Warrior.

Of the Samurai variety, perhaps.

Hey Masto? Kindly Fuck Off.

Masto has been sort of a non-issue in our house for a few months now, which I credit largely to cool weather and careful food choices for Rohan.

But nothing is perfect and the extra challenge with a disease that is there from birth is that it manifests itself in ways we can't always detect. And may I be honest and just admit right here and now that this pisses me off?? Because not only is it not really fair to him to have been born with this fate, but it's also not fair to him to suffer and not be able to tell us why and how.

So after a few months with no need to medicate Rohan, I was starting to feel like maybe I had overblown the whole damn thing. I do this: I freak a bit about something (or a lot, in this case) and then in retrospect I laugh and duck my head in embarassment because I can see (hindsight is amazing, no?) that perhaps my knee jerk reaction aimed too high. I started to think that maybe all those worries and stresses and sorrows I felt for the adjustments we'd have to make in his life were really just me being in Mommy Mode and overthinking things. Most of the worries involved the little things, because the little things become the big things in labors of love. As a mom I worry what will happen if he ever needs surgery given he may not tolerate anesthetics well or even at all. But I also worry how we will answer the questions about "What happened to his arm?" and whether he will have trouble playing sports and even if he will ever be able to enjoy a carton of fresh, plump blueberries in the middle of a summer afternoon.

But, like I said, he was doing really well. It has not been uncommon in the months since he was diagnosed at 5 weeks for us to need to medicate him at least once or twice a month. But this weekend brought us a perfect storm of happenings in his little body, primarily a fever and 4 molars working their way through the gums. And with all that not feeling good happening, I really didn't overthink it when I picked him up early from daycare yesterday only to battle his mood the entire evening while he fought his midday nap, his late day nap, and his bedtime. Finally we gave him some Tylenol for the lingering raised body temperature (it was barely elevated at this point) and the teething, and my husband was able to get him to sleep.

Fast forward to this evening, when he fit and fussed and cried and argued with my every attempt to get him to go to bed. If I could read his mind, I'm sure his thoughts would have read:

Pick me up! NO NO NO...Put me down!!! I need water! Get that sippy cup away from me right now! I am Highly Offended! I need a hug. HUG ME! Pick me UP! I'm so tired. Soooooo tired. Hold me. Don't hold me like that!! NO! Not like that!!! Ok, yes, like that. Where is my BOP?!?!?!That's better. Now put me down. No, down. On the FLOOR! Not in my crib. I said NOT IN MY CRIB! Yes, in your arms. No, I am not going to sleep. Take me downstairs. Now hold and rock me. NO no no...do NOT sit while you hold me. Stand. I said Stand!!! Why are you setting me down?!?!? I love you. Go away.

After half a dose of Tylenol didn't seem to take the teething edge off, I erecognized the telltale signs that maybe it wasn't his teeth bothering him. He was hot and sweaty. He seemed uncomfortable. He was clenching his fists and curling into his belly and manically kicking his legs.

But you know what he was not doing? He was not talking, and telling me how he felt. And damn if I don't always doubt my Mama instincts. So I tried to rock and cuddle and coo and love...all to no avail. And finally I looked into his extremely red and tired eyes and saw that this was not working.

0.10 mL of Doxepin, a few verses of his Mama singing 'Piano Man', and some butt pats, and he was sound asleep.

So I guess we're not free of the Masto grasp just yet. It makes me sad knowing this summer we're probably in for a battle like we didn't have to face last summer, since he's going to want to be outside playing more and heat is a top trigger. But I know we'll make it through. Now I just wish he could learn how to tell me what he's feeling. The guessing game sucks.

One Week Left.

My BL Challenge with friends ends next week, and I'm only coming up with one word that describes how I am feeling today: discouraged.

First, my husband was out of town Friday and part of Saturday, thus throwing my whole weekend off mentally. That meant that Sunday morning when I woke, rather than jumping on the scale to WI, I ate breakfast. Oops. And then by the time I realized it WAS Sunday and I WAS due to WI, I had downed lunch too. Not bad...not unhealthy...just food, which = weight on the scale.

I weighed in anyhow, because you can't just skip a week you know. And therein lies frustration #2: I cheated on my promise to myself that I would not WI in the middle of the week 'just to see how it's going'. Doing that leads to either getting super excited about the loss I see so far and deciding a little (BIG) Starbucks won't sabotage me THAT much -OR- being really let down by a lack of progress and mentally giving the week up as a failure. But I did it...and I was down. WAY down. And so perhaps I splurged a tiny bit on Friday (Starbucks coffee in the a.m., Mexican food for lunch, Starbucks tea in the p.m., cookies for dessert). But I had the extra points for it so I *should* have been ok.

I was not ok.

Because here's what I discovered about scales: they can be fancy and they can be new and they can measure your weight AND your body fat...but on saltillo tile they just might suck at giving you consistent readings.

So that 'Oh my gosh I am DOWN THREE POUNDS!' turned into 'Um, what the hell?!?! UP a pound?? How did THAT happen???' in a matter of 2 days. And while cloaked in denial, I decided to test a theory, and began to move the scale to different spots in the bathroom. And each spot? A different reading.

Conclusions for this week:
1. Starbucks is not the devil when you order a skinny vanilla latte and keep it to ONE drink per week.
2. My scale needs a new home. We'll try the flat cement floors in the garage first, the dumpster second.
3. With 1 week left in this challenge, I'm not going to win....but I HAVE lost. And DAMMIT I WILL try to hold firmly to the success of that even when it's not as great a success as I'd hoped for!

Things That Have Not Happened In A Long Time.

I stepped on the scale on Sunday and realized that I weigh less now than I have in over 15 months. I'm still just shy of my 10 pound marker, but it's so close I can almost taste it (and it tastes like Bagel Thins, low-fat cream cheese, fresh fruits and veggies, and lots and lots of water).

Easter threatened to derail me this week, with its marshmallows glittering with pink sugar crystals and its jelly beans (but they're fat free!) and M&Ms in rose petal pink and sunny yellow. And despite the fact a 2 year old and a 1 year old don't need ANY candy, they received LOTS OF candy from the Easter Bunny who visited both sets of Grandparents. And in my past life (you know, the one I lived in until a few months ago) I would have packaged all that candy into a Ziploc bag and squirrled it away into the top drawer of my desk and mindlessly plowed my way through it in a matter of a few days.

Instead, I jarred it. I am not kidding....I put the candy into Mason jars (3 large ones, btw, which HELLO! We do NOT need that much candy!). One jar is in my office for visitors. One jar is going to work with my husband. And one jar is in our home, but I can handle it. It's weird: pretty candy in a jar I leave alone, and it takes me weeks if not months to finish it. Proof can be found in the fact that I had to empty one of the jars of last year's leftover Easter candies before I could fill it with this year's. Pretty candy in a Ziploc baggies? Eaten, and fast.

Here's the other thing about keeping candy in a jar: it's VERY hard to pretend you're eating less than you are, because you can clearly see how much the level sinks each day. And with it sitting smack on the corner of my desk in plain view of co-workers and anyone else who stops into my office, I would be embarassed if that level dropped too rapidly. It's like self-control via humiliation. And since I otherwise lack self control, the humiliation factor is vital for me.

But on the flip side of that, I am also motivated by positives. And while I patiently(ish) wait for my jeans to feel looser, I had something else happen this weekend which has not happened in so long, I sadly cannot remember the last time it did.

I got hit on. By a stranger. At a bar.

::pumps fist::

Now, we are going to brush over the details (including the fact he wasn't exactly the hottest dude in the place), and focus on this: I got hit on. By a stranger. At a bar packed with skinnies and cleavage-bearers and high heels. And not only did he come by once and attempt to talk me out of waiting in line to get in (apparently said bar was hosting a casting call for Big Brother, so they were at maximum capacity and only letting people in when other people left) once, but he came back for a second run. I had to point to my ring and tell him, "I'm flattered, but I'm also married." which...let's be honest married girls...was just about the biggest boost a married mom of two still carrying the baby weight could get.

And it reminded me: I am not the sum of the numbers on that scale. I'm a whole lot of other things, most of them pretty fucking fantastic, and though my road may be long, there's still a lot to enjoy along the way.

My Girl.

* Tells me that when she grows up, she wants to have four babies: Rainbow Chocolate Girl, Shoopy, Famataka, and Tamataka. And they will grow in her belly and she will get BIG boobs.

* Says, "Why?" an estimated 84.7 times per hour.

* Has a pink monster name B-O-A Calforn, who has 4 green arms, purple and pink hair, and 2 feet. She's a nice monster, which is good because there's a rule that only 1 monster can live in each house, and if we hadn't gotten Calforn, we could have ended up with a mean red monster. She lives in a neon pink bowl with a silver lid.



* Likes to sleep next to her Mommy and Daddy.

* Gives 'sugar kisses'.

* Doesn't cooperate with pictures unless properly bribed.









* Hates brushing her teeth. We have to trade off: as long as she's brushing her teeth, I keep reading bedtime books. She stops brushing, I stop reading. For now, it works.

* Used the Silly Putty the Easter Bunny brought her to give us both 'Silly Putticures' today.





* Makes the sun shine brighter in our lives and reminds us there is always time for a cuddle.

First He Ate Them, Then He Sprouted Them.

I don't talk about my husband much here, mostly because I feel like he is owed his privacy. But there are a few reasons I am breaking the silence today and telling this story about him, and they all boil down to one general theme: He Is Awesome.

So last night I got home from work to find two kids sitting in the grass of our front lawn, watching their Daddy try to fly a kite (Awesome Moment #1). Luca was anxiously reminding him not to run into the street because the cars! will hit you! and then you won't be able to stand! or walk!. Ahhh, my little President of the Safety Committee. Rohan was pulling grass blades out, shoving them by fistfuls into his mouth, then letting them fall out as they stuck to his chin, his sweet baby drool acting as glue.

We came inside and quickly decided to run to the bank to deposit his paycheck and maybe grab a bite to eat. On our way to the bank, we passed a Native New Yorker which was holding a wing eating contest. If you know my husband, you know it wasn't even a question whether or not we would go in and have him enter.

Two hours later, he was standing at the front of the room in a line of men all ready to shove some wings down their gullets. In most situations in life, my husband is the biggest guy in the room. At 6'5" and 270-ish pounds, it's not uncommon to be able to spot his head above the crowd but this time he was neither the tallest nor the toughest looking guy in the bar.

Did I say bar? Yeah, I did. And did I also mention we had the kids with us since this was an impromptu wing-devouring excursion? And did I then mention that a random middle-aged-but-wearing-a-Hurley-shirt-in-an-attempt-(failed)-to-look-youthful woman walked past us at one point and muttered "Kids in a bar!" under her breath but not under enough so as to go undetected by yours truly? And did I then tell you about how I straightened my Mother of the Year sash then went out to get my Bjorn out of the car so I could strap Rohan to my chest? Yeah...that happened.

But I digress. So there he is, standing at the table with a platter holding 3 pounds of wings in front of him. The rules here are simple: eat the wings. When you need another pound, they bring you one. You can dip them...or not. You can drink water...or not. You can even have a free beer to wash them down...or not. But you have 11 minutes to stuff those suckers down and eat as much weight as possible, without puking or spitting them out for at least 10 minutes after your round ends. I found a spot up front where the cougars could fuss over Rohan's flirty smiles and a good looking guy and his good looking wife could fawn over Luca, and we prepared to cheer. And cheer we did, with Luca getting her fair share of "Awww!"s and "OHMYGOSHHOWCUTE!"s as she yelled out, "GO DADA!" over the hum of a Slayer song and drunken wing eaters. And while we cheered he dipped his wings in ranch (it should be noted he was the only one dipping) and ripped the meat off the bone and his pile of 'done' wings grew bigger and bigger and he requested another pound and the guy to his far left almost choked in shock.

And when all was said and done, he ate 73 wings (Awesome Moment #2). And when they were reading off the results from 16th place up and they got down to him and one other guy, and announced he had won, we cheered and Luca tore up to the front of the room and grabbed his leg, and he lifted her up and kissed her (Awesome Moment #3). And hot damn if I didn't feel proud of him in that moment...for eating an obscene 2+ pounds of questionable chicken doused in hot sauce in 11 short minutes.

After getting his prize (2 really amazing tickets to the Diamondbacks opening game and a trophy of sorts), the emcee threw another challenge his way.

"Darrick," he said."You are the ONLY contestant to use time and fill yourself up more by dipping your wings in ranch and you STILL won. If you chug that tray of ranch dressings (probably six 1 oz servings) you can have a pitcher of beer on me!"

And he looked at me, and at Rohan in my arms, rubbing his eyes with little balled fists and trying his hardest to be a trooper. And he looked down at Luca, clinging with sleepy eyes to his arm. And he said, "Nah, man...I need to go home and tuck in my babies(Awesome Moment #4)."

I caught the eye of Madam Hurley on my way out and smiled. Cuz, yeah...I had kids in a bar. But I'm not too worried about what they were exposed to that night because I know that what they will remember is their Daddy who won the prize then took them home to kiss Rohan to sleep and recite nursery rhymes to Luca from memory.

Awesome Moment #5.