Snakes, why did it have to be snakes!

Tonight, MacTroll let Lily out in the yard. And then he said, "Holy shit! There's a snake."

I went outside to get Lily and when I saw it... it wasn't a cute garter snake.

No, it was a Prairie King Snake.

It was over three feet long with a tiny head. And I think it ate two of the three baby bunnies in the back of our yard.

MacTroll picked it up with a rake and put it on the other side of the fence... It's not like he can't get back in (I wanted him to take it somewhere a few miles away. But now every time I go in the backyard to mow or send X-man out in the sandbox or let Lily out to pee, I'm going to wonder... Is that damn snake out there?

Blahhhh!

How We Roll

For almost the entire 20 years MacTroll and I have been together, we haven't spent a lot of the same time living together in the same place. For the first six years we were long distance Rockford to Peoria, Rockford to Champaign, Decatur to Champaign, Decatur to Saginaw, Decatur to Lansing and then boom -- we moved in together when we moved to Falls Church, Va. These were back in the days pre-e-mail for the most part and when long-distance calls were cheap at 20 cents a minute.

When we lived in D.C., we thought we'd see more of each other, and for a while that was true on the weekends. I'd get up and head to the metro at 7 a.m. and three nights a week, I'd be home by 6 p.m. The other two nights though, I'd be at school until somewhere between 8:30 p.m. or 11 p.m., when MacTroll would pick me up. I, on the other hand, was usually home all weekend unless I had to cover a weekend event at the Newseum, where as his job as a free-lance photographer in Washington, D.C. woke him up at all hours and sent him on assignment.

By the time I was working for Arlington County Government and he had moved on from photography and started his own computer company, we rarely saw each other at all. He was traveling M-F three weeks a month and I was working 50+ hour work weeks. So, we decided to move to Champaign. His business was mostly travel and it made good money. It made better money when he started working for the fruit. And I became the woman who could do anything as long as it was part-time. Then we had a baby, and I threw myself into that for a while. There was a very steep learning curve. Even though MacTroll was promoted and cut back on his travel schedule from 3 weeks of travel a month to 2 weeks, I still felt alone a great deal of the time, so I took over my parent group and was doing a bang up job at it. I thought maybe I'd do well working somewhere doing children's programming, and I started taking classes at Parkland in Early Childhood. I also started at weight management.

Three years later, and I'm about to start the most permanent position I've had since I moved here. I'm getting to be an Early Childhood Educator at MMO in the Clownfish room. I'm excited about it. I've loved floating and subbing there the last two years. But I'm worried about how this is going to go in terms of my family life. Because when I work, I tend to throw myself into things and put the work before home life, and let's face it, MacTroll and I always tend to put parenthood before marriage, which feels natural (and easy when your spouse flies in and out and you haven't really spent any time alone together in at least 30-day increments). I've scheduled my day so that I drop X-man off at 7:50 a.m. and report to work by 8:10 a.m. Then I get off at 12:30 p.m., eat lunch and then go to the gym or do the grocery shopping or run errands from 1:15-2:15 p.m. X-man's day ends at 2:15 p.m., and he'll get on the bus to come home. I'm estimating he'll be home by 2:45-3 p.m., which gives me time to shower or do some light housework.

I don't have him signed up for anything in the fall, but he said he does want to go to the Savoy Rec Center on Tuesdays afternoons from 3:45-5 p.m. So, we'll bike over there for as long as the weather will allow us after an after-school snack and he can attend the rotating after-school drop-in Lego Club and the  Rec Zone program, while I do a work out.

It sounds perfect. But what if I show up at the Sports Medicine doctor and he puts me in a cast? Or worse what happens if I have to have surgery on the tendons in my foot or something like that? Now that the fascia is better, I still have issues in the back part of my heel toward the lateral side. I do nothing but walk on it at this point. So it's me mowing the yard or walking around the neighborhood or excavating the Rotary Park site with a shovel. All do my foot in after a short time, and I'm icing and stretching and elevating it for pretty much the rest of the day.

And the worst part is that it's my right foot... If it gets casted... no driving. And how am I going to work with a room full of 2.5 year olds? Or hop up and down the steps at MMO? X-man will have to take the bus to school, too, if that happens.

It's days like today, when I totally hate Dr. Google. All I can do is sit back, relax, and wait to see the Sports Medicine doc next week.

So, see, it doesn't matter if you're a cat or a human over at our house, we're all kind of medically nutso this week.

The saddest part is, I know that my spouse has to keep traveling... so I have the mindset that when he's around to help, it's an exception rather than the norm.

Fear and Doubt in Savoy

So there are things that I'm afraid of and none of them have anything to do with the Unit 4 kindergarten lottery. These are real things. Things that require trips to doctors. Things that cost a lot of money. Things that make my son look at me and see that I am, indeed, not the great pillar of strength that he needs me to be. Oh, the worry that can transcend in those little, blue eyes. He knows something's wrong. He's not stupid. He sees when Mommy doesn't have the energy to move onto the floor and play with him. He sees when Mommy decides to take him out to dinner rather than cook. He's watched my energy levels come and go like the freaking tide. He knows what's normal and what's not.

Today, I went to gynecology to talk to them about my fibroid. It turns out there is only one. It is small. It is benign, and if you're going to have a fibroid, you want it where mine is, completely out of the way, slow growing, nothing big. It's all good news.

The weird news is that she's not sure why my periods are now lasting 6-8 days. The placement of the fibroid makes it the least likely candidate to affect blood loss levels. But the attack plan stays the same, by either slowing my periods or stopping them altogether, it should help my issue with low ferritin, which should help the low protein and platelet count. It's been 5 months since I was diagnosed. We started with the conservative treatment of taking iron supplements for three months. When that didn't work, we ordered an ultrasound to look for fibroids and did a blood test for celiac disease. (And yes, I still take the iron pills.) The Celiac test was negative, but up popped the small fibroid. Then it took me, no lie, 6 weeks to get into ob/gyn. The doctor who came in to triage kept repeating, "You've been feeling like this for five months?" to me. Seriously? Get on the stick. To be fair, she was a resident. But she clearly didn't do her homework. So when the ob came in and the resident started talking to me about my thyroid. I tried not to roll my eyes. "Already been there, look harder at the blood work from September. It's fine."

"Oh."

So my choices were birth control pills, which I have a history of not doing well on, an IUD (Mirena), which appears to be my generation's birth control of choice, and endometrial ablation. I'm all about the conservative approach and don't want to take a pill every day, so we're going to go with the IUD for now, but it'll take another few weeks before I can get in for that appointment. Then, I have to wait another few months to see how it affects me. Some women spot the first few months, some have a shorter, lighter period. Some don't have one at all.

If this fails, it comes out, and we do the ablation. Since I don't plan on ever having children again, I can do this option, which, let's face it -- sounds a hell of a lot better to a 35 year old than a hysterectomy, which is -- surgery. And I'm not eager to be knocked out on any surgical table any time ever again.

But yeah, I'm scared about the fact that they don't know why I'm bleeding longer and heavier. I just am. I don't like the fact that the whole process will basically have taken over a year to go through the "safer" options. I also don't like the side effects of being borderline anemic. I am tired a lot, so my brain tells me to eat, even though I don't need food -- I need iron.

But it is what it is. I'm making the best of it. I have a life to live here...

Getting Back in the Saddle

Today at physical therapy, Eric (the PT) asked me when my next scheduled run would be. My response, "When won't it hurt?"

He looked at me and smiled. "You won't now unless you try it."

I sighed.

"Friday. I'll go out Friday."

"Good. Let me know how it goes."

I'm scared to death, but I know he's right. I've been successfully making it to fitness classes, getting on my bike and tomorrow I'm re-entering the Aquatic Center for the first time in a while, since I finally found my punch cards -- hooray.

But I also did something else. I signed up for the Women's Fitness 5k at the end of September. I find myself in a common situation to last year when I did the Ambulance Chase and got turned on to running... but had my training side tracked due to issues with a weak pelvic floor that landed me in PT and without the ability to exercise more than walking for six weeks. Like last year, it isn't about personal bests. I don't consider myself a runner. Instead, I'm just going out there to finish and to help a good cause.

So, if you see me out doing short runs or run/walks (let's be realistic after 10 weeks pretty much off running) around Prairie Fields cheer me on or something will ya? Because I'm feeling pretty out of sorts. And if you run the race, stick around when you're done and yell me in or something, too, please? X-man is doing the kid dash beforehand, so if your kids want to run around in the trees with mine, that's cool, too.

Running on Empty

It is 2-something-o'clock in the a.m. right now. I've just spent four hours staring at the Internet avoiding using my brain. Sure, there were some word games on Facebook in there. Sure, I read the newspaper... but I mean, it was avoidance. I didn't want to read about political polls or shootings in town. 

But mostly what I didn't want to do was read other people's blogs and find out how fascinating and wonderful their lives are, when mine currently seems very -- stand still-ish.

My friends in town use our blogs to catch up. It's kind of funny for a group of women who see each other more often than any of us usually see our spouses. 

Libbygirl had her baby on July 31. Lightning McColin's little brother is a spitting image of him. He eats and sleeps well. It was sweet to meet him and hold him this week. 

But it also made me think a lot about the last 2.5 years. Half of me wanted to get a little ribbon for just surviving. The other half mourned a bit because I became very conscious that I was crossing a line I never wanted to cross when I became a mother.

That is to say, I never wanted to become a bitter mom. The one with much older children that stands next to you forewarning you of all the ways your sweet infant baby will one day hate you. The one that tells you how outside of work and motherhood she doesn't have a life. That by the time she gets it back, she'll be old and gray and her unappreciative children will never call her. 

When I had a newborn, I found a lot of solace in other newborn moms. We had the same wide-eyed deer caught in headlight looks. We hadn't slept. We hadn't showered. We hadn't eaten. Our babies couldn't turn over. They had no teeth. And you could spend hours, days, weeks just staring at your kid. 

Then as my baby began to really move and interact with is world, I was fascinated by his exploration. Pushing buttons on the dishwasher was a huge achievement. He used a fork. He opened a door. He built with Mega Blocks. He pulled a string toy across the floor. 

Then he got to 18 months and the molars starting coming in. We're just now finishing with the last of his teeth, and as they came in and the speech started really flowing -- my child explored and punished others (mostly me) through biting. 

Now I realize my son will be 2.5 in September. He's no longer a baby. Besides the diapers, any infant aspect of him has disappeared. He's his own little man. He hugs and jumps and skips. He doesn't want to share his toys. His mood swings challenge me in every way. But for the first time, I find myself being angry with my child when we have bad days, when his behavior is out of hand. 

I never had that anger before. Until he was 2, he could do anything and I had this endless patience with him. That was before he decided I was the mortal enemy when I did things like force him to stay out of the street or put away a toy he threw or not allow him to have ice cream for breakfast. And I know I'm being a good mom by doing all those things. I know I'm being a better mom for sticking to my guns. 

But it feels like there's this huge separation there now. Like I've staked my claim and he's staked his, and we'll never get back to where we were. 

I see that kind of separation in a lot of families. There's this giant gap that exists. And it's not that they don't care, but it's just that there's so much shit in the gap that it's hard to ever really find a common ground that's strong enough to start all over again. It's a weird crazy tangle.

All I know, is that I don't want it to happen to X-man and I. I wonder if we've been provided enough of a map of what to do -- by learning what not to do or by learning what's not normal -- at any stage or age of a child's life. 

For example: You don't tell people that when you found out that you were pregnant you wanted to walk in front of a bus, because your kid will somehow be told that some day and boy, isn't that a great therapy conversation? 

You don't have your 12-year-old sit down next to you and tell the child if they weren't around you'd kill yourself, again, more therapy fodder.  

You don't just show up for honor society and plays and other public events where people "see" you "parenting" and yet in reality you're completely disconnected from your kids' lives to the point where they feel they look after themselves. 

You don't insult your kids' career choices. 

You don't say bad things about the people they date or marry. 

You don't criticize their parenting. 

You don't tell them bad crap about the other parent. 

You don't talk about sex as being dirty. 

You don't shame them. 

You don't guilt them. 

You don't neglect them. 

You don't make up some kind of alternate reality where you tell them things in their lives didn't happen because you're happier denying any proof that your kid endured any pain on your watch. 

You don't criticize your kids' weight. 

You don't get to get angry with your kids for thinking for themselves, even if they choose to think differently from you. 

You don't force feed religion to someone who is reluctant.

These kinds of lessons go on and on...

I know we're going to continue to make mistakes, lots and lots and lots of them. The big thing I've learned from becoming a parent is that you do your best. It's all you can do. It's all any parent can do, even parents that do the things mentioned above.

But then again, there's Yoda telling me how it is when my best isn't good enough no matter how hard I work, no matter how many bruises I have, or how much my son, after he hits me, hugs and kisses me to try to make things better. 

I get frustrated with his natural, 2-year-old ways. I get angry with him when he hurts others. 

It still has me up at now 3-something-o'clock at night. 

Fear.

I'm going to go sleep with my child and hug his Bob the Builder. And tomorrow, while the gap is still small enough... I'm going to start shoveling some of that crap out of there. And I'm going to start building the world's biggest, strongest cantilever. Not so much to smother, but enough to keep my eye on things and hope that I can do a better job.

Crazy Fears

I hate marionettes, dummies, clowns and mimes.

And this is why I hate marionettes and dummies: Madame. When I was little Madame was on Solid Gold. A program I used to watch as a kid because I loved the dancing and the singing (it fed my love for Olivia Newton-John, Kenny Rogers, Pat Benatar, etc.). I was too young to understand the humor, but her face scared me to death.

As a child, I had a nightmare that she was 20 feet tall and chasing after me with her big scary mouth and crazy cheekbones. But I refused to give up my Solid Gold dancers and kept watching the show. At the end of which, my mom had to stand at the top of the stairs when I came up from the basement every night to make sure Madame's big, long stick arms didn't reach out and grab me, so she could eat me up.

What is more frightening is that it looks like Madame has a new handler... and has been trying to stage a comeback. 

P.S. The reason I am afraid of clowns is also available on YouTube, but I couldn't bring myself to watch it. The scene in "Poltergeist," when the little boy is almost strangled by his clown marionette. 

Ahh, the problems with being a child of the 1980s.