A Girl Goes To The Doctor...

I went to a doctor appointment on Monday.

And the fact that I even called to make an appointment is a pretty big deal for me. 

I don't like going to the doctor.

But that's another story. 

I haven't been in many years. 

I'll be 45 next month. 

Egads!

Sigh. 

Well, like I said, I went to a doctor appointment on Monday.

Chad and I had a doctor a while back. 

Then Zoe got sick. 

And we had other things on our minds. 

When your kid has cancer, all of your energies goes into making that child better. 

All of you. 

And then the doctor we had seen retired. 

And our kid was still sick. 

And we just didn't think about going to the doctor ourselves. 

Finding a new physician is a hassle. 

We are just fine, I said this often to reassure myself that I didn't need a doctor. 

We eat pretty good. 

Chad rides his bike to work when it's warm outside. 

But then, I tried exercising. 

My friend Dawn goes to the Athletic Club in town. 

She is really fun and if I went to The Club, too, I could hang out with her on a more regular basis. 

She has a very busy work schedule so meeting at The Club would be great. 

So, I got a free week pass last year. 

And she and I met for spin class. 

I had never done spin class, but I figured I could do it as I did know how to ride a bike. 

It can't be that hard, right?

And she said the teacher turned the lights down in the class which made me feel a lot better. 

So, I went. 

And we spun. 

And I managed to not fall off of the bike nor did I fall over when I got off of the bike. 

It was a win-win for me. 

I felt good!

I felt energized!

I told her I would see her the next day!

At The Club!

Chad was hesitant about me going back to The Club so soon. 

"Give it a day, rest your body, dear" he said. 

"I'll be fine" I replied. 

Dawn had us signed up for a core, interval, strength something or other class the next day. 

She told me "you can do it!  There are 60 year old ladies in the class! We'll modify the moves!"

So I went. 

And we modified. 

And boy, that was some class!

I felt good afterwards. 

Then I got in the car. 

And felt really hot. 

And I couldn't catch my breath. 

I had to go to work at the school playground. 

I'll be fine. 

I just need some water. 

I got to the playground and managed to get through kindergarten and first grade recess. 

But, I felt like I needed to throw up. 

I went into the office and told them I didn't feel well and needed to leave. 

(The school principal later told me that I did look horrible and after I left she thought she should have driven me home!)

Once I got home I barfed. 

And called my mom to ask her to pick up the girls from school because I was sick and needed to sleep. 

Which I did. 

When Chad got home from work he scolded me for going to that class at The Club. 

"You never listen to me" he chided.

"Yes dear. I'm sorry dear."

Gigi told me that exercise just wasn't my thing. 

Many months after that class I came down with a horrible cough. 

I annoyed everyone for months with my TB-style hacking. 

My friend Mark is still regretting inviting me along on that road trip to Omaha. 

I never seemed to be able to catch my breath. 

But, I never did go to the doctor. 

So, Monday I went to my appointment. 

Chad went last Thursday. 

The new doctor we saw just happens to be Zoe's school friend Matt's dad. 

I was just at their house last month talking to Matt's mom about Disney World. 

She was picking my brain about our past trip as they are going in October. 

"Hey, are you taking new patients?" I asked her husband as he sat in his living room recliner. 

So, Monday I went in and got my weight checked. 

My blood pressure measured. 

Things were tested and numbers jotted down. 

And was told I may have allergies or a slight bit of asthma. 

My heart sounded great, as did my lungs. 

My husband was told during his appointment that he has the heart rate of a 20 year old athlete. 

Show off. 

I came out learning that I've shrunk a half inch and I'm officially chubby. 

And that I should probably get a tetanus shot. 

Tomorrow, Chad and I are getting our blood drawn to see what's lurking within. 

Off goes "short and fat" and "the show off" to get our red stuff analyzed. 

Things better not be all goofy with my red stuff. 

Because that's really going to put me off from visiting the good doctor again. 

Stay tuned...

Saying Goodbye To An Old Friend

I was tagged in a really sad post today on Facebook. 

Memories flooded my mind and a tinge of bittersweetness made its way through my body. 

I went to college in the fall of 1989. 

And met my forever friends there. 

On the campus of Illinois State University in Normal, Illinois. 

I lived in an all girls dorm my freshman year. 

Do those even exist anymore?

Or does everyone just co-mingle from day one?

Sophomore year I was in a dorm that was all female on one side and all male on the other side. 

There was a lounge area connecting the two sides of that monstrous square building that allowed the males and females to engage with one another. 

So many memories were made there. 

Watching Thirtysomething once a week in someone's tiny room. 

I still can't believe Gary died. 

Horrible. 

Working in the cafeteria on the main floor...which really meant I just hung out with my friends while they ate and occasionally filled the croutons on the salad bar. 

Meeting Bill, who now goes by Jake (huh?) and his drummer roommate Chip. 

Steve and his twin. 

And later finding out Steve had no twin, he just dressed in a bipolar manner. 

Making friends with the cleaning ladies Rhonda and Angie. 

But the summer before junior year, we made our way out of the confines of RAs and guests who had to be registered to visit your room, to the house. 

Our house. 

Which really belonged to the single, elderly lady who lived next door with her cats. 

But, it became ours. 

All 11 of us. 

I think there were 11 original residents. 

The house was very big. 

And was known by its address alone.

916 Hovey. 

And the gals who lived there became The Hovey Girls. 

The first year was hectic in the house. 

Not only were there 11 women living there, but also their boyfriends at times and various random friends. 

I don't recall too many problems. 

Which is rare with that many females residing under one roof. 

The summer before senior year, our numbers dwindled down. 

At the start of (most) everyone's last year in college, 916 Hovey housed 8 girls. 

I think. 

My memory is in its forties now. 

There were a lot of rooms.

How I got my own bedroom every year is mind boggling in itself. 

Boyfriends, a fiancé, male and female friends from other local universities, a few cats, friends from across campus all made their way to our home. 

The home of The Short Hair Club. 

Because...we all had short hair. 

We are simple like that. 

It was our own homegrown sorority. 

But without the monetary dues and obligations.

Unless you count the booze that was bought and consumed and the security detail that had to be instituted when the strange Asian guy from across the street wandered over. 

To stare in our windows and take water from our spigot that was located right under our enormous dining room picture window. 

And we were sent scrambling on our hands and knees to lock the doors while we were laughing so hard I'm sure most of us peed in our pants. 

He was really odd. 

Furniture was broken when someone tried to recreate "the lift" from Dirty Dancing. 

Boyfriends became exes and tears were dried on each other's shoulders.

One summer we wrote, directed, and acted in our own original play "Whiskey, Give Me Whiskey."

Which someone, somewhere has on VHS tape I'm sure. 

A friend that I met in college now lives across the street from 916 Hovey. 

With his wife and two boys.

He was a frequent guest of the Hovey House. 

And today Mark posted a photo online today of three mini bulldozers at the ready next to our house. 

Ready to tear into our cache of memories to make way for a new apartment building. 

Maybe that's what the kids want these days. 

Their own space. 

With limited amounts of people in that space. 

Why do you need someone literally sitting on top of you while you're watching tv when you can just text them and FaceTime with them from your own private space instead?

I relish in the memories of my 916 Hovey friends who sat on me, laughed with me, cried with me, stood next to me when Siobhan's boyfriend kicked down the bathroom door. 

All memories that sit strong with me today. 

Friends who have made an impression on me as an adult. 

Friends I met when I was still a kid. 

Last month three of us 916 Hovey ladies met up at Mark's house for a July 3rd cookout.

Rose traveled all the way from Ireland where she now lives to see the old girl again. 

And as we walked across the street to peek inside again, we didn't then realize it would be the last time. 

Rose, Tina, Jen (moi), and Mark. 

I'm glad we posed for one last picture with our friend. 

She had become old. 

Just like us, but even more so. 

Old friends take many forms. 

Walls of love, hope, and strong bonds formed around us as we lived in 916 Hovey. 

Enabling us to become who we are today. 

Everything in our past shapes our future. 

And if those walls could talk...I bet they would be snort laughing. 

And proud of us all...

Don't Forget To Dance

A funny thing happened along the way...

I hung out with girls twenty years my junior last weekend. 

And I survived. 

As I know my limits on booze. 

I know my limits on bedtimes. 

I know my limits on the dance floor...wait. 

I didn't know my dance limits. 

And my outer thighs are still feeling it. 

My mom's youngest brother is six years older than me. 

We grew up together and were quite close as he lived three blocks away from my brother and I with my grandparents. 

He has two daughters, with the first being born while I was still in high school. 

And he and his wife lived with grandma and grandpa with their new baby girl for a while. 

His second daughter (who I'll call KR) was born when I was at college. 

And the family didn't live at grandma and grandpa's house anymore. 

There's a big age gap with these girls and myself, but I love them bunches. 

Right before my daughter was diagnosed with leukemia, KR almost lost her life in a drunk driving accident. 

A drunk driver smashed into her car in the middle of the day. 

A head-on collision on a two lane highway. 

While she was talking to her mother, my aunt, on her cellphone. 

We are thankful that she's still here. 

And we all become closer as she fought to regain her life while her little cousin Zoe fought to keep hers. 

KR had to take a year off from college. 

To recover at home. 

To learn how to walk again with rods and pins in her body. 

And she switched colleges when she went back to her studies. 

And that's where she met him. 

Her future husband. 

And that's why I was at a bachelorette party this past weekend in St. Louis. 

I went with two other cousins who are my age. 

My mom has four other siblings. 

The cousins that I drove down to St. Louis with are my mom's other brother's daughters. 

And we are 43, 44, and 45 years old. 

We met my mom's younger sister, who flew in from Atlanta, at our hotel that was three blocks west of the mighty Mississippi River.

And we kept up just fine with the young girls during our weekend. 

Which comes, I guess, to the point of this post. 

You're never to old to have fun. 

And life can throw some killer curves at you. 

You never really know what's around the next corner. 

So do it. 

Shake your stuff on a dance floor. 

Drink some drinks and show the younger crowd how it's done. 

I wore heels out all weekend. 

My cousin, who's my age, said she was going to wear her comfy, sensible shoes out. 

"Oh no!" I said. 

"These feet of mine don't get to go out too often. 

So when they do venture out, the heels go on!"

Yes, I got a blister. 

But I had fun. 

I did some dance grinding with my younger cousins. 

Is that a thing?

Dance grinding?

I did something like that. 

I whooped out loud on the dance floor. 

I danced low, low, low. 

Maybe a little too low. 

Because every time I went to sit on the toilet, whoah!

The tops of my thighs were screaming at me...

"You went too low!"

You're never to old to have fun. 

To remember to dance. 

Go ahead and relive your younger days. 

At one point as we were dancing, I pushed through the crowd to the front of the stage (it was a dueling piano bar kind of place) urging my young cousins and their friends to join me.

It's what I would have done when I was in my twenties. 

I would have been front and center. 

Never dancing on the outer fringes. 

Hey!

You!

Don't forget to dance. 

Going Gray

I stopped coloring my hair. 

The gray has started to take over and I'm letting it. 

My husband has no hair, he started loosing it more than 20 years ago. 

But he has facial hair. 

Why he is bald on top and hairy EVERYWHERE else is a mystery to me. 

And him. 

His facial hair is more white than brown. 

And he looks so great!

Why do I need to color my hair to look great?

I have been noticing couples when I am out and about these days. 

Many men have gray hair. 

But their partner, when it's a woman, does not. 

It's rare to see a gray haired woman. 

They are there, but in small numbers. 

90% of the time she has colored hair. 

The brownest of brown. 

The blondest of blonde. 

The reddest red from a bottle.

These couple look mismatched. 

He looks his age while she's trying as hard as possible to NOT look her age.

I don't want to spend the money. 

I don't want to spend the time. 

I am not going to color my hair anymore.

I got it cut last week. 

I have always had short hair and get lazy between cuts, so I need to get on the ball with that more. 

I found a great stylist last week as my old stylist is moving to Florida. 

My new stylist is another mom from school. 

She has two boys around the ages of my two girls. 

And she did a great job when I went in and said...short, messy, feminine. 

And seemed pumped when I said I'm not coloring my hair anymore. 

Maybe not too pumped as I'm one less client she can persuade to get golden highlights. 

My husband seems to like it.

He told me "the gray looks sexy."

And I said "really?"

And he said "for sure!"

And I made googly eyes at him. 

And he made googly eyes at me. 

And my ten year old yelled "I'm sitting right here so stop it!"

Hair has been a big topic in our home for a few years. 

My oldest lost her hair three times between the ages of five and eight. 

And then we were told it may not grow past her shoulders due to the cranial radiation she had. 

Currently her hair is longer than anticipated (past the shoulders!) and a deeper brown than her "first" hair. 

And her blonde sister got her baby curls cut off about 6 months ago and now sports a cut deemed hipper for a six year old. 

Someday they may color or shave or dreadlock their hair. 

I say go for it. 

Hair grows back. 

Life needs to be full of variety. 

Here's to the gray. 

For taking my head into my own hands. 

For not bowing down to what women in their 40s are "supposed" to look like.

Who decides how we are to look?

Do we just follow our predecessors and peers?

I look like me. 

My gray kind of looks like highlights I think. 

Highlights of the life I've led. 

And I thank my friend Carla for starting this trend for me to follow. 

 

The Contract

Some days you wonder if you are alone in the world. 

Your past can seem like such a lost entity. 

The life you had before you met your spouse. 

The life you had before your children were born. 

The wild nights where guys and wine experimented with one another.

But then you remember someone. 

Some people. 

Your college friends. 

Ah, the ladies who knew me when...

My college friends and I had a reunion a few weeks ago in Chicago. 

Three funtastic days together. 

We hadn't been together without our children or spouses in tow in years. 

I don't even remember when we were all together last except for funerals in the past few years. 

Most of them live in the city and so they do see one another quite often. 

But, I'm in central Illinois. 

Another one lives in the northern burbs. 

And one of us lives in Omaha. 

It was due time for us to leave our babes at home with our husbands. 

It was due time for us all to converge at one home and let our hair down. 

Who am I kidding...we don't have hair to let down. 

We had many names in college and one was "The Short Hair Club."

We all still have relatively short hair. 

There are seven of us in all. 

Seven of us who met 25 years ago. 

Seven of us who have shared clothes, secrets, and a few boyfriends. 

Seven of us who have don't always get to talk much to one another, but that didn't seem to matter when we got back together. 

We were missing one member of our group, though. 

She got a pass as she lives in Ireland. 

Only two in our group grew up with sisters. 

This lack of childhood sisterly drama drew us closer, I think. 

An invisible contract was signed during college. 

A contract that said "through thick and thin we shall stand together. Always"

When one of us got upset with someone about, who knows what, a voice amongst the group would loudly declare "ah, but you signed the contract!"  

And you would resign yourself to this phantom truth. 

During our reunion we shared old stories. 

We giggled. 

We guffawed. 

We talked about sex. 

We talked about food. 

We peed in our pants a little. 

We all brought photos to share. 

College photos. 

Life after photos. 

Upon graduation, we all converged on the city of Chicago and some of us lived together. 

We were always with one another and even vacationed together. 

New Orleans, Miami, the crazy camping trip we took to Wisconsin. 

There was so much photographic evidence of the lives we had had.  

Our former thinner selves. 

Lives before children. 

Lives before careers. 

Lives lived with so much abandon. 

I wouldn't trade these ladies for anything. 

They know me. 

I know them. 

We still tell secrets to one another. 

We love one another dearly. 

They were all there 200% for me and my family when Zoe was diagnosed with leukemia. 

So, we went out to eat at fancy restaurants that were absent of children's menus. 

We drank giant martinis. 

We stayed up past 10:00. 

We had a blast. 

And I remembered that I wasn't alone. 

I'll never be alone. 

My past will always live on with these women. 

And I can't wait to make future memories with them all. 

Until we are drooly, gray, and pushing each other in wheelchairs. 

My friends. 

Forever. 

Neverending Transformation

I've been assigned a blog topic by my Homesteaders and Homeschoolers group on body identity. 

My body. 

My 43 year old body. 

That has grown two humans. 

That has had a few broken bones.

That had a broken heart, literally, that needed repaired early on. 

A body that has changed and morphed so much in these years. 

I'm not too keen on my parts these days. 

It's my own fault, really. 

I don't exercise anymore. 

And I should. 

I do farm chores and walk a lot. 

I should walk more. 

I should strength train. 

But I've always found regular exercise boring. 

I was a dancer once, you see. 

I thrived exercising in a group setting. 

Where music and sweat mingled.  

I used to have a strong body.

A thin body. 

A body of muscle. 

I didn't weigh over 115 pounds during college. 

Or after college. 

When I still danced, but also was too poor to eat much. 

I adored my body then. 

I took it for granted that it would always be there for me. 

Externally, I am different now.

My thighs are bigger. 

They aren't large from muscle like in the past. 

They are large from carrying children on my hips. 

My arms have some sag. 

I lost the muscle there, too. 

My neck has started to sag. 

I have no idea when or how that happened. 

It seems to have appeared overnight. 

My waist has expanded and is very unflattering. 

I like to wear large underpants that I can pull up over all offenses I see. 

My waist stretched and ballooned out from growing two children. 

My breasts droop. 

They used to be so pert and taut. 

They swelled with milk after my children were born. 

They fed one for 12 continuous months. 

My body is different now. 

I could change it. 

And I probably should. 

Or does it matter?

That's a question I've yet to answer for myself. 

On a more superficial level, there are things about my face I don't like. 

Never have liked. 

I doubt I ever will like them. 

My nose. 

It's too wide. 

I don't like it. 

Don't tell me I should. 

I've lived with it and it's mine to dislike. 

As I dislike my skin. 

It's never cooperated with me. 

I've tried all sorts of products, went to the dermatologists as a teen, and it just doesn't like me. 

I would say it profoundly hates me. 

I envy women with blemish free skin. 

I really, truly, deeply envy them. 

I have two daughters. 

Two daughters who will be judged on how they look from their peers. 

Girls can be so damaging towards one another. 

I don't this is a streak that can ever be stopped. 

There will always be mean girls who will tell you that you look bad. 

Or different. 

Wrong. 

So, all that I can do, as a mother, is to remind them that they are beautiful. 

Inside and out. 

And to not let them hear me when I complain about my nose or my skin or my waist. 

Or should I let them hear?

To know that it's okay to like or not like something about themself?

Because no matter what is said, over and over and over, you will always find something to dislike about yourself. 

Every man I know does it. 

Every woman I know does it. 

It's part of being human, I think. 

To want to be different. 

To yearn for something you used to have. 

Or for something you've always hoped you had. 

Be it a new set of feet. 

Or the exquisite shoulders you had when you were 20. 

I see myself in both of my daughters, though. 

And I look at them and see nothing but beauty. 

Unequivocal beauty. 

And I don't know how to feel about myself. 

My body has changed in it's 43 years. 

The skinny legs from my childhood evolved into dancer legs. 

And now they are facing middle age. 

What the future holds for them is up to me. 

As they hold me up...

 

Midlife Brownies

When is midlife?

Fifty?

That's seven years away. 

Which is almost a decade away. 

Which to my kids, that's like 200 years away. 

Then why is all of this midlife stuff happening before I'm even forty-five?

My neck is getting gobbly. 

My eyes need two lenses to see from behind my glasses. 

I sleep erratically at night. 

I sweat more. 

Wait!

Is that menopause?

Peri-menopause?

Damn, women have to deal with both midlife issues AND menopause!

I forgot about the menopause thing. 

Double damn!

My husband only has the midlife crisis thing to deal with. 

He wanted a motorcycle last year. 

And older road bike that would make him look uber cool. 

A big departure from his Trek bicycle. 

He said that urge is over.

Maybe his testosterone will begin to wane. 

Probably not.  

But, my eyes are still unfocused, I'm still using more deodorant than I did in my third trimester of my second pregnancy, and I want a women's shed to steal away to and ponder life and the existence of all of us in it. 

Or just a place to hide in to eat brownies in secret...

A Sweeping Choice

As I've gotten older and as I've had to hold my heart way down deep inside when my daughter got sick, I've started to learn that my life is just that, MY life. 

I don't need affirmation from others in how I attack each day that I wake up.

Or maybe I don't want to attack anything some days. 

And that's okay. 

A few of my very wise girlfriends recently posted some articles on FB about just this idea. 

The idea that who we want to be and what we want to do on this planet is OUR choice. 

Not family members, not other moms, not society as a whole. 

My choice. 

I choose to be a stay at home mom. 

I've worked hard in the past before my kids were born. 

Now they are my job. 

My youngest will be in school full time in the fall and it's been suggested that I go out into the world to work again. 

I do work, though. 

At home. 

We don't have a small suburban yard. 

We don't have one cat to feed. 

We have a few acres and 22 pets. 

22 pets!

We have lived on one income for the past 9 years. 

And 2 1/2 of those involved taking care of a very sick child who required numerous hospital visits and expensive trips to the pharmacy. 

And we have survived. 

We are whole. 

I may not spend money the way you spend money. 

And that's okay. 

What has happened is this...

I have learned to "be." 

To be...

Content with what we have. 

Thankful for our love, not our stuff. 

Okay with who I am. 

Which is a mom who's always available to my girls. 

If they are sick, I'm here.  

I'm the first face they see at 3:00 when the hardships of school are over. 

I'm the caretaker of a pony and goats and cats and dogs and chickens. 

Who need attention everyday as well. 

This is who I am. 

A 43 year old mother who waters her garden, bakes bread for dinner, advocates for childhood cancer awareness, and sweeps the floors with a good ol' broom. 

And I also am a 43 year old woman who enjoys putzing around at the library for something to stimulate my imagination.

Who can proudly say my husband is my best friend. 

Who smiles every time I hear his laugh. 

Who gets a kick out of planning our family's next travel adventure. 

I make sure to make time for girlfriend lunch dates and I like to photograph the everyday moments at hand. 

This is me. 

And I'm okay with that. 

Growing Up

Zoe seems so determined by her idea of what she wants to be when she grows up.
If anyone, anywhere asks her that proverbial childhood question, she quickly responds with "an artist."
She's sure.
I've told her about art historians.
The words "art historian" seem to conjure up ideas in my head of job stability.
There will always be a need for people to tell others about art.

When I was a child and anyone asked me that ages old question I would respond with "ballerina or veterinarian."
I loved animals more than myself and I always took dance class.
No sports, no drama class, I couldn't draw a circle without one side going all lumpy, but I could dance.
So when I entered college and didn't know what to major in, I decided that veterinary school would be too hard (because of the math. I am horrible at math.), but that I could dance.
So I did.
And ended up with a Bachelor's of Science Degree in Commercial Studio Dance.
What a crack-pot idea that was.
But with my experiences in the college dance world I was able to take a trip to NYC (when I finnegaled my way into the Theatre and Art Department's annual trip which is ONLY for the aforementioned theatre and art students, not the dancers) and I got to dance at The Kennedy Center in Washington D.C.
The Kennedy Center!
It's my dancing history pride and joy moment.
But, I moved to Chicago and started teaching dance and could only find a job in the burbs teaching snooty girls who didn't want to be there.
So I quit.
And entered the veterinary world.
I was hired (for reasons I still don't get) at a brand new clinic in the South Loop and there I was taught everything I wanted and needed to know about being a veterinary technician.
Because of that I met my now husband and was a veterinary technician for almost 15 years.
And a great time it was.
So, I guess I did get to be what I wanted when I grew up.
Kind of.

Then I had babies and I've been solely taking care of them since they popped out of me.
I thought briefly of becoming a midwife.
That probably stemmed from the fact that I was always watching "A Baby Story" on TLC.
Especially since I was breastfeeding Gigi for 12 months.
And breastfeeding for that long AND watching TLC shows makes a lady lose her mind.
Then one got cancer.
She was diagnosed exactly one day before I was to re-enter the dance world.
I was going to start teaching a class where the girls' dance.
But, that couldn't happen.
My next stage in life was to be inundated with leukemia information.
Chemo do's and dont's.
I was on fever patrol (still am actually) and became best friends with hand sanitizer.
Not what I planned for my life.
Certainly not what I planned for my child.

I now wonder what I am going to do with the rest of my life.
I don't really want to teach dance.
I don't want to be attacked by dogs and cats.
I don't want to go to school again unless I'm taking a class I really want to take (like when I took a class on bees a few years ago.)
It's hard to be this age and not know the answer to the "what do you want to be?" question.
I like photography.
I like baking.
I like animal husbandry (I'm going to get chickens sometime soon.)
I like helping the childhood cancer world.
Do others have problems with this?
Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?
If you figure things out for yourself give me a ring and let me know how you came to that conclusion.
Growing up is a tough business.

42

Today I ate a hamburger with mustard, mayo, lettuce, bacon, and cheese on it.
I NEVER do that.
My taste buds have finally matured to enjoy fully condimented meat.
42 is going to rock!

I had to get my drivers license renewed today and they took my photo.
42 is going to suck!

I have found reduced-fat Cheese Nips.
42 is going to rock!

My thighs look like cheese curds.
42 is going to suck!

My 8 year old is done with chemo (knocked on wood y'all!) and steroids and has energy again to hang with me.
42 is going to rock!

My 4 year old wears me out by her constant moving.
She's always moving.
Always.
Moving.
42 is going to suck!

With all of the "rocks" and the "sucks" in my life that will be 42 years of age next week, I'm gonna try to roll with them all and come out on top.
Being positive has gotten me far in life.
So here goes my declaration...
I'm going to ROCK 42!
Unless it sucks.

I'll Take Those Heels With A Side of Sassy, Please

I don't want to be a frumpy mom.
At all.
I don't want to wear jeans everyday.
I don't want to wear a crappy bra anymore.
I'm more than that.
I don't want to forget who I was before I had kids.
The funky artistic person I used to be.
The dancer in me.
The writer in me now.
I did wear black to my own wedding for pete's sake.

I believe that if my girls see me and see that I love who I am and I don't care what others may think of my style, then they too will be more creative and free-spirited.
Uniqueness is not overrated.
It's the thing to do.
To be.

Living in the city helps you to be yourself more, I think.
You go out more and see people and you want to look your best.
In the country, you see the goats.
And the lady at the bank, but only through the triple pan glass from the car.
There's no lively walking down the street to a restaurant, showing of my new shoes anymore.
Now it's a hurried walk through a parking lot crowded with minivans and pickup trucks.

Winter doesn't help either.
I do enjoy the bundling up early Fall invites into my life.
Sweaters under blazers with a jaunty scarf.
But, I'm ready for ankle pants, heels, and jazzy tops.
I need to vamp up my hair with some accessories I think.
I need to find my style again.
I need to find the girl who used to wear flowered pants without a second thought.
I need to find the girl who used to wear orange.
I need to remember who I was before I became a hospital mom.
A mom whose sole purpose had become to save her daughter.
Hair didn't matter.
Shoes didn't matter.
We have fought the good fight and it seems we are winning.
I do know what's really important in my day to day.
Life.
I get it.
Really, really get it.
But, I think I can bring out the lipstick and dazzling earrings again.
I can wear the turquoise jewels with wild abandonment.
I can find myself and reintroduce my funky side to this plain Jane who has taken over.
But I do think I'll leave the flowered pants to the younger crowd.   

  

I Swear...

I swear...

if I could lose the fat pounds off of my body as easily as I lose the hairs out of my head in the shower every day I would easily have been at or beyond my ideal weight eons ago!

I swear...

if one more person parks their car at the conservation parking lot next to my house and then decides to not walk into the woods with everyone else, but instead decides to walk on the "path" around my yard, I'm going to turn into a Hatfield or a McCoy and guns will be a'blazin!   

I swear...

I don't even own a gun. 
Really. 

I swear...

if one more person says, "Zoe's hair looks really good/or thick/or so long." I will have to say to them "we both know it's none of those things so just shut it."   

I swear...

a lot.

I swear...

I could drink a frozen strawberry lemonade from McD's every day of my life.
Which would not help with the fat pounds.
Damn.

I swear...

If the smelly, ugly, black tomcat that belongs to our neighbor with the cows doesn't stay in his own yard and if he doesn't stop trying to kill our kittens then the guns will be a'blazin' again!

I swear...

I still don't own a gun.
But I do know how to throw a rock.

   

When? What? I Don't Remember...

Forgetting things is my forte.
Without lists, I would forget that I need anything and need to go places.
I would forget that every Tuesday at 10:30 Gigi has dance class.
I would forget that every Saturday Zoe has dance at 10:00.
Every week.
But if I don't write it down on an actual paper calender, it's non-existent.
I must write down things right away if we run out of them onto a piece of paper.
Otherwise I would be at the store and buy only cheesy breads and ice cream, forgetting all about the milk for the children and the toilet paper for our arses.

There are things I forget every single day...

my bra size...is it 36B?  Or 38B?  C?  Was that only when I was pregnant or am I still a C?  No clue.

the time...I pick up Zoe every day from school and leave the house at 2:30.  If I didn't look at the clock every five minutes I would have no clue when to get her.  And she would be that kid sitting on the curb, with puppy dog eyes because her mother forgot her.  Again.

this isn't something I forgot to do, Chad forgot and I don't forgive him to this day...he forgot to give Vince Vaughn my phone number when he was filming The Breakup in Chicago and Chad was watching some filming.  He didn't even try!!  What kind of husband does that, I say?!  Forget that?  Never.

stain removal...is it a cold water soak to get out chocolate or a dab of alcohol?  Or is that for ink?  I don't remember and am too lazy to hang some chart on my wall (which would be tacky anyway, so I ain't gonna do it!).  Just put a pin over that stain or move your tie a little to the left all day, JUST DO IT!

my wedding anniversary...don't ask me why.  One year I marked it on the calendar (cause you know, that's what I do) and wrote it on the wrong date and only noticed like a day before.  Maybe it goes back to the Vince Vaughn incident.  

There's the regular stuff like forgetting I've put food into the oven unless the timer is set.
Sorry about the burned bunny cookies, girls. 
I have been known to forget to feed pets.
I've also forgotten to pick up Zoe's medication from the pharmacy.
All because it wasn't written down. 

As I get older I know it will get worse.
I see it just trying to have a conversation with my parents.
My future.
Of forgetting.
I know you'll be there with me, though.
It's part of the big plan, isn't it?
I think...

I may have forgotten to put her in a bed,
so this is where she slept 





         
         

Wave!

Some things I have noticed lately...

As I'm about to enter my 41st year on this earth, my body (instead of being something I know through and through) has started to become a foreign national to me... 

I sweat more.

Hair is sprouting up in strange spots and Chad and I are really starting to look alike because of it.

My underwear size has gone from bikini to brief and let me tell you, there's nothing brief about what I'm shoving into that stretchy fabric. 

I have a toenail that got destroyed in college when it was constantly shoved into pointe shoes.  COME ON TOENAIL!  It's been 20 years and you are still acting like an ass!  

I have decided this spring to wear more color.  I'll still hold onto the grays and blacks that have been my friends since 1986, but if you see something that resembles a sherbet parade float heading your way, don't be scared.  It's just me in my new yellow pants and teal tank-top. 

Speaking of tank-tops, I love them, but am lazy about my arms and they probably should not be in a tank-top.  I have a friend who does Crossfit and she puts my arms to shame. She puts everyone to shame.  Thanks Dianna.  So, if you see a sherbet parade float with mud flaps, it's once again, just me.  

My daughter is losing her hair.  Again.  I was thinking about growing my hair out and haven't cut it in quite a while, but will probably cut it short again in solidarity of my bald girl.  It's just hair and as we tell her, it will grow back.  Sometimes looks aren't always what's top on this girl's list.  

So, if you see a sweaty, hairy, flappy, sherbet, big briefed and toenail-less, short-haired lady coming...wave.

It's just me.   

      

Ripening

It's sad to grow old, but nice to ripen.

~Brigitte Bardot

I was in the bathroom the other morning trying to get myself ready for something. 
Probably just a trip to the store or the post office.  Not much else happens for me. 
When I looked closely at my right eye in the mirror and found something that flabbergasted me.  Made me step back in astonishment and then quickly back to the mirror to reevaluate what I had seen.  It had to have been a mistake.  The way the light was hitting me.  Anything but what I had seen. 
But alas it was right there. 
Screaming at me...a gray eyelash! 
WHAT?! 
I didn't even know those existed on people! 
I've seen men with gray eyebrow hairs that jut out at odd angles and wads of gray hair shooting out from their ears, but I've never seen a woman with gray eyelashes. 
Or I guess I've never noticed before and thought to myself if I had noticed, "what lovely blonde eyelashes she has next to all of those wrinkles."   
I quickly threw on some BLACK mascara, had a silent crying outburst deep down inside myself, and went on with my day.
But I keep thinking about it.  
That lone gray eyelash.
Upper lid.
Three hairs from the edge on the right.

Then I did some Wii dancing.
Zoe got Just Dance for Kids after Christmas.
I tweaked my knee dancing to Mah Na Mah Na.
Nice.
What's going to happen next?

It started with my eyes.  
As discussed in an earlier blog, I believe I need bifocals.
Then the eyelash.
Then the knee.

Forty one years of age will hit me in March.
Some days I feel 26 internally.
Full of life and energy.
Other days not so much.
Other days I'm tired.
Sore.
Feeling old.
Winter I believe plays a big part into that feeling.
I like being outdoors and when it's cold and blowing snow, like today, I don't get out as much and the sun is hidden and I feel as dead as the trees in my yard look.

BUT, this is not the attitude to have.
Yes, I'm not 115 pounds like I was in college (man, those were the days!)
Yes, my muscles are not as toned as they once were.
Yes, it's hard to exercise when you share your day with a 3 year old.
But, I must make amends with myself.
To drink more water, get my cholesterol checked and a mammogram done.
To not give up on myself since I do have young kids.
And I need to be here for them in a healthy way.
In a strong manner.
To not worry about my age and just live.
Maybe I should set an example that age is not about covering the gray hairs on my head, but about embracing my knowledge of this life I've already lived.
Yeah right!
I think I need to get to Target for some more dye.
Now, where's my mascara... 

We turn not older with years, but newer every day.

~Emily Dickinson

Everyday Learning

Some things I've learned...


Goats love bananas.
Horses do not.

I need to exercise more, my butt will not shrink by visual stimulation alone.

Some people are uber inspiring, like my friend Jonathan,

Screaming Frog Productions

While other's are not.  at all.  ever...

When your child becomes sick your friends either rally around you or they become so freaked out by something that isn't affecting their kids that they disappear.  Those that disappear seem to be oblivious to the situation and don't need to be in your life anymore. 
By they way, the disassociated have been very small for me...2. The ralliers have far outweighed those that have withdrawn...   

I still hate mushrooms.
And peppers.

I think I like cats more than dogs.



Even though we live next door to a cemetery, we don't get a lot of ghost action.

Except for my grandma on occasion, it's pretty spirit-free over here...



I would much rather watch sitcoms on the Disney Channel, like Wizards of Waverly Place or Good Luck Charlie, than sitcoms on the major networks geared towards adults.  They just aren't that funny...

In regards to TV in general...I just don't watch it that much anymore.  There aren't shows I just "have" to watch. 

But I heart NPR.

I still don't believe.  If it hasn't happened by now, it's not going to happen. 

But the some of the principles behind Buddhism interest me.

 What have you learned about yourself?

 

Focus

My eyes are not the same as they were last year. 

It's easier for me to see things up close without wearing my glasses. 

What?! 

I've had to wear glasses since the 4th grade and it's so strange that instead of just being "blind", now I am both "blind and in need of short range lenses." 

What is going on??  

Because I am using one of these things more, it's a manure fork folks...

my back hurts, my knees hurt, my shoulders hurt, I hurt and

I hate taking drugs of any kind, but have found myself

taking more pain relievers than usual.

My hair just keeps getting grayer and grayer and I doubt I will ever

look this good if I let it go all gray.

So, I color it brown to try to retain some of my youth.

And speaking of hair, I have found more oddly placed hairs on my body.

Let your imagination go wild... 

Dealing with a child who is sick does not allow me the time to worry about myself too much.

Yes, I should go to the doctor to get my cholesterol checked.

Yes, I should get that mammogram my gynecologist requested 8 months ago.

Yes, I should get my hair cut more often.

But I don't.

I don't have time.

And I just don't want to.

My focus now is on a six year old and her wee little sister.

"You have to take care of yourself in order to take care of others."

But when it's happening to you it's different.

Your focus shifts.

Maybe that's why I need bifocals now.

To better focus on what's right in front of me.

Dry Fields and Cute Sweaters

It's dry.

I don't think it's rained more than a sprinkle at our house since June. 

The back pasture plus the front and side yards are showing it. 

Poor grass. 

Brown and crunchy.

The goats pick out the green stuff poking through.

Spring brings the best stuff, soft and green and full of nutrients. 

By August it's had it. 

Just had it. 

Since it looks like fall out my window with the brown grass and the leaves of the walnut trees falling off already, I'm making a pot pie for dinner.  I don't care if it's 90 degrees outside.

Dry.

My hair is dry.

My skin is dry.

My bank account is dry.

Which leads to my current quandary...my dry wardrobe.

Like a lot of moms who always buy stuff for the kids first, themselves second, my wardrobe is in dire straights right now. 

I have 3 shirts that I wear all of the time. 

I try not to go out in public too much. 

I am in dire need of new pants. 

Some jeans and maybe a pair of grown up dark gray khakis would be nice...can you tell I've been thinking about this a lot? 

Bras.

I need new bras stat.

You don't even want to know about the state of my current bras.

I'm ashamed.

     

I have upped my shoe wardrobe a bit.  I have these cute suede wedge heels that I bought last year and I'm ready to start wearing them again.  But I need some new sassy flats.  Bought somewhere other than Target, please.  

I prefer fall and winter wear to warm weather clothing.  The more covered up I can be the better!  I adore sweaters that I can wrap myself up in.   

Isn't this cute?!

Oh well, like I said...it's dry.

At least the pot pie was moist.

My eyes as well as I keep looking at this sweater.

It's really, really cute.