tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25579285585787805122023-11-16T06:23:49.553-08:00ADVENTURES IN MOTHERHOODYeah, I've got the husband, the kids, the dog, the house, the mortgage, and the white picket fence. Just trying to keep my ducks all in a row.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.comBlogger552125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-1747309941899058992011-01-09T20:58:00.000-08:002011-01-09T21:03:53.489-08:00AdieuAfter more than two years and 555 posts (556 counting this one!), I'm saying goodbye to Adventures in Motherhood. I'm ready for a change, and I've started a new blog here:<br /><br /><a href="http://lisamorguess.wordpress.com">Life As I Know It</a><br /><br />I'm going to leave this blog up because it means too much to me not to. Feel free to still leave comments, as they will be forwarded to me.<br /><br />I hope to see you at my new digs!Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-91860755907934161692011-01-07T21:11:00.000-08:002011-01-07T21:20:15.585-08:00Questioning FaithDo you, oh devout faithful, ever question your faith? Pick it apart, analyze it, explore it? do you ever grapple with whether it actually makes sense or if it's just a safety net you don't think you can do without? Do you just blindly follow? <br /><br />It seems to me that anything in life - including faith - is more valuable, more deeply meaningful, if it stands up to the rigors of being doubted and questioned.<br /><br />A friend of mine has started a new blog, <a href="http://thetentativechristian.wordpress.com/">The Tentative Christian</a>. She's a wonderful, warm, funny, intelligent woman and writer, so this promises to be anything but dry reading. I invite - challenge, even - you to follow it from its inception and see where it goes. Believers and non-believers alike.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-53978681158131732692011-01-06T13:06:00.000-08:002011-01-06T13:22:17.926-08:00Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLxyYMKTb4JyrIAm6swSNa3lcUyyojSCBx7SYAEj6nKJpfxDrCcK6YoCaasuWkl4k8E92hv-RWOyPK-ky3W0fsvp900iSrshZQabpFhkoN9IDV1gDsk80iRtJx5kQfTogVmIiOinJmp34/s1600/DSC_0189.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLxyYMKTb4JyrIAm6swSNa3lcUyyojSCBx7SYAEj6nKJpfxDrCcK6YoCaasuWkl4k8E92hv-RWOyPK-ky3W0fsvp900iSrshZQabpFhkoN9IDV1gDsk80iRtJx5kQfTogVmIiOinJmp34/s200/DSC_0189.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559186143575659234" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Being in a reflective frame of mind lately, I revisited a series of interviews I did on the blog <a href="http://www.aberrationnation.com/">Abberation Nation</a> about a year an a half ago. Ever wonder what/where I come from, and what makes me tick? Well, here it is - or at least partly. It's interesting how life's experiences can shape us so profoundly, and how yet, at the same time, we can feel so removed from our histories. I know these things happened, and I remember it all vividly. I carry the battle scars, and yet . . . I feel like I've come so far; it's almost like watching a movie about someone else.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.aberrationnation.com/2009/06/runaway-lisa-aberration-story-part-1.html">Interview - Part I</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.aberrationnation.com/2009/06/runaway-lisa-aberration-story-part-2.html">Interview - Part II</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.aberrationnation.com/2009/07/runaway-lisa-aberration-story-part-3.html">Interview - Part III</a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-15547467466647179582011-01-05T09:50:00.000-08:002011-01-05T09:52:55.605-08:00Hula HoopAnd now for some levity . . . May I present . . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 51, 102); font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Annabelle, Daisy, and The Hula Hoop<br /></span></div><br /><br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Vk6ZHsUBoo?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Vk6ZHsUBoo?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-40112626217735582322011-01-04T11:56:00.000-08:002011-01-04T20:37:05.804-08:00In Michael's WordsIt's completely coincidental that Michael and I both decided to write about this today - we didn't at all collaborate on this. I guess it says a lot about what we are currently experiencing. He posted the following on Facebook, and in a rare instance of disclosure, he has given his consent for me to share it here:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;">***<br /></span></div><br /><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">My wife usually does these types of posts, these "Michael" updates, but I'm going to do one instead. I don't like to disclose, or whine, or complain, but I need to let my friends know where I'm at. A few weeks ago I posted the following on Facebook:</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">"From my aunt's kitchen: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." It starts now. I am told I don't have cancer. My body's damaged; I've changed, but I will not let the fear of what may lurk grip me and my family for one more day. Fuck that. You get no more of my time. I've given you your due. If you show up again, that's fine, we'll deal. But until that day--which may never come--I'm letting go. I'm free."</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">I still don't have cancer, which is great, and after I posted that I felt so empowered. And now, in a rare moment of disclosure hopefully worthy of one of my wife's posts, and hopefully somewhat cathartic, I have to say that being on the other side of cancer treatment is somewhat more difficult than the treatment itself. I need to disclose this because everybody thinks you just beat cancer and move on. It's fucking hard. The whole world has moved on and I haven't yet. And my wife is doing her best to move on, but can really only move as fast as I can, and that's pretty slow.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">So many things change for you during treatment and recovery. One that's had a huge impact for me is this: I learned that for some people, even though my family and I were going through what I hope will turn out to have been the roughest time in our lives, some people are unable to subordinate their own needs, and whatever drives them, for yours, even when they are clothed in the disguise of support. Not that they don't start out with the intent to be helpful. It just turns into something else, about them. Because of this, my relationships with the only two people I've known my entire life are nearly non-existent, and superficial with one of them at best, and I don't know that they'll ever be the same. And I don't even know that I want those relationships to revert to what they were--that's what ultimately led to their downfall anyway. I can't operate like that anymore.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">So, here I am struggling to move on and while my wife has been wonderful, dealing with my own issues and her own issues, and sacrificing herself to a large degree, I otherwise do not have the support of who were the two most important people to help me through, and to help us through, and to ease and share the burden. And because they have not been part of the support system, and have distanced themselves (although it has become mutual) they are unaware of the after-cancer struggle, and the demise of these relationships, and the fact they're not around, have added to the fall out.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">Then, I landed in the hospital a few weeks ago for something probably related to the surgery I had for cancer. That was a reminder, and it took two trips to the emergency room and an appointment with a specialist, all in one day, before somebody fucking realized I needed to be in a hospital. Thankfully, I am now OK, but it just sent me into a tailspin and I just realized this morning that it was a setback that was affecting me.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">While this experience and even the past few months and weeks have brought my wife and I very close together, I have also been inexplicably more emotional, somewhat afraid of losing everything I have, and working very hard to keep it together. And trying to raise 6 children and hold down a very demanding job that requires a lot of concentration.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">Yeah, we still laugh a lot, and love, and have wonderful times, but I'm here to tell you that the letting go part, and the being free part, has been work for me and my family. I haven't let go yet. I'm not free yet. And because of that neither is my family. But I hope to mostly be one day soon.</span></p>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-59250799060696452642011-01-03T21:01:00.000-08:002011-01-04T10:30:29.370-08:00FalloutBack in 2009, I spent a great deal of time wishing the year away. It was the year Michael was diagnosed with cancer, very early in the year, and he spent the entire year going through cancer treatment, and our family was put through the wringer. Michael dealt with the awful effects of chemo and radiation and surgery, while still holding down a job to support his family. I watched my husband's spirit erode and his body diminish, and was utterly helpless to bear any of it for him or to lessen the impact for any of us, all the while still having a house to maintain and six children to care for. Over time, the kids began to respond to Daddy being sick and Mommy being depressed with their own high emotions. It was a very, very difficult time, and I wanted nothing more than to put the year behind us so we could get back to life as we knew it before we had a relationship with cancer.<br /><br />The truth is, though, that there is no going back. Life does not return to "normal" after cancer. Yes, life goes on, and we engage in most of the same activities that we used to, and our day-to-day routine is the same as before. But we are changed. Forever.<br /><br />Some of the changes are good, and some unsettling. I remember when Michael was going through treatment, one day I ran into a mom at the kids' school whom I was acquainted with. We exchanged pleasantries and I asked about her husband, who I knew was in the military. She told me that he had been deployed to Iraq. And I remember thinking, "Yes, that's what it feels like. It feels like my husband is off to war." And like the men and women who come back from war with physical and emotional scars, so, too, do people who fight cancer.<br /><br />Cancer, it never goes away. Even when the scan is clear and the blood work looks great, it's there, with its hooks in you, holding on, trying to take your peace of mind and your sense of safety and your ability to believe that there is still a whole life ahead.<br /><br />I won't attempt to speak for Michael, as the experience of being the one who actually has cancer and goes through treatment is a unique experience in itself, and one I am not arrogant enough to think I understand. But speaking for myself, as the spouse of someone who fought cancer, I know the experience has wrought changes in me and my whole family.<br /><br />I am filled with gratitude for all that I have . . . and an ever-present fear of losing it all. In some ways, everything about life feels more vivid . . . the highs are higher, and the lows are lower. I now live with the conviction that I will one day have cancer, that there is no escaping it - cancer is everywhere, lurking, silent, waiting to take everything away. Often I feel sapped from being swallowed by other people's needs, without having a proper, conventional safety net of support for myself. <br /><br />I am angry - very angry - that the people who should have been saying, "What can we do to help you guys through this?" - if only by virtue of the obligation that is born out of the love, commitment, and loyalty they profess - have all along been unable and/or unwilling to put their own feelings and needs aside, leaving us adrift without proper support. That those people think they can speak for me and my kids in telling the world that <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> are all so very happy that Michael's recent scan was clear, when in truth, they have no fucking idea what we are feeling or what we have gone through, or what we continue to go through, because they can't seem to see beyond themselves. I am angry and bitter that I have stood by my husband through thick and thin, through the joys of good times and the ugliness and horrors of bad times - purely out of my love for and commitment to him and our kids - and yet I am still barely acknowledged as anything more than an incidental nuisance by the people who profess love and loyalty to him. I am angry that we are still trying to heal, after all this time, and those people don't have a clue. <br /><br />I am scared that we are never going to heal completely. I am scared that cancer, in the end, has won, and has stolen something from us permanently.<br /><br />Life goes on, and for the most part I purposefully go with that and am grateful for it. But every once in a while, the fallout is brought sharply into focus.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-48340252655870467242011-01-01T20:49:00.000-08:002011-01-01T21:22:52.778-08:00Goodbye 2010, Hello 2011Can you believe that we just said goodbye to not just another year, but another decade? How can it be 2011? Wasn't everyone just freaking out about Y2K?<br /><br />Last night, for the first time in all the years Michael and I have been together, we actually had big plans for New Year's Eve. It was quite exciting! We and two other couples who are very good friends of ours got all dolled up, piled into a limo ( a limo!) and went to dinner at one of Michael's and my favorite restaurants, <a href="http://www.theorangehillrestaurant.com/">Orange Hill Restaurant</a>.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzOPAUF9VY0KeQfBXQbfdNTtXBECoWjobR_h_kvJfFrSkhvyB6ERV4cHHEd6vvTxWRz9G8cuXhUAKTLZcQgoz8UO_kBwLObMBUkbX9fkaMzMjjRWrhQxwf5JReVGUbCDRw8PZ3JdliIw/s1600/DSC_0130.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzOPAUF9VY0KeQfBXQbfdNTtXBECoWjobR_h_kvJfFrSkhvyB6ERV4cHHEd6vvTxWRz9G8cuXhUAKTLZcQgoz8UO_kBwLObMBUkbX9fkaMzMjjRWrhQxwf5JReVGUbCDRw8PZ3JdliIw/s400/DSC_0130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557449413873011858" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2SQ9CvpJAlABgpTQg-9OZcAarv4MBXFv-pTrPJ-JG5kJV-wTcPc2nig8ZHVteUzzzlAaDs0TbhpsuyhpKmzsYqdbiVKmXtsJV1nmc3G-PLSsFw95tGXd8HY-ldN4652beMfqkqucL7c/s1600/DSC04363.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2SQ9CvpJAlABgpTQg-9OZcAarv4MBXFv-pTrPJ-JG5kJV-wTcPc2nig8ZHVteUzzzlAaDs0TbhpsuyhpKmzsYqdbiVKmXtsJV1nmc3G-PLSsFw95tGXd8HY-ldN4652beMfqkqucL7c/s400/DSC04363.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557449411906872722" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9A-DZl7WDhPUmPRAjlnM1v72smIBDC0GQhuBMnmfS3OQdXpxksRX5p0ZNE_DoMeBAoCKLFU5SNgsA-qz7pHz8PplTNOu8pVEU_Lcd4dS1_vRaS3A5OKOMUk4bfgnXSZX4PL_d3SMVqp4/s1600/DSC04364.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9A-DZl7WDhPUmPRAjlnM1v72smIBDC0GQhuBMnmfS3OQdXpxksRX5p0ZNE_DoMeBAoCKLFU5SNgsA-qz7pHz8PplTNOu8pVEU_Lcd4dS1_vRaS3A5OKOMUk4bfgnXSZX4PL_d3SMVqp4/s400/DSC04364.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557449407283429106" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPCSjvPjMyGwb0ypMLstUqw-rIhy4YEEV66XKUJ2i45tgagOtbpkQSHooaLNLiwWoEpUHGv6fJ79IO4M6aSESsCv1npPsyB9pIZemafeCMCYQJcNLTYHTHlGMWZCXOo-M4vGXwUSCn3I/s1600/DSC04366.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPCSjvPjMyGwb0ypMLstUqw-rIhy4YEEV66XKUJ2i45tgagOtbpkQSHooaLNLiwWoEpUHGv6fJ79IO4M6aSESsCv1npPsyB9pIZemafeCMCYQJcNLTYHTHlGMWZCXOo-M4vGXwUSCn3I/s400/DSC04366.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557449406501399202" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxlGG8LWDtd5VUsZnc3tdnpxxLWtn5cQEQIxRAmydG_LWlPAUhHj40T29-XL5cOJg81JviVzvquYX4P_4PFv0WxfEmpvbCA2QQjp7utbtVhIzoGOuz_rlV7pdMEhVfG5sDVbOdpjwhhw/s1600/DSC04367.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxlGG8LWDtd5VUsZnc3tdnpxxLWtn5cQEQIxRAmydG_LWlPAUhHj40T29-XL5cOJg81JviVzvquYX4P_4PFv0WxfEmpvbCA2QQjp7utbtVhIzoGOuz_rlV7pdMEhVfG5sDVbOdpjwhhw/s400/DSC04367.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557447475593922034" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQyBPb8j6Oau7Ay_-xn8dAkmUdJ6vrQXbBJM_3AW-yEb7si702Czx1AMcB8DtmXJ2AHddakDzejiyUGOAZa-V49KQqsirI0RXVYRx05hEmuyky45FNYn4uDYQ38sGMf6APeywzv64Qc8/s1600/DSC04374.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQyBPb8j6Oau7Ay_-xn8dAkmUdJ6vrQXbBJM_3AW-yEb7si702Czx1AMcB8DtmXJ2AHddakDzejiyUGOAZa-V49KQqsirI0RXVYRx05hEmuyky45FNYn4uDYQ38sGMf6APeywzv64Qc8/s400/DSC04374.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557447469105931602" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMt8JvRvRtWI0YV9ajwG4yheBoCAoaHXj7aIT85YgcXwFmlxpyx3PlQ1vh45QaNL2jXypuTlacg0UAzlOd9wnO9L1gM_2GhEF6hB93buZDtJ1WydZ6CM-XswcWPPabvQ5QXR9aIdndml4/s1600/DSC04375.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMt8JvRvRtWI0YV9ajwG4yheBoCAoaHXj7aIT85YgcXwFmlxpyx3PlQ1vh45QaNL2jXypuTlacg0UAzlOd9wnO9L1gM_2GhEF6hB93buZDtJ1WydZ6CM-XswcWPPabvQ5QXR9aIdndml4/s400/DSC04375.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557447462097963282" border="0" /></a><br />The restaurant sits high on a hill, and the view is amazing. We started out having cocktails on the patio, sitting around one of the fire pits. It was chilly!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5-0yxFaNL7I4cv7NoG20wx6jdih4KjP0d4UTyC3KWMAHv4IfZcIG3LXRPVCp1WqbOrKqNc5i_qr72ZkkLrSlTrbVn2s8VSdp-k1Z7m_d-wBNa3R2jMhQvAypH5rn6gveCTFofNk5ehc/s1600/IMG_0410.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5-0yxFaNL7I4cv7NoG20wx6jdih4KjP0d4UTyC3KWMAHv4IfZcIG3LXRPVCp1WqbOrKqNc5i_qr72ZkkLrSlTrbVn2s8VSdp-k1Z7m_d-wBNa3R2jMhQvAypH5rn6gveCTFofNk5ehc/s400/IMG_0410.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557447458696641570" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikpWJSYgjeQxkROc7ojsaDX1Ims4J5OGsPHKh81iSuEnHO0I-TvznfTcvfopRm89Y7KcXf_gMGz15TKmuYePklad8EkMxwjNpaJAY-nbHnTqPbioUO9kqdAOnFOdY2qrQbdE3lktG7RA/s1600/DSC04382.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikpWJSYgjeQxkROc7ojsaDX1Ims4J5OGsPHKh81iSuEnHO0I-TvznfTcvfopRm89Y7KcXf_gMGz15TKmuYePklad8EkMxwjNpaJAY-nbHnTqPbioUO9kqdAOnFOdY2qrQbdE3lktG7RA/s400/DSC04382.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557447453369006722" border="0" /></a><br />Sitting down to dinner -<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXCEm1qTtN0ClORF-qq_jFB376g67MZE4K7Lkx_TeUZkGXhKMZ1iz9U9KBXt1UVGoV3Twxzc-B8XRz2bcoqkCsXBG_hnitbZHr7Y2jigVD17qLO4MaCAwbf5ufdpeIpYVmg_T08QhPw4/s1600/DSC04385.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXCEm1qTtN0ClORF-qq_jFB376g67MZE4K7Lkx_TeUZkGXhKMZ1iz9U9KBXt1UVGoV3Twxzc-B8XRz2bcoqkCsXBG_hnitbZHr7Y2jigVD17qLO4MaCAwbf5ufdpeIpYVmg_T08QhPw4/s400/DSC04385.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557442720482474098" border="0" /></a><br />A lemon drop for me, of course.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8-cFw71vKt1jyKnF7r158JgwBFZuhpiLQ6aRHxh9C_nqSdSbKUTitMUNZpO8nS-k4sqEiEoiVGJUHigL1dNTDAhEf1vFUW9JqSmHgbCV7y9y9jdC2fdRT3-LUz0er9CjDcoDhYMLpMs/s1600/IMG_0414.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8-cFw71vKt1jyKnF7r158JgwBFZuhpiLQ6aRHxh9C_nqSdSbKUTitMUNZpO8nS-k4sqEiEoiVGJUHigL1dNTDAhEf1vFUW9JqSmHgbCV7y9y9jdC2fdRT3-LUz0er9CjDcoDhYMLpMs/s400/IMG_0414.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557442717000595490" border="0" /></a><br />Dessert. Isn't that clever?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijPXkuYpLy6QGuUHE7nRgC7xl7XnqDNX8Y6nzVi8HV_hofl_nzc5GQ5G1TAO0v6BN5DxBRxOdMJoRMMNn48UXNQFJ50CJ8ExIZP3MABXNtmT2DZU3CcBorN-bGAuT6omQiSK1UPMlad4/s1600/IMG_0415.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijPXkuYpLy6QGuUHE7nRgC7xl7XnqDNX8Y6nzVi8HV_hofl_nzc5GQ5G1TAO0v6BN5DxBRxOdMJoRMMNn48UXNQFJ50CJ8ExIZP3MABXNtmT2DZU3CcBorN-bGAuT6omQiSK1UPMlad4/s400/IMG_0415.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557442711997888002" border="0" /></a><br />Back on the patio, where we toasted, kissed, etc., etc. at the stroke of midnight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4EaTrb0fOoKL6Q-LlKjFrMVxsPI6ITNl6HOGO2zDl5HBibfrIErMSQNRNX_GYziMZvfEydQkXTQmIGir43qsiTY9_DHqlZT5jBovQZpqQfCEPxy3W9xGqwMwbEUqKOr18fIVXy0iprlE/s1600/DSC04386.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4EaTrb0fOoKL6Q-LlKjFrMVxsPI6ITNl6HOGO2zDl5HBibfrIErMSQNRNX_GYziMZvfEydQkXTQmIGir43qsiTY9_DHqlZT5jBovQZpqQfCEPxy3W9xGqwMwbEUqKOr18fIVXy0iprlE/s400/DSC04386.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557442703843613330" border="0" /></a><br />On the way home, back in the limo (those are Michael's and my tootsies).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPlv1UP1RDxHWeOHfPT5PLgCp4zmfiaHUuDYd3rrSoUu7LcA51GScFpZxTM0WLjrGbFOvrp5pQk2yobLsoPpuF7sM9CbdRaoUEQuahUihEeQR1VEVUMGj4PZeeSS84bFPjmovAUz1ZQo/s1600/IMG_0418.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPlv1UP1RDxHWeOHfPT5PLgCp4zmfiaHUuDYd3rrSoUu7LcA51GScFpZxTM0WLjrGbFOvrp5pQk2yobLsoPpuF7sM9CbdRaoUEQuahUihEeQR1VEVUMGj4PZeeSS84bFPjmovAUz1ZQo/s400/IMG_0418.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557442697640849602" border="0" /></a><br />It was a super fun night!<br /><br />I have to say, I have not been as eager to see the end of 2010 like I was 2009. This past year was a wonderful year for our family, and I am filled with gratitude for our health and happiness, among other things.<br /><br />But there's no stopping the march of time. Here we are, and already the first day of 2011 is fading into night. I'm not super big on making New Years' resolutions . . . but I do have hopes for the coming year, and things I'd like to strive for:<br /><br />. . . to be healthy by whatever means necessary<br />. . . to reflect and be grateful regularly<br />. . . patience<br />. . . to nurture the relationships in my life, including those with my husband, my kids, and my friends<br />. . . to live more frugally (now that we sent 2010 out with a big, expensive bang!)<br /><br />Happy New Year!Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-90052286806365362942010-12-30T13:22:00.000-08:002010-12-30T14:39:38.609-08:00Let's Discuss Gifts From Spouses and Body ImageA few days ago, right before Christmas, I wrote a post here about Christmas gifts from Michael - about how once, several years ago, he gave me sweats for Christmas a few months after Joey was born, and how that made me feel, and about how I knew that he had gotten me something from Victoria's Secret this Christmas because I stumbled upon the charge when I was doing our online banking, and that I was not happy to know that there would be something under the tree for me from Victoria's Secret. I took the post down because Michael was understandably hurt by it - mostly by my criticism of a gift from him that I hadn't even received yet. The sweats he gave me that long-ago Christmas have become something of a joke - I know he meant well; after all, I do like to wear sweats! But his giving them to me for Christmas just made me feel frumpy and unattractive. What was he thinking?!<br /><br />Anyway, so you would think that in light of that - of complaining about getting sweats for Christmas and feeling unattractive because of it - I would be happy to receive something from my husband from Victoria's Secret. After all, shouldn't it elicit the opposite response from the sweats? You would think so, huh?<br /><br />But, sadly, that is not the case. As soon as I discovered that charge to VS and realized that he had gotten me something potentially sexy, I was bothered. Upset. Why? Because I know I'm not built for anything from Victoria's Secret anymore. Michael clearly disagrees. I should just run with that, shouldn't I? It bothered me, though, that even knowing full well the body image issues I have, he would get me something that he should know I'd never feel comfortable wearing.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuM5yCy3BXreC1ESN79MS_F0lbhCNFh9CMjT6CSlIGskt0D_fKHdnkCvpz31qPoB3AB7pBQKsrybTMZwWEppNAIPSERN_KcI3XHQo4_98DHIJJLOoGyUJZZtlGA1hQjBCORnsoLFUypQ/s1600/DSC_0001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuM5yCy3BXreC1ESN79MS_F0lbhCNFh9CMjT6CSlIGskt0D_fKHdnkCvpz31qPoB3AB7pBQKsrybTMZwWEppNAIPSERN_KcI3XHQo4_98DHIJJLOoGyUJZZtlGA1hQjBCORnsoLFUypQ/s400/DSC_0001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556596522398862050" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(And this brings up a question: when giving a gift to someone, is it better to give them something you know they would like to have, or to give them something you, the giver, want them to have?)</span><br /><br />About a year ago, I wrote this post: <a href="http://motherhoodandotherriskyendeavors.blogspot.com/2009/12/mothers-body.html">A Mother's Body</a>. I wrote about the changes my own body has gone through in the course of having six kids, and just in getting older. I vowed to make peace with what my body has become, and let go of the self-loathing I've developed.<br /><br />I've failed. Utterly and completely.<br /><br />It's funny, because in some ways, I like myself better than I ever have before in my life. I like the person I am; I know I have good qualities, that I am worthy of the people who care about me (it's taken me almost a lifetime to get to this point), that I do good things and make other people feel good. I also recognize my shortcomings and try very hard to be honest with myself about them.<br /><br />So in that sense, I'm good, I'm square with myself. But this whole body image thing? Eh. I don't like the way I look. I don't like that I have such a hard time finding clothes that fit <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> sufficiently camouflage my flaws - most notably my tummy. I am at an ideal weight for my build, so it's not the weight. It's just the fact that five pregnancies have pretty much ruined my belly. It sticks out and sags and I hate it. Despise it. It's become a habit of mine to check out other moms' figures - does her tummy stick out like mine? How does she carry herself? Does she seem as self-conscious as I feel? And how does <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> bitch have such a flat stomach when I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> she's got four kids? I have become more and more fixated on the idea of getting a tummy tuck - well, really, a "mommy job" - a tummy tuck and a boob lift, because these boobs are in pretty sad shape as well.<br /><br />I try to analyze this whole thing with a rational mind. Where do these feelings come from? Is it fed by our culture and the ever present quest for perfection? Is it just me having a hard time watching my youth fade?<br />And then there's the guilt. Why the hell am I so preoccupied with this? What place does such silly vanity have in my life when considered in the context of real medical issues that have become a part of reality for our family? And it's not like we have several grand laying around just waiting to be spent, nor is it realistic to think that what I understand would be quite a grueling recovery from such a surgery would be something our family could deal with.<br /><br />So, I'm stuck. Obviously the most practical option is to just find a way to be okay with myself as I am. So far, I haven't discovered the key to doing that.<br /><br />And I hate this post. Because it sounds whiny and shallow. But there you have it. One of the many topics that resides in my head.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-23961192280079179992010-12-29T10:15:00.001-08:002010-12-29T10:17:55.129-08:00Blood PressureOne of my commenters left this link on my post yesterday about my blood pressure: http://www.highbloodpressureinfo.org/benefit-of-celery.html<br /><br />I am very intrigued. It's worth a try! After all, what do I have to lose?<br /><br />I forgot to mention that in the doctor's office yesterday, my bp was 155/95. Insert frownie face.<br /><br />Off to buy celery! Will report back in a few days . . .Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-23621003769537356292010-12-28T14:46:00.001-08:002010-12-28T14:59:03.941-08:00Update on My Scary Blood PressureFollowing up on that <a href="http://motherhoodandotherriskyendeavors.blogspot.com/2010/12/doctor-appt-update.html">doctor appointment from a few weeks back</a>, I went this morning and met my real doctor for the first time. He was nice. Patient. Thorough. Came across as competent. We talked about my family history, my health history, my current lifestyle. He deduced that it's most likely got very little to do with lifestyle (so I don't have to curb my drinking - yay!) and very much to do with heredity.<br /><br />I've resigned myself to going on medication - probably permanently - for this. I'm not thrilled about it, but I realize that stubbornly hanging onto my little aversion to medication is not going to preserve my health. So it's time to suck it up, put on my big girl panties, and do what I gotta do. People are counting on me, damnit!<br /><br />So I explained to him that I am currently (still) breast feeding, and that I need a medication that is safe to take whilst suckling the little one. He did not balk at this (score one point for the doctor!). He confidently wrote me a prescription for <a href="http://www.drugs.com/search.php?searchterm=norvasc">Norvasc</a>.<br /><br />. . . and I came home, looked it up, and saw that it is specifically contraindicated for breast feeding women! Hello!?!? Is anybody out there listening to me??<br /><br />So, apparently, I am back at square one. Or maybe square two. I just sent a fax to his office explaining my quandary to him and asking him to please prescribe a different medication for me after confirming that said medication is safe for me to take.<br /><br />Meanwhile, here I sit, with visions of my heart sweating its little heart out, and my arteries stressed to their limits.<br /><br />Maybe a drink would help.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-21839844387611900722010-12-27T12:52:00.001-08:002010-12-27T13:35:28.209-08:00FondueSomeone asked for the recipe for the cheese fondue we had on Christmas, so I decided to devote a whole post to fondue!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJhabBboPGSF-dC9Innid3xJzY3IWkLHsJCubPAsR3ISUTSBKE3yIpVK7BAfbbMPEVm34mFgOE_iSrMGG1bJYXeRlcXvJVh8XssQ0MKYJsWUP-rkNC1QDXQRFmX_oB4bcEKwfuJkrwEw/s1600/1970s-fondue-party_%257Ed6067.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJhabBboPGSF-dC9Innid3xJzY3IWkLHsJCubPAsR3ISUTSBKE3yIpVK7BAfbbMPEVm34mFgOE_iSrMGG1bJYXeRlcXvJVh8XssQ0MKYJsWUP-rkNC1QDXQRFmX_oB4bcEKwfuJkrwEw/s400/1970s-fondue-party_%257Ed6067.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555473855456087698" border="0" /></a>I'm not exactly sure how fondue became our family's traditional Christmas dinner. I have memories of having cheese fondue when I was a little girl in the 70s - fondue was big back then. I know when I joined my local MOMS Club shortly after Joey was born, they were doing a yearly Mom's Night Out around the holidays where one mom would host a fondue party at her house; she would make several different kinds of fondue and the guests would bring bread, veggies, etc. to dip (I hosted one year!). Then <a href="http://www.meltingpot.com/">The Melting Pot</a> opened here in SoCal, and I was hooked.<br /><br />We've been doing fondue on Christmas in our house for several years now. What I love about it, aside from the fact that it's so decadently yummy, is the communal aspect - it's the ultimate in sharing and being together, and that makes it a perfect holiday meal in my book.<br /><br />There are a million different fondue recipes out there, using all kinds of different cheeses, broths, sauces, and sweets. The fondue I've made on Christmas for the last couple of years is Pub Fondue from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Everything-Fondue-Cookbook-Creative-Occasion/dp/1593371195/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1293482729&sr=1-1">The Everything Fondue Cookbook</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVh423yQn7wiWUiVAiYpbBQ-KdNFMYQqUl4HEABtjxXLICd5vHgFT76XA9QXT8SNS-kx5lTO8cqwY5g5g_mCW2YWuwnFtK4QPeU4q9enmKHN-vnH-6xtKhDKecLttTZgZnD4Y2qldOmI/s1600/sc00b4ade9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVh423yQn7wiWUiVAiYpbBQ-KdNFMYQqUl4HEABtjxXLICd5vHgFT76XA9QXT8SNS-kx5lTO8cqwY5g5g_mCW2YWuwnFtK4QPeU4q9enmKHN-vnH-6xtKhDKecLttTZgZnD4Y2qldOmI/s576/sc00b4ade9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555472586148282114" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In addition to sourdough bread cubes and Granny Smith apple chunks, for dipping I like raw mushrooms and baby red potatoes quartered and cooked. There's really no end to foods you can use for dipping in cheese fondue: carrots, broccoli, celery, tortilla chips, crackers . . .<br /><br />If you've never made cheese fondue, you should know that it's a little tricky. It's hard to get just the right temperature once it's in the fondue pot; too hot and it bubbles and burns, not hot enough and it solidifies and turns into a big hunk of rubbery cheese. You can't use a simple fondue pot with a candle for cheese fondue - you have to use a pot that gets much hotter than a single candle, but preferably with an adjustable temperature control. I use an electric fondue pot for cheese, like this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYQLu5rsA2PiDCp9ihY_SjztG4aesXphOgIG4lZiFmUIpl-iOaFM6KXOo6gzxD7sMLDltn5kDoNHfIThNQPQ94yVAGRgcAD40PmmVYZeHy6XajdWg1KK9j2KA6O7LU3vfUwe1BFrRaUY/s1600/rival-fondue-set.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYQLu5rsA2PiDCp9ihY_SjztG4aesXphOgIG4lZiFmUIpl-iOaFM6KXOo6gzxD7sMLDltn5kDoNHfIThNQPQ94yVAGRgcAD40PmmVYZeHy6XajdWg1KK9j2KA6O7LU3vfUwe1BFrRaUY/s576/rival-fondue-set.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555475744861677586" border="0" /></a>Even with this, I have a hard time getting the temp right. One of these days I'll get a fondue pot with a Sterno heating element.<br /><br />Basic chocolate fondue is very simple. Take a small carton of heavy whipping cream (not <span style="font-style: italic;">whipped</span> cream) and heat over low-medium heat in a small saucepan. Gradually add an entire package of chocolate chips, stirring until melted. Voila! That's just a basic foundation; you can add all sorts of different things: a splash of vanilla or liqueur, a heaping spoonful of peanut butter, some marshmallow cream, whatever. You can also use white chocolate chips instead of milk chocolate, or dark chocolate, or butterscotch chips, or peanut butter chips. Some great dippers for desert fondue are sliced bananas, strawberries, angel food cake cut into chunks, Nilla Wafers, jumbo marshmallows, and graham crackers.<br /><br />And there you have it!Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-30117759269506534342010-12-26T18:33:00.000-08:002010-12-26T20:52:32.716-08:00Christmas Redux in Photos'Twas the night before Christmas,<br />And all through the house<br />Not a creature was stirring . . .<br /><br />. . . except Mom and Dad who stayed up extra late to make sure the kiddies were all fast asleep so they could retrieve the holiday loot from the basement where it was hidden (said basement about which they boldly lied to the kids and told them it was flooded from the rain, so as to keep the curious hooligans from snooping), and hauled it upstairs, taking several trips to do so, all so Santa could receive glory and credit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XQ6ukVZPZr3tBIYTCynKg8J3JRdNscjg6JrXlIWAEg4IruUd-24d8fJP27fJ9lNnK5IolI6rHovVeLqwuKX83b1uTs-oaF7nU2AvJw2HUdGU9ctsvEZtOdFAiYoo7gtOyURgYgl_qgk/s1600/DSC_0055.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XQ6ukVZPZr3tBIYTCynKg8J3JRdNscjg6JrXlIWAEg4IruUd-24d8fJP27fJ9lNnK5IolI6rHovVeLqwuKX83b1uTs-oaF7nU2AvJw2HUdGU9ctsvEZtOdFAiYoo7gtOyURgYgl_qgk/s576/DSC_0055.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555191539966070594" border="0" /></a><br />Christmas morning the kids were up at some godforsaken hour - I don't even know what time. I just know it was barely light out. We tortured them for a good hour, making them wait until a slightly more reasonable hour until we were ready to get up. Mean parents, eh?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjme5aA6DlQfWbfSy2SAbgLe3PJHmXu8J5LUFCvwjy8k3WkfOKdFwedCUSPIxUYn8Bc8DfoE9r7K4RGl9977fU2VtUboSNv3jWo7ykF7YZLxmsrmeRsGbDiIuxv54TVdFoG_gfXxA9rBYM/s1600/DSC_0086.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjme5aA6DlQfWbfSy2SAbgLe3PJHmXu8J5LUFCvwjy8k3WkfOKdFwedCUSPIxUYn8Bc8DfoE9r7K4RGl9977fU2VtUboSNv3jWo7ykF7YZLxmsrmeRsGbDiIuxv54TVdFoG_gfXxA9rBYM/s576/DSC_0086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555191535736054706" border="0" /></a>In this photo, the kids are smiling, but if you look closely, you may be able to see the glitter of madness in their eyes. In truth, they were practically coming unglued with anticipation and impatience to open their presents.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxiqYtjQWNC1ZjmFdk0hEyJsxjCyJSfP84d84j53vM35brfWMhQeoCHOIo3kG8Myi0j9cDXAYjSdD3exXp0DQAF-QpFL8lVCPpzfDFJX715iri3x1JBxVcPTIXjIXJpaMUhY_bbnhkLs/s1600/xmas+collage+01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxiqYtjQWNC1ZjmFdk0hEyJsxjCyJSfP84d84j53vM35brfWMhQeoCHOIo3kG8Myi0j9cDXAYjSdD3exXp0DQAF-QpFL8lVCPpzfDFJX715iri3x1JBxVcPTIXjIXJpaMUhY_bbnhkLs/s576/xmas+collage+01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555189582335257058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3KORwGJIkiY2hkqRUB72-ZxD6RWs_wBRT95aYgEAKaM_zGkNzAXjfQIVoXQfQFWHz3UAGNQs5TqxxV7Q5WPCwlzvHSTe_dd0HurcEbaGJq5uPd1hyphenhyphenF2M6zPe5roR2ORc24qeqIhPQO0/s1600/xmas+collage+02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3KORwGJIkiY2hkqRUB72-ZxD6RWs_wBRT95aYgEAKaM_zGkNzAXjfQIVoXQfQFWHz3UAGNQs5TqxxV7Q5WPCwlzvHSTe_dd0HurcEbaGJq5uPd1hyphenhyphenF2M6zPe5roR2ORc24qeqIhPQO0/s576/xmas+collage+02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555189578170610882" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXthRSJdZ0q7klRo3W5Mxs72omvXTrj_yxSsyVYj8LQzUfLKWetPRFB3m0EPIqLRSkYEiAkGsVNOgcLezsv0NYGIvnAHGSd3ZbIOKTvxGaKuCAXFk7vmv4vEeaMScF2FNPFZCkMJ07f7c/s1600/DSC_0079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXthRSJdZ0q7klRo3W5Mxs72omvXTrj_yxSsyVYj8LQzUfLKWetPRFB3m0EPIqLRSkYEiAkGsVNOgcLezsv0NYGIvnAHGSd3ZbIOKTvxGaKuCAXFk7vmv4vEeaMScF2FNPFZCkMJ07f7c/s576/DSC_0079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555191529356428482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Joey's favorite gift was a 2011 World Almanac. Yes, that's right, an almanac. He's been getting a new almanac for Christmas every year since 2007, and it's usually his favorite gift. This is what he reads for fun. Mostly baseball stats.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfXgUHyaUbeqwpgaWddl_0NaU3IuFdH1CiJbQLHynwWSVXk9nbomH4oDc51dldb142yO6kI-XS7xdXgQDJSWY5HTscy2MBOaULrj-nVzyyLamv8LeIS0o2-FtblMR5YtoQopA4Vqug44/s1600/xmas+collage+Joey+01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfXgUHyaUbeqwpgaWddl_0NaU3IuFdH1CiJbQLHynwWSVXk9nbomH4oDc51dldb142yO6kI-XS7xdXgQDJSWY5HTscy2MBOaULrj-nVzyyLamv8LeIS0o2-FtblMR5YtoQopA4Vqug44/s576/xmas+collage+Joey+01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555189574541075202" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJDXiMExnK521nqQX2vqdxrOfwi2-9A2MhJM1xu682Ln_gfrHsuA0QZJSHbq94RMU_LKe62qBLbqLReNgOudPep3AdIceXuuodV4OaEIFP0gpeKO0T2ibeXnhYE2zdZizvv5Sd_O_GSvg/s1600/xmas+collage+Joey+02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJDXiMExnK521nqQX2vqdxrOfwi2-9A2MhJM1xu682Ln_gfrHsuA0QZJSHbq94RMU_LKe62qBLbqLReNgOudPep3AdIceXuuodV4OaEIFP0gpeKO0T2ibeXnhYE2zdZizvv5Sd_O_GSvg/s576/xmas+collage+Joey+02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555187927552080786" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Pillow Pets were a big thing this year! Because you know, it's a pillow. It's a pet. It's a Pillow Pet.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMKJcSElfX8VB5aiZe68bj4qgWhmudjtx7BEiQ8aXRhVKK6XRpZYwKd1HdROEmB8_dCzKPvaiCgVRhXTde3KA4fVu1rRgd80uekmK5NTLLCh2NN5dWQJ10Z7SwtALksXiQ6SQ_0upii4/s1600/xmas+collage+pillow+pets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMKJcSElfX8VB5aiZe68bj4qgWhmudjtx7BEiQ8aXRhVKK6XRpZYwKd1HdROEmB8_dCzKPvaiCgVRhXTde3KA4fVu1rRgd80uekmK5NTLLCh2NN5dWQJ10Z7SwtALksXiQ6SQ_0upii4/s576/xmas+collage+pillow+pets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555187928420672546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdFku-ryhNdwHHkQhwj17-fKdaV7ZuN0016OuqhOgMXqGnupHBuFoqhWOovfWEepvXBON6djZSB6TvYCxMUvOmEoe8p6PLKhqZqz7GtEGXlqhOk8klbR6jak-jh9hZTmleJjTt8tfLN8/s1600/DSC_0095.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdFku-ryhNdwHHkQhwj17-fKdaV7ZuN0016OuqhOgMXqGnupHBuFoqhWOovfWEepvXBON6djZSB6TvYCxMUvOmEoe8p6PLKhqZqz7GtEGXlqhOk8klbR6jak-jh9hZTmleJjTt8tfLN8/s576/DSC_0095.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555213417787492674" border="0" /></a><br />The damage -<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLfpUZRnQhGZRZhayWcQUe8tGzI2WCp2o7OFfDJxdp0Al7ItDMBqM6Zv_GM-_hwNQrqiDtENglR6HYMXwaupHjU-HBVYoOJKBi18dthlYXpD9ejUsjtu64E6mOPEYLa7-wTAmcICFDEA/s1600/DSC_0153.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLfpUZRnQhGZRZhayWcQUe8tGzI2WCp2o7OFfDJxdp0Al7ItDMBqM6Zv_GM-_hwNQrqiDtENglR6HYMXwaupHjU-HBVYoOJKBi18dthlYXpD9ejUsjtu64E6mOPEYLa7-wTAmcICFDEA/s576/DSC_0153.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555187921774033570" border="0" /></a><br />After opening presents, we had our traditional big Christmas breakfast, this year featuring Cinnabons, eggs, bacon and sausage. I had two Cinnabons. I couldn't help it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-AT7AIFuCpWzoX4DKNHQGChqNyP9fcoP8z3Yw8n-KpkQ05Qvol5Q3j3Mdbgwa9NPapR6oOiVOdrMgs65fbE52zU20GkbJhyxjbNibNYygiB9BmOjlHYMfo8WokRdFS_fzq66iLt1im4/s1600/DSC_0159.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-AT7AIFuCpWzoX4DKNHQGChqNyP9fcoP8z3Yw8n-KpkQ05Qvol5Q3j3Mdbgwa9NPapR6oOiVOdrMgs65fbE52zU20GkbJhyxjbNibNYygiB9BmOjlHYMfo8WokRdFS_fzq66iLt1im4/s576/DSC_0159.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555186407443614354" border="0" /></a><br />For dinner, we had what has become our unconventional traditional Christmas dinner: filet mignon grilled to bloody perfection ala Michael, and cheese fondue with plenty of dippers, ala <span style="font-style: italic;">moi</span>.<br /><br />Mmmmm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4F_BuqkRFdgttuf2EaBpTdASIPBEk7pkOhwF48nZCMhqLGr8kh9UjTJ_PI963I087ixCselpP5cmUiCxEXD8r4ltcQn5AzNMNXxJ5PgHcVEfwxnqyh4G33JTUXXOFmbD7Of8HUE3Jl-8/s1600/xmas+collage+food.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4F_BuqkRFdgttuf2EaBpTdASIPBEk7pkOhwF48nZCMhqLGr8kh9UjTJ_PI963I087ixCselpP5cmUiCxEXD8r4ltcQn5AzNMNXxJ5PgHcVEfwxnqyh4G33JTUXXOFmbD7Of8HUE3Jl-8/s576/xmas+collage+food.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555186402434756962" border="0" /></a><br />And for desert, chocolate fondue, also a Christmas tradition in our house.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVSiEUciZGcP1u5SrIdKQ48O20LjkfrD5epWxAVi4W5vk1JZjtvSdpmGQzjwUHWbC3aMzYTx0bkuEClfC7n7cn8mvsHCxnlOyZSjc_50zlppvxnufOcyCEE6CKsCSbQR7xpK6YCzRmyM/s1600/DSC_0288.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVSiEUciZGcP1u5SrIdKQ48O20LjkfrD5epWxAVi4W5vk1JZjtvSdpmGQzjwUHWbC3aMzYTx0bkuEClfC7n7cn8mvsHCxnlOyZSjc_50zlppvxnufOcyCEE6CKsCSbQR7xpK6YCzRmyM/s576/DSC_0288.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555186399049250770" border="0" /></a><br />And now that I've managed to double my weight in one day, I am officially swearing off crap for my New Year's resolution.<br /><br />It was a good Christmas. The kids were all thrilled with their gifts, and we were all together, happy and healthy. Speaking of which, Michael is doing mucho better. He did spend the morning last Thursday having testing done to gauge the extent of the medical issues he's been having, but that same day he seemed to have a turnaround and has been feeling a lot better since then. We haven't gotten the official report from his doctor, but all signs at this point indicate that things are resolved. Phew!<br /><br />And now, big plans for New Year's Eve! What to wear, what to wear . . .Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-60187441170588656142010-12-22T13:55:00.000-08:002010-12-22T15:02:47.597-08:00Rain CloudsLast year as I slogged through the Christmas season, muttering "Bah humbug . . ." I swore to myself that next year would be different. Once we got through Michael's cancer treatment, a new chapter would start for us, and I was determined to let go of my long-held dislike of the holiday season, which has mostly been based on a feeling of loneliness because of my lack of extended family, and on allowing the stress and materialism of the season to overshadow everything.<br /><br />It ended up that I didn't even have to try very hard to make the holiday season feel different - <span style="font-style: italic;">better</span> - this year. We've had so much to be thankful for, and for the first time in a long time, I have felt utterly content with the little family Michael and I have created; that feeling that something is missing is gone. I cheerfully shopped for Christmas presents for the kids, and we decorated for Christmas inside and out. I was feeling positively festive, full of goodwill and good cheer.<br /><br />And then the rain clouds rolled in, literally and figuratively.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvjA6kzSBTvVFKK3LgCT3h5nLIBTgqf4diXGmNkL4YHbRQCxKMnxjX-PHD0tn9bkUV2rF2B7AESboW9xoPP0yoYU-aVH-mv70-TxgVJfQ83TNGz9R8Gzbr96-xw3PGN-4juV5KQC-QdQ/s1600/DSC_0047.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvjA6kzSBTvVFKK3LgCT3h5nLIBTgqf4diXGmNkL4YHbRQCxKMnxjX-PHD0tn9bkUV2rF2B7AESboW9xoPP0yoYU-aVH-mv70-TxgVJfQ83TNGz9R8Gzbr96-xw3PGN-4juV5KQC-QdQ/s576/DSC_0047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553635802889494818" border="0" /></a><br />It's been raining almost nonstop here in sunny Southern California for days and days and days. Everything is gray and wet and soggy and muddy and dismal out. The kids are all on winter break from school for two weeks, and have been locked up in the house the entire time so far because of the weather. They all have cabin fever, and I'm spending a lot of time breaking up fights and listening to tattling and tears. I'm pretty much letting them watch TV all day long because there's not much else to do. I think Joey and the girls went for four days without bathing and spent those four days and nights wearing the same pajamas. And while I know they all brushed their teeth every day, I can't swear that they changed their underwear during that time. I finally bathed them all yesterday, but the weather is still completely shitty and I have a feeling they will remain in the jammies (and underwear?) they put on last night for the next few days.<br /><br />I did manage to spend two days baking, and I'm glad for that. I gave away most of the stuff I baked. As for what's left here, I've thrown moderation to the wind and am doing some serious comfort eating.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCyWfwCfWaFRLSEMlwvcdDQfQe6Yd4BxC5722VgTLssl6MbEpeMavQ36UAmfLy6yx9ceHXHX0G4YIWEqTAod7cMU3TF4VTbu4STVVJ4FhJoWl7veBqkAwEvJY2Z6awqEqOeswpCxFeFg/s1600/DSC_0003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCyWfwCfWaFRLSEMlwvcdDQfQe6Yd4BxC5722VgTLssl6MbEpeMavQ36UAmfLy6yx9ceHXHX0G4YIWEqTAod7cMU3TF4VTbu4STVVJ4FhJoWl7veBqkAwEvJY2Z6awqEqOeswpCxFeFg/s576/DSC_0003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553635804729010594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClFmgk0oMppS6IimiVptAM_weF2GcGdJR6JjWBMWPBkOXh_heoHcWloFaJSwoOs4CpSZ9u5KOasTTOcloKtfjbPdBxf0uqBaGKxc0bySBPcicG_lkSfVNNNkJ0t9JLwyjFjCW7mbvhWc/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClFmgk0oMppS6IimiVptAM_weF2GcGdJR6JjWBMWPBkOXh_heoHcWloFaJSwoOs4CpSZ9u5KOasTTOcloKtfjbPdBxf0uqBaGKxc0bySBPcicG_lkSfVNNNkJ0t9JLwyjFjCW7mbvhWc/s576/DSC_0002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553634552933853458" border="0" /></a><br />We did manage to buy a Christmas tree last weekend, but it was bought in the rain, so we couldn't bring it in the house right away because it was soaking wet. So it stayed outside for several days where it continued to get rained on. Michael finally dragged it into the garage a couple days ago to dry it out, and brought it in the house last night (four days before Christmas . . . sigh). The kids and I decorated it this morning.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQKZtY36-KD05l1lXHKrI9CdyQqgIyTT-4E8PA86ezYbyzQRi6WVf8hyphenhyphena-k1YNKIFF_ubwqAfYRvbYvLCXg_Bz8sZKfdsgRGjzQc_lZloegW8IWxIIIF6XZvGzSSKUJ9xt3_jaQCkkEw/s1600/DSC_0040.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQKZtY36-KD05l1lXHKrI9CdyQqgIyTT-4E8PA86ezYbyzQRi6WVf8hyphenhyphena-k1YNKIFF_ubwqAfYRvbYvLCXg_Bz8sZKfdsgRGjzQc_lZloegW8IWxIIIF6XZvGzSSKUJ9xt3_jaQCkkEw/s576/DSC_0040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553634548287164562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNSMq5BWXCO9sPXuCgiVGLk8ttAwN9R06Kz7nj-SwElfuR7aidy_8Onw4oYsNE0Keol4OwToTI7ODOjmf6idTcUNv6Ly-M1ODD59rKn-HpugUoI-c3nU09DiXX2VVfx7XB7HE_zjqOhV4/s1600/DSC_0044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNSMq5BWXCO9sPXuCgiVGLk8ttAwN9R06Kz7nj-SwElfuR7aidy_8Onw4oYsNE0Keol4OwToTI7ODOjmf6idTcUNv6Ly-M1ODD59rKn-HpugUoI-c3nU09DiXX2VVfx7XB7HE_zjqOhV4/s576/DSC_0044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553634537961259810" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqQ5BpBn8KRM3iInyo-8pypTMXwxqXM3nprk7JeixirO8X4GcnpW77QaHRhojUpPQ1XHTbO4u1BjHGZU1fGdCCpale6DGOOzbFSpcVw-1BRBW5AG3vX-3p0xz0AP67JWbPQGakR6GvII/s1600/DSC_0007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqQ5BpBn8KRM3iInyo-8pypTMXwxqXM3nprk7JeixirO8X4GcnpW77QaHRhojUpPQ1XHTbO4u1BjHGZU1fGdCCpale6DGOOzbFSpcVw-1BRBW5AG3vX-3p0xz0AP67JWbPQGakR6GvII/s576/DSC_0007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553631964973956034" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTassjCXZ-E338-fXipACkMk0KlPLq8rczdcYSWV0Jx3lzEVi92wkb9Tx5Bc9v0v6al6JNri36mF544J7U_5i00-axmsX_OrNFCaGZP7009RhSP4-C2Bc80UThNbo0mhaTBGkf368ZJqg/s1600/DSC_0009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTassjCXZ-E338-fXipACkMk0KlPLq8rczdcYSWV0Jx3lzEVi92wkb9Tx5Bc9v0v6al6JNri36mF544J7U_5i00-axmsX_OrNFCaGZP7009RhSP4-C2Bc80UThNbo0mhaTBGkf368ZJqg/s576/DSC_0009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553631959338949586" border="0" /></a><br />Michael has not completely recovered from the <a href="http://motherhoodandotherriskyendeavors.blogspot.com/2010/12/other-shoe.html">ordeal that landed him in the hospital last week</a>, and it is looking more and more likely that he is going to need surgery after all. This is a complication resulting from the cancer surgery he had a year and a half ago. He is scheduled to have some testing done tomorrow, and that will determine what the next step is. I'm bracing myself for the possibility of him being in the hospital very soon for a few days, and, yeah, I guess I'm feeling down about it. Worried about him, resentful of being dealt another shitty card, and, yeah, kind of feeling a little sorry for myself.<br /><br />So, yeah, quite a damper has been cast over things recently.<br /><br />But we'll deal. What other choice is there? Eventually the rain will pass, right?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbx6jBVOfHZLYz5pBhJ7FuMzvC9wzY50w4NVioOTjQ2EBSeDIM0UliVarXPffeG3rj9UFvKET5dFZFzBE74s1x8AWh2loGR5BUfSWGIOe4QZHByPtx7MHs-Wk0peZMph8iW0dhTDhpu4/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbx6jBVOfHZLYz5pBhJ7FuMzvC9wzY50w4NVioOTjQ2EBSeDIM0UliVarXPffeG3rj9UFvKET5dFZFzBE74s1x8AWh2loGR5BUfSWGIOe4QZHByPtx7MHs-Wk0peZMph8iW0dhTDhpu4/s576/DSC_0002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553631950911951954" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-44112388856227277302010-12-18T14:34:00.001-08:002010-12-18T15:15:49.562-08:00Holiday Dance Recital 2010Today was the big day - the girls' dance recital, featuring a Holiday Showcase of ballet, tap, and hip-hop dancers from the dance academy they've been attending for about a year now.<br /><br />Like the <a href="http://motherhoodandotherriskyendeavors.blogspot.com/2010/06/dance-dance-dance.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Land of Oz</span> production</a> they participated in last June, this recital required full regalia of costume, makeup and hair for all the dancers. Remembering the saga of getting them into makeup for the <span style="font-style: italic;">Oz</span> production, I was not looking forward to this morning's preparations, and it was, in fact, a nightmare. First came Annabelle, who began crying hysterically right after I put her eyeliner on, thereby turning her face into a mess of black, runny streaks. I sent her to her room and moved on to Daisy. Daisy cooperated fully, infusing me with the confidence to move on to Lilah, who went into complete meltdown mode halfway into her makeup application. No amount of reasoning, threatening, guilting, or bribing her with treats would convince her to get on with it. Michael was unable to convince her either.<br /><br />She's been <a href="http://motherhoodandotherriskyendeavors.blogspot.com/2010/11/on-fickleness-separation-anxiety-and.html">squirrelly about dance</a> (and preschool) for a while, but all along she's insisted she wanted to be in the show, so I've continued to drag her little butt, sometimes in tears, to dance class every week, swearing that once the recital was over, that would be it for dance. But alas, it finally became clear this morning that she just was not going to budge, so I threw my hands up in surrender. I'm still pissed. I know it's only money and time, but a lot of it was invested in this on her behalf because <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> said this was what <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> wanted to do. I'm not a pushy stage-mom, and I've never pushed any of my kids to participate in anything that they weren't eager to participate in, but damnit, once they commit to something, I expect follow-through. I'm disappointed . . . but maybe, after all, mostly in myself for not realizing that at four years old, Lilah is just not mature enough to understand commitment and follow-through.<br /><br />After spending some time alone in her room, Annabelle agreed to come out and go on with the show, so I got her makeup on, got her and Daisy into their costumes, and we were off.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ91-0Nsd79PnA8-yV6RTLuj7xjXzc8OkfVKryiPQxEkvff532XpLSL-RKwi1aozNpxUnEG_y4Hp9nZI9MWHuHEMTeH-X0lSakhR5R7KxOg6C11E6-qcZ1FxsNU9hmK24ER8KSeYvnOVs/s1600/DSC_0017.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ91-0Nsd79PnA8-yV6RTLuj7xjXzc8OkfVKryiPQxEkvff532XpLSL-RKwi1aozNpxUnEG_y4Hp9nZI9MWHuHEMTeH-X0lSakhR5R7KxOg6C11E6-qcZ1FxsNU9hmK24ER8KSeYvnOVs/s400/DSC_0017.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552162282463968786" border="0" /></a><br />The show was held in a church, and upon entering and seating myself in a pew, lightening bolts did not, in fact, obliterate me.<br /><br />Here is Michael showing Joey a bible:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-nlbyAckHYrX66Ht4Uj7UzPe0Xo5Hfe-iP2vviZctSfjepvF_40R0sWXytJaMOSRmvU-90I57TyDs8GK-64eJqEi5cAC8aXJbc1Px8xEcZvNCndzTeXYxBeh3hjJG-L7xxj4hO03rvo/s1600/photo-2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-nlbyAckHYrX66Ht4Uj7UzPe0Xo5Hfe-iP2vviZctSfjepvF_40R0sWXytJaMOSRmvU-90I57TyDs8GK-64eJqEi5cAC8aXJbc1Px8xEcZvNCndzTeXYxBeh3hjJG-L7xxj4hO03rvo/s400/photo-2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552161530522245330" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7MEKJw7chNEwekqJG7bZ80WDmme9Khq6Sv7ouRTJ451kkIEbIqaUQgvCU1dBGvidm4A9gaieXim81i6oft8dfVQVOJ2WTwbdcEH-_nx1fJCOUOekqWnJSrSQYKJ8ziRGHpoM9JzabgI/s1600/photo-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7MEKJw7chNEwekqJG7bZ80WDmme9Khq6Sv7ouRTJ451kkIEbIqaUQgvCU1dBGvidm4A9gaieXim81i6oft8dfVQVOJ2WTwbdcEH-_nx1fJCOUOekqWnJSrSQYKJ8ziRGHpoM9JzabgI/s400/photo-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552161526420510338" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The show was spectacular. In all, there must have been a couple hundred kids and young adults performing, ranging in age from three to twenty-two. I am seriously amazed by the talent of every single dancer there. I honestly see some real talent in Daisy and Annabelle, and think they could really progress with it if they choose to stick with it. We'll see.<br /><br />Lilah would have been in this piece (in a green costume):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNx2n4aFn_90Um2lzxgtnE_FQCpll7UpAAocwmV2RqBUM12pN7axjCWZstdAMS2OMWYRfoyeO9zHkYGIj4XRJup0wJvC114-RTLpND0HAnw3gxMScKHAgblUlAQsSjuNqyL-SYPtXLjs/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNx2n4aFn_90Um2lzxgtnE_FQCpll7UpAAocwmV2RqBUM12pN7axjCWZstdAMS2OMWYRfoyeO9zHkYGIj4XRJup0wJvC114-RTLpND0HAnw3gxMScKHAgblUlAQsSjuNqyL-SYPtXLjs/s400/photo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552161521813820754" border="0" /></a><br />Daisy and Annabelle with their class:<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kjI1sODy3jA?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kjI1sODy3jA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />Daisy wants to try t-ball in the spring, so for now we are taking a break from dance. I'm looking forward to the respite.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-83874666705133876882010-12-14T20:20:00.000-08:002010-12-14T20:33:17.778-08:00The Other ShoeLess than a week after rejoicing in the wake of Michael's clear post-cancer CT/PET scan, he developed a very serious - potentially life-threatening - condition and ended up in the hospital after two trips to the emergency room. The problem appears to have resolved without surgery, but it was touch and go for a good part of the day today as to whether he would need surgery. As of now, we are hopeful that he'll be home by tomorrow night.<br /><br />I am reminded once again of several things . . .<br /><br />. . . that none of us ever gets to say "I've paid my dues." Just when you think you've had all the rotten in life that you should have to bear, life has a way of throwing just one more curve ball at you. And you rise to the occasion, because what else are you going to do?<br /><br />. . . life is short. And precious. And fragile. Anything can happen, at any time.<br /><br />. . . the human body is a wondrous thing! Appreciate all the parts that work properly!<br /><br />. . . I am so very fortunate to be surrounded by caring friends who actually <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to go out of their way for us. I am truly thankful.<br /><br />. . . I love my husband with everything I have, and I miss him like crazy when he's not here.<br /><br />. . . and last but not least, I'm really not crazy about doctors all that much.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-65774668934781026062010-12-12T13:50:00.000-08:002010-12-12T21:03:52.003-08:00InkedMichael and I got inked last night, and photographed the event for posterity:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTgwq-Snxmb_GU40v963_l-GVfVgjYe8-DbxKEwZxQxYVpCgnjUVvDJvNQAVa_YxS2nksoy59lHWHQnkh_QjFXqueHXYWmv7mO7qcXyzBgHweK1HcMv0ycgqxC_Bk2OBPurLv3a_mjkc/s1600/IMG_0257.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTgwq-Snxmb_GU40v963_l-GVfVgjYe8-DbxKEwZxQxYVpCgnjUVvDJvNQAVa_YxS2nksoy59lHWHQnkh_QjFXqueHXYWmv7mO7qcXyzBgHweK1HcMv0ycgqxC_Bk2OBPurLv3a_mjkc/s576/IMG_0257.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549925254519111314" border="0" /></a><br />This was not a first tattoo for either of us, and we've both talked about each getting another for a while. Trying to decide what to get and where took a lot of time and thought. We finally decided on matching peace signs, symbolizing peace in our love for each other - which is especially meaningful to us with everything we have been through together - and our wish for peace in life in general. We wanted something matching, also, to symbolize the unity between us.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBL-iI6xjRQtvxvhBVh3yAUi7aRYPGku6j-n9_J_h1_PxO54HaoFUu_O5g4p91Qfps-mha_3Tnfz5adZFJf94mG_90fOowLho77AMW44tM-CNiCT2I6HWB7ehxHm_19Meb2w_kEmdhefs/s1600/IMG_0267.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBL-iI6xjRQtvxvhBVh3yAUi7aRYPGku6j-n9_J_h1_PxO54HaoFUu_O5g4p91Qfps-mha_3Tnfz5adZFJf94mG_90fOowLho77AMW44tM-CNiCT2I6HWB7ehxHm_19Meb2w_kEmdhefs/s576/IMG_0267.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549925237167537490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The chosen spots</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLqZKgc1COozPddyhF5bvhPvTMz9-XjQ61vW8SdkDgzHSUZ38plpIpZQn-DueXceLZHFqHV3dD_of7boMSUy2HHourXPJJpnzKwWjmV4hBdAo4NleofgQaVzIciSga5et8ECAqjXdh8ko/s1600/IMG_0270.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLqZKgc1COozPddyhF5bvhPvTMz9-XjQ61vW8SdkDgzHSUZ38plpIpZQn-DueXceLZHFqHV3dD_of7boMSUy2HHourXPJJpnzKwWjmV4hBdAo4NleofgQaVzIciSga5et8ECAqjXdh8ko/s576/IMG_0270.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549925230738661874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Me first . . . signing my life away</span><br /><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNT-V1bpjuAqMmtkrnQbPbJchKXMilEBGF88TWQSfQ15ELEBpfGfmMjklaCWso8gtDhMJWi8yzYC-ekn1_VhVOJbOArg9alu5T6xu_t3Uihec8iYb92OsL02EVfK9QaqfWZjw8zcoZx2k/s1600/IMG_0282.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNT-V1bpjuAqMmtkrnQbPbJchKXMilEBGF88TWQSfQ15ELEBpfGfmMjklaCWso8gtDhMJWi8yzYC-ekn1_VhVOJbOArg9alu5T6xu_t3Uihec8iYb92OsL02EVfK9QaqfWZjw8zcoZx2k/s576/IMG_0282.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549925219992695874" border="0" /></a><br />In another lesson of not judging a book by its cover, the guy who did our tattoos, John, had the look of a carny - completely tatted out from neck to ankles, giant holes in his ear lobes, shaved head, and just a vaguely inbred look. He was extremely polite and well spoken, however, and completely won me over when this oddball guy who apparently hangs out at the shop pretty frequently started talking about Howard Stern and how funny it is when he makes fun of "handicapped people," and John said, very seriously, "It's not funny. I don't like it."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfoE8ZEOns8Ni4-oKrDvA06x8kTLKNDYtVZmOPXBIu6Cdc1emG2wNdKV7f9R3VwOQd8LY-mtHHMrov_orKPtRw-hOJvqjfd_pADqJ01pC67q50BAW6qut2lqh5txevSI-BOt6zHArr5I/s1600/IMG_0286.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfoE8ZEOns8Ni4-oKrDvA06x8kTLKNDYtVZmOPXBIu6Cdc1emG2wNdKV7f9R3VwOQd8LY-mtHHMrov_orKPtRw-hOJvqjfd_pADqJ01pC67q50BAW6qut2lqh5txevSI-BOt6zHArr5I/s576/IMG_0286.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549923428722160610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The outline is done</span><br /><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8vsTDQLBYywvxpCbODgwBra2vB07Ci6nsbW3pW5hyphenhyphenL6aglOFQANcLrtm0oVevOgwqitcSTiPOXME8YUfWsUU1k0pBRXIff-eVx2lz4-c4xiybikLTf-Q7NA0KotN24ueLg7_qXy6L63s/s1600/IMG_0295.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8vsTDQLBYywvxpCbODgwBra2vB07Ci6nsbW3pW5hyphenhyphenL6aglOFQANcLrtm0oVevOgwqitcSTiPOXME8YUfWsUU1k0pBRXIff-eVx2lz4-c4xiybikLTf-Q7NA0KotN24ueLg7_qXy6L63s/s576/IMG_0295.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549923422723514722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4xtHzODSKh7P50AySEcBiqAq46FoBtuT_M39A686Z_GSUaH4JDzIQ68eRD86cbUBP3hdzE93Nh8JDrVP1F99TwkxOTqvrwPEjU95wAEUs4DJ4EdYO6-pPW-AqCJZSE0NSYPpRwe21pw/s1600/IMG_0309.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4xtHzODSKh7P50AySEcBiqAq46FoBtuT_M39A686Z_GSUaH4JDzIQ68eRD86cbUBP3hdzE93Nh8JDrVP1F99TwkxOTqvrwPEjU95wAEUs4DJ4EdYO6-pPW-AqCJZSE0NSYPpRwe21pw/s576/IMG_0309.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549923412575058338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKC51ii1gpVvrWnj60uRGdoYLDzyYsTZXgsUfi7njxvU4-IiKfKFIIWZH_Q8H9UED1Omzx8_z3zY_PduScTfqWl1Op0QBsnRJ8hr4HRZZ0eVy7hcMRVoKqB5a5c-rLmO_FUUNRbgXxW5I/s1600/IMG_0318.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKC51ii1gpVvrWnj60uRGdoYLDzyYsTZXgsUfi7njxvU4-IiKfKFIIWZH_Q8H9UED1Omzx8_z3zY_PduScTfqWl1Op0QBsnRJ8hr4HRZZ0eVy7hcMRVoKqB5a5c-rLmO_FUUNRbgXxW5I/s576/IMG_0318.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549922156441641266" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFn1dWJpunOQCLXkI54Yzw3wTGoHKnUQnkdxVl8QGhGx88SeWcWKjzIHZ_XlICicZbXRK1Kzjv-CQIRwKYLeoNmnwUmiULS-SZQJjC-_tc9UH9SwpQK6UcYdfppggxAKulJjHEBlxltx4/s1600/DSC_0014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFn1dWJpunOQCLXkI54Yzw3wTGoHKnUQnkdxVl8QGhGx88SeWcWKjzIHZ_XlICicZbXRK1Kzjv-CQIRwKYLeoNmnwUmiULS-SZQJjC-_tc9UH9SwpQK6UcYdfppggxAKulJjHEBlxltx4/s576/DSC_0014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549922146755672850" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeb0yerOPccbolmiKZHzqaqXurjXkbuxJy6mUpdkQj1yGZuRo663GzI4g7W1IiscWi_Q_o2gsHmHx9KF6tiBTJqECmJIBL__Z2lj0Pu2eyY2IxupR33ZB8m5j-pQY6df6esbCea-_JAo/s1600/DSC_0013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeb0yerOPccbolmiKZHzqaqXurjXkbuxJy6mUpdkQj1yGZuRo663GzI4g7W1IiscWi_Q_o2gsHmHx9KF6tiBTJqECmJIBL__Z2lj0Pu2eyY2IxupR33ZB8m5j-pQY6df6esbCea-_JAo/s576/DSC_0013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549922133854647026" border="0" /></a><br />My tattoo took about an hour, and it <span style="font-style: italic;">hurt</span>! The inside of the wrist is a very tender area, and it's still very sore today. I'm very happy with it, though - he did an excellent job. Look at all the detail. Isn't it beautiful?<br /><br />Michael was next. His tattoo didn't take as long, as it had much less detail. It's basically the same peace sign as mine sans the vines and flowers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZDhY0YB8rJDA4EUDmtlalaA8a79RT9S23cWUP6uxNVkvf1F18Ttdp1E8BqZg9LHeYZyUPaO7WfJZaccHGvQVKpQXz5ZpUfWG4pBfOZDjnZeGpQruJmD_4odHhYqG_TzCpx77O-f4cIQ/s1600/IMG_0324.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZDhY0YB8rJDA4EUDmtlalaA8a79RT9S23cWUP6uxNVkvf1F18Ttdp1E8BqZg9LHeYZyUPaO7WfJZaccHGvQVKpQXz5ZpUfWG4pBfOZDjnZeGpQruJmD_4odHhYqG_TzCpx77O-f4cIQ/s576/IMG_0324.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549921077474209266" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAevef3jpDcCd_HbVNQgeuJB5eHmKw1YhiJL91AdLEaYpmb9xf9XoiZqy3SFIgMtoYDod0jNHAKLB6r3lRIgwbrIle22NrVziLtnNpkEeu3OWqT0_UCOgA5k-SFmOkO9iBW7aG1K7R7Go/s1600/IMG_0329.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAevef3jpDcCd_HbVNQgeuJB5eHmKw1YhiJL91AdLEaYpmb9xf9XoiZqy3SFIgMtoYDod0jNHAKLB6r3lRIgwbrIle22NrVziLtnNpkEeu3OWqT0_UCOgA5k-SFmOkO9iBW7aG1K7R7Go/s576/IMG_0329.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549921066735424690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3t7FXanHgYg5s8M-fjEjf-Wk2E6Le5zdpac1qHlHkb-5bYummeqHWTHuXbz-_K0HgYrL4Pd9AXcNbyoVNWirc4Hb4tczrI1EhE711i7Gn2mNgupd1IR1DdF6IQA12wU-TpD5V0NnJW14/s1600/IMG_0330.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3t7FXanHgYg5s8M-fjEjf-Wk2E6Le5zdpac1qHlHkb-5bYummeqHWTHuXbz-_K0HgYrL4Pd9AXcNbyoVNWirc4Hb4tczrI1EhE711i7Gn2mNgupd1IR1DdF6IQA12wU-TpD5V0NnJW14/s576/IMG_0330.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549921059467826994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaCkbmlYRRKEF1r3AmvU8XQ_OzAPYUr3bimpOc1NZTLWMFdNW6AERu1fmE2mI7EzqqxUI70ONuwPV0nWYUyXwOlsAo6gcK49MsfJ_tuemVEjOBNHebQo4yo1eykfVREa0sPLCUXg3hew/s1600/IMG_0331.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaCkbmlYRRKEF1r3AmvU8XQ_OzAPYUr3bimpOc1NZTLWMFdNW6AERu1fmE2mI7EzqqxUI70ONuwPV0nWYUyXwOlsAo6gcK49MsfJ_tuemVEjOBNHebQo4yo1eykfVREa0sPLCUXg3hew/s576/IMG_0331.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549920158385640482" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72JJBUy_tCUhZATpec2_vo8fBjFC0X9-91iwTU4YlmbL-l5ODc5Am4T0I-xkE5ltMwZXavt4H5K4fvDxEhwTg_mgo17ERYEwUiUR3H3Ehit4T3aU0IfqMS4Gg3dhjSqqt9qYsSoXNPAo/s1600/IMG_0332.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72JJBUy_tCUhZATpec2_vo8fBjFC0X9-91iwTU4YlmbL-l5ODc5Am4T0I-xkE5ltMwZXavt4H5K4fvDxEhwTg_mgo17ERYEwUiUR3H3Ehit4T3aU0IfqMS4Gg3dhjSqqt9qYsSoXNPAo/s576/IMG_0332.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549920150443827986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvALgJBFc2DXqffqkLZ4PiihzCqFYqXzvGf1CPqohyphenhyphenmpMInIzjgPMyBgM5EXlf__EzLwde_9HNMphaBlbsN-9fYInlCyZ52rBPAqWG8vkdEIbH-fssBPCm4ux64QDcwtIOdJRk6lt6EU/s1600/DSC_0027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvALgJBFc2DXqffqkLZ4PiihzCqFYqXzvGf1CPqohyphenhyphenmpMInIzjgPMyBgM5EXlf__EzLwde_9HNMphaBlbsN-9fYInlCyZ52rBPAqWG8vkdEIbH-fssBPCm4ux64QDcwtIOdJRk6lt6EU/s576/DSC_0027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549920143356750498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AEk0pmgFkyXKgqN0VlqUqYK2glrcJPlwYNcnCGhUL8lXGtoRChslAIm_Fgm2vzODcc2ib4vCP9_elckeXsdHGydUiITgf40_72viY6eBjRGeF5K6eHCFfmnqUaf7_36Ex296b8wOSMk/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AEk0pmgFkyXKgqN0VlqUqYK2glrcJPlwYNcnCGhUL8lXGtoRChslAIm_Fgm2vzODcc2ib4vCP9_elckeXsdHGydUiITgf40_72viY6eBjRGeF5K6eHCFfmnqUaf7_36Ex296b8wOSMk/s576/DSC_0004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549918727037272914" border="0" /></a><br />Interesting fact that I learned last night: there is no licensing of tattoo artists, and there is no governing body regulating tattoo artists or tattoo studios. Tattoo artists learn generally by apprenticeship, and there are no set requirements for becoming a tattoo artist. All one needs is a business license. This came as a huge surprise to me, given that the girls who do manicures and pedicures are required to complete a certain number of hours of schooling, pass a written test as well as a performance test, are required to be licensed to practice, must follow stringent regulations having to do with sanitation, and are subject to random site checks by the State Board of Cosmetology. And yet, tattoo artists, who deal with tissue and blood, have none of these requirements. Kind of shocking! Really makes this whole tattoo thing seem like even more a leap of faith. I saw their autoclave in the back last night, which made me feel a little better.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >My Other Tattoos</span><br /><br /><br />All of my tattoos symbolize something to me. It goes beyond body art for me - I haven't set out to just decorate myself with images that look pretty or interesting but don't mean anything. Each one represents something deeply important and meaningful to me.<br /><br />I got my first two tattoos eleven years ago, shortly after my first marriage ended and my first husband died. They are two butterflies, and they are located on my right hip. Getting a tattoo in the first place represented a sort of statement of independence for me; I had wanted to get a tattoo for a long time and my first husband, being the controlling bastard he was, always told me he'd leave me if I got one. Butterflies, to me, represent metamorphosis or transformation, and these butterflies represent me and Kevin who, at that time, were undergoing a huge change and transformation - beginning a new life, a fresh start, my hope being that we would grow together (and did). They are also something of a tribute to my dad, who had a butterfly tattooed on the back of his shoulder.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RnUBv7So5ztUK2NHTwKeU3X3k5G68CagbBII7xnvMaGmYg1b895GC6qELhHn5FpbjtbIcx3VEykg1FFwDUcwpkJO3NpQ_McmZV7ribRfH5K8zenafby-OLJzXY9JkTFEyceiHxf6OxE/s1600/DSC_0023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RnUBv7So5ztUK2NHTwKeU3X3k5G68CagbBII7xnvMaGmYg1b895GC6qELhHn5FpbjtbIcx3VEykg1FFwDUcwpkJO3NpQ_McmZV7ribRfH5K8zenafby-OLJzXY9JkTFEyceiHxf6OxE/s576/DSC_0023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549917869197118786" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This tattoo is on my left shoulder. The two intertwined hearts represent me and Michael, and the six flowers, our kids. I got the hearts and the first five flowers shortly after Lilah was born, and had the sixth flower added after Finn was born.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9TO_aYmj70JPgJd5hpvyl0nQAAnYXeGdkMb2Cc1bJtcYOM__mvq1i85zKtWds8EASlcpuqy7iAN9ztf_CVvjRlu1z7rzN-88e4_kGBXprYdfhKdCVYhcbVa6YMC75UbiWPiaCmMlgKI/s1600/DSC_0022.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9TO_aYmj70JPgJd5hpvyl0nQAAnYXeGdkMb2Cc1bJtcYOM__mvq1i85zKtWds8EASlcpuqy7iAN9ztf_CVvjRlu1z7rzN-88e4_kGBXprYdfhKdCVYhcbVa6YMC75UbiWPiaCmMlgKI/s576/DSC_0022.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549917858614700210" border="0" /></a><br />In a sort of twist of irony, the guy screwed up the sixth flower.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVu7xjkuHy-Cb49D06Y02N8A1yRmBnhZO_AOP8-NRxLo32mw4Fhs0EOoC5Xn0JIVlQfHlLanjkVijar3fVTKIH4zON-WO1Ajp7cf3OkwL9mQ4x4W6uWFUai6438XlKMDwRBshAFpBu0c0/s1600/DSC_0018.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVu7xjkuHy-Cb49D06Y02N8A1yRmBnhZO_AOP8-NRxLo32mw4Fhs0EOoC5Xn0JIVlQfHlLanjkVijar3fVTKIH4zON-WO1Ajp7cf3OkwL9mQ4x4W6uWFUai6438XlKMDwRBshAFpBu0c0/s576/DSC_0018.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549917855636469954" border="0" /></a>As you can see, it's irregular and not lined up properly. Fitting, though, that it represents my "irregular," imperfect boy. I think this actually gives it more meaning for me.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-49360519151191816012010-12-09T20:57:00.000-08:002010-12-09T21:36:28.975-08:00Holiday Trauma Brought to You By Elf On the Shelf<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVH0A6s1y8fO9-V0gBqfyOqyELCqpqrbX6SdwV6xQwL_RR6UFWbCHJOjpuyCCbFVpjxuuUNtz9RdwsGJGJS6jMOPgi0_lOIuB4f6i_tm2fV9GAhmMCV7XRmDjitnmHYekMDn7mEv3srI/s1600/elf.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVH0A6s1y8fO9-V0gBqfyOqyELCqpqrbX6SdwV6xQwL_RR6UFWbCHJOjpuyCCbFVpjxuuUNtz9RdwsGJGJS6jMOPgi0_lOIuB4f6i_tm2fV9GAhmMCV7XRmDjitnmHYekMDn7mEv3srI/s320/elf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548913740642638658" border="0" /></a><br />The holiday season is upon us, and with it come my usual threats to the kids to behave and be nice because Santa is watching. I don't know if it's that they don't believe me that Santa is watching, or if they are all gamblers at heart and just choose to play the odds, realizing that no matter how naughty they've been in years past, somehow Santa never forgets them. Today I had my fill of the whining and bickering and refusal to be cooperative as I tried to move through the Witching Hour. I brought out the Big Guns: <a href="http://www.elfontheshelf.com/#/home">The Elf on the Shelf</a>.<br /><br />Are you familiar with this? I learned about it last year during the holiday season when several friends were talking about it. It sounded like such a brilliant idea, a fun way to keep the kids in line during the buildup to Christmas, with the added bonus of a new holiday tradition. In the box are a doll (heretofore referred to as "The Elf") and a book you read to your kids which explains The Elf's purpose and adventures. You, the parent, are supposed to find interesting, out-of-reach places for The Elf to sit from whence he can watch the children and make note of their behavior, and said children can tell The Elf (from a safe distance; if they touch The Elf, its magic powers are lost. Of course.) what they'd like Santa to bring them for Christmas. Each night after the kiddies are asleep, The Elf flies back to the North Pole, makes his report to Santa, and returns the next morning in a new location in the house. (This requires diligence on the parents' part; you have to remember to move the damn thing every night. I failed miserably last year.)<br /><br />Anyway, so this evening as the girls were in the tub screaming and being general pains in the ass, I suddenly remembered The Elf, which I had not yet pulled out of the drawer I stuffed it into after Christmas last year. I quickly stole from the bathroom and stealthily placed The Elf on a high curtain rod in the girls' room, thinking when they got out of the tub, they'd go in their room to get their PJs on, see The Elf, exclaim in awe and wonder, and immediately shape up.<br /><br />What ensued, instead, was utter hysteria. I got Annabelle out of the tub and dried off first, and sent her scampering into her room to get her jammies on. Roughly nine seconds later, a blood-curdling scream emanated from her room, and in a couple more seconds, she was back in the bathroom, howling in terror, and <span style="font-style: italic;">trembling</span> - literally trembling. "<span style="font-style: italic;">THERE'S AN ELF IN MY ROOM!!!</span>" she screamed over and over with tears and snot running down her face. This got Daisy immediately worked up and within seconds, she, too, was completely unglued, and she hadn't even seen The Damned Elf yet. Lilah was clearly on an adrenaline buzz from all the excitement, but so far she wasn't crying. Joey heard the ruckus and came running. "<span style="font-style: italic;">THERE'S AN ELF IN MY ROOM!!!</span>" Annabelle wailed for the nineteenth time. Joey's eyes grew big and his breathing came a little faster, and he went to see for himself. "Wow, this proves Santa is real! I knew it!" he came back to report breathlessly.<br /><br />Finally, after much cajoling, I convinced the girls to go into their room with me to check out this troublemaker, The Elf. Daisy and Annabelle refused to speak directly to The Elf and insisted I tell him on their behalf that they were scared and wanted him to leave.<br /><br />(It was now coming back to me, vague memories of a similar scene last year . . .)<br /><br />This continued all through dinner. Sitting at the table, Annabelle cried the entire time and positioned herself so that her back was towards the door to her room, as she didn't want a chance glimpse of The Freak Elf through walls and around three corners. Every noise she heard, she would jump and cry and go, "What was <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>?" thinking it was Satan Elf coming to get her.<br /><br />I couldn't take it anymore, so finally I got up and said I was going to talk to The Home Invader Elf and ask it to leave. I chucked the damned thing back into the drawer where it spent the last year. And peace ensued.<br /><br />All this over a <span style="font-style: italic;">doll</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWPI0_zOSS9d_pMOk02Fmh7bc9NRkGhlJKMRfX88ZU7HwOCgjKQ1yglvY9MvMbYe_-kU43OCx_9xVjKj0wp9NT5GZ4_yNEVOhXvhzlermuRUcQpGIE9NlmXdbBjKPcRF4F_rCm8Sdlg48/s1600/elf_shelf.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWPI0_zOSS9d_pMOk02Fmh7bc9NRkGhlJKMRfX88ZU7HwOCgjKQ1yglvY9MvMbYe_-kU43OCx_9xVjKj0wp9NT5GZ4_yNEVOhXvhzlermuRUcQpGIE9NlmXdbBjKPcRF4F_rCm8Sdlg48/s320/elf_shelf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548921994668361202" border="0" /></a>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-79822580055420267382010-12-08T20:12:00.000-08:002010-12-08T20:36:27.373-08:00Michael vs. CancerWell, it's been a very emotionally charged couple of days - weeks, really. Anxiety was building to alarming levels over Michael's upcoming scan, and it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">culminated</span> in a rather surreal and very draining day yesterday - what with it being the anniversary of my dad's death, and then my doctor appointment in the morning and the worry over my blood pressure, and then dropping Michael off late yesterday afternoon at the outpatient center where he would spend a couple hours for his full body CT/PET scan.<br /><br />I have to say that I had no idea until recently that this scan would be such a huge emotional issue. When Michael was going through treatment last year, it was horrible and awful in so many ways, but at least we had the comfort of knowing we were being proactive. He and his doctors were actively fighting the beast, and Michael was being constantly watched and monitored. When he had his scan immediately following the end of treatment, there was definitely a huge relief factor, but it happened so quickly after treatment I just don't think we had an opportunity (or I didn't anyway) to dwell much on the possibility of a bad outcome. <br /><br />But now it's been a year since treatment ended, and only recently has it begun to sink in for me the feeling that we've somehow been cut loose. A whole year for one mutant little cell to have escaped the clutches of chemo and radiation and surgery, maybe multiplying its little heart out deep inside Michael, with us none the wiser. It happens. It's exactly why there are follow-up scans and checkups.<br /><br />I don't know how either of us managed to sleep last night. Today we were both bundles of nerves. And what to say to the kids? They know that Dad went in for some kind of test last night, but Kevin is the only one we actually told that it was a test to make sure the cancer is still gone. I feel terrible now because I know I was Yelling Screeching Mom today - every last nerve in my body was on edge and my patience was at about -100. The kids went to school, Michael went to work, and I spent the morning at a friend's house (thank you, Jen!), Michael and I just trying to get through the day as we waited for a phone call from his doctor that very well could change everything for us once again.<br /><br />We finally got the call late this afternoon. The report from Michael's scan states "No evidence of disease." Michael remains in remission. His oncologist said he's see him in a couple months for a regular checkup.<br /><br />To say that we are thankful and relieved seems almost trite. I want to jump for joy. I want to hug everyone I love. I want to live and love as hard as I can. I don't want to leave anything unsaid.<br /><br />Life. I am thankful.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-1180779435587989772010-12-07T12:30:00.000-08:002010-12-07T13:08:25.782-08:00Doctor Appt. UpdateSo I went to the doctor this morning to get the low-down on my blood pressure (get it? <span style="font-style: italic;">low-down</span>? har har). I kind of feel like it was a big fat waste of time.<br /><br />Okay, so I admittedly have a deep-seated prejudice against doctors. So it's unlikely that I would come away from any doctor's office with rave reviews.<br /><br />This is my PCP. I've never met him before, as we changed family doctors after our previous one missed Michael's cancer (that's right!), or rather, failed to refer him to a specialisit until SEVEN MONTHS after he first brought alarming symptoms to her attention. Yeah. So after that we kind of decided maybe she wasn't the doctor we wanted to entrust our care to. So this is a doctor new to us. Highly recommended, actually, by Michael's oncologist - who is actually a doctor I very much like. Anyhow, this new doctor, however, happens to be out of town currently, so I saw some <s>quack</s> doctor filling in for him.<br /><br />On the plus side, when I arrived, the waiting room was pretty crowded, but they were moving patients right along and I didn't have to wait long at all. I filled out the requisite paperwork and then was called back.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Kind of a funny aside: on the wall was hung a sign that said "A FEE OF $25 IS CHARGED FOR FILLING OUT FORMS." I shit you not. I almost laughed out loud at this. Seriously? They're going to charge <span style="font-weight: bold;">me</span> to fill out forms pertaining to me? I mean, isn't clerical stuff part of the office staff's job? I love when they ask you for your insurance card so they can make a photocopy of it, then give you a form to fill out that asks you for your detailed insurance information. Dude, you have my freaking insurance information! And don't bother asking me for my driver's license number or social security number, because the only reason for you to have that information is for collection purposes, but I have insurance so you don't need to worry your pretty little heads about collecting anything from me!)</span><br /><br />Anyway, so I go back and the nurse weighs me and measures my height (apparently I've shrunk an inch over the last few years) and takes my blood pressure. It was high. 162/96. A few minutes later the stand-in doctor comes in. I explained to him about the stress and anxiety I've been under with my husband's health, and also that my bp always tends to be noticeably lower (though still on the high side) at home than in the doctor's office. In a nutshell, here's what he told me:<br /><br /><ul><li>Stress does <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> cause high blood pressure (this after admitting that there is such a thing as "white coat syndrome" - a particular stress having to do with being in a doctor's office that causes some people's bp to elevate);</li><li>Caffeine plays very little in the role of blood pressure</li><li>My alcohol intake is most likely the biggest culprit and I need to seriously cut back.</li></ul>That last one is the one that has me throwing my hands up. I am NOT a heavy drinker by any stretch of the imagination. I like to joke about drinking, but the honest truth is I have the equivalent of ONE drink 4 - 5 nights out of the week. Once in a while when I go out I might have two or three drinks. That's it.<br /><br />He said that he could give me a prescription for a bp med today, but when I told him that I'm still breastfeeding he informed me that he's not sure if <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> bp med is safe while breastfeeding. "Probably," he said. But, he said, it would probably be better if I just stopped breastfeeding. And that got under my skin too. As if it's that simple, that cut and dried. I have a toddler with Down syndrome who does not drink out of a cup yet. Yes, I need to work on that, but I guess what bugs me is just the black and white perception.<br /><br />What we finally decided is that I will work at making certain lifestyle changes - eat better (less salt - I do love my salt!), try to get more exercise (though, seriously, with all the running around I do, I hardly live a sendentary life, and at 5'4" and 128 pounds, I am not overweight), I don't know about the alcohol . . . whatever . . . and monitor my bp at home for the next few weeks and see. And then go back and see my new <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> doctor for a follow-up.<br /><br />So basically I feel like I am left standing here, still at square one. I don't know if I actually have chronic high blood pressure, or if it's situational, or even if it's hereditary. My dad had high blood pressure, but he also had a terrible lifestyle - he was grossly overweight, he was a heavy smoker, a severe alcoholic - so his hypertension could very well have been totally lifestyle induced and not genetic.<br /><br />Blah.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-91112342580343817902010-12-06T14:17:00.000-08:002010-12-06T15:48:10.012-08:00MonstersI just took my blood pressure at home, wondering if my sky-high reading the other day had anything to do with my White Coat Syndrome. (I have a blood pressure monitor at home that I used to monitor my bp when I was pregnant with Lilah.) It read 182/86. Not great, but not nearly as high as it was in the doctor's office the other day. <br /><br />I have an appointment with my GP tomorrow morning. And I'm having some anxiety about it - which I'm sure isn't helping. High bp, worried about high bp, which probably elevates it more . . . ah, it's a circle jerk.<br /><br />Anxiety has been running extremely high in our house lately. It's not something I've talked a lot about, in the interest of privacy, but I need to put it out there now. We are scared. Michael is due for an annual PET scan, and in a way, it feels very much like we're reliving the period right after he was diagnosed, when we were trying to wrap our heads around the fact that he had cancer, but we didn't yet know how bad it was or what the treatment plan and prognosis were going to be. Emotions have been heightened by the fact that some people Michael has become acquainted with who had the same type of cancer he had have died recently. It throws you for a loop, that's for sure.<br /><br />Until very recently, I've been operating under the assumption that everything is going to be okay. <span style="font-style: italic;">Of course</span> it is! <span style="font-style: italic;">Of course</span> his scan is going to be completely uneventful. <span style="font-style: italic;">Of course</span> it's just going to confirm that he's completely fine. Very naive of me, but I think it's just been a defense mechanism. I can't let myself go <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span>. I can't let myself think about the <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> possibility, because I might lose my mind if I do. The only way I can hold it together is to convince myself that <span style="font-style: italic;">of course</span> everything is going to be fine.<br /><br />Only now that naivete is crumbling, and reality has wormed its way in. All it takes is one rogue little cancer cell to have not shown up on his scan immediately following the end of his treatment. One little cell that could pull the whole fucking rug out from under us once again.<br /><br />I've said it before and I'll say it again: people think that once a person is finished with cancer treatment and their follow-up scan shows "NED" (no evidence of disease), that's it, the beast has been beaten and everyone can heave a sigh of relief and get on with life. And to some extent that's true, but it's also true that cancer <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> leaves you (or your loved ones) completely. The fear - and the chance - of recurrence is always there. It's not an easy thing to live with. The hardest thing is figuring out how to not let the fear control you and steal your life.<br /><br />Michael saw his oncologist this morning for routine bloodwork, etc. (which went fine), and in the interest of putting all this waiting and wondering behind us, scheduled his scan for tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully we will get good news within a day or two and can move forward. In the meantime, one foot in front of the other.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-43330861277222513172010-12-05T20:30:00.000-08:002010-12-05T20:32:26.116-08:00Fourth Annual Book Club Holiday ExtravaganzaFor four years running now, my book club (which has been going strong for over seven years now!) has forgone a December book discussion and instead we've gotten together for a holiday dinner and gift/book exchange. This year's dinner was hosted by the lovely Audrey (at the head of the table in the first photo below) who went all out.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXG3TRWoEpBgAA9Wk1enxVI1widTUtHg2Oj-SxVjxoKBOhj8qKj6VgZ7mL1kqdlH6DZMICKvG4t7VLnJY3EtH71S3nmtwpTZdkQB4dPmX39-Bprg6Oz1dM5C-V8mTAlZqsnVWCnR2V_4/s1600/DSC_0022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXG3TRWoEpBgAA9Wk1enxVI1widTUtHg2Oj-SxVjxoKBOhj8qKj6VgZ7mL1kqdlH6DZMICKvG4t7VLnJY3EtH71S3nmtwpTZdkQB4dPmX39-Bprg6Oz1dM5C-V8mTAlZqsnVWCnR2V_4/s576/DSC_0022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546581297940716258" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZzRK7Ut-_kBG9CFOlcpfdqipF5wTU0Q5JAgI-GraV0GG7e9MF1_MXPrCKxHJu5oHnW_bKi5uc9oB710n74yD7h-o31b2sfbiuXWK64SOPg8V46xvgPp3_iMpPI-aVD4Mo5EYeNiAlhU/s1600/DSC_0026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZzRK7Ut-_kBG9CFOlcpfdqipF5wTU0Q5JAgI-GraV0GG7e9MF1_MXPrCKxHJu5oHnW_bKi5uc9oB710n74yD7h-o31b2sfbiuXWK64SOPg8V46xvgPp3_iMpPI-aVD4Mo5EYeNiAlhU/s576/DSC_0026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546580577558708002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvp9stzTVMlLVFCTjgiXYlyhqp3qUxF-cU-6vO0sqgvOVmBtNCblhOp8F9kdBtIaM86ttFLwwWUZlJOtA-UCCa1EWNlZc-kxANtM28nNIP1pNyEnogo1Ce85gVGuY3av1jg3dJmVSOq8/s1600/DSC_0027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvp9stzTVMlLVFCTjgiXYlyhqp3qUxF-cU-6vO0sqgvOVmBtNCblhOp8F9kdBtIaM86ttFLwwWUZlJOtA-UCCa1EWNlZc-kxANtM28nNIP1pNyEnogo1Ce85gVGuY3av1jg3dJmVSOq8/s576/DSC_0027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546580563903101394" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3t4KM1SM5zj0hC54x9NsHZ_6D30qhK_l-iDRTyFePpyDNqDMKfJI5RNekTuqr4CAulfqc0RejaWOrZ_gUatvqWCUv-uN6n5i-ooV8-W2UnN1KffCmw3iafWn_24Nq9YPV61OTmaboeGU/s1600/DSC_0030.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3t4KM1SM5zj0hC54x9NsHZ_6D30qhK_l-iDRTyFePpyDNqDMKfJI5RNekTuqr4CAulfqc0RejaWOrZ_gUatvqWCUv-uN6n5i-ooV8-W2UnN1KffCmw3iafWn_24Nq9YPV61OTmaboeGU/s576/DSC_0030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546580549791314834" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCBpwVlWwuP5TLz7NVLX5QVKOpV5bYPcpNWSPkyu3FCbPrcvk53s1r_4m_lApHSRg9Rf7i7yp9CUbyPidzaVfSVPxJHFSrXUYYYCsmTfsdWQtfKjIXbjjUseelPZRe0Aore4kekPOSNc/s1600/DSC_0031.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCBpwVlWwuP5TLz7NVLX5QVKOpV5bYPcpNWSPkyu3FCbPrcvk53s1r_4m_lApHSRg9Rf7i7yp9CUbyPidzaVfSVPxJHFSrXUYYYCsmTfsdWQtfKjIXbjjUseelPZRe0Aore4kekPOSNc/s576/DSC_0031.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546578351075443250" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77pcLBstSMbYKGdnwM6ZDwnIRtl9PuFCni6AUMA5eb38R2gQZvWHum794Rq4w-UoP-A8xSrjevVmMnoy2xLh03pN6X8QAIOAxdQMi30Nfsbw5jmo-PsYI6cYMjMa7HVeVxBmzc_4wKPE/s1600/DSC_0033.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77pcLBstSMbYKGdnwM6ZDwnIRtl9PuFCni6AUMA5eb38R2gQZvWHum794Rq4w-UoP-A8xSrjevVmMnoy2xLh03pN6X8QAIOAxdQMi30Nfsbw5jmo-PsYI6cYMjMa7HVeVxBmzc_4wKPE/s576/DSC_0033.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546578344372979794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinf1SbZeTJ-LAkP2iAXa6df8rLJ_SpTJ00-UoHOcsQ9_f8iqcRoRt-_YJUsjxr0ZVt2gw36CCg3NOv7Ov56FCxncGHrAoVqt18umZ3MMqu4lj-sC_6QcDxdLd7n7QSjapg4yf13ndwLh4/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinf1SbZeTJ-LAkP2iAXa6df8rLJ_SpTJ00-UoHOcsQ9_f8iqcRoRt-_YJUsjxr0ZVt2gw36CCg3NOv7Ov56FCxncGHrAoVqt18umZ3MMqu4lj-sC_6QcDxdLd7n7QSjapg4yf13ndwLh4/s576/DSC_0034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546578332711906530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mpPsxj3zh2mYq_g2PRFOUyjPD1WvUvHyO6Yd6Bj8lVmO1HEGTVQ11v2CffPEXiV2WCttFosiRiCSTqNaJ_lsjJG9y74BFAkwUZNH-UYi33gZhRBBoIDpV0W1MOx-a8e9zVJ64I9HDtc/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mpPsxj3zh2mYq_g2PRFOUyjPD1WvUvHyO6Yd6Bj8lVmO1HEGTVQ11v2CffPEXiV2WCttFosiRiCSTqNaJ_lsjJG9y74BFAkwUZNH-UYi33gZhRBBoIDpV0W1MOx-a8e9zVJ64I9HDtc/s576/DSC_0035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546575204825183522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpSYaklJyypog8FIFIxKjEOvSsKBYepN-MdJxgbK_3Pg8xTIySlo-W8tRk1Xceue4JIKXOCmG2HJ3uMt8LqNwYW2Lo_WHSzIhIKDwbCDT28z5a_szTqR5a_Jm3BozXX_nQfj6czc8n6o/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpSYaklJyypog8FIFIxKjEOvSsKBYepN-MdJxgbK_3Pg8xTIySlo-W8tRk1Xceue4JIKXOCmG2HJ3uMt8LqNwYW2Lo_WHSzIhIKDwbCDT28z5a_szTqR5a_Jm3BozXX_nQfj6czc8n6o/s576/DSC_0036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546575203845777218" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9wpnvNwrZ38hvCrpyVCBX5HYYRbm5d8w6clytg0yVTm0XSPM0AnV89ketoY24h7J4__D8EvO96WgsH7ZLAzIRN-wdSl5QAtaFLUZWWf4wwDUAqdJekCQqm9xrlW7P0rr996FWkDTY0k/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9wpnvNwrZ38hvCrpyVCBX5HYYRbm5d8w6clytg0yVTm0XSPM0AnV89ketoY24h7J4__D8EvO96WgsH7ZLAzIRN-wdSl5QAtaFLUZWWf4wwDUAqdJekCQqm9xrlW7P0rr996FWkDTY0k/s576/DSC_0037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546575186556181490" border="0" /></a><br />This is an event I look forward to every year, and every year it gets better and better. I feel so fortunate to be a part of this group of intelligent, fun, opinionated, stimulating women.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-34027901715307057292010-12-03T14:14:00.000-08:002010-12-03T16:38:30.230-08:00Thrown For a Bit of a LoopSo this morning I went in to my old OB/GYN's office for my annual well-woman visit (no photos, so sorry). My midwife did my last well-woman, which was very cool, especially because it took place in my own little Home Sweet Home (convenient!) and because it involved cocktails beforehand - imagine how much more relaxed every woman would feel were she served an ice cold screwdriver before she was served a speculum! Anyhow, I had an inkling that this year I might be in need of some referrals to other doctors (for a mammogram, which at 43 I have yet to have; and possibly to a urologist to address the damage birthing six babies has done to my holding power), so I went back to the OB/GYN whose ship I jumped mid-pregnancy four years ago. I actually saw his Nurse Practitioner, so I didn't have to face him.<br /><br />After filling out an inch-thick stack of paperwork, I was called back where the nurse weighed me, asked me a bunch of questions about my health history, and took my blood pressure.<br /><br />And there was the kicker: it can no longer be denied that I have high blood pressure. The first time she took it, her eyes got big, she whistled and said "190 over 104." Seriously. She waited a few minutes, told me to try to relax and took it again. 178/100. Not good. Not good at all.<br /><br />The fact is, I've had high blood pressure in the past. It first came to light when I was pregnant with the twins, and at that time it was diagnosed as <span style="font-style: italic;">pregnancy-induced</span> hypertension. By the end of my pregnancy, I was in the throes of pre-eclampsia, and my blood pressure was so high while I was in labor (exaccerbated, I am convinced, by the on-call motherfucker obstetrician who spent a very long time trying to bully me into a completely unnecessary c-section) that they were afraid I was going to go into a seizure, and put me on a magnesium sulphate drip.<br /><br />At that time, I thought it was just the pregnancy with twins that did that to me - it was just a lot for a body to handle, growing two babies at once. But when I got pregnant with Lilah my blood pressure also revealed itself on the high side. Same with Finnian. My midwife was able to help me control it with a high protein diet and various supplements, but on the sporadic occasions I've been to the doctor for various ailments between pregnancies over the last few years, my BP has always been on the higher side, though never as high as it was this morning. So I don't think I can chalk it up to pregnancy-induced anymore. There is a hereditary factor, as well. My dad had chronic high blood pressure and died from a massive heart attack at the age of 51 (which is less than ten years older than I am now). He was overweight and had several decades of hard living, hard drinking, and heavy smoking under his belt, which no doubt were the main contributors to his death, but still, I can't help thinking . . . I'm not overweight, I don't smoke (anymore, but I did for a loooong time), and I'm only a moderate imbiber, but there's the high blood pressure. Which at this point looks chronic.<br /><br />So then the nurse stuck me in a little exam room giving me the usual instructions to get undressed and put that ridiculous paper robe on, and a few minutes later the NP came in and right away told me that my blood pressure "needs to be addressed as soon as possible," and I started crying. Fool. Ninny.<br /><br />It's just that in the wake of Michael's ordeal last year, I feel so incredibly fragile and mortal.<br /><br />You know, you go through your twenties and thirties feeling kind of invincible - or at least like, all that decline and health stuff that comes with age? It's so far off in the future that it's hardly worth thinking about. And then you find yourself in your forties, and especially if any kind of devastating illness has visited itself on your family or anyone you are relatively close to, and suddenly you feel so vulnernable. And it's terrifying at times, knowing that there might be invisible things going on inside your body that you have no knowledge of, no control over. And you have visions of your children being left motherless or fatherless. And everything you have to lose suddenly becomes so tangible that you can touch it.<br /><br />Michael's battle with cancer has done a whole head trip on me. Every little ache or pain these days makes me stop for at least a second or two and wonder what it means. Is it something horrible hiding inside me, just waiting for the right moment to reveal itself and fuck my whole family over? The feeling usually passes pretty quickly by great effort on my part. And really, despite this burgeoning hypochondria, there is also a sense of utter procrastination. I can't deal with any of my potential issues right now because I have too much other stuff going on with Michael and the kids. My stuff can wait. I'll deal with it later. And there is a certain bliss in remaining ignorant.<br /><br />But after this morning, I am no longer ignorant of my state of health, or at least not completely so. And now I have to address it. I left the doctor's office this morning feeling a little like a walking time bomb. Is my heart on the verge of giving out? Is there a vessel in my brain about to burst at any second?<br /><br />I have an appointment with my family doctor early next week to address this blood pressure issue. The NP this morning told me that they'll probably put me on medication to control it, and maybe even baby aspirin. Gah. Is this the start of being old and lining up my prescription meds on the counter every day? How depressing.<br /><br />Gotta do it, though. Take care of yourselves, people. Just do it.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-78048242363414061212010-11-29T14:13:00.000-08:002010-11-29T14:46:54.510-08:00Hair: The Long and the Short of ItIt's recently hit me how much time and emotion are invested in <span style="font-style: italic;">hair</span> in our house. Seriously.<br /><br />There is Annabelle, of course, with her unofficially diagnosed <a href="http://kidshealth.org/teen/your_mind/mental_health/trichotillomania.html#a_What_Is_Trichotillomania_">trichotillomania</a>. Which breaks my heart. And which I thought we had so well under control, and which lately we clearly do not have under control. Her hair had grown out so nicely from last spring through the summer until school started, and since then she's been on a twirling/twisting/pulling frenzy that no amount of reasoning, ignoring, or fidget-toys seems to be helping. It recently got to the point where one whole side was so noticeably shorter than the other that she looked positively lopsided. I consulted with a girlfriend who also has a daughter with a penchant for pulling and asked her, "Should I trim her hair to even it out? Or should I just leave it since she doesn't seem to care?" I was advised to leave it, and I did for a while, but I couldn't take it any longer and this weekend I trimmed it. (And I'm still asking myself, is it fair or right to impose my vanity on my six-year-old daughter? And I still haven't come up with an answer.) The truth is, Annabelle is a beautiful little girl - I'm not just saying that - and she looks adorable with a little pixie cut. It's not the short hair that bothers me, it's the reason it's short, and it's people asking her why her hair is short while her sisters' both have long hair, and watching how she kind of folds up in shame when the question is posed to her.<br /><br />Then there is Joey. He's been letting his hair grow for almost a year now. And really, I swear he has the most gorgeous, to-die-for hair . . . wavy and thick with natural golden highlights . . . I'm telling you, he has the kind of hair that women pay big bucks to simulate. Anyway, and I really like the long hair on him. But quirky little Joey . . . I started thinking this was becoming some sort of Howard Hughes thing with him, that if we didn't make him go in for at least a little trim, he might go the rest of his life without allowing scissors to touch his hair. So with the aid of some good old fashioned bribery, we got him to agree to go in for a little trim this weekend. It's still long, and it still looks great, and now it's cleaned up and hopefully we've broken whatever hair-head-trip he was on.<br /><br />Kevin also grew his hair out over the summer, and I have to say it looked awful. He's got straight, fine hair like me, and it just hung in his face. But it was almost like he was competing on some level with Joey - we were letting Joey grow his hair out, and Joey gets all this attention for his gorgeous hair (from family and strangers alike), so it seemed like Kevin wanted a piece of that too. Which is a little sad, that Kevin at 13 feels like he needs to compete with his 8-year-old brother for whatever reason. Anyway, we pushed and pushed for Kevin to get his hair cut when school started back up, and he did, and was very upset about it. And since then, we've made him get his hair cut a couple more times, and it's always with a fight. He looks so handsome with short hair, but I'm not sure I feel like anyone has won. I guess he's at that age when self-expression is rearing its head, and we have to let out the reins some, right?<br /><br />Lilah's hair is down to her butt. Like Joey, she has the most wonderful, gorgeous hair. Curly, thick, honey-colored, cascading down her back. Hair that I'd kill for. She announced to me yesterday after her bath that she wants me to cut her hair, that she wants it like Daisy's (which is a little longer than shoulder-length). She started crying and <span style="font-style: italic;">begging</span> me to cut it. I have no doubt that she hates how I have to comb and tug through it after washing it to detangle it (and no amount of conditioner seems to do the trick). But I can hardly bear the thought of cutting those tresses! Plus, she's so fickle these days that I just know I'd cut it and she'd be shrieking that she wanted her hair back. So it stays for now, but I know at some point . . .<br /><br />Finn's pretty easy. I just stick him in the kitchen sink about once a month and take Daddy's electric trimmer to his head and give him a faux hawk. The only downside is that Michael doesn't like the faux hawk. Well, you know the saying - you can't please everyone.<br /><br />I think Daisy is the only one who is happy with her hair the way it is, and whose hair everyone else seems to have no complaints about either.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-18874644727201933282010-11-26T17:05:00.001-08:002010-11-26T17:38:58.776-08:00Thanksgiving 2010Thanksgiving this year was the best in recent memory.<br /><br />I have to say, usually I find myself becoming depressed when the holiday season hits. It's usually when I feel the absence of extended family the most, and it's always a reminder of my dad's untimely death right before Christmas in 1998. This year everything feels different though. I guess it boils down to the feelings of gratitude I wrote about in my last post. This family of mine - my husband and my kids - it's enough for me. It's the family I always wanted, and there's nothing to pine for anymore. I miss my dad - I always will - but he'd want me to be happy and to bask in the present.<br /><br />Anyway, it was a pretty low-key, no-stress day. Michael and I spent the day getting all the food ready, and we had dinner on the table by 5:00.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFF-3LRjzm4OXR3b3rYiPK12-_Nd0m6EhXMcnjcNYCqYtJXurxELAyCIhDSMx-bkVKuMJkR0Hp8CCdDBAqPPq19Z7AHuBNzxwCLS_mx_kcU7RjyOW5GKzJXJ10gLoMUOyieL47I5inqY/s1600/DSC_0003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFF-3LRjzm4OXR3b3rYiPK12-_Nd0m6EhXMcnjcNYCqYtJXurxELAyCIhDSMx-bkVKuMJkR0Hp8CCdDBAqPPq19Z7AHuBNzxwCLS_mx_kcU7RjyOW5GKzJXJ10gLoMUOyieL47I5inqY/s576/DSC_0003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544033512193282546" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPteOsoimAThbf8it1DjQq78X8BokJmHHkK-XBdDoYunPC0Ezs8NISKAPG27mhmRWh1u6M8c5VuugIRmDC2YfFw29W4U-dnlu0qZj0TJJaOz7gurDld1ltz8q5KqMuMAk5-HuaqTCiQZo/s1600/DSC_0005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPteOsoimAThbf8it1DjQq78X8BokJmHHkK-XBdDoYunPC0Ezs8NISKAPG27mhmRWh1u6M8c5VuugIRmDC2YfFw29W4U-dnlu0qZj0TJJaOz7gurDld1ltz8q5KqMuMAk5-HuaqTCiQZo/s576/DSC_0005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544032113113028050" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYHbCEVoN5dl8r1_vUQ96XdLVsm1-ehZOjloSFlScn5JI46QstPBOP-XcEM1BX7euLUf51C1kY7hF9CxfzibV_2FG4UazgeWEcPyZtvKffuWvOOjWOs2_A0bdpH3pLcLASU2HuNlhXh8/s1600/DSC_0008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYHbCEVoN5dl8r1_vUQ96XdLVsm1-ehZOjloSFlScn5JI46QstPBOP-XcEM1BX7euLUf51C1kY7hF9CxfzibV_2FG4UazgeWEcPyZtvKffuWvOOjWOs2_A0bdpH3pLcLASU2HuNlhXh8/s576/DSC_0008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544032106341641010" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKwigfAXWsPq208itzYax2icXrA5rh1Z_AKncUrBBF_sEa3Mfh5gbUSSvXjVxXZGc4GiTgW3EqLDDSvhopvTz3reGArIeKMI5DpkD4VGWpvsFvDocP7LhHoi8GbeYOyRj-jgT7bexV7A/s1600/DSC_0007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKwigfAXWsPq208itzYax2icXrA5rh1Z_AKncUrBBF_sEa3Mfh5gbUSSvXjVxXZGc4GiTgW3EqLDDSvhopvTz3reGArIeKMI5DpkD4VGWpvsFvDocP7LhHoi8GbeYOyRj-jgT7bexV7A/s576/DSC_0007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544032099132485106" border="0" /></a><br />The turkey was fabulous - and I'm not a big fan of turkey. It was super moist, tender and very flavorful. To achieve this, Michael had to establish relations with the bird three days in advance according to <a href="http://www.latimes.com/theguide/holiday-guide/food/la-fo-calcookrec18d-2009nov18,0,3284923.story">these instructions</a> my friend Robin sent me. Seriously, bookmark it and try it next year - you won't be sorry.<br /><br />I am feeling positively in the holiday spirit now - me, the Humbug. Might even get some Christmas decorations put up before the weekend is over.<br /><br />I close with a little Thanksgiving animation my brilliant son, Kevin, made with clay and Legos. Enjoy!<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MKlDQ5m-z6o?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MKlDQ5m-z6o?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557928558578780512.post-35414375310192324952010-11-24T15:51:00.000-08:002010-11-24T16:56:55.867-08:00ThankfulAlthough I'm not a fan of holiday-forced <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">gaiety</span>, I must confess that I am feeling downright <span style="font-style: italic;">thankful</span> of late, and compelled to express it and put it out there. And perhaps Thanksgiving is, after all, a good reminder to acknowledge the ups on this roller coaster of life.<br /><br />A year ago, we were being held hostage by Michael's cancer. It was a very dark time in our house. I just went back and read what I wrote around <a href="http://motherhoodandotherriskyendeavors.blogspot.com/2009/11/joyride.html">Thanksgiving last year</a>, and it seriously brought tears to my eyes. We had made it through almost an entire year of chemo and radiation and surgery and recuperation from surgery and multiple trips to the ER (as well as the Swine Flu - remember that? - sweeping through our house), and there we were, Thanksgiving week. It was a chemo week, so Michael was bedridden for much of the week. We were existing in our bleak, insular little world, isolated and afraid, painfully putting one foot in front of the other, trying to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It was a hard, hard time.<br /><br />A year later, Michael appears to be in robust good health. Cancer treatment is months and months behind us, but not so far behind us that it doesn't still hurt. The fear, we have learned, will probably never go away completely. Michael is due for an annual scan soon, and anxiety is mounting. Cancer is a fucker. It's wily and unpredictable and it doesn't care that we have six children who desperately love and need their father, or that here is a truly good man whose wife feels like she would not be able to face life without him.<br /><br />But I don't mean for this to be a post about the dark, scary things. What I mean to say is that existing right alongside the anxiety over Michael's health is a gratitude that often overwhelms me. Not just that he's here, alive and well, but what we gained from the ordeal. We figured out what really matters and what doesn't, and that life is really short and really precious, and it's a criminal waste to spend much time or energy focusing on petty annoyances in a marriage. We know now what we're made of, and that's a gift. We know that those words we spoke at our wedding, "In sickness and in health, in good times and bad . . ." are really, really true for us. We meant them, and we know that now, because we've been put to the test.<br /><br />Hard times afforded me the opportunity, too, to shed relationships that were more negative than positive. It was like separating fresh milk - the cream rose to the top, and I am left with a handful of friends who continue to enrich my life on so many levels.<br /><br />And of course there are my kids. Six little vessels in whom I can pour all the love that went so untapped in me for so much of my life.<br /><br />I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I know now that nobody ever gets to say "I've paid my dues." I have no doubt that life probably still has a few more curve balls in store for me, and I hope I can weather them. And although I'm certainly not wishing for more hard times, I respect the lessons and opportunities the hard times have afforded me. Without rain, you can't appreciate the sunshine. Right now, my life is filled with sunshine, and I am thankful.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07604477175816651214noreply@blogger.com2