On Vacation...

Florida Trans-Am hair predicts 100% humidity.

Also wants to know if you've got a light.

Snort.

*Be back soon!*

~ Amo

My Sweet Anissa

The most difficult part about writing has nothing to do with putting words down. It's not stringing sentences together or painting a picture. It's not even finding something worthwhile to say.

The part I find completely crippling is when you have a story to tell and cannot write anything else until it's finished. It is absolutely paralyzing to know that you cannot put another word on paper, or online, until you finish this. But the most agonizing part is when it's not your story to tell.

I've only met her in person three times, yet I love her. The first was at a blogging conference, Blissdom. I hadn't read her blog. I didn't know her story. But I did see a woman who's energy lit up a room and who's enthusiasm was violently contagious. Her smile was so inviting, I found myself drawn to this stranger immediately. I felt the need to introduce myself, if for no other reason than to just hear her speak.

Once I was home, I read through her blog, overwhelmed with admiration for her strength and sadness for her pain. This sweet woman, not much older than me, has been through more than anyone should endure in a lifetime.

She suffered a debilitating stroke and is continuing to fight the lasting effects.

Her baby daughter was diagnosed with Leukemia in June 2006; they just celebrated her first year since finishing the chemotherapy.

The family was separated due to her husband's work for eighteen months; they were just beginning to get settled in as a family.

But once again, this family is going through hell. Sweet Anissa has had two more strokes. She is in the ICU, on a ventilator. The prognosis hasn't been positive. The doctor's aren't giving this family much hope. But they see her fighting, they see her opening her eyes, they see the battle waging fiercely under the surface of this beautiful, courageous woman. A woman who despite all the perils she's dealt with in her short thirty five years, refuses to back down. A woman who has the tenacity of a thousand warriors at her fingertips. A woman who has so deeply touched the lives of people around the world through her writing, her honesty, her pain, her laughter and that gorgeous smile.

Anissa, we are all praying for you and will be here waiting.

"Because if there’s one thing the past years have taught me…recovering from a stroke, having a child diagnosed with cancer, chasing a dream, being a family apart for seventeen months…true strength doesn’t come from the body.

It comes from faith, soul, heart and love." ~Anissa Mayhew

*Anissa's husband, Peter, is updating her blog at www.hope4peyton.org and you can follow along there. If you would like to help the family, this post on one of her sites has a list of things they could desperately use to keep some normalcy in the lives of these precious children.

Thank you, friends. Thank you for letting me share my Sweet Anissa with each of you.

If anything like this ever happens to me, you people better find something nice to say...Got it?!

Gratitude

The past four months have been burdened with a barrage of medical tests and unimaginable stress. Ultimately, I told myself I was going to be fine, but the internal strife was overwhelming at times. The annoyance of the unknown welled up inside me. The urge to scream became overpowering, but silently, so as to not draw attention. Tears of anger that I was enduring this at a time when I was so desperately picking up the pieces of my old life; each hitting the floor as I stooped for another. A time when I was grasping at fleeting memories of my mother and drowning in the understanding that I would never again have that love. Crippling at times and yet inevitable.

But I believe in a God who doesn't allow anything to happen without reason. A God who, despite all of life's perils, will never fail me; will always accompany me and will forever love me. This has carried me through it all.

His love has given me more than a sense of security. He's blessed me with family and friends who's love I do not deserve. From a husband who's devotion is astounding and undeserved, sisters who are close no matter the distance, and friends who were complete strangers just months ago. These people, these blessings, reserve a secluded part in my heart. They each fill a specific void in my life that was once unknown. A crevasse unexplored until the floor collapsed. My devotion to these people is undying. My love for them unending. I find myself struggling with telling them how much they mean to me and overwhelming them with adoration. Ultimately, I am eternally thankful for their love and friendship and am forever indebted to them.

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Angiogram, Take Three

Well that was a good time...

Last week, I went in for an angiogram only to have it canceled because their table broke. (For the record, I had not even made it to the table when it broke, so hush.) They rescheduled me for Tuesday, but called Monday evening to cancel me again. Considering I didn't really want to go through with this in the first place, and there was that whole 'allergic reaction to an unknown drug' incident...so I was pretty convinced this wasn't going to end well.

So when 7 a.m. rolled around and lightning hadn't struck yet, I began to panic. It was starting to look like I was going to have to go through this after all. (But I made sure to let Dorkfish know where I had hidden the boy's Christmas gifts just in case...oh, and then spent 20 minutes teaching him to use my blackberry so he could alert all of you via twitter and facebook. I would hate for you to miss being the first to mourn.)

The ordeal was pretty painless. I felt most of what they were doing and when the doctor would say things like, "Now the left side of your face will feel flushed", she meant it. It was pretty intense, to be honest. But ultimately, I was too drugged to care about much. I do remember, vividly, telling the tech and nurses that if the doctor called me 'the prom queen' one more time, things were going to get ugly. Subsequently, they giggled nervously and put another happy little cocktail in my IV.

In the end, the verdict is that I have a main vessel that is 'over sized' and runs alongside my ear. This isn't a problem, nor is there a fix for it, so it's all good. I'm not going to die suddenly from a rupture and Dorkfish is stuck with me for much, much longer. (Sorry, sweetheart.)

I did, however, get to bring home a little souvenir. My first migraine! Complete with Glitter Vision! Every where I look, I see white glitter and it's quite festive for the upcoming Christmas season. I have to admit, the headache is a bit distracting from the fun, but between that and the gaping hole in my thigh, I'm off the hook for dishes for a week at least!

Feel free to send flowers and wine...

Filed under: Only Happens to Amo

Today I had to go in for an angiogram to try and figure out why I hear my heartbeat in my left ear. Now mind you, I don't really care that this occurs unless it wakes me up. Otherwise, meh, at least I know it's still beating. Right?

If you're a neurologist, the obvious answer to that question is no, apparently.

After numerous MRI's, a CT, hearing and vision tests, I drew the short straw and was sent to a neurosurgeon.

After 30 minutes of trying to talk her out of this procedure I mentioned, "Hey, I can turn my head and make it go away. Isn't that a good sign?!"

Again, to a neurosurgeon, the obvious answer to that question is no as well.

So I caved. I sucked up my nerve, shaved above the knee and went in. It wasn't an easy decision but more of a 'let's just rule out the really bad stuff so we can get on living life' choice.

I went through all the fun stuff involving blood-drawing, IV-inserting, horse pill-ingesting, ginormous shot in the thigh-wincing and flipping Jessica off for taking pictures of all this. (Just so she couldn't put it on her facebook...heh.)

Once I no longer cared what world I was in, they wheeled me back to the 'Angio Suite', which was by no means the kind of classy place the name suggested. There were huge metal tracts along the ceiling, cameras inside bubbles hanging everywhere, a huge c-shaped machine to take the x-rays and it was about the temperature that Dorkfish says my feet are when I shove them on his back in the middle of the night.

The tech comes in the room and explains that the table isn't working right and so he needs to reboot it or somethingoranother. I, still on my early morning cocktail of Demerol and Versed, was not too fussed about anything happening. A few minutes later, they returned to inform me that the table was in fact broken and they could not fix it themselves. I was sent back to the pre-op area to wait.

Jessica and I were playing on our blackberries when I realized I was having trouble breathing. "Hey, I feel like someone's choking me," I said without the expected MY HAIR'S ON FIRE tone. (Thanks to the cocktail.)

Jessica freaks, "YOU WHAT?! WHAT'S WRONG?!"

"I said I feel like I'm having trouble breathing and incidentally, there's a hot-air sensation on the left side of my face. This might be the worst date I've been on," I snickered.

She paged the nurse and then waited a full three seconds before storming the nurses station in search of help.

They determined it was an allergic reaction and started pumping me full of Benadryl. If you think I'm carefree while on narcotics, you should see me with Benadryl...snort. But it did work in stopping the train wreck that I was quickly and steadily headed toward.

So the good news is that I didn't die on the table as I had predicted since the damn thing wasn't working in the first place.

The bad news is that I now have a drug that I'm allergic to, but they have no idea which one.

In other news, I woke up hung over, hungry and can't remember why I have blue X's drawn on my feet in sharpie. Thus ensuring the entire day was most certainly the worst date ever.

But I get to do it all over again on Tuesday, so apparently it wasn't too bad for the other parties involved.

It's okay to ask for help sometimes.

Dear Dorkfish,

We've survived two weeks of you being away for work. I won't kid you, it's been difficult. The boys haven't felt well the entire time, I'm exhausted and needing a break, and the dog is super pissed that you aren't walking her first thing in the morning and letting her poop on other people's yards.

The neighbor's appreciate that part, though.

I've been telling myself that it's much harder on you since I'm surrounded by good friends and you're stuck with other dorkfish. (Aren't you getting tired of speaking in acronyms and working off a 24-hour clock?!)

But I'm holding down the fort here. Just last week, I had to mow the grass. I know, I usually mow the grass, but it's because I want to rather than not having another option. Oh, and the garbage men...apparently, they've realized that you're away as well. They seem to make it by the house at the exact same time that I am dragging the garbage cans out wearing only boxers and a t-shirt. I thought I had beat them last Wednesday, but just as I turned to run back into the garage, they pulled up and blew the horn. Fortunatly, all the neighbors who were out walking their dogs or getting their children on the school bus were then alerted to my presence. It was lovely.

So I've made an executive decision...

Back when you worked for the fire department in Tennessee, I always had offers of assistance. The guys offered to mow the grass, help with handyman projects, or just come over when I was lonely. Their generosity was overwhelming.

See? Making sure I don't fall off the firetruck. Safety First!

I recognize that moving back to Tennessee right now while your working in Florida might not be the wisest choice, so I'm enlisting some help. Since you said I can't hire a pool boy when we don't have a pool, I'm taking the boys trick-or-treating at the local fire department.

But don't worry. We won't talk to any strangers.

Miss you!

XOXO,

Amo

I'm making great strides in parenting.

Deuce just walked in the kitchen as I'm desperately attempting to get the coffee into the cup while managing a sinus headache the size of China and announced, "If you don't get me a fruit rollup, I'm gonna smack you in the face."

So I sent him to his room.

He cried his broken-hearted, I-don't-have-a-friend-in-the-world-and-everyone-hates-me cry for about five minutes.

Sniffling, he quietly shuffled back into the living room with his eyes red and swollen and snot running down his face. I'm gingerly sipping my little cup of cinnamon-flavored heaven and pretending I'm elsewhere.

Deuce: "Momma, I'm sorry."

Me: "That is not nice to speak to your mother like that. That made me really sad, Deuce."

Deuce: "I'm weawwwy sorry, momma."

Me: "That was very disrespectful to speak to anyone like that but especially so to someone who you depend on for survival.

Deuce: "But I said I'm sorry."

Me: "Do you understand what you said that made me so sad?"

Deuce: "Yes, I should have said please."

 

Obviously, I'm making progress here.

It's been a year.

A year ago, it was done. You were officially gone from this earth forever. I honestly cannot believe it's been a year. Some days it feels like only a few weeks and other days it feels like a lifetime has passed.

In reality though, a lifetime has passed. When you left me, us, this place, you took away a large part of me. Your death left a hole that I could not have dreamed would surface. I had thought about this time often. Mostly when I sat at your bedside, watching your every breath, my own heart keeping the same rhythm as yours on the monitor. I had assured myself that once it was done, you would be 'better off' and I would continue with my life and that of my children. But with each hospital trip, I saw you grow weaker.

I never wanted you to go. I never wished this on you. I, much like you, wanted your pain to end and knew there was really only one option. On that day, my world stopped. My heart felt a pain that I hadn't understood existed. Breathing became unbearable. I lost my sight that day. I lost it in a way that only those who have cried with the passion of overwhelming hopelessness can understand.

Yours was not a good death. You did not die peacefully in your sleep as you had often spoken about. You waited on me. You knew I was coming. I always came. But this time, this fateful day, I wasn't there in time and you died in my arms. I was too preoccupied to make that trip even though I had a sinking sensation that the unanswered calls meant something much worse. Still, I refused to come. I don't blame myself for this any longer. I know it isn't my fault and it was all in God's plan. But I will always question it. I will always wonder if you would be here today had I ended the selfishness.

On that day, I solidified my place as the matriarch of this family. I stepped up and took hold of my grief and put it aside for another day. I focused on helping others to heal. I patiently held my grandmother as she cried. I comforted my grandfather as he suppressed his grief. I helped two parents bury their child. Not my mother, no, their child.

That week was one of the most humbling, absurd and yet hilarious weeks of my life. I cried harder than I thought possible and yet laughed at the awkwardness of it all. I felt abandoned and free. I was no longer a caretaker of all your pain and selfishness but yet I had lost my first love. Your death was my open door and my misfortune. But mostly, it was an opportunity lost.

Your mother was a basket case. She busied herself with the preparations for your funeral to ease the pain. She insisted I find the blue dress you wore to my wedding because according to her, it was "the only dress you ever looked good in." She went out and bought you new underwear because apparently you can't go to see Jesus without panties. We argued over pantyhose because she was paralyzed at the thought of you wearing knee highs with a short dress. I should probably apologize for the casket being open. I argued nonstop with her over that and even explained to her how you told me when I was a child that if I opened your casket for every jackass to say 'how good you looked', you would come back and haunt me. But in the end, she needed it. Just like putting panties on a corpse, every conversation with her was a struggle to maintain composure. It was the most absurd time in my life and I pray I never relive it. But you would have laughed if you had been here.

I should probably tell you that she found some 'unmentionables' under your bed and I told her it was something from your doctor. You're welcome.

I miss you, mom. I miss your humor, I miss your laugh, I miss your way of annoying the hell out of me until I told you everything I was hiding.

I wish you could see the boys. I wish you could hear them talk about you. Bonus remembers you. He retells stories of your clumsiness and your smoking. In fact, they both yell at smokers now. Deuce seems to always mention your name when I'm thinking about you. It's as if he can sense your presence. But he doesn't remember the nana that loved him so. He only knows of his "dead nana who lives in heaven."

But you should know that I am coping well. I am surrounded by more love than I deserve. I have friends that have shown me compassion without pity. Love without limits. I have these wonderful people who have supported me through this pain and are now destined to be stuck with me forever.

It has been a rough year without you, but I know it will get easier.

I love you, mom.

~Amo

It must be nice where he lives.

Last weekend, Dorkfish and I decided to take the boys to the beach for the day.

Okay, actually, he decided we were all going to the beach and forced me to put away my laptop and GET IN THE DAMN CAR ALREADY.

So off we went.

There was fighting, screaming, gnashing of teeth, threats of pulling the car over and empty promises made for being quiet for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES!

It was a good time.

The beach was amazing this trip. It was the first time I've ever been when it wasn't I-can-feel-the-sun-eating-my-flesh-and-giving-me-cancer hot. In short, there was a fall crispness in the air that I hadn't experienced before.

Sitting on the blanket, watching the boys play in the surf, I got all nostalgic, "You know, I'd want you to remarry if I died."

Dorkfish: "And I'd want you to do the same."

Me: "But seriously, I'd expect you to mourn for a while. Maybe a month or two, but not forever."

Dorkfish: "I know you wouldn't want me to be lonely."

Me: "You'd have one cut out of the herd in a week's time. Wouldn't you?"

Dorkfish: "Probably. Not to mention I'd be exhausted from all the 'sympathy'."

 

Him leaving for a month for work might be good for his health after all...

What'd you do today? Oh just blogged for boobs.

After much begging, my dear friend Rachel let me guest post on her blog. She's a food blogger, but it's a post about boobs.

Go figure.

Go read it, laugh, post a comment and support the boobs.

It would make your momma proud.

Please don't pee in the pompas grass.

There are some things you should never have to say to your children. That title? I said that yesterday.

Twice.

To both of my sons.

And have forever scarred the neighbor's precious little girl who despite having an older brother, has never seen a boy drop it and whiz in public.

Truthfully, I was secretly proud that he knew to use the bushes instead of the middle of the yard like he usually does. (That's called progress, yo.)

But at the same time, I think a little part of me was worried about the therapy bill that my dear friends will incur when that same little girl grows up.

Maybe she'll at least give Deuce a cool name in her memoirs.

This one will be chapter 17 when I write my parenting handbook.

Today was yet another test-filled adventure day! Apparently, the neurologist is a bit more concerned about the heartbeat sound in my ear than I am. Truthfully, it's been there for two years now and I use it as a measure to determine my stress level.

To be quite honest, having your heart beating in one ear and the other one making you dizzy, it's like a really bad date...possibly one involving roofies.

But, they just won't take no for an answer when you go in with something weird. So, off for the CT we went! But of course, I won't know anything for days, probably.

Good times...

Between that and the MRI's, (yes, that is plural. We're talking about FOUR here. FOUR. I'm going to owe the GDP of some small country by the time this crap is over) I've spent more time inside of donuts than I would ever care to admit.

But at least it's not going to my thighs.

Heh.

The best part of today's trip actually had nothing to do with all of that. It was one of these pivotal moments in the parenthood experience when you realize, 'that one? He's not marching to the beat of a different drummer; he's his own one-man band.'

I got to my neighbor's to pick the boys and she's frantically running through the house, "Where's Bonus?! We can't find Bonus! We've been looking for him and he's no where to be found!"

Fortunately, upon driving in the neighborhood, I noticed that my garage door was open and the dog was no longer in the house. Two tale-tale signs that Bonus was home. We live a block from each other and you can see my house from hers so it's not like it's a long trek. I grabbed Deuce and stomped home.

Bonus was home. He was sitting on the couch, with a bag of tortilla chips and a bottle of water, watching cartoons with his dog by his side.

Me:  (In a not-so-subdued tone) "DUDE! What are you doing?!"

Bonus: (As if I had just asked him about the weather) "I'm watching TV and eating a snack." (Duh, mom.)

Me: (Still not-so-subdued) "Why did you leave Shishi's?! You can't just leave!"

Him: "I was hungry and decided I wanted some chips."

Where do you go with that one? I honestly didn't have an answer for that response. We did have a long lecture on stranger-danger and all of that and at the end he informed me that he's a good jumper.

So I told him that I liked Cheetos, too.

I think it went well.

Your Daily Deuce

Deuce has always been the one to make the strangest correlations, but the past two days he has truly surpassed all the others.


Deuce: "Momma, I finished my nap."

Me: "Um, why are you naked?"

Deuce: "Because my bed was wet."

Me: "You peed your bed?"

Deuce: "I don't know. I was asleep and it got peed on."

Me: "Okay, go take your sheets off and I'll get you some shorts."

Deuce: "I WILL NEVER DO THAT. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW HOW TO TAKE THE SHEETS OFF!"

Me: "Then you better learn how to wash your own clothes, cause you'll be changing them a lot."

Deuce: "I'll go naked, but thanks mom."

~~~~~~~~~~

Deuce: "My tummy ache is the kind that burns your eyes."

Me: "Your tummy hurts so bad, it makes your eyes burn?"

Deuce: "No. It's like that bad shampoo. It's a eye-burning, tummy ache."

Me: *

~~~~~~~~~~

Deuce: "Daddy, we're all out of butt cream!"

Dorkfish: "Dude, you don't wear diapers anymore. You don't need butt cream."

Deuce: "We! Need! Butt! Cream! When I turn five, I'm going to grow a mustache, go to the store and buy butt cream by myself."



Now tell me that he won't be living in my basement forever...

Martha Schmartha

It's not often that I share my domestic goddess side in this space. After all, no one comes here to feel inferior for their own lack of cleaning abilities.

Parenting, yes.

::Snort::

But seriously, it's generally not me who keeps this place in tip-top shape. After all, I've got you guys to think about. Where would you get your daily weekly dose of funny if I was too busy scrubbing the shower?!

However, yesterday, I cleaned. By "cleaned" I mean tooth-brush-in-the-grout scrubbing. (Which by the way, is far more painful than I had imagined; and by "imagined" I mean threatened by my mom when I refused to clean my bathroom.)

You will never guess my realization during this detoxifying experience....

A.) Apparently, simply using your shower DAILY will not keep it as clean as one might imagine. Also, the soap you're bathing with does not actually clean it. Shocking, I KNOW!

B.) Dr. Bronner's Magic Pure Castile soap that was so popular in the 'hippie day's' really cleans well! (I couldn't find where Dorkfish hid all the chemicals from the kids. Hush.) Anyhoo, the peppermint scented one actually makes me feel like I'm not only getting everything clean, but am getting in the Christmas spirit as well.

*aside: Do NOT scratch anywhere near your eyes while using peppermint soap...jes' sayin'.

C.) Adding baking soda to Dr. Bronner's will make such a powerful cleaning agent that you don't need to use much effort! Baking soda, people. Apparently that isn't just for sitting in the back of your fridge. (I've heard rumors that people use it for cooking, or something.)

D.) (And here's a biggie for me.) The grout lines? Apparently, they should stay white... First of all, who thought of making something that is virtually IMPOSSIBLE to keep clean, white? Really? It's like making an appliance that forces food to heat from the inside out and NOT MAKING IT SELF-CLEANING?! Oh, wait, been there too...

But back to the grout...did you KNOW those weren't actually hypercolor?!

*OH, and by the way, I was in no way compensated for mentioning the above products. Anyone who reads this blog and decided I'd be a good candidate for cleaning or cooking supplies needs more help than I do.

Yes, Neighbor, I ALWAYS Pick It Up. I Promise.

Every morning I get a 'good morning' email from Dorkfish since he leaves for work at that 'if you wake me, I'll put arsenic in your soup' hour of the morning.

This morning, he was late. I emailed him and got this as a reply:

Dorkfish: Took Molly for a walk this morning. She pooped three times and I didn’t have a bag…once across from Scott’s driveway, once in empty lot 137 in phase 2 and once in phase 3.  I think she feels better.

(Romantic, right?)

Me: (Terrified someone saw our dog poop in their yard and KNEW it was us being the neighborly sort) Are any of those poops in a location where I need to go retrieve them this morning?

Him: Ohhh if you are out and about….might want to pick up the one across from Scott’s drive and lot 137 (first one on the right when you enter phase 2).   It was early, they can’t pin it on me.

Me: A.) Who's Scott?
B.) No way in hell.

Him: A.) Who's Scott?  Next to Jennifer
B.) No way in hell.  Oh come on….

Me: Was it in A YARD or an empty lot?

Him: Lot next to the house your dad liked.  It is going to rain, I wouldn’t worry to much about it.

Me: Wow. So just to clarify, your first 'good morning sweetie' email is to ask me to pick up three piles of dog shit on vacant lots?
It's like you don't even know me sometimes.

Him: No, it was remarkable that molly pooped that much…you just asked…I said, if you were out and about…then you were all like…”don’t ask me to pick up poop”

Me: Of COURSE I was all like "don't ask me to pick up poop".
And no, I did not ask about our dog's bowels. I asked why I hadn't gotten an email from you...
That's it. I'm not making the bed now.

Me: And now google is telling me where to find biodegradable poop bags.
It's like the world is against me.

Him: I hope your day improves from here…now where to go butt up.

Me: HAR DE HAR.
I feel sorry for your coworkers.

Him: I ran for a little ways this morning and I am not crippled.

Me: Huh, I figured you left the poop because your knees were too old to bend.

Him: Nope..too old to remember a bag.

Me: Touché.

What Do You Do for a Drunken Sailor?

You make them walk the plank.

No, I am not joking here. I spent an hour at the physical therapists office today learning how to train my brain to recognize that my ear is jacked.

I wish I was kidding.

Basically, these exercises consist of sobriety tests such as standing with one foot in front of the other with your eyes closed. Easy, right? I fell over almost immediately. In another one, I stare at a letter taped to the wall and turn my head side-to-side as fast as possible. Tell me THAT doesn't make you want to hurl.

The hope is that after six weeks of this "therapy", I will no longer be dizzy.

In the mean time, let's hope I don't get pulled over since we KNOW I'll fail that one.

Humpty Dumpty Slipped on a Car

Remember when I told you all about Deuce's little "slip on a hotwheels car" that ended with him in a full leg cast? Maybe you remember me mentioning that he's STILL LIMPING? Yeah, so I got a second opinion from CARY ORTHOPAEDICS a place I won't mention on here so I don't trash the reputation of their DR. ANDERSEN unnamed physician.

This DR.ANDERSEN unnamed physician came *this close* to getting a good ole' fashioned can of whoopass opened in his office last week. He all but patted me on the head and sent me on my way for being a CONCERNED parent and WORRYING that my son might have an injury to his GROWTH PLATE which can cause the leg to STOP GROWING. (I'm such a worrier.) This DR. ANDERSEN unnamed physician even had the nerve to go so far as to suggest that my three year old was FAKING IT.

I wish I was kidding here.

He said, "I bet if you watch him out of the corner of your eye, you'll see him run on it."

"REALLY, DR. ANDERSEN Mr. Unnamed Doctor?! Because when the child lays down in the middle of the playground CRYING because he can't run and jump with the other kids, it makes me think he MIGHT NOT BE FAKING IT," was my calm response.

But I'm no physician.

So yesterday, I loaded him up in the car and drove him to a pediatric orthopedist. (Right now is when you're saying, "Well, DUH, Amo. Why didn't you do that in the first damn place?!" I didn't because I trusted that a orthopedic clinic as large as CARY ORTHOPAEDICS the one in Cary, would the thorough.) WRONG.

The physician, that I will name because he was so damn awesome, Dr. Henderson, put my mind at ease by coming to recognize the thing I've been asking all along..."Maybe it's in the hip?"

He did x-rays on the foot and hip and found that the head of his femur has a flat spot on the top of it on that leg; which may or may not have anything to do with it. He also had them run blood work on him to check for any sort of diseases that could cause the limp. Then, he did the UNTHINKABLE...he took five minutes out of his busy day to sit down with a concerned mother and explain to her that he will do everything in his power to find out why her son is limping.

Did you hear that? I think the sky just fell.

Do I know what's wrong with my son? No. Is he still limping after carting his happy-ass over an hour away? Yes. Do I feel any better even though he's still limping and I have no clue why? Abso-freaking-lutely.

Someone who doesn't know my child is doing what they spent YEARS in school to learn. Someone who doesn't know my family cares enough to bring us peace.

But you know what? Most importantly, someone listened to me.

Whether the limp is something serious or it miraculously disappears on it's own, I can rest, knowing that it is in the hands of someone who cares.

Thank you, Dr. Henderson, for your kindness.

Deuce, momma's working to get you fixed.

But I'm still calling you 'peg leg'.

Oh, and those THREE HOURS I spent with you at the museum yesterday? That makes us even for all the bad-mommy moments I've had over the last three years.

Kindergarten Ugly

In July, Bonus started kindergarten. To put it nicely, it's been the biggest pain in my ass ever since. It's not the getting him to school, picking him up, packing the dreaded lunches every damn day or the report cards. None of that has pushed me into the liquor cabinet...yet.

It's the attitude.

My neighbor calls it, "Kindergarten Ugly" and describes it as that little bit of ugly that each child has in them that is MAGNIFIED BY TEN HUNDRED BAZILLION THOUSAND when they reach kindergarten.

At first I laughed. Now I'm crying. After all, we know that despite Bonus's best intentions, he has a propensity for violent retaliation.

But this is bad, friends. BBBB.AAAA.DDDD. It's the kind of bad that makes you want to tell everyone that he's really your step son and his father just has no control over him; or make up a disease to justify his actions.

Regardless, it's embarrassing as hell.

Especially when he's calling other kids "stupid", or saying, "I hate girls" to the cutest little blonde you've ever seen, or when the neighbor's kid comes up to where you're sitting with EVERY MOM IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD with scratches down the front of his stomach and is pointing toward your son...that's not embarrassing at all.

But when your precious baby boy gets in trouble for yelling, "STOP IT, DAMMIT" and you're relieved that he didn't yell, "F*CK", you might want to reconsider that Parenting 101 class they asked you to teach...

Apparently Earwigs Don't Cause Dizziness

We are on the verge of what has become the widely-anticipated grand finale of 'What the Hell is Wrong with Amo'.

We have ruled out a brain tumor, aneurysm and now earwigs.

Which is good news.

In other better-than-good-news-and-probably-close-to-FREAKING-AWESOME-NEWS, the ear doctor figured out my dizziness finally!

Normally, I'd cut to the chase and slam down the diagnosis for all of you...but it's my blog and I can play with the climax if I want.

(heh.)

So, the testing required no caffeine or alcohol for 48 hours prior. Okay, (believe it or not) I can handle the 'no alcohol'...for two days, but the NO COFFEE...oh heeeeelllll-to-the-no. It was Ugly. (With a capital U.)

The young, tall, doctor with short, black hair that looked like someone you'd really love to party with and was probably wearing a lab coat to hide the tattoos, was really freaking awesome. She didn't even tell me she was the DOCTOR until we had hit it off and were laughing about the earwig theory. (It sooo could have been earwigs, shut-up.)

She did hours worth of tests, one of which involved cold air blown in your ear and let me tell you, THAT, is not as pleasurable as one might imagine. But, apparently you can recreate the room spinning that is experienced by that test by dripping cold water in someone's ear who's laying down. (Dorkfish, you better sleep with ear plugs, that's all I'm saying.)

All of her medieval torture devices tests resulted in three findings; first, one of my pupils is more constricted than the other which has absolutely nothing to do with the dizziness, but makes me fun at parties in low light. Two, the ocean sound I'm hearing in my left ear has nothing to do with the dizziness but is like have a private party in your head involving coconut rum and cabana boys. Three, my right ear is apparently asleep at the wheel and is 25% slower at recognizing motion than my left and thus, the dizziness.

But the best part of the diagnosis, was explaining that all to my grandmother...

"Amo, it CAN'T be the hairs in your ears causing all the trouble. Your grandfather cuts his all the time and it's not affecting his balance."

*****

In other news, I'm going to open a booth at the state fair doing the water trick. Can you picture the rednecks lined up, daring each other to do it?

Then again, the puke bucket full of beer and corndogs might be a deterrent.

Fried Eggs, Anyone?

Today we were told that my MRI looked good. My brain is apparently in perfect, working order.

We all know better.

So that's the good news.

The bad news? Those DARE bastards were lying.

Next up is the VNG (a test where they simulate vertigo) and a hearing test. This should be entertaining at least...

Definitely on my Top Ten "This Must be Hell" List

How was the MRI, you ask?

Well, if you ever have to go have one, I suggest putting a stew pot over your head and have a friend beat it with a metal spoon.

Incidentally, if you are going to slam your head on the bottom of a cabinet in a restroom, you should do it before the MRI, so they can look for the brain bleed. (P.S. Those stars you saw? They weren't real, nor are they a good sign.) Also, admitting that you may have said number 13 of the list of bad words and apologizing for it, will only get you, "Do you kiss your children with that mouth" from a tech that isn't nearly as funny as he thinks he is.

Also, when the tech asks you if you're head is okay and you say, "Well you're the one looking inside it." They won't laugh.

When they offer you music. Just say no. Don't give in to their "we have satellite radio so you can hear what ever you want!" Inevitably, they won't have Led Zeppelin and will replace it with Golden Oldies. Should you have the balls to say, "I'm not sure which is worse, the banging or the music," they will give you Radio Head as a suitable replacement.

Radio Head is not music. It is yelling. When you aren't having someone pound on your head (that has a quickly growing knot), you are being yelled at.

And that isn't good for your aneurysm.

Lessons Learned this Week (You're welcome.)

Telling Bonus that if he doesn't learn to tie his shoes soon, he's going to be living in my basement until he's 35, probably wasn't a good confidence-instiller for a five year old.

Promising him that we would still feed him until we move off without telling him was what I like to think of as 'being a better parent'.

Screaming F*CK when Deuce slammed his cast on my bare toes may not have been one of my finest parenting moments.

But walking out of the room afterward was probably a wise choice.

This aneurysm must be good for my weight as my clothes are fitting a little more loosely.

However, the huge bowl of homemade peach crisp with vanilla ice cream probably isn't.

A three year old in a full leg cast is tragic.

Unless he isn't in pain and has learned to use it as a weapon to fend off the attack of an angry brother; then it's funny.

The things you miss by not tagging along.

So yesterday was a good time. I wish I could have taken all you guys with me and you could have sat in the waiting room receiving text messages like the one's I sent Jennifer:

"After two vision tests, I can't tell which eye is blurry anymore. But the head hurts ALL OVER, so that's a win, right?"

(That text may have ended with some obscene language, but we'll pretend I don't cuss when nervous.)

Maybe you guys would have enjoyed the getting the email I sent to Dorkfish:

"After two vision tests, I can't tell which eye is blurry anymore and haven't seen the dr yet. Good times..."

His response: "They fixed you!!"

I love him.

If you guys had been there you would have found out that they are decided my eyes HAVE NOTHING to do with my blurry vision. Which makes TOTAL sense to me...

I'm pretty certain that "V" is Latin for "You're hosed."

I Can't Even Spell Those Tests...

Today the funny returns. I know, I know, it's been a bit depressing as hell less funny than usual around here lately.

I've made you all cry with my letter to Deuce and my anniversary post. In fact, I'm surprised anyone is still here! Wait, you're here, right?

Today, we will laugh at leg casts, strep throat and brain tumors! HAHAHAHA HaHaHaHa hahahaha....ug.

Shoot me.

So, yesterday was my eighth anniversary. Steve was home all day. You're thinking it was because he wanted to be with his lovely wife, right? No, Dorkfish had the balls to go out and get strep throat on my our anniversary. Pfft.

The nerve of some people.

So I had the pleasure of babysitting him and Deuce who is STILL in a full leg cast (8 days, people EIGHT MORE DAYS).

Between "Hoppalong Deucey" and the "Strep Throat Kid", I was pretty damn miserable. (And we all know it's all about me.) Speaking of me, me, me, I found a new symptom to my brain tumor "mystery dizziness". My vision in my left eye is intermittently fuzzy. I changed my contacts. Nothing. I switched eyes with my contacts. Nothing. I started drinking. Nothing. (But the dizziness got a helluva lot worse with the beer. Odd, huh?) So I called the doctor. Low and behold, miracle of all miracles, they found me an appointment for today.

I drug poor Jennifer along for the ride in case I died so I would have someone to laugh at me with me. We joked the whole way there. Okay, I cussed A LOT and she giggled at my nervousness.

They were all impressed when I had to check "yes" by the box where it asked if you've ever had any metal in your eye; but the belly laughs came when I had to write out that I had a butcher knife in my right eye in the early 90's. (Thanks, Mams! Your "Best Grandmother in the World" trophy is on it's way!)

When the battery of touch-your-nose-wiggle-your-toes tests were finished, the doctor admitted that he wasn't sure about it all but wanted a barrage of tests. By "barrage" I'm talking things that will probably cause problems just in case they can't find any. I have an appointment with a neurological ophthalmologist, a full-brain MRI with and without contrast, a electronystagmography and a videonystagmomgraphy. Seriously, a twenty-one letter word to tell me that my gerbil fell off it's wheel. Good grief.

The doctor also casually mentioned that apparently that noise that I hear in my left ear that sounds EXACTLY like when you hold a seashell up to your head...that could be an aneurysm.

So I called Dorkfish to tell him all this and he says, "You need to find out about the deductible when you're scheduling all this stuff so we know what to expect."

Me: *blink, blink*

Him: "You know, just so we can prepare."

Me: "You realize you're stressing me out and that's not good for my aneurysm, right?"

He's trying to kill me.

But until then, I'll be riding this wave of FOR HEAVENS SAKE, DON'T STRESS ME OUT, I'M A TICKING TIME BOMB WITH THE ANEURYSM AND ALL! (Wonder how long before he starts calling me Edith?)

Between Now and the Sunset

Eight years ago today, I was an hour and a half late to see you. You still tease me about that, but I know you will always be there waiting.

You skydived into the church but I wasn't there to see it. It was the first time that I hadn't been waiting on you to land. I have learned that I don't always have to be there for everything to be copacetic.

It rained that day. Actually, it poured just as I was reaching the church. It cooled off the mountains and washed away our previous lives. It served as a sign that things wouldn't always be perfect, but the sun would shine again.

I forgot to throw away my gum and was horrified that I'd be one of those brides who either smacks their mouth the entire time or passes out from locking their knee caps. So I handed it to my father. Poor dad, always standing in the shadows to hold my gum; or glare at anyone who dares take a second look at his daughter.

The reception was a collection of our family and friends from all walks of life. There were those who flew in from Costa Rica, caravans from Michigan, college roommates to kindergarten pals, people who we met kayaking and those from other rivers of our life; all culminating for one thing. To celebrate us. Our union. Our love.

Your best man had the last laugh. During his lovely toast (funny how men with English accents can say anything and it's charming) he requested all the men in attendance return the keys to my house. Puzzled, I watched every male grudgingly walk up front and place a shiny key in a basket.

There were stories told, laughs enjoyed and toasts all around. We still reminisce those stories, laugh at those jokes and toast those who toasted us but with an added sovereignty for those who are no longer around to hear those well wishes.

Eight years later, we are two healthy-children richer, a life-time of love stronger, and viewing the horizon as a journey with endless possibilities and golden opportunities.

I can't wait to see this sunset and everything in between.

I love you,

Amo

A pause.

I look down at your precious sleeping head, those rose-bud shaped lips that occasionally still suckle in their sleep, and I remembered.

She always told me I had rosebud shaped lips.

I look at the way your blonde locks fall on each side of your perfectly-smooth baby skin. It is like ropes of gold.

She used to braid my hair back and tell me how beautiful my golden rope was.

I brush the sun-streaked locks from your forehead and kiss you, ever so gently, as to not wake you but to share my never-ending love with you.

I wonder if she kissed my head while I slept.

I see you admire the clouds as the golden rays gleam from behind the ominous darkness.

I wonder if she is up there, seeing all this from a different and slightly more beautiful angle.

I watch as you stare at your leg, your beautifully shaped leg, with it's new hard shell and try to figure a way to move about the room.

And I wonder, do you even remember when she too had a shell on her leg? We traced your hand on it. You were so scared and she was so embarrassed.

We are so much alike, you and I. Even our baby pictures are unmistakable, without the ponytails.

When you were born, she had told me this. She said you would resemble me both in looks and temperament.

I wish you could remember her. I wish you could have loved her the way I did when I was your age. I wish I could have loved her with that same passion when she died.

Today, I greave. Today, I miss her. But with each day, I am learning to appreciate that despite all the pain, regardless of the sorrow, she tried. She wanted to be the mother I am. Yes, I said it. I am a good mother to you. You are my littliest one and I will forever kiss you goodnight.

UPDATE: Slacker; but with good cause. (Maybe.)

Wow. Look how long it's been since I posted. I am really a slacker, huh?

Okay, in my defense, here's what has happened up until now.

The first day of BlogHer, I woke up dizzy. Convinced it must have been something I drank (or drank too much of) the night before, I went on and enjoyed the conference. Throughout the trip, I kept telling my friends when I was feeling funny in case I died because everyone wants to know the intricate details of my life.

No, I'm not dramatic, hush.

By "funny" I mean, the room is still moving and I'm pretty sure I'm not. People, it was like I was drunk. (No, I wasn't, again, hush.)

I finally chalked it up to my sinuses, or the cleaner they were using in the hotel, or the carpet padding, or a brain tumor. But when I got home, it was still there. One minute I'm fine and then all the sudden I'm dizzy. Here's the weird part, I can look up, down, side-to-side, and it's all good. I have no problem jumping up from a chair or laying back really quickly. So the doctor ruled out vertigo, my thyroid, anemia, and pregnancy, but not a brain tumor.

They want me to go to a neurologist and see if they can figure it out. See, here's the thing. Neurologists are apparently very busy people. Even though they have 15 doctors in their office, you still have to wait TWO WEEKS for them to see you. This damn tumor could be the size of Texas by then! Which I'm sure means it isn't anything serious or they would have rushed me in.

However, I, in typical 'Amo fashion' have enabled myself to find a bright side to this cloud of despair minor annoyance. I have found that taking your three year old into the doctor for a limp that they've had for seven days now and they tell you that he might have a fracture in his 'growth plate' in his teeny little foot with corn-nibblet toes, and that you have to go see an orthopedist to make sure, you tend to forget about your dizziness.

So I guess I'm healed.

Until he gets a cast and then we'll see if tears of guilt make the dizziness better or worse...

*****

UPDATE:

Yes, it's a full-leg cast. Shoot me now.

My BlogHer Recap. (No, you didn't miss a thing. *Ahem*)

I've been holding off on posting after BlogHer to see what everyone else was saying. Each experience is unique as with any event and I always prefer to let something sit for a while before I write about it. (Yes, I'm a dork and no, I don't plagiarize. All this crap is really mine. I know, I'm sorry too.)

Thanks to U.S. Air and the president, I was eight hours late to the first round of parties. (Yes, I am still bitter about this.) However, I did get the pleasure of inspecting every inch of the Philadelphia airport. Surprisingly, I did not jump, although the thoughts were there. However, the transvestite who had just realized his/her laptop would play music and was serenading the entire concourse with techno rap, did make me question the validity of all the CSI shows I had watched and if I could really pull it off.

Fortunately, one of my roommates, Angie, was not only at the hotel waiting for me, she held my hand on the way to the bar. That people? Is real love.

*****

When I finally arrived, I had the pleasure of meeting some of my favorite bloggers. I especially loved the looks you get when you finally get the balls to go up and introduce yourself to someone who's blog could be your life story and you find yourself with a one-sided understanding that you simply must spend hours with them in order to compare notes and they, in turn, look at you like you have a third eye. That was a good time. It could have something to do with my approach, "HI!IT'SAMOFROMRAISINGOUTDOORDOGS!"

I doubt it though.

*****

Much to my husband's delight, I finally got to meet Jenny and I think his exact words were, "GET ME AN AUTOGRAPH" but he was yelling into the phone as I was hanging it up, so I'm not completely sure what he was saying.

Isn't she gorgeous?! For the record, Mary Ann was taking this picture for me and she's apparently BIG on close-ups. *sigh* Jenny, is just as authentic and funny as she is on her blog. If you don't read it, then go add her to your reader now. I'll wait...

*****

On Friday, I ate lunch with some amazing women. My dear friend, who has one of my favorite blogs, Mary Ann; a lovely Southern belle who I've admired since Blissdom and now love even more, Alli Worthington; my first blog crush and one of the most genuine famous people I have ever met (read: NY Times best selling author), Jen Lancaster; and Cassie and Mary, who I don't know well yet, but intend to because they were both just so sweet!

Anyway, we are all eating lunch when this woman walks up to us:

Fruitcake: "Hi. Do you guys make money with your blogs?"

Us: "Um, no." (Truth: They probably do. I do this for the glory. *snort*)

Fruitcake: "Really? Like no money at all?"

Us: "No. Not a dime."

Fruitcake: "Well then, I guess I'll sit with you anyway."

Us: *thunk* -the collective sound of our jaws dropping and anyone who knows me recognizes I cannot hide ANY facial expressions.

At that point, I tuned out and tried to pretend she wasn't sitting there make an ass out of herself. If you want to read the rest of the conversation, poor Mary Ann was stuck listening and recorded it in hilarious detail. (And for the record, Mary Ann wasn't joking on the 'cockatoo 'description.)

*****

Did I tell you my business cards didn't arrive on time and I had to do the writing-my-name-on-a-bev-nap thing again? Yeah, that's professional. Also, I'm thinking it's becoming my trademark and I may just start doing that at every conference. (You've been warned.)

*****

I found the amazing, Kelby Carr, at one of the parties and instead of a huge hug and a 'I'VE MISSED YOU SOOOO MUCH' like I had been anticipating, I got this response:

What's she saying, you ask? "I'm going to kick your ass if you don't come to my conference in Asheville." I kid you not people. If something happens to me...well, you know what I'm saying.

*****

One of my 'beeshes' in Room 704 had been promising one hell of a party complete with swag bags full of unmentionables that belonged only in one's night stand.

I, came home with applesauce.

But honestly, with the hangover I was sporting the next day, I called it a win.

*****

Stay tuned and I'll fill you in on the juicy details of the party at Poppy Buxom's roof-top condo. Don't worry, there will be pictures...(No, I wouldn't be jealous either.)

So You Think You Can Dance, Dorkfish?

Lately, I've been working on my fat ass girly figure since I can no longer blame the extra twenty twenty pounds I've been carrying around as 'baby weight'. The 'baby' is over three years old.

Ahem.

So I tried on a pair of pants this morning that I've been hoarding in my closet for a few months (years) and I modeled them for two of my neighbors who insisted not only did the fit well, they made my butt look "AH Mazing!" (Exact words there, people.) They did add that a nice 'flowing shirt' would 'soften the waistline' which I think means 'hide your muffin top'.

When Steve got home, I squeezed slid back into them to show him my minor achievement. His reaction? A sly smirk and then, "Those neighbors aren't your friends."

But don't worry, I played dumb when he insisted that our gas bill was low because I had turned off the AC most of the month. I suggested he call my father (Mr. HVAC) for clarification.

Touche, Mr. Dorkfish.

Weekly Lessons LEARNED

1. When your grandmother comes to visit and is offering up little parental advice gems such as 'if you don't dry his hair, he's going to wake up with a cold after sleeping under that ceiling fan' and you choose to ignore them...the child will, in fact, have a fever the next day.

2. That fever? It's going to last for DAYS AND DAYS just so she can remind you every. single. day.

3. The purchase of a url* (www.raisingoutdoordogs.com) does not guarantee one is going to be smart enough to set it up on their own. However, having good support and wonderful friends who still like you even when you repeatedly say 'bad words' in front of their child, are truly priceless. (VDog, I owe you one next week!)

4. No matter how many times you attempt to explain to your grandmother that your not playing on the computer but are actually working on something (see number 3); she will insist you are avoiding your children on purpose.

5. Avoiding one's children on purpose is wrong.

6. If you choose to avoid your children on purpose, things happen:


7. Toothpaste will remove sharpie from hardwood floors.

8. Sunscreen will remove sharpie from skin.

9. Tears will remove sunscreen from eyes.

10. Your son will blame you for the burning pain in his eyes and when it all subsides and you tell him that it wasn't actually your fault his eyes hurt since you were just trying to help and that he should apologize, he will respond, "Momma, I'm sorry you had to hurt my eyes."

11. That makes you an ass.



*****
P.S. My blog's new url is www.raisingoutdoordogs.com. Please change your reader and tell your friends! ;)

He's going to be the death of me.

Me: "Bonus! Come put your pajamas on right now!"

Bonus: "Momma, I can't! I'm limping."

Me: "That's not limping, your dragging your foot."

Bonus: "Oh. Then how do you limp?"

*****

Bonus: "That boy who's daddy owns the brewery? He told me he didn't care about my daddy."

Me: "Really? That seems like an odd thing to say."

Bonus: "Yeah, but it's okay. I threw him in the dirt for it."

Me: "Dude! You can't throw some kid down for saying he doesn't care about your daddy!"

Bonus: "But daddy said I could."

Me:

Dorkfish: "I told him if anyone talked bad about his daddy to hit them."

Best part of this story? The kid he knocked down? HE'S MY NEW BOSS'S SON.

Nice...

Weekly Winners - Beach Edition

Little Diggers

Big Digger

Sandy Nose

Sandy Toes

Washed Ashore

Washed.....up ;)

*Now go get lost at Lotus's place and check out the other weekly winners! (Don't forget to tell her who sent you. Heh.)

Just another day to Bonus

Bonus survived his first day of kindergarten, but the rest of the week is still up in the air.

Here's the thing. You know how everyone warns you that 'the kid will be fine, you'll be crying', or 'he's going to be so excited and part of you will feel dead'...you know, helpful advice. What they left out was 'he's going to come home exhausted and be a jackass for the entire day, OH and next week...it will be worse'. I could have used that advice ahead of time, thankyouverymuch.

In my last post, I told you about his independence. He's always been like that.

First Day of Mother's Day Out

(Note the flower in his hand for his teacher...that one's going to be just fine.)

The first day of school was no different. He marched out the door with his backpack and lunch box, hopped in the car and chastised all of us for taking too much time.

He did let me snap a picture first though.

Even though it's a fake smile, I'll take it.

Dropping him off proved to be much more of a crush to his pride. I almost felt bad subjecting him to this sort of torture, but it's all for the blog, yo!

Deuce is sad because 'big bwudder' is 'weaving'.

(I should probably put up a pay pal link for Bonus's therapy. Afterall, it's because of you guys I force them to hold still for this.)

You know how it takes parents FOREVER to leave their kids on the first day? I was trying to slip the teacher $10 to take Deuce too. (Bonus was not amused.)

We are totally ruining this kid's 'street cred'.

(For the record, Deuce cried the whole way home and then carried Beaux's frog and pajamas around all day. That one's the softie...)


I gave in and let him ride the bus home. He was so excited that I think it would have been worth it even if he had gotten off on the wrong stop.


As soon as he got off the bus he said, "Momma, where's Deuce?"

And this is how I know that he will not only do well in kindergarten, but we will as well.


Is it Monday yet?

It's only a day away.

"Are you okay with Wednesday?" Jae asked with more compassion in her voice than I felt was warranted.

"If by 'okay' you are asking if I'm going to be skipping out of the school and whistling, then yes, I'm going to be okay, " I responded in all honesty.

Bonus has his first day of kindergarten tomorrow. He's five now, and will tell you that he's 'busy' when you want a kissie or 'too tired' when you ask for help with a task he used to love. Guilt still works during those moments, but it too will eventually loose it's effectiveness.

I've always been a mom who insists my boys become independent of me. Not in the 'get lost, mommy's busy' kind of way, but more in a 'no blood, no foul' style. I want them to know I am always here for them, but reliance on me for every single glass of water when HOLY HELL THERE IS A SPOUT ON THE DAMN DOOR ALREADY seems to make me a little stabby.

But tomorrow, Bonus will put his little backpack on, grab his lunch box and trot off to a new adventure. It is similar to his other trips to mother's day out and preschool in that he will feel the separation and meet new friends, but different in that the expectations are much more than he's ever experienced. He will no longer be a 'little boy getting to play' he will be learning to read, tell time, make choices on his own. He will be, in essence, a little man. Tomorrow he will get a glimpse into what the next 12 years will hold for him and hopefully an appreciation for the kind of learning that comes from books and the playground.

My little boy is growing up.

And I think I'm okay with that.

Last Week in Pictures

Motivation to do something with these other than leave them in a random folder on my laptop courtesy of Lotus.

Jack of all trades...seriously, who am I kidding?

Since giving birth to Bonus over five years ago, I have learned many things about myself.

• Being raised by a bachelor, I truly don't notice a messy house, extra newspapers laying around, funny smells in the fridge, etc. However, having lived as  a bachelor for many years, Dorkfish is determined to not repeat that. Living with me is a daily struggle for him, I'm sure.
• God gave me boys because I am eluded by the appreciation of most things feminine. (As I sit and type in Steve's boxer briefs and t-shirt with one leg thrown over the side of my chair.) Can you imagine if I actually had to fix someone's pony tail?!
• I have a complete identity crisis and am compelled to start projects that are always over my head and beyond my ability; but I do them anyway. IE: Stained glass, sewing, painting, etc. My refusal to accept defeat has served me well, until we started potty training Deuce. Regression? I haz it!
• When it comes to all things technical and mechanical, I CAN DO IT! No joke, see first point. However, when it comes to code, rss feeds, url's, and all that fun stuff, I'm a dumbass. Complete and total moron.

The point of this list was to let you lovely readers know that while I attempt to transfer this smart-ass happy little blog over to Wordpress and then onto my REAL! LIVE! domain, there will be might be a few technical difficulties.

Because apparently my brain shuts down and the mere mention of CODE.

"Where are you going?" CRAZY, wanna come?!

I'm not sure what's wrong with my head, but I'm almost positive it's somehow related to my sons.

Yesterday, I was at Chick-Fil-A with Jessica when we met another woman. The woman walked away and Jessica said, "Wait, what was her name?"

Me: "Jessica. Her name was Jessica."

Her: "No, I would remember that."

Me: "OH WAIT! You're Jessica...then who the hell was she?"

*****

Today I got up all energized and organized. I started getting the boys ready because I have a dermatologist appointment and for the first time in my life for the first time in my life, didn't want to be late.

The boys were getting dressed, I was ironing clothes, an old friend who lives near the doctor was expecting us to show up for lunch, my forms were printed and filled out and even the old dermatologist was sending my records to the new one. All was going well, then Jessica called.

"Hey, do you want to take the boys to the pool?" she asked without remembering my BIG DAY. (Pffft.)

Me: "Nah, I've got to leave for the doctor in an hour."

Her: "Um, wasn't you appointment tomorrow?"

*silence*

Her: "Amy, are you there?"

*silence*

Me: "Yeah. So, what day is it?"

Her: "Today is Tuesday."

Me: "Shit."

*****

I guess the good news is that everything is ready to go for tomorrow!

The bad news is that I'm obviously loosing it...

Do me a favor? Make sure that someone plucks that one crazy eyebrow when you come to visit my padded room.

Where the hell are my bonbons?

In the past eighteen days, we've been at home a total of four of those. Four. Not only does that barely give one enough time to wash their underwear, it pretty much ensures your home will be a wreck. I managed to do 15 loads of laundry in those four days, but most of it is sitting on the couch.

I am not.

I am hiding in my chair, sitting atop tiny little boy pajamas. (But they are folded! Five points!)

To be quite honest, I am completely overwhelmed by the entire process of getting all the dog hair off every horizontal surface, wiping yet another sticky mystery mess off the floor, putting away 15 loads of folded clothes and making a bed that is completely trashed by two little boys who think I don't know they are eating STICKY WAFFLES on it. (Ignorance is bliss, yo.)

No one told me that THIS is what retirement was all about.

I think I got cheated.

Technorati Tags: House cleaning,Not the lifestyle I wish to become accustomed,Who fired the maid?

Vacationing with the Davis's...you're jealous.

Alright, before this place becomes one big sappy Hallmark, I'll get back to the rest of our vacation story...

*****

I realize I had left out one teensy little detail about the trip down. We stayed in a "clothing -optional community" visiting a close relative. By "clothing-optional", I mean, they choose the option of NOT wear anything.

Did I mention it's retirees?

No, there are no pictures. You're welcome.

I will share with you the two funniest quotes from that part of the trip though...

Deuce: "Momma! Dat man doesn't have on any pants!"

(Never mind the fact that NONE OF HIS FRIENDS DO EITHER.)

Bonus: "Momma, where do the policemen keep their guns?"

*****

Once we got to Bonita Springs, FL, we ended up staying at the Hyatt Regency Coconut somethingoranother. Basically, a fancy-pants hotel where the luggage carts come equipped with your very own bellboy and a minor scrape is reason to call in the EMS. I am not exaggerating about this people.

Dorkfish had some sort of safety conference where they go on and on about 'slips and trips in the dairy isle', according to dorkfish's  coworker, Bag Boy Bob. While Dorkfish and Bobby were busy learning about the urgency of the wet floor signs, I was busy being judged as the 'trophy wife' because my father had flown down to join us. The boys loved having granddaddy there and I spent the entire week trying to work the story of Dorkfish's conference and MY DAD visiting into random conversations.

Because I think my dad's handsome and all, but that's just weird.

The hotel was so ridiculously fancy-pants, they had a three-story water slide and a separate resort with 3 more pools and a lazy river. Oh, and did I mention the private island?! Geez... If it hadn't been for the beauty of it all and the fact that I enjoy a bit of pampering on occasion, I would have been embarrassed by the lavishness.

But being served this little beauty during an afternoon downpour made me feel a bit better about it all:

But did I mention the ice cream?

(Would you look at those lips?! Between those, his eyelashes and hair it's no wonder people call him a girl.)

I've officially instilled in my sons the belief that daddy may roughhouse more, but mommy is much more willing to fork out the cash she snuck out of daddy's wallet a couple of bucks for the ice cream. (Incidentally, this may or may not have anything to do with the fact that Bonus told Dorkfish, "Mudders day is WAY COOLER than Father's Day." Heehee.)

(This is a total 'suckup' face. Don't let him fool you.)

****

There was even a stop by Daytona Beach to round out our holiday.

Because one can't get enough redneck in their lives staying at a Hyatt.

By the way, did you know that Budweiser bikinis and cut-off jeans were BACK IN STYLE?! Thank you, Daytona Beach. I needed a little pick me up.