I'm as tough as nails I can promise you that

Throughout this pregnancy, somehow I've managed to actually lose 21 pounds. 21.5 to be exact. Our last OB appointment was this past Friday and getting on the scale, for one of the few times I can count, I wasn't nervous. Moving the metal slide left always gives one a sense of victory. Hearing that I have the 'all clear' to eat what I want makes me a little happy, gives sort of a sense of victory. I want a happy, and more than that, healthy baby. But I think every woman can say with some certainty that hearing their body for once is working with them during this time instead of devouring every ounce possible can be a good feeling.

Our first part of this appointment was our halfway point ultrasound. Brian comes to every appointment. Every one. It doesn't escape me that I'm one of the lucky girls. More so this time, I was happy to have him there as a witness (you'll understand that later).

Ultrasound short story is that they took measurements of all the baby's bones and he is totally healthy, happy and a mover and shaker....dancing away in there.
After the ultrasound, we're to see the doctor. Rita, our ultrasound tech walks us to the back office and sees all the rooms are taken up.
"Would you guys mind waiting in this little area until a room opens up?"

Brian and I sit in a four chair waiting area next to a couple that are a little younger than my parents.
Looking at the ultrasound printouts, taking pictures of them on our cell phones to send to family and friends, talking about this hand or that foot, we are all smiles.

"Awww, you're pregnant too?" Asks the woman ajacent to me.
"Yes ma'am, we are. Umm...is this your appointment?" I didn't want to be rude and ask her if she was going for a Guiness record on breathing eggs that still wanna reproduce.

"Good Lord no! Our 16 year old is pregnant....can you believe it? God, it's been the worst ordeal. Got pregnant by a guy in the military...you know how THAT is. Of course, in the beginning, it's so great, they talk all the time. And I just know it was his mother that let them spend the night together. She's excited, can you believe that? Excited that my 16 year old is pregnant! Of course he isn't calling now....I told her she just needed to get over it. She made her bed, she needs to lie in it. I can't believe this is happening to us. It's the worst thing ever. I mean, at least you have him (motioning towards Brian). My girl is 16, only a junior in high school. And of course, we're thrown into this---we have to take care of it. He (pointing to her husband) had to take money out of her 401K to pay for medical appointments. We own too much land to get on the welfare so we're all by ourselves. Haven't even told family and she's 16 weeks....God this is horrible for us."

Well.....cause that's what I was expecting to hear before our appointment. I don't really know what to say so I smile and mention,
"I'm sure it's hard. I guess it's just like that saying, "One day at a time?" I'm sure it'll all be okay."

She glares at me. "I hate when people say that. I mean...not you. Like, our friends. Cause it's not going to be okay! It's the worst thing that could ever happen to me...ever."

I apologize and tell her I understand how she could feel that way. After that, I clam up and continue to listen about how her daughter has ruined her, the mother's life. How could I say anything to cheer her up? We've never met for pete's sake!
Thankfully, her daughter comes out soon. A pretty blonde girl who like me, isn't showing a baby bump really at all.

"Well, did it go okay?" The mom asks.
"Yeah, everything's healthy. They took some blood....it didn't hurt!" the daughter seems to try to offer some good news--anything. I could understand her desperation.
Standing up, the daughter and father get their things together while the mother turns towards me to address her daughter.

"See, you should be fat like her. See how big she is? You need to gain some weight and be fat like she is."
I physically shake my head like a canine, sure I've misheard something in the mix.
"Mom!" The girl exclaims, her own face becoming pink with embarassment.
"What? You know you're fat, right?" The woman looks at me, actually waiting for a response.
"Mom...we need to go." The daughter begs.
"What...did I step on your toes? Are you upset? Well, you know you're fat. Don't worry, I was really huge too like you when I was pregnant with her. I gained 45 pounds. I'm sure it will come off. I mean, at least you have a pretty face."

The pretty face comment was it. I felt tears coming. I kept trying to tell myself, "10 more seconds, just make it 10 more seconds. Do not cry. They are leaving, Stephanie. Don't do it."

Dismissively continuing, the mother says, "Well, you stepped on my toes, I guess Istepped on yours, so it's even. Ya'll have a good day." And leaves.

Now I'll tell you how I had a movie worthy response with a witty cut throat comeback normally only reserved for those like Ashley Judd and Sandra Bullock during a Sunday matinee for the top seasons chick flick.
But this is a blog, so I'm supposed to be honest.

I had nothing. Literally, honestly...I was speechless.

The second she turned the corner, I held my head in my hands and began bawling. Crying so hard I was shaking. Then bolted for the bathroom. It took several full minutes to try and regain some sort of composure.

Walking us into the room, I'm sure Dr. Huff's nurse thought horrible things about the kind of husband Brian must be to make his wife cry so hard. Sitting on the table, I tried to think of boring, everyday things...but I couldn't. Every memory, every stab of insult from days past that I've tried to bury came back with a vengance.

Growing up fat is one of the worst fates a kid could endure. At least I was one who always knew where I stood.
I knew I wouldn't be 'the popular one', never to be a 'in crowd' lady or crowned Homecoming Queen. I didn't try to lust after the athletes because it was painfully aware that the glittery world wasn't my own.

I was lucky though. Lucky to have some of the greatest girlfriends God could've given me. In high school, I had my select few I could turn to. I just want to publicly say thank you to Mary, Becca, Sarah, and Wendy. Your friendship to this day is something I hope Daniel and every other teen will find in their relationships.

Fat kids have a built in defense system. If you notice or remember, it was the chunky chics that learned the witty wall technique. We'll make fun of ourselves far before we'll give you a chance to. We'll be your best friends that just 'don't like' to go swimming, or 'prefer' to not wear shorts or 'really hate' going to hang out with those boys anyway. We'll always have an excuse, and we'll always have the rough exterior. We're the funny ones, the mean ones, the smart ones, or the rebels. But we don't try to be the pretty ones. That would require far too much of putting ourselves out there. And I got enough ridicule on my own trust me.

I can remember senior year of high school when I heard there was a rumor that I was a lesbian. Instead of asking what was wrong with bring a lesbian....I was appalled that people thought that just because I was fat and therefore didn't have a boyfriend that I must like girls. So now...I don't even get a choice? I have other people deciding for me that I must not be 'good enough' for a boy so I must like girls?
Junior year in Germany, I remember going into a United Colors of Beneton, looking for a shirt to send my best friend Mary (who happened to wear a size 2) and being offered the comment by the sales manager, without having started the conversation or needing help, that Libby's down the street carried 'your size clothes'. I was too big to be seen in their store.
Sophmore year, I can remember the happiness I felt at finding Layne Bryant and being lucky enough that my parents could afford their clothes because certain styles looked kind of like American Eagle and maybe, just maybe I could lie about where I got them.

I could go on and on with these stories. But what's the point? Millions of kids have the same stories, and many are much worse. My second year in college, I decided to have gastric bypass.

It is still one of the best decisions I've ever made. It gave me wings. It freed me from chains of being labeled or putting myself in a box I didn't deserve to be in.

I couldn't get it together Friday in that doctor's room. Brian, being as amazing as he is, said, "Steph. This is one time you could judge a book by it's cover. That woman's a redneck. She was bigger than you passing judgement on your size! And what does it matter? She's pissed that her daughter got pregnant at 16 and is embarassed.....she doesn't matter."

Riding home, I started thinking of all the things I could've said to that woman. Hateful, spiteful, mean things I could've spouted out. But really....what would that've done? I would've been exactly like all those people from high school that facebook thinks I should befriend (I should send them a list of those I'd rather not be 'suggested' for)

Thinking now....I probably would've said when she asked it I was upset:

"No....I'm not upset. I am sorry though. But just for your daughter. I'm sorry that you feel it's appropriate to publicly humiliate your own family. To trash your family name to those you've never met because your daughter is learning one of the hardest life lessons there is. Your daughter, who chose to be brave and have this child, and to try. She will have to live forever with a mother who thinks the only way to even the score is to talk trash to any stranger about what poor choices her daughter has made. I hope your daughter only hates you now, and the damage your doing isn't permanent. And for me being fat? No...you didn't hurt my feelings. I'm 5'11 and in a size 12 at 18 weeks pregnant. If you think I'm 'huge' now, then sweetheart you would've had a field day 7 years ago. I was 350 pounds---and busting out of a size 28. So if "stepping on your toes" is accomplished by a stranger trying to be positive and tell you it'll be okay, then I'm sorry but you got problems deeper than a pregnant teen. Sorry babe...it's gonna take more than that to break me. I'm as tough as nails, I can promise you that."

Coming up with that little paragraph on the way home made me proud of every stretch mark, ever pair of jeans I've saved from that point in my life, and every time I've stood up for myself when adolescence threw a curve ball.
I guess in the end, it's not what size pants you wear, but just how much swagger you wear with 'em :-)

Ask away....

It's been about a year and a half since I started my job as an academic advisor for competitive health care students. All the hopeful RN students, all the wannabe Dental Hygienists...all of 'em eventually land on my doorstep. There's around 2400. Most days, I love my job. It is hardly ever thankless and I really feel like I'm making a difference. Gandhi would be proud of my appreciation for my level of self worth. Other days....I'm just happy to have a job. And very few days, I want to wrap a stethoscope around some students throats and just smile as I squeeze.....
My current biggest pet peeve is the statement, "Just one more little question!" or "I don't want to annoy you anymore but just one more thing..."
Seriously?!? Just write a list!!! It's never a 10 second question and never can the answer be satisfied by a 30 second response. Some days my nerves just hold on for dear life.
I guess it's easy to forget what it was like to be a newbie. Whether starting school or a job, it can be scary starting out. I started this job 8 months preggo with Daniel. I had no idea what to expect. I was nervous about starting so late in the game, knowing I'd be taking 6 weeks off within the first 6 weeks of the job. There were so many details with this position that I had been forwarded through email before day one and I had no idea how I would remember all of the little 'isms' that went into academia and its advising processes. I wanted to do good work, impress those higher on the food chain than I, develop new strategies and concepts....all with perfectly curled hair and Jennifer Love Hewitt length lashes.
My first days were far from glamorous.
When I wasn't bumping my huge stomach into the desk, or navigating a borrowed work laptop while harassing my supervisor with 74 questions an hour, I was trying to figure out the damn voicemail. Why is it that the simplest things always have to be the most difficult to work? The clock on the DVD player, getting your camera to display the right date on pictures, and that effing voicemail! I had already bugged my higher up with 31 questions that morning and really didn't want to display my ignorance about not understanding a simple voicemail message.
I looked online at the voicemail database website......I looked in every folder in my office hoping for a voicemail brochure.....I even listen around the office on the off chance someone would be having a water cooler conversation about changing their voicemail including step by step instructions (I mean, there have been weirder conversations). The only thing I accomplished was changing my stupid automated away message into the Spanish language. Great.
Clarissa Folmar at the time was the one stop center building's receptionist and the past career services director administrative assistant. I didn't know much yet about office protocol but one thing is clear from having a mother who was an administrative assistant for over 30 years. If you want to know or need help with anything....at any point during your career---be nice to the secretary.
I tiptoed my way to Clarissa's front office, embarrassed that I held a four year degree without the knowledge of 3rd grade phone techniques.
"Umm.....Clarissa...........can I ask you a silly question?" I couldn't believe this is our first real conversation.
"Sure! What can I do to help?!?" Gosh...she had a huge smile. Her teeth are so white!!! And she really is wanting to help!!!
I asked about the phone system and Clarissa laughed,
"Oh yeah...it's super easy. Let me get you the voicemail sheet to show you how to make your own code. I thought you had that already. No problem!"
And that's it. It was fixed. Took 30 seconds for me to have my own customized cheery Clarissa like greeting.
Clarissa only stayed in our office for the next month or so before she was promoted to the position at the Vice President's office as their personal assistant. She was fabulous at her job so its no wonder she was promoted.
After Daniel was born, Clarissa made sure to email and welcome me back to work. She was one of the only people who inquired if I needed anything, and remembered to ask how I was holding up after leaving Daniel at day care that first week. She seemed to love details on Daniel's birth, his spit up, even his sleep cycles. She has a giddy smile that just made you want to smile too.....even if you weren't telling a joke. The kind of smile where you know its genuine...she wasn't even thinking about the baby puke stain on my shoulder.
We always finished our conversations with, "We really should do lunch one day! It'd be so easy to meet up and even bring our own! You just let me know when is good, ok?"
Every time. We alwasy said it. Without fail.
Last winter, Clarissa stopped me as I went to the main campus to pick up a state vehicle and pulled me aside to let me personally know that she had breast cancer. She said she trusted me to not let anyone know just yet and wanted to ask me to pray for her. She'd be going for chemo but was hopeful and had her own prayer warriors at church for her but could always use more. She told another person I work with whom she was close to.
I did keep Clarissa in my prayers.
I saw her several times the last few months. She took some time off for chemo and treatments and around May, we got the great news that her cancer was in remission!!
I stopped by the main campus several times, always looking in the side window when I got off the elevator, wanting to see if Clarissa was in. We really did need to do that lunch and I'd love to know when she was available. We should be celebrating!!!
Sometimes her office light was on but she wasn't there. Other times the light was off and I figured she just had had a tough day with medical treatments or appointments.
I found out this week that Clarissa is in ICU at our local hospital.
Her cancer is in remission but they have found a brain tumor.
The email came out today that she is in 'her last hours'.
It just doesn't seem real. Clarissa was just here. She was just smiling....it hadn't been that long since I had seen her. How could she be that close to the end?
I feel so silly, so selfish but all I can think is that I never got to ask her when she was free for lunch. We never got to make our date.
My first friend at the school and I didn't get to thank her for not making me seem incompetent on my first day. I didn't get to let her know that I appreciated it when she really listened as I complained of post partum depression, or how much I appreciated her trusting me enough to tell me about her cancer last winter.
I never got to ask her about lunch....
I'm so thankful I got to know Clarissa. I'm so thankful I got to yet again in my life witness God's grace and kindness in human form. I caught myself today before I reacted when a student emailed with the beginning, "So sorry to bother you....I just have one more question..."
With tears in my eyes I responded, "Please....ask as many questions as you want. I'd love to help."

Appreciation: The lack of forks

A few weeks ago, Brian and I took a trip with Daniel for an extended weekend to Chicago to celebrate his birthday. It was wonderful. Really. It's so easy for me to be thankful for in-laws like the ones I have. It takes time for me to even really register when someone makes an in-law joke because they don't apply to mine. Brian's mother is always respectful, always friendly....his father's dry humor always makes me laugh and his brothers and sisters-in-law I've come to love.
Little things like the relationships with people are the bit parts of family trips that we all can appreciate I think. It's the details that trip us up.
By nature, I tend to be a little to the right in favor of cynicism. I always tend to be able to think of a snide remark, to raise an eyebrow and look to the pal next to me when an awkward moment rears her head, or offer a comment of semi thoughtless banter if the situation presents itself. Like being given a huge, moist cheesecake only to realize that no one thought to bring forks. The cheesecake can lose its luster cause dang! Now we have to wait to gain 5 pounds!
On one of our last days during our visit, we went to Navy Pier for their annual tall ships show. Dozens of ships from around the world dock at Navy Pier to show citizens their details, stories, and amaze the public with just how long you must stand in line to view them. Seriously, they even had signs up at postings in the line. "From this point forward, expected waiting time is: 50 minutes".
And that wasn't even the back of the line.
But in all, it was wonderful. We ate on the pier, watched some music, looked at ships, and just enjoyed the hot, hot day. The only time Brian and I had visited Chicago together before then was always in the winter. I had said before that Chicago citizens must hate themselves because those winters are awful. But the summer makes up for the winters I've learned. It can rival any Georgia heat when you're standing 100 yards into the Pier.
Four hours after arriving, we're getting ready to leave and to hopefully, catch the free city trolley that can take us near our parking deck in the middle of the city. You can imagine, with a landmark date like tall ships, how long the line for the free trolley can be. But, they come every 15-20 minutes and normally empty out when they arrive so the line is moving quickly. By the time we're waiting for 'our' trolley, we're the first people in line. Sure enough, another trolley comes around the corner....unloads its passengers, and the driver stands up, leans out the window and says, "10 minute break. I'm gonna take it. Another one will be by soon." Door closes and off he goes.
Whatever your response is in your head right now, trust me---mine had more four letter words. Of course his break had to be just when Daniel decided he was a little too hot for comfort and my pants were chafing. We have a 14 month old whose been in the heat the entire day and a family ready to get home and kick up our sneakers and bunions. Just saying.....it had been alot of walkin.
I'm fixin' to look back at Brian and share this opinion when I hear the mother behind us talk to her three children.
"Wow. Can you guys imagine how hard he's probably worked today? There's alot of people I bet he's been helping get to their vehicles. He's definitely deserved this break. I hope he enjoys it, don't you? You know why this trolley is free?? Well....when you grow up, you get a job, and the city takes a little money out each month for taxes, and those taxes go to pay....."
I was ready to let Daniel hear every adjective in the book to describe this guy in my eyes and this mother is using the moment of my impatience as not only a lesson in gratitude but a social studies recap too!
I was instantly embarrassed.
From then on, I was going to make it a personal mission to try and find things to be grateful about. Turn ordinarily pissed off situations into moments to euphoria----if the mommy Dali Lama by the trolley can do it, then dang it, surely I can learn too!
Daniel is starting to learn small, every day words. Every animal is now greeted with an enthusiastic label of 'Puppy!'......every bite of food is, "bite".....and every item whether a cell phone, piece of toast or a towel is, "mine". We've started on the word "more" to indicate when more food or another toy is wanted. Upon coming back from Chicago, I started attempting to teach Daniel how to say, "Thank You." It didn't fail to reach my attention that in order for my son to learn those two golden words, mommy needed to use them more as well.
I'm trying now to appreciate the cake, even with the lack of utensils.
Because really, isn't it always more fun to eat with your hands anyway???

Blue or Pink...just grateful for any color.....

I am aching to know the sex of this baby. It’s all I seem to think about these days.
This one is our last. As soon as this child is taken from my womb, I’ve given instructions for our O.B. to tie the tubes.
I think the literal translation of what I said being still in shock was, “Tie them, cut them, and then throw them in the biohazard bin. This has to be the last one.”
I mean….I suppose I might’ve been just a little dramatic.
I’ve had dreams of a little girl. A beautiful, plump, little blue eyed, brown headed girl.

Growing up Baptist, you don’t believe in the supernatural. If you have a ‘dream’, it was just that. A dream. Not a vision, not a prophecy, and definitely not something that would classify you as a psychic. You just can’t be a psychic and then show up to a church picnic. Nobody would ever touch your potato salad. It’d be horrible.

So if I can’t be psychic, can I listen to one? I mean, I didn’t even pay for it so I didn’t encourage it, right???

My precious friend Chelsea has went to a psychic named Carolina for years. Swears by her. In fact….when her son was born, she got a reading on him. Asking who his ‘guardian angel’ was, Carolina (and this is not a misprint, her name is Carolina…as in the state….further proof she must be a good person) responded that it was a woman, with a mans name.
Thomas.
Her sons guardian angel (or, spirit guide as she says) is named Thomas. With long, dark hair. Chelsea has no female or male in her family named Thomas.
Far stretch, even for a quack psychic right?
After coming home that day, she’s telling her sons father about the reading. He does the normal laughing, pointing, joking about paying for a psychic reading for anything other than what comes on a Big Mac. Towards the end, she tells him about the spirit guide. That her baby’s spirit guides name is Thomas, but a girl. “Weird, right?” She tells him.
He’s silent. His mothers name….his dead mothers name, was Mary.

Mary Thomas….

Exactly. You would’ve wanted to go too. Don’t lie.

So anyway, Carolina wasn’t at her usual place for readings that week, but was going to a ‘party’. What kind of party involves dinner and a psychic?
Apparently, instead of Pampered Chef or Mary Kay, some women get together, mix drinks and pay to have private ‘readings’ with mediums and psychics while still gossiping about work and children.

Where the hell have these friends been all my life?!?!?

We get to this woman’s home and immediately, I know I’m gonna like it. Chelsea and I are by far the youngest women there, yet act the oldest. These aren’t the hippy dippy, purple oval crystal jewelry wearin’ women you would think they would be. They all worked for the EPA in Atlanta for God’s sake!!!

But before we get to the session, can we please talk about this host’s dog? Yes, her dog. She has a 7 year old Pomeranian, with the huge Pug looking eyes that I swear, as much as I hate to be gross, looks like someone has it’s finger stuck in its butt and the eyes are about to pop out from pressure creating limited space within. I’m just sayin….
From the moment I sat down, this dog was on me. First, just sniffing my jeans, my leg. I’m sure he smelled our dogs, Pickles and Ernie. Specifically Pickles.

The first time was cute. We all laughed. The second time was awkward. I tried to make a joke. The third time, I’m trying to kick this dog without its owner noticing that I'm hoping to maim at least one of the two family jewels to keep this damn mutt from trying to put a hole in my leg through humping the mess out of my Tibia bone.
The entire night….entire night, this dog was trying to hump me. Finally, I lean down and whisper, “Look Fido, I’ll give Pickles your picture….go get the damn pillow.”
No luck.

While dinner was being served, I figured out a way to sneak in an early session. I was on a mission that far surprassed Cynthia's match.com lover and his possibilities.
Since there were so many ‘party goers’ (seriously, these women were having the most fun without illegal substances being present---not that some of them weren't probably packin’) Carolina was worried she wouldn’t be able to read all of them, and was going to work through dinner. I offered to be her dinner date.

She led me into a back bedroom of the ranch home (wonderfully decorated I might add).
Inside the ‘lavendar room’, (which looks like Bath and Body Works Moonlight Path lotion threw up), a small card table, covered by an off white sheet with a soft candle lit was all that separated she and I. We sat in stiff back Victorian chairs.

I didn’t know whether to expect her to roll her eyes back in her head or pull out a crystal ball. I was game for whatever.
So I just opened the conversation.

“Look. I’m 8 weeks pregnant. I really need to know. Boy or Girl??”
Might as well lay it out there.
Carolina puts her hand on the table, looks above me to my left, nods her head and says matter of factly, “It’ll be a boy. Let me get my cards together.” Not like ‘her marbles’, she meant her literal cards. Tarot cards.
And that was it.
If she had some reckoning into the great beyond, I realize how monumental this moment was. I just snuck a peek into what I wasn’t yet supposed to know.
And secretly…….while admittedly just a little disappointed I wasn’t going to see pink, I was thrilled that if she was that certain of the sex, then she must be certain of his good health. And she would’ve told me if there were worries. I was so thankful. I didn’t think I’d be happy if it was a boy. I thought I’d be more sad and selfish feeling. But I wasn’t…..

Since she was so sure of that answer right off, I got caught up in the moment. Questions poured out like fluid stupidity, just taking in her answers one after the other. If we were on the phone, I would’ve racked up $800 in the continuation of my 900 number connection to the great beyond. All in all, great entertainment.

After the session, I joined the fun gals back in the living room. I didn’t even know these women and had more fun in this strange unfamiliar state than I had in the previous 3 years. It was great!
One of the women at the party looked a little different. Not physically though. You could see it. She was so, so tired. She obviously tried to wear makeup for the party, but probably didn't have time to apply so her blush was a little off from where she had put it on the other cheek. Her eye makeup was a little smeared. Hair half curled. She wasn't lazy. She was obviously exhausted. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn she had a newborn at home. She was the only woman there who brought her child. A 2 year old. He was certainly a handful, but precious. Every other sentence was interrupted with, “Caleb, no!” or “Caleb, we’ll leave I swear! Don’t touch!” The other women didn’t even seem annoyed.
So either they’ve raised 4 toddlers at the same time to have this amount of patience, or just really knew and loved this woman. I’m betting on the last.
Everyone let this woman go into the room before others when she requested. She mentioned the long ride home with Caleb, and everyone nodded, “Of course, please. Go, go. We’ll watch Caleb. Enjoy…take extra time with Carolina.”
Damn. Weren’t they gracious? I was scarfing down chicken salad and choking on Sprite to get my 30 minutes in.

The time just ran while she was in. Caleb was precious. A thin little man that was huge in smiles. Everything needed to be touched. Everything could be made to make a noise. Everyone was a friend. I was hoping maybe Daniel would have some of that sweetness in the coming year.

Coming out, it was obvious she had been crying. You could understand how---if your dead relatives or future love life came into play (though I doubted with her, judging on the ring placed on the left hand) then you could get teary. Maybe she read too much into the reading?

Holding Caleb by the hand, she began saying her goodbyes to everyone. One person at the table finally said, “You know, I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you much lately. To be honest, I didn’t know what to say.”

I’ll make this short for ya.

When she and her husband got married, they knew of the spot on his brain. Surgeons were sure they could isolate it and that the experience would be just a glitch in their happiness.
It wasn’t just a spot, and the experience became much, much more than a glitch.

She lost her husband this past February from a brain tumor. A long, hard, road with this tumor that fortunately afforded them time that could only be rivaled by Hollywood because they were able to spend their time by making videotapes for Caleb to let him know later after daddy was gone just how much he was planned and loved.
The way others spoke of her husband was so moving. He didn’t have a funeral, he had a celebration of life.
Beach music, funny photos, riveting stories. I didn’t know this woman before that night and already I missed her husband.
Her 2 year old son told her the morning before, “Mommy…I miss Daddy lots and much.” Tears had already fallen and I wanted so much to just hold my new nameless friend.
When she left, that’s when other women got teary. They had held back until the door closed.

Sweet, sunny 2 year old Caleb was diagnosed in May with a form of leukemia. The surgeons didn’t offer amazing promises of fast recovery.

Riding home that night, it hit me.
No psychic can tell me if my child is a boy or girl. And no one can tell this woman when her pain will end. No one can tell her if her son will get better or if she'll stop waking up crying in the middle of the night. But even a psychic can tell her people care.
Can Carolina talk to people on the other side? Who knows. But faced with Caleb’s mother, I sure would’ve lied and told her she had every troop on every side of reality rallying for her sanity and offering hope and love.

I no longer gave a shit about the sex of my baby. I wanted to hold Daniel, kiss Brian, and pray for forgiveness that I had let myself be so silly.

The next week, Brian got a small bonus on his paycheck for his job. I was having one of those moments in the drug store where I knew I’d buy mascara I don’t need, a facial moisturizer to replace the full one I have already and…wait, what’s that?
Do you people know they make a GENDER DETERMINATION kit and sell this at drug stores?!?!? And you can take it as early as 6 weeks! At this point, I’m 9 weeks so it has to be right!!! I rationalized it by having extra money and the same as the psychic, it was just for fun. I really didn't care, just wanted to see if the reading from the chemical and the actual reading matched.

Go ahead and judge….but I bought it.

And apparently…..it’s a girl.

Psychic or chemical over priced pee test---everyone has a 50/50 shot I guess.

I’ll tell you more about it….for 3.99 a minute :-)

A woman's response...

Okay, so this morning before work, I check facebook and see that a dear male friend of mine (love ya, Linc!) posted a link to the ever funny, "Rules for Understanding Men."
I'm just gonna blame this one on the hormones--but I had to both respond to his post and make my comments here. The black text obviously is the male thought. The red is what I'll in blanket fashion put, 'from all women'.

(Disclaimer: 99.999% of these situations, Brian doesn't qualify to be in these categories. Which is why I married him. Which is why whoever wrote this, is still single and living with a relative who has adopted too many cats.)

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl, if it's up, put it down. We need it up, you don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
Actually, we aren't complaining. We're just wondering how your mother kept from suffocating you during your teen years. Really? Have some respect. You peed on it, not us. Wipe it off and put it down. We aren't asking for a floating daisy in the middle of the toilet bowl, boys.
1. Crying is blackmail.
But it works so, so well.....
1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!
If strong and obvious hints do not work, then just saying it obviously won't be heard. It's taking initiative fellas.
Much like when you've had a bad day and we make your favorite dinner just to be sweet?
We can stop taking those hints too...
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
Ok, I'm guilty of this one...I got nothin'. I'll work on it.
1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
My girlfriends solutions make more sense. Especially because they don't involve physical confrontation or an 'f'-you to the argument. We want you to hug us, and tell us we're right. That's all.
Memorize that scene and save yourself some headache.
1. Anything we said six months ag is inadmissable in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.
If it can work for us, we have a right to remember the conversation up to 2 years prior. If it works against you, we can go back to third grade.
It's a law. Google it.
1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.
Much like if we think you're hairline is receding?
Here's another tip: If we ask you "Who's fatter? Me or her?"....ALWAYS pick her.
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
Both will probably happen. It's inevitable. It probably went back to the last comment about telling your girl she's fat. Which will make your next emotion loneliness....that night and every one for the rest of the month.
1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
That's part of the reason this relationship thing works. We get manicures, and you refuse to. Therefore, anything that could mess up a cuticle is your job. And we are your supervisor. Quit yer yappin and get on it, Bubba.
1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
Deal.
Only same goes for you--during Sunday football.
If we have to watch the damn thing, we'd at least like to hear one commentator. The one wearing makeup with hairplugs, speaking Baptist friendly words without a mouthful of Cheetos.
'Preciate it.
1. All men see in only 16 colors, like Windows Default Settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. we have no idea what mauve is.
If you don't comprehend nor can spell the color, then you have no say in what we paint the kitchen.
Hey, we invented the color 'John Deere Green' just so you 'd feel like you fit in. That's a gift. You're welcome.
Just don't paint anything in it.
1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
If you scratch that in front of us, then you'll only have yourself to scratch later. We promise THAT.
1. If we ask what is wrong and you say, "Nothing", we will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.
If it's not worth the hassle, then don't ask in the first place. Trust me, knowing something is wrong and not asking because you don't care is way worse than just not taking a signal in the first place.
1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions and neither do we.
And I bet the guy at the quickie mart got to know his wife very well too. It's annoying. Learn to ask. It saves US time, and makes you look like you give a damn--specifically a damn on whether or not my hair will go flat from being in a car an extra 2 hours. BUY A MAP.. Oh yeah, P.S.--as a result of not asking directions, Christopher Columbus got his destination wrong...Holla back 4th grade Social Studies!
1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine...really.
Great. Grannie panties it is. And that 7 year old faded green dress you swore you would cut up will look wonderful in front of all of your friends, really!
1. Don't ask us what we're thinking unless you are prepared to discuss NASCAR, football, or golf.
We'll ask. Just don't think we're listening to anything other than our own thoughts...on Lifetime, cooking, or Edward Cullen.
1. You have enough clothes.
Yes, but they don't fit in the sizes I want them to. So I'll keep buying.
1. You have too many shoes.
In too few colors. So we need more.
1. I am in shape. Round is a shape.
Which also shares the shape of a basketball. Which we'll throw the hell out if you don't at least acknowledge when we try to change our shape. I'm just sayin.....

Second tour of duty before basic's out....

In college, we all dreamt of the big bucks.

There would be fortune 500 companies lined up at my graduation not able to wait snatching up my brilliant mind.
Training and Development was a degree broad enough to apply as a GAP front store manager and narrow enough to hope for a human resources job...I just had to work it. So where did my genius self accept the first position at of my glowing career?

Our county health department.

As the sex ed teacher...
Making 22,000 a year.

Yuk it up, it gets better I promise.

For six months, I went into each high school and middle school within our county showing the nastiest pictures of men and womens privates with what looked like angry ant hills glowing with green castles of puss, along with how yes, technically, frenching your boyfriend during lunch could end you up with one of those cute 'toys' that poop and make their own noise.
All of this was done while silently hoping I looked ultra hot so I could fit into that sex teacher cliche'.

Truth be told, most of my 8th graders knew wayyyyyy more about sexual positions than I had dreamt of. I swear---this memory alone makes me want to be mormon and home school Daniel.

I've went on to make a little more money and have slightly more tasteful jobs to chat about during church (really...how was Nana to feel introducing her granddaughter as the sex teacher??) but I always loved how I could throw in a little public health knowledge should the situation come up.

After Daniel, I knew our family would stop for a minute.
12, maybe 40 years we'd wait for another. After the first 6 months of being a hormonal mess, you do NOT want to even THINK about doing it again (and 'it' can be sex or pregnancy---cause at that point you equate one with the other). At least, you weren't thinking about it once the Zoloft helped you think clearly--someone needs to get octomom a script, asap.

Daniel's birthday party went great, all was chuggin' along.
Then last week came.

I had a dream that I was sitting in a rocking chair, holding a (literally) swaddled infant, humming.
I don't dream about babies. Sure, a dream with Daniel in it may happen from time to time but normally I don't remember my dreams or if I do it's random space aliens coming over for tuna casserole type dreams.

I woke up and my first thought was, "When was my period???"
We had an extra test from way back when hidden in the medicine cabinet.

Ah, what they hay? Might as well.

Brian passes by with Daniel as I pull the test out.

"What's that for?"
I mean...what was he thinking it was for? Has anyone used a pregnancy test to time their meatloaf???

"Just checking." I say.

I pee. I wait. I turn the test over. And in digital letters

PREGNANT


I tilted the test to the left, checking the corner of the display window. I just needed one NOT in there. It wasn't happening. I had no words. I stood up---walked out of the bathroom, and just looked at Brian. He looked at me and chuckled, "No way."

He walks over, looks down at the test, up at me---and at the same time, just as every child wants to hear that their parents discuss their pregnancy for the first time, we look at each other and say,

"Oh Shit."

Four digital tests later---still pregnant.

Apparently, buying the Wal-Mart brand of pregnancy tests really is the same as name brand. I was hoping it'd be like Oreos where it's just not right if you don't have the name brand. Nope. Sperm and Egg make a baby, no matter how frugal you are.

The first two days were a whirlwind of emotions. Depressed, happy, scared, excited, nervous...all of it. Much like the first time, except I didn't sign up for this tour of duty--I got drafted. It's like Vietnam and my uterus just got letter wondering if Canada is an option.

But, like everything surprising, once you give it a couple days--you warm up to the idea. Now---instead of being nervous, I'm thinking of whether it's a boy or girl.
Yeah, yeah, healthy, healthy. I'm on that train too. But there isn't a woman in the universe that doesn't secretly hope for one or the other.

I'm thinking of those frilly dresses I've made fun of. I want the little girl to "complete the set". A boy is great, but now the testerone could be equalled out in the house for all days to come! We'll see.

I wasn't really even out of basic training yet in terms of Operation Mommyhood...but now I know I didn't get drafted for the second one. I'm going in fully aware. I'll win mission hilarious and all the battles with it :-)

Bubba Backwood's new BFF

Believe it or not, if you catch me at (ahem) certain times of the month---I'm not the friendliest person. In fact, most days, I'm probably not the friendliest person you've ever met. However I most certainly will never be the rudest.

While I admit (insert long sigh here) that I was not a debutant, nor did I go to charm school, I do hold strong to a belief that certain social graces and forms of tact are timeless and never to be forgotten. I'll always use ma'am when speaking to someone older and unfamiliar, I'll use 'please' and 'thank you' almost every time regardless of with whom, and I promise not to talk about your mama---in front of you.

This goes over to my work life as well, except at work, I have to heighten the positivity factor.
I work in education, and mostly with non traditional age students, which means if I don't keep on the super professional game, then I'm a sitting duck to hear how young and/or inexperienced I am.

For some reason, adults returning to school feel insecure about coming back to continue or start their education. No clue why.
Maybe it's insecurity at having not done it before (you'd be not so surprised to hear how many ex husbands are the cause of women not fulfilling their potential). Maybe they want to give a warning shot to the fact that they may not do so hot in Physics after being out of school 25+ years.
Whatever it is.....it is what it is and I just take it and remain encouraging.


Yesterday, a student basically was told something she didn't want to hear.

Think of taking a piece of candy away from a three year old before dinner and telling him he'll have to wait until after he eats his carrots to get his Hershey bar.
Now think of the 3 year olds reaction.

His would be more mature. I promise you.

I think I counted 3 times in different emails that she made note of her age. And then it hit me:
If you have to tell someone how old you are in order to get respect---you didn't earn it in the first place.
It's like those gross men who call themselves a 'grown ass man'. Again, if ya gotta tell me...then you're not. I guess just having gray hair is enough to indicate wisdom???
Dang.
And then....wait for it.....I was called a racist.
Yup.
Me.....ME! A racist. I have no words.

Although, let me just say that if someone wants to tell you "how many" white or black friends they 'have' or "how long they've had them", or how many people of a different race or culture that they work with......then whether or not they know it, they are racist.

Have you ever noticed how people who make these statements never seem to have more than a few these friends? Certainly not more than can be counted one one hand.
Because having 2 white friends makes you capable of juding my intellect?!?-- Should I counter that with my 7 black, 3 gay and 2 Korean acquaintances??? I mean, cause if we're gonna count---let's go all out. I'm sure the Indian guy who works at the Chevron would say he likes me better than you.

You know, I hear about people saying because they are black or white, then someone has put prejudice unfairly on them. Sometimes I can understand its merit and others not. But its never happened to me.

So in case you're wondering, I didn't respond. For one, I knew it would do nothing but make the situation worse. Two, if the student is able to just throw out such a heavy, heavy word at will, then who knows what she would be capable of doing with my response. I was being baited and knew it.
Also because I had nothing nice to say and in the words of my Nana, "If you can't say anything nice, at least have the decency to be vague".

I couldn't even vaguely tell this woman to go screw herself.

So now, after a year of doing nothing but helping her....after working late and making additional phone calls for ALL students----I'm lumped in with Bubba Backwoods and made to be a part of the KKK and skinhead groups.
All because my skin color is more white than brown, red or yellow. I'm now considered to be like one of those losers that meet to skin squirrels and talk about how hot their girlfriends are for getting the rebel flat tattooed above their Wal-Mart lace bra!?!?
Nice. Real nice.

Actually, I wasn't referred to as even white. I was referred to as Anglo-Saxon. However....I'm not Anglo-Saxon. I have Indian, Greek, and a mesh pot of other cultures runnin through this gal that aren't close to Western European or German (though those are thrown in too). I'm sure Mrs. Wisdom wouldn't care to know that. So just call me Angan for short.....