Always Father's Day to Me

I didn't plan ahead, carve out time or rush to post something on Father's Day. Which is unlike me.

We had just returned home from vacation late Saturday evening and I was toast. There were 27 pieces of luggage, sand toys and beach towels strewn around the living room and I felt like I had been hit by a Mac truck. Not from the exhaustion of traveling and the pending doom of laundry and unpacking, but from was my lack-luster attempt at ignoring the fact that Sunday was Father's Day. It finally hit me on Saturday at about 4 p.m. on Rt. 77 in West Virginia. I was admiring the countryside, the mountains and I was overwhelmed by the absence of my dad. The thought that I would not be able to tell him in person about our vacation, what we did, what we saw, what we ate and how the kids reacted to everything (he liked to know every detail)... that was exciting for him to hear what fun his kids had.

I knew that June 17th was coming. I'd been dreading it since November. True, it's just a Hallmark-invented holiday. However, real meaning has been attached to that day. Everyone wants to show pops a lotta love on his big day. Lowe's and Home Depot were practically out of gift cards. The tool section at Ace dwindled. Every restaurant in the metropolitan area of every state was jam-packed with wives and kids and siblings treating dear old dad to a big breakfast that morning. The discount store card departments had one or two b-list greetings left. I didn't enjoy a lunch hour picking out cards this year. I decided that Father's Day wasn't happening.  

Then it was Sunday afternoon and it dawned on me that I am married and my boys have a dad and he needs to be celebrated. He's such a great guy, husband, father and was a great friend and son-in-law to my father.

Better late than never, the boys presented daddy with a home-made card and a drill that he had wanted. 

It took all I had to walk into that store with toddler in tow and not completely lose it in while walking past the riding mowers and the gas grills. All things that remind me of my dad. Forever a lover of the outdoors - he will always be synonymous with clear sunny days, the smell of barbecue wafting through the neighborhood, teaching our oldest to jump off the diving board, setting up a camp site in my parents back yard for N and cooking s'mores.

For me, dad lives on in my childhood memories in fantastic vacations we took and the activities he and my mom planned for us - Disney, Toronto, Cape Cod, Cancun... to camping in PA with horse-back riding and navigating two canoes full of us without a clue (grandma was in canoe number 1).

More recent memories of pool parties and holiday dinners and Father's Days where we cooked for him (such an unusual occurrence) because his chef hat needed a little rest. Although he would never admit that. Cooking was such a passion for my dad.

I had to dig deep to allow myself to remember these things when all I wanted to do was to forget the sad feelings creeping up around me when I heard all the "Don't Forget Dad this Weekend" sale commercials on the radio. Now that I'm tuned in, Dad, you'll forever be my hero. Thank you for leaving a legacy of such wonderful memories.

Cuss words, snails and puppy dog tails

What I failed to leave out of this post headline was snot... and dirty finger nails and muddy feet (bare feet).  Boys are messy and gross and rough and loud. I know this because I am married to one and have two sons to prove it. My friends and family with girls just don't get it.

My oldest is an outside boy and would play from dusk until dawn, only stopping for an occasional bathroom break (forgetting to put the seat up, of course) or re-hydration.  My little man is obsessed with the fact that older brother (a.ka. 'Bubba') gets to play outside for much longer durations and in varying climates and plants his boogery nose and sticky little hands flat against the front door glass to peer out at what he's missing.

The thing they both have in common thanks to their dad and grandpas and uncles is a love of the outdoors. I am barely used to it from my husband and now, two more Davey Crockett's (who is actually distant cousin on my dad's side - go figure?) in the household. Which means more to come of woodsy, dusty, buggy stuff for mom, a self-proclaimed priss.

We (7) have recently been jumping off of furniture and front porches. We (2) have also been taking after big brother by figuring out how to push the bar stool over to the cabinet and climb it like a monkey to get the animal crackers. So high! So dangerous! No fear! Just ask the matching skinned knees that my boys currently wear like badges of honor.

Not only will it be a summer of grimy feet and even crunchier kitchen floors - we throw a little dirty mouth in there. The 1st grade end-of-year field trip proved to be an early lesson in cuss words, as our 7 year old called them. 'They were all over the place, mom! The B word and funk - do you know that one?' OMG. Thanks very much to shall remain nameless school district, for that little slice of life. I'm sure he would get a 100% on that quiz, since he has been practicing writing the words he learned at the park that day in his notebook. Handwriting is as neat as can be on those treasure words of the week! He cannot stop talking about it and his retention on this information is amazing. Please Lord, do not let him practice reciting or writing this lovely new vocabulary at church summer daycare. Note to self: prepare daycare for such events.

The thing that sends me into a side-splitting bout of LMAO is the goofy, gross, peculiar things that little boys think about and say, so very matter-of-factly. Just when I thought I could not take another second of the bickering going on a few days ago... the 7 year old was a little too close to the 2 year old, tickling a little to hard, which makes the 2 year old scream like a banshee.... Older brother was also practicing voices. After a series of 'stop thats' from me and yelping from the toddler, what came next was just what the doctor ordered because mom was teetering on the edge: 'Hey, mom! I just tried to do my deep scary voice for Ro-Ro and I think I threw up a little bit!'

And there, my friends, is what having boys is all about and I love every single sticky, icky, sweet and lovey bit of them.

Well, almost.

So I recently pontificated lavishly about my silly adventures at the new gym and how I was older and bolder and incapable of being embarassed.

One of my first posts last year was about how I locked my infant in the car in the parking lot of daycare.

I cringe as I choose to share this goofy little story about my unfortunate state of misfortune when it comes to luck, timing, coordination... knowing full well that a few of my followers who haven't known me for very long are shaking their heads and thinking, 'Yikes - disaster-waiting-to-happen!' For your pure enjoyment, people...

It's Tuesday afternoon and I am off from work tending to a snuggly, feverish, little bear... barking since midnight with the croupy cough . I arrived in the driveway around lunchtime after the doctor's appointment where little man received a shot. Boy was he ticked. See, he thought that we just went to see Dr. M. for teh-teez and stiterz (a.k.a. cookies and stickers.) And there, they go ahead and stick him with a sharp instrument and make him cry. He even used the boo-boo pouty lip (arguably, the world record holder for cutest) and that did not save him. I can see the confusion.

Right, so I pulled in (toddler sleeping thank goodness) and get all the crap out of the car (purse, book, diaper bag, etc...) and take it up to the door, put said crap down because I always try to carry too much. Remind me to tell you about carrying too much and getting whalloped in the cranium with the screen door. That was probably concussion-worthy. I'd know, because I got one the time I reached into the dog's kennel to straighten her blanket and lifted my head up to quickly and bashed it on the metal frame. There are more, but we'll save those for another day. Family and friends are nodding their little heads in unison, 'True dat!'

I start to feel around for my house key, which has been typically travelling in the front pocket of my purse because it broke. It was the cool kind with the flashlight top and that cracked and it fell off of my key chain. Bummer. Neither the husband nor I have taken the extra effort to make a new one, so, it travels. But guess what? No key. I searched all twelve cavernous pockets of my purse, looked in every crevasse of the car. Nope. Really. Gone. Al l righty then. Toddler was blissfully asleep in the car still, door open with plenty of air flow, thank you very much... with flashbacks of the daycare locked-out caper and imagining the local police, social services and the local shock TV news station showing up to make me into the next Tanning Mom. "Mom locks self and sick child out of home then leaves child in car with strong-smelling air freshener, apparently due to spoiled chocolate milk sippy that slipped underneath the front seat - live from the scene at 11!

The text to my sister when something like this: "Oh, *&^%$, I am locked out." Her response: "Of where?" Like she was very afraid to ask and even more frightened of the answer. Why I decided to text her is both obvious and ridiculous - she was an hour and a half away and in no position to help anytime soon, but we always text each other about everything and anything that the other would find remotely funny, ironic, stupid or ridiculous. The situation I had just created for myself was more than ridiculous.

The call to the in-laws (thank my lucky stars) when something like this: "Hiiiiiieeeey. Soooo, what are you guys up to??? Where are you? Hmmm, that is nice, ok, weeeellllll... do you think that maybe you could come over real quick because I locked myself out of the house. Mother-in-Law's response: "Yep, we're 25 minutes away - we'll be there as fast as we can." SO. LOVE. THEM.

The call to the husband went something like this: "Hiiiieeeey. How are you? Mmmm-hmmm. Good. Soooo, could you please text the next door neighbor and tell him that we are not being robbed but that I have simply left my house key on the kitchen counter and I am now going to shove my a$$ through the window, by way of the tall ladder that was in the garage. No, yes, no - he's ok... sleeping. Yes, I called them, but can you call and tell them that I am going to crawl through the window? Ha-ha, very funny. Ok, love you too. Bye."

Sooo, while I pondered about who was outside and could see me and whether or not I could physically complete this mission, I picked up after the dog in the back yard, straightened a few things in the garage, pulled a few weeds in the flower bed and then, the conversation with myself went something like this: "Ditz of the decade! You can do this. You birthed two children and an entire hospital saw things that shall never be mentioned again. You can shove your butt through that window, neighbors watching or not and open the freaking door." 

And that is what I did. If I were re-telling these antics in person, it would be in a dramatic whisper. Just getting you in the spirit.  I was quick and gazelle like, the most graceful shimmy up the ladder and side-ways crouch and lean into that window anyone had every scene. When I mean anyone, I am assuming that at least two neighbors were cracking up at my agile performance. Bruno and Carrie would have given me a 10 for sure. The NatGeo network would have documented my moves and possibly offered a reality show. 'Woman and Child Alone on a Weekday Locked Out of Home'.
I know. So ridiculous. Now doesn't that make your week seem better already? It's the weekend, friends.

Enjoy!

Ha! I Laugh in the Face of Humiliation

Today I came downstairs to make breakfast and found the following chicken-scratched note sitting on the island, written by my husband: 

Dear Noah (our 7 year-old son),

This is YOUR lunch today (the note was on top of my husband's red thermal lunch bag).  I am allowing you to take this to school today because your Lightning McQueen lunch bag has come up missing AGAIN.  It is a little embarrassing that I have to take MY lunch in the Green Lantern lunch bag, so please take care of daddy's lunch bag today and bring it home, hopefully with your own bag. If you want to discuss this further, feel free to call me at 1-800-Humiliated.

Now, this note was intended to get the point across sarcastically and it certainly did that. Noah's clear blue eyes were as huge as saucers as I read this note ever-so-dramatically at 7:05 a.m. this morning... leading to a fit of infectious giggles for both of us thinking about daddy carrying that bag into work. I adored my dear husband's ingenuity in teaching our son a lesson when I would have just yelled, in spite of the load of crap he was going to get from the guys at work with that Green Lantern lunch sack. See, my husband works in the construction business. So that's like taking your little sister's pink Hello Kitty lunch bag to Little League practice. What a sweet dad he is. Luckily, he's a big guy, so no one is going to tease him too much, but he's still going to blush.

I so admire my husband's ability to not care what others think or say and make fun of himself. I, too, have that self-deprecating and sarcastic sensibility. But, I absolutely find myself worrying about what others think and say about me. I am a human female. Many of us do that incessantly and kick ourselves for it, then do it some more!

As I get older and wiser become more of a wise ass, I realize that I am starting to crackle. That first transparent layer of ridiculous paranoia about what people think and say is peeling away. Maybe it's because I've experienced a lot of wonderful things and a lot of thorny things and have come out stronger for them. And, I could benefit from taking myself a little less seriously. LIFE. IS. TOO. SHORT. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not a Dr. Phil or Oprah "Aha-moment, it's just that I have discovered that there's usually a hysterical little nugget in my daily life lessons and it feels better to share them than to be down on myself for being imperfect mom, forgetful friend, clumsy running partner, bossy wife, etc... I am cracking up at myself more and finding the humor and irony in things that 10 years ago would have sent me reeling, stressed, blushing and feeling awkward... and ultimately clamoring for more caffeine and chocolate.

Take for instance, my recent conundrum with my workout regimen. I had it down, I had a system, it was humming along and wham. Life - there it goes again. What now? We type-A's don't take kindly to change. We've been busy, our little family. Your busy is not my busy and vice versa, but let's put it this way: dishes sit for more than one evening (fellow OCD and type-A friends, don't gasp... that's why we meet at your place!) and at any given time, one of us cannot find clean socks or underwear. (Sorry, Grandma!) I mean, it's there, it's clean, it's just not easily accessible and probably dwelling in the bottom of a laundry basket somewhere. That's our busy... when there is no time for me to do things that I find fairly essential as a mother and wife and I know it, but I choose sleep instead.

The busy has pushed my workout schedule out of whack. Free time was starting later and later for me, and it was getting toward too late and too tired to go at all. My current gym is only open until 10 p.m. and I was finding an open slot around 9:15. It was just not happening.

So, my husband says, 'you're over on the other side of town three nights a week for appointments, why don't you join the new big modern high-tech gym?' No way, says me: I've seen the billboards, it is some great marketing they are doing, luring other suckers in... but you cannot drag me in there! I could just see it: 0% body fat 20-somethings, Real Housewife-worthy women in full make-up and grunting muscle heads. This imagined scenario was enough to keep me away but the convenience factor was winning out so I decided to take a trip over there and check it out. Chatting with my sister on the phone when I pulled in, I told her that they lost points for no close parking, but I was looking for excuses. I asked her to wish me luck and I headed in.

Sizing up the layout, decor and amount of available fitness equipment, I waited my turn at the check-in desk. As I tapped my foot to Flo-Rida pumping through the ambient speakers, gave them two silent points for the 'cafe' and  I noticed one of their signature branding signs: "This is a No-Judging Environment" or something like that, which made me laugh under my breath because the shear massiveness of the facility is intimidating, their colors are intimidating, the gaggle of people working out in unison was intimidating, and then at the same time, it was pretty impressive. I sighed. Okay, fine! These people look pretty normal. Average Joes and Janes. No one was over-the-top in designer matchy-matchy outfits and no overly-tanned Rock impersonator greeted me at the door. I was starting to let my guard down a bit.

When it was my turn, the young gentleman waiting on me, let's call him Brandon - the Assistant Non-Judgemental Membership Manager, quickly showed me the two seemingly hidden fee-free membership options available. I asked Brandon if I could go ahead with the $19.99 per month deal. Unfortunately you needed your bank's routing number and I do not have those digits committed to memory, so I sifted through my bag and wallet for a check. I told Brandon that I didn't have that information and he was more than psyched to tell me that I could sign up on line. Like using the Internet was novel to me or something. That's really cool, Brandon! My inner-voice mocked... we used to call it the world wide web in the 1990s, you know when Jackass was still on MTV?

Great! I said and as I looked back down at the counter to pick up my membership fliers, and there, in plain sight was a light pink feminine hygiene product that had apparently jumped Alaskan Salmon-style out of my T. J. Maxinista steal of a Michael Kors bag and planted itself on the check-in counter in front of Brandon, on display for all 150 treamillers and the two rather sweaty older gentleman at the cafe to see. I glanced up at mega-gym's 'Judgement-Free' mantra sign, smiled at Brandon, picked up the little pink envelope, dropped it nonchalantly into my bag and told him that I'd see him on Wednesday.

I think I've found my new gym and my newly revealed resistance to humiliation. At least I didn't have to bring my lunch in a Green Lantern sack today. Now that would have been embarrassing. Love you, honey. (Who doesn't read my blog btw...)

Dear Miss Manners:

Growing up, you learn from your parents, your friends on the playground, your teachers, your elders -  what are bad words and what are good words. Bathroom words are a no-no. Vulgar or swear words are punishable. In the workplace, it is bad form to cuss, unless of course it is encouraged for camaraderie.  I always wanted to work at IMG and be a publicist for a big-time rap star, like Sean Combs, a.k.a. P. Diddy, f.k.a. Puff Daddy. I wonder if I would succumb to the pressure and curse right along with him or stick to my morals. My husband is laughing his head off right now reading this because he knows that occasionally, I can hold my own. But with my luck, I'd end up with a client like Aldous Snow in Get Him to The Greek. Jonah Hill's character went through hell and back to "advocate" for his client who was really just misunderstood... okay, that's a stretch but it was a funny movie.

Now that we are grown-ups ourselves attempting to teach our children right from wrong, life occasionally rockets you a fast ball and you're left there stunned, wondering how to refer to a taboo subject, word or phrase that had up until that Milli-second, had not affected you at all. I have yet to read a Miss Manners column on the proper public etiquette for parents to use when discussing or dealing with others in public when your child has ADHD.  If someone has or can find it, send it to me.

In 2012 it is unbelievable to me that some topics are just not socially acceptable to discuss... or at least it seems that way. Maybe it's just me (and my husband, and my family) who are not comfortable with this subject yet and that's why we feel weird talking about it above a whisper or put a file-folder label on it. ADHD! There, I said it.

I used to throw this word around all the time. Using it as an excuse for my forgetfulness, dizziness or new mom-dom. 'Oh, sorry I totally forgot about that... you know, me, I'm so ADD/ADHD.' Because self-deprecation and sarcasm is my number one formula when I do stand-up at work, this comment was always greeted with laughs.

Except now, our seven year-old has been diagnosed with ADHD. I no longer throw around this term.

Yep. ADHD. That's him and we love every single inch of his amazing little noggin. His out-bursts, his jumping-up-and-down interruptions, his incredibly insightful comments and elephant-like memory. Seriously, that kid remembers the craziest, tiny details from when he was like, 3.

I am saying it out loud, I'm serious and I hope that everyone pays attention. No pun intended. Unfortunately, most schools and teachers are not equipped to handle such diagnoses and don't even consider it ADD and ADHD learning disabilities. These students get disciplined over and over, usually inconsistently and unsuccessfully for things they can't control. They get poor marks on tests and projects because they did not understand the directions or could not finish the task. I know it sounds like a typical work day for you or me, but this is real and and I'm not making jokes any longer.

His teachers, god bless them, are trying. I have not agreed with their methods up until our last conference, but after our come-to-Jesus meeting, they are really trying to accommodate. They are doing the best they can. My husband wanted to go in, guns blazing and chastise them for not doing their jobs. Well. I understand, but they are only doing what they know. We cannot blame them for that. It's insane to us, however, that we, the parents, have to educate the school systems about ADHD. My good teacher friends (thank the Lord above for them) tell me that when they were in college, that Attention Deficit was not in their curriculum 15-20 years ago, and as far as they know, it's still not being taught in BA or MA programs. Seriously? The number of children aged 3-17 diagnosed with ADHD was 5.2 million in 2010. 11.2% of those children were boys. Um, I think maybe it's time to add this phenomenon to the educational mix. Yes, we have misdiagnosis and fatigue of the system. But guess what? Our kids still need help. We want them to be successful. They want to be successful.

Our first-grader is bright, oh-so-bright. And sweet, and funny and curious... and boy does he have some energy. See that's what everyone kept telling us. He's a boy. Boys are energetic. After we had all worn that excuse to a nub, I just had a feeling that something else was going on here. We knew that something had to give. The poor little man does not take tests well, has a heck of a time completing his projects in class, carpet-time is actually wiggle and roll around time (I'd also rather be jumping on one leg, staring out the window, but we must try to listen to the story) and it was catching up with him. And this is tough on our tough little guy. As athletic and outgoing and boyish as he is...  he is also super-sensitive. He wears his soul on his sleeve and he doesn't like to be embarrassed. That is what happens. In class, at home and especially at the store when we react to him like any untrained, exhausted, frustrated working parent of two would react at the end of their rope in the middle of Target when he keeps running through the toy aisles like a maze... we reprimand him. We are blushing (that's too nice - sweating, yelling under our breath to 'get back over here this minute or else I'll...') He's clearly ashamed of his wacko parents who can't understand how very exciting it is to go to Target. They have like, eight aisles of toys and bikes and sports equipment and movies and books and Easter candy and a slushy machine at the front near where mommy always gets her coffees at Starbucks and Starbucks has really yummy, big, chocolate chip cookies and... you get it. We're learning. He truly loves us and is being patient.

Dear Miss Manners:


My son has been diagnosed with ADHD. We had a feeling that this is what was going on, but now that we have the official word, it is taking some getting used to. It is a relief to have the information so that we can work on adjustments and accommodations with his teachers for our son in class. He will be starting a tutoring program soon. We are thrilled and so is he - to be finally getting some help.


However, Ms. Manners, can you please give my husband and I some suggestions on dealing with our rambunctious, precocious and lovable child in public? While we are now quite accustomed to his rather excited personality while in Wal-Mart, is it appropriate to give the middle finger to other shoppers who stare and glare tssk and shake heads at my son's over-the-top slide into home base while playing the air guitar reaction to my putting the new gluten free cereal in the cart?
We appreciate any advice you can give us.


Maniacal Mom in M.Town

When she replies, I'll let everyone know.

Watch Out for Flying Tupperware

This is my cautious mantra for 2012. I have several. But I think this sums it all up nicely and puts a little pink bow on it.

I've been trying to keep up with life lately and just when I think, 'Hey, things aren't going too bad here...' Whammo. Just like that, reality hits you in the face. Stress and grief is sneaky that way. La-la-la - SMACK! Tears. Emotion. Not again. What the H!?

Kind of like a flying plastic flour sifter winged with amazing accuracy by your 20 month old. Man, that kid has an arm. Baseball is in this one's future for sure. However, we're going to start by getting his eyes checked because I am certain he did not mean to throw that piece of Tupperware and hit his mama square in the cheekbone... and then make a funny squiggly scrunchy face in jest while I stumbled to my feet for some ice. I prefer to believe that he was just mimicking my expression of pain. I've got to give the kid the benefit of the doubt. He is just too cute and cuddly. But ouch, damn it. That's what I wanted to say but our little Rowan is quite the conversationalist lately and I am also quite certain that he would have incorporated that phrase into his vocabulary immediately.

Why do I even have a plastic flour sifter in my home in the first place is what many who know me may be wondering right now. Because many know that I don't bake much anymore. Well... I have a plastic flour sifter, and a bundt cake pan and other lovely kitchen accessories because my dad's mom, 'Gramma Sally' as my sister and cousins and I have called her since, well...  forever, is the perpetual giver of good, useful things. It all started when I, the eldest of the grandchildren was on my way to college. Anytime gramma stopped by to visit, she had with her a bag of goodies. I remember thinking at the time - I am a college freshman. I don't even know when I'll eat, let alone use pot holders. But, gramma told me that one day Iwould need them, you just never know. And low and behold I left the Ramen Noodles cooking too long in the microwave and the bowl got sizzling hot and my singular dish towel was dirty, but aha! I have a pot holder, somewhere. And there it was. See, I was smart enough to always take all those extra tools, utensils, cookware and etc... with me from dorm to apartment to first home because I never knew when I was going to need them most.
I had been thinking about an old friend over the weekend. She was due to have her baby in February and I hadn't heard anything and wondered if she heard about my dad. See we were very close in high school and she visited our house quite a bit. She admits now it was because my dad was a hottie. Well, duh. So the day after I had been thinking about her, wouldn't you know it, on the turnpike, my phone rings and it's her. Isn't life so cra-cra? Turns out she had a wild few months herself and we were both perfectly ok with the lapse in conversation because we also both know that since we reunited our friendship (after a 10 year hiatus) about two years ago, that we can pick up the phone and pick up right where we left off. And we did. And she made me laugh like I haven't laughed in a long time. And that felt really good. Like getting a new bag of goodies from 'gramma' good.

I've been doing a lot of reading about grief and healing and the constant presence of spiritual support if you just allow yourself to believe. I want to thank all of the pot holders and bundt cake pans and flour sifters in my life for being there over the last five months that have shown me the greatest depths of family, friendship  and faith. And even though we may not have not been walking the same paths at the same time, each and every one of you has a place in my life and me in yours. Sometimes it takes a harsh dose of reality to remind you what a support system you have.

You've gotten me through. You've been there. And I thank you from the bottom of my little white and orange crocheted heart.

What Cancer Has Done for Me

Writer's block is annoying. Like your kid sister on vacation poking you in the arm for 20 hours in the backseat annoying. (We get along now; she'll snicker about this however).

I like to put my thoughts to paper... or web. But lately, I have not had an ounce of motivation to pontificate. I've read three books (hardback and Kindle) since November... it's been fun and interesting and has kept my mind company... and there's Real Housewives which is always good for a quick dose of diva. But, it's not the same. I wanted to write, but there was this heavy weight dragging my creativity down... stress that always zaps the juices right out of me.

It's probably because the only thing I seemed to want to talk about over the last few months was depressing, ridiculous, unjust, ugly freaking Cancer. And who wants to hear more about Cancer? I don't want to write about Cancer, and yet, here I am writing about not wanting to write about Cancer. Damn you sneaky Cancer!

Cancer has made me angry, jealous, frustrated, but also fascinated, fearful and appreciative. (And apparently foul-mouthed). People talk about the stages of grief and I don't think I've quite gotten through the anger stage yet, but those same people tell me that I won't realize it until it's over. I'm pretty damned grouchy now and I'm not even PMS-ing. I'm sure my husband would just say that it's a regular old day. Poor thing - he's been so wonderful throughout this whole entire vat of shit that we've been dealing with. I think I'll keep him.

I'm jealous of people who still have their dads. I don't hate you, I'm just envious of your precious gift.

I'm frustrated because my dad was so frustrated at the end and couldn't tell us what he was so trying to get out... and I'm frustrated with myself for not spending more time with him.

I'm fascinated by the magnitude of Glioblastoma and fearful of every stinking thing any researcher has ever said to be careful of to prevent Cancer. Paranoia has set in regarding (and I will probably leave out some stuff): hot dogs, heating up food in plastic, cell phones around my kids, tap water, headaches, that weird Playdough smell - it's just not right, ok?

I'm appreciative of the time that I have left on this Earth to spend with family and friends more than ever. The cliche saying that life is too short... it's painfully true. Kiss and hug your kids, your parents, your siblings, your spouse and extended family. Call your friends. You just  never know. Cancer did this to me. It made me a freaking crazy, paranoid, grouchy person. Way to be such a co-dependent passive-aggressive, Cancer. 

On my drive in this morning I was listening the the Children's Hospital Have-a-Heart Do-Your-Part Radiothon on WKDD (double-pledge day all day, btw!) and they played a spot with a nine-year old who was in for his second round of treatment for brain cancer. Then I just discovered, through a blogger friend, a site called Momastery. The recent post is about a mom of 8 (I SAID EIGHT), ages to 18 who has stage four Pancreatic Cancer. What a group called the Monkees did for this family would make Donald Trump bawl his toupeed head off.

I've been teary on and off all day. I had to turn the station this morning and I had to stop reading the blog post. Ok, God. I get it. Other people are going through incredibly awful things as well. Now it's my turn to do something good.

On May 12th I'll be heading to Chicago with family and friends to participate in the Annual Breakthrough for Brain Tumors 5K Run/Walk. I'm going to show Cancer what I think of it that day. And it can kiss my butt.