If you attended my child's birthday party last weekend, I recommend you stop reading.
If you did not attend, and feel like a good pity laugh at my expense, read on.
Last Monday morning, I noticed Caroline was puny. Not eating well, and a little whiny. Nothing too dramatic, but something was definitely up. I still dragged her to the gym, to Target, to the drycleaners, etc - you know, a typical mom day. Shortly before her afternoon nap, she was playing on the floor (while I was reading my Bible. Or People magazine. Whatever.), and she suddenly climbed up into my lap, put her head on my shoulder, and just whined a long, pitiful, sickly baby whine. I felt of her forehead and sure enough, baby girl was burning hot with fever. A dose of generic non-recalled Tylenol and a thirty minute rock in mom's lap seemed to do the trick. She went down for her nap, and woke up a new, happy, unsick baby.
Whew. Crisis averted.
Tuesday was "school", which consists of preschool for Aria, and Mother's Day Out for Caroline. They were both so excited to see their teachers and ran quickly into the rooms to begin their day. Mom ran quickly to her car to get to my tennis match on time and begin my own day.
Possible foreshadowing on the remainder of my day? I lost the match 6-1, 6-0. Ick. Bad Sarah. Poor. Shame.
Does it hurt more or less when you lose that badly to your very own husband? Isn't he supposed to be chivalrous and husbandy and throw the match or something? Especially when it's my birthday?
Well, I had a pair of birthday shoes to buy, and not even the shame of an abysmal game of tennis could deter me from the joys of shoe shopping. I arrived at the shoe store with two hours stretching out in front of me, two hours to spend at my leisure in the mindless, soulless, blissful world of ladies' shoes.
Suddenly, an earsplitting sound punctures the calm, soothing, ambient environs of the shoe store. Somebody's phone ringing. Please, fool, answer your phone and stop disturbing my shoe meditation. Oh wait, my phone, me, I'm the fool. I hastily grab it and whispered a hushed, "Hello?" I get a, "Hi, Mrs. Thomas? This is so-and-so calling from Prestonwood CLC. Your child is lethargic and not eating, and has a fever of 101.5."
"Oh mercy, I'm on my way, I'll be right there to pick up little Caroline".
"Ma'am, it's not Caroline who is sick. It's Aria."
This can't be good. First Caroline, now Aria, need to call Chris, and where is that pedi's number?
I race to the school, retrieve my babies, and drag them both directly over to the doctor, who confirms after gag-and-puke throat swabs that both girls have it. Strep.
Argh.
And since I'm feeling so guilty for my tennis-game-shoe-shopping excursions while they were languishing pitifully at school with this hideous microbe attacking their precious little immune systems, I let them watch lots of afternoon TV and then have ice cream before dinner. There. I said it. But that's just the way you gotta roll sometimes, people, when both your poor babies are sick, and you clearly have a very inattentive undersensitive, mommy instinct radar.
A full 24hrs of Amoxicillin and a dose or two of generic, unrecalled Tylenol = happier, healthier kids which = happy Mommy.
Sans guilt or fevers, we boarded our plane headed to the Carolinas, for a birthday weekend with the grandparents. We went up to the Blue Ridge mountains, and enjoyed God's full fall splendor on the trees.
Magnificent.
You'd think all the medical drama would be over and done what with both kids safely on antibiotics and generic non-recalled Tylenol, right?
It wasn't.
Only this time, it was ME, for the love of pete!
After an awesome family hike Saturday morning among the most excellent fall color palate God could design for a now-native Texan come home to Carolina, to some spectacular waterfalls with my most excellent resident wildlife biologist brother, Dr. Kick, who educated us on moss, lichens, various botanical species, and the diet of local brook trout, I was making myself a sandwich in our mountain cabin, when out of nowhere - BAM!
Kidney stone.
I'm not kidding, it was literally out of nowhere. I was slathering light mayonnaise on wheat bread when I dropped to the floor and into the fetal position. My husband and mother, both experienced with my history of kidney stones, loaded me into the rental car and rushed me to the Blowing Rock Emergency Room, where I was the sole patient and probably the most fun they'd had all day, seeing as how when you are writhing about in pain like that, you will pretty much say or do anything to make it go away.
Not one of my finer moments.
It was here that I received the most excellent of care from a Nurse Practitioner (shout out!), and even more excellent narcotics to numb my pain and stop the insanity. The little booger made its exit the following morning. How can a 1 mm grain of torture bring a healthy 29-year-old woman to her knees?
Okay, so those drugs might - just might - make me hallucinate. Ya think?
All in all, though, after my drugs wore off, and Aria and Caroline's drugs kicked in, we had an awesome time in the North Carolina mountains and the South Carolina foothills celebrating birthdays.
Pictures soon.
(I think I'll throw down the gauntlet and blame the tennis on the kidney stone. Rematch, Honey?)
-
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Our Fodder
The craziness continues! We had Caroline's birthday party Saturday (rescheduled from Sunday so I could attend Mimi's service) which was a blast, and I have a million photos yet to unload upload. The funeral service for Mimi was very special, and my aunts even insisted I read my previous blog post as a eulogy. I editorialized it a bit, of course - there was no mention of the Benadryl coma or anything. All in all, a good weekend, and one I hope to be blogging about/posting pictures of soon. Until then, a little something courtesy of Aria Grace.
Mommy is so proud...
-
Mommy is so proud...
-
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Mimories
Can I please just say? Writing tributes to loved ones after their passing is just getting old, and I intend to not do it anymore. Which means, everyone in my life whom I adore, please stay healthy and safe. You will not get a tribute from me if you choose to die anytime soon. My heart cannot take this. Just sayin'.
I shall explain...
My Dad called me yesterday to let us know that his mother, my Mimi, had become unresponsive and was not doing well. As they are in Charlotte, and we were at the lake in East Texas at the time of this call, I had little choice but to get on my knees pray for comfort and peace for this extraordinary woman, and all those who love her.
Later in the day, we packed up the car and headed back home from the lake. One child was scheduled for a nap during our car ride, and the other was in a Benadryl coma thanks to the multiple (thirty-five!) mosquito bites she fell victim to while under the watchful eyes of a parent. No names here, but that parent wasn't me. Just sayin'. Nevertheless, this quiet trip allowed me two hours in the car to reflect on my Mimi, and the way she touched our lives.
The three words which best describe my grandmother?
Larger Than Life.
She really was, that woman. Larger than life. Not just physically - she was gorgeous and captivating and tall (let's be honest here, compared to me, who isn't tall?). No, it was definitely her personality. She had a way of walking into a room and owning it. She never met a stranger, was always the life of the party, and had an uncanny ability to make everyone who knew her want to be around her all the time. Oh, and she had the most magnificent laugh - loud and throaty - she would frequently lose her breath in a fit of hysterics. She was so artistic and creative, always plopping down at the piano to bang out a tune, or generating fantastically funny songs or poems to honor a birthday or special occasion.
Put it this way, if she were a member of our generation, she would have a starring role on Glee. And she'd probably go on and rewrite it too, to make it even funnier. And direct it. And then she'd produce it. And lay down the tracks for all the songs. And then throw huge cast parties after wrap so everyone could be friends.
Up until illness waylaid her a couple of years ago, I swear that woman had a more active social life at 85 than me at.... well... ever. Her phone was always ringing, friends were always popping by for a cocktail and a good laugh. Mimi was never short on laughs. She loved telling jokes, and playing jokes. Her whole life seemed like one big fancy shindig, and she, the penultimate party planner.
She never discussed these things, but my beautiful grandmother was screentested for Gone With the Wind, and partied the night away with Frank Sinatra on the rooftop of the Carolina Inn shortly before she got engaged to my grandfather.
That's the stuff of legend, people. Can I getta amen?
Aside from her exquisite social skills, Mimi taught me a lot about family. She was never happier than when all her kids, grandkids, and later, great-grands, were all gathered around her. She always insisted on the family getting together several times a year, even if it was only for a quick brunch, or a few days in the mountains. Trust me, Mimi was like our own personal Chablis-swilling mafiosa - you did NOT say no to Mimi. Whatever she wanted, she got, and most often what she wanted was time with her beloved family.
She taught me to write poems and stories, she taught me to appreciate artwork, how to set a table, how to decorate a house, and how to throw a party. It was very important to her that her southern-born granddaughters master the fine skill of hosting a party, and also being the life of it.
And I'll never forget what she said to me the day I graduated with my Master's from Medical University of South Carolina and became a Nurse Practitioner.
"Sarah B (my family nickname), I used to think that you just needed to go to Davidson (College, the Harvard of the South), meet a nice boy to marry, join the Junior League, and learn how to make good chicken salad. I never imagined you would go to Clemson, then on to medical school (okay, not technically medical school, as it was a Master's in Nursing, but try explaining that to your grandmother), and now you're an almost doctor, and you take care of itty bitty tiny babies! I never thought you'd amount to much more than a housewife who made good chicken salad, and look at you now!"
Okay, the delivery may have been a little off, but the sentiment was there. And let me tell you, this was one of the prouder moments in my life. Knowing that I had exceeded my grandmother's expectations, and knowing that she recognized it. It also is a true testament to the bubble she lived in, in the Deep South, but that's probably a blog post for another day.
Oh, my Mimi, how I wish my girls could have known you back in the day, when you would chase each of us around the house with a hairbrush so we all looked "appropriate" in case you had company, or when we cousins used to jostle for the chance to sit by your side and listen to you laugh, or when I would open the mail to find a poem you had written for my birthday, or when you would host your annual Birthday Party for Everyone and we would all celebrate and feast on your famous Heath Bar Cool Whip cakes.
My dear, sweet, peculiar but authentic, Larger Than Life grandmother, you will be so missed.
Love,
Sarah B
-
I shall explain...
My Dad called me yesterday to let us know that his mother, my Mimi, had become unresponsive and was not doing well. As they are in Charlotte, and we were at the lake in East Texas at the time of this call, I had little choice but to get on my knees pray for comfort and peace for this extraordinary woman, and all those who love her.
Later in the day, we packed up the car and headed back home from the lake. One child was scheduled for a nap during our car ride, and the other was in a Benadryl coma thanks to the multiple (thirty-five!) mosquito bites she fell victim to while under the watchful eyes of a parent. No names here, but that parent wasn't me. Just sayin'. Nevertheless, this quiet trip allowed me two hours in the car to reflect on my Mimi, and the way she touched our lives.
The three words which best describe my grandmother?
Larger Than Life.
She really was, that woman. Larger than life. Not just physically - she was gorgeous and captivating and tall (let's be honest here, compared to me, who isn't tall?). No, it was definitely her personality. She had a way of walking into a room and owning it. She never met a stranger, was always the life of the party, and had an uncanny ability to make everyone who knew her want to be around her all the time. Oh, and she had the most magnificent laugh - loud and throaty - she would frequently lose her breath in a fit of hysterics. She was so artistic and creative, always plopping down at the piano to bang out a tune, or generating fantastically funny songs or poems to honor a birthday or special occasion.
Put it this way, if she were a member of our generation, she would have a starring role on Glee. And she'd probably go on and rewrite it too, to make it even funnier. And direct it. And then she'd produce it. And lay down the tracks for all the songs. And then throw huge cast parties after wrap so everyone could be friends.
Up until illness waylaid her a couple of years ago, I swear that woman had a more active social life at 85 than me at.... well... ever. Her phone was always ringing, friends were always popping by for a cocktail and a good laugh. Mimi was never short on laughs. She loved telling jokes, and playing jokes. Her whole life seemed like one big fancy shindig, and she, the penultimate party planner.
She never discussed these things, but my beautiful grandmother was screentested for Gone With the Wind, and partied the night away with Frank Sinatra on the rooftop of the Carolina Inn shortly before she got engaged to my grandfather.
That's the stuff of legend, people. Can I getta amen?
Aside from her exquisite social skills, Mimi taught me a lot about family. She was never happier than when all her kids, grandkids, and later, great-grands, were all gathered around her. She always insisted on the family getting together several times a year, even if it was only for a quick brunch, or a few days in the mountains. Trust me, Mimi was like our own personal Chablis-swilling mafiosa - you did NOT say no to Mimi. Whatever she wanted, she got, and most often what she wanted was time with her beloved family.
She taught me to write poems and stories, she taught me to appreciate artwork, how to set a table, how to decorate a house, and how to throw a party. It was very important to her that her southern-born granddaughters master the fine skill of hosting a party, and also being the life of it.
And I'll never forget what she said to me the day I graduated with my Master's from Medical University of South Carolina and became a Nurse Practitioner.
"Sarah B (my family nickname), I used to think that you just needed to go to Davidson (College, the Harvard of the South), meet a nice boy to marry, join the Junior League, and learn how to make good chicken salad. I never imagined you would go to Clemson, then on to medical school (okay, not technically medical school, as it was a Master's in Nursing, but try explaining that to your grandmother), and now you're an almost doctor, and you take care of itty bitty tiny babies! I never thought you'd amount to much more than a housewife who made good chicken salad, and look at you now!"
Okay, the delivery may have been a little off, but the sentiment was there. And let me tell you, this was one of the prouder moments in my life. Knowing that I had exceeded my grandmother's expectations, and knowing that she recognized it. It also is a true testament to the bubble she lived in, in the Deep South, but that's probably a blog post for another day.
Oh, my Mimi, how I wish my girls could have known you back in the day, when you would chase each of us around the house with a hairbrush so we all looked "appropriate" in case you had company, or when we cousins used to jostle for the chance to sit by your side and listen to you laugh, or when I would open the mail to find a poem you had written for my birthday, or when you would host your annual Birthday Party for Everyone and we would all celebrate and feast on your famous Heath Bar Cool Whip cakes.
My dear, sweet, peculiar but authentic, Larger Than Life grandmother, you will be so missed.
Love,
Sarah B
-
Monday, September 27, 2010
Home Work
Yesterday was one of the most spectacular days ever in Dallas. Probably to be matched only by today. It was 57 degrees this morning when we woke up. Fifty-seven! That's half of what it was a month ago, ya'll. Imagine. And the high yesterday was 76. In Dallas. In September. That nearly never happens.
So in honor of the beautiful day, after church we decided we would spend it outside.
At a picnic, you wonder? Or a park? Or on a bike ride? At a pumpkin patch? At the State Fair?
Watching the Cowboys whoop up on Houston? (I just wanted to see that in writing. A victory at last).
No, no, people, dream on. Did you forget? Or maybe you didn't know this plain and simple truth about me: I am married to the most do-it-yourselferest (I know, not a word) person you'll ever meet. Ever.
We (he) do (does) all our own: tiling, grouting, painting, landscaping, furniture-refinishing, hardwood-floor-laying, toilet-installing, staining, plumbing, cabinet-installing, ceiling fan hanging, drywalling, you-name-it-my-husband-does-it, anything.
Get the point?
So the answer is no, we did not, in fact, spend one of the most spectacular days ever in Dallas doing any of those aforementioned fun family things like the park or a picnic, or riding a bike.
We spent it working in the yard.
Now, I will go ahead and admit that there once was a time in my life where I actually enjoyed yardwork, but that was before: a) we had kids; b) we had kids; c) we had kids; and d) I made the most unfortunate discovery that I am highly allergic to poison ivy. Highly. Allergic. In fact, just typing out the word makes me want to go get the calamine.
Because of these four things, when Chris now mentions yardwork, I put my fingers in my ears and say, LALALALALALALA.
Yesterday, however, he asked (accosted) me for help with the yard in the parking lot at church when my hands were full holding: a baby, a diaper bag, one patent leather Sunday shoe left thirty feet behind us in said parking lot, and of course, a Bible. So drat, I had no fingers-in-the-ears excuse. And then I can't really tell him a white lie while I'm holding a Bible, right? Plus there's the whole issue that we are hosting Caroline's first birthday at the house in two weeks. As this party happens to be scheduled during the daylight hours, the multitude of "problem areas" of our backyard will not be disguised by a little gift I like to call darkness.
Therefore, I had no choice but to smile, nod, gnash my teeth, and agree to help him in the daggum yard.
My neighbor didn't make it any better by laughing at us as he walked by with his family on their way to the park, hollering out, "You know you can pay people to do that for you, right, Thomases?" Grrrrrr....
So yes, that's how we spent our absolutely gorgeous day of rest. Bent over at the waist, pulling weeds, digging flowerbeds, sweeping dust and dirt (dog hair), raking up leaves (dog poo), fixing sprinkler heads (pocked with dog teeth marks), trimming trees, skimming the pool, and throwing away ALL of my good intentions: sidewalk chalk, bubble stuff, half-chewed dog toys, cracked flower pots, and dead plants.
But you know what? All that work means several things. Number one, my hamstrings and glutes are very sore today which means, hooray, I got an unintended workout. Number two, we now have a lovely backyard to which we can retreat tonight with a glass of wine and enjoy the cooler evenings. And most importantly, number three, I got to spend some quality time helping my wonderful do-it-yourselfer husband, solving all the world's problems.
Which we totally did.
And I am one step closer to being ready for that party. In the daylight.
-
So in honor of the beautiful day, after church we decided we would spend it outside.
At a picnic, you wonder? Or a park? Or on a bike ride? At a pumpkin patch? At the State Fair?
Watching the Cowboys whoop up on Houston? (I just wanted to see that in writing. A victory at last).
No, no, people, dream on. Did you forget? Or maybe you didn't know this plain and simple truth about me: I am married to the most do-it-yourselferest (I know, not a word) person you'll ever meet. Ever.
We (he) do (does) all our own: tiling, grouting, painting, landscaping, furniture-refinishing, hardwood-floor-laying, toilet-installing, staining, plumbing, cabinet-installing, ceiling fan hanging, drywalling, you-name-it-my-husband-does-it, anything.
Get the point?
So the answer is no, we did not, in fact, spend one of the most spectacular days ever in Dallas doing any of those aforementioned fun family things like the park or a picnic, or riding a bike.
We spent it working in the yard.
Now, I will go ahead and admit that there once was a time in my life where I actually enjoyed yardwork, but that was before: a) we had kids; b) we had kids; c) we had kids; and d) I made the most unfortunate discovery that I am highly allergic to poison ivy. Highly. Allergic. In fact, just typing out the word makes me want to go get the calamine.
Because of these four things, when Chris now mentions yardwork, I put my fingers in my ears and say, LALALALALALALA.
Yesterday, however, he asked (accosted) me for help with the yard in the parking lot at church when my hands were full holding: a baby, a diaper bag, one patent leather Sunday shoe left thirty feet behind us in said parking lot, and of course, a Bible. So drat, I had no fingers-in-the-ears excuse. And then I can't really tell him a white lie while I'm holding a Bible, right? Plus there's the whole issue that we are hosting Caroline's first birthday at the house in two weeks. As this party happens to be scheduled during the daylight hours, the multitude of "problem areas" of our backyard will not be disguised by a little gift I like to call darkness.
Therefore, I had no choice but to smile, nod, gnash my teeth, and agree to help him in the daggum yard.
My neighbor didn't make it any better by laughing at us as he walked by with his family on their way to the park, hollering out, "You know you can pay people to do that for you, right, Thomases?" Grrrrrr....
So yes, that's how we spent our absolutely gorgeous day of rest. Bent over at the waist, pulling weeds, digging flowerbeds, sweeping dust and dirt (dog hair), raking up leaves (dog poo), fixing sprinkler heads (pocked with dog teeth marks), trimming trees, skimming the pool, and throwing away ALL of my good intentions: sidewalk chalk, bubble stuff, half-chewed dog toys, cracked flower pots, and dead plants.
But you know what? All that work means several things. Number one, my hamstrings and glutes are very sore today which means, hooray, I got an unintended workout. Number two, we now have a lovely backyard to which we can retreat tonight with a glass of wine and enjoy the cooler evenings. And most importantly, number three, I got to spend some quality time helping my wonderful do-it-yourselfer husband, solving all the world's problems.
Which we totally did.
And I am one step closer to being ready for that party. In the daylight.
-
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Nature vs. Nurture?
This is a question Chris and I have pondered many times since we started the adoption process four years ago. How much of your child's personality and intelligence is nature, and how much is nurture? Environment vs. heredity?
Ongoing research will quote you varying percentages, but as usual, I have my own opinion. Based on an n of 2 (that's a shout out for all you statistic nerds).
I'm saying 10% nature and 90% nurture.
Here are some anectdotal examples from my articulate three-year-old to support this conclusion:
Aria, getting into our car after church on Sunday, shouts, "This car is so hot! It's freaking me out!"
Aria, trying to get her father's attention at the dinner table last night, "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy! Dadddddyyyy! (Big sigh) CHRIS!" That worked. She got his full attention.
Last week, I told Aria she looked adorable in an outfit she was wearing. Giving me the Duhh-of-course, look, she responds, "Mommy, I look cute because I am cute!"
And my personal favorite. This morning, chasing me down (in the bathroom on the potty, no less) to tell me, "Mommy! Can you do something? Caroline is being so dramatic!"
You decide. Where does she get this stuff? Is this precociousness natural? Or is it learned?
That's what I thought.
-
Ongoing research will quote you varying percentages, but as usual, I have my own opinion. Based on an n of 2 (that's a shout out for all you statistic nerds).
I'm saying 10% nature and 90% nurture.
Here are some anectdotal examples from my articulate three-year-old to support this conclusion:
Aria, getting into our car after church on Sunday, shouts, "This car is so hot! It's freaking me out!"
Aria, trying to get her father's attention at the dinner table last night, "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy! Dadddddyyyy! (Big sigh) CHRIS!" That worked. She got his full attention.
Last week, I told Aria she looked adorable in an outfit she was wearing. Giving me the Duhh-of-course, look, she responds, "Mommy, I look cute because I am cute!"
And my personal favorite. This morning, chasing me down (in the bathroom on the potty, no less) to tell me, "Mommy! Can you do something? Caroline is being so dramatic!"
You decide. Where does she get this stuff? Is this precociousness natural? Or is it learned?
That's what I thought.
-
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Ms. Stewart Just Might Possibly Not Be Ashamed
Whew!
To use a metaphor a good friend recently told me, these past few days have been so productive, I feel like several pots I had that were boiling over have now been reduced to a low simmer.
Examples:
-My family has eaten home-cooked meals three nights in a row.
-My children are bathed and wearing clean, folded clothes.
-My husband is no longer yelling unmentionables to the computer in his office.
-My beautiful baby is about to turn one, her party has been planned, and invitations were actually printed and mailed in a timely manner.
-Said baby, following our very first "sick visit" to the pediatrician for refusing to eat, was pronounced perfectly healthy and "distracted" by her newly-learned ability to WALK EVERYWHERE.
-My house, thanks to Soledad, aka my Angel in Pink Sweatpants, is sparkling clean and smells of Pier One's Pumpkin Spice Cake candle (on sale this month!).
-My dining room table looks like this:
You want a closer look, don't you?
To use a metaphor a good friend recently told me, these past few days have been so productive, I feel like several pots I had that were boiling over have now been reduced to a low simmer.
Examples:
-My family has eaten home-cooked meals three nights in a row.
-My children are bathed and wearing clean, folded clothes.
-My husband is no longer yelling unmentionables to the computer in his office.
-My beautiful baby is about to turn one, her party has been planned, and invitations were actually printed and mailed in a timely manner.
-Said baby, following our very first "sick visit" to the pediatrician for refusing to eat, was pronounced perfectly healthy and "distracted" by her newly-learned ability to WALK EVERYWHERE.
-My house, thanks to Soledad, aka my Angel in Pink Sweatpants, is sparkling clean and smells of Pier One's Pumpkin Spice Cake candle (on sale this month!).
-My dining room table looks like this:
-My family room mantle looks like this:
(Don't look too closely or you'll see the pink legos in the fireplace...)
-My front porch looks like this:
You want a closer look, don't you?
This was my first try at something so Martha Stewart-y.
All in all, it has been a productive catch-up week. And I give all of the credit to my new indulgence addiction, Double Tall Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte from Starbuck's.
You cannot imagine the tasks one can accomplish with that extra shot of espresso.
-
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Vitamin N
So ya'll, I'm straight up TARD.
As in, I actually fell asleep yesterday with two loud children pounding pink legos on my legs chanting a song, in the middle the afternoon lying ON TOP of my pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded.
Exhausted. Tired. TARD. I think Chris may have even taken a picture to be used for bribery purposes some day. Or I dreamed it. Either way.
Last week - the week Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog became a permanent member of the family - also happened to be the week of "adjusting" for the extended Thomas family, and I learned the very important lesson that in a given family, everyone grieves about the same thing, but in very different ways.
Even though it wasn't necessarily me that was going through this jumble of strange emotions, I still managed to accumulate a certain amount of angst watching and listening to everyone else stumble through it. Therefore, when I went back to work on Monday, I was absolutely plum wore out. I had a busy day and busy night at work, which means job security, yes, but also pure exhaustion. With no time to recover, I was back to work again Wednesday morning for another busy day and busy night.
To top it all off, Wendi, my pilates instructor, for whom I possess equal and alternating amounts of reverence, admiration, and hatred, proclaims that sugar is "white poison" and we must stay away from it. As Wendi is older, wiser, and has an infinitely firmer and more shapely - er, backside - than me, I have this perverse need to please her and do exactly as she says, which now means, no more white poison.
Try explaining that to a three-year-old.
Uh-huh, I'm a super-pleasant person to be around these days.
And it all seems to hit in the evenings, when I feel like I've been run over by a freight train, my limbs weigh a thousand pounds, and I can barely hold my head up.
Which is why I googled "flu-like symptoms in the evening", and informed Chris that I either have: a) leukemia; b) hypothyroidism; c) tuberculosis; or d) all of the above.
And because I'm apparently suffering from this leukemia-tuberculositic-thyroidy-plague, I've been less able to blog as frequently as I would like.
So somehow in my fog last week, I managed to drag myself to the doctor, who did - not kidding - $1800 worth of lab tests for a $20 copay (thank you, United Healthcare), to discover that aside from a mild vitamin-D deficiency, I am a surprisingly healthy person, and am not, apparently, suffering from the plague.
In all her great doctory wisdom, she told me it's stress, and I need to try and get some sleep. And take more vitamin D.
Therefore, this weekend, when I've felt sleepy, instead of martyring myself for the sake of that pile of clothes waiting to be folded, I gave myself permission to take two very indulgent long, luxurious naps in the middle of the day while my kids were sleeping. Or beating me with pink legos. Same difference.
Still. A nap! Two of them. Heaven.
In the evenings with the weather now getting cooler, we decided we'd take the girls out to some of the festivals happening in Dallas this weekend. We went to Addison's Oktoberfest on Friday evening, and Grapevine's Grapefest on Saturday evening. Both "festibals" as Aria says, taught me this important lesson: If you ever want to feel skinny and well-dressed with beautiful straight teeth, a handsome husband, and beautiful very well-behaved kids, my friends, all you need to do is attend a weekend festival at night in North Texas.
Wow, ya'll. All I can say is the people-watching is out of this world. I left both places much wearier and dirtier, but with an extremely high self-esteem. Just sayin.
Time for dinner, a fruit "smoovie" for dessert (see Wendi, I'm trying), then back to bed. Maybe after my white poison detox is over, I'll have energy for more blogs this week...
-
As in, I actually fell asleep yesterday with two loud children pounding pink legos on my legs chanting a song, in the middle the afternoon lying ON TOP of my pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded.
Exhausted. Tired. TARD. I think Chris may have even taken a picture to be used for bribery purposes some day. Or I dreamed it. Either way.
Last week - the week Charlotte Wiggles Pig the Frog became a permanent member of the family - also happened to be the week of "adjusting" for the extended Thomas family, and I learned the very important lesson that in a given family, everyone grieves about the same thing, but in very different ways.
Even though it wasn't necessarily me that was going through this jumble of strange emotions, I still managed to accumulate a certain amount of angst watching and listening to everyone else stumble through it. Therefore, when I went back to work on Monday, I was absolutely plum wore out. I had a busy day and busy night at work, which means job security, yes, but also pure exhaustion. With no time to recover, I was back to work again Wednesday morning for another busy day and busy night.
To top it all off, Wendi, my pilates instructor, for whom I possess equal and alternating amounts of reverence, admiration, and hatred, proclaims that sugar is "white poison" and we must stay away from it. As Wendi is older, wiser, and has an infinitely firmer and more shapely - er, backside - than me, I have this perverse need to please her and do exactly as she says, which now means, no more white poison.
Try explaining that to a three-year-old.
Uh-huh, I'm a super-pleasant person to be around these days.
And it all seems to hit in the evenings, when I feel like I've been run over by a freight train, my limbs weigh a thousand pounds, and I can barely hold my head up.
Which is why I googled "flu-like symptoms in the evening", and informed Chris that I either have: a) leukemia; b) hypothyroidism; c) tuberculosis; or d) all of the above.
And because I'm apparently suffering from this leukemia-tuberculositic-thyroidy-plague, I've been less able to blog as frequently as I would like.
So somehow in my fog last week, I managed to drag myself to the doctor, who did - not kidding - $1800 worth of lab tests for a $20 copay (thank you, United Healthcare), to discover that aside from a mild vitamin-D deficiency, I am a surprisingly healthy person, and am not, apparently, suffering from the plague.
In all her great doctory wisdom, she told me it's stress, and I need to try and get some sleep. And take more vitamin D.
Therefore, this weekend, when I've felt sleepy, instead of martyring myself for the sake of that pile of clothes waiting to be folded, I gave myself permission to take two very indulgent long, luxurious naps in the middle of the day while my kids were sleeping. Or beating me with pink legos. Same difference.
Still. A nap! Two of them. Heaven.
In the evenings with the weather now getting cooler, we decided we'd take the girls out to some of the festivals happening in Dallas this weekend. We went to Addison's Oktoberfest on Friday evening, and Grapevine's Grapefest on Saturday evening. Both "festibals" as Aria says, taught me this important lesson: If you ever want to feel skinny and well-dressed with beautiful straight teeth, a handsome husband, and beautiful very well-behaved kids, my friends, all you need to do is attend a weekend festival at night in North Texas.
Wow, ya'll. All I can say is the people-watching is out of this world. I left both places much wearier and dirtier, but with an extremely high self-esteem. Just sayin.
Time for dinner, a fruit "smoovie" for dessert (see Wendi, I'm trying), then back to bed. Maybe after my white poison detox is over, I'll have energy for more blogs this week...
-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
