Rambling

 I think there's probably a reason that the human race generally has children when parents are younger versus older, and it is directly related to the energy level of those little ones. Whew! Preschoolers are hardcore, let me tell you. Especially ones who have started school determined not to nap. Ever. Silly little peeps have no idea they're missing out on one of the highlights of life. Ah well. With age comes wisdom.

That's what they say, anyway.

The students I'm working with are adorable, precocious, ridiculous, sweet, funny, earnest, enthusiastic ... and are wearing me out. I don't want to use the word "exhausting" because it's still early days, but I am amazed by their determination to stay wiggly at nap time and chatty when they should be quiet-ish and, despite announcing repeatedly that they're hungry, much more interested in entertaining their friends than eating their lunches! 

AND, for the love, why do they have to go to the bathroom 15 minutes after they were just reminded to go?

Anyway. We've been going on dot hunts when discussing circles and releasing butterflies and making alphabet books and God bless these brilliant women I work with because I am sheerly there for backup as they present all these incredible and adorable ideas. Letter B's that we've turned into bumblebees, D's that have become donuts, you get the idea. I love that I can quietly whisk the old supplies away and prep the new things while the teachers are explaining what will be happening next. Even if we have to repeat it. Many times. 

I love the staff where I work and these families. I'm having a really good season right now and I'm almost afraid to jinx it by saying anything, but I know some of you wonder so I want to keep you in the loop.

Not sure which kids are allowed to have their photos displayed or not, so you'll just have to envision little people yourself. We have three year olds on Tuesday and Thursday and 4s and 5s on MWF. Last week, one of the 3s decided she wasn't pleased about being dropped off and therefore wasn't going to sit or join the group or sit by herself and stood and stood and stood, only to fold herself in half physically, face down in my teacher friend's lap. Bless the teacher, she adjusted and kept reading to the group right over the top of the little flower's half-prone body. The little one eventually came around and was participating later on, so all's well that ends well.

We hosted Donuts for Dads and are gearing up for Grandparents' Day in a few weeks. We even survived our first two hour fog delay, which means nobody is there long enough to offically have to take a nap, so we had a lovely picnic outside and got to see many airplanes, some butterflies, AND two bald eagles! 

Healthwise, I'm mostly good. All cleared from the hysterectomy, attempted to get back into yoga last week, lamented/raged how much range of motion and flexibility I lost over the summer because of no yoga, and am back at it today. There's more neuropathy in my right arm than I'd like there to be- it often feels fizzy- but I'm not dropping things or in pain from it, so I guess either it'll get better or I'll get used to it. My armpit/pec(?) whatever on that right side has been really extra tight the last several days which is not making me happy, but at least it doesn't feel like a cough will kill me anymore. Sneezes were also terrible, but my body has apparently figured that out because most of them have been aborted, haha! You just don't think about what is connected until something goes wrong. I'm sure it's fine. It's already better than it was late last week. 

Thank you all for praying me/supporting me/loving on me to get me to this point! I think this has been my favorite back to school yet!

Thank you

 Y'all are amazing. 

Thank you for all the support and love that you send us in each way that you send it. The texts, the posts, the calls, the hugs- we are so blessed to have each of you in our tribe. If everyone had a tribe like you guys, the world would be pretty darn near perfect!

I have good news that you all have earned with your love and intercession for me:

One, I have the MRIs scheduled back to back week after next so two, it'll be only one stick (provided veins cooperate, so keep praying about that, haha) and three, one single appointment and four, they've already called in a sedative for me. Can you FEEL that weight fall off my shoulders? Could you hear it as it hit the ground and crumbled? I almost cried. I was so relieved when she told me she had a spot for back to back MRIs that it looked like I was doing Snoopy's suppertime dance. Thank you, Jesus, and everybody who is covering me! 

You guys are amazing. Don't just pray for me- turn your attention and power to Gaza, Ukraine, the Caribbean islands destroyed by Beryl, a local shelter; pick a crisis and send some of your love that way as well. There's never a shortage of need and I think we all underestimate our power to affect change. For starters, you could be praying for safety over kids this summer as they head off to camps or that they have enough to eat without two meals at school, summer boating safety, Fourth of July activities as they generally involve explosives and alcohol, and so on. Adopt a cause and go be a champion. You won't be alone and we are so much stronger together. 

The next step is the surgical consult next week. I'll keep you posted, but I am very much looking forward to upcoming posts about people other than me! 

Thank you for everything! Be safe celebrating July 4th!

This post is brought to you by the letters T-i-n-o

Tino wanted to write this post because it features him goofing around at Stirling Castle. Of course there were cannons and arrow slits and stairs... so many stairs. Our tour guide informed us that her boss gets emails from people complaining about "Why was the castle build on a hill? It's so hard to walk around and all the stairs and..."

Well, gee, call me crazy, but I'd want good drainage AND the ability to spot any invaders headed my way if I was the one who was going to be living in a castle...

The next four won't be as funny unless you've seen the Lego Batman movie where he is throwing a temper tantrum on the stairs and saying "no, no, no, no, no, no." Just picture that when I ask, "Tino, whaddaya say we do some more stairs?"

I wore that poor guy out! And as I'm running around the castle taking his picture, a foursome of high school kids approached me and asked if I'd take a picture with them. I assumed they wanted me to take one of the four of them, but the boys attached themselves to both sides of me while I have Tino in front of me and the girls snapped a picture! I said, "of ME!? You guys are funny!" They probably tried to find the craziest person in the castle to get a selfie with. *sigh* So somewhere on the internet there's possibly a picture of Tino, me looking windblown, and some laughing kids. Adventures!

 

Coffee conundrum

 The saddest part of this story is that it happened yesterday and I didn't even have the built in excuse of, "oh, that's Monday." 

Yesterday I attempted to make coffee, something I do almost daily (though I confess to drinking my fair share of leftover coffee from the day before. I'm a mom. As long as it's hot, I don't care. That's why I often find my mug in the microwave, which has been beeping patiently at me, reminding me that my coffee is in there!)

First, I needed to reassemble my drip coffee maker with its grinder. No big deal, it's about six pieces in total. I slide the barrel into place that holds the filter and the bottom half of the grinder up top. I reach for my bag of beans from our local coffeeshop (which is excellent, by the way) and dump a spoonful into the barrel. 

"Waitaminute," I muse to myself. "I've done that before." When one attempts to grind coffee beans without a filter, one's kitchen is scented and sprayed with the delightful aroma and unbelievable mess of fine coffee grounds. Been there, done that, much to the kids' delighted mirth. They feel the same way about the story of my Pap Pap making popcorn on the stove but forgetting the lid, something none of us were alive for but a story we all find hilarious because my Pap Pap was just about the most organized and process-oriented man alive.

I dump the beans back out, add the all-important paper filter (I prefer the brown ones. I don't need bleached paper that's just going to turn brown anyway. Seems silly to me. Plus, they're cuter, like brown eggs and black sheep. I digress.) Then I poured the beans back into the exact same but now filter-lined spot. 

"Waitaminute," I sighed to myself. "Those are beans. They need ground first." Removing the beans again and redepositing them into the grinder where they belong, I try to make coffee for the third time. 

I finally get all the pieces assembled and pour in the rest of the beans and the water. I turn the thing on and ponder, "what does it mean when you need coffee in order to simply make coffee?" 

More funny faces

The kids are, without fail, absolutely delighted when they open a brand new ice cream and it's "a butt one" so they were gleeful last night when I pried the lid off of this one.   

I rarely take a good selfie, so here's a funny one for y'all to laugh at. Happy hump day.

The block of cheese looks like he's drawling, "whoaaaa, duuuuude. What happened to you?"

My peeking cheese =D

Christmas 2020

One of Thing One's Christmas presents was the piercing of ears, which happens at tattoo parlors around here, believe it or not. And not being 18, this was the second attempt getting them done as we didn't have the requisite birth certificate in hand the first time around.

 Apparently earring care has changed since I've had mine done a long, long time ago, and you're not supposed to turn the front one way while rotating the back the opposite direction twice a day or swabbing them with rubbing alcohol. The new thing is a container of "Wound Wash" which just leaves itself open to so many wrong avenues...

I know a lot of you got buttloads of Christmas snow. Thankfully we were not so "blessed", haha. We got a dusting and that counts as a white Christmas, thank you very much!

We also had a lovely sunset. The weather cooperated for Pap to get here from Uncle Kelly and Aunt Becky's, from which he left Christmas morning. We waited to open presents until he got here, which was much harder on some of us than on others. Overall, they did well, and he got here around 1:30 so they didn't have to wait forever regardless of what they'd tell you.

Liam had a moment of exasperation with Damon, who was dancing with glee, and commented, "Bro! Stop flossing and put these over there!" I don't remember what he was trying to hand over, but it cracked me up. Other things overheard:

YES! It's the GOOD paper! ~regarding a new sketchbook

YAY! Plain clothes! ~regarding new wardrobe additions

WAHOO! Gift cards!

There apparently was some good-natured ribbing from some online friends about still using a rainbow loom, to which was replied, "shut up and let me be fabulous!"

There were new games, art supplies, clothes, puzzle games, video games, books, lovely scented lotions, a fuzzy blanket, and even a lunch box in case we ever leave the house again. 

It was a pleasant, quiet, blessed Christmas that we spent in our warm, cozy home. Three kids, three dogs, three adults, far too much food, two Christmas trees, a partridge in a pear tree. 

We are thankful. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from us to all of you!

Veterans' Day snow

Thank you to all our Veterans, far and wide, who have served or are serving our country presently. Thank you to your families who hold down the fort and try their best to hold things together while you do what you've been called to do. Thank you all for the ridiculous amount of time and love and honor you pour out for those of us who do indeed take it for granted and often forget your sacrifices. We are put to shame when we stop to remember. Thank you for forgiving us.

Pap is here. He is one of those Veterans. Liam invited him to join the assembly to thank veterans at the high school today. It is November 11, and we are experiencing our first snow of the season. When Pap went into the assembly, there was a layer of gritty-yet-slippery hail-ish yuck. Now the snow is blustering about, looking like someone shook us. The powers that be are calling for 2-5 inches and I am wondering where in the garage I may find my ice scraper for Pepe the Pilot; I haven't yet made the switch from sunshade to scraper. 

I prefer the sunshade.

Muchly, much much more, as they say in Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? 

Now we shall see how easy it is to "lose" a Great Pyrenees in the snow. We've read that they shouldn't be let off leash as they tend to experience wanderlust, and "your neighbor may be surprised, especially as they appear out of the snow, to find a huge dog..."

I'm not ready!

Granted, I'm never ready, but substantial snow before Thanksgiving truly doesn't sit well with me. I don't even care of white Christmases. I'm more of a "if it has to snow, it can wait until the New Year- we already had enough this year" person. I will not say "fan."

So here we are with three kids and three dogs and hopefully school will be on time tomorrow because as early as the snow is, it is waaaaaaay too early to be starting with the snow days and delays!

This is why the rum is always gone...

Venting in the November breeze

I. Can't. Get. Warm.

It is the first week of November and we are already experiencing wind chill that says, "feels like 19." We skipped Indian summer completely and I reluctantly sadly despairingly boxed up my sun dresses, tank tops, floaty summery skirts; I begrudgingly unpacked my sweaters, long sleeves, and pants. Not that I don't like tights and sweaters, I'd just prefer to not have to wear multiple layers every single day for the next six months. Leggings under pants is ridiculous, but here we are. Some of you woke up to snow. I don't want to talk about it.

I have my largest pot on the stove with bone broth simmering away for up to the next 12 hours. Between the dark and the cold, I can hear the pounds sneaking on from the steady stream of comfort food that I'll be consuming. Our spring break is the very first week of March (yes, I'm serious), so there is zero chance of anyone spotting me in anything revealing until... oh, around May when Ohio gets her act together and recognizes that spring started two months previous. Why not indulge? The calories will keep me warm. Warm-er. Ish. Surely?

That is, if I don't end up on the news and living in a new venue before then. One where I'd be wearing orange. Or, perhaps, stripes. 

I don't know about you people, but let me set the record straight; boys do not have less drama than girls- they merely have different drama. 

For example, our resident middle school student made it to his fourteenth birthday last week by the grace of God. The vast majority of our meals together, he needs reminded, "get your knees down under the table. You are smashing your stomach and feeling full before you're actually full. Get your food in you. Quit playing around. Eat. Eat your food. Close the book." Repeat ad nauseam. By "vast majority" I mean 95% or higher of our meals. Often with food he likes!  

And will someone please invent a water shut-off valve that can be remotely activated by a parent's phone so that there issues a hard burst signifying a "you-have-two-minutes-left-so-rinse-and-get-out-lest-you-stay-sudsy" warning? Said child was given 10 minutes in the bathroom yesterday and took 45. Granted, some of this issue is caused by the bliss of having A) hot, running water, B) more than one bathroom, C) parents who are busy doing other things than standing around timing how long one is taking in the bathroom. However, short of taking the hinges off the bathroom door (which, while I have seriously considered, I object to the almighty draft I'd have to deal with when having my own shower) how does one pry another person out of the shower when one is on the opposite side of the bathroom door?!

People, I need a beating breakthrough. I'd rather not end up on the news. Eighth grade means this child in particular should be spectacular by now at getting himself ready for school. He lays out school clothes the night before. He makes his lunch the night before. He sets out what he wants for breakfast (unless it's refrigerated, obviously) the night before. Why then, are we having the same battles every day? 

Some would say, "just let him do it all on his own. He's gotta figure it out." Then he will miss the bus, and who does that inconvenience? Me. I'd have to take him to school. Especially when Dada is out of town for work. And his younger sibling, who is not old enough to be left home to get himself on his own bus yet, so he'd have to hurry to get ready to come with me. And the dogs, who have been built into our morning routine. Let's just empty the entire toolbox into the works, shall we? The heck with the wrench. 

Out of curiosity, I checked google maps. It would be around a 45 minute walk from our home to his school, and I know at least some of it doesn't have sidewalks. That would make him that much later if he missed the bus. The whole point of getting on the bus is so I don't have to drive him, adding more gasoline burned and more emissions and so forth. If I had any desire to take him to school, that would be built into our routine already.

How do we raise someone whom other someones (college roommates, apartment mates, future spouses) won't want to maim because of their inconsideration/selfishness/obliviousness? The child has zero money because, as our children, we don't believe they should be paid to help around the house. They live here, they should help, period. So we can't fine him the price of the water bill to open his eyes to the cost of sitting under the hot water for ridiculous amounts of time. How do we waken the (I hope) innate self-awareness of, "hey, I'm being kind of a jerk hogging the hot water, I should get clean and get out"? It is clear that what we/I am doing now does not work and is unsustainable. 

I don't want to leave you with the idea that he is a problem child and the other two are angelic by comparison; they most certainly are not. We have three great kids, each with their own issues. Would I trade them in on a yo-yo, as Nana used to say? Do not tempt me, Frodo. 

A gory details post

One might infer from the title that there will be material shown here which could make some readers uncomfortable. There's no shame in skipping this post. Read at your own risk. 

That said, I'll try to be sensitive as well. 

Here's me, pre-op, in my magic gown. You guys, this gown was so cool! When I was putting it on, I couldn't remember if the nurse had said to have it open in the front or in the back, so I of course assumed, "well, boob surgery would mean they're working on my front so it has to open in the front, right?" and that's how I put it on. Wrong! Haha! The nurse giggled at me and said, "everyone thinks that, but it actually is to open in the back" because there are all these cool layers to the gown including pockets that they can run tubes through which can warm or cool the patient accordingly. Magic! Whoever thought that up is brilliant. We fixed my gown and got me ready to go.

My OR people came in and introduced themselves. They asked me if I wanted a surgical cap of some kind and I asked if it was warm in the OR. One of the anesthesiologists said, "it's freezing in there" so I got a snazzy blue shower cap. He then gave me my calming, pre-op "margarita" mix, Dada kissed me good luck and they wheeled me into the OR. I remember looking up at the light bulbs that look like ice cubes in the huge light fixtures. I met a nurse who said his name was Mike, I remember the team saying something wasn't working right and that they needed another one... blood pressure machine, perhaps? And then I don't remember anything after that. Once again, I have no recollection of my surgeon or the head anesthesiologist being even in the room. I did not get a catheter, (big hooray!) or the breathing tube that heads clear down into your lungs (another big hooray!) I had what I think is called an LMA which is a tube that just lays at the top, back of your throat in case they need it for anything later. Less invasive and a not-as-sore throat later on. I only felt the soreness of it pretty much that same day and the next day.  

I think Dada said they started on me in the OR at 8:47 and I was wheeled into Recovery at about 10:40. I woke up and stared fuzzily at the large clock in Recovery at about 11:10 when violent shivers started. I told my nurse I wasn't cold but I was certainly quaking and she said the anesthesia does that. It didn't last too long and I got an extra toasty blankie out of the deal, haha! Since I didn't have to wait for a chest X-ray this time, I had some ice chips immediately and got to chat with my nurses as the underwater, operating on a slower record speed feeling when I turned my head faded. My surgeon came into check on me and asked if I'd decided if I wanted to stay overnight or not yet. I hadn't decided. Some of you are floored at what I've read online as a "drive by mastectomy", and believe me, I took that decision seriously, too. My surgeon and some of my nurses were strongly of the opinion that I'd sleep better and less interrupted at home and would therefore heal better. I suppose they also factor in the amount of germs in hospitals. It felt like it took me forever to decide and it wasn't because I was in any pain. I felt some hotness/burning sensation in the general surgery area but no actual pain. My surgeon had commented that people tell him mastectomy surgery hurts less than even laparoscopic procedures and I have to admit I didn't really believe him. However since this is Saturday and the surgery was Monday and I took absolutely nothing for pain yesterday at all, I guess he knew what he was talking about!

Once you're done in Recovery they send you to the next room to keep an eye on you. Dada was invited back to see me and I had one of the same nurses I'd had after my port surgery this spring, so that was really neat. She brought me more water and some Rice Krispie Treats, and kept a good eye on me. I did eventually decide I could go home the same day so she prepped my discharge papers and my folder of info I'd need to change dressings, how to take care of my drains which prevent fluid building up at the surgical sites (I have one on each side), signs to watch out for, etc. 

And the magic continued. They set me up with a scopolamine patch (thank goodness for Auto Correct finding that for me) which they stick to the skin behind your ear. It administers anti-nausea meds over a period of three days so you don't have any ill effects from the anesthesia. I was warned to not scratch it or touch it and then rub my eyes as it would dilate my pupils and then people would look at you funny, assume a head injury and order a CT scan. "Make sure you wash your hands. We've all done it" cracked my nurse with a roll of her eyes. The boys, of course, loved the idea of the patch with the magic medicine, and I did remember to wash my hands anytime I forgot it was there and scratched whatever itch was close to it. No dilated pupils or CT scans for me.

So I'm a stomach and side sleeper and obviously that isn't going to happen for awhile. Dada and Myron had disassembled our big red recliner and moved it upstairs so I would have a "nest". I've got multiple blankets, a side table for books/drinks/tissues/snacks/phone charger/desk lamp/etc so I'm pretty set for just about anything. Dada even dug out his travel pillow which has helped immensely and I'm about 15-20 paces from our bathroom. I finally learned my lesson last night and quit drinking about two hours before bed so I didn't need to be in there every two and a half hours, haha! Safe to say I've been well hydrated. Plus I have two pillows because I read I'm supposed to be propping my arms up. Lots to remember! I'm sure I'm not getting all of it right, but I seem to be doing really well, so I'm not stressing over it. 

And why these pictures decided to line up in the middle instead of along the left like all the other ones is beyond me, so sorry for those of you with OCD. My apologies.  

Ladies online mentioned a nail apron which costs about $1.50 as an excellent way to make sure you don't yank on your drains. The compression lines you see on my torso are because we've been using an ACE bandage over top of everything so stuff isn't coming loose, tickling too much, getting tugged on, and so forth. It reminds me of the big velcro wrap I was given after I had Damon. I told friends it feels good to put it on, and it feels good to take it off. The lump you see on my right side above the bandages is my port. It was being a butt and not letting the pre-op nurses draw blood from it, which is part of its job but it happens sometimes, so I do have a small bruise on the inside of my left elbow where a very apologetic nurse had to stick me. She was fast and efficient and a small needle stick was not truly one of my worries Monday morning, haha!

Some of you are Star Trek fans, whether you admit it or not, and if you remember the episode where Captain Picard is shown having been assimilated into Locutus of Borg, this next quote will make you laugh. Between my drains and my newly done landscaping I am Noboobus of Borg!

I have been having way more fun with this than anyone else, most likely because people are trying to be sensitive and don't want to be seen as crude, but also because the sooner I embrace my new reality the better I'll adapt. I'd made jokes all last week about my surgery approaching. Monday was my last Monday with boobs. Tuesday was my last day with tatas. Wednesday was my last hump day with humps. Thursday was harder, so I declared it my last happy hour with hooters. Friday was my last flash 'em Friday. Then I thought of Noboobus of Borg and cracked myself up. 

Humor is excellent medicine!

Then a sweet nurse friend advised to be sure I check my back during dressing changes because fluid can build up there as well and patients often don't realize it should be checked, too. Never would have dawned on me. As you can see, my back is in the clear. These were all taken Tuesday!

I have been absolutely floored at how normal I've felt. Everyone has cautioned to not let the pain get ahead of me. I'm thinking I must be doing something wrong because I don't have any! Granted I haven't walked into anything or been hit with anything or fallen onto anything this week, and I think I'm supposed to wait until the drains come out to start with the recommended arm exercises, but I've been slowing reaching farther and lifting light things and am doing really well. Showering with the drains is a bit trickier but there are lots of tips about that online, too. 

I have my follow up appointment all set for next week and I'm really looking forward to having the drains removed. They don't hurt at all, but they are encumbering, and I think psychologically it'll be a big milestone to have them gone. I am not looking forward to the intense itching I hear I will experience as everything heals, but even that is a sign of progress, so I'll take it. Again, I reserve the right to change my mind once it starts happening, haha. I am looking forward to experimenting with my wardrobe and at this point I'm not even talking about what will look good now that I'm flat- I simply mean what I'll be capable of pulling on over my head! This week has been all about the button downs, and I don't have or wear a lot of those so I've been raiding Dada's closet.  

Overall, my mental and emotional state has been one of relief and excitement. I did two biopsies and a port surgery. I'm done with chemo. I survived my bilateral mastectomy. The drains are absorbing decreasing amounts of fluid. I'm not in pain. I'm not thinking about radiation yet and don't have pathology results either to mull over yet. My village is overwhelming me with wonderful food, rides for the kids to their activities, prayers going up on high on our behalf, very gentle hugs, a stack of cards, and enough texts to blow up my phone. Thank you to all of you who have been part of this in any way, whether you are local and in hugging range or across the country and are sending support in other ways. Extra special thanks to my Mommee and Aunt Sherri who have been riding herd on the kids so Dada can focus on taking good care of me. I am so blessed. I know some of you might get sick of hearing it, but I'm telling you it is the absolute truth. I am so blessed. 

Something for everyone

It has been some month. April is known for throwing curveballs and I'm not just talking about the ridiculous weather. This April, my 90 year old Nana passed away. That means family gathered together, road tripping from all over North Carolina, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and who knows where else. Fortunately, it was a beautiful, warm, and dry weekend so there were fewer traveling hassles than there could have been. Though we've been married for 19 years, there were still family members Dada had never met. Some of these were my cousin Ruthie, her husband, and sons. Our boys all hit it off and were quite the sight:  

After a concise service including music that Nana had preselected which had been written by a relative, there was a little bit of time to spend before the lunch would be served. Cousins being cousins and it being way too long between times spent together, some Shenanigans ensued, which may or may not have involved our kids and my cousin's kids, Cora and Blake. 

I remember thinking that it was the perfect kind of spring day: some clouds in a blue sky, a slight breeze, warm sun on our shoulders. I think Nana would have enjoyed all of it except maybe our "monkeying around" at the cemetery. I know there are other pictures on Dada's phone so I will have to see what I can track down to share. 

It's bittersweet that she is gone. I don't think she ever had any desire to be the world's oldest living person, so to make it to 90 is quite an achievement. I'm so glad that we saw her last summer while we vacationed with her in good health; that those memories of sunshine and her interacting with us and the dogs and her nurses are the ones closest to our hearts instead of the ones where she sat wretchedly on the alarm pad of her bed in the nursing home while taking multiple medications. I'm glad she got time with all of our kids and that they'll remember her. 

I'm glad we have fun family that takes advantage of opportunities to get together and make more memories. I'm sorry that we won't get to see Nana at the beach this summer. It will be odd to not have her coming out of her room with her walker to ask us if we've eaten yet or what we're up to that day. I'm glad that she didn't linger a long time through her pneumonia, being miserable. I'm glad that we got to celebrate her life. I know it will be a process, and the kids have already mentioned missing her, and that's how it should be as she held a special place in our hearts and lives. 

Nana Carrie, 1927-2018, we love you.

The post that I don't even know how to write

Bleh. 

There comes a part in every story that we have mixed feelings about. Sometimes we can't wait for the ending to arrive so that the assignment is over or because we have something else we want to do or because we've lost interest or because it's breaking our hearts.

Sometimes we don't ever want the story to stop. We simply must know what happens next, if they lived happily ever after,  if they got what they deserved (especially the bad guy), and what about               ?

Probably 95% of you reading this already know through Facebook or texts that Thursday night, November 2nd, we had to put down a friend. A roughly one hundred pound friend who was covered in fur. And leaves. And dirt. And, if I'm being honest, which I am trying to be, urine. And bumps and lumps in different spots. But covered completely in love and tears and sadness. 

She had cataracts and couldn't see well. She had some hearing loss, which was more funny than awful, especially when you'd walk behind her and go where she wasn't expecting you to be. Then you'd call her, and your voice would bounce off the house or the shed or the garage in a funny way to confuse her, and even though you're calling louder and louder and clapping, there she goes, heading further away from you while trying to find you. Even with incontinence meds, she was peeing in the house, not on purpose, just because, I think, she couldn't tell anymore when she needed to go. She was drinking more water than ever. She needed something behind her to push against so she could get her weight up enough to pull her back legs erect. She'd lean into walls to slide down against so she could sit or nap. She was squatting and sitting very, very slowly, clearly aching. It was breaking our hearts.

But she was still so sweet, so happy to see anyone who came over, so happy to have her kids lay on her, to have Bosley curl up behind her or halfway on top of her. She was happy to ramble wherever we'd let her roam. She was eating,  still loving carrots and apple pieces as much as ever. She was as patient as could be expected with a not-even-six-month-old puppy gnawing on her legs or chomping on her ears or getting his teeth caught in her fur even though she could have knocked him into next week or sat on him and squeezed him into submission. She tried so hard to get up quickly to greet visitors, even to the point where some of them said, "oh, you sweet thing, you don't have to get up for me!" 

We have a Newfoundland sized hole in our hearts, in our home, on our deck, under her tree, in our lives. 

We talked with our good friend who is also a vet and made arrangements for the last decisions we could make for the best of her life. We filled her last, large dinner with carrots and broth on top and I don't know how she did it, but she ate it all. We packed up the kids and both dogs and went to a park a few streets away where we wandered around for a last walk. She made us laugh by avoiding most of the puddles; ever the Newfie who couldn't pee in the rain because she might get wet, the Newfie who knocked children into swimming pools instead of pulling them out, the Newfie who we've loved for just shy of twelve years.

The time span got me thinking about how many people we have met while we've had her. We got her in March of 2006, before we knew our Zita and her family, which means before I was in any moms' groups here so we didn't know most of our neighbors or people we've been doing life with for over a decade now. She was my first dog. Liam was born only a few months before we got her, Carrie was not quite three. She was there to help us welcome Damon home- he's never known a life without her. She's been around longer than any of our nieces and nephews. She's spent time at camp, time at softball games, time with the neighbors, time at our big parties and at our small home groups. She accepted everyone and only ever barked at meter men. She was so quiet that when she did bark, she surprised herself as much as us. 

After the park we went to our closest ice cream place and treated both dogs and ourselves. Even then she was making us laugh, lapping up the ice cream with that huge pink tongue, chomping the tiny dog biscuit, and then attempting to devour the styrofoam cup. 

Then our sweet friend came over with her husband and medication to put her to sleep and then to stop her heart. I suppose it's a cliche, but it was heartbreaking on more than one level. To see even our friend crying was so hard. To see our kids so bravely facing every minute of it revealed a fierce pride and another layer of hurt that we can't protect them from pain or from death or from the loss of a friend. 

To those of you saying, "yes, and they'll get over it- it's just a dog," I don't even know what to tell you. You're right. We will get over it, though not soon. You're right. She was a dog. I thought that many times myself. "She'll be okay outside while we're gone. She's a dog." "She doesn't need that. She's a dog." "She doesn't understand. She's just a dog." True. But not helpful when you contrast that with all the times she cracked her huge old head off the underside of the kitchen table just so she could lay that head on your leg while wagging her huge tail at you. Or how patient she was to come inside and sit, every single time, to have her paws wiped even when sitting was painful and slow and balancing was hard. Or how you could lay up against her and read and she would just breathe, warm and fuzzy, behind you. How she was happy to help earn her keep by licking off plates before they headed into the dishwasher. How she teethed on and ruined the set of wooden nesting penguin dolls the kids had when they were tiny. How she perked up every year when fall rolled around and how she loved bounding through snow. How embarrassed she was for days after getting her summer shaved haircut and pink bows on her ears. Yes, she was a dog. But she was a heavyweight in our family. 

Movies have helped. Dada missed both of them, but the kids and I have seen "Inside Out" which is all about feelings and how they work together, and "A Dog's Purpose" which showed a neat twist about a dog being brought back as a different dog each time he died. The movies have helped us talk through sadness with glad memories and use our imaginations. She may never become a police dog as she had zero aggressive bones in her body, but she would make an excellent therapy or helper dog for someone somewhere. I've been getting book recommendations too- thank you for those. Technology has played a part as we've taken pictures and videos that we will treasure. Carrie has also done artwork that will be priceless to us down the road. Bosley is also helping despite his bewilderment as to where his playmate and snuggle buddy has gone, and we're so glad we got him before we lost her. 

To those of you who have expressed condolences and sent prayers our way, we thank you. It means a lot that you understand. It means even more that you liked her, too.

RIP Triskal Sarabella - You were so loved. 
December 15, 2005- November 2, 2017

Hooey and Hogwash, and MS Bike to the Bay

Get comfy. This is a long rant. You've been warned.

I'd like to address the nonsense that the "experts" spout about "you'll have more energy if you exercise." Has anyone found this to actually be true in their lives? 

Dada and I have been getting up at 5:30 in the morning. In the morning. Five thirty. In the A.M. To exercise.

It all started because he signed up to do a Tough Mudder with his friend Theresa from work and Andrew, her boyfriend. Apparently it's a race with mud and yuck and obstacles. Sounds like a super fun time for the competitive and in shape. I, however, have seen pictures and thanks, but no thanks. 

At any rate, I started to rise and shine early with him so we could ride our bikes in the basement on the trainers we'd bought previously. Hello, we live in Ohio where conditions are not always conducive to riding bikes outside. There are things called Elements and Nature and Weather happening out there. Hence the trainers. I got up with him to help keep him motivated to prepare for his race. Like lots of us, he is more likely to stick with something if he's not doing it all alone. More fool me.

His team has a blast at the Tough Mudder (here is an excellent photo of him with Andrew on his back for the Hero Carry. This is where I mention that Andrew both towers over him and outweighs him.) He told us all about the mud, the obstacles that made me think of American Ninja Warrior, the dangling electric cables, the mud, the walls to climb and help others over, the mud...

All photo credits to Tough Mudder and their crew. I had nothing to do with it.

I'm glad he had a good time and that he finished and that it was an exciting, successful experience for him. I have no problem playing in the mud or contributing in ropes course-style activities like the wall to get yourself and your team over. Where I break down is that it's competition. I have no competitive bones in this middle aged body of mine. I never have. I tend to shut down when the challenge is thrown down.

So it was with great consternation that I received the news about him signing us (us means him and me) up to do the MS Bike to the Bay the last weekend in June. People, that's next weekend! 

"There's a team from work doing it. I only signed us up for the 50 mile part." 

Um, excuse me? Fifty MILES!? On a bicycle?! Have you met this wife with whom you've been living for the past eighteen years?

As Inigo Montoya says in The Princess Bride, "let me 'splain... no, there is too much. Let me sum up."

First off, I own a Schwinn. From Walmart. It's the bike my BFF Lisa recommended when we were looking into bikes roughly a hundred years ago, perhaps when he was looking into doing some triathalons, also with Theresa. Hmm. Methinks Theresa is going to end up on my list for inciting him in his troublemaking ways...

Second, I hadn't been on a bike out on a road since Damon (who just turned 7, so let's do some math) was small enough to fit into the baby seat on the back of said Schwinn. Even then, it was usually during Dada's lunch break so it was fast rides down the street, crossing the street to lap the apartment complex a time or two and then re-cross the street back to our subdivision. It's been awhile since I was ten and zooming around Institute Hill on my old 10 speed named "Speedy". And even then, Lisa and I were much more inclined to walk everywhere than take our bikes. It made getting home before blue dark a little more challenging if we cut it too close, but there you are.

Third, even though Bike to the Bay is a fundraiser and not a race there will be people there who know what they're doing and are competitive and who will not be afraid to run me down. My aunt Sue once made me a T-shirt with a tire track running across it and the caption read, "drive-by shirting", which I thought was a hoot. Now I'm envisioning bike tracks up the back of me.

Fourth, hello, a Schwinn!? We took it to the bike shop to see other options and I'm not kidding when I tell you the other bikes laughed at my poor bike when I strolled it in. So, I've done some test-riding of other brands and styles and holy cow, I am impressed, I have to say, by the thought and attention to detail going into bike making these days. I'd never considered the fact that women might have a lot of length in their legs but have shorter arm reaches which affects how well you can reach the brakes which are on your handlebars! That's a terrifying thought. And I don't even get on my bike right or brake right or stop right, according to the professionals at the bike shop. Good grief. So everything I've been doing since I learned to ride is essentially wrong. 

And I'm supposed to do fifty miles!?

"Uh, well, then, it would also be fifty miles back to the car the next day. You know, once we're done and have had a nice dinner and camped out."

And here is the part where I point out that while I am not competitive, I am also not confident in my math skills. However, I do know that fifty plus fifty is one hundred and I most certainly will not be able to to one hundred miles in two days. One hundred miles. These people are crazy.

Where was I? Fifth, practice. Okay, so we'll be riding on actual roads (all this intel keeps leaking in slowly but surely) and not on, say, a bike path like a rails-to-trails deal. Great. So I'll have traffic to deal with (and that'll be point six.) We get on the bike trail and the first time on a bike that we do any distance we do about 10 miles. The next time is 17 miles. Improving, sure, but 17 is not 50. Not even half of 50, actually. The third time we take to the streets and pull off 27 miles, the last fourth of which I spend sobbing and snotting and I can't even let go of my handlebars long enough to effectively wipe my nose because I'm on a friend's bike and it feels like it's got a mind of its own and I'd rather have several hundred pounds of horse under me than this flimsy contraption that is just waiting to send me over the handlebars if I hit a

"What in the heck is that? In the middle of the road?"

"It looks like an armadillo..."

That was the same exact thought we both had as we swerve around a huge turtle? Tortoise? Something shelled and slow-moving in the center of our lane. We both would have put money on an armadillo. Oh wait, we are in Ohio...

We all lived to tell the tale, though we didn't see our friend on the trip back home. We saw a snake in the middle of the road, a huge water bird taking off, hawks harrying each other for the fun of flight in the morning air, got half-heartedly chased by a dog inside an invisible fence, and a handful of other cyclists. I'm convinced they smile at each other because they're thrilled to see other crazy people besides themselves. "Oh look, there are other folks who pay a mint for a bike, a helmet, gloves, shoes, biking shorts (which is a Thing in and of itself, let me tell you). I'm not alone in my nuthood! Yaaaaay!"

I'm also fairly certain my bum fell off somewhere around Bishop Road...

Oh yes, sixth. I don't know what y'all say when you see bikers on the road, but I know the thoughts that go my head run something along these lines: I hate seeing bikers on the road! I know how scary it is to hit a pothole wrong or a stick or a stone and I know how wobbly I am- cyclists make me nervous as a driver. I give them as much room as I possibly can while thinking black thoughts about, "we have bike trails, you know, so cars can drive on the roads" and "why doesn't Ohio have bike lanes like Oregon does?" and "of course there would be bikers right here on the S-curve, the very worst part to encounter bikers on this entire road!" Anyway. I'm not very charitable. Sorry cyclists. It is what it is.  Y'all make me nervous and now I'm on the receiving end of cars zooming past, some of whom are very good about getting over as far as they can (thinking black thoughts about how nervous we make them, no doubt) and some not so much. "I'm going to be dead in a ditch," I tell Dada, "and you'll have to figure out how to get the kids to karate all the time."

This is a photo of our family doghouse. It belonged to my grandparents and had them, my dad, my aunt Chris, and my uncle Jeff written on the dogs. We tease Pap about decisions which would have landed him in the doghouse if we had had a dog representing him, like the time we sent him with the kids to a school festival and he came home with live goldfish the kids had won. I was not please about being responsible for keeping more living things that way. In fact, he's been metaphorically in the doghouse more than once. I'm recalling the time he crafted wooden weapons for the grandkids while they stayed with him at the farm until the neighbor kids started asking for their own sets as well. I've teased him about adding an attic to the doghouse because he's so often in there.

As you can see, though, Dada has moved in and might be there for the rest of his life, or mine. 

I think I mentioned that this is a fundraiser for MS, so it's a good cause and not a race and between those two things and a handful of others is why I haven't flat-out refused to do this thing. But here's where you can help. First, please pray that I'm not run over or that I don't get my shoelace stuck in my bicycle chain or that I don't run over a skunk or anything else that might impair my um... I can't even really say ability, because we've already established all of the lack of that, haha, so... chances of finishing, let's just say that. 

Second, please donate to the cause. You can click here for my donation page or here for Dada's donation page. Dada's work will match whatever we raise! I'd like to think we are making a difference and you can really help in that department. Thank you so much! 

Once I recover the ability to move and function again I promise to blog all about the actual experience. You can then send money for flowers for Dada's funeral, because I most likely will have killed him several times over during the event or the practice rides leading up to it. 

So to loop back to the beginning, no, I don't find that I have more energy from the exercising we are doing. If anything, I fall into bed at night, don't move, dreaming of marshmallows while the boys follow me around even in my dreams, and they're complaining, even in my dreams until the alarm for 5:30 wakes us up and we get to do it again. I feel like I'm student teaching for the second time! Help!