I Heart Sweatpants.

I cannot button any of my pants. My belly is so swollen. Actually all of me is swollen. I can't wear socks either. I can't even wear the pants that are two sizes too big that I still have in my closet. But I have the best mommy, and she is taking me to buy sweatpants. I never thought I would be so happy to buy sweatpants. Yippee!

Guilty Pleasure

One great thing has come out of this surgery. I have been stuck at home for days, so I took the time to catch up on a few Samantha Who episodes I had missed. When I finished with Samantha Who, I needed another form of entertainment. I searched through iTunes before settling on Gossip Girl. I downloaded the whole season, and like a silly high school girl, I am hooked. Love it. Can't get enough. Watched the whole season so far.

Pain Med = Sloppy Trish

Many of you know I had surgery yesterday. I consider it a small surgery, since I have been through much worse. However, surgery is still surgery, and I am now doped up on pain medicine and have the anesthesia hangover.

Basically I have had abdominal pain for months. Long story short, my ob was not taking me very seriously, so I found a new doc. He pinpointed the problem right away. I have a lot of problems with birth control, because of my migraines. I suffer from at least 4 a month. On birth control they increased to two to three a week. Not headaches, migraines. Much different. Anyway, my previous OB would not let me get my tubes tied, as she claimed I was much too young. (This is bullshit if you ask me. I already have to children, one with a very serious genetic condition. I do not want to risk having another child with the same disabilities. Nor do I think I could handle a third with the amount of time Emmi's care takes up. I have not wavered from this decision, so I in way think I am too young.) So my previous OB suggested an IUD. It was great for two years. But then it shifted, and tore through the wall of my uterus. Ouch! It also can cause cysts, which explains the seven that I have. Both of these things contributed to my pain.

So my new doc said the IUD needed to come out ASAP. It had to be surgically removed, because of the damage. Since I needed surgery anyway, I asked the new OB if I could get my tubes tied. He didn't even hesitate. He said if I was old enough to decide I wanted children, I was old enough to decide that I didn't want anymore. During surgery, he decided that some of the cysts would go away on their own, but some needed to be removed. So he did that, as well.

All said and done, I am feeling much better. The stabbing pain is gone already. My stomach is swollen, bruised, and sore, but nothing I can't handle. It all seems only skin deep now. My biggest problem is trying to think and see straight with all of the medication I am on!

Back to bed for me....

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum

I finally got into the doctor to find out why I have been in pain for four months (and yes, I have an answer, but that is not what this story is about). After a string of incredibly horrible OB/GYNs, I finally found one that came highly recommended by my wonderful GP. The GP that I think the world of. So I figured this one had to be a good one. I was anxious about the appointment. Kenny sensed this, so when our errands ran longer than expected, he decided just to come with me. We sat in the waiting room for about thirty minutes. Thirty full minutes. The longest thirty minutes of my life. And also the best birth control ever.

The waiting room was small. Along one wall, directly across from Kenny and I, sat a husband, wife, and grandma. Wifey's blood pressure was quite high, and she was being induced early the next morning. Hubby had work to wrap up before baby appeared a month early, so Grandma was there to help out. Nice, sweet couple. I wished them 'Good Luck.' Along the other wall sat Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Fuckin' Dumbass Pregnant Girl.

They were ten. Or thereabouts. And giggly. And on their second child, although, as TFDPGirl announced, a little sooner than plan. Huh? Like your first one was planned? Seriously. But who am I to judge. I didn't exactly plan either of my children, but at least I made it past Jr. high first. TFDPGirl seemed happy about her pregnancy and, yes, impeding marriage. Guess after Tweedle Dee knocked her up a second time, Mommy and Pops decided they should get hitched.

"So Tweedle Dee, do we really have to wait till this baby pops out to get married?"

"Well, shit yeah, TFDPGirl. My mom said she would pay for us a cruise for our honeymoon, but I gotta wait until I am off probation first. I can't be leavin' the state till then."

"Oh." Giggle, giggle, tee hee. TFDPGirl ponders this a minute. "Well, if your dumbass didn't get arrested we could be goin' on a honeymoon." She thumps his hat off his head. In return he pokes her in her belly, making her giggle more.

"Tweedle Dee, STOP. I HAVE TO PEE. AND I AM PREGNANT, SO I MIGHT PEE MYSELF."

He tickles her more, causing her to knock the magazine rack over.

"I gonna makes you PISS YOURSELF. OHHHIE YOU GONNA PISS ALL OVERS YOURSELF."

Tweedle Dee soon tires of attempting to make TFDPGirl pee her pants, and pulls out his lighter. He depresses the button without igniting the lighter, pumping lighter fluid fumes out into a room full of pregnant women. TFDPGirl fusses at him. He tells her to 'shut the fuck up' as she is not the 'boss of him.' Beautiful. Really. I wish Kenny would talk to me that way. He plays with his lighter for a few more seconds, before the woman on his right grabs it from his hand and sets in on the table. She gives him a glare that says, "Touch that lighter and die." Being that he is ten, these looks apparently still work. He slouches down in his chair, and for a few brief seconds he shuts up. And then falls asleep. The waiting room silently cheers. Whoohooo! We don't have to listen to him anymore. I pray that I will be called before he wakes up.

But then, TFDPGirl doesn't know how to entertain herself for more than three minutes, so she nudges him awake. He snarls, repositions, and attempts to keep sleeping. TFDPGirl whacks him over the head.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU BITCH?!"

"Wake your ass up. I have to sit here pregnant, and you just have to sit here. Maybe if you weren't out till three in the morning drinking then you wouldn't be so damn tired."

"Maybe if you weren't such a bitch, I wouldn't stay out late."

"Well, maybe....ohhhh...the baby's kicking. Wanna feel." She grabs Tweedle Dee's hand and places it on her belly. A dumb grins fills his face.

"Ahhh Baby, that is the coolest shit. I love you," Tweedle Dee says. Then TFDPGirl licks him across the face, and dissolves into giggles.

Merry Christmas to ME!

We were supposed to just exchange stocking stuffers, as is our plan for the years that the girls are gone. I kind of went overboard, but really there were only so many cigars and lotto tickets I could buy. So I got some real presents for Kenny. Some things he really wanted. But then I got to my presents. And wow! He did great.

First he bought me the perfume I wanted. I have the lotion, but my brokeass can't afford the perfume. AND HE BOUGHT IT!!! Whoohooo!

Then I needed a new bra last month, so I drug him into Victoria's Secret. I eyed a few shirts in the Pink collection. But I was being a good girl and only buying presents for kids and family, not myself. But somehow Kenny, who never listens to a word I say, managed to remember exactly what I was looking at(and get it in my size!).

I am always moaning and complaining that I get slimy fingers on my cookbooks while I am cooking. I am anal. I hate dirty books. Of any kind. I blame my mother for this problem. She started it! So anyway, it has been a real problem. Kenny found a cookbook stand that holds the pages open, stores stray recipes, has all of the measurement conversions listed on it, and happens to gorgeously match my kitchen decor.

And my favorite gift. The best one. The part that definitely did not fit into my stocking was the shelves I have wanted for soooooo long. I have books everywhere. Piles of them. And no book shelves. Until now. Now I have two! And I love them. They are the matching set to our dining table, which also matches our entertainment center. And they look amazing in our house!

Not bad for someone who was expecting a box of her favorite chocolates and the expensive coffee beans I only buy for special occasions (which, by the way, he also bought!).

Just Looking.

We are opening presents tonight as Jill leaves tomorrow for her Dad's house. Whenever I mention this, I am met with the question, "How do you handle the girls being gone over Christmas?" How do I handle it? How? Well, let's see....I sleep past six am. Sometimes I take a nap in the middle of the day. I go to dinner, in big people restaurants. You know the kind without playlands. I read books. I watch shows that don't include Hannah Montanna or the cast of High School Musical. But I digress. Last night, Kenny and I wrapped the girls' presents. They had no idea, so it was quite a surprise this morning. When I turned the light on in the living room it elicited two loud, "WOW"s.

Jill, of course, demanded to know the specifics. When can I open them? Exactly how many presents do I have? Does Emmi have more? How come I have small boxes and Emmi has a big box? Did you spend more on me, as I am the oldest child and demand that everything I have be more, bigger, better?

Emmi was more concerned with getting her paws on some of those presents. She latched on to one of Jill's. A small box, containing a charm for Jill's charm bracelet. I drag her away from the tree and find her two minutes later holding the small box, both hands wrapped tightly around it. I pry it from her fingers, put it back under the tree, and like magic it appears in her clutches again! After about nine rounds of this, I noticed the corner was pulled up on the wrapping paper.

"No Emmi. That is Jill's. We are not opening presents now. Wait." I sign "wait" for emphasis. She echoes me, also signing waiting, then scoots away from the tree. Considering, she just started talking and we are a bit unsure of her level of understanding (and she is defiant, and doesn't listen to a damn thing anyway), I am not sure she really gets what I am saying. I know she knows "wait." So I say it again. She gives me the look. The one that says, "I heard you, but as soon as you turn your back....."

Twenty seconds later, I find her on her belly, face propped in her hands, two inches from the tree, staring at the box.

"Emmi. Mommy said to stop touching those presents."

She turns and looks at me. "I just lookin'," she yells!

Wrapped around her little finger.

Jill has been begging me to call her friend for over an hour. I keep saying no. She keeps begging and begging and begging...and well, you get the picture.

I sat her down. I looked her in the eye. "Jill when has begging ever worked?"

She grins. "At Grammie's."

Ohnoshedidnt.

It is no secret that Jill's teacher and I don't see eye to eye. It all started way back when on Meet The Teacher Day. Spotting a potential problem, I pointed out that perhaps Jill should not sit next to her friend that lives on our street as Jill is quite the talker. Her teacher responded with, "I think I can handle my own classroom." Excuse me?! Oh no. Uh uh. Girl didn't go there. I inhaled sharply, ready to spew. Then I caught Kenny's eye, and he was giving me the "shut your trap" look. I clamped my mouth closed, trying hard to resist covering my mouth with my hand to keep the word vomit from exiting. I counted to ten, and walked away. Then, get this, a week later she sends a note home with Jill asking me to discuss Jill's behavior. Honey, you had your chance for my help, I think I will just let your "handle" your classroom all by yourself. Obviously, we are not the best of friends.

So when the homeroom mom approached me to help out with the Christmas party, I was a little hesitant. On top of that, Jill is not even going to be there that day, as she is flying to her dad's. But, I felt bad for the mom that was in charge, since she had no help. I agreed to do the centerpieces for the tables. Besides, I could use them for our house afterwards. And, well, let's face, I tend to get over involved in arts and crafts projects. A week later, the homeroom mom calls to tell me she has quit. Without getting into details the teacher pissed her off, and she quit. No more homeroom mom. Later that day, my neighbor asked me if I could take over. I already had the centerpieces. Really, how hard would it be to get some cookies? So I agreed to help, otherwise my neighbor (whose child is in another class!) would be doing it. Sigh. I mean really, it is for the kids, not the teacher. But ohhhhh that teacher.

I brought Jill lunch today. Her teacher stopped by the table to talk to me. I brought up the Christmas party. And what does she tell me?

"I already have help. I have three moms working on it. I have one mom coordinating. She found someone to do centerpieces, and another mom to put together a game. We won't need your help." She smirks, as if this hurts my feelings.

Yeah. Okay. No. Cause the coordinator quit, and ummm I am making the centerpieces. Or at least I was.

"Are you aware that the homeroom mom quit. She refuses to help?"

Jaw drops. Then she recovers.

"Well, we don't need your help. Besides, Jill won't even be there."

Yep, lady. You're right. Jill won't be there....and neither will my really cute centerpieces!

Not so funny....

Generally, I try to be funny. Not today. Actually today is a bit of bragging.

A little background history first. My youngest daughter has quite a few health problems. For awhile it was quite scary. Weeks in the hospital. Uncontrolled glucose levels that fell into the twenties for long periods of time. A diagnosis with a life expectancy of one year. But she grew stronger. She turned three, and now almost four. Although, there have been bumps in the road. She has a problem with her left kidney, that will more than likely cause half of the kidney to be removed. Her soft palate is too short and will be surgically corrected when she is bigger. She is extremely underweight, and clinically anorexic. Meaning her body signals for her to not eat for long periods. She goes days without solid food. She has a foot drag which doctors agree is a result of brain damage during one of the periods of low glucose. Her wobbly walk we all refer to as "The Drunk Baby Walk" is a result of missing reflexes, also potentially from brain damage. On top of that, she is profoundly deaf. Sometime around a year old, she lost her hearing. Over the course of the last year and a half Emmi received one, then a second cochlear implant (uses a digital signal to produce sound).

It was a long battle to get the second implant approved. Also, we are currently suing our prior insurance company for $190,000 in unpaid medical bills, that include the first implant. The insurance companies are a nightmare. Recently, a big shot CEO of one of the insurance companies publicly stated that cochlear implants do not improve the quality of life, and therefor are unnecessary. There has been extreme backlash to this.

How dare he say that my child would be better off never hearing. Sure, we would love and accept her if that were the case. I, unlike, many others still consider her deaf. Regardless of the implant. Turn it off, and she hears nothing. Deaf. Emmi sometimes enjoys this. The quietness. Her own world. She loves to sign and watch people sign. Since she was a tiny baby, she had the most amazing control of her hands. They fluttered and moved rhythmically, unlike anyone I have ever seen. It makes sense now. She was born to learn to sign. However, she also loves music. She is a good dancer. She likes to sing. She screams, "I LOVE YOU," while I am driving, until I yell back, "HUSH, I AM DRIVING." Then she laughs hysterically. She curls up in her sister's lap and listens to her read a story. It is perhaps the closest moment they share. The time they read together. She loves to watch Landscaper's Challenge on HGTV with Kenny on Saturday mornings. She likes the sound of her own voice. Especially when it is LOUD! She can play outside now, because I can yell for her to stop when a car is coming. She can play with the neighborhood children, who know no sign. She can hear a plane overhead, and glance up. She can hear the neighbor's dog bark, and run over to pet it through the fence. Most important, she can completely be a part of our world. She is left out of nothing. She knows the sound of her mother's voice. It most definitely changed the quality of her life. She would not have been less of a person without the implant, but now she is more.

I expressed my disgust about the comment to a few people on the implant team. They asked me to put together some video clips of Emmi, and my observations of her behavior over the past year. They now would like me to speak at the conference, and present the material I will be putting together. Me! Speaking out. I am thrilled. And terrified. But mostly proud of myself. Proud that I am the type of person that is asked to speak to a group of CEOs and doctors. Proud that I am recognized as a mother who fights for her child, and for her child's dignity.

I don't think homeboy knew who he was messin' with when he ran his mouth. Look out....here I come!

Santa can't talk about ho's and....

apparently needs to loose weight.

Yesterday, CNBC (or one of those news channels that Kenny watches.....really, what was wrong with MTV?!) aired a segment on Santa's image. Apparently, there is a big push for a "healthier" Santa image. As in slimmer. As in forget the damn cookies, leave Santa some carrots too. Seriously? First he can't say, "Ho, ho, ho," now he needs to loose weight?

Look people, I hate to tell you this, but it ain't Santa's fault that so many children are obese. Santa didn't pack their school lunch. Santa didn't choose their after school activities. Santa didn't make sure there were healthy snacks at home. So don't blame Santa.

And quite frankly, I don't think any kid walks around saying, "Man that Santa is one hot guy. I want to grow up, have a huge freakin' belly, and wear fur. Cause then I would be hot too."

Beat That!

Jill is having a Christmas party tomorrow. Eight six-year-olds decorating gingerbread houses. Doped up on sugar. Running through my house with sticky fingers.

I sent out the invites last week. I asked parents to RSVP, as I need to know how many houses to have ready. I had responses from all but one parent. Then she calls. Stepping out of the shower with an hour to blow my hair dry, get dressed, and make it to Emmi's appointment, my phone rings.

Momma thanks us for the invite, asks for directions to our neighborhood, gets the gate code. All in slurred speech. Oh hell. Momma is a drunk. Why? Why does Jill keep picking friends with loony parents? Oh but then Momma explains.

"I know I sound drugged or drunk. I don't want you to think I am."

Oh nooooo.....I wasn't thinking that....yes, I was. I really was.

"It's just that I have severe anemia. To the point that I can barely walk. There is an underlying problem. I was tested for......"

Drunk Momma perks up to share her thirty minute long story of doctors, testing, needles. Seriously? I liked you better when you were too sleepy to talk to me. I. NEED. TO. GET. DRESSED. She keeps going. I keep trying to interrupt. I pull my hair into a pony tail, wet hair hanging down my back.

"...and then the doctor said he could test me for......"

I uh-huh her, half paying attention, slap on what little makeup I can manage while balancing my phone on my shoulder.

"...and I didn't have that, so the did a colonoscopy....."

Grab Emmi. Buckle her in the car. It has now been forty five minutes. SHUT UP. I try to interrupt again. Momma is not having it. Not until I hear every nanosecond of her medical history. Then I get my in.

"..and I see so many doctors. It is hard to coordinate that. I feel like I spend my life in doctor's offices." She takes a breath, and I pounce.

"I completely understand," I say. "I spend many hours at doctor's offices each week. Countless hours."

"Really?" Momma sounds curious. And threatened. Uh-oh. What if I top her medical history story? What if mine is worse?

Then I do it. I throw it out there.

"Yeah, see Jill's sister, Emmi, she is a very sick child. She has a metabolic disorder. Duplicated collection system in her left kidney. Malformation of her soft palate. And. She. Is. DEAF!" There I did it. I win! I win!

And Momma shuts up. Unable to top that with her anemia.

Uh oh...

...Tricia taught herself html. Now I can randomly change my page as the mood strikes me!

Look for more updates soon!

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

Jill threw a fit. A big one. Really big. First I took away outside playtime. Then TV. Then a friend tomorrow after school. Then she picked up the chair in her room, poised to throw it at me.

"Ohhh don't you dare. You throw that chair at me, and I swear to you I will cancel your Christmas party on Sunday. Jiiiilllll. Don't you do it......"

She did it. Threw the chair. At me. And screamed.

Great. Now I told her she can't have the party. The one that eight six-year-old girls RSVPed to. The one that I already bought gingerbread and candy for. The one that I spent three hours making invitations for ten girls for. Why oh why did I open my mouth?

Think, Tricia. Think. How are you going to get yourself out of this? Lightbulb! Ding, ding, ding! Bells! Whistles! Streamers from the ceiling!

"Look, Jill. I can't cancel your party, because that would punish the girls we invited. That would not be fair. So instead, you can't go to Ethan's party on Saturday."

Tears. Big fat tears. "Noooooo Mommy. Nooooo. I am sorry."

"Consequences, Jill. Consequences."

Heehee. Maybe someone should tell her she wasn't going to that party anyway. I called his mom two days ago to let her know Jill would be at my parent's house, and couldn't make it. Hahahaha.

Ouch.

I like to outdo people. A lot. You do something. I will do it better. I like it that way. I am competitive.

My friend got a cyst on her ovary. I got SEVEN. The. Pain. Is. Unreal.

Pain pills do nothing. Except make me drool. And ask Kenny if I forgot to get dressed while sitting on the couch fully clothed.

Next time, I am not going to be so damn competitive.

Dear Santa...

Jill has been working on a letter to Santa. She cut pictures from catalogs, pasted them onto a piece of paper, and then wrote why she 'needed' each item. Inspired, I decided to write a letter to Santa, also. I left out the pictures, because I figured some would verge on pornography.

So here goes....

Dear Santa,

I've been an awful good girl. Okay, not really, but I always liked that line in the song. Anyway, the reason I am writing is that I have a few itty, bitty, teeny, tiny requests for Christmas. You see, I have spent countless days cleaning up after children, cooking for our family, grocery shopping, helping with homework, driving to gymnastics classes and doctor's appointments, cleaning up throw up, bandaging scrapes, dressing kids for school, packing lunches....the list goes on. I know I scream and yell sometimes. I know that I complain. I promise next year I will do better. But I think all of the work I did is worth something. And really, they aren't huge requests.

First, I would like boobies. Ones that end above my belly button. Perky would be nice. Not large. Just where God orginally intended them to be. I feel like I deserve boobies. I eat right. I excercise. I even lost ten pounds recently. Unfortunately, eight of those came from my boobs, making them hang lower than they did before. So Santa, could you please reinflate my boobies?

Next, I would like a white noise machine. One that drowns out the sound of screaming children and yet another Miley Cyrus song. As I am sure it would have to be a powerful machine, it could be quite large in size. Should you not be able to accommdate this in your sleigh, I will take earplugs. Either way.

Also, could I borrow one of your elves? I know that generally they are in the toy building business, but they seem like such good, obedient workers. Can they be trained to clean a house? One should be enough. Although, perhaps he might need a ladder, as well. Our cabinets are quite tall. I can't even reach beyond the second shelf. Which reminds me, I also need a stepstool. Kenny keeps putting things out of my reach. I think he does it for his own entertainment. But back to the elf. I just want a little help with the housework, which is why a little elf should be fine.

Another much needed item, is a speaker and a tape recording of several key phrases. If you could just pipe the phrases, "Absolutely not," "Because I said so," "You are not wearing that to school," and "We are no longer discussing it" over a PA through out the house, I think I might not have to talk all day. It would give my voice a much needed break, and solve many problems in our home.

Last, could you just get me one of those EASY buttons I keep seeing on TV?

Thanks, Santa. You are the best.

Sincerely,
Tricia