  Trust me when I tell you that NO ONE wants to hear that “You shouldn’t have had kids if you weren’t prepared to be a mother to them” because as any Mama knows, people who say stuff like that are just Bitches.  Bitch please, do you think that when I signed up to have kids (and really, I could argue the fact that my family dynamics are not really what I “signed up” for, but bygones) that some lovely, experienced mother type sat me down and had a heart to heart to prepare me on how much my life was going to change and that my young, still somewhat firm, late twenty something ass really had a decent grasp on what I was going to get myself into?  Seriously, the hospitals should take their videos about the “purple cry” and shove them where the sun don’t shine and send new moms home with a video series about What to Expect When a 20-40lb Creature Rules Your Universe.  The intermediate series can be Bringing Home a Sibling That Your #1 Child Could Give 2 Shits About; and the grand finale Child #3, Now That You’ve Gone & Outnumbered Yourselves.

As a mom who works, and let me stop you, the last thing I need to hear is a lecture about moms who choose their careers over staying at home, my frame of mind is probably a little more skewed then most.  Hell, as a total nut job, my frame of mind is likely more skewed then most.  I know that normal kids grew up with normal parents, they were taught how to swim, that graduating high school is important, and so on and so forth, but I wasn’t.  No time for tears & tissues, but my point is that I am doing the best I can with a limited amount of role modeling.

Anywoo, back to the working Mama dribble.  I work.  Not because I am dying to be on the cover of the local business section one day, but because I am broke.  And I like to shop.  One of these probably feeds into the other.  And I have issues.  I want my kids to have stuff that I never did, and I want them to appreciate that I work my ass off for them.  I pride myself on reminding them of that on a daily basis.  Joking aside, I also have 3 girls, and I want them to realize, hopefully from my stellar example, that they have the capabilities of taking care of themselves and not being dependent on a man/woman/partner or whatever the hell they choose to shack up with one day. 

Because of choices I have made, my career options are limited.  After years in the Casino industry, I have worked in the construction industry for years.  It works for me, I get a long with men better then women, likely because I can’t filter the shit that comes out of my mouth most of the time, and also because most women are snatches.  Whatever.  The thing about being the only female in an office full of men & construction workers, and the one primarily running the show, is that the frame of mind I have to keep in the office is not necessarily the best one to have at home.  Tears will get you nowhere in the world of framing, rough plumbing and construction to perm loans.  Do not drop the ball and let someone make a mistake on a home that will take weeks to fix when you are paying hundreds of dollars in daily interest.   Do not let anyone call you sweetheart, unless of course he isn’t too gross, and also happens to have a corporate expense account. 

The point to this babble is that often I have trouble transitioning from the world that I spend 7am – 5pm and sometimes more in to the world that is waiting for me between 6pm- often 12am and on weekends and holidays.   The approximate 10 seconds I get between the car and front door to readjust myself is usually not adequate.  I struggle daily with needing a break from work and a break from kids, often in the same evening, and unfortunately or fortunately depending on your perspective, it’s usually the kids that stay with a sitter so that mommy can have some alone time or time with Daddy.

If you are neurotic like I am, you can torture yourself over these things.  You can lay awake at night, promising to be a better mom the next day because you were short tempered and yelled at #1 to get back in bed after telling her to go to bed 7 times.   You can play back work scenes over and over in your head, realizing what the better, wittier thing to say would have been.  You can feel guilty for locking yourself in the bathroom and reading 50 Shades of Grey while your 2yr old banged on the door demanding to be let in and help you wipe.

If you are a “fixer” like I am, you will also find ways to make yourself feel better about your shortcomings.  Yes, I hate play dough, stickers and socks totally gross me out.    I can’t teach my girls to swim, but I can pay for the lessons.  I will never be able to ride a bike with them, but I will make sure they know how to, and they will have helmets while doing so.  They might have to sit and endure episodes of Diners, Drive Ins & Drives or Say Yes to the Dress while Mama has a glass of wine in order to log some quality mommy time, but it’s time, and lately that is in short supply around the Baby Farm.

Being a “fixer” or just plain getting old, you also learn to compromise about a lot of stuff.  Shit that would normally send you over the edge.  Like a carpet cleaner completely forgetting to shampoo the master bedroom.  You know, pretty much the most important room in the house.  The one that you sleep in.  The room where the magic happens(ie one parent argues with the other about who is going to be the one going to jail for giving the baby Nyquil that is clearly labeled “for children 6 and older”).  The one that smells so bad you can taste the dog piss every time you roll over to see the dark, beady eyes of your 43lb 2 yr old staring at you @ 1:36am.  Because you know what, the dude was doing you a favor.  And the piss happy puppy makes your kids happy.  Really, really happy.   And when you are a Mama doing the best you can, sometimes you take what you can get.  Even if it means that most of the hubby’s Christmas bonus is going to have to be used replacing the carpet.   

Sometimes life is just a real pisser ~

VaJazzle!

Please don’t ask how on earth I even came across it, but I will tell you that while it did occur while at work, I was most certainly “on a break”.  I also really have no excuse as to why I clicked on the link, except for sheer curiosity and my commitment to my now full blown mid life crisis.

While I certainly expect a few raised eyebrows, you and I both know damn well that there are few ladies out there who would be able to ignore VAJAZZLES! in glittery pink font without clicking on it.  I am not one of them.

I am all for keeping your girlfriend in tip top, fully groomed, as pretty as she can be, on a regular basis, shape.  I can recite to you all of the latest and greatest hair removal techniques, and which one I would recommend for your particular breed of hair, as well as tell you the pain factor involved with each.  I have excitedly made appointments to be waxed, only to have sweat dripping from my palms as I pull into the parking lot wondering who the f@(k thought that this was a good idea, and why do I give 2 shits what anyone cares about how MY who-ha looks?

Well I do care, that seems to be the problem.  As I get older, and good lord does it seem like that is happening faster and faster lately, I seem to care a ridiculous amount more then I used to.  It seems like for every chin/neck hair I find and tweeze, the urge to groom other poor, defenseless places just grows and grows. 

That being said, I feel as if I have exhausted all of the available choices on how to groom my little girlfriend, and while I am quite happy with my current state of hardwood floors, the chance to kick it up a notch without piercing something and scaring the bejesus out of my unsuspecting husband was more then a wee bit intriguing.

VaJazzling, from what I can tell, is the equivalent of Lee Press On Nails for your kittyboo.  Apparently you can pay someone to apply a very intricate design, or DIY.  The latter not being the best plan for someone like myself who struggles to paint her own toe nails.  You can VaJazzle for a variety of reasons, anything from trying to cover up a c section scar or covering up post waxing rashes, to needing to feel a little pretty after a breakup (google Jennifer Love Hewitt).  I am still puzzled by a few details; such as how long does it lasts, what happens if a stone falls out, and so on and so forth.

Interesting to say the least.  Expensive if you are cheap when it comes to decorating your lady parts.  That’s not to say I have completely ruled it out.  Sometimes a girl has to go to extremes to be cutting edge.  But I worry that it would become addicting.  Is it like getting your nails done?  Will I need to change my design to keep up with the next holiday?  Is it patriotic to plaster an American flag on sweet little Virginia in honor of Memorial Day?  Would it be wrong to decorate the honey pot in honor of the girls’ upcoming birthday party themes?

Oh the crap that runs thru my head.

Does the mom hair cut lead to mom jeans?

This morning while I was getting ready for work, running late as usual, and had absolutely nothing important to think of, I stared at myself in the mirror and made the very life changing decision to get hair extensions.

Those of you, who know me well, know that I love my short hair.  The ease of styling, the ability to wake up from a nap that included both drool and dreams and not have it look any different, the shampoo savings, I could go on and on, all make my “middle aged mom” do all that more satisfying.

However, as I move towards fully embracing my midlife crisis, something this morning made me want to justify having long, gorgeous, flowing hot chick locks.

Maybe I made the decision to love such short, low maintenance hair under a lot of freaking pressure, ok?  How many people out there have to live thru my daily personal hell?  How many of you have a husband who thinks its ok to take a crap while you brush your teeth? Is there something wrong if I just want really hot, sexy, easy to tousle hair, dammit? It could change my life, right?

Maybe it's the fact that I have to put a hand towel down on the sink in order to prevent my spare tire from resting against the cold tile countertop?  The fact that pretty much daily I have to dig thru my bathroom drawer to find the “good” tweezers to pluck the newest offending chin whisker?  That when I dare pick a pimple, there is a good chance that it will leave a scare, or worse, a wrinkle?  One of the benefits of being “fluffy” is that you don’t show as many wrinkles, but sheesh, what a compromise that is to make!

Every morning when I bend over to shave my legs, and yes, my toes, my back pops and cracks and reminds me of the torture I exposed it to in my younger days.  My poor ta tas angrily refuse to look up any more, punishing me for days when I thought bras were optional, and for relinquishing them to a very aggressive baby Mia.

Beautiful, chocolate brown, layered extensions could fix all that, right?  One flick of gorgeous hair over a somewhat supple shoulder and my husband will want to forget about taking the trash out and the dishes in the sink and throw me over his shoulder and carry me romantically into the bedroom, wouldn't it? 

My girls, who at many times have seen me curled up into a fetal position, banging my head against a wall,  or in a corner with a box of wine, would look at their gorgeous mommy with her long, lustrous hair with new eyes, stunned by her new found ability to be super mom, super wife and super employee all with one good blow out.  Not every mom in the Boosters club could pull it off, could they?

How hard could they be to take care of?  It’s not like I am that busy??  You can justify charging real hair on a credit card, can’t you?  Don’t get me wrong, I would never think of charging synthetic hair, that just wouldn’t make sense.

I went to the mall at lunch to return a pair of shorts that didn’t fit, to Torrid.  I groaned as I walked in and remembered once being delighted to wear the smallest size in the fat chick store.  As I waited impatiently for the clearly under trained sales associate to figure out how to credit my debit card, I studied the poster of the model on the wall above the cash register.  Obviously, the fact that she was probably a size 10 in a store full of chicks who wear elastic waist bands way more often then we would like to admit helped her look pretty smoking hot.  But guess what else she had?  UHHHHHHHmazing freaking hair! 

I came back to work to google my new must have accessory.  I know that my stunning hairdresser can work magic, but at what cost??

Apparently a pretty high freaking cost.  Sigh.  So what if people may think it’s a little selfish, and ok, kind of crazy.  How many years of poopy diapers, taco bell dinners, thankless children and a husband who accuses you of maybe sneaking oxycotin left over from your c-section should a girl have to endure before she can justify such a splurge?

My fantasy quickly ended when the cheap side of me remembered the stash of wigs buried somewhere deep in the depths of my closet.  Way underneath the piles and piles of dirty laundry, and clothes from many, many sizes ago.  Those will just have to deal for now.  But if one day soon one you happen to see me smiling broadly with my new Frederick’s of Hollywood do, make sure you help a sister out and leave a casserole of some sort on the doorstep of the Mongrain Baby Farm, because I am sure that we will all be tired of eating mac and cheese @ that point!

Parenting via TV

Last night while I was drifting off to sleep at about 11:45, knowing that 5:06am was going to come all too quickly, the ever faithful DVR’d version of Monster’s Inc was playing on our bedroom tv.  Proof that one of the minions had insisted on falling to sleep in mama’s bed instead of her own.  I flashed back to when I was pregnant with said minion and reminisced about all of the tv shows I used to have time to keep up on and enjoy on a regular basis.

During the last term of my pregnancy I was pretty much bed bound, and Annabelle only went to preschool on Mon & Tues, so it only made sense to spend the rest of the week hanging out and catching the latest episodes of Tori & Dean’s Home Sweet Hollywood, The Real Housewives of New Jersey, and of course TLC’s The Baby Story, supplemented with Days of Our Lives, and if really desperate or in the early am, The Food Network.  Diabetes or not, how can you not love Paula Deen?  And the husband from The Neelys??  Yummo!

While my sweet Belle has owned my heart from the first day I saw her in the NICU, all teeny, tiny, red and sick, it was really over that summer that I fell in love with her all over again.  It was lying in bed watching the famous table flipping scene from the RHONJ that we bonded for good.  She was the first person to tell me that a water birth was really the way to go, since the babies came out cleaner that way, and clearly, who wouldn’t want to have their brand new baby come out all clean and shiny versus cheesy and icky?  She explained to me that Dean loves Tori so much because she cooks really well, throws great parties and really knows how to decorate a house.  In between trips down the stairs to stock up on Diet 7up and popsicles, we discussed the pros and cons of Extreme Couponing, and whether Carol’s Corner Café was worthy of a visit from Guy Fieri of Diners, Drive Ins & Dives.  After snacking, we would doze peacefully, her woodstove of a body cooking and snoring away as I would watch her sleep.  Waking up to watch Oprah and see what Dr. Phil & Nate Berkas’ latest pitches were was a great way to start the afternoon.  We would head down to the kitchen to try out new food network recipes for Daddy & T’s dinners. 

To this day, Annabelle loves movies, and tv as well.  She always has.  I really don’t watch anymore, but I have to admit, every time she grabs the iPad and snuggles down to watch something from Netflix, my heart skips a beat and I remind myself of those days, that seem like so long ago.  I remember looking at her tiny, baby hands, the only chubby part of her body, blink and look at my now 7 yr old who is becoming a young woman.  Mind blowing.  I know that I should not worry about baths, jammies, vitamins and etc, and just snuggle in and watch with her.  Even if it is another freaking episode of The Suite Life.   

Please turn off my brain

1:27am Crying. Loud crying. “Mamaaaaaaaaaa”

“Ignore her, at some point she needs to learn how to sleep thru the night.”

“But she is going to wake up Molly. And everyone else for that matter.”

“She will stop eventually.”

1:46am Still crying.

“I will give you anything you want if you go get her and bring her up.”

“Ok.’

1:50am “Mama, mama. I was missing you. Where’s my baba? Where is my pillow? Mama, help me. Mama, you wrap me?”

Amazing that I can actually smell her tears. Her little hands are wrapped tightly around her bottle as she gulps, gulps, gulps herself back to sleep. One hand loosens its grip and finds a chunk of my hair to twist as she dozes.

2:46am “Mia, you have to move over, I have no room. Christine, move over so she can scoot over. Ugh!! I should just go sleep on the couch.”

5:06am Alarm. Snooze.

5:15am Alarm. Snooze.

5:24am Alarm. Snooze.

5:33am Alarm. Snooze.

5:42am Alarm. I’m up, I’m up. Crap, G is occupying the shower. Should’ve snoozed again. Crap, it’s 5:45am, I am so late. Pee. Why do we still have freaking rv toilet paper in the bathroom?

Brush teeth. Eyebrows are really, really bad. Cannot put off wax any longer. Really should take off makeup before going to bed. If not because it’s bad for skin, because I should stop scaring the girls and myself when I wake up.

5:50am Shower. Crying. “Maaaaaamaaaa, you cuddle me? Maaaamaaaaa.”

Hurry up. Should’ve shaved. Legs are gross. Dry off. You are going to be so late.

More crying.

Ugh. Seriously? Please stop crying!! Whose idea was it to have kids??

6:15am No time for breakfast, grab soda to take to work.

6:33am Not so bad, not too late.

Seat warmers are a good thing. Stay awake. Traffic sucks. STAY AWAKE! Remind G to refill heart medicine. Why do I have to nag him? He’s an adult. Still need to buy little girls jackets. Horrible mom, it’s been months. Shit! Speaking of months - Note to self- MUST GET MIA’S EPI PENS PRESCRIPTION REFILLED!! So lazy. ugh. Who lives like this?

Chronic Liver Disease.

7:05am. Work. Not too late. Even had time to pick up coffee.

Bank draws. Customer funded. Change Order #8. Pay interest payment for spec. Don’t forget to process payroll. Internet not working, suckage.

Do not forget to process payroll. Hurry up so you don’t get stuck staying so late, and you might be able to wax those horrible brows. Should really schedule dental appointments for the girls. Bella still hasn’t had well child check for her January birthday.

“Did you send out the checks for the P**** job? Customer A is calling to see where they are.”

Chronic Liver Disease. What if she dies?

“How late can you stay today?” “Did you receive the invoices from *** Concrete? They want to know which liens you are missing.”

Liver Failure. Don’t forget to pay the freaking cable bill; otherwise you won’t have internet service at home either.

10am

Must file paperwork for Sec of State for Elementary School Boosters. Otherwise this chick will never stop emailing. So tired. Need more coffee. Wonder if I should get blond highlights? Text Molly, remind her to take AB to Wednesday meeting. Molly says running low on lots. Must go grocery shopping.

Lunch. Gas light is on.

Check fb. So many stay at home moms. I miss my girls. Maybe we should add 1 more to the mix? G would freak. Should be making grocery list instead of facebooking. Should be skipping lunch and getting gas. Wonder what Crystal is up to?

Meeting with potential customers in 2 hrs. Boss is yelling again. Sigh, happy to stay back in my office out of the way.

I miss my old office. Miss my old boss. Should be thankful to have a job. Must text old boss and remind him I will be late on Friday since Mia needs lab work done. Super suckage.

Liver Failure. Can you have a transplant as a toddler?

Check the mail. For the 2^nd time today. File B&O taxes. Upload data file with backup copy of quickbooks instead of accountants copy.

Funny. One would think if you are uploading a data file to an accountant then you would send an accountant’s copy, huh. oh well. Nothing like a waste of an hour. sigh. tired. Molly says #1 being a brat again. What is the deal? Call home, talk #1 off the ledge. My nails look like crap.

Wonder what is on TMZ today. Wonder what Brett Favre is doing? Still raining. I miss Vegas. Missed call from brother. Crap. Wonder what he is doing. Newly married, how fun. Jealous.

Run to post office. Gas light is still on.

Could swear I just saw my dad walking out the post office. Weird. Probably not normal to be seeing dead people, lol. Wonder if there is a heaven? Probably not. He probably wouldn’t be there anyway.

Back to office.

Crap, easily going to be here another couple of hours. G wants to know what to make for dinner.

Phone is ringing. Cell phone is ringing. “Are you going to be able to come to the car lot today?” “I need you to stay here for a meeting.” “Did you process those change orders yet?”

Leaving. Now. No matter how much is left to do. Need to actually help AB with her homework. We are awful parents.

Traffic. Rain. 16 miles into gas light.

People should really be able to handle driving in rain here. Brutal. Liver Biopsy. 2yr old with extremely out of range levels. Her ALT is better, but not anything else. Are you sure she isn’t exposed to anything environmentally?

6:15pm.

“Wow, you are home early. No car lot? Don’t you need to be over there?”

Seriously?

Crying. More crying. Fighting over a soda.

My 2yr old with liver failure is drinking a diet soda. Wonder if that would qualify as an environmental exposure? 7yr old is watching TV. By herself. Again. And she is starting to get boobs. Sigh. Still tired.

“Mama, open door! You open door for your baby!” “Mia, let go of the door handle like that, you are going to break it.” “This is your baby, mama! Big baby sit on your lap?” “No, you cannot sit on my lap while I am going potty.” “I lock door mama. Tessie no come in.”

8:00pm. Gummy vitamins, melatonin, bottle, downstairs. Tantrums. More tantrums. Tummy aches. Fights over the sleep timer.

8:30pm. Lay down with #1. Talk about her day. Talk about the fact that no one is helping with her homework.

Dig thru the 6 baskets of unfolded laundry to find cozy clothes. Hate doing laundry. If I ever win the lottery the 1^st thing I will do is hire someone to do the laundry. G is doing the dishes again. Should really be helping instead of playing Draw Something. I wonder if he will go get us Blizzards. Maybe he will get gas for me?

10:15pm “When you do you want to pay up your “I will give you anything you want if you go get the baby” offer?” Shit.

11:08pm Forecast says rain again.

Forgot to pay the cable bill, again. Forgot to get Mia’s Epi-Pens refilled. Should go to sleep and stop googling liver biopsy. I can see my awful brows in the reflection of the ipad. Rude. Liver Failure. ugh.

"I am not perfect, and sometimes my kids are assholes."

I love that quote. It sums up my daily life. A lot. The hubby & I are not perfect parents. We try. We really do. But we are really often 2 adults who feel like overgrown teenagers.

"Poop is funny."

Those brilliant words are from my Annabelle. And both of these quotes tie into this post perfectly.

Much to my dismay, my girls are quite familiar with poop and farts and how funny they are. Courtesy of their dad. I do not understand why men are so fascinated with poop and how funny it is. Maybe it's a psychological connection to how much they love butts? I love a good joke as much as the next guy. Hell, humor is one of the few things that helps me make it through each day. But I usually don't get the delightfulness of poop as much as my husband does. How is crop dusting your 32lb 3yr old enough to make you wet yourself because "she, she, she is the perfect height! I mean, did you see that" all fragmented by belly laughs and cracking up so hard he can't speak, that funny? My Mia cracks herself up when she toots, and both Annabelle & Tess are familiar with "sharting" and needing "blow mud". Sigh....what's a mama to do?

Tuesday evening was a busy one for us. AB had her 1st day of school, and Greg & I went to work late after getting her all settled in her new classroom. I left work to meet her at her bus stop, we went for ice cream to talk about her 1st day, then headed to cheer practice. Greg went home and tackled the babies and then Grandpa came over to help him assemble our new playhouse. By the time Annabelle and I arrived home, they were all outside, the minis "helping" as much as the adults could tolerate.

I herded the littles upstairs and into the bath tub to get them out of the way and to be honest, hose the little bastards down. How can a person get so dirty? Annabelle was instructed to play her DSi quietly while I attempted to bathe the slippery little eggs. If you haven't bathed 2 small children at the same time, or in a while, you really should experience it. It's amazing how little personal space boundaries they have. Take your sister's cup that she is drinking pee/bath water out of? No problem, she will just grab you by the hair and take it back. Try and sit under the running water by yourself? Not gonna happen. Want to impress mommy by swimming with your face in the water? A little more difficult with a 30 pounder on your back.

After most of the bath water was on the floor and Mia had successfully emptied half of an $18 bottle of baby wash into the tub, I cut my losses. I argued twice with Tessa about whether or not she could use Mimi's duck towel before I caved, and then silently complimented myself about picking my battles. I told Mia to pull the plug for the 50th time, and for the 51st time she pulled it and then quickly shut it again. I hoisted Tessie out and sent her into Mia's room to find her nightgown. "

Let's get out now Meemers" I said.

"No."

"Okay, well I am going to clean up and then it's time to get out."

"No."

Followed by a ridiculous fart. And furious giggles. Clearly her father's daughter. "Mims, let's hurry before you go potty" I tell her.

"Nope."

Reminding myself that trying to argue with an almost 2 yr old is about as effective as our current congress, I moved on. "Mia, I am going to put these clothes in the washer and when I come back it's time to get out." She smiled at me as she slid up and down the bathtub, living life on the edge and narrowly avoiding head injuries. I hurried the laundry to the washer, and checked on Tess who was sitting naked on the floor checking out her girly parts, all the while worrying that my stubborn ass toddler was probably drowning in what was likely 2 ounces of bath water left in the tub.

When I made it back into the bathroom, I was greeted by my sweet, innocent baby, her face usually that one of a cherub, grinning with delight. And holding suspiciously still. My gaze followed her body down to between her legs. "Mia! You didn't!" She started laughing. "Bella, go tell Daddy that I need his help right now! It's an emergency" I yelled. She came running. "What happened?" she asked. "Your sister," I said, now doubling over myself, "Has pooped a penis." "What?" she looks at me, confused. "Daddy, now," was all I could muster.

Since I certainly wasn't going to be able to clean up the offending doo, I laughed my way all the way to the bedroom to help get my other, poop free, child dressed. Greg came huffing up the stairs. I re entered the bathroom, preparing myself to get yelled at for interrupting hard work with my inability to clean up poop. Instead, I see my 36 yr old husband leaning over the bathtub taking a picture of the miraculous poo with his iphone.

"Poo Poo!" his spawn spouted to him proudly. "Mia poo poo bath!"

"You sure did Meemers," he congratulated her, practically slapping her on the back. I half expected him to hoist her up onto his shoulder and do a victory lap around the house. And really, who wouldn't be proud? Can your toddler poop phallic images? Can she also do it without peeing? One of nature's great mysteries I tell ya.

That was when my "aha" moment hit me. I suddenly realized that somehow in my house liking poop humor = being able to clean up poop without gagging. I quickly made peace with my husband's love of poop, his routine rectal honks and constant reminders that he "is turtling."

Heck, if it keeps me from having to clean up any of that nastiness, go to town with your grossness honey. Go to town.

So it actually is a big deal?

You know that feeling when you are going through your daily life routine, plugging along, surviving but kind of ignoring the big elephant in the room?  When you think you might be getting laid off, but are ignoring it?  When every sign points to your marriage ending soon, but you keep paying for marriage counseling?  That has been my life lately.  And Greg's.  We know something is wrong with Mia.  Everyone keeps saying so.  Add to that all the stress of the impending anaphylactic reaction she will eventually have and trying to prepare all of her caregivers and family members and prevent it at the same time.  And normal life crap.  Bills, medical bills, job changes.  But we are still in denial.  We see our girl, tall, solid, vibrant, an absolute joy.  She literally skips when she walks.  She has a smile that would melt the coldest of hearts.  She has a twisted sense of humor.  Just last night when I was bathing her and Tess, she couldn't understand why Tessa was sooooooo irritated that Mimi kept sticking her finger in (as T calls it) "her booty hole".  And she laughed furiously every time Tessa shrieked about it.

It's frustrating and hard to believe when professionals keep telling you something is wrong, but your eyes and sense of reason tell you differently.  I know families deal with shock differently.  But you usually hear about someone who gets a diagnosis, and suddenly all of the symptoms start to make sense.  Or a person has a symptom and the Drs can't figure the problem.  Not our case at all.  As far as we know, she doesn't have one single symptom.  I think I was choosing to believe my eyes instead of my medical bills.  I am still putting off her next blood draw, which was supposed to be done 2 weeks ago.  I don't want to hold her down so someone can stick needles into her, and listen to her scream.  For what?  More dead ends?  For a problem she doesn't seem to suffer from?  That's my reasoning.  My world is becoming unbalanced.  I am starting to sympathize with those people who don't take their kids to Drs, they just pray for things to get better.  Sometimes I wish I prayed.  But my issues with God are a subject for an entirely different post.

And I don't think that I am that far off base.

Does this look like someone who isn't healthy?  The kid can eat a double cheeseburger like a champ.  She lifts and carries things around twice her size.  She can run lap after lap around our kitchen island, for what seems like hours.  She can sing every word to You Are My Sunshine.  And she does so, every night.  She knows that if Mommy or Daddy leaves the house, they are most likely going to work.  She waits her turn to get her hair done, and she is smart enough to know whether Annabelle or Tess have had their turn and yells at them to get in line next.  She helps herself to water from the dispenser in our fridge.  She knows which iphone is mine, and which one is Greg's just by their covers and promptly rats us out if we are snooping on one another.

I had pretty much come to the conclusion that the Dr's were wrong.  They are only human too, right?  They can make mistakes.  Sure, her blood levels were high in the hospital.  I get it.  And when we followed up they were high again.  But they are coming down.  I guess it has been 5 months, and if I think about it, that is a long time to recover from whatever it is that caused it.  But then I had a bit of a shock.  While enrolling AB in school, I realized I needed a copy of her immunization records.  I went to The Vancouver Clinic and enrolled in their nifty new online MyClinic program.  Sweet.  From home you can access immunization records, lab reports, test results.  Later that evening I checked it all out.  Pulled up Mia's labs from the end of July.  I knew that they were still slightly out of range.  Around 90 for one of the liver function tests, when the top range was supposed to be 60.  But then I pulled May's labs.  The same test had a result of 723.  Holy cow.  More then 10 times the normal level?  That seems crazy.  I did the 1 thing any logical person would do.  I googled it.  Which let me tell you, never is a good idea.

The next day I went about my business.  Daily grind, but with a now larger, bigger monkey on my back.  By ignoring the issues, am I letting my baby get worse?  How damaged is her liver?  Why doesn't any of it make sense.  She's fine, right?  I am just a little neurotic.

Then we got her hospital records in the mail.

 

Sigh.  So, apparently my baby has a liver comparable to Lindsay Lohan's.   It is a big deal.  Something made her sick.  Really, really sick.  And I really, really wish I knew what it was.  Part of me wants it to be the nuts.  But that scares the crap out of me.  If eating 2 or 3 cashews gave her liver such a shock, will the next time be fatal?  Everyone keeps telling me allergic reactions get more severe each time.  Do I need to build her a little nut free bubble to roll through life in?  I will if I need to.  But I don't really want to.  Bedazzling and hot gluing feather boas to something that round and big is going to be a serious bitch.

WWYMD? Or, what would your mama do?

As a parent, do you follow through on your threats? I am the Queen of Empty Threats. "Move your butt or you will get a spanking!" I think I have swatted a butt maybe 3 or 4 times ever in my years of mommyhood. And either got hit back, immediately felt awful, or both. "Eat the dinner I made you, or you will sit here until you do eat it." Um yeah, that never works. I have other shit to do besides sit at a table and watch someone sob. "Stop talking/crying/hitting your sister or we are just going to go back home". I can almost hear them saying "and then what mom? Eat the remaining two packages of Maruchan Noodles and jar of strawberry jam we happen to have in the house? How are you planning on changing diapers with no wipes? Like you did this morning, with a paper towel?" Crap. That's the problem with kids and real life, and jobs, and hobbies, and needing to get out of the house before someone ends up abandoned at the local fire station. You are screwed. And those little heathens really feel no obligation to cooperate when instead they could be sitting back and enjoying the latest episode of Bubble Guppies. Or drawing on the wall(or a sibling) with a Sharpie.

Anywooo..... this leads me to my most recent conundrum. Mama recently scored last minute tickets to see this little cutie pie in concert:

My Annabelle happens to be a HUGE fan, and I don't mind her music one bit. Well, unless it has been hours, and hours, and hours of it. Sang by a 6 yr old. Still, pretty exciting. And not cheap, especially for this mama, who is on a pretty strict budget and currently swinging 2 jobs in order to pay for some other agenda items. I got a great deal, $150 for both, but certainly a luxury for us. I thought #1 would just about die when I gave them to her, but while she was happy and smiling, you could probably describe her reaction as "lukewarm" at best. Crapper. In fact, my ever loving, supportive husband was standing behind her giving me his best thumbs down and chuckling whole heartedly to himself. Whatever. Fun hater.

So not exactly Beatlemania, but still excitement, happiness. Going to the Rose Garden on a school night, probably Red Robin on the way, and no little sisters to cramp our style. Easily coolest mom on the block, right?

Until last night.

I worked late, got home about 8ish, Greg had been a wonderful hubby, girls had been fed, kitchen was in decent condition and he had dinner waiting. We ate, played with the girls a while, then Mia called it a night, and Daddy put the bigs to bed. I was hanging out, catching up on emails and fb while Greg was out bringing in the garbage cans and yard debris bins from trash day. I looked up as the garage door opened, half smiling, expecting to see my darling husband walk back in and tell me how heavy it was to haul the yard debris barrel down to the backyard, as he always does. Except it wasn't him. It was my two daughters, ages 6 and 3, walking in from outside. In their pajamas. Confusion and concern at the same time. Greg followed shortly, and I quickly met his eyes with my best "WTF?" look. "Yeah, these "angels" were outside and met me when I turned the corner with the garbage can." Huh? I looked at Annabelle. "We were scared mom, so we went outside" she says to me like it makes perfect sense. "Through the downstairs slider?" I ask. "Yeah" she says with annoyance, since I am asking such a stupid question. "Since when do you just get to leave the house when you feel like it? And with your little sister?" Clearly things aren't good, because for once in her life Tessa knows now is not the time to be talking. "I know how to open the gate!" AB responds, informing me that apparently that is all you need to know how to do in order to come and go @ Casa de Mongrain. "Go to bed, now," I growl. "And stay there." "You are in really, really big trouble, and in danger of losing some big privileges." I was so stunned I didn't even know what to threaten.

The girls scampered back downstairs, Greg & I sat on the couch and looked at each other. "I guess tomorrow I will be looking at getting a padlock for the gate," he says. "So they were actually outside, just walking around?" I asked, still absorbing the mutiny. "Yep, they were pretty surprised to see me come around the corner," he responds.

We are interrupted by someone struggling to open the baby gate at the top of the stairs. Someone with dark brown hair, approx 60 lbs, and who may not live to start her 1st day of 1st grade at this point. "You forgot my anti-scare medicine" she mumbles when she finally makes it to face me. "Bella, I don't care if we forgot your anti scare medicine, GO TO BED!" She looks back at me, pathetic and indignant at the same time. "Mom, you forgot my anti-scare medicine" she replies, and I realize that she doesn't know/care/understand that I just worked for 12 hours, had a pretty stressful day, have a headache from the quintuple iced venti non fat marble mocha macchiato I had earlier, and that by choosing not to go to bed, she is most certainly sealing her fate.

“Annabelle, if you are not in your bed in 2 minutes, you will NOT be going to the Taylor Swift concert.” Crap. Tears, sobs, snot.

“Mom, I really, really want to go to the concert, I just need my anti-scare medicine.”

“I’ll give her the medicine,” the voice of reason/Daddy chimes in. “Because I don’t want her to have any reason not to go to bed.” Full medicated with anti-scare medicine/liquid Vitamin D, back to bed she goes.

Followed by 4 more return trips back upstairs, sobs of “I really want to go to the concert, but I just can’t stop thinking about it.” And a variety of other excuses. And Mommy and Daddy explaining several times that she might be able to go, if she just follows directions and does what she is supposed to. Which she doesn’t, until she does. Finally.

So now what? Do I parent the way I probably should, teach her a lesson about following our instructions, so that the next time I give her instructions and have to threaten with a consequence, it actually means something? But then that means no concert, and that Mommy suffers too. And trying to sell the tickets, or lose the $$, neither of which I am thrilled about. Or do I justify it by telling myself that she usually does what she is told, and a special occasion like this is totally a good enough reason to not follow through? On 2^nd thought, it is probably my fault anyway, right? I should have never opened my big mouth and threatened with something I wouldn’t want to sacrifice. What kind of fighter pulls out the big guns and doesn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger? Mommy guilt, no matter what. Either I am a lazy parent and a push over or I follow through and we all pay. Sigh. Totally not a decision that should be decided without a glass of wine, in the bath. Neither of which are likely to happen soon. So I guess I will ponder it while going to the bathroom, in between telling Mia “no, you cannot sit on my “lapee” while I am going potty” and yelling at #1 & #2 to stop fighting.

What would your mama do?

~Weekly Words of Wisdom~

By: Tessa Madeline Rae Mongrain

Upon being found by her daddy Saturday morning, face covered in chocolate,
"I can't ask you yes or no if you are not here."

Mama vs. The Bitch

~The East County Jets~

Last Friday night Annabelle began her very first season as a Pop Warner Cheerleader. So very exciting. She is practically jumping out of her skin. We started with the orientation meeting on Friday eve, located in the very "vintage" Angelo's Pizza in Camas. Yes, cheer meeting in a pizza parlor. Does it get any better? At the meeting the very direct league director went over all of the rules, from no earrings, no nail polish, what kind of shoes they needed and where to buy them, to how many laps the girls would be running if they were late to practice. She also mentioned their 1st fund raiser, a cheer camp the very next day, from 9am - 2pm @ the local middle school. Cost was $50 and the girls were going to be working hard, learning a dance routine and 3 important cheers. Belle was practically drooling. "I can go right mom?" I told her I needed to check with her dad, but probably. Apparently these Pop Warner people take this stuff quite seriously, because the director lady and her assistant director lady informed us that the district competition was on the Friday following Thanksgiving, and that check in was on Thanksgiving itself. I nearly choked on my full calorie Pepsi (diet isn't offered at Angelo's). What??? On Thanksgiving? My heart started racing. Who does this? Don't these people have family values? Don't they realize what this means? What kind of example would I be setting for Annabelle if I let her think that some sporting event is going to bump Black Friday shopping? One of the other mom's must've felt the same way because she quickly asked if it were for all the girls. "Not the Tiny Mites & Mighty Mites, just the older girls," the director responded. "But be prepared for it if you want your daughter to continue to cheer as she ages into the older teams" piped up her assistant. Whew! Crisis adverted.

The next morning Annabelle has no trouble getting herself out of bed on time. Sturdy shoes, check. Water bottle, check. Sack lunch, check. Sunscreen, crap. No sunscreen. Oh well, she has some sort of Hispanic heritage, and they rarely get skin cancer, right? Bad mom. She reminds me that we need to buy her the cheer shoes the coaches requested from Walmart. "We will B, I promise" I told her. We were in the car and thankfully on time for once. I mentally applaud myself for taking the extra time after last night's meeting to find and locate the middle school the camp and practices are held at so that we wouldn't be late. We pull into the middle school and make the trek up the hill to the field everyone is gathering at. She turns in the registration form they gave us last night at the pizza parlor and seems to be fine. "Just go mom," she says. "Really?" I respond "there doesn't seem to be very many girls here yet, and I don't even know who your coach is." "It's fine, I will figure it out, I'm brave" she says. Ok, I think. I give her a hug and a kiss and tell her to have fun and start the long walk back to the car with my heart in my throat. She looks so tiny standing there all alone. All the crazy thoughts start to run thru my head of abducted children and how on earth I would handle that, I silent them and instead begin to worry about whether or not she will make friends or have to eat her lunch by herself and etc. I make it to the car, where my thoughts are drowned out by the audio from Mulan II that I failed to turn off even though there were no kids in the car.

Greg, myself and the crew make it back @ 2pm to see the girls perform the dance routine. It was adorable. She survived, LOVED it and is completely hooked. She can't wait for practice on Monday.

Sunday eve I get an email from the coach introducing herself, and reminding us that practice is on Monday @ 5:30. Crap! They said 6:00 at the pizza parlor. I promise myself to leave work right @ 4pm to make it back to Washougal, grab the girl and make it to practice on time. I am super relieved to get another email the next morning stating that practice is indeed at 6pm. After a quick stop for Starbucks, AB & I make it to the field only a couple of minutes late. We trek up the hill to the track where camp was held and where the director said practice would be only to discover that the cheerleaders are no where to be found. Only tiny little footballers, so stinking cute in their tiny little football pads, and cute little football pants. Maybe Greg will let us have one more, so we can have a boy. I wonder how much in vitro is now a days? Our luck he would come out and top out about 5'7", right? "Mom! They are way down there," #1 proclaims. Back to reality. I follow her finger to the field at the opposite end of the school and we march towards the crowd dressed primarily in pink. "Run B, just run over and I will catch up with you. Don't run in front of the football players." I grab my handbag, folding chair, AB's water bottle, and of course my coffee and start the trek after her.

We make it to the right spot, and the coach welcomes her. "Over here Annabelle, come stand in line with your team." Sweet. No room or reason to be shy. I really hope that some of these girls are in her class or at least school when she starts. A gal that looks to be about 16 comes out and starts showing the girls what stretches to do. AB looks adorable, and klutzy. So cute. I can't really hear what they are saying, but the fact that the entire gaggle of them are all lined up and following along with the stretches is amazing. The assistant director comes out and starts calling off names. She must be splitting them up into their appropriate ages groups. "McKenzie, Abigail, Shelby, Annabelle" she yells. She continues with about 5 other names, until all the mentioned girls are standing and awaiting the next direction. "All of you have not turned in your physical from your Dr, so you will not be participating." WTF? Physical? No one said anything about a physical. OK, well maybe they did. But that was back in like April, when we signed up. Nothing about when it was due. One of the mom's of the other mortified girls is speaking up. She says they will just go home, no need to sit here for 2 hours if they can't practice. "No," the assistant director states, "they need to stay and watch. They are learning 4 cheers today that they will need to know for tomorrow." Annabelle looks over at me with watery eyes and mouths "Mom?" Crap. I hoist myself out of my chair to move in closer and be able to hear the details.
Apparently the black listed girls can't be on the field with the other girls, but can sit to the side. "What difference does it make?" I ask the Asst Director. She spins her head quickly to see who dares question her authority. "It's a liability issue." She snaps. "They can't practice." "Well how come no one happened to mention this on Friday at orientation, or at camp?" I respond. "And how come she was able to go to camp? How come you were able to take her $50, and let her practice for FIVE hours?" "That's a fundraiser," she says. I tell myself not to over react and then I am reminded not to embarrass my kid when she starts tugging on my shirt. Ok, fine. Whatever lady. Clearly you don't have a heart, or kids, judging from your size 2 leggings and the ability to keep your nails filled and roots maintained on a timely basis. Obviously you don't work and this is your only chance to assert your authority. You can have this one. Karma is a wonderful thing.

I take a deep breath, prepare myself to concede when she says "Are we clear? Can we move on? The girls who have their act together shouldn't have to suffer because your daughters don't."

BITCH! The word was almost out of my mouth, before I saw the group of 20 5-8 yr olds watching intently. This isn't a big deal I tell myself. It's just cheer leading. For a 6 yr old. My rage subsides into guilt when I hear Annabelle say she doesn't feel good. Which is just code for humiliation. "It's fine," I say to the shrew. "We will have it tomorrow." I instantly start to run through the handful of girlfriends who might bail me out of jail when it comes to light that I forged the signature of a medical professional in order to get it turned in by tomorrow afternoon. Crap.

I squat down to talk to my daughter, while the group of other rejects sit and watch us, their moms standing back a few feet. "Listen baby, don't freak out. We will turn it in tomorrow, and everything will be fine. Honestly, it's a bullshit rule. What difference does it make if you practice over here, or over there, 10 feet away? If something happened to you mommy is here to take you to the hospital or Dr right away, it makes no difference if you have the dumb form or not. She's just being a bitch."

"Moooooooom, don't say that. I like her. She is really pretty." Of course she does. Dang. Mama - 0, The Bitch - 1.

"Of course you do, I like her too," I back pedal.

"What are we going to do?" she moans. "I can't remember 4 cheers."

"Don't worry about it" I say, " We can learn them." Her eyes are huge, panicked at the thought that I might do something else to mortify her, as I stand up.

So we stood there, for 2 hours and practiced, 10 feet away from the "girls who had their acts together". I bent my chubby self into positions that my body hadn't seen in years, and copied the coach, constant glares from the asst director and all. I smugly noted to myself that she clearly didn't have children when she brought out her perfectly organized binder when she said to the girls "keep those arms straight ladies. Don't think I can't see you. I have 5 kids, I see everything." Fudge. Of course she does. She probably stays at home and home schools them, and works graveyard and then makes it home in time to have sex with her husband. Every day. I hate my life, seriously.

We wrap up practice and head home, luckily Greg has answered my furious texts and has figured out that hopefully we can just fax the golden form to Dr to fill out vs trying to schedule a same day appt and make it to work and to practice again the following evening. AB is tired, and quiet. I congratulate myself on making sure she still at least knows the cheers and won't be way behind for tomorrow's practice. If she can practice, please Dear God let me find a way to get the damn form completed. Oh well, even if we can't, we can still go and do the same thing again, right?
I let her stay up later then usually, watching a dvr'd Big Brother with Daddy. At about 10:30, I tell her it's time for bed, she needs rest and energy for tomorrow. "Ok," she says. "You are going to get my physical done, right mom?" "Of course, Belle. It's really no big deal, " I muster. I start mentally running through my list of potential bailer outers again. "Good," she says. "I am so excited to practice with the other girls. And I really want the coach to like me, she is so nice!" Really? "I am glad, sweetie. She seems really nice to me too," I mumble. Crap.

Mama-0, The Bitch-2.

It's Monday morning, the sun is shining, I am going to visit a good friend this weekend, and life should be good, right? It is, and while I remind myself to count my blessings, I am grumpy & irritable.

I want my old life back. My simple, ignorant life where lack of sleep was my biggest problem.

I don't want to deal with waiting for ultrasound results to see if my baby has a tumor.

I don't want to throw up in my mouth after I read the package of molasses cookies we had been giving the baby all weekend and discover it was manufactured with tree nuts.

I don't want to give my happy, giggly little girl extra kisses when she goes down for a nap and then swallow the lump in my throat because the neurotic side of me thinks that she might go to sleep, have her liver fail and never wake up.

I don't want to shudder then tell myself to shut up every time she points to her right side and says "hurts".

I don't want to not discipline her properly because I am worried she is sick.

I don't want to hold her down, listen to her sob and yell "mommy" while someone sticks needles into her anymore.

And days like this, when I am really, really just done with it all, I tell myself, I am not going to do it anymore. They can't make me right? She looks healthy. She acts healthy, why am I listening to the same damn people who told me there was probably something wrong the whole flipping time I was pregnant, when they were wrong that time and are probably wrong again? How can she have liver disease when she seems FINE?

It's not fair. I did everything I was supposed to. I didn't smoke, I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs. I switched to decaf (well mostly. I tried, I swear, I really tried). I went to all the stupid Doctor's appointments, even though I didn't want to. I mean really, who has the time and energy to sit in the hospital 3x a week for 12 weeks? But I did it, and now it doesn't count or matter. Why is there something wrong with my baby?

So I get mad, I tell myself that I am not going to deal with it anymore. No more stress, no more worrying about sickness, Dr visits, and how on earth we are going to pay for all of it. They say ignorance is bliss for a reason right? I picture scooping up my girls and my DH and moving somewhere far, far away. Rural and where they make their own medicines and treatments. Last night while I was taking the puppy out to eat and go potty, I closed my eyes and fantasized about living somewhere in the country. We could have our own garden, the girls could have any animal they wanted. Life would be so much better! I was snapped back to reality when I heard scratching and clawing on the fence, and looked up to see a big raccoon hissing at the puppy. I nearly crapped myself. Ugh, so maybe somewhere not so rural would be a better idea?

Mia's Liver vs the Doctors

Today we had Mia's 1st appointment with the Pediatric GI Specialist, and we learned the following things:

1. Contrary to what we were told at the hospital, an allergic reaction can cause liver issues. The GI specialist told us it can even cause liver failure. The Dr @ the hospital had told us that there was no way her high levels could be related. She seemed to think they were too high to be correlated. So good news and bad news. A-hopefully her high levels are incident related and will come back to normal. B-she didn't eat very many nuts. Greg guesses 2 or 3 at most. If we get our wish and her levels are just related to the allergic reaction, we will pretty much have to put ourselves on high alert, 24/7, which is tough, especially with a toddler.

2. Apparently Mia's levels were remarkably high. At our appointment we had another Dr come in and say hello, and she greeted Mimi as "our little medical mystery" and said that her levels were "impressive". Well, I guess that all depends on your perspective huh?

3. Her issue is still a bit of a mystery. While elevated levels can be a number of things, celiac disease, hepatitis, etc. it is unlikely that it is any of those since she doesn't have many other symptoms, and she is appearing healthy on many other levels. Right now, her only symptoms are the elevated liver function test levels, and an on going rash. Dr also seemed to think that we could be continuing to expose her to something that her body is treating as toxic, since she has an on going rash.

She actually tolerated the Dr and let him examine her, which is a huge change. She usually goes a little nuts as soon as we walk in. And while she does know what is going on to a certain extent, she did pretty well. As soon as they call her in, she starts asking "hurt? hurt?" which is heart breaking, but luckily she didn't freak today. I have started asking whoever we are going to see to not wear their lab/white coats into the exam room, and it seems to be working so far. She even let them weigh and measure her. At 22 months, she is 36 inches tall and weighs 37 lbs.

During the physical exam, the Dr thought that he could feel her liver, but said that could be normal, or it could still be inflammed.

Our next step is an ultrasound this Friday am. No food or drink for Mimi for the 4 hours prior to the ultrasound will be absolutely delightful, but what are you going to do?

After the ultrasound, then we will have more blood work done in about 6 weeks, they are going to review her enzyme levels again, and also test for a variety of other possibilities, and then a follow up with the GI Specialist.

As long as we make it thru the ultrasound and they don't discover a tumor or any major liver damage, we are in good shape, so for now we are holding our breath and crossing our fingers for that. Hopefully since our appointment is in the morning, the Dr will be able to review the results that afternoon and not make us suffer thru the weekend.

Thanks again to everyone for all of your support. We will be so relieved once this is over. Every time she says she has a stomach ache I get the chills and try not to freak out. It will be nice to get back to normal life and just worry about all the normal things!

xoxo,
Christine

Update on the Mimi Monster and her pesky liver!

Sorry baby, no more nuts for you!

As many of you know, while in the hospital for her allergic reaction, Mia's liver enzymes (ALT & AST) came back extremely elevated. Very unusual for a young child. We had to do a lot of follow up with her Dr, and a lot of follow up testing. She went to the hospital on April 12, so we have been dealing with it for about 90 days. Long story short, no matter what is causing it, when your levels are as high as hers are, it causes liver damage, and she was given a diagnosis of "chronic liver disease". Dr can't figure out what is causing it, and referred us to pediatric GI specialist.

Apparently Portland is lacking pediatric specialists. Last year when she needed to see the neurologist, she saw the ONLY one in Portland. When we got our referral to the GI specialist we learned that there are only 2 offices in the area, and they originally couldn't see her until September. Our Dr called and requested they see her sooner, and our appointment is now moved up till July 25.

Even with an appointment that close, the Dr has requested she have continued blood tests. Those suck. She freaks out (of course) and it is a horrible experience. When I took her on Tuesday afternoon, she was so combative, they tried & tried and poked & poked, but couldn't get a vein, so we were sent home with instructions to come back the next day.

Originally our Dr suspected that her levels may have been high from her allergic reaction (essentially the nuts were poisonous). But when her levels failed to come down, we kind of ruled that out. Enzyme levels can be high for a variety of reasons, anything from a hereditary disease to cancer to overdose on drugs, even a vitamin D deficiency. The levels just show that your liver is being damaged from something.

Also - before we left the hospital, the Dr suggested a blood test to determine if her allergy was to nuts, shellfish, or both. We found out a couple of weeks later that it was cashews. Thankfully, not peanuts. I followed up with the allergist, and we had the "prick" test, which revealed cashews as we already knew, along with a new allergy to hazelnuts. The allergist informed us that it is very common to have one tree nut allergy, and develop an allergy to the remaining tree nuts shortly thereafter. Apparently this is commonly discovered/diagnosed between the age of 1 and 2 when toddlers start having a variety of foods. She recommended avoiding all tree nuts, along with peanuts (as most foods with peanuts have tree nuts mixed in, and it's not uncommon to develop a peanut allergy as well) and to maintain a nut free household. Greg had given her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and she had no reaction, but the allergist recommended not doing that again.

So, for the past few weeks, we have been avoiding all nuts, and giving her a liquid supplement of Vitamin D (800 mg) each night in her bottle.

And this morning I got good news! Not great, but good. Her ALT & AST levels are way down. The last time they tested, her ALT was 723 and anything above 52 is "out of range". Yesterday it was down to 90! Last time her AST was 250 and yesterday it was 62. So we are still out of range, but way, way better. Dr said to keep doing what we are doing! We still need to follow up with the GI specialist to determine how much liver damage she has sustained (hopefully very little) and make sure her levels keep coming down.

I am so, so relieved. Thank you everyone for your prayers and support this far. Hopefully we have it figured out and can go from here. Part of me is relieved and thankful. Part of me feels guilty that we could have essentially been poisoning our baby by feeding her nuts! oy. Or not meeting her nutritional needs by giving her a lack of vitamin D. But whatever it is I am just hopeful that we can continue to fix it and move on.

This kid is going to drive me to a breakdown, one way or another, I swear!