Buckle up...this post takes my blogging a new level of "personal"

I started thinking this week about my own cluelessness (at times) about my girls. It is often a wonder to me that my children have survived as long as they have with me as their mother. I've been sitting back for over a month wondering why Lizzy isn't sleeping, why her reflux is acting up, why she seems so uncomfortable. Then I realized that she is now ten months old and probably doesn't need to be eating every hour and a half to two hours. Honest to God, between the bottles and the meals, this poor kid has had more food dumped into her gullet than is either reasonable or necessary. So I tweaked her feeding schedule and got her back on reflux meds, and lo and behold...she is sleeping, eating and feeling better. It is a wonder.

It is still amazing to me that as soon as you think you have everything figured out with babies, and older kids, too, that is when it changes all over again. You get into a groove, everyone is on a schedule, and ... KABOOM. Something happens to turn it all upside down and you have to go back to the drawing board. Such is the life of a mommy. And hopefully, we can do our best to pay attention and figure out these puzzles. It is astounding that we, as mothers, are able to fall into the role of puzzle and problem-solvers without any training as soon as these little people come to us, so trusting and so totally dependent.

As for me, I have been trying to do some soul-searching and self-analysis. (This could be dangerous, I know.) I've been thinking that I'd like to fit in a part-time job, hopefully something that I can do from home or in the evening hours, whether it is a direct sales business or data entry. Just something. Then I start wondering why I am wanting to work, other than the obvious "it would be nice to have some extra cash for Christmas," when I have so much to do here and I never get it all accomplished. So then it occurred to me the other day that it might, very possibly, be so that I can distract my biological clock for awhile because I have also been having daydream, fantasy thoughts about having another baby. This is crazy, I realize, so if you are a reader (and/or my mother) and feel the need to comment about my fertility, you should absolutely feel free to do so. But you should know that I am already aware that this notion catapults past the line of silly into the abyss of crazy. I know my plate is full. I know we are blessed with three healthy babies. I know that we were not always so sure that that would be the case. I know I'd probably fret and worry every second of another pregnancy to the detriment of my other children. I know, I know, I know. But I love my family and love being a mommy and I just can't shake the feeling that I'm not quite finished yet. We have been able to make happy home and a really good marriage, despite the stress that everyone else shares commonly in this phase of life, and I think it's probably the kind of home that should grow a big family. And everyone I know who doesn't want more kids knows, unequivocally, that they do not want more kids. I do not know that to be the case yet. So I was just thinking that maybe the distraction of a part-time job and getting myself very involved at the kids' schools might be just the thing to give this tick-tocking a little time to sort itself out.

I would be remiss, in this confession of sorts, if I didn't also admit the following: I feel a little cheated that my last baby was taken away from me and I missed the first two months of her little newborn life. I lay in the mother and baby unit in the hospital after her birth alone, and discharged myself less than twelve hours later. That just totally sucked. And I feel robbed because I was actually able to establish a milk supply for her, and would have been able to nurse her, but she was only able to nurse from me for a total of five minutes the entire six weeks that I was pumping. I so wanted to know what it was like to nurse a baby. I hadn't done it for Erin and Meghan, just hadn't put forth the effort or done the research ahead of time. And I did it for Lizzy, through my whole pregnancy, I read and researched and committed that I would do whatever it took to make nursing a success for both of us, not knowing what life had in store for us. And then it didn't work.

So I guess I am carrying disappointment around with me about the fact that I didn't have those very special experiences with her, and maybe subconsciously I am trying to give myself another chance. I do feel like there's a bit of unfinished business in my head. Not rational or responsible thinking, I know, which is why I'm trying to wade through these thoughts and get to the bottom of them, rather than just saying "Yes, I definitely want to have another baby!" and then badger Pete into submission. All this being said, the one fact that does remain is that I am not saying, at any time, "I know I do not want any more." So I guess I have to tease out these different scenarios and give myself some time, mentally, to truly figure out the answer, the right answer, for me, for us.

Poor Pete. He just wants to travel and have some peace. And he had to marry me and my crazy ovaries. Poor, poor Pete.

OK, out of the deep and into my shout out to my ladies at Book Group. We had our first meeting last night during which time we discussed a mutually read book (Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert) and it was awesome to be surrounded by friends, and have us all discuss our different views about this book. What a discussion it was. Everyone participated and the discussion exceeded my expectations. It was so excellent to have read this book (which I absolutely loved!!) and have my brain working again about something other than the reflux, vomit and poop of other people. And we selected our next book and set a date for next month, which means that this group is actually happening and we might keep it going for awhile. How balanced I feel! I cannot wait for next month.

In conclusion to all this rambling...Happy Halloween! It should be a beautiful evening here...I hope everyone has a safe and happy day.

So I don't want to exactly say that I'm in the throws of an ecclesiastical crisis. But the whole religion thing has been bugging me lately, at least in terms of where I stand and how that stance effects my children.

I was raised Catholic, through and through. My parents took us to church every Sunday. We were thoroughly surrounded by the holiness of it all. And then my parents got divorced and life became pretty unravelled at times. I honestly lost my faith. I began to question pretty much everything, partially because of my home life, and also because I was entering that "I'm going to be a free-thinker and not conform to the ideas of anyone else" mode. So I lost touch with the Catholic church, and with my spirituality in general.

Lots of things happened over the years. And again and again, I have longed to figure out where spirituality fits into my life, and wondered whether or not it involves Catholicism.

Where do I fit in and where do I go?

I guess when Elizabeth was born, I started to get some answers. Without thinking or premeditation, I prayed. I prayed as a Catholic. And I would randomly stop into Catholic church and pray to God and the saints with whom I was raised, and I prayed to all of the angels I know who are sitting in heaven watching over us. Especially my Aunt Polly. My guardian angel. And it was my faith in my angels and the strength I received from my very Catholic "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys" that would sustain me while Lizzy was in the operating room, or having her PCVC line put in place, or receiving a blood transfusion. In those moments, my strength came from the peace and quiet I could find in my mind by praying. And I prayed that way when I was with her and away from Erin and Meghan, and I prayed that way when I was back home and she was so far away in the hospital. In the middle of the night, first thing in the morning, driving to the hospital and driving back home. I prayed. And it was prayer that came from my childhood.

I guess it made me realize that the comfort that I feel from turning to the prayer and tradition with which I started my life is greater than the ambivalence I've felt about Catholicism throughout the past few years. And if that is the truth, then is it wrong to just ignore the years that I've not been a part of a religious community and walk through the doors of one, expecting to be accepted with open arms?

Probably not. Because the God I believe in does just that. Accepts you when you are ready to accept Him. I do believe that the notion of God is personal and individual, while the concept of organized religion provides a sense of belonging and community to those who are a part. And it all sounds really good to me right now. Now that I've been through much tougher times than adolescence and rebellious whoo-ha, I think that a belief in God and participation in our church can only be a good thing.

Which brings me to the next piece of the puzzle. Now, with these "epiphanies," (pardon the dramatic pun) I am also thinking that my children deserve the same introduction to a religion, a faith, a set of values that both Pete and I had from our families. Even if they grow up and choose something else, they deserve to have the information in front of them. I know that Pete has no interest in reviving his involvement in the church-going process, which I respect, but it makes it hard to now ask him to join me as I help our kids dive in. But maybe it doesn't. Maybe I just do what I think is best and know that he won't fight me, he just probably won't be there every Sunday. I can probably persuade him to be a Cheaster with me and that would be great. And now Erin is going to be in the children's choir at church, the first rehearsal for which she attended with glee today. So I am sure Pete will come when she sings.

I suppose at the end of it all, I conclude that I am comfortable going back to my roots. And I am comfortable knowing that this will probably not be a family thing. This is okay with me. And I'm fairly certain that God will be psyched to have me and my girls when we can make it...and my husband when he can, too.

Funny things that Meghan says and does

Meghan is a nut. She is easily one of the most hysterical kids I've ever known. The other day she explained to me where dirt comes from, and you'd be surprised to know that it all starts with cinnamon. She hypothesizes that someone took cinnamon, long ago, made it wet and let it get all "rotten and disgusting" and it turned into dirt. And that is from whence all dirt comes.

Then there's her physicality. Her favorite activity is wrestling with Pete. And I guess that's why Pete doesn't feel the need to try for a boy, because he gets his ass handed to him by our four-year-old girl on a daily basis. He so won't appreciate that reveal, but this is a place of truth. And even he has to admit this...not because he's a wimp, but because she is freakishly strong. She's the son we'll never have. And she has some serious moves. She has a mastery of leverage unlike most grown men, and she'll take you out with a sweep of the leg in a way that is both surprising and shocking. And funny.

Then she opens her mouth while wrestling, and it just gets funnier. For instance, today, she flipped over Pete's shoulder about 417 times, over and over, rapid-fire.

Pete: "Do you ever get tired?"

Meghan: "No, this is the only thing I like to do."

Pete: "The only thing?"

Meghan: "Well, sometimes I like to eat chocolate, too."

Later...

Pete: "Where's my football?"

Meghan: "I have it."

Pete: "You said I could have it."

Meghan: (sweetly) "I was lying, Daddy!"

Need I say more?

Go Phillies!

Dear Family and Friends...

Today our Elizabeth is ten months old. And when she was a tiny baby, so sick and frail, I leaned on all of you very frequently. I wrote and wrote to you via email in order to not only keep you updated, but to maintain my sanity and obtain your assurances through your replies that she would be ok, and in turn, so would I.

I haven't written to you in quite some time. So I write today with an upbeat update and many thanks. Elizabeth saw her new intestinal specialist at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia yesterday. Her past health problems and concerns included severe liver damage, failure to thrive, feeding intolerance, reflux, and possible ongoing treatment for "short gut" because of her bowel resection. Because she lost a segment of bowel she could have potentially faced a lifetime of trouble with digestion and absorption of her food. Because she was premature and so small at birth, we would likely see a host of delays across the developmental spectrum. In short, the list of what could have been problematic for Lizzy for the rest of her life went on and on.

When this new doctor saw her yesterday, she took her entire history and concluded that not only is Elizabeth doing well, she is doing miraculously well. She no longer needs to have her age corrected for her prematurity because her development, across the board, is on par with any ten-month-old, even though she is technically not even nine months old yet. Her liver has healed. She is gaining weight beautifully, and is between the tenth and twenty-fifth percentile on the growth curve for her height and weight. She is eating everything we give her to try, including wheat and dairy, and is switching formula again to a regular, milk-based formula. She will go to regular whole milk at one year of age, just like a "normal" baby. She also does not qualify as a "short gut" kid because she has no symptoms, no weight loss and did not lose enough bowel during her resection. Another check in the "normal" column. She still has reflux, and probably will for some time. But that's the easy one.

She is healed and well and shows no signs of being anything but healed and well. As I heard these words, and am now repeating them in this letter, they sink into my soul, deep and resounding, until they become a part of me. I no longer fear for her life, and I am getting back to having one of my own, one that is balanced, focused, whole, content and peaceful. And as Liz has grown and become stronger, I have started to write regularly on this blog which has been such a surprising source of catharsis and healing for me. To each of you who held me together with your words of assurance and prayer, I send my greatest thanks and gratitude. Your prayers helped to heal my daughter, and your kindness helped me to find myself.

We have so much for which we are thankful...the health of our children, the love of our family and friends, and the perspective to know the difference between what is bad and what is really, really good. And perhaps most important, we have gratitude for all of these things, and for the people who gave them to us. You know by now that you are those people...but you should also know that WE know it, and are eternally grateful to you and for you.

All my love and gratitude,
Kate

Shameless, but here's one more from our shoot. I love my husband so much...and the look on his face here with our baby girl, Busy Lizzy, tells all of you why I love him like I do.

If you live anywhere near Philly or South Jersey,
go get this woman to take your pictures.

How gorgeous are my kids?

How obnoxious am I?



www.lifestylephotos.blogspot.com

I have never, in my adult life, bought shoes that weren't brown or black until my best friend Erin's (for whom my eldest is named) wedding last April. We wore beautiful bright pink dresses and gold shoes. My heart nearly went aflutter at the thought of gold shoes, I will admit. I was terrified...gold? How? Gold is neither black nor brown, my old standbys, and therefore, gold is strange and does not make sense to my feet. I have always admired Erin's sense of style, though, and she always knows what is beautiful and in style and how to pull things together to make them so. I trusted and was an obedient bridesmaid, but was nervous. But I also realized that this was a chance to chip away at the dull mold in which I'd been walking around for thirty years. So I bought the sexiest, most insane gold shoes I could find. Granted, I did not properly break them in ahead of time and I was nearly paralyzed by the end of the night due to my own oafishness and the five-inch heel, but I wore them. I've worn them since. And my God, I love those shoes.

I share this because what many of you out there do not know about me, until this moment, is that my husband is constantly threatening to send incriminating evidence into that TLC show "What Not to Wear" because my clothes are hideous and my style sense non-existent. I wear a lot of tee-shirts and sweats and sneakers. I am a minivan mom who rarely sleeps a full night, for God's sake. What does anyone expect from me? But the teasing has gotten pretty merciless lately. My friend Jaclyn is so embarrassed that I own a tee shirt with Winnie the Pooh on it (and have worn it in public!) and Pete has actually told me at times that he cannot talk to me until I change because, and I quote, I "look insane." He has always hated my shoes, especially. Until I bought the gold heels.

And my God, he loves those shoes.

So for my birthday last month, I received a gift card to DSW from hubby. My directions were: "Go get shoes. It will bring you happiness. No sneakers. No flip flops." And I used that gift card Saturday to buy three pairs of the most gorgeous shoes I've ever seen in my life. One gray, one Chianti red and the other deep green. A little bit of snakeskin, a little bit of suede, a lot of heel. Beautiful, stylish shoes with color. I wore a pair on our Family Photo Shoot out in the woods that day, and I was able to hoof it through the park in grey snakeskin heels and jeans with no problem. I suspect it had much more to do with the lift it gave my self-esteem and self-confidence, and much less to do with the shoes themselves. I felt lighter than air. And I seriously LOVE these shoes!


Maybe "What Not to Wear" isn't necessary for this minivan mom. Pete would probably still disagree because shoes do not an entire wardrobe make. But it is certainly a starting point. Maybe I just needed a great haircut (which I got last week, the first since Erin's wedding), an eyebrow waxing (the first in even longer than since Erin's wedding) and a fabulous upgrade to my shoe collection. And maybe, if I actually start to wear my fab shoes during the week in lieu of aforementioned slippers and flip-flops (yes, I've been known to wear slippers in public, as well), I will also start to pitch the archaic wardrobe hanging within my closet and screaming to be exorcised from my drawers. Then I'll really be on the road to Young-Hip-Mommy-ness, a place I've always wanted to visit. And if not, then Stacy and Clinton can come and kidnap me for a week in NY and some serious style-school.

I certainly would not object.

In other news, I've received some inquiries as to whether or not Erin's earlobes (my daughter, not my BFF now) are still plain or pierced. They are still plain. She was so nightmarish and hideous to deal with on Friday morning, the whole plan was blown out of the water. She was utterly deflated and disappointed, but the most amazing thing happened as a result of this...she has stopped being nightmarish and hideous.

Imagine that...Mom is capable of sticking to her guns and getting results.

Her behavior has been lovely and blissful for a full three days. I know better than to think that this will last forever or that the tide has changed permanently. But for however long this phase lasts, you can bet your backside I'm soaking up every minute of it.

Life is really good right now for us. I'm soaking up every minute of that, too.

FYI for my readers, whom I love

Just by the way, there are posts here that I have spellchecked and re-checked, posted and re-posted and Blogger isn't updating them correctly. So please don't judge me. You know I'm anal about spelling and grammar, and strive to do the very best I can in those departments. Judge Blogger instead. Thanks.

Earrings

Erin has been campaigning to get her ears pierced for months. And I don't mean subtle hints, I mean full-blown, shameless, taking-out-negative-ads-about-her-opponent Senator Plain Earlobes campaigning. (She actually talks disparagingly about her "plain earlobes" and the fact that she is the only one her age on the planet with "plain earlobes.") She has interviewed every female she knows about the status of their earlobes, the pain level they experienced upon piercing, what type of earrings they chose when the piercing took place, and has come to the conclusion that it will be so worth the pain to have earlobes with jewels.

I feel that it is of great importance to remind you of the following: She is six.

She reminds me of Kay Thompson's character Eloise, whose adventures were based on Liza Minelli's life as a child, and who lived at The Plaza in New York City. A child after my own heart, she was an old soul who had an amazing imagination and an in-bred love of room service. So much like my Erin. Only Erin lives in the suburbs and has me as her mother, not Judy Garland. Also, Eloise was notoriously independent and autonomous. The ironic part of the "Ear Campaign," and the comparison to Eloise, is that Erin has never wanted to do anything "grown-up" ahead of schedule, at least in terms of her emotional development. The child knew all her colors and the alphabet at fifteen months of age and taught herself to read at age four. So to say that she has never been ahead of herself is not only inaccurate, it is also unfair and discredits her precociousness. But as I've discussed with you at length here, emotionally, she would like to crawl back into my womb most days and live there happily until further notice.

So while I do see the "Earring Campaign" as the single greatest piece of leverage I've had to date to hang over her head and use to bribe her for fabulous behavior, I also see that there is a little lady inside of her wanting to emerge. I cannot take this lightly. Regardless of her behavior, this fervent and relentless desire to get those ears pierced could be a major stepping stone...a flying leap on her journey toward autonomy and independence. And in that vein, I think that ignoring this opportunity to let that little chickadee break another piece off that thick shell she's been wearing all these years would be a travesty.

She has gotten herself in line at school everyday, done her homework without a fuss, gone to bed with greater ease, and gotten herself dressed a little more rapidly each morning. These are amazing strides to take in four days time. Granted, it proves that she is highly capable of doing all these tasks if the right carrot is dangled. But at least she is working toward a goal. So tomorrow, as promised, Miss Thang will get her earrings. While things haven't been perfect per say, they have been improved. And I think if she's ready to take this step, I must get ready to take a step of my own. I must watch my eldest take a short walk away from me toward her own identity...and then let her walk back to me boasting jeweled, no-longer-plain earlobes. What a sight she will be. I imagine I'll hear her say something to the effect of..."Ooooooooh, I absolutely love earrings!"

I WANT LIPO!

I realize that I just went through a surgical procedure and have done nothing but complain about the evils of it. But today I took a good long look at myself and have decided that I really need lipo. Like in the worst way. I am thirty-one and I used to be cute. Not anymore. I have had three children, my metabolism is in the toilet and I don't have the willpower or patience to lose weight and resculpt my body the old fashioned way. So I NEED lipo.

I also need to get my backside in gear when it comes to organizing my home, and therefore my life, in a larger sense. Some people can just do it, organize a space, make it look beautiful, truly make a house into a home. Why this skill eludes me is beyond comprehension, because I want to be a good housewife more than I want anything else. Except lipo. But I look around and am sadly incapable of pulling things together around here. It depresses me. It really does. I strive to be better and walk in to a house that isn't messy and cluttered because I was able to make it so. I just don't know that it will ever happen for me.

So I am logging off for now to get back to my housework and I hope to be more successful today in achieving order or Feng Shui or whatever it is called. While I dive head-first into the task of ridding this house of clutter and nonsense, I will hold out hope that some generous plastic surgeon will be browsing Mommy-blogs today, take pity on me, and contact me. It happened in Jon and Kate plus Eight! Why can't it happen for me?

Isn't this picture a riot? I had to share it. It was 3-D movie night, and clearly everyone is way into it...except for Lizzy who knows that they look like fools. The look on her face is priceless! So on to the update/rant...

I am little disturbed -- again -- by the health insurance companies that are running our lives. This gall bladder surgery, which is indeed a very real surgery, is not a fun one to get over at home, especially when you have three small children running around and wanting to climb on you (and your incisions) to let you know how much they love you and want you to get better. So many people have had this laparoscopic removal of their gall bladder performed on them and all I've heard is, "it's no big deal, you'll be fine in no time." REALLY????? WHEN???? I am trying to get back to normal, but how can I when I ache and cringe every time I have to bend over and pick up the eighteen-pound load called Elizabeth off the floor?

Speaking of that eighteen pound load called Elizabeth, we have switched from "watch the baby" mode to "chase the baby" mode. Holy crap, that kid can move and get herself into some serious business. Sticking fingers in electrical sockets, going through the kitchen cabinets, licking the rim of the trashcan...and this all, literally, started today. Baby proofing 101 tomorrow.

In other news...Erin has been adjusting to school, slowly but surely. And in an effort to allow her the time she needs to do just that, I have tabled the discussions about getting her into counseling. Her "ticks" and outward demonstrations of anxiety are curbed if not gone entirely, and I feel that if she needs time, then time is what she deserves. I am keeping the observations of the school professionals in the back of my mind at all times. But it is not in me to classify her and throw her into a counselor's office without being very, very sure that that is absolutely necessary.

That being said, we are still working very hard on dealing with her behavior at home. I find that I am asking the same questions of myself day after day: How do I reach her? How do I figure out how to get through to her with respect and civility and calm? She hits the door at the end of the day and it is like my whole house is in the center of a cyclone. And I try to not only get through to her with composure, I also try desperately not to let her push my buttons. My friend Jaclyn watches it all the time and just shakes her head, saying, "She just has to push you. I don't know why, but she has to."

We blame in on her being the oldest child who should have been an only child. We blame it on being a Leo (sorry to those of you out there, but you know you aren't easy. Not that Virgos are, either. I can be honest.) We blame it on how smart she is. And at this point I will admit that by "we" I mean "me," or rather, "I," to be grammatically correct. I constantly want to make excuses for why things are the way they are in an effort to compensate for not being able to change or fix it. The only constant conclusion and solution I can come up with after I exhaust the list of excuses, is that I must always come to her from a place of love. When I do, she accepts it readily and eases up in all ways. Last night, she was being incredibly difficult. I hollered and hollered and hollered some more, to which she smirked and totally disregarded what I had said. So I stopped and asked her if she would like to sit with me. And immediately, she curled up beside me in my chair, quiet as a mouse, and snuggled as we watched television for twenty minutes. She literally did not move, did not make a sound. She just curled up and settled in. And it was a beautiful, peaceful twenty minutes.

Then it occurred to me today that she has walked all the way up to the school yard from the street and gotten into line two days in a row all by herself, the first two days ever. That is a huge step. I have to just continue to accept her baby steps as being sufficient, which they are more than, and hold on to these accomplishments. Because everyday there are accomplishments with all of my children. And I had my own accomplishments in my mothering today. I did a better job tuning into all of my kids and letting them know that they are all important and special to me. I was able to let them know unequivocally that I am immensely proud of each of them individually, even if it wasn't a "perfect" day, they are each "perfect" to me. How can they not be when they look so stinkin' cute in 3-D glasses?

The latest debacle in my life revolves around my unnecessary, extremely uncooperative gall bladder. It started going kaflooey on Monday morning and as such will be taken out of my body sometime in the next couple of days. Initially, I was nervous about the procedure, but simultaneously excited at the thought of a night in the hospital alone. Sick, sick, sick. My hopes were dashed when I was told that although the procedure is a real procedure and leaves you feeling pain and general ickiness, it's done at an outpatient facility and when they wake you up, you go home. Bummer.

But don't let my blase attitude fool you. Bottom line, I'm pissed off--again-- at yet another member of the medical community. Once again, we've fallen victim to irresponsible, negligent medical care. And I'd like to know when this crap is going to stop.

In March of 2005, I went to the emergency room with severe upper right quadrant abdominal pain. I was given pain medicine and told that my tests were normal, that I did not have any gall stones that were evident in ultrasound, and I should go home and take it easy because it was probably some sort of musculoskeletal nonsense. (Read, "You're a hypochondriac, here's some percocet to appease you. Later!")

Well, still not feeling well, I took myself to my family doctor and he agreed to send me for a HIDA scan. I specifically asked for this test because six months earlier my father went into the ER with a gall bladder attack that was very difficult to diagnose because all tests were coming back normal...until they did a HIDA scan. His gall bladder had no stones, but wasn't functioning properly, so out it came. I thought maybe I could have been dealing with the same situation. So I went for the HIDA scan, which was fairly miserable. And I never heard a word from my family doctor. I assumed that meant that I was, indeed, being an enormous hypochondriac and my gall bladder was doing well. Granted, I didn't call about the results, which is where I clearly fell short in making sure I covered my you-know-what. But still, no news is generally good news in my experience with medical testing, so I let it go. I still had pain occasionally, but never related it to my gall bladder because I thought mine was fine given the lack of report about that HIDA scan.

Fast-forward to October of 2007, yesterday to be exact, when I go to a radiologist to have an ultrasound of my abdomen. I was seen by a colleague of my amazing step-grandfather, a very well-respected gastroenterologist, the day before because of this severe pain and he agreed with me that it seemed like classic gall bladder. He sent me for an ultrasound. When I went in for the ultrasound, the blessed technician says to me, "You had a HIDA scan that showed abnormal gall bladder function. Do you still have your gall bladder?" Apparently, the HIDA scan report came up in my radiology file because the HIDA scan was done at the same facility. Shocked, I respond, "Yes I still have it (the gall bladder) and is there a report from the HIDA scan?" Yes, there's a report and in fact it was noted that a normally functioning gall bladder must function at a rate of 35% or greater. (I'm totally paraphrasing and not being medically accurate in my descriptions.) Mine was functioning at 7.4%. My gall bladder was on its way out then, and my doctor never, ever called me with the results of this test. I went through two pregnancies, one of which ended in miscarriage, with an organ that wasn't functioning properly.

Shall I dwell on this? Or shall I move on and be thankful that we've discovered it and we're going to get it taken care of now? It's not in my Irish nature to let it go and not hold a grudge, so I'll probably dwell on it for awhile.

I now need to get all my laundry done and put away, a task that is perpetually insurmountable, and make my kids' rooms look half-way organized because I am anticipating the influx of family into my messy house, that will inevitably happen, and the thought of people judging my messiness will make me crazy (my neuroses, not that this will actually happen), and even large doses of narcotic pain killers won't make me unaware and less paranoid. The bright side in all of this is that we are in New Jersey, and not in Maryland, and all of my family and friends are rallying to do whatever I need them to do to make this manageable. I realize it's no big deal, that people do quite nicely without a gall bladder, and truth-be-told, I am excited at the thought of feeling better. I should not over-dramatize the situation. But I am still pretty bent about that doctor never notifying me about that test. It just speaks so loudly after what we went through with Elizabeth, that if you don't track down results and ask every question that must be asked, your health will hang in the balance.

So now I've received the call and will be going for the surgery tomorrow. I'm dashing to get things organized and so thankful that it will be on a Friday and I'll have the weekend to recover without asking everyone to take tons of time off from work. Woo hoo! And while I blog, an act that fills me with such utter bliss and contentment, it occurs to me that sitting in bed for a couple of days will provide me with oddles of time to start writing my book. Or just blog. We'll see...

What Happened to My Zen Place?

Yesterday I was obviously in a very Zen place. I don't know how I got there, why I was there...but I guess I knew, even then, that it wouldn't last long. For today is a new day and today could very possibly be the day that pushes me past the point of any semblance of sanity and renders me useless, drooling into a cup, slouched in a corner somewhere, staring into the great beyond.

It begins with my children, of course, who do not listen to a word I say and actually reap enormous enjoyment from my anger. I don't think that a week in Disney would make them as happy as seeing me ready to blow my stack by 7:15 am every school day. Erin will not get out of bed. Absolutely refuses. Meghan comes down the steps with an attitude and a puss on her face. And Lizzy comes down thrilled to bits with life...but she's so busy and ready to take on the world, I'm constantly pulling her out of or off of something that could mame her.

Then the dogs, oh the dogs with whom I have a hate-hate relationship. Well, no, not with Seamus. He has learned to live with much less and he accepts that. Probably because he isn't the brightest crayon in the box, and for that I am thankful. He just exists and doesn't give me a hard time. So there is a love-love relationship. But Carlos...another story entirely.

I finally get all three kids fed, dressed and out the door to walk to school. As we walk, I feel my endorphins lift and think, "What a beautiful day! What great kids! It's Fall! I think I'll go to the park! La dee da da!!" Then Erin turns into a schmuck at school and won't get out of the stroller. Eventually I pawn her off on some poor soul who hopefully worked there and we turn to come home. Lovely walk, lots of talk...and into the house to find that the blind, diabetic dog who can hardly walk has managed to turn over the kitchen trash can for the second time this week and has strewn a variety of filth through the kitchen the likes of which I cannot accurately describe. My only regret is that I didn't photograph it to post along with this rant before I let loose a string of profanities and began to clean up the funk.

I thought it would end there, really I did. But alas, it did not.

I plugged in my vacuum. My Dyson Animal that I seriously put up there in list of "Things I Must Have" with food, shelter, clothing and copious amounts of wine, is not working. Do you know WHY it's not working? Because apparently when my extremely handy husband was cleaning up from ripping apart carpet with huge staples last night, he chose MY Dyson over his Shop-Vac.

And so I am blogging in lieu of murdering this dog who clearly hates me as much as I hate him. Because if I murder him, which is what I would like to do, my husband will probably divorce me, but honestly after what he did to my Dyson, he might need to worry about that m.o. from me, too.

Honest to God, where did the Zen go? Why can't it last longer than an hour? Maybe I'll get it back again when I watch the VP debate tonight. I'll bet the ratings will be higher than the Presidential debate. I digress...

So hold hope in your hearts that this dog survives this day. And hold that same hope for me that the Zen returns to my world for more than a fleeting moment. Oy vey.