Life is a Banquet

Dear Gallbladder

Dear Gallbladder,

WOULD YOU PLEASE MAKE UP YOUR MIND?  I mean dude, it's like you're John Mayer and I'm all Jennifer Anniston wondering how in the heck I got stuck with indecisive you as an Oscar date. I might also add that you have the worst sense of timing ever--not unlike Mr. Mayer and his Mankini.  Today was Freak's Birthday. He was old. Very old. Tavy and I woke up early, but instead of baking cupcakes, I called my primary doctor. Then, as planned, Tavy and I got a huge bouquet of balloons and paired it with a store bought cake and surprised Freak at work. Except: SURPRISE! We're not taking you for lunch! Instead, you get the toddler-who-needs-nap-while I see my GP.

And, Happy Birthday! The GP wants me to see his good friend Mr. Surgeon. Which brings me back to you, dear Gallbladder. Do you really have to be such an under-achiever? There were no stones on the ultrasound, but you so narrowly passed the HIDEA scan that both the GP and the Surgeon think that you are the culprit for the basket of unhappiness that I have landed in. Mr. Surgeon wants to yank you out in two weeks.

I actually kind of like you Gallbladder. I mean, you haven't made any stones. YET. And yes, this is about the  fourth? fifth? go around with these symptoms. But, still, I'd like to give you the benefit of the doubt. I mean what's a little pain between organs? I'm thinking of getting you a second opinion. But this thought exhausts me so much. I am just so sick of thinking about what you are MAYBE doing.

How about this, if you want me to call and cancel the surgery, you'll be better by Wednesday. And if you really want the heck out there, you'll stop throwing such ambiguous symptoms. I'm not sure what you should do if you think I should get a second opinion, which is why I turn this over to the internets. What should I do?

Attacked, Not Stoned.

So many different health crises are swirling around me, so much bad news and heartbreaking tales, that it was probably inevitable that my hypochondria would go into overdrive. Luckily, my crazy is aided by my creaking body. On Friday, I started having chest pain. I talked sternly to my crazy. YOU ARE NOT HAVING A HEART ATTACK. This seemed to work for a while, but I still felt really off. All Saturday, I felt ill, with my stomach getting in on the act, and my right side started aching with my right shoulder blade feeling like it had a ball of cheese wedged under it and my ribs. I threw up twice, then seemed better, but this morning, it got worse and worse, until the crazy would not be denied. YOU ARE HAVING A HEART ATTACK.  Of course, I phrased this to Freak as, "Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooh my gall bladder," which I figured was the more likely explanation.

Off to urgent care we trotted. Here are the ideal things to bring if you need to bring a healthy toddler to urgent care: The phone number of the grandparents who are watching her.  Baring that (please universe, send us Clanna stat), bring her harness and let the healthy parent walk her around so rapidly that she can not possibly touch anything germ containing. Put a bag of toys in the car so that she can hang out there with the well parent. Urgent Care verified that there was NO heart attack, and my crazy backed off.

However, Urgent Care sent me to the ER because they wanted blood work and a gall bladder ultrasound. We made the decision to go to the smaller hospital where we had Tavy b/c we didn't want to face the huge crowd at our local hospital. Here's what to bring to the ER when you have a healthy toddler: knitting. Seriously, DO NOT BRING THE TODDLER. Someone ahead of me had the nurses in a tizzy because they brought a healthy 2 week old infant to the ER to accompany a grandparent with a broken bone. Seriously. I WAS sick, and I kept checking in with my symptoms to decide if I was sick enough to brave the germ gaunlet and the hurry-up-and-wait game. Freak and Tavy dropped me off, and then they went to eat lunch, had a little ice cream (Iced D! Iced D! Iced D!), and toured the small town. I am so glad that we didn't go to the big hospital because I was still kept an hour and day to learn that:

I do not have gallstones. (Although a good friend can vouch for the iffyiness of this particular hospital's machines).
I have normal lab work.
I am still in pain.
Lots of pain. Doctor thinks perhaps I am having a gallbladder attack without stones (bililiary colic?) or maybe I have an ulcer or maybe I just have really, really bad acid reflux hitting out the blue.

But most importantly,

I should have just waited for Monday.

Just Like Mama

We so silly!
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

Tavy wanted to read me a bedtime story tonight. She chose Dr. Seuss's "Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go Now?"

"Bahhhhhhhhhhhhhhbye Babeeee! Baaaaahbye! Go!"
"Baaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhbye Babee! Sit! Sit!" (Marvin is told to go on a goat)/

I read at Breakfast. I know I should have a "teachable moment" and like do flashcards with oatmeal, but I read cookbooks. She now wants a book to be "just like Mama."

"Just Like Mama" is a powerful motivator around here. She likes to brush her teeth while I brush mine. She demands that I wear wear pants and shoes first thing in the morning. She quits down if I let her sit in a dining room chair "like mama." She doesn't like dairy products of any ilk, but she will slug back a smoothie when Mama does.

It's staggering this responsibility. She wants to drink my coffee, eat my ice cream, and wear my clothes. She wants me to be able to wear her hats and her shoes. Last week, she insisted on wearing bloomers over her diaper b/c she saw me in underwear. She puts on my shoes and falls all over herself.

She cocks her head to one side and paces back and forth, occasionally picking up and moving random items, "just like Mama." She is a 36 inch reflecting mirror of everything I love most and despise worst in myself. When The Giant had her 18 month appointment and it was revealed that since she and a yardstick have a passing resemblance, that she might be a six foot woman, I emphatically told the doctor how happy I was that she wasn't like me. She was a bit taken aback by this.

But what I meant was, I want MORE for her. I want her to be BETTER than me. People come up to me all the time and say how she looks "just like you!" But, I have a hard time seeing this as compliment. There's nothing quite like having a mini-you to lay stark open all your insecurities and self-loathing.

But, she gives me so much love that it is impossible not to love the body that brought me her. And she gives me her, in all her shiny new perfection that makes me want to be something more than I have always been. My teeth are sparkly white thanks to rigorous brushing sessions with my shadow. My floors and my language is cleaner. My snacking and exercise habits are improving too, as I want "Just like Mama" to mean only good things.

I don't want her to have rosacea, PCOS, and insulin resistance. I don't want her to bite her nails and revere chocolate as the fifth food group. And yet, I want her to love books and believe that there is no such thing as too much education. She takes clearance bargains out of a bag and holds them up to the webcam, "Just Like Mama." I melt. She begs for "Fry! Fry!" and "Iced C! Iced C!" (Ice Cream), and I feel like I have failed her.

In actuality, I have only given her me--warts and all. For better or worse, I'm here for the modeling. Just like Mama. Just like EVERY mama.

Survey Time Because My Hormones Won't Shut Up About Babies

As you can see from my post below, I have babies on the brain. Seriously. So, I turn the question over to you, dear readers (note that you need full-size browser window to see the full poll):

Online Surveys & Market Research

Part Deux

Hey, You with the camera!
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

I am surrounded by fertility. Gorgeous pregnant women and squishy newborns. At present, I know TWELVE pregnant women and another four who would really like to be. The effect on my hormones has been profound. I have a craving to give birth again. Seriously, after a 48 hour labor that didn't go according to plan and a 2.5 hour pushing, you would think that I would want to skip all that and get to the baby. But, instead, I am overcome with the desire to do it again applying all that knowledge. I want to wander into that great unknown again and come out transformed and reborn. It was one of the transcendent moments of my life, if not the defining pinacle, and yes, I want to do it again.

The desire for newborn squishiness is a little more amorphous. I want more baby carriers, but I *always* want more carriers. What I most want is THIS baby a second time--the long days of nothing but nursing, the naps together, the cuddling in a wrap. But, nature only doles out one beloved first born. The second child gets nursed on the run and catches naps on the way to playdates as the poor mama slugs back the coffee and blesses the heavens for her good fortune. I'm not sure that I want that good fortune quite yet. I wouldn't mind a time machine though.

However, the hormones keep whispering at me. As many of you know, I have PCOS, which accounts both for my fluffiness and for the long time it took to conceive. Part of me wants to start right now in case it takes another 2 years or more to get pregnant. But assuming that is a very risky proposition, one that often results in Irish twins.

Instead, I push the PCOS to the side, and focus on issues of career, weight, sibling spacing, finances, room arrangements, and the host of reasons to wait. There ARE a host of reasons, right? Right? Talk to me.

The Day the Books Disappeared

I was going to make up for my lack of posting recently with a witty (I hope), touching discussion of Easter and/or share anecdotes from Tavy's wanderings into the art world. These will have to wait because right now I am just too sad to even think about turning my funny on.

I remember when I first discovered Amazon--it was intoxicating. All the books, everywhere, delivered to me. My very first Amazon purchases were for books that I either couldn't find locally or that I was too shy to carry to the front of the store/library. In the 10 years since, I've spent thousands at Amazon, on everything from law books to parenting books to cookbooks to electronics and baby equipment, and yes, more of those same don't-tell-my-mother books. I use half.com a lot too, but I always felt vaguely disloyal to Amazon.

However, over the past few months an Orwellian storm has been brewing that unleashed a torrent of nasty consequences over weekend. Do you know what Amazon Rank is? It's not just the satisfaction that yes, yes, you are the number  81,497 bestseller in comparative elf literature, but it also determines where search results place you, similar to google's page rank system. No Amazon Rank = No Search Result. Amazon has been stripping certain authors and books of their Amazon Rank essentially rendering them invisible, so that even if you search by name, they no longer appear.

This is beyond sad, and several women way smarter and more pithy than I have lots to say about it:
Amazon Rank
Smart Bitches Fights Back
Dear Author Takes on Amazon
Courtney Explains Why This Matters

Spring!

Hanging On
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

How can one not love Spring? I am bursting with Spring! My apologies to those of you snowed under today, but here in Rain Belt, Monsoon Season has finally ended, and the sun has returned.

Here's what I love about spring:
Asparagus
Strawberries
No heavy coats
Pedicures
Salads
No space heaters
Long Walks without sweat or frostbite
Longer days
Daffodils and Tulips
Easter Dresses
Bright Colors
Iced Drinks
Long Drives

What do you love (hate) about Spring?