Love The Skin You're In

A few years ago my friend lost her husband to Melanoma.  Driving home from his funeral, I remember looking down at my hands, my fair skin, and thinking, "Maybe I should get checked out."  At that moment, I made a decision that I was going to take better care of myself, and I scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist shortly afterward.

I've been going annually to the dermatologist for 3 years now.  I have a couple of spots that I'm supposed to keep an eye on, and I had a suspicious mole removed from the bottom of my foot about 2 years ago.  (It ended up being nothing).

But this year's dermatologist visit had a "surprise" for me.  Days before my appointment, I scratched a mole and it started to bleed.  And I knew.  I knew right then that I had a problem.

And I was right.  My doctor inspected the mole closely with her tiny magnifying glass and stated that she needed to do an "immediate extraction" instead of scheduling the usual follow up visit.  She assured me that it was "probably" nothing, but I knew better.  A few days later I got the call, "Hi Susannah, this is Jen from... the mole we removed was cancerous and we need to do a follow up extraction as soon as possible.  What you have is basal cell carcinoma and the recovery rate is 99%.  We caught it very early, so please don't panic."

Of course, I immediately started to cry.  I thanked God that it wasn't Melanoma and that I made a choice a few years ago to keep an eye on myself.  Basal cell carcinoma is typically not life threatening but if left untreated can cause serious problems.  And if it hadn't been for my friend, I'm not sure I would have ever even scheduled that first appointment.

Now I wish I could go back in time.  I wish I hadn't tanned at Lori Jo's or been sun burned over and over again at Cedar Point.  I wish I had put on sunscreen on the boat in Lake Cumberland.

But what I wish the most is that I had been comfortable in my own skin.  My fair skin that burns in May when the sun first comes out.  My fair skin that's covered in freckles.  Up until a few years ago, I have always been self conscious.  I hate the whiteness of my legs when I wear shorts.  I hate the way my face freckles instead of tans.  I used to think, "Well, Nicole Kidman has fair skin and people still think she's beautiful."  Because honestly, I never felt beautiful in my own skin.  I have always, for as long as I can remember, wanted to be tan.

And now, here I am, 29 years old (cough, cough, 32, cough cough) and paying the price of a lifetime of self consciousness.

And these stitches really hurt today and they are super itchy.  I'd like to think that I'm not a wimp, but I am.  Even though I've had 3 c-sections and a blood clot removal, I'm still a wimp.  I don't like physical pain.  This little procedure hurts and because of its location on my ribcage, I couldn't even pick up my baby last night.  I'm enduring this pain now because I wanted to be tan.

I'm sharing this not because I want anyone to feel sorry for me or because I'm throwing myself a pity party.  We never know how our story is going to impact the lives of others.  We never know who's watching, who is looking to us to be an example.  It could be a neighbor, a friend or even a stranger.  Be a better you and maybe you can change a life.  Oh, and love the skin you're in :)


Here are a couple of pictures of the procedure.

That tiny dot in the middle is the scab from the first removal.  See my pale skin?

The site after the anesthetic.

Removal.

Stitches.  Ouch.  They itch like crazy today!

The lab specimen.

(Thank you NK for being my friend.  Sending you a hug.)

If My Three Year Old Was A Dinosaur

If my 3 year was a dinosaur, surely he would be a velociraptor.  Short, sneaky, can sense when prey is near.

Imagine if you would, a pack of wild 3 year olds.  They would last way longer on their own than our suburban adult friends.  Because 3 year olds, well they just don't a give shit, and they especially don't give two shits.  

1)  Like a velociraptor, a 3 yr old packs a lot of punch in its 35 lb frame.  They have no problem attacking you should you turn off Paw Patrol, deny them cheese crackers or dare put their shoes on the right feet.  

2)  They are sneaky as shit.  Velociraptors are quick and light on their feet.  Do you ever actually hear a 3 year old get out of their bed and walk downstairs?  No, you don't know they're there until out of no where you feel warm breathing on your neck.  Which is terrifying, by the way.

3)  They can sense their prey is near.  Naked and about to get in the shower?  They show up.  They know when you're most vulnerable.  When you first wake up and you haven't had coffee or an energy drink and this happens:

"Mommy!  Can I have cookies for breakfast?"

You, still only one eye open:

"Sure, babe!  Hold on let me also get you some chocolate milk and a popsicle."

... 10 minutes later...

"THAT LITTLE SHIT!"

So, what have we learned?  A pack of wild 3 year olds essentially can fight off an enemy and sneak through a forest undetected as they stalk their prey.  As adults, we'd be too busy fighting over which way was North and we'd try to make sense of the situation.   And then we'd die because most of us don't even have basic survival skills.  Velociraptors don't give a shit which way is North.   And 3 year olds don't either and that is why our species has survived as long as it has.  Next time you see a 3 year old, thank it!

My 3 yr old wants milk!!!!

I think that if 3 yr olds were allowed to swear and they knew what swear words meant, I think that the only thing they would ever say would be a big "F* YOU". Because let's be honest, they spend all of their awake time trying to steal your soul.  Unless its bedtime, then they just really, REALLY need a drink.  

The Kraken went full on Kraken mode a few nights ago.  Like, it was so bad that even Davey Jones was like "Oh hhheeeelll no!"

So the baby has a double ear infection (again).  I have what seems like a negative amount of time to get My Squad home and fed and out the door again to head to the doctor's office.   The Kraken, sensing my weakness, is so, so thirsty because it's probably been 20 minutes since he had a drink.

"Mom, can I have some milk?"

"Can I have some milk?"

"MOM"

"Mom, I REALLY WANT MILK!!!" He screams as loudly as he can.

After shooting laser beams from my eye balls into his skull, I pour him some milk.

"THIS ISNT MILK!  I WANT MILK!!!!"

I reply as calmly as possible, "Dearest sweet child, this is indeed, milk."  (Because that's what I say when a sea beast is trying to take me out at the knees.) 

We're talking full on crocodile tears, stomping his feet, SCREAMING those ear piercing screams that children seem to master as a skill at such an early age.

"NO ITS NOT!  No it's not!  It's NOT milk!  I want milk, this isn't milk!!....... 

(pause for dramatic affect)

ooohhh look, mom!  A bubble!"  And walks away, drinking his "not milk".  

Well that's just f*ing super.

WHO ACTS LIKE THAT?! Mentally unstable asshats, that's who.  And 3 year olds who basically walk around all day saying F*U.

Where's the wine?

Eating Moses

"MOM!  The Moses that you put in my lunch was delicious!"

...is a weird statement because it was Monday and I usually don't start sneaking humans into my babes lunch until Friday, when we're running low on groceries, obvs.  (Soylent Green, anyone?)

"What are you talking about, T?"

"The Moses that you put in my lunch.  I didn't know what it was, but then I saw the carrots and I figured it out."

Aaaah, I see.  Moses = hummus.

Kids (humans, not baby goats) never know what the hell they're talking about or what they want.  Or maybe baby goats don't either, I don't know.  But the point is, their brains aren't fully developed so they are complete idiots and they say and ask for ridiculous things.

So Ronan, I don't know how he manages to sustain the energy it takes to transform into The Kraken.  I don't think he's eaten dinner in at least a week.  He doesn't like anything because apparently he'd rather eat his own boogers than anything I could possibly make.  Hell, he even tried to eat homemade playdough but won't eat a sloppy joe.

I made tacos this past weekend and it had all the goods: sautéed onions with ground turkey, black beans, corn, lettuce, sour cream, cheese.  I legit made an effort to make bombass tacos.  Titan eats eat.  I eat it.  Even the baby eats tacos.  Ronan?  Nope. Won't eat them.  Why?  Because he wants me to put freakin' strawberries in his taco.  Not doing it.  Not a chance.  I made bombass tacos and if you don't want to eat it the way I made it, then forget you.  So he didn't eat tacos OR tacos with strawberries.

I know we often wonder to ourselves, "Why do I even bother?"  We try.  We try so hard and at the end of the day our babes don't even care one bit.  They somehow figure out how to survive on CheezIts and boogers.  Whatever.  Got one more day in the bag.

And the wines gone.  Why is the wine gone? 

The Booger Wall

Today the grossness got to me.  And I have a pretty high tolerance for what REALLY grosses me out.  Blood doesn't bother me.  Poop?  Please, that's child play.  Dog puke?  What am I, an amateur?  

Today what set me off was The Kraken's booger wall.  Yeah, you read that right.  A wall full of boogers.  There is a section of wall, about 2x2, where he likes to carefully place his boogers before bedtime.  It's his canvas, sometimes there's even multiple colors.  Perhaps once he is done devouring souls he will become an artist.  Today I scrubbed the wall clean (again) and then this happened:

Me: "I scrubbed all the boogers off of your wall again.  You're welcome.  Please stop doing that, it's really gross."

The Kraken looked at me and didn't say a word.  He then put a finger in each nostril, dug the best he could, and wiped said fingers on the freshly cleaned booger wall.

Then he smiled, looked at me with those big, brown eyes and said, "Mommy, will you hold my hand while we snuggle?"

Super.  Awesome.  No wonder my kids always seem to have a cold.  For real though, they don't really ever throw up or worse, have it coming out of the other end.  No.  My boys?  They are more so in the "Infectious Disease" category.  All of them had hand, foot, mouth multiple times (even though it's supposedly like the chicken pox and you can only get it ONCE), one of them had ringworm on his scalp, and pink eye, oh Lord the pink eye.  Once when The Kraken was just learning to speak, he ran around saying "My eye got the pink!" (because he had pink eye, duh) over and over again.  I can spot pink eye like a boss.  So they don't puke, but basically I have to contact the CDC (Center for Disease Control) every time one of them gets sick.  And do you want to know why they get sick?

It's because of the booger wall.  It's because they pick their little noses and then want to hold my hand.  Because they are little f*ing angels, that's why.

Now I need wine.

Math Prodigy

I am a 29 year old math prodigy.  Yes, you read that right!  MATH PRODIGY.  Tonight I successfully completed my very first common core math homework assignment.  (I MEAN MY 6 YEAR OLD'S first common core assignment). 

Just an average night of fitting in dinner, homework and bath time for the baby in the first 45 minutes of being home.  You all know how that is, right?  Have to get the baby fed and bathed before bedtime breakdown so... tonight Titan and I had to work on his homework on the bathroom floor while Atlas drank pee water.

The picture below?  Those toothbrushes you see on the floor are not just there because little boys are gross animals, they are part of a thorough explaination of common core math.

At first, Titan showed me a toothpaste cap and said, "Ok mom, pretend this is a group of 10 and then put it next to this cup".  And then I stared at him because I had NO idea what he was talking about.

"Ok, let me try again, mom.  You obviously don't understand what I'm talking about". (Just got politely schooled by a 6 yr old, by the way).  He then proceeded to grab, bend and place toothpaste tubes and toothbrushes and made the number "21", which you can see if you tilt your head to the side.  I still didn't know what the cup and other little tube of toothpaste had to do with it, but I rolled with it.  I didn't want to seem any stupider than I already appeared to be.

"So the 2.  Do you see the 2? That's in the group of tens place.  MOM!  Are you paying attention?".  (Yes, yes, I am making sure the baby, you know, doesn't DROWN from drinking pee water.  PLEASE continue to show me how putting your toothbrushes on the floor are necessary to complete your math home work.)

"Mom, focus.  And the 1?  That's in the ones place".

"So if there was a number in front of the 2, would that be the hundreds place?"

"Yes!  Good job, mom!".  Awesome!  He no longer thinks I'm an idiot!  Yeah! Let's put the number 6 in the ten spot 8 times.  Totally got this! 

However, I was a little unsure if I actually understood the assignment, so I text a picture of the completed homework sheet to my neighbor, who is a super supportive educator, and sent me this awesome picture!

See folks!  I'm not just a pretty face, after all!  I can keep a baby alive in the bathtub AND do common core math at the SAME TIME.  And that right there?  Uummm.  Parenting?  NAILED IT.

Adulting So Hard

I heard the toilet seat crash.  I heard the baby laugh.  I ran to the bathroom but I was too late.  The sippy cup was in the unflushed toilet. 

"And why do we flush the toilet AND close the bathroom door?"

...."So Atlas doesn't throw his cup in my pee?"  

"Exactly".

Today I got pummeled in the head with a granola bar.  Honestly, Titan threw it so hard I'm quite surprised that I don't have a concussion.

Last week I was working with some male college students, helping them with their housing paperwork.  One of them handed me a check and while looking at his future roommate, he laughed and said, "I adulted so hard today".

Of course I responded, "Oh yeah, adulting is the worst.  I've had to adult for like, 11 years".  And they just kinda looked at me like I was a crazy, old lady.  Which I gusss I am?  I don't know.  

Some crazy old lady in patterned yoga pants, just trying not to adult for one day. Trying to make it through the weekend without getting pink eye from my 3 yr old and without any of us getting a serious injury.  Who goes to Costco and Target just to pass the time.  (And by the way, if I were a SAHM, I'd be so broke.  I could find a million reasons why I need to run to Target and we all know you can't leave  the store without spending at least $100.00.)

On Friday night I cleaned the 1st floor of the house for almost 2 hours, just so the boys would have a fresh pallet to cover with food and dinosaurs in the morning.  Because thats what parents do for their children.  They adult so hard.

And after being nearly knocked out by a granola bar, I adulted by folding AND putting away the laundry.  And I did a lot of sanitizing.  A LOT OF SANITIZING.

Anyone else ever have to fish a sippy cup out of toilet full pee?  That, my friends, is hardcore legit adulting right there.

Cheers!

Souls: It's What's For Dinner

My 3 yr old, whom I affectionately call The Kraken, he does not eat food.  He eats souls.

List of food my 3 yr old wants for dinner:

No, there isn't a typo.  The list of food he likes consists of nothing.  Zero.  He doesn't want anything for dinner because he doesn't like chicken, tacos, broccoli, noodles, chili, BBQ, ham and cheese subs, chicken nuggets, pizza, salad or a pasta dish.  

He'd like some "macaroni and stinky cheese" for snack though.  So we have that going for us.

Except for the fact that when I made macaroni and cheese for lunch this past weekend, he didn't like it.  Which is awesome since I have 8 more boxes of it because I shop at Costco with my 3 kids in my minivan.  

I was telling a friend that this is how dinner would play out tonight:  Titan and I will eat all of our food.  Ronan will cry.  Atlas will throw most of it on the floor.  Which is exactly what happened.  But what really threw me for a loop is when The Kraken asked if he could lick Atlas's dinner off of the floor.  I said no.  But maybe from now on I'll just let him sit under the kitchen table and I'll throw food into his mouth when he comes up for air.

The end.

#wheresthewine?

Gray, that's okay.

I left the house and the sky was gray.  I looked up and it seemed like the sun couldn't even catch a break, trying to get through the gloomy clouds.  The wind was blowing my hair into my eyes, I felt so numb already that it didn't even bother me.  No gloves, no hat, coat barely zipped up.  If I were a child, I would have been scolded.  

Broken.  It is amazing how someone elses words can so easily break you.  Break your everything, your heart.  And then you're there, sort of.  Nothing left but a shell.  

And who's heart is most important?  Yours?  Your partners?  Your childrens?  A strangers? 

All of these decisions that we make on a daily basis that impact everyone around us.  Are we really only responsible for our own attitudes and actions?  

When you upset a 3 year old they behave  what we preceive to be as "irrational" but really, are they that far off?  I mean, when I can't have a cookie but I really want a cookie, sometimes I do feel like stomping my feet and yelling.  They have the purest and most honest reactions to life, way more than any of the rest of us.  

Instead we adults say things like, "No, I'm fine.  Really, it's not that big of a deal"  or "Tomorrow will be better" or "Thanks for thinking of me, but I have it under control".  In reality?  We're all just over here trying to push our demons under the rug before opening the front door.  

So I think we're all just a bunch of secret keepers.  Big, dark scary secrets.  We should be more like 3 year olds and just put it all out there in all of its ugliness.  

When the sky is gray, let it be gray?  Let the day be shitty.  Let yourself be vulnerable.  Let the world know that today is not okay, and THAT is okay. 

The Poop Bandit

The Poop Bandit

For over a year, the Poop Bandit had been making an appearance in our office bathroom.  Almost every Monday morning and occasionally during the work week "the office girls" would make our way to the back bathroom only to find a smidge of poop on the back end of the toilet seat.  But let me paint this picture for you; we are not talking about some fancy bathroom here. The bathroom that we were using was out dated with yellow and white tiles on the floor, some missing around the toilet. The grout was beyond cleaning, even though the owner had once instructed one of the employees to clean it on his hands and knees with a toothbrush. The sink was old and tiny with crusty faucet handles and the hot water dripped if not turned to the left just so. The sink also doubled as a place where we washed our lunch dishes, seeing as that no other options were available. It also had a bathtub which I longed to bathe in. Just kidding. That shit was nasty.

When the Poop Bandit first started coming around, it was kind of funny.  We’d say to each other “The Poop Bandit struck again!”, or “I took one for the team last time, it’s your turn to clean it!’.  But eventually, the Poop Bandit became a VERY regular occurrence to the point where we had had enough!  

The straw that broke the camel's back was that upon arrival one Monday morning, we discovered that the Bandit had pooped on the bathroom floor and had unknowingly and tracked it through the office with the bottom of his right boot.  Each print was less noticeable than the one before but in total covered about six feet in length. THAT'S IT! We're on strike! Picket signs! We will not work in this environment! Action was taken by the powers that be, and the Bandit was instructed to not, under any circumstances, use the office bathroom! The bathroom was sanitary once again and we were all feeling a little less fearful of sitting on the toilet.

...But then one day the mother of all shit-tastic poops happened.  And, of course, it was on a Monday morning. Having a long drive into work after having been struck in traffic, I hurried to the bathroom and sat down to pee.  But I smelled poop.  Even though the Bandit had been MIA for a while, it was still a necessity to always check the toilet before sitting down, so I knew there wasn’t poop on the seat because I had already done a thorough investigation.  Was I pooping?  No, I wasn’t pooping.  I started to glance around, unsure of what I would find and not really wanting to find anything at all.  And there it was.  Poop stuck in the grout and on the tiles of the floor.  Poop covered paper towels in the trash can.  Poop crumbles in the sink. OH DEAR LORD I AM GOING TO GET ECOLI.  *Breathe, just breathe*, don't throw up. Open the bathroom door- poop on the carpet. I still to this day can’t believe that I didn’t see it or smell it on my way to the bathroom.  I immediately called our cleaning company and explained the situation. It was not an easy phone call to make. They came as soon as possible and after sterilizing EVERYTHING, we thanked them for their service and they left.

The next day we put a lock put on that bathroom door.  The Bandit had made us stronger as a threesome and we were united. Never again would we endure such a harsh work environment. The Bandit is now nothing by a horrifying memory of what once was and the bathroom has since been remodeled to current office standards.

#neverforget

I have a dream!

I started this blog in 2012 not having really any idea where I was going with it.  I wrote a few funny stories and then quit.  I then I repeated that pattern several times.  I just kept quitting, over and over again.  I was afraid of what people might think.  I was afraid that I wouldn't be funny enough and already knew that I wasn't the best with grammar.  Plus I swear more than I should, but according to recent studies found on the all mighty Internet (where everything is TRUE!) swearing is actually a sign of intelligence.  So basically I'm an f*ing genius.

I'm about to throw something out into the universe that only a few close friends know.  I started writing again so that when I submit my pilot for the TV show that I'm writing, I'll at least be a little well known in social media (all 4 blog followers!  Yay!) and maybe, just maybe that will help "get me out there".  

Yes!  I am writing a TV pilot about my experience working in student housing at U of M!  I need a TON (seriously, a shit ton!) of dialog and loads of character development.  I have an idea of how I want to roll with it, I just have to DO IT.  So there it is.  That's my dream!

Do you know how hard it is to admit that you have a dream?  It's even harder to tell the ones that you love.  Fear of failure is almost just as bad as fear of success.  And what if my friends laugh at me?  What if they think I can't do it?  What if I say I'm going to do it and then I quit and eveyone thinks I'm a loser?  

I said to one of my best girlfriends, "I know it's silly, but I really want to do it and I think it will be good.  I know it's just a silly dream."  And her response was, "I don't think it's silly!  There'd be no TV shows or ANYTHING if no one ever had a dream!"  She'll never know how encouraging that was to hear!  Thanks, KM, I love you!  

I'm trying to find my niche.  I'm working on my blog and working on the script at the same time.  I might bust out some character development blogs, some sad shit, some funny stuff about the kids.  Just bear with me until I can figure this all out, ok?

And now you know!

Cheers!

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode? 

Langston Hughes

Crappy Mom

Because sometimes I feel like a crappy mom.  And when emotion is written all over my face, even my Titan can feel it and he says, "Mom, why I don't make dinner tonight?  I can get the foot stool out and reach the bowls.  Ronan, what kind of cereal do you want?  I might need a little help with the full milk container, but I can take care of everything else".

And then I feel like an awesome mom because I have the sweetest boys.  They love their momma, even when I am not perfect.

How much do we have to sacrifice of ourselves in order to let our children live and be happy?  I thought I was a person before I had children, so why does having children have to be the factor that defines me?  A friend, a sister, a student, a dreamer?  Funny, ambitious, smart and full of life?  Being a mother is a blessing even when the days are long and the nights are longer.  Full of worry about what is best for them and sacrificing yourself because what you want...well, what you want doesn't really matter anymore.  

Wipe the chewed up cracker off of your pants, take the trash out one more time, be a short order cook, put yourself in your back pocket and hope to God you can crawl out of it someday.