Boobs and goo

It's that time of year again. That time where I get a glorious 40 minutes to myself (not counting driving time, during which I am on my California-required headset talking to one of five people: The Husband, The Sister, The Mom, Amber or Phish. What is this time you ask? It's time for my annual visit to the gynecologist. Oh, joy. (Yes, there's sarcasm. I know that "tone" is difficult to read on the internet, so I'll just confirm that this infact was sarcasm.)

Anywho....after bantering a bit with the lovely nurse/office assistant, I sat alone, bare to the world save for a perfectly pressed hospital gown and an all-together-too-noisy paper sheet. Modest? No. Functional? For the task at hand, yes.

Which brings me to the freak-out-of-the-day: I have "cystic lumps" in my boobs. My trusty boobs that have lured me a husband and fed a baby for a year, they're betraying me! I've been good to them, too. I've worn properly fitting undergarments. I do self-exams on a monthly basis. Heck, I even requested a referral to get that BRAC-1 test to find out if I'm a carrier of the breast cancer gene. I'm doing it all right! Hear me world? I'm doing all the right things. And so why am I going to the Breast Care Center next Wednesday at 1pm for a 90 minutes ultrasound? Because I have to. Because if I want to tell other people, "Oh, it's nothing. I went through 'the scare' once, too. You'll be fine" then I'll have to actually walk in that door, strip to my waist in front of a stranger and bare my fears to a magic wand smeared with KY goo. Speaking of goo...that is by far the worst part of these visits. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you don't want to know. Trust me.

And so, today, I'm happy to be something, but I'm not sure what it is right now, because today I'm just scared. I guess I'm happy to be ignorant, at least until next Wednesday.

Mommy boofil

The last time I was told that I was beautiful was by my two year old this morning. I had just gotten out of the shower, my hair was wrapped up in a towel, I had a ratty old black bra on with my work pants and he reached up (while standing on the toilet), pulled the towel out of my hair, brushed the wet, tangled mess out of my eyes with his clumsy toddler fingers, and said, "Mommy boofil." I certainly needed that reminder today.

I'm happy to be boofil in the eyes of my son.

My baby is two

I can't call him a "baby" anymore, or so I thought. On August 11, Bug turned 2 years old, and I vowed to not call him "baby", mostly because we're trying to get him transitioned to peeing on the potty and because he's now a "big boy." And then, last night, while on a walk with my mother-in-law (MIL), he kept saying, "Baby. Baby, mama. Mommy, baby, up." He wanted me tto pick him up and hold him like a baby. My sweet little boy still wants his mommy to hold him when he's tired. He may be a toad sometimes, but he's still my baby boy. Happy birthday Bug!

I'm happy to be the mom of a 2 year old!

Just don't forget the Bug

I like to think I'm a fairly laid back mom. Color on the table? Get a baby wipe. Splash ketchup on the beige carpet? A little carpet stain remover will do the trick. Fell asleep before your bath three nights in a row? As long as he doesn't stink, we're fine. French fries for dinner? Only once a month or so, but hey, he only ate green beans last night, so it all evens out.

The husband on the other hand insists upon much more order than I do. This comes from him being a teacher; without classroom organization, there is no sanity. And so, I allow him to insist on the order that he needs, as long as it doesn't cause more work for me. Good deal, huh?

And so, today, my father-in-law (FIL) and The Husband took Bug out to lunch and then for a visit to the taxidermist. What a lovely man-bonding activity for a lovely August afternoon. I'm grateful for the lack of invitation. Being the SuperDad that he is, The Husband remembered to bring Bug's sippy cup, and I'm sure a spare Pull-Up or two. (I think he brings the cup just to avoid having to share his lemonade with the drink-thief-disguised-as-a-drool-faucet, but I can't blame him. Toddler backwash is nas-tay.) However, when my cell phone rang at 1pm, it was an apologetic Husband informing me that we would need to purchase a new straw-style sippy cup for Bug because his was left behind in the restaurant. To prove how laid-back of a mom I really am, my response was not "Oh no! Is it too late to go back for the cup?", but instead, "You didn't forget Bug, did you?"

Eh, a cup can be replaced. A replacement Bug would take 9 months of baking and a little thing called human cloning.

I'm happy to be a laid back mom.

My boy is sick

The Bug is rarely sick. In his almost-two years of life, he's puked twice, had no ear infections, and only one major fever that took us to the doctor. This is Fever II. He was fine all day, then around 4pm, he just climbed in my lap and put his head down on my shoulder. Now, if you've ever been around an almost-two year old, you would understand that this is strange, strange behavior. Sure enough, the mom-test of a cheek to the forehead and a cool hand to his back confirmed that he was warmer than usual. A trusty ear thermometer confirmed: 103.1 in one ear, 102.6 in the other ear.

And so, doses of Tylenol, a sleepless night, and a call to the Nurse's Hotline later, Bug is home with The Husband, and last I saw, they were snoring in unison on my mother-in-law's couch. The Husband is being SuperDad and I'm sure many, many Otter Pops will be consumed over the next 4 hours, at which time, Grandma will get home from work, dote on Bug and The Husband, feed them lunch and then head back to work. Naps will ensue, and we'll see if Motrin and Tylenol are as good as they claim.

Which brings me to the question: Is my son old enough for Children's Tylenol? He will be 2 in one week. Infant Tylenol is for children ages 6 months - 23 months. Children's Tylenol is for children ages 2-12 years. Children's Tylenol is $3 cheaper. It's my kid's health, so I went the Infant route until I can check with the pediatrician next week, but sheesh, this health thing is a racket, eh?

Oh...before I forget: Today, I am happy to be at work, while The Husband is being SuperDad, because a day with a sick kiddo is much more exhausting than a sleepless night with a sick kiddo.

A noble profession

Whenever I tell people what The Husband does for a living, they gush about how wonderful he must be, how patient, how rewarding, how kind. All of these things are true. He's a special education teacher, working mostly with children with autism or other disorders that require the children to be in special needs classrooms. The Husband IS a kind, patient man who loves his students and feels the joy of emotional rewards when his students succeed at a milestone they struggled with in the past.

It's interesting to me to hear all of these comments, but one in particular always strikes me: the use of the word "noble." I usually apply "noble" firefighters and cancer researchers and Girl Scouts who stand outside the grocery store peddling their cookies (what could be more noble a vocation than to ensure that my midnight cookie cravings are satisfied?). However, The Husband and I met in high school. I've seen him in rented tuxes more times than I can count on one hand, we helped each other recover from his 21st birthday celebration (perhaps our least noble undertaking, by far), and I watch him play "Ninja Gaiden" until midnight.

But then, I remind myself that nobility comes in far greater capacities than in what one does for a living. It comes from kissing scraped knees, changing squirmy toddlers, teaching a little boy how to pee while standing, holding my hair while I puke, sitting by my side during hour 26 of labor, and calling to say hi just because.

And so, when someone says, for the 13th time in a month, "Wow, he must be a really great person!" I smile graciously and say, "Yes, he's quite the noble guy, isn't he?"

And so....I'm happy to be married to such a noble man.

What am I?

I'm a mom.

I'm a wife.

I'm a sister.

I'm a daughter.

I'm an occasionally devout, mostly-lapsed Catholic.

I'm a natural blonde.

I'm a secretary.

I'm decent cook.

I'm a lousy housekeeper.

I'm an alum (go Gaels!).

I'm a Catholic schoolgirl.

The pieces make up a whole, but I'm happy to be all that I am.