Baby's First F-bomb

Until recently I was under the mistaken assumption that the "tweens" started around 11 or 12. My illusion was quickly corrected when, at nine years of age, Brynn needed a bra. Her attitude has been steadily declining ever since.

Usually, her hormonal rages are directed at me, for one imagined offense or another. I am forever indicted for things like: enforcing her bed time, telling her to do her chores, or giving her a long explanation when I'm helping with her homework, rather than just providing the answer. Seriously, she's even talked to her therapist about how annoying I am when I'm being helpful.

Occasionally, though not often, Brynn cannot find a way to blame me for something, try as she might. Just after she returned from her week at camp she realized that she'd forgotten to bring home her brand-new goggles. You might think I'd be the one upset about this (or any of the other $20 worth of stuff she'd left behind), but no, Brynn was beside herself. After tearing through all of her bags, checking the car and even the laundry, and interrogating me at some length, she finally came to the conclusion that the goggles were at camp and no one was to blame but her. At this point she crumpled into a heap on the stairs and sobbed and heaved for at least 10 minutes. Real tears. Nothing would calm her down, not even the assurance that we'd buy a new pair when we made it out to the store again. My point: tween hormones are miserable, uncontrollable and definitely infiltrating the body at 10, if not 9.

I suppose that should make me more forgiving about yesterday's incident, when my baby dropped her first f-bomb.

               I guess I still prefer "f*ck" to her using "ménage à trois" in an appropriate context.


We'd stopped in the Christmas Tree Shoppes for a quick look at back-to-school supplies. Brynn was triumphantly carrying around a clipboard, a plastic filing folder, and a zippered case (all covered with pink zebra print and peace signs) when she decided she was ready to leave the store. As has happened many times before, Brynn's strategy for getting her way when I want to continue shopping is to badger me senseless, a plan she promptly put into action. When I'd had enough I made her put down her items and we left the store. "Not happy" doesn't even begin to describe Brynn's feelings about this. After arguing a bit in the car, she did it, she dropped her very first f-bomb.

"WELL YOU'RE THE ONE WHO WANTED TO LEAVE THE F*CKING STORE!!!"

My knee jerk reaction was to shout her full name back at her, but then I was lost. What does one say when one's child just busted out THE curse word for the first time? Silence. Even she knew that she'd just landed in a metric ton of trouble. I suggested she call her dad and tell him. Not a chance, she wouldn't even take the phone. Finally, in a state of parental bewilderment, I went with the old standby: WWMMD (what would my mother do?).

The answer, for those of you wondering, was to wash Brynn's mouth out with soap. Dove has never caused so much shame, on both my and Brynn's parts. It was only a couple of seconds of soap on tongue, but it was awful, just like when my mom had washed my mouth out. On the other hand, she only had to do that once. I don't think I cursed in front of my mother again until well after I'd gotten my bachelor's degree. It's doubtful that Brynn's mouth cleansing will last as long. And so, as I look into the future and see years of tween and then teen hormones raging, I can't help but think, "This is going to f-ing suck."  ;)

As an Adult I do not Squeal at Snakes or Cockroaches: A Total Lie

What started out as a simple walk to the post office in 90 degree weather, turned into a frightened squealing scene when, approximately ten steps outside my front door, I almost stepped on a snake.

                                           He was going to eat me!...or perhaps a small mouse.


When I was little I had a similar panicked, screechy reaction to snakes that weren't in tanks, but it was the kind of thing that I'd hoped had passed as I'd become an adult. I am, after all, responsible for protecting Brynn from dangers of the wild like this harmless garden snake. Brynn wasn't with me though, so I did what any other 30 year old who just regressed to kindergarten would do...I called my dad.

As a 5 year old, calling my dad would've involved screaming at the top of my lungs, then through tears, until someone came to rescue me. Thankfully for the neighbors and my pride I had my cell phone handy. Plus my dad lives several miles away now. He remained cool and calm while I squealed (twice) that "THERE'S A SNAKE IN THE FRONT YARD!!!" Ultimately I just walked around the slithering menace and on to the (closed) post office. When I returned home, he was gone.

This has brought a disturbing trend to my attention though. When faced with the few irrational fears I have (wild snakes, giant wild spiders, and anything that looks even remotely like a cockroach) I do two things (1) freeze in an ill advised state of paralysis and (2) call a man. In the past I've called my dad from over 700 miles away so he could "help" me kill the huge banana spider that had re-located its massive web so as to entirely block access to my laundry room. Just a month or so ago I killed a two inch long flying roach-like bug that had snuck in my bedroom from the back patio door. I had to phone a friend so I could talk myself into picking up the carcass to throw it outside. Once, several years ago now, I encountered a couple dozen cockroaches at the bottom of an outdoor set of stairs and called my then-boyfriend in such hysterics that he couldn't understand me at all and was afraid I'd been in a terrible accident. I just can't help it. Some part of me is in utter terror at those moments. At any other moment of the day I'm a mature self-sufficient woman who doesn't need a man to do things for her. In those moments when I'm face to face (or better, face to beady little eyes) with one of these creatures though, all I can say is "AAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!" So Brynn, I promise to save you from the snakes and the roaches, but you'll have to forgive me for having a panic attack while I do it. What I'll never let you know is that my next move is to call ~a man~.

The Problem with Things I Swore I'd Let *My* Kid do Someday

Remember back when we were young and antagonistic? When every time our mom said "no" we were certain it was a grave injustice? Once (and probably much more than once), in seventh grade, I was still yammering away on the phone well past midnight. My mom threatened me repeatedly from the top of the stairs. I'd be grounded. She'd revoke my phone privileges. I think she even threatened to call my dad (ha ha, not while I was still on the phone!). Back then I swore when I had kids I was going to let them talk on the phone indefinitely whenever their heart desired, as long as they kept their grades up of course.

My imagined progeny were going to have cell phones from their earliest years. We'd eat Little Debbies every day with our lunch, and maybe even with our dinner. Then we'd have a bowl with three...or maybe four...scoops of ice cream. During the county fair we would go every day and win as many goldfish as money could buy. Their room would have funky furniture and a waterbed. Of course they might not be there much because I'd make their curfew 1am and let them have as many sleepovers as they could pack into a week.

When they were home my imagined kids would get to play with the great number of pets we'd adopted, because I'd never say no. Or perhaps they'd watch movies and play games, because there would be no limit to their tv time. Clothes choices would be their decision and they would never be subjected to second-hand garb. And of course I would always readily provide transportation to and from wherever my child wanted to go.

One learns a lot in the years between being a child and having one. Things like the number of calories in four scoops of ice cream and the value of a good night's sleep. A little perspective allows us to see that a great many of the decisions we would have made on our parents' behalf would've been bad ones. And yet I have a hard time reconciling a few of those old attitudes with my responsibility as a mom. Some things are easier than others. Like fair fish. What a rip off. I can say no to a fair fish faster than Brynn can ask to play. Two dollars to try to maybe win a $0.29 fish? No, no, and no. (Disclaimer: If you see me carrying a fish around at the fair in a couple weeks disregard my resolve in this paragraph),

Other issues really make me examine whether I'm saying "no" because it's the best thing for Brynn or if I'm saying it because it seems like the "good mom" thing to do. Take this evening's events for example. Tonight I dyed Brynn's hair blue. Not all of it mind you, just streaks, but it's "electric blue" and it's not going anywhere for the next 3-6 weeks. Some of you might remember back in 2007 when I put pink highlights in my hair for the summer. Brynn certainly remembers. Every summer now she asks me to dye her hair some funky color. The "good mom" in me says that I'm not supposed to allow Brynn to color her hair at all, and certainly not blue. What will all the other parents think? What will my parents think? And, *gulp* what will her dad's parents think?

                                        The "good mom" in me says I blue it.

Ultimately though, I couldn't come up with very good reasons why a 10 year old shouldn't have blue streaks in her hair during the summer. After all, I'd done the same thing with pink as an adult. I bought the dye without harsh chemicals, so it wasn't a health issue. It'll be mostly washed out when school starts, and even if it's not there's no rule against hair color at her school. Part of being a "good mom" needs to be finding ways to allow your child to be happy (and healthy), and Brynn is absolutely thrilled. To be honest, I'm pleased with the whole thing too. It turns out it's no fun being the mom who has to say "no" all the time to a child's sincere but ridiculous requests. So, yes. Dye your hair blue. Just please, please quit asking for me to abolish your bed time.

"Mommy, You Sweated a Smiley Face"

Exercising does not come easy for me, it never has. It seems like I get motivated at the least convenient times, like after I've eaten my weight in cheese or when I'm lying in bed trying to fall asleep. There are other times that I convince myself aren't ideal, like just after I've showered or when I'm wearing mascara. Really I can turn just about anything into an excuse. Ever since my stem cell transplant I've been especially discouraged because my physical stamina is even lower than it was when I was weighing in at close to 200 lbs. I'm trying to get back into it, but since I usually enjoy exercising as much as tortuous medical procedures it's been a tough sell.

Not tonight though. Tonight I was going to go walk. Brynn changed (into a fancy tank top and booty shorts) then she changed again into something exercise appropriate. She put crocs on and then switched those out for gym shoes. She hydrated and peed. Then she clipped the dog on a leash and we were (finally) ready to go.

At the park there are nicely paved trails sprinkled with exercise stations (to perk up other muscle groups) as well as dirt trails for cross country enthusiasts and mountain bikers. Brynn actually ran a 5K at this park last fall and was vaguely familiar with the dirt trails. At the first trail head she took off into the woods while I trotted along to the next exercise station. Three exercise stations later I waited and waited for her at the end of the trail. Or at least I thought it was the end of the trail. Turns out I was waiting at the end of another trail, and the sun was setting! When several shouts didn't return a response I headed for the top of the highest hill in the park. From there I was able to hear Brynn shouting for me from the other side of the park. Before I made it over to her she targeted a gentleman with a cell phone and called me.

"Hi mom"

"Where are you?!?"

"Where are you?!?"

We were reunited shortly thereafter (despite the fact that she took off in the opposite direction that I directed her to). On the way back to the car, as I lamented a walk cut short and a stressful situation, Brynn observed "Mommy, you sweated a smiley face." Huh? A smiley face? She seemed awfully sure though. In order to convince me, she snapped this photo.

                                                               Yep. That's a smiley face.


Sure enough, my backside was smiling at everyone on the trail behind me. I guess I enjoy exercising more than I thought, even my sweat is happy.

The Teaching Shoes, or How Being Frugal Causes Bad Fashion Decisions

Do you have an accessory that makes you feel more confident? Maybe a power suit, a scarf, or a watch? Something that makes you feel a little more secure when you're wearing it, a little more able to take on the world.

I found mine yesterday at TJ Maxx. I don't stop in often because I have enough clothes and accessories...and because (even at discount prices) many of their items are a little expensive for me. Yesterday's trip was mentally justified by my need for a new purse. Technically it's more of a want, as I could go without a purse, but the one I'm currently carrying is tearing irreparably at the straps and my pockets aren't big enough to carry around all the stuff in there. I spent at least 20 minutes carefully perusing all the bags, but came away empty handed. Since my mother is one of the slowest shoppers I know and was probably going to be in the store for at least another hour, I meandered over to the shoes section. I tried on a pair that looked like a sophisticated version of Dorothy's ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. I laughed at a pair with a 7 inch heel that I'm certain I couldn't have stood up in. And then I saw them...the perfect teaching shoes.

Up until yesterday the only black shoes I owned were unadorned flip flops and "going-out" black sandals with a heel. Every time I taught and needed black shoes this left me with the choice of looking like I was kicking back near a pool or like I was trying to pick up an under grad. I'll admit to changing outfits a couple of times so I could wear a pair of pretty magenta flats, thus avoiding the black shoe dilemma altogether. That was not a sustainable solution though.

So when I tried on these shiny black kitten-heeled shoes I knew I'd found my perfect teaching accessory. They're comfortable, dressy, and smart without being sexy. I knew I would wear them all the time, with a variety of outfits, perhaps even for an interview or two.

                                                           Not too casual, not too sexy.

"That's great," you say. And it would've been great, except the shoes were $40. Now most of you might think that's a deal for the perfect pair of shoes. A year ago I was shopping with one of my best friends who purchased three pairs of the same shoe at $115 a pair (in different colors, of course). So from one perspective $40 sounds like a steal. That is not my perspective however. I'm frugal, and that's being nice about it. All I could think about were all the other things I really do "need" to spend $40 on, like bills and Brynn's horse camp and a graduation present for my niece. I put the shoes back on the shelf and went to browse through dresses.

Then I tried them on again in a different size. I put them back on the shelf and went to look at exercise capris.

Then I tried the first ones on again, just to admire them in the long mirror at the end of the aisle. This is when my mom caught me looking longingly at them. She did her best to talk me into buying them, but I was not to be swayed. Forty dollars was just too much. I did carry them around for awhile to appease her, but I knew that in the long run they were headed back to the shelf.

As our shopping excursion wound to a close and we prepared to check out (she'd found a pair of Jessica Simpson wedges that she was certain she could not live without) my mom plucked the teaching shoes out of my hands and told me she was buying them as an early Christmas present. I protested, but then realized that she generally buys my Christmas presents off of the home shopping network. I'm all stocked up on electronic bibles and $100 skillets, so the shoes were a no-brainer. Merry Christmas to me!

Now if I could just find a cute purse...

The Unambiguous News

I don't like waiting in anticipation for PET scan results. Assuming you don't either, I'll just go ahead and tell you the doctor was very pleased with my scan. It looks exactly like the last scan (which was ambiguous) but that means there was no new growth, which means no cancer. (Woo hoo!!!)

                          Here's a cancer-free me sliding into the tube for my PET/CT scan.


Now that that's out of the way I have an admission to make. I was so impatient about getting my results that I called the hospital yesterday and asked if I could pick up a copy of my scan results. After the scan a radiologist looks through the images from my scan, compares them to the images from the prior scan, and types up his or her "impression" of the scan. What I'm able to pick up is that "impression." Generally doctors frown on you getting results before they have a chance to look over them and interpret them for you, but I just couldn't resist. So I knew yesterday that this scan was basically a carbon copy of the last scan, which I also knew was good news. I may or may not have squealed in the hospital parking lot. The way I look at it, I exerted significant self-control in making it to the parking lot before I had an outburst.

To my surprise the doctor had even better news for me. He says a very aggressive cancer (and mine was a bully) is most likely to come back within two years, if it's going to come back at all. This upcoming December is the two year anniversary of my transplant, so he is increasingly confident that I'm almost in the clear. Of course any cancer can relapse, but statistically speaking I'm in a good place. We'll do another scan in three months and if we get good results then we will push the scans back to every six months! I love the confidence associated with less frequent scans. I also love the $1,200 or so I'll save a year by spacing them out.

So today = success. The outlook seems good. I think old sir Hodgkin's has hit the road. That's good news because I have a back log of things that I plan to do. It's nice to know that I have plenty of time now.

(Sc)anticipation

Almost every time I've gone in for a scan it was supposed to be a defining moment in this battle against Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Either it was expected to confirm the cancer was gone or that more treatment was needed. Tormentingly, it's rarely turned out to be so clear cut. Once it looked like the cancer was definitely back, but the biopsy only showed scar tissue. Then we thought we had it beat but the following scan looked more ambiguous. So tomorrow's scan is supposed to define the ambiguity. I hope it does. I'm not sure my nerves can handle three more months of non-committal cancer. (To be clear, I'm hoping the commitment is to the cancer being gone, not starting another long term relationship with dear old Hodgkin's).

I generally try to play it cool when people ask about the cancer. Things genuinely have been going pretty well. I feel great, my hair is getting longer, chemo is just a memory. And yet these scans never fail to get me worked up. Every twinge in my chest or ache in my back puts me on high alert. I twist around, I stretch, I try to identify exactly where the pain is originating and then I compare it to a chart of where my lymph nodes are. I also rub my neck and arm pits at least every other day to see if I notice any swollen nodes. And the neurotic checking and worrying only intensifies as the scans get closer.

For about a month after a scan, I'm still focused on the most recent results. Surely not much has changed, right? By the second month I start thinking about little pains and what they might mean. I start reading too much into back pain that's probably caused by sitting in an arm chair for hours working on a powerpoint. When month three rolls around I put my life into a full fledged holding pattern. I don't apply for jobs, I don't go on dates, and I (apparently) cannot bring myself to make important plans for the upcoming semester. I don't do any of these things (and quite a few others) because all I can think about is "WHAT IF the cancer is back?" I've heard about paralyzing fear that causes someone to physically freeze up, but this fear paralyzes my personal and professional life. It's like WWJD for cancer patients/survivors. Every decision, big or small, is made in the shadow of the looming concern of What if the Cancer's Back? In this past month alone I've skipped applying for a job in the fall that was perfect for me and would provide much needed income, I've avoided putting my fall syllabus together, and well...let's not even talk about dating.

So tomorrow I will go to the hospital where they'll inject me with radioactive sugar and run me through a high-tech tube that will take thousands of images of my innards and determine my physical and psychological well being for the next three months. For those of you interested, a friend told me the radioactive sugar is actually "anti-matter," just in case me being radioactive wasn't nerdy enough.

                            An example of the machine that I'll be run through

My anticipation is high and won't abate until Wednesday when my results come back. Until then I'll be pretending that I'm not neurotic, but I suppose that's all relative anyway, right?