Hammer Head
Someone has released an army of little men with hammers in my head and when I find out who did it. . . it's not going to be pretty. In addition to the pulsing and pounding head, my throat feels like a swollen mess and let's not even talk about how bad my spine hurts right now.
After being kissed, hugged and breathed on by "Typhoid Mary" (aka Lil C) for a week, I knew it was only a matter of time. Plus, you know, Mr. BBM spent the weekend doing nothing but being miserable and daring to breathe his germs in the house too.
When I realized I was getting sick yesterday, I quickly cleaned the entire house. I washed sheets and clothes. I put away all the clean clothes. I vacuumed the entire house and then mopped all the tile floors. I can't stand to be sick in a dirty house.
Because I was having Mommy guilt, I also took Lil C outside for some sledding and snowman building.
This snowman looks the way I feel right now. . .
Here's hoping tomorrow is a better day for both of us.
Who Designs This Stuff Anyway?
The girls are at a playdate today and I've had hours to myself. I spent part of my day shopping. I went to Gymboree and spent my Gymbucks with perfection-only $1.74 over my target amount. I was going to stop by KB toys to pick up a toy for a birthday party we have this coming weekend, but they are going out of business and I didn't really think a 1-year old would appreciate store shelves. Yes, everything must go.
When I realized that was futile, I thought I'd try to find a new pair of jeans. I got some kind of oil stain on my current favorites that just won't come out. Plus, they're becoming less and less of a favorite thanks to my hard work at the gym so it was time for a new pair.
I first went in Gap. Because sizes are completely different from store to store, I took back everything from a 4 Regular to an 8 Long. Not a single pair was purchase worthy unless I feel like being a plumber. I don't get why clothing designers can't get that little hip to waist ratio right. Girls are not straight from top to bottom. I tried on about 10 pairs and decided it wasn't my day.
Then I remembered The Limited. In the past I've been able to find pants there and they're always long enough. I walked to that end of the mall and did a scan of the general area. My beloved Limited is now a car showroom.
As I did a scan of the surrounding stores, I realized I was in teeny bopper hell. And not just teeny bopper hell, but rather teens trying to look like they work the streets hell. What the hell?
I figured I'd try one more store and went into Express. I know the economy is bad, but there were two employees for the entire store and not a one was about to help me find a suitable size. I was about to throw in the towel. I was stupid to wear a fleece zip-up pullover and a heavy down coat to the mall. I was breaking out in a serious sweat.
I took three pairs back to the dressing room and tried them on. I quickly realized that designers aren't worried about the hip to waist ratio because apparently they think that all girls have really fat ankles. What is up with these flare jeans that are wide enough to fit a tire? Sorry, but this hug the heiney, show the crack, squeeze your thighs in and then let your ankles breathe business is ridiculous.
So I ended up in my favorite store, Ann Taylor Loft (not at the mall). I tried on a couple pairs of jeans, but I know they are going to be half an inch too short as soon as I wash them. I need to order online.In addition to jeans I was looking for some kind of "going out" top to wear for my birthday party. Ann Taylor Loft didn't really have anything, so I was out of luck.
Were you aware that the new going out shirt styles are completely incompatible with any and every type of bra ever manufactured? I swear clothing designers are creating clothing for women with fake ones exclusively. Real ones need a bra. If you don't want the "support your own boobs" look, then your only other choice is this baggy business and seriously, I couldn't figure out where my head was supposed to go. When the sleeve openings are as wide and baggy as the neck opening, it's time to call the fashion police. That stuff doesn't flatter anyone. Don't kid yourself if you think it does.
It occurred to me as I was driving home that maybe I'm getting old. But then I decided I am not going to accept that. Most teenagers who walk around wearing that stuff look ridiculous and that's not just old people talk. I don't start every sentence with "When I was a youngin'" and T.I.'s Paper Trail is currently my favorite album download. I'm not old!
Nope. I refuse to accept it. I like to dress nice and stylish when I go out and there has got to be a place that makes clothes for women like me. Where are you??? Any ideas people? This girl is desperate.
That Familiar Feeling
Before I tore my ACL, I would miss a karate class and Mr. BBM would know it. I was a cranky girl when I didn't get my weekly dose of dojo time. The frustration of dealing with barely being able to walk, being tied to crutches, being locked in an uncomfortable brace for weeks, and being in near constant pain made me even more cranky. Cranky just became part of my nature. Ok, I'll admit it's always been a part of my nature; but it became a much bigger part.
Joining the gym in October started to change that. Physical activity is an amazing thing for sanity and peace of mind. Breaking a sweat, working hard, making goals and meeting them really got me thinking about getting back in the dojo again. Sometimes, if you go so long without something, you forget how much it used to mean to you and how much you want it back in your life again. Then something reminds you and the drive to get back to doing what you used to love so much is right there again.
I wonder though, can it ever really be the same again? Class used to take me away from my stress. It was an escape and a release. With a brace locked securely around my leg and the all too vivid memory of what this past year has been like, can it ever be the same?
A friend who went through this with both knees once told me that it takes two years before you don't feel any twinges of pain or discomfort. Two years before thinking about your knee becomes secondary to living your life. I don't think I want to wait two years!
I made it my goal when I scheduled this last surgery that I would be back in the dojo around my birthday which is now just three weeks away. I was hoping I'd be back meeting with my trainer today instead of waiting for an open incision to close. I realize my goal of 2-7 may be a bit too ambitious.
In order to go back though, I think I'm going to have to allow myself to suck for a while. I'm going to have to dig deep inside to get through the frustration of uncomfortable stances and moves that don't want to come naturally anymore.
It's a lot of pressure to walk back into the dojo after over a year of not being there on a regular basis (other than to watch your daughter's class). As a 1st kyu who used to really know her stuff, it's disappointing to come back and not be at your best. You start to wonder if the newcomers think you're a slacker. Of course they don't know the whole story, but it doesn't matter. You're a brown belt, 1st kyu and you should know your stuff.
You should be able to sit in seiza (I still can't).
I am excited about the prospect of starting back up again in just a few short weeks. I just hope it doesn't take long for karate to feel the way it used to feel.
In My Next Life, I’m Coming Back with a . . .
I was completely beat and my leg was really bothering me yesterday afternoon. I had just started making dinner when Mr. BBM called to tell me he was feeling awful. Headache, body aches, fever, nausea. I guess he wasn't going to be able to go to the grocery store for me after all.
He came home, went immediately to our room, changed into comfortable clothes and took up residence on the sofa. Within minutes, he was asleep.
While I certainly have an appreciation for a good stomach virus, I was about to burst into tears. My leg was throbbing and I needed to sit. Now I had to serve dinner, clean it up, get the kids ready for bed, put them to bed, and go to the store, when all I really wanted on my agenda was to sit down and ice my knee.
I cleaned up dinner, even made some quick dessert for the girls (and me-hell, I deserved it), and then headed out the door for the grocery store. I picked up the staples I'd need to get through the weekend. You know, beer, wine, vodka, milk, juice, tissues, lots and lots of tissues with lotion in them because Lil C is starting to look like a chapped Hitler from using up about eight boxes of tissues per day. I really hope child services doesn't get their undies in a bunch over her chapped lip or I'm in big trouble.
I was talking to my fantastic friend, Renovation Girl, on the way home from the store and I told her that in my next life I'm coming back with some enhanced anatomy. That's right people, I'm coming back with a penis.
It doesn't matter how nauseous I am, how high my fever is, or whether or not I have a serious case of peeing out the heiney. Life goes on as normal for me. I still have to get up and get Big I off to school. I still have to play the part of a short order cook for Lil C all day long. I still have to help Big I with homework, tend to the laundry and keep the household moving. There are no sick days when you're a Mom.
Even last year, when I was in agony after ACL surgery, I would sit in my bathroom while drying my hair and wipe the counter down. I can barely get people in this household to rinse their toothpaste down the sink when they're healthy. It's frustrating to say the least.
This morning, Big I and Lil C were up by 7:30. I was trying to keep my eyes closed for as long as possible when Lil C tossed two hard backed books at my face and demanded I read them to her. She struck my nose and made it bleed a little. It hurt enough that I teared up, and then, while standing in the bathroom, I just started to cry.
Later, as I was sipping some coffee, Mr. BBM told me how lousy he's still feeling. "Great," I said, "I'll probably get it just in time to start the new semester this week."
"Well if you do," he said, "just lay down and go to sleep it off," he said.
I started to laugh. "Mom's don't get to lie down and go to sleep. That will never happen."
I'm telling you. In my next life, there will be some new equipment to learn how to use.
There are some great new reviews up at The BBM Review, including Wii Fit and some other fitness equipment, the new Incubus CD, plus a website that helps you organize your life. Check them out!
The Anti-Sympathy Gene
Maybe it's because my Mom, a registered nurse, always required "proof" in order for me to stay home from school. Maybe it has nothing to do with nurture and everything to do with nature and it's just not part of mine. But for whatever reason, I sort of lack that sympathy gene when it comes to my husband.
When we were in college, I was sick for my birthday. We had been dating only about three months at the time. I had a nasty sinus infection and bronchitis. He brought me all kinds of vitamins and I'm pretty sure he also brought me soup. Had the roles been reversed, I probably would have thought his sickness was overkill and that he was just trying to avoid seeing me or something.
Fast forward to Mr. BBM's 30th birthday. For the weeks leading up to his birthday, I went into mad planning mode. I booked a limo large enough to fit us and many of our friends who were coming in from out of town. Since we had an apartment that couldn't fit everyone, I reserved the apartment's guest suite for the out of towners. I made a reservation at a restaurant, had a cake made and even arranged for my parents to come in from out of town to babysit Big I who was only about to turn two. The plan was to have dinner with everyone, and then go out on the town in the limo. It was going to be a blast.
On the Tuesday before the big night, Mr. BBM came home from work early. He looked green and thought that he either had food poisoning or the flu. Instead of getting him soup or a drink, I scolded him and told him he had only a few days to get better. The whole weekend was a surprise, but he had no idea how much I had planned for it.
Wednesday rolled around and he was worse. I was getting really frustrated, but was still determined to have the birthday bash go forward. Thursday came and he was even worse. The party was just two days away and honestly, I was getting really upset. I mean, sure he was sick, but all the planning, the reservations, the money, the birthday bash people! I thought that clearly, he was overreacting and was just afraid of what I had planned for him. I'll admit, I was giving him a hard time.
As Thursday evening rolled around, he said he thought that maybe I should take him to the hospital. I threw my arms up in frustration! What were they going to do at the ER for the flu? He called a doctor and since they were closing, they said he should just go to the ER. Fabulous.
He had been pretty much stationary for two and a half days at this point and mentioned that he didn't know if he could get his socks on. Please. I mean, seriously, a stomach flu and he couldn't get his socks on. Come on already!
So, I retrieved a pair of socks for him and tossed them in his general direction, ok, pelted them is more like it. I was frustrated. I had had no help with the almost 2-year old for several days now. Did I think he was milking it? Absolutely.
As we were getting ready to leave our third floor apartment, he said he didn't think he could walk down the stairs. Oh for God's sake-is he serious? What did he want me to do, call an ambulance? He eventually made it down the stairs and we arrived at the hospital.
When we arrived at the ER, he was put at the back of the queue. It was a flu-like illness after all. There were people with cuts going in front of us. There were people with coughs going in front of us. We arrived at around 4 p.m. and it was absolutely no fun with an almost 2-year old.
As the hours wore on, Mr. BBM was not looking good at all. The color was completely gone from his face. He said he was in agony. He was in and out of sleep, propped up in an uncomfortable chair and I was starting to get a little concerned. I kept asking when we were going to be seen, and they kept blowing us off.
Finally, around midnight, they called us back. The ER was packed. They didn't even have a room for him. We were camped out in a narrow hallway in the ER and it was miserable. Big I had fallen asleep in my arms and I was exhausted from holding her for so long. There was nowhere to even sit down with her.
Mr. BBM was hooked up to an IV. They wanted to do a CT scan as a precaution. The doctors and Mr. BBM told me to go home and get Big I in bed. The hospital was right down the street from our apartment. If anything major was wrong, they said they would call.
By the time I got home, it was around 2 a.m. and I was exhausted. I went to bed expecting to pick Mr. BBM up in the morning after he was rehydrated.
Instead I got a phone call.
I think it was around 6 in the morning and the call was from my mother-in-law. She sounded upset, but like she was trying to keep it together. She said something to the effect of, "Honey, we're on our way. I'm stopping to pick up Grandma too and we'll be there for you. And if you're not happy with this hospital, we'll find a specialist and have him transferred."
I interrupted her. "Wait, you're coming all the way out here for a stomach flu."
"Honey, when did you last talk to Mr. BBM?"
"Last night, when I left the hospital," I said, still groggy from sleep and completely confused.
"Oh honey," she said, "they found a mass in his abdomen."
The next few minutes were a complete blur. I was simultaneously getting dressed, grabbing Big I, and calling the hospital. The hospital couldn't "find" Mr. BBM so I was really freaking out. Finally, after about three calls, I got through to his room.
There was a mass, a complete bowel obstruction and he needed emergency surgery.
Mr. BBM's dad was calling on the other line to tell me he was coming as well; and I was calling my parents to ask them to come earlier than we had planned so they could watch Big I.
As I was running out the door, I called the limo company and while sobbing, told them I had to cancel our reservation. I gave them the short version of all that was happening in between sobs. "You're not going to charge me, are you?" I cried. They said they wouldn't. I quickly set up a phone tree and told everyone not to bother coming and I was gone.
I arrived at the hospital and was in utter disbelief. What the hell had they done to him? Mr. BBM was hooked up to tubes coming out of his nose. He was barely conscious. ER nurses were buzzing around him and I told them I wanted to speak to a doctor, stat.
His surgeon came in, dressed in scrubs, with a team of ER people. They didn't even see me. They started wheeling him out and I started having a fit. "Wait, I need to know what you're doing and what's going on before you take him!" I screamed.
The surgeon stopped for a brief second, just long enough to say, "Look, I can either talk to you about what's wrong with him, or I can go save his life." He didn't wait for my answer, although I said a very quiet, "just go" as they were rushing him down the hall.
I remember sitting in the OR waiting room, sobbing. Big I sat on the floor playing with something I bought her in the gift shop. The ER people told me it was going to take hours to get him in there, explore what was wrong and fix the blockage.
Only 45 minutes passed and I saw the surgeon slowly walking down the hall towards the waiting room. He had his surgical cap in his hand. He didn't look encouraging and I started imagining the conversation we were about to have. It wasn't much of a stretch to assume I was now a widow.
Instead, he told me that the mass was benign. Mr. BBM had what is called a meckels diverticulum. Only 2% of the population has this condition and usually it makes itself known during the first few years of life. Mr. BBM's waited until his 30th birthday so it could wreck his party and scare the crap out of his family.
Mr. BBM's had been sucked back into his intestine which caused the blockage and the "mass" on the CT scan. They were able to remove it, resect the affected area, and he was going to be fine. I couldn't believe I had thrown socks at the man.
I spent the next week while he was in the hospital (for his 30th birthday) being as nice as I possibly could until the day that Big I drooled on his bed sheets. Mr. BBM was on some heavy pain meds. After all, he had staples for probably six inches of his abdomen. He was in a lot of pain. While visiting him one day, Big I fell asleep and I asked him if I could just lay her down on the foot of his bed for a bit. He said I could, but he wasn't happy about it. After days of visiting with her, I was ready for him to come home. It's no fun being in a hospital with an almost two-year old.
While sleeping, Big I drooled on his sheets a little and Mr. BBM got annoyed. He wanted this sheets changed. He acted like she had just pooped in his bed. I took her and went home. Other than that ridiculous afternoon, I tried. I really tried to be more sympathetic towards him. I spent weeks while he was on disability, catering to his every need. I really did my best; and thankfully, he made a full recovery.
Does this mean that today, I have sympathy for him and treat him accordingly when he has a pulled muscle or a cold, or even the flu?
Sadly, no. Despite the fact that the man would literally carry me around if I asked him to, I still lack the sympathy gene. Thankfully he tolerates me as I am.
What's the moral of this story?
I made a good effort, but it didn't stick for long. I think it's just a part of my DNA.
This is the back story from my post from the other day and it's especially for my good friend Dee. 😉
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