Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Change the name to “the BD” and day to “five weeks” and there we go.

I keep thinking something (anything… an earthquake? Ed McMahon on my doorstep with a big check?…but I hear he has his own issues…anyway) will shake me out of this nasty mood I’ve been pretty much since ear surgeries and ensuing convalescing. That, of course, was followed up by two weeks with a hovering but well intentioned mother-in-law, the end of school for the Bear, rainy weather (heelllloooooo, Utah? Yes, its summer calling), and the fact due to the above convalescing I SUCK at running and can barely eek out a four miler much less a 10 mile I-SO-ROCK-WHEN-I-LISTEN-TO-THE-FOO-FIGHTERS-AWESOME-RUN.

Perhaps I should have gotten off my butt a few weeks ago instead of sitting around, eating ice cream, and contemplating the VERY clever lyrics to “Hey Ya” by OutKast. DON’T EVEN try to convince me that they aren’t superb, by the way. ALLRIGHT ALLRIGHT ALLRIGHT ALLRIGHT ALLRIGHT ALLRIGHT ALLRIGHT.

But, its been a hard month around this house and my frustration has been palatable. Engaging in such activities like holding on to a crying baby while blowing up water wings which are already attached to an impatient toddler is as futile as trying to explain to said mother-in-law why I don’t own a sewing machine or how come I don’t bake for recreation. I’ve engaged in these and a host of other unpleasurable things (including bathing suit shopping*) lately which have stressed me out completely freaked me out and possibly have caused others to want to commit me to the local sanitarium. If such places still existed.

Typically, I would get my groove on and my anxiety out by stepping it up at the gym. But, wouldn’t you know that my membership expired last week. Interesting, the timing on that one.

*Okay, is there anything more DEGRADING to the middle class, 30 something female than bathing suit shopping? Not to neglect the issues of war and starving children, etc. BUT, how can I possibly purchase something that costs a small fortune and manages to highlight all of one’s flaws in nasty yellow dressing room light? WTF-ever. I ditched all the suits in the fitting room and came home and ordered online. Now, I have until it arrives to pretend that I will be Absolutely Fabulous at the pool this summer.

 

Just Call Me Bonehead

This will be the entry where I sound like an old person, spouting off about ailments and what not. But, really, I just need to document all of this on the real off limit chance that I will ever want to remember the past week and a half.  Also, be ready for sudden tangents on the general good fortune of good health. 

All through the various filters of steroids and painkillers and valium, too.

Are you excited to read this yet?

Three years ago, I started losing my hearing.  After checking for the normal causes of hearing loss (read MRIs for brain tumors) as well as changing doctors, we figured out last summer that I had a condition called otosclerosis which was causing the bones in the right ear to harden and making sound unable to conduct through my ear.  The good thing about it is that it is correctable.  But, last summer, I had a new baby who I was nursing and ski season was going to start, etc. etc. 

Finally, this spring…I ran my half marathon, went to Vegas, and decided that I was ready to join the hearing people of the world so I scheduled the procedure.  It was supposed to be easy.  It sounds weird.  They actually take out one of three tiny bones and replace it with a titanium piece that will let you hear.  In and out.  One day surgery, with a few days of dizziness to be followed.  I was nervous, but not terribly.

The procedure was on May 9 and was supposed to last two hours maximum. 

When I woke up, it was four hours later.  Apparently, the laser that they need to get down to the bone normally works with seven passes.  They used it somewhere between forty-five and fifty times on me.  Bonehead, indeed. 

I was actually okay for the next day, mostly.  I was unable to walk on my own nor turn my head due to dizziness, but I could eat and sleep. 

Hell started the next day when I had the very specific experience of being on the Scrambler, the Tea Cups, and a roller coaster all at the same time and without even leaving my bed.  I won’t talk about the lack of being able to eat properly or keeping food where it belongs.

The next day, with patched together at the last moment child care, the MOD got me down the steps, into the car and pulled up at the ambulance bay at the nearest emergency room.  They hooked me up to all kinds of IVs and started filling me up with lots of different drugs and fluids and all kinds of stuff. 

Really, the rest of it isn’t that interesting aside from watching the inner goings on of a hospital for three days.  The medical situation was acute in terms of the gamut of health situations.  I am healthy and will be back to my old self in (relatively, not as soon as I would like it to be) short order.  They actually had to redo part of the surgery and my doctor told me that during the second surgery he had to consult the medical literature because my case was so difficult.  And, its not like I had cancer or anything even close.

But, the rest of it is weird.  One moment, I was in tip top cardio shape.  Now, I’ve still got the hallmarks of IV bruises all over both arms.  I have a kitchen counter full of prescription vials and taste buds that taste metallic regardless of what I eat due to nerve trauma.  Yum.  I’m able to spontaneously fall asleep in the middle of the day for hours and lay around for the other ten or so.  Its a pretty regimented life of surfing the internet, sleeping, and being generally sloppy. 

I’m not supposed to be picking up anything more than 15 pounds so handling a one year old and a three year old is a challenge.  We are lucky that we have had good friends, neighbors, and family who have flown across the country, brought us dinner, watched our children, and done the carpool line for us.  At a moment’s notice. 

 

These are a Few of my Favorite Things

Originally uploaded by benevolentdictator

On a cool spring Utah morning, what is a mom to do with 45 minutes after dropping off a toddler at Speech Therapy?

The liquor store with a baby, baby.

These bottles are just a sample of the items that I procured this morning, but feel free to admire my shiny new University of Tennessee non cork cork courtesy of my lovely friend Denise.

 

God and…it must be said…Bono carried me over the finish line

attheend

Originally uploaded by benevolentdictator

I did it…in 2 hrs. and 13 minutes…the Salt Lake 1/2 marathon.  That’s me in the white shirt.

A day and lots of ibuprofen later, I feel really good about it. As far as experiences go, this one was fabulous. My iPod kept me going- the Indigo Girls reminding me that even though I’m not there that In the Southland its Springtime, the Killers, and the Foo Fighters- as well as seeing the MOD and the kids pop up in different places along the course. The Bear made a sign, and the Llama and Bee were clapping for everyone.  At the very end, I ran through a crowd of several thousand cheering people.

That kind of ego boosting will negate the incredible throbbing in your legs for sure.  At least for a minute.

Props also to the Monkey Nurse for completing a 5K…and helping an injured participant along the way.

It was really great and I have been trying to give myself permission to be really excited and proud of the accomplishment. Its so easy to get wrapped up in the “real” runners who are aiming to run a full marathon in like three hours and five minutes. That will sooo never be me.

This year’s race was to support cancer research and treatment at a local hospital- I’ve often written to everyone about Anderson who is the son of a former co-worker of mine from when we lived in Wisconsin. He is 2 1/2 and has been bravely battling a type of brain tumor since he was seven months old. His mom often writes about his delightful personality even while undergoing all kinds of painful treatment, so he was also a motivator for me. I ask that everyone remember Anderson, his sister Ella, and parents as they continue to fight his disease.

 

(I Am) A Big Old Slug

Due to a variety of heavy family obligations, my commitments to both blogging and exercise were put on hiatus this past week.

All the exercise except, of course, for the small workout my arms got as they squeezed the Hershey’s chocolate syrup over the dish of ice cream that I had each evening for the past week.  I think that I must be a stress eater.  Anyway, that’s another post. 

I am still running with the 13.1 in mind, but am still not making promises. 

A month from today.  13.1 miles.  All at one time, in one day, in the space of under 2 1/2 hours.  Maybe. 

 

Sweater Day, Mr. Rogers Style

March 20 will mark the 80th anniversary of Mr. Rogers’ birth and, to commemorate it, PBS is having a multi day celebration culminating in a drive for everyone to wear a sweater on his birthday.

I loved Mr. Rogers although, as a child, I had in retrospect some very valid questions about what went on in his house when he wasn’t around.

First, was the house where Mr. Rogers visited each day and where he would change his shoes and sweater empty save for that half an hour?  How come he had extra clothes there?  The trolley was definitely my favorite part- where it parked at night- in the land of Make Believe or in that house somewhere?  So many questions that probably won’t ever be answered. I loved Mr. Rogers and would have liked to have known where he went after he changed his shoes and sweater again at the end of the show.  

He sang at the end of the show “it’s a happy feeling to know that your alive, it’s a happy feeling to know we’re friends.” I really think that he would like to know that all the children that he sang to and took on field trips from 1968 until 2001 are remembering him and his cool stop light that he had in his house. 

We could all do with a little more Mr. Rogers in our lives, and I will think about that when I grab a cardigan on March 20. 

 

I Want P!nk To Be My Friend

Although I am seriously doubting that I am cool enough to be her’s. 

My hair has never been black nor mohawked.  I have far less piercings and I suspect that they are in far less, ahem, exotic places than P!NK’s.  My wardrobe runs more preppy and a lot less fishnet than the lady born Alecia Moore.

But, she rocks and she sings the song that opens Monday Night Football, and I like that.  When I am explaining to the Bear for the 89th time why we do not have Bratz dolls (the word dolls seems too innocent for what they actually are) at our house, I am tempted to play “Stupid Girls” for her.  The message may be lost on her at the young age of seven, and, like the Bratz dolls, the word “stupid” is not allowed at our house.  Except after she is in bed and I am recounting a story to the MOD about someone who really does deserve to be called that.  Anyway.

I’ve talked about my unfortunate lack of kick ass, but I want P!NK to know if I am ever invited to be in an Ass Kicking Contest that I want her on my team.

 

I Knew I Was Right About This

My distaste of pregnancy has been well documented by those that known me.  Now, I know that fertility issues are a big subject in the blogosphere and my sympathies to those that experience them.  I love babies, and I love my children, but pregnancy is long and unbearable to me.  For many reasons. 

Pregnancy makes me crazy.  I’m a person who doesn’t carry a calendar or date book.  I remember names, faces, phone numbers and birthdays.  But, when I’m pregnant, I can’t remember anything. 

Turns out, I’m not the only one. Of course, this article says that women are more forgetful.  I’ll go further and say that I’m just crazy.

I can’t remember anything. Not if laundry is done, what we had for dinner, or whether the dishwasher needs to be emptied.   I hate it.   On top of weight gain that seems to happen the moment that stick turns blue, my brain cells seem to disappear instantly.  Nine months later, I am still working on figuring out where they all went. 

 

My Very Own Flask

My Very Own Flask

Originally uploaded by benevolentdictator

This little gem sits in my closet and once in awhile it gets dusted off and used. Its hard to justify using a flask when you have three little kids.

Anyway, back when I had a “real” job, I supervised a group of people that were honestly the best at what they did. Our jobs in child welfare/social work were often wrought with just plain old bad stuff. People acting badly is a minimization of the problem, but it sums it up quite nicely. The people on my team were awesome, and they did their jobs so well that it made my job as easy as it could have been.

Its been three and a half years since I left. I moved across the country and have had two babies since. They all have moved on too: Brad and Michelle got married and had a baby, Emily and Anne both went to graduate school, Brit moved up and on…etc., etc. But, when I think back to that time, I am so happy that I got to do that job with them. I am all the better for it.

So, yesterday, when I spent the day at Alta skiing the awesome Utah powder, the MOD and I enjoyed some peppermint schnapps on the lift up the mountain. Everytime I pulled that flask out of my ski jacket, a smile came across my face. And, its not just because my flask says “fuck.”

 

I Guess Its Just A Memory Now

St. Ambrose School- Cheverly, MD

Originally uploaded by benevolentdictator

Once a year or so, when I go back to visit my parents, I like to cruise through Cheverly, MD where I lived until I was twelve. We drive past the old house, past the Cheverly pool, and my grandparents house and marvel at how small everything seems. I suppose twenty years of perspective shrinks those streets that I used to walk down on the way home from school. This time though, on Christmas Eve, I pulled into the parking lot between the church and school where I attended grade school. This parking lot was the scene of recess, the ubiquitous Maryland crab feasts, and lots of sledding. The parking lot boasted a very steep paved hill perfect for sledding and, sometimes if we were good at Church, Dad would drive down it- for some reason we loved that.

As a kid, we were sure to get one or two good snowfalls enough to cancel school. Days were spent, like all kids do, getting on snow pants, playing in the snow and drinking hot chocolate. But, the best part was when dad got home and he would take us up to the school with the sleds to that steep hill. It would be freezing, but it was worth it because that hill was the best. We went two on a sled and someone was sure to fall out before it stopped and it was a long way down. Dad is a big guy so if you jumped on his back when he laid on the sled, it was sure to be an even scarier ride as you zoomed down faster than it seemed even a car could go.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled into that parking lot and saw this sign. OF ALL THINGS. Its like whoever put up the sign had a camera into my memory. There wasn’t a sign prohibiting drugs or weapons on school property, but a sign letting you know that the simplest and most innocent of childhood pleasures is not allowed. The steep hill isn’t paved anymore and the playground that was once devoid of playground equipment making it perfect for kickball and double dutch has grass and a fancy slide/swing combo.

For some reason, that made me so sad.  I could tell that my brother and sister were sad to see that sign too.  I guess that No Sledding sign might as well have said “You are old and that was a long time ago.” 

UPDATE:

My Mom is upset with me because I mentioned Dad as the one that I remember taking us sledding.  She actually grew up in Cheverly as opposed to my dad who grew up in Silver Spring.  She has her own memories…in her own words:

“I’ll have you know I was the sledding queen of St. A.  Way back when Andy Sullivan brought a old car hood and we could fit about 10 people on it going down the hill.  We had a fire in a big 55 gallon drum at the top of the hill, and Mr. Vendemia drove his Jeep around the upper parking lot doing doughnuts in the snow while kids hung onto the back of the
Jeep.   Long before Dad ever hit the Cheverly scene.  Those were the days….”

I told her that it was a shame that kids just can’t ahold of a good old used car hood these days.