I'm not really sure what my official Cancerversary is. I don't know if I'm supposed to mark the day of my diagnosis, my surgery, or my "all clear" day. So what the heck- I'll celebrate all three.
I was dreading April 25 for silly selfish reasons. I planned a personal day to register Henley for kindergarten and spend the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself because my first born would soon be starting school. My plans and my life quickly changed.
A couple weeks before, I had an appointment with a dermatologist to look at a "suspect" mole on my forearm. As soon as Dr. Russell saw it, she knew it had to go. I remember her words, "I don't like the way this guy looks." I was not terribly concerned because I had diagnosed myself before the doctor came in the room. According to the posters on the wall, I believed I had some basal cell or dysplastic mole. She took it off, and I thought I was done. On April 24th, she called and asked me to come by the next morning. Since I was already taking the day off, I said I would stop by before registering Henley.
The next morning, Chris asked me if I wanted him to come with me to the appointment. I don't remember being alarmed, but I agreed. I was still focusing on my upcoming pre-kindergarten depression. Dr. Russell did not waste any time. She said, "I'm glad you were able to come Chris.........." That's the exact moment I realized something was wrong. He listened while I watched my suddenly short fragile world flash in front of me. She said I had melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer. She went on to say that people with melanoma have an 5 year survival rate of 80%. As a "B" student throughout school, that number didn't bother me until Chris clarified. He said, "So you mean, there is a 20% chance she could die from this?" Suddenly, I wanted to be an "A+" student.
The next thing I knew, we were in the surgeon's office discussing how much skin was going to be removed, how to determine if the cancer had spread, and what further treatments would need to follow. Because my cancer was deep (a Clark level of 4 out of 5) and in a awkward spot, I would have a very large scar that would require a skin graft. While most skin graft donation sites come from your tushie- I couldn't come to terms with having skin from my ass grafted onto my arm. To this day, I still think this was a wise decision. I decided to have a patch of skin from my thigh grafted to my arm. The selected patch included a mole I suddenly hated and wanted to show it who was boss. (On a side note- the mole on my thigh grew back- I'm apparently not the boss.)
After several hours at the surgeon's office, it was decided I would have surgery in two days. I remember looking at my calender and saying, "I can't have it Wednesday because I have a module test and Friday isn't good because it's my daughter's birthday, Thursday isn't good because I have a softball game that night." Cancer didn't fit in my schedule.
Once the surgery was scheduled, I had to tell my principal I would need to be off work for two weeks. It seemed a little unfair to have to go to work on my personal day. My assistant principal was the first one I saw and bless her heart- she was as far as I made it. She was so reassuring. She seemed mad at my cancer and told me not to worry about work. While I was telling my boss, Chris was telling my family. My family has had a tough time medically with my dad's death in 1985 and my mom's brain tumor in 1999. I couldn't bear to give them the news.
Did I mention all this happened before noon? In a fog, I drove around for awhile before I remembered I had something to do. I drove to the elementary school and was greeted by smiling faces. I knew these teachers from my student teaching. They were excited to hear that Henley was going to be there in the fall. As I filled out the forms, I came to the Social History questions. I read the question, "Are there any family medical situations at home?" I wanted to put, "Yes, AND I DON'T HAVE THE ANSWERS!!!!" Instead, I sobbed in the little school chair and felt pretty damn sorry for myself.
On the day of my surgery, the attending nurse asked me if I knew what I was there for. I told her I was there to get the ugly ass cancer out of my body. She laughed and said, "You will beat this because you have already decided not to let it beat you." On Thursday, April 27th 2006, I had a section of skin above my wrist removed that measured a diameter of 4.7 cm with a diameter of 1 cm. Two sentinel nodes were removed, and a skin graft the size of an iPhone. The nodes came back clear which meant the cancer had not spread. My oncologist recommended an eight week course of interferon to prevent the melanoma from returning. After learning how sick the drug would make me and the benefit it "might" provide, I decided not go through with the treatment. For five years I have debated that decision. Did I make a decision for convenience only to hurt me in the long run?
Cancer has not beaten me. I have made cancer my bitch for FIVE years now. To anyone who thinks skin cancer is not a serious cancer, I would love to show you my twelve scars and my pile of medical bills. While most 5 year survivors get a clean bill of health, melanoma doesn't play the same. Melanoma hides better than other cancers. Skin cancer does not show up on CT scans or bone scans and is often only detected my a dermatologist. I will continue to have CT scans, bone scans, blood tests, and skin checks every six to nine months. I will continue to slather on an SPF 35 on sunny AND cloudy days. I will continue swimming and loving the outdoors but will remember to reapply every sunscreen every two hours. I will continue to get my tans from a bottle.
Have you had your moles checked?
Did you know melanoma can develop in your eyes, on your palms and even on your nail beds? Did you know that one serious burn as a child significantly increases your chances of developing melanoma? Melanoma is the most common cancer in people ages 25-29. It is the second most common cancer in adolescents. It is estimated that 1 in 5 people will develop a form of skin cancer in their lifetime.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Surely I Can Outrun a Pregnant Lady
One of my biggest fears in life is running in public. It is a fear I am "working on".
I have only been running (sporadically) for a little over two years. I honestly don't remember what caused me to start, but I'd be willing to bet it was a cute pair of running shoes. I have learned to love running, but as with most relationships, running and I have a few issues we need to work through.
Things I hate about running:
sports bras
how bright red my face gets
the first 1/4 mile
treadmills
asthma
the amount of food I devour after a run
how silly I feel for being proud of how far I ran
losing
After my first 5K in 1999, the paramedics at the finish line asked me if I needed assistance. A paramedic wanting to strap an oxygen mask to you kills a runner's high immediately. Three hours after the race, my face was still as red as a fire hydrant. That might explain why it took me 8 years before I ran again. Eight years and a couple of kids later....
I started running at the health club on the treadmill. That worked for a couple of weeks until a trainer asked me to check my heart rate because my face was so red. I decided I'd explore outdoor running. I liked it so much I convinced myself to try another race.
*Now, let me state the obvious here. I do not run in races to win. I run to finish. This doesn't mean I'm not competetive. I am VERY competetive. This creates a quandry. I'm not a good runner, but surely I'm better than someone. I fully understand how tacky that sounds, but it is the truth.
My next race was the Toad Suck 5K. I thought my competition was a fellow teacher who happened to be a "few" years older than me. At the gun, I lost her and was forced to find new competition. I tried to find someone around my age and build. That worked until I was passed by Senator Gilbert Baker and his entire family. They were running with a banner and American flags like a parade on speed. My running suddenly turned political. I did not want to be passed by a family of homeschooling Republicans. (I will probably lose some readers because of this statement- before you leave my blog please note that they beat me, by a lot) I crossed the finish line and ran straight for my car. I did not want to be approached by any paramedics or well intending race officials.
My oldest daughter has shown interest in running. She is in the running club at her school. Last year, she ran a 5K at school, and she asked me to run as well. I knew I would have to hold back my competetive nature. I encouraged her to run as much as she could and tried not to feel "held back". I tried by best to encourage her and other runners and not fret over my lagging pace. I was proud to watch her cross the finish line well ahead of me. I am not proud of the desire to kick in the afterburners and smoke the two kids in front of me. At the finish line, I hugged my kid and left before I had to pose for pictures (remember the red face).
Last Friday, I decided to run in a 2 mile race the next morning. Immediately after registering, I did what all experienced runners do the night before a race. I carb loaded. Alright.....no one carb loads before a 2 mile race, but it was a good excuse to stuff my face. Never EVER should you eat catfish, a baked potato, hushpuppies, bread pudding, banana pudding, and a couple bites of chocolate cake the night before any race.
As I was waiting for the race to start, I began the search for my competition. Everyone was so skinny!!! Everyone except for the pregnant lady. She would be my competition. Remember, I had bread pudding. That made it an even match. As we lined up for the race, I looked for her in front of me and since I didn't see her, I assumed she was behind me. That meant I was ALREADY winning.
I made sure I was not passed by anyone resembling a pregnant lady. I allowed anyone with professional running attire pass and refrained from spitting on them. At the last 1/2 mile, I was regretting every french fry I ate the night before (did I forget to mention the french fries???). That was when I was passed by a kindergartner. I thought about hopping in the ambulance that seemed to be following me. I then noticed a shirtless man running the opposite direction. He met up with who I assumed was his kindergarten daughter, and they ran the rest of the race together. I decided it was not fair to consider her my competition. Her parents probably never let her eat a banana split for dinner. Bless her heart. I can safely say I did not let any pregnant ladies pass me. After I crossed the finish line, I forced myself to "hang around". I received some strange looks that could only be due to my rosy red complexion. As I was cruising around, cooling down, I saw my pregnant competition. She looked very relaxed. She had not run the 2 mile!!! She apparently had entered the 1 mile Pet Walk. I then realized that not only had I NOT beaten a pregnant lady in a race, I was smoked by a kindergartner. Yea, me.
My next race is Thursday. It is my daughter's race. It is about her. I will not be looking for pregnant women or kindergarteners to beat. I might even stick around for a picture or two. Wish me luck!
I have only been running (sporadically) for a little over two years. I honestly don't remember what caused me to start, but I'd be willing to bet it was a cute pair of running shoes. I have learned to love running, but as with most relationships, running and I have a few issues we need to work through.
Things I hate about running:
sports bras
how bright red my face gets
the first 1/4 mile
treadmills
asthma
the amount of food I devour after a run
how silly I feel for being proud of how far I ran
losing
After my first 5K in 1999, the paramedics at the finish line asked me if I needed assistance. A paramedic wanting to strap an oxygen mask to you kills a runner's high immediately. Three hours after the race, my face was still as red as a fire hydrant. That might explain why it took me 8 years before I ran again. Eight years and a couple of kids later....
I started running at the health club on the treadmill. That worked for a couple of weeks until a trainer asked me to check my heart rate because my face was so red. I decided I'd explore outdoor running. I liked it so much I convinced myself to try another race.
*Now, let me state the obvious here. I do not run in races to win. I run to finish. This doesn't mean I'm not competetive. I am VERY competetive. This creates a quandry. I'm not a good runner, but surely I'm better than someone. I fully understand how tacky that sounds, but it is the truth.
My next race was the Toad Suck 5K. I thought my competition was a fellow teacher who happened to be a "few" years older than me. At the gun, I lost her and was forced to find new competition. I tried to find someone around my age and build. That worked until I was passed by Senator Gilbert Baker and his entire family. They were running with a banner and American flags like a parade on speed. My running suddenly turned political. I did not want to be passed by a family of homeschooling Republicans. (I will probably lose some readers because of this statement- before you leave my blog please note that they beat me, by a lot) I crossed the finish line and ran straight for my car. I did not want to be approached by any paramedics or well intending race officials.
My oldest daughter has shown interest in running. She is in the running club at her school. Last year, she ran a 5K at school, and she asked me to run as well. I knew I would have to hold back my competetive nature. I encouraged her to run as much as she could and tried not to feel "held back". I tried by best to encourage her and other runners and not fret over my lagging pace. I was proud to watch her cross the finish line well ahead of me. I am not proud of the desire to kick in the afterburners and smoke the two kids in front of me. At the finish line, I hugged my kid and left before I had to pose for pictures (remember the red face).
Last Friday, I decided to run in a 2 mile race the next morning. Immediately after registering, I did what all experienced runners do the night before a race. I carb loaded. Alright.....no one carb loads before a 2 mile race, but it was a good excuse to stuff my face. Never EVER should you eat catfish, a baked potato, hushpuppies, bread pudding, banana pudding, and a couple bites of chocolate cake the night before any race.
As I was waiting for the race to start, I began the search for my competition. Everyone was so skinny!!! Everyone except for the pregnant lady. She would be my competition. Remember, I had bread pudding. That made it an even match. As we lined up for the race, I looked for her in front of me and since I didn't see her, I assumed she was behind me. That meant I was ALREADY winning.
I made sure I was not passed by anyone resembling a pregnant lady. I allowed anyone with professional running attire pass and refrained from spitting on them. At the last 1/2 mile, I was regretting every french fry I ate the night before (did I forget to mention the french fries???). That was when I was passed by a kindergartner. I thought about hopping in the ambulance that seemed to be following me. I then noticed a shirtless man running the opposite direction. He met up with who I assumed was his kindergarten daughter, and they ran the rest of the race together. I decided it was not fair to consider her my competition. Her parents probably never let her eat a banana split for dinner. Bless her heart. I can safely say I did not let any pregnant ladies pass me. After I crossed the finish line, I forced myself to "hang around". I received some strange looks that could only be due to my rosy red complexion. As I was cruising around, cooling down, I saw my pregnant competition. She looked very relaxed. She had not run the 2 mile!!! She apparently had entered the 1 mile Pet Walk. I then realized that not only had I NOT beaten a pregnant lady in a race, I was smoked by a kindergartner. Yea, me.
My next race is Thursday. It is my daughter's race. It is about her. I will not be looking for pregnant women or kindergarteners to beat. I might even stick around for a picture or two. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
This is My Brain on Samoas
I went into this year's "Girl Scout Cookie Time" with a plan. I would not succumb to the dozens of obligatory orders from current and former students. I limited our inventory by consolidating the order process. The Masters family would only buy one box of cookies from the first Girl Scout to ask. No other boxes would be purchased....anywhere....anytime....under any conditions. This was the plan.
This is how the plan has failed:
#1 The first Girl Scout to ask was actually the scout's mother (whom I know well). She lured me to a Mexican restaurant and bought rounds of margaritas before the order form appeared. Ordering under the influence= four boxes of Samoas instead of one.
#2 The cookies arrived Friday. On the day before, against all odds, I posted a substanial weight loss of 0.4 ounces in our Faculty Fit Club. 0.4 ounces is nothing to scoff at since my dramatic weight loss came after a week's worth of snow days. I privately celebrated my accomplishment with an entire box of Samoas. Technically, I let Abby and Henley have one. Each. They each had one. I considered forcing them to share one cookie but knew it was wrong. I'm a good mom.
#3 Chris fished all morning Saturday and left me home alone with boxes 2, 3, & 4. I was a bad mom. I told Henley she could not have Samoas for breakfast because it was not a healthy food choice. So as I made french toast from scratch, I ate box 2. Three things you should realize at this point.....I blame others for my lack of will power....I apparently believe french toast is a healthier breakfast than cookies.....and cookies make me stupid.
#4 I needed a new plan. If I would hurry up and eat the rest of the cookies, they would no longer be a temptation. Apparently, Samoas kill brain cells. Box 3 disappeared in record time when I realized I could eat two at once. I did share some of box 3. While I was gone, Chris allowed Abby to have some. When I returned and surveyed my remaining inventory, Abby quickly pointed out she ate some. "Daddy let me have FOUR!!!" After teaching her a quick lesson on proper portion control, I finished the rest of the box before I was forced to share with anyone else.
#5 Chris has been NO help. He has not and will not eat any of the cookies. He swears he has found a protein rich granola bar that tastes just like Samoas. I've tried them. When I say I've tried them, what I mean is I have tried to hide the Samoas behind the granola bars in the pantry. Box 4 is currently surrounded by a fort of nutrition. Nobody will look for them there. Unfortunately, I'm the one the cookies need to be hidden from.
#6 Those damn cookies are for sale on every street corner. My problem does not simply go away after I polish off box 4. I have to avoid every grocery store in town for the next two weeks. And these girls are trained to recognize cookie addicts. They are dressed in cute little cookie costumes and use such strong language in their advertising. Help Support our Troop. Send Us to Camp. Buy Cookies Or We'll Cry. They even earn a badge for their high pressure sales tactic. Chris will have to do the grocery shopping for the next two weeks which means we will have plenty of high protein granola bars.
What message are we sending to these young girls? Are Girl Scouts really selling these cookies or is this an elaborate plot by some terrorist organization? Do I really need to gain five pounds so some girl I don't know can go to camp to learn about self control and self respect? Nay nay, I say. I never went to Girl Scout Camp and I have plenty of self control....
This is how the plan has failed:
#1 The first Girl Scout to ask was actually the scout's mother (whom I know well). She lured me to a Mexican restaurant and bought rounds of margaritas before the order form appeared. Ordering under the influence= four boxes of Samoas instead of one.
#2 The cookies arrived Friday. On the day before, against all odds, I posted a substanial weight loss of 0.4 ounces in our Faculty Fit Club. 0.4 ounces is nothing to scoff at since my dramatic weight loss came after a week's worth of snow days. I privately celebrated my accomplishment with an entire box of Samoas. Technically, I let Abby and Henley have one. Each. They each had one. I considered forcing them to share one cookie but knew it was wrong. I'm a good mom.
#3 Chris fished all morning Saturday and left me home alone with boxes 2, 3, & 4. I was a bad mom. I told Henley she could not have Samoas for breakfast because it was not a healthy food choice. So as I made french toast from scratch, I ate box 2. Three things you should realize at this point.....I blame others for my lack of will power....I apparently believe french toast is a healthier breakfast than cookies.....and cookies make me stupid.
#4 I needed a new plan. If I would hurry up and eat the rest of the cookies, they would no longer be a temptation. Apparently, Samoas kill brain cells. Box 3 disappeared in record time when I realized I could eat two at once. I did share some of box 3. While I was gone, Chris allowed Abby to have some. When I returned and surveyed my remaining inventory, Abby quickly pointed out she ate some. "Daddy let me have FOUR!!!" After teaching her a quick lesson on proper portion control, I finished the rest of the box before I was forced to share with anyone else.
#5 Chris has been NO help. He has not and will not eat any of the cookies. He swears he has found a protein rich granola bar that tastes just like Samoas. I've tried them. When I say I've tried them, what I mean is I have tried to hide the Samoas behind the granola bars in the pantry. Box 4 is currently surrounded by a fort of nutrition. Nobody will look for them there. Unfortunately, I'm the one the cookies need to be hidden from.
#6 Those damn cookies are for sale on every street corner. My problem does not simply go away after I polish off box 4. I have to avoid every grocery store in town for the next two weeks. And these girls are trained to recognize cookie addicts. They are dressed in cute little cookie costumes and use such strong language in their advertising. Help Support our Troop. Send Us to Camp. Buy Cookies Or We'll Cry. They even earn a badge for their high pressure sales tactic. Chris will have to do the grocery shopping for the next two weeks which means we will have plenty of high protein granola bars.
What message are we sending to these young girls? Are Girl Scouts really selling these cookies or is this an elaborate plot by some terrorist organization? Do I really need to gain five pounds so some girl I don't know can go to camp to learn about self control and self respect? Nay nay, I say. I never went to Girl Scout Camp and I have plenty of self control....
Thursday, February 17, 2011
I'll Never Buy Metamucil
I am not old. Old age is relative. I am younger than a large number of people, however I am very aware that each day that number goes down. Each day, more people are added to this world, and they will always be younger than me. With age comes experience. From this experience, I realize I've added a new food group to my diet. This food group contains all the things my younger self said I'd never do...like buy Metamucil.
Evidence that I am old:
Instead of counting beers, I count grams of fiber.
I keep Tums in my purse, glove box, and desk.
I have trouble reading the directions on the back of packages.
I'd rather have a new vaccum, than perfume or jewelry.
I feel wild when I stay out past 10pm.
Buying items in bulk gives me a sense of security.
In my contact list, I have more doctors than friends.
Kroger Pharmacy sends me a Christmas card.
I say, "We didn't have ________ when my kids were little."
All my pants have STRETCH somewhere on the label.
I own more SPANX than lingerie.
I enjoy Southern Living more than Glamour.
Victoria's Secret officially took me off their mailing list.
I complain about loud music.
Elastic pants aren't as ugly as I once thought.
Comfort trumps style.
When I married Chris, I owned a 1987 Dodge Shadow (The Cher-dow). It was on life support after I abused and neglected the poor thing throughout my high school and college years. By the summer of 1997, the ceiling fabric doubled as drapery, the air conditioner worked only on odd days after 6pm, the glove box mysteriously popped open at 55 MPH, and the windshield wipers worked independently when they were not tangled behind the side mirrors. So needless to say, I looked forward to a new(er) car. I was 21 and my standards were understandably low. We bought the first car we test drove. Truth be told, I was too nervous to drive such a nice car, so Chris was the driver. Let me tell you, that 1995 Ford Taurus was one hot car. It was maroon with gray fabric seats detailed with rainbow trimming. It had 4 doors, a trunk that latched, a horn that worked, windows that rolled both up AND down electrically, sunglass holder, a cassette player that successfully ejected tapes, and........a cup holder!!! I .thought I was the bomb diggity. Several weeks later, I was "rolling" in my new, sweet Taurus when a guy in the car next to me caught my attention. He turned down his radio and said, "Nice car, Grandma." At that exact moment, I became the oldest 21 year old on the planet. I also said I would NEVER drive an old lady car again. I ate those words when I drove off the car lot with my first full sized Suburban with my two car seats and a double stroller taking up the oversized cargo space. Then I went back for seconds when I traded that one in for yet another full sized Suburban. I am now the proud owner of a very sporty, Jeep Wrangler 4x4 in Red Rock with the Freedom Top. I like to think it makes me look 10 years younger Well....maybe 5 years younger since it does have those two extra doors, but no car seats or strollers!!!
Last week, Chris and I took the girls sledding on a nearby golf course. We stood at the top of a hill alongside a group of college kids. In an attempt to prove my youth, I grabbed the sled and was the first one to zoom down the hill. As I neared the bottom of the hill, I realized I had no control over the sled as a pine tree threatened to split me in two. I bailed off the sled, arms and legs flailing, and flopped into a snow drift. If I had been younger, I would have laughed and bounced up immediately. Instead, I laid there for a second and did a quick scan for broken limbs. During my quick scan I noticed that the crowd at the top of the hill was oddly quiet. Proof that I am old. If I had not been a mother of two in my mid thirties, my fall would have been hilarious. When I finally made it back to the top of the hill, one of the college kids asked me if I was okay. She had an honest look of concern. To add insult to injury, at that moment, I realized she was one of my former 5th graders. We soon left to embarrass ourselves with people our own age.......and their kids.
I know I am not yet over the hill. I am however approching the crest of the hill. I certainly home when I get to the top of the hill, my decent to the other side will be a little more graceful than the last hill I attempted. If it is painful and ugly, at least do me the favor of laughing.
Evidence that I am old:
Instead of counting beers, I count grams of fiber.
I keep Tums in my purse, glove box, and desk.
I have trouble reading the directions on the back of packages.
I'd rather have a new vaccum, than perfume or jewelry.
I feel wild when I stay out past 10pm.
Buying items in bulk gives me a sense of security.
In my contact list, I have more doctors than friends.
Kroger Pharmacy sends me a Christmas card.
I say, "We didn't have ________ when my kids were little."
All my pants have STRETCH somewhere on the label.
I own more SPANX than lingerie.
I enjoy Southern Living more than Glamour.
Victoria's Secret officially took me off their mailing list.
I complain about loud music.
Elastic pants aren't as ugly as I once thought.
Comfort trumps style.
When I married Chris, I owned a 1987 Dodge Shadow (The Cher-dow). It was on life support after I abused and neglected the poor thing throughout my high school and college years. By the summer of 1997, the ceiling fabric doubled as drapery, the air conditioner worked only on odd days after 6pm, the glove box mysteriously popped open at 55 MPH, and the windshield wipers worked independently when they were not tangled behind the side mirrors. So needless to say, I looked forward to a new(er) car. I was 21 and my standards were understandably low. We bought the first car we test drove. Truth be told, I was too nervous to drive such a nice car, so Chris was the driver. Let me tell you, that 1995 Ford Taurus was one hot car. It was maroon with gray fabric seats detailed with rainbow trimming. It had 4 doors, a trunk that latched, a horn that worked, windows that rolled both up AND down electrically, sunglass holder, a cassette player that successfully ejected tapes, and........a cup holder!!! I .thought I was the bomb diggity. Several weeks later, I was "rolling" in my new, sweet Taurus when a guy in the car next to me caught my attention. He turned down his radio and said, "Nice car, Grandma." At that exact moment, I became the oldest 21 year old on the planet. I also said I would NEVER drive an old lady car again. I ate those words when I drove off the car lot with my first full sized Suburban with my two car seats and a double stroller taking up the oversized cargo space. Then I went back for seconds when I traded that one in for yet another full sized Suburban. I am now the proud owner of a very sporty, Jeep Wrangler 4x4 in Red Rock with the Freedom Top. I like to think it makes me look 10 years younger Well....maybe 5 years younger since it does have those two extra doors, but no car seats or strollers!!!
Last week, Chris and I took the girls sledding on a nearby golf course. We stood at the top of a hill alongside a group of college kids. In an attempt to prove my youth, I grabbed the sled and was the first one to zoom down the hill. As I neared the bottom of the hill, I realized I had no control over the sled as a pine tree threatened to split me in two. I bailed off the sled, arms and legs flailing, and flopped into a snow drift. If I had been younger, I would have laughed and bounced up immediately. Instead, I laid there for a second and did a quick scan for broken limbs. During my quick scan I noticed that the crowd at the top of the hill was oddly quiet. Proof that I am old. If I had not been a mother of two in my mid thirties, my fall would have been hilarious. When I finally made it back to the top of the hill, one of the college kids asked me if I was okay. She had an honest look of concern. To add insult to injury, at that moment, I realized she was one of my former 5th graders. We soon left to embarrass ourselves with people our own age.......and their kids.
I know I am not yet over the hill. I am however approching the crest of the hill. I certainly home when I get to the top of the hill, my decent to the other side will be a little more graceful than the last hill I attempted. If it is painful and ugly, at least do me the favor of laughing.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I Don't Want Gifts
Is there anything more awkward than opening a slinky pink negligee in front of your friends, your mother's friends, and even your grandmothers' friends? The answer is yes. Open the pink negligee in front of all those wonderful women and have the present be from your future mother-in-law.
I have no problem speaking in public. Dressing up in a fruit costume in front of students and parents is a breeze. Leading a group of strangers in singing "The Arkansas Fight Song" comes quite naturally to me. However, opening a present in front of people is as uncomfortable for me as drinking a Kryptonite smoothie is for Superman.
Since when did opening gifts become a spectator sport? Think about bridal showers, birthday parties, and baby showers. A crowd of people (the fans) watch one person (the star athlete) open gifts. Just like any sporting event, the fans even prefer to eat while watching. The fans wait to see what's in the box. The fans secretly await the awkward moment when a duplicate crystal rose bowl is opened. How will the "athlete" handle this? Will her reactions be critiqued in the post-shower game by the professionals? Don't forget the "star athlete" often has a coach or trainer sitting next to them, calling out the plays.
It is NOT that I don't like the gifts. I just don't like the pressure of having to like the gifts at the exact moment. That still sounds rather ungrateful. Maybe its just the crowd factor. Any bride can understand this. Open a box of yellow bath towels and you are somewhat limited on what you can say. Of course you say "Thank you", but when you are sitting in front of the gift giver, its as though another comment is expected. Since you registered for the yellow bath towels, "They're just what I wanted" seems silly. "They are beautiful", is redundant since you wouldn't exactly register for hideous towels. "I can't wait to use them" forces an unwanted visual.
I'm rarely speechless, but I just couldn't find the right words when I opened that pink negligee. "I can't wait to use it????"
To be honest- I never actually said I don't want gifts. It just isn't the language I speak. Our Sunday School class is discussing The 5 Love Languages. Each couple completed an assessment which revealed how we prefer to be loved. My score showed I prefer "Acts of Service" with "Receiving Gifts" as my least preferred. Chris said the test had to be invalid. At first, I did too. In my mind, it was like I speak a language I can't understand. I can speak "gifting", I just can't understand "gifting"???
I love to give gifts, and I want the gifts I give to be meaningful and heartfelt. For me, watching someone open a gift is just as uncomfortable as opening it myself. That's why I prefer to use either the "Hit and Run" or the "Drive By" approach to giving gifts. I'd rather the recipient "find" the gift than watch them open it. I'd actually prefer to remain anonymous when I give gifts. I once worked with a person that was so good at gifting that it became a game. She was the best and I wanted to be better. Competetive gifting. She spoke my language and we played by the same rules. Gifts mysteriously appeared without cards. The gifts were so unique and thoughtful, a card was unnecessary. You don't need a card that reads "You Are My Friend" when you open a beautifully wrapped box to find a plastic french roll with sesame seeds.
I realize in posting this, I run the risk of never receiving gifts again. According to my Sunday School test, my Love Tank does not depend on gifts alone, so I should be fine. I guess my Love Tank is some kind of eco-friendly, flex fuel, hybrid type. I do hope that the next time you give a gift, you give the recipient some slack when it comes to their reaction. Not everyone is a professional in competetive gifting.
I have no problem speaking in public. Dressing up in a fruit costume in front of students and parents is a breeze. Leading a group of strangers in singing "The Arkansas Fight Song" comes quite naturally to me. However, opening a present in front of people is as uncomfortable for me as drinking a Kryptonite smoothie is for Superman.
Since when did opening gifts become a spectator sport? Think about bridal showers, birthday parties, and baby showers. A crowd of people (the fans) watch one person (the star athlete) open gifts. Just like any sporting event, the fans even prefer to eat while watching. The fans wait to see what's in the box. The fans secretly await the awkward moment when a duplicate crystal rose bowl is opened. How will the "athlete" handle this? Will her reactions be critiqued in the post-shower game by the professionals? Don't forget the "star athlete" often has a coach or trainer sitting next to them, calling out the plays.
It is NOT that I don't like the gifts. I just don't like the pressure of having to like the gifts at the exact moment. That still sounds rather ungrateful. Maybe its just the crowd factor. Any bride can understand this. Open a box of yellow bath towels and you are somewhat limited on what you can say. Of course you say "Thank you", but when you are sitting in front of the gift giver, its as though another comment is expected. Since you registered for the yellow bath towels, "They're just what I wanted" seems silly. "They are beautiful", is redundant since you wouldn't exactly register for hideous towels. "I can't wait to use them" forces an unwanted visual.
I'm rarely speechless, but I just couldn't find the right words when I opened that pink negligee. "I can't wait to use it????"
To be honest- I never actually said I don't want gifts. It just isn't the language I speak. Our Sunday School class is discussing The 5 Love Languages. Each couple completed an assessment which revealed how we prefer to be loved. My score showed I prefer "Acts of Service" with "Receiving Gifts" as my least preferred. Chris said the test had to be invalid. At first, I did too. In my mind, it was like I speak a language I can't understand. I can speak "gifting", I just can't understand "gifting"???
I love to give gifts, and I want the gifts I give to be meaningful and heartfelt. For me, watching someone open a gift is just as uncomfortable as opening it myself. That's why I prefer to use either the "Hit and Run" or the "Drive By" approach to giving gifts. I'd rather the recipient "find" the gift than watch them open it. I'd actually prefer to remain anonymous when I give gifts. I once worked with a person that was so good at gifting that it became a game. She was the best and I wanted to be better. Competetive gifting. She spoke my language and we played by the same rules. Gifts mysteriously appeared without cards. The gifts were so unique and thoughtful, a card was unnecessary. You don't need a card that reads "You Are My Friend" when you open a beautifully wrapped box to find a plastic french roll with sesame seeds.
I realize in posting this, I run the risk of never receiving gifts again. According to my Sunday School test, my Love Tank does not depend on gifts alone, so I should be fine. I guess my Love Tank is some kind of eco-friendly, flex fuel, hybrid type. I do hope that the next time you give a gift, you give the recipient some slack when it comes to their reaction. Not everyone is a professional in competetive gifting.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
"You'll Freeze Your A$$ Off"
Ever wonder if your children are really listening to you? One way to know, for certain, is to sprinkle some profanity into your quality family time.
Quality family time for the Masters= the 8 1/2 minute drive to Target
To be even more specific...During our 8 1/2 minutes of quality family time, the conversation topics usually include accusations of favoritism, reviews of previously denied requests, and general complaints of recent and past decisions. Most of our conversations are either suggestions of how I can improve their quality of life or evaluations of my parental performance. It's as if I am moonlighting as some entry level Customer Service representative.
Tuesday night, Chris (fellow Customer Service rep.) and I found ourselves justifying a trip to Target. Apparently, our seven-year-old and nine-year-old had more pressing matters to attend to. Heaven forbid they miss seeing episode 28 of Wizards of Waverly Place, which they know by heart, for the eleventy-seventh time. As we turned into the parking lot, a whiny voice came from the backseat. "Can we stay in the car?"
Mother of the year replied, "You'll freeze your a$$ off!"
The girls have heard plenty of cuss words cross my lips, but I'm pretty sure this was the first time I fired one directly at them. The first one to respond was Abby...
"Mama, said a$$. Can I say a$$, too? I promise I'll just say a$$ in the Jeep and not say a$$ in front of other people?"
If you know Abby, then you know she tried to get in as many a$$es as she could before I was able to regain control. I must admit, she nailed it. Her slight pause before each "a$$" was masterful, and her production of the /s/ sound would put a smile on the face of any speech teacher. She's a natural.
To be fair, I am not the sole source of explicit language. One of our family's favorite sing along songs is "Toes" by the Zac Brown Band. Chris granted the girls special permission to sing all the words as long as the words "stay in his truck". If you are not familiar with the song, the first line goes like this:
I've got my toes in the water,
a$$ in the sand,
not a worry in the world,
a cold beer in my hand,
life is good today
life is good today
I don't care who you are...hearing a seven-year-old belt out that song is just plain funny. What is even more humorous is the nine-year-old sitting next to her. Henley is the singer in the family. She is also our strict rule follower. She will sing along with us, but she will not say a$$.
Gone are the days when we could safely launch a bad word into the air without little ears hearing. We can't even spell the words, that just makes cussing educational. The girls know cuss words. I adore the fact that our girls think the "s" word means "stupid", the "d" word means "dumb" and the granddaddy of cuss words is "s-u". That's right. I don't want my kids to say shut-up, but we sing together about a$$es and beer.
I should probably not admit this since I am an adult (not to mention a teacher), but I enjoy the occasional use of profanity. It's therapeutic. It's cleansing. In some situations, my feelings cannot be adequately expressed with an "Aw, shucks" or an "Oh, poo". I simply cannot call the driver of the car two centimeters from my back bumper a "poo-head". I cannot describe the neighbor with supersonic hearing as a "witch". Dropping a large McDonald's sweet tea in my lap on the way to school, cannot be properly punctuated with a "son of a gun".
I distinctly remember the first time I heard my own mother pepper the air with profanity. I remember laughing......then running. While she doesn't cuss often, she does cuss consistently, and she keeps it contained to the kitchen. She taught me everything I know about cooking. Her recipe for southern fried okra calls for 1 cup cornmeal, 2 Tablespoons milk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper and half a dozen dammits.
I'm sure the days of the "s" word and the "d" word will soon be gone. Soon, I will be a "b", and life will be living "h-e-double hockey sticks".
But....
Life is good today.
To those of you I've offended......I'm surprised it's taken me this long.
To my sweet grandmothers......Chad cusses, too.
To my wonderful boss......I swear I avoid using profanity in my lesson plans.
To my parents......I still look around before I use the word "crap" and I usually whisper it.
To our dog, Baxter......truth is, your mom really is a bitch.
Quality family time for the Masters= the 8 1/2 minute drive to Target
To be even more specific...During our 8 1/2 minutes of quality family time, the conversation topics usually include accusations of favoritism, reviews of previously denied requests, and general complaints of recent and past decisions. Most of our conversations are either suggestions of how I can improve their quality of life or evaluations of my parental performance. It's as if I am moonlighting as some entry level Customer Service representative.
Tuesday night, Chris (fellow Customer Service rep.) and I found ourselves justifying a trip to Target. Apparently, our seven-year-old and nine-year-old had more pressing matters to attend to. Heaven forbid they miss seeing episode 28 of Wizards of Waverly Place, which they know by heart, for the eleventy-seventh time. As we turned into the parking lot, a whiny voice came from the backseat. "Can we stay in the car?"
Mother of the year replied, "You'll freeze your a$$ off!"
The girls have heard plenty of cuss words cross my lips, but I'm pretty sure this was the first time I fired one directly at them. The first one to respond was Abby...
"Mama, said a$$. Can I say a$$, too? I promise I'll just say a$$ in the Jeep and not say a$$ in front of other people?"
If you know Abby, then you know she tried to get in as many a$$es as she could before I was able to regain control. I must admit, she nailed it. Her slight pause before each "a$$" was masterful, and her production of the /s/ sound would put a smile on the face of any speech teacher. She's a natural.
To be fair, I am not the sole source of explicit language. One of our family's favorite sing along songs is "Toes" by the Zac Brown Band. Chris granted the girls special permission to sing all the words as long as the words "stay in his truck". If you are not familiar with the song, the first line goes like this:
I've got my toes in the water,
a$$ in the sand,
not a worry in the world,
a cold beer in my hand,
life is good today
life is good today
I don't care who you are...hearing a seven-year-old belt out that song is just plain funny. What is even more humorous is the nine-year-old sitting next to her. Henley is the singer in the family. She is also our strict rule follower. She will sing along with us, but she will not say a$$.
Gone are the days when we could safely launch a bad word into the air without little ears hearing. We can't even spell the words, that just makes cussing educational. The girls know cuss words. I adore the fact that our girls think the "s" word means "stupid", the "d" word means "dumb" and the granddaddy of cuss words is "s-u". That's right. I don't want my kids to say shut-up, but we sing together about a$$es and beer.
I should probably not admit this since I am an adult (not to mention a teacher), but I enjoy the occasional use of profanity. It's therapeutic. It's cleansing. In some situations, my feelings cannot be adequately expressed with an "Aw, shucks" or an "Oh, poo". I simply cannot call the driver of the car two centimeters from my back bumper a "poo-head". I cannot describe the neighbor with supersonic hearing as a "witch". Dropping a large McDonald's sweet tea in my lap on the way to school, cannot be properly punctuated with a "son of a gun".
I distinctly remember the first time I heard my own mother pepper the air with profanity. I remember laughing......then running. While she doesn't cuss often, she does cuss consistently, and she keeps it contained to the kitchen. She taught me everything I know about cooking. Her recipe for southern fried okra calls for 1 cup cornmeal, 2 Tablespoons milk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper and half a dozen dammits.
I'm sure the days of the "s" word and the "d" word will soon be gone. Soon, I will be a "b", and life will be living "h-e-double hockey sticks".
But....
Life is good today.
To those of you I've offended......I'm surprised it's taken me this long.
To my sweet grandmothers......Chad cusses, too.
To my wonderful boss......I swear I avoid using profanity in my lesson plans.
To my parents......I still look around before I use the word "crap" and I usually whisper it.
To our dog, Baxter......truth is, your mom really is a bitch.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
If You Wake Me Up Again, I'll Punch You In the Throat
Yes, I threatened to punch my husband in the throat if he woke me up again. I am not really concerned about the legal rammifications that would follow such a threat since the comment is as commonly used in our relationship as the phrase, "Bless You" or "Excuse Me."
If the sweet old lady in front of me at Shipley's buys the last chocolate cake doughnut with sprinkles, Chris would quietly whisper to me, "Punch her in the throat."
If someone asks me when my baby is due while I am wearing my "I thought these were my skinny jeans", Chris would say, "Punch her in the throat."
However, at five o'clock this morning, it was not a threat......it was a promise.
My sweet husband found me asleep on the couch. He woke me up to tell me I needed to go to sleep. As I climbed in bed I thought of how I'd just struggled for four hours to fall asleep only to do it all over again. I told him he should expect a punch in the throat.
I do not have a sleeping problem. I'm really quite good at sleeping. I even recall napping during a red light, once. However, the past few weeks I can either NOT fall asleep or NOT stay asleep. I think I can pinpoint the moment the problem started. One sleepless night, I stumbled upon a "Golden Girls" marathon on channel 106. A mere seven channels away was "The Wonder Years". The next night I found "Who's the Boss" and "Family Ties". It was like my favorite childhood shows were having an all night party, and I wanted to be invited. A couple of nights later, I accidently stopped on an infomercial selling a foot cleaner for the shower. At three a.m., a foot cleaner makes sense. At three a.m., the fear that you have failed your family in foot hygeine all these years can honestly keep you awake. What else was I depriving my family of? A trimmer for female facial hair (why have my friends not told me about my facial hair)? A more versitile vacuum cleaner (we don't even have carpet)?
Since I am not sleeping at night, I have found myself trying to sneak in a quick nap before making dinner. Just as I fall asleep, I hear the sweet angelic sound of one of my darlings' voices. "Mama, are you asleep?"
Now as a child, I knew better than to wake a sleeping parent. Our house rule was if you came home after the parental units were asleep, you turned off the hall light and went to bed. If you tried to wake up my mom, she recited crazy nursery rhymes or mumbled incoherantly about opposite words. I certainly never woke her up to ask her if she was asleep!!!!
My kids, however, will walk through the living room, around their father, violently tap me awake to find out if they can have a snack. They will stumble across the house in the middle of the night, over to my side of the bed, shake me awake to tell me they can't sleep. I've tried to outsmart them. Chris and I have switched sides and they've gone over to Dad's side, realized he was asleep and then proceeded to walk around and wake me up. (I know all this because I was fake sleeping. I had to. I was conducting a psychological experiment!!!)
Over the past nine years, I woke up to every single baby gurgle, giggle, cough, and toot. I didn't need a monitor to hear the "hungry" cries or the "change me" cries. I could hear croup before the child could even cough. I could hear an upset stomach before the child could make it to the bathroom. I could tell you exactly which child is up by the sound of their unique footsteps. Now that I think about it, moms don't ever sleep. We have periods of time in which our eyes are closed, but we are never truly asleep. Never truly at rest.
Point being....I'm tired. Blanche, Rose, Dorothy, Sophia, Tony, Angela, Kevin, Winnie- I will not be at the party tonight. Henley, Abby, if you need to vomit, cough, enjoy a midnight snack, or declare your inability to sleep, please wake the parent on the other side of the bed. Heaven forbid, if ANYONE decides to wake me up just to tell me to go to bed- you best be ready.....'cause I'll punch you in the throat.
Sweet dreams!
If the sweet old lady in front of me at Shipley's buys the last chocolate cake doughnut with sprinkles, Chris would quietly whisper to me, "Punch her in the throat."
If someone asks me when my baby is due while I am wearing my "I thought these were my skinny jeans", Chris would say, "Punch her in the throat."
However, at five o'clock this morning, it was not a threat......it was a promise.
My sweet husband found me asleep on the couch. He woke me up to tell me I needed to go to sleep. As I climbed in bed I thought of how I'd just struggled for four hours to fall asleep only to do it all over again. I told him he should expect a punch in the throat.
I do not have a sleeping problem. I'm really quite good at sleeping. I even recall napping during a red light, once. However, the past few weeks I can either NOT fall asleep or NOT stay asleep. I think I can pinpoint the moment the problem started. One sleepless night, I stumbled upon a "Golden Girls" marathon on channel 106. A mere seven channels away was "The Wonder Years". The next night I found "Who's the Boss" and "Family Ties". It was like my favorite childhood shows were having an all night party, and I wanted to be invited. A couple of nights later, I accidently stopped on an infomercial selling a foot cleaner for the shower. At three a.m., a foot cleaner makes sense. At three a.m., the fear that you have failed your family in foot hygeine all these years can honestly keep you awake. What else was I depriving my family of? A trimmer for female facial hair (why have my friends not told me about my facial hair)? A more versitile vacuum cleaner (we don't even have carpet)?
Since I am not sleeping at night, I have found myself trying to sneak in a quick nap before making dinner. Just as I fall asleep, I hear the sweet angelic sound of one of my darlings' voices. "Mama, are you asleep?"
Now as a child, I knew better than to wake a sleeping parent. Our house rule was if you came home after the parental units were asleep, you turned off the hall light and went to bed. If you tried to wake up my mom, she recited crazy nursery rhymes or mumbled incoherantly about opposite words. I certainly never woke her up to ask her if she was asleep!!!!
My kids, however, will walk through the living room, around their father, violently tap me awake to find out if they can have a snack. They will stumble across the house in the middle of the night, over to my side of the bed, shake me awake to tell me they can't sleep. I've tried to outsmart them. Chris and I have switched sides and they've gone over to Dad's side, realized he was asleep and then proceeded to walk around and wake me up. (I know all this because I was fake sleeping. I had to. I was conducting a psychological experiment!!!)
Over the past nine years, I woke up to every single baby gurgle, giggle, cough, and toot. I didn't need a monitor to hear the "hungry" cries or the "change me" cries. I could hear croup before the child could even cough. I could hear an upset stomach before the child could make it to the bathroom. I could tell you exactly which child is up by the sound of their unique footsteps. Now that I think about it, moms don't ever sleep. We have periods of time in which our eyes are closed, but we are never truly asleep. Never truly at rest.
Point being....I'm tired. Blanche, Rose, Dorothy, Sophia, Tony, Angela, Kevin, Winnie- I will not be at the party tonight. Henley, Abby, if you need to vomit, cough, enjoy a midnight snack, or declare your inability to sleep, please wake the parent on the other side of the bed. Heaven forbid, if ANYONE decides to wake me up just to tell me to go to bed- you best be ready.....'cause I'll punch you in the throat.
Sweet dreams!
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