She is more precious than rubies. Nothing you desire compares with her.*

I figured it would be a lot like the last 364 days.  Better yet, I hoped it would be like the last 364 days.  I hoped  3.15 would not impact me any differently than every other day since my mother died.  I couldn’t imagine missing her any more than the day before, or the one before that.  For example, my sister sent me a text the night before 3.15 and asked if I was thinking about mom.  I am still curious what answer she was expecting.  Sis, if you are reading, here is your answer.  What the @#!^& else would I be doing?  I think about her every day for god’s sake!

Everyone handles these situations differently.  I am not the type to get down in the well, or better yet, get a bottle of wine and ball up in the fetal position in a dark corner.  I got up and went to work like I do every day, like I attempted to do 3.15 last year.

I can remember every detail of that day.  I wore a sea foam green mock turtle neck with tan pants.  I can remember thinking, as I walked to the car that morning, I should have worn heels with those pants because they are just long enough to drag the ground a bit with the ballet flats I chose.  However, I was in a hurry to get the boys to their grandma’s and did not have time to change.

They boys go to their grandma’s every Monday.  They play with their cousins and at the end of the day the whole family comes together for a meal.  This has been a tradition for about five years now and even after the divorce I made sure the boys get to maintain this tradition, so they are with their dad on Monday nights.

I took the boys inside, gave hugs and kisses to them and headed back to my car.  One missed call.  From my step-dad.  No message.  It was 7:40 AM CT.  I knew I needed to remember the time.  I called him back knowing exactly what I was going to hear.  After all, we had all been waiting for this day.  Mom had been in so much pain since they found her brain tumor in January that we all prayed she would find peace.  My mom, being the tenacious woman I love, had things to do and say before she was ready to take her eternal sleep though.  On 3.15.10 she had done all she needed to do and said all she needed to say.  After taking her morning meds and talking with my step dad briefly, she closed her eyes for the last time.  My step-dad described to me, the details of the morning.  We cried together for a moment and I got busy.  First I called my sister, then my dad, then a close friend.

I went back inside the home of my former in-laws and before I could get the words out of my mouth, my former mother-in-law spoke for me.  Having lost a parent herself and knowing the situation, she could apparently read my face.  I later learned the boys were a little confused and in the afternoon had to clarify with their grandma that it was in fact their Nana that went to live with Jesus, and not mommy.

I think about my mother every day.  Although I don’t get to see her or speak to her daily like I would prefer, she has eternal life.  She is with me everywhere I go and softly encourages and motivates in all I do.  I can still see her face and hear her voice as if I saw her yesterday.  On 3.15.10, it felt like I had just seen her the day before.  On 3.15.11 it felt like I just got the phone call from my step-dad.

Proverbs 3:15

Let's Be Honest Here

I registered for our local Making Strides against Breast Cancer walk months ago. Maybe it was weeks. Either way, I had plenty of time to raise awareness and funds. I also had time to talk to my boys about Breast Cancer, and why we walk. G-Man asked big boy questions like “what is fund raising” and “what is charity”. He also asked about Cancer and how the doctors help those that are sick. The Babe asked the exact question I expected from him; “what are breasts”. You can imagine how delighted both boys were to hear me say “boobs”. They ran around saying “breasts, breasts, breasts”. Typical boys.

The three of us talked about the walk for days before it was scheduled. The morning of, the boys gathered their toys and snacks for their “walk” in the wagon while we all donned our pink. What I did not have time for during my preparation, was to reflect. I participate in stuff like this all the time so I did not think this time was any different. However, I never stopped to think about how it would feel when the volunteer handed me a sticker that said, “I walk for ______________”, let alone when I actually filled it in. I did not think about the questions the boys would ask about Mom on the drive to the walk. I was not prepared for my oldest son to look at me as I am filling out papers and stickers and say to me “I walk for you Mommy”. Can he possibly understand what he is saying?

The walk was only a 5k so they boys took turns in the wagon while the adults took turns pulling it. When I was not making sure the boys were warm enough, or not too hot, I thought. I thought about my mom, and her mom. I thought about all of the people at the event that donated time and money. I thought about how much I wished I could have spent that morning with my mom.

These events tend to bring out the community in some that otherwise know nothing of the concept. I acknowledge many participate in these events because they are good hearted. Some do it for recognition. Everyone has his or her own agenda. With that in mind, many people I spoke with that day; whether friends, volunteers, or otherwise, thanked me for walking. It was fine the first few times I heard it but after a while, it bothered me. I did not do it for them. I did not do it for recognition. Frankly, I did not do it for my mom. There are moments I feel my mom more closely than other days. That day was one of them. I will do whatever I can to feel her presence.

So truth be told, I walked for myself.

What Genitals and Religion Have in Common

Stick with me here folks.  I will hopefully make sense soon enough.

My parents taught me a lot of things.  Most of you have heard similar statements from your parents including, but not limited to:

• Don't point.


• Don't talk with your mouth full.


• Cloth shoes are for evening wear.


• The olive in a martini DOES count as a veggie serving.


• If you don't have something nice to say, keep your mouth shut.


• You get what you give.

Although my parents divorced when I was eight years old, they agreed on one thing.  Don't force others to see things your way.  Your way is not the only way.  This did backfire on them as I got older, when I could use the argument against them.  At that point, their work was done.  They had taught me to think for myself and allow others to do the same thing.

You might be asking yourself at this point, "Hey Red, what does this have to do with my God or my junk?".  Patience is a virtue my one lonely reader.  I am getting there.

As my mother's health declined over the last couple of years, I noticed her relationship with her God got stronger than ever.  My mother was a big believer in the power of prayer and believed her God answered every prayer.  Some will say those  fighting terminal illnesses tend to gravitate towards religion.  They need something, anything, in which they can believe.  I, on the other hand believe my mother already had a strong faith.  It was in this time of need that she was able to find solace in her faith.  She never ran around waving a self righteous flag.  She didn't have to, her God knew her heart.

I grew up near the church.  I don't mean it was down the street.  I mean that I asked Jesus to be my Lord and Savior a long time ago. I was baptized and forgiven for my sins.  We did not attend church every Sunday and Wednesday though.  I did not wear my faith on my shoulder.  My faith is something I consider to be very personal and private.  It is mine.  The other reason for my privacy with my faith is, frankly I did not want to be grouped with some of the zealots I have met on the road to redemption.  Most so-called Christians I have met in all my 34 years are the most judgmental and unforgiving souls I have ever met.  I found it ironic that the religion founded on forgiveness seems to be the least.  These people know a different God than I do.

My step-dad was a deacon in his church for years.  I listen to his stories about his time serving God in this capacity and I hear the cynicism in his voice.  He too, had a similar viewpoint as I do.  Too bad.  The church lost another good follower. His faith is still strong.  He and my mom walked together and shared their faith.  Funny thing though, I never saw him waving a flag either.

My father is a non-believer.  He was raised in a large Catholic  family and has his reasons for his viewpoint.  I don't try to convince him of my way and he gives me the same respect.  He does not mock the cross I wear around my neck and I do not tell him he is going to hell.  On the contrary, one day when our time comes, he will save me a seat in heaven and be the first to pass me a Schlafly.

I took the boys to church last Sunday.  No, I don't go every Sunday and that does not make me less of a Christian than those that do.  Hell, going to church makes you as much of a Christina as hanging out in the garage makes you a car. While are church, the boys enjoyed children's church while I listened to a sermon that could not have been timed more appropriatly.  Why does it turn out that when I finally show up, I hear exactly what I need to hear?  Do I make the sermon work for me or is God doin his job?  I will go with the latter...might make me go again.  I will continue to take the boys to church on occasion and educate them on all religions, not just Christianity.  Information is power and my boys will make their own diecisions.

Oh, and I will let them wear jeans when we go.  I am such a heathen.

You might still be wondering about your junk. Your religion is like your genitalia.  Don't shove either down anyone's throats please.  The world will be a much better place.

The Echo Effect

What causes an echo exactly?
The persistence of sound after the source has stopped.

When can you hear an echo best?
When it is quiet and other sounds are absorbed.

God my mom could nag me.  Do this, do that. Did you do your homework?  Did you check the oil in your car?  That skirt is too short.  Be nice to your sister.  She could be unrelenting with her constant badgering.  In college it was more of the same but the subjects changed a little.  Are you sure about that boy? You got another speeding ticket?  Why did you drop that class?

My mother was also my most reliable cheerleader.  Mom attended every choir concert, every orchestra concert and every dance recital.  During my softball phase that quickly faded, she was at every game.  She was PTA president, read books to my kindergarten class, made my Halloween costumes by hand and encouraged me when I struggled with algebra.  As an adult she supported my decisions, even when she knew they would turn out badly.  When I called to cry on her shoulder she was there with words of encouragement and never an "I told you so".  She answered the phone EVERY time I called, no matter where she was or what she was doing.  She could have been in a meeting with Microsoft executives (not uncommon in her line of work) and she would answer anyway.  I would hear her say,"one second, it's my daughter".  I would tell her to stop doing that and her response would be that the meeting can wait.

When my mother and I would argue about something we would talk loudly and quickly.  It was like each of us wanted to make sure we were heard.  Half the time though I don't think either of us really heard the other person or their perspective.  I doubt either of us really felt like we were being heard.

The other night, while I was putting the boys to bed, Beau asked me if Nana Linda could still talk.  I tried to explain to my sweet boy that Nana does not talk to us like we talk to each other.  I tried to describe how he can listen for Nana Linda to talk to him.  Then he put one hand on my arm and the other on my mouth to shush me and whispered "listen, can you hear her now?".  I can hear her.  Sometimes her voice is faint like she is whispering something in my ear.  I wonder if those are the most important things she wants me to know.  Those messages that are hard to hear, literally and figuratively.  They require that I stop what I am doing and pay close attention.  Other times I hear her offering words of encouragement at just the right time.  Most often though, I hear her at night, when the boys are in bed and the house is quiet.  Her voice is clear as day.  She is nagging, she is encouraging and she is loving.  She is just as persistent now as she was in life.

Wish You Were Here

Four days after my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor, I got a box in the mail from her.  You read that correctly.  No need to reread that sentence.  I had known the box would be coming but would never have guessed I would get it after she died.  Frankly I wasn't really thinking about it at this point in the process either.  The last time I visited Mom she had a list of things to do before she would allow herself to take her last breath.  One of the most important tasks to her was to purchase three necklaces, each with a silver cross.  One for me, my sister and my step-sister.

I opened the box and noticed Mom and Neal had sent my step-sister's necklace with mine.  A completely sensible thing to do since we live mere minutes from one another.  I felt like I should wait to open the box with Laura but could not contain my emotion and opened it by myself in my kitchen.  I was overcome by the simple beauty of the cross and what it represented to my mom and found myself crying as I drove West to Laura's house.  I apologized to Laura for my lack of patience as I held my hand over my necklace as she opened her box.

As I mentioned before, I was aware the box would be coming.  What I was not prepared for was the note that accompanied the box.  There were two notes actually.  One note to "the girls" from my mom and another to the doctors and nurses that cared for her.  I was able to contain myself at my place and waited to read them with Laura.  We sat together, now in her kitchen, and read the message she sent to us and the message of gratitude to the caregivers that gave us two more years with her.

For my country music fan friends, this story might remind you of a song by Mark Wills called Wish You Were Here:

Wish you were here, wish you could see this place
Wish you were near, I wish I could touch your face
The weather's nice, it's paradise
It's summertime all year and there's some folks we know
They say, "Hello, I miss you so, wish you were here"

My mom may not be here any longer in the physical form, but I know she is still here.  The cross I wear around my neck reminds me of her but even without it she is with me.  Everywhere.

Making Her List & Checking It Twice

I am a list maker. When I was younger, I considered my lists some sort of indication of how productive I was. It was the best feeling ever when I could toss out the list when everything was done. As I have aged though, I have realized I accomplish something important each time I cross off a task on the list. My list is never ending and I am never really able to toss the list all together. I always find something new to add.

Not all of us are list makers or planners. Some people are comfortable just taking things as they come. For control freaks like me, this would never do. If I could, I would always know what to expect. I would walk into a meeting at work with an agenda in hand and the meeting would follow it to the letter. Unfortunately, this never happens.

I am like my mother in many ways. Most of which I did not realize, or admit, until recently. My mother is a planner. A control freak I suppose. At the very least, mom is a list maker. Even now, in her weakest state, mom is making a list and checking it twice.

While visiting DC last weekend, Mom and I were talking and the conversation took a turn. I had prepared myself for the conversation but was still caught off guard. She began her requests with the question “what will you tell my grandsons about me?” She continued to tell me she did not want them to think she gave up. As I began to sob in her arms, I told her I was about to tell her the hardest thing I will ever tell anyone. I gave her permission to go to sleep and not wake up. I gave her permission to find peace and not be in pain any longer. I reminded her that, if in fact, she chooses to close her eyes and not open them again, that it is just her body giving up and not her spirit. Her spirit will live forever in everyone she has touched.

Mom went on to lay out what she wanted me to have of her material things. She wants to write a letter to one of her stepdaughters. She asked to speak to my boys and their dad. With each request she made, she checked something off her mental list. With each item she checked off the list, a weight was lifted.

Much like when you have a rough day and can’t sleep due to restlessness, Mom needs a clear mind to sleep soundly for eternity. She continued her list of requests with asking me to take care of my stepdad. Check. She asked me to work on my relationship with my sister. Check. She asked me to raise my boys with God and not be afraid to ask for help doing so. Check. She told me to be true to myself in everything I do. Check.

Unlike the lists I currently make, Mom’s list will end. When I look at the things on my list now, they all seem so trivial. Oil change, haircut, car tags, and cat food. My recent conversations with Mom have made me alter the things on my list a bit. Sure the things to do things to get done at some point, but I have added a few things as well. Call my sister more. Let the dishes sit until the boys go to bed. Write more. Sing louder. Talk more and text less. Nurture relationships.

Losing a parent is a part of life that some of us are lucky enough to avoid well into our adulthood. If I can find anything good about dealing with this in my early thirties, it is that I realize now, rather than later, that some things just aren’t as important as we make them. Just like kids growing into young adults, we all have to learn from our own mistakes no matter how hard our parents try to help us avoid making mistakes they made. My mother is still teaching me.

Making Her List & Checking It Twice

I am a list maker. When I was younger, I considered my lists some sort of indication of how productive I was. It was the best feeling ever when I could toss out the list when everything was done. As I have aged though, I have realized I accomplish something important each time I cross off a task on the list. My list is never ending and I am never really able to toss the list all together. I always find something new to add.

Not all of us are list makers or planners. Some people are comfortable just taking things as they come. For control freaks like me, this would never do. If I could, I would always know what to expect. I would walk into a meeting at work with an agenda in hand and the meeting would follow it to the letter. Unfortunately, this never happens.

I am like my mother in many ways. Most of which I did not realize, or admit, until recently. My mother is a planner. A control freak I suppose. At the very least, mom is a list maker. Even now, in her weakest state, mom is making a list and checking it twice.

While visiting DC last weekend, Mom and I were talking and the conversation took a turn. I had prepared myself for the conversation but was still caught off guard. She began her requests with the question “what will you tell my grandsons about me?” She continued to tell me she did not want them to think she gave up. As I began to sob in her arms, I told her I was about to tell her the hardest thing I will ever tell anyone. I gave her permission to go to sleep and not wake up. I gave her permission to find peace and not be in pain any longer. I reminded her that, if in fact, she chooses to close her eyes and not open them again, that it is just her body giving up and not her spirit. Her spirit will live forever in everyone she has touched.

Mom went on to lay out what she wanted me to have of her material things. She wants to write a letter to one of her stepdaughters. She asked to speak to my boys and their dad. With each request she made, she checked something off her mental list. With each item she checked off the list, a weight was lifted.

Much like when you have a rough day and can’t sleep due to restlessness, Mom needs a clear mind to sleep soundly for eternity. She continued her list of requests with asking me to take care of my stepdad. Check. She asked me to work on my relationship with my sister. Check. She asked me to raise my boys with God and not be afraid to ask for help doing so. Check. She told me to be true to myself in everything I do. Check.

Unlike the lists I currently make, Mom’s list will end. When I look at the things on my list now, they all seem so trivial. Oil change, haircut, car tags, and cat food. My recent conversations with Mom have made me alter the things on my list a bit. Sure the things to do things to get done at some point, but I have added a few things as well. Call my sister more. Let the dishes sit until the boys go to bed. Write more. Sing louder. Talk more and text less. Nurture relationships.

Losing a parent is a part of life that some of us are lucky enough to avoid well into our adulthood. If I can find anything good about dealing with this in my early thirties, it is that I realize now, rather than later, that some things just aren’t as important as we make them. Just like kids growing into young adults, we all have to learn from our own mistakes no matter how hard our parents try to help us avoid making mistakes they made. My mother is still teaching me.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Find Out What It Means To Me

I was barely nineteen when my mom met the man I now call my step dad. The irony of the situation is my mom hasn’t been married for about fifteen years. Mom and Neal met when they were both still married to other people. Imagine my dismay when I learned of their indiscretion. My self- righteous nineteen year old self could not fathom what on earth they were thinking when they made the conscious decision to disrespect their current commitments. After all, in all of my nineteen years I had acquired more wisdom than either of them in their combined years (insert sarcasm here).

Mom and Neal were transferred to my birth state of North Carolina in 1997 and I soon followed them from Missouri my sophomore year of college. The decision to live with my mom and her new beau was not a difficult decision; after all, I had no money to speak of and no prospects of a job. Upon arriving to my new home it was obvious Neal had a way about him. To put it lightly, Neal and I did not always get along. There were many times the man made me cry at the dinner table. His comments or questions were never an attempt to hurt me, but to make me think. The only problem I had is his efforts worked.

Neal was, and still is, a stubborn man. He likes things a certain way and rightfully so. Neal has been in the construction industry for nearly forty years. He manages projects. He manages people. He facilitates. Although he has not been on his current job site for almost three weeks, Neal is still managing and facilitating. This time though, he is not constructing another East Coast hotel. This time he is facilitating the care of the love of his life. I watch this man bath my mother, rub lotion on her, take her to the bathroom and then I watch him quietly fall apart. I watch this big, strong construction man, with his wrinkled face and callused hands from years on the job, cry like an infant, and my breaking heart melts.

During my last visit east to visit my mother, Neal and I were walking from the hospital to the car after seeing Mom. I carefully brought up the subject of how mom wanted to be “taken care of”. It was my vain attempt to bring up burial services at a very emotional time. Neal laughed and said “your mom always said you and I were more alike than we want to admit”, “I was just thinking about turning her car in since her lease is up in two months”. We continued our walk to the car in silence.

Neal has three children from his marriage. Like me, his children were not pleased about how his relationship with my mother began. In their defense, Neal had been married to their mother for nearly thirty years. My mother, on the other hand, was married to husband number four and frankly my sister and I were not all that impressed with him. All of Neal’s children; two girls and one boy, live with their families in the town which I currently live. Laura is married with two teenage boys and runs a daycare out of her home. My two boys have had the privilege of being in her care during infancy. She is an example to mothers, daughters, wives, sisters and friends, and has forgiven her father. I am so lucky to say she is part of my family. Although I do not have a relationship with Laura’s brother and sister, I know what kind of people they are because I know their sister and their father. One day I hope they will see what I see in their dad. What I see in their father is a devoted, compassionate man. A man of conviction. A man that has my undying gratitude and respect.

Get It While the Gettin's Good

If predictions by the Oxford Hair Foundation come to pass, the number of natural redheads everywhere will continue to dwindle until there are none left by the year 2100. The reason, according to scientists at the independent institute in England, which studies all sorts of hair problems, is that just 4 percent of the world's population carries the red-hair gene. The gene is recessive (and therefore diluted when carriers produce children with people who have the dominant brown-hair gene. Dr. John Gray's often publicized explanation of his foundation's findings: "The way things are going; red hair will either be extremely rare or extinct by the end of the century." The gene responsible for red hair - known as the melanocortin 1 receptor, or MC1R - was only discovered in the late 1990s. People have a good chance of being born with red hair if they have a mutation of that gene. Red hair is found in all ethnic backgrounds but is most commonly associated with people of Celtic descent.Maybe I need to have my friend the rocket scientist (ok, ok, genetic researcher) look into this…let me know your thoughts T.

I have a few thoughts about this possibility:

~Thank god I will be gone because a world without Red is no place to live!
~“Studying all sorts of hair problems”; who decides that is what they want to do with their life? ~Recessive my arse: My dad, me (obviously) my brother, and now my son. I won’t even get into my dad’s 7 siblings. (some of which are shown here)
~As I read the article about my people’s pending doom, I thought back to the ridicule I experienced as a young child and then the near celebrity I received as I reached adulthood. I have grown to love my red hair and “angle kisses” (now that I have the sharpie off my skin from my sister connecting the dots in an attempt to see how many I had as a youth; why did I let her do that?) and consider them my trademark.

Quotable and red:

A young man marrying a redhead asked his father for some marital advice. The father said, "Just remind her who wears the pants in your family." The evening arrived; the new husband tossed his pants to his bride and said, "Here put these on." She did and said "I don't fit into these." "That's right!" he said, "and don't you forget who wears the pants in this family!" With that she flipped him her panties and said, "Try these on." He looked at them and said, "I can't get into your panties!" She said, "That's right - and you won't until your attitude changes!"

Waxing Poetic

****The content below is for adults only; or for those that can handle direct language about body parts and the maintenance of said body parts.  If you are related to me, go to church with me, work with me or the hubs, come back later.****

First things first. I have never had to password protect a post. It seems, however, that the hubs thinks the content provided herein is not appropriate for all audiences. Word has it that my father in law has spread the word around town about my little piece of internet and now my damn priest reads the crap I write. I suppose the man of the house does have a valid point when he further mentions that some of his colleagues and my clients read the site too; I can only imagine what they would be thinking about at the next meeting after reading this. So in an effort to keep us both happy; we have protection. What I really wanted to tell hubs was to take off his panties and hose the sand out of his vagina.

Speaking of vaginas; well mine particularly. In all my years I have never waxed any part of my body. I am very fortunate to have not only very light hair but hair that grows very slowly. The down side to my good luck is that if I do not wear mascara, I look like a am nine years old at best. Imagine if you will, me at the age of twenty-nine with braces and no makeup; hubs felt a little awkward at times. He once came in the house to tell me the new neighbor girl had come over to ask if I could come out to play. He is so funny; just ask him, he will tell you.

Back to my vagina. For some reason I got a wild hair to get waxed. Many of you know that I am an all or nothing kind of girl though; if I am doing this I am going all the way. Brazilian baby. The first question I asked myself is whether I should go to someone I know, or a complete stranger. I determined a referral was more important than anything. I called one of my girlfriends and asked her advice. Having moved her business from a local salon to her home last year, she immediately sent me to her former place of business. She informed that the aesthetician was awesome and since I believe everything my friend/hair stylist tells me, I hung up and called the salon.

I had three days to wait after making the appointment. Your imagination can do a lot in three days. I was excited and petrified. My final thought was “how bad can it be really, you have given birth twice for god’s sake”. I wanted it to be a surprise for hubs so I did not tell him. The neurotic in me then starts thinking; “do I even want him to notice, that means I needed it”. We will get to his final reaction later.

Upon entering the salon on Friday and greet my girlfriends that work there and take some Advil; I had been told that doing so might be beneficial. This is one of those things I did to be safe and not sorry. I don’t know if I did not need it but I really did not want to find out if I needed it but didn’t take it.


The aesthetician greets me and escorts me to the servicing room. She explains the process and instructs me to disrobe from waste down and place a towel here and some paper there. I can do this. Towel here, paper there. The irony is that she leaves the room for me to undress but is about to explore places with a magnifying light the way only my gyno has done.

Upon examination and a test run it is determined my “front” hair is not long enough yet. Remember the fact that I am blessed with slow growing hair; it can suck at times. It also doesn’t help that I shave it all off anyway. No sweat. I am still a little nervous anyway and think I may back out of the back side if the front is agony. Kim proceeds to tell me to “hop up” on my hands and knees. The only way I can provide a visual for this position is to describe it as “child’s pose” in yoga but with your butt in the air. Or maybe a frog. The thing about this position is that is perfect for what she is doing, however, the wall that I am facing is all mirrors. Normally I would consider this hot, but in this scenario I do not care to watch, I lower my head.

So I have to admit that the hot wax was not bad; actually quite nice. I have the need to hold a conversation during this process in attempt to keep breathing. What I find out during the dialogue intrigues me. I live in what most would consider a conservative area of the country; otherwise known as “The Bible Belt”. My new best friend Kim moved here from Vegas five years ago and tells me she has seen things here that she never saw or even heard of in Springfield. How about that; I am not the only one in this town after all. I am not sure if that is good or bad.

Rip. Huh. Not so bad. Certainly not the vision from the 40 year old virgin I was imagining. “Blah Blah Blah”. “ Yeah I have two boys, 4 and 2.5; the picture of your girls is cute, how old?” Rip. How about that, it gets easier every time. Rip again. What the Hell! “Did you literally just rip me a new one?” She thought that was funny. Hubs is not the only funny one around here.  Like any quality aesthetician, Kim wants to be thorough, so out comes the lighted magnifying glass. Jesus; my gyno doesn’t even use a magnifying glass. She completes the examination of her work and sounding very proud says “looks great”. I have to take her word for it since I cannot see it. I am going to spare the details about how she applies the aloe in an attempt to prevent any male (or female for that matter) readers from getting entirely too excited about one woman rubbing cream all over another. That was the best part though.

I admit that I am happy I only have to do “maintain” every few months; but in end, hubs and I highly recommended this service.

As I am wrapping things up and paying, I asked Kim out to dinner; it seemed like the next step in our relationship.

*For those of you considering a Brazilian and are curious; there was little if any pain during or after the procedure!  Take off your panties and hose the sand out of your vagina and get it done!

What they don't know & Other lies we tell

I will not deny the fact that I lie on occasion.  I try to make myself feel better at night by rationalizing my motives.  Typically my lies are to protect people.  Sure, the person in question is often myself, but that is not the point.  My point, if I even have one, is that lies do serve a purpose.  The infamous "they" that I would like to track down and tie to a kitchen chair, say "the truth shall set you free".   I am not sure people are paying attention to who needs to be set free when they actually tell the truth though.

I lie to my kids. " Honey, Incredible Pizza is not open right now", when in fact, this is just my way of getting out of having to take them to the indoor carnival of hell.  Of course they are open; they are open all the time, even in the middle of the night while I have nightmares about going there.

I lie to my friends.  I know I know.  If I can't be honest with them, then what can I expect in return.  Well frankly, I do not want to know if those jeans make me look fat!  I don't tell my friends what I think they want to hear, I tell them things that make them feel good about themselves.

I lie to my clients (not you though:).  Don't worry!  I can spin this in my favor too.  I would much rather under promise and over deliver so this is really not lying but setting the right expectation.

I lie to myself, about a lot of things.  Denial manifests itself in many forms; my mother being my current affliction.  I knew she was sick even before the phone call.  Looking back, all the signs pointed to a place I did not want to visit again.  When she was formally diagnosed, I ignored the fact that it sounded bad.  Being an enabler of sorts, my mother did not help matters by leaving out some "minor" details of her condition.

After lying to herself for 30 or more years about the effects of smoking, Mom is now in her second year of treatment.  She has begun to ration details of her condition to us like food stamps in an attempt to prevent us from gorging ourselves.  The whole thing reminds me of that scene from A Few Good Men. "I want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"  I realize she does not want to be a statistic, or focus on how many years she may or may not have left.  I also realize, though, that we all need to be realistic; the controlling planner in me needs to know what to expect.  Under promise, over deliver.

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.  It does not hide itself like a coward; cancer is brazen with it's movement and leaves us cold and vulnerable in it's wake.  It moves in the daylight and does not stop until it gets what it wants from you.  What it takes is far more than it ever sets out to gain.

As a mother, I try to imagine what I would tell my children in Mom's position.  No matter how old my children get, I want to protect them from harm.  Sure, life happens, but why can't I do my part to prevent pain when I can?  As a wife, would I say to my husband "hey babe, it's not lookin so good".  Would I want my friends to feel sorry for me as my hair falls out and I lose my energy?  Like my mother, I would not want my life, and that of others, to be consumed by my illness.

If there is a moral here, it is this: What we don't know really doesn't hurt us.

What they don't know & Other lies we tell

I will not deny the fact that I lie on occasion.  I try to make myself feel better at night by rationalizing my motives.  Typically my lies are to protect people.  Sure, the person in question is often myself, but that is not the point.  My point, if I even have one, is that lies do serve a purpose.  The infamous "they" that I would like to track down and tie to a kitchen chair, say "the truth shall set you free".   I am not sure people are paying attention to who needs to be set free when they actually tell the truth though.

I lie to my kids. " Honey, Incredible Pizza is not open right now", when in fact, this is just my way of getting out of having to take them to the indoor carnival of hell.  Of course they are open; they are open all the time, even in the middle of the night while I have nightmares about going there.

I lie to my friends.  I know I know.  If I can't be honest with them, then what can I expect in return.  Well frankly, I do not want to know if those jeans make me look fat!  I don't tell my friends what I think they want to hear, I tell them things that make them feel good about themselves.

I lie to my clients (not you though:).  Don't worry!  I can spin this in my favor too.  I would much rather under promise and over deliver so this is really not lying but setting the right expectation.

I lie to myself, about a lot of things.  Denial manifests itself in many forms; my mother being my current affliction.  I knew she was sick even before the phone call.  Looking back, all the signs pointed to a place I did not want to visit again.  When she was formally diagnosed, I ignored the fact that it sounded bad.  Being an enabler of sorts, my mother did not help matters by leaving out some "minor" details of her condition.

After lying to herself for 30 or more years about the effects of smoking, Mom is now in her second year of treatment.  She has begun to ration details of her condition to us like food stamps in an attempt to prevent us from gorging ourselves.  The whole thing reminds me of that scene from A Few Good Men. "I want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"  I realize she does not want to be a statistic, or focus on how many years she may or may not have left.  I also realize, though, that we all need to be realistic; the controlling planner in me needs to know what to expect.  Under promise, over deliver.

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.  It does not hide itself like a coward; cancer is brazen with it's movement and leaves us cold and vulnerable in it's wake.  It moves in the daylight and does not stop until it gets what it wants from you.  What it takes is far more than it ever sets out to gain.

As a mother, I try to imagine what I would tell my children in Mom's position.  No matter how old my children get, I want to protect them from harm.  Sure, life happens, but why can't I do my part to prevent pain when I can?  As a wife, would I say to my husband "hey babe, it's not lookin so good".  Would I want my friends to feel sorry for me as my hair falls out and I lose my energy?  Like my mother, I would not want my life, and that of others, to be consumed by my illness.

If there is a moral here, it is this: What we don't know really doesn't hurt us.

By George I Think He Got It

We were listening to the radio in the car this morning with the boys in the back.  The DJ requests that the women listeners call in and tell him if they liked to be considered mysterious.  The question was whether or not the claim was good or bad.  Hubs turns to Little Man and says "do you think brother is mysterious?".  Little Man says yes in fact, brother is mysterious, after which he proceeds to ask "what does mysterious mean daddy".  Hubs describes the term as meaning "difficult to understand".  Little man confirms what he had already stated about his baby brother and then added "my states puzzle is mysterious too daddy".

The Icing On The Chemo

I am not sure how she does it. I feel like I take copious notes and I know I do not get all the information she gives me. How does my mom keep track of the schedule, the drugs, the tests. How does she pay attention to what the nurses are telling her while she sits in a recliner dressed up like a science experiment?

I have been bad about documenting mom's progress. It is true, "out of sight, out of mind". I suppose after our visit to DC in April I felt relieved. Mom had energy and responded well to the treatment. The inflammation was decreasing and the tumor was not growing. I felt safe. Don't get me wrong, I knew "we", meaning mom, was not out of the woods. I didn't want my thoughts, or our phone conversations to be surrounded by this intruder. That is how I looked at this cancer. The intruder that took my mother's immortality. Isn't that what we think of our parents? That they will live forever and be just a call away forever? Or is that what is known as "taking it for granted".

They finally figured out the intruder had a name. Not just cancer. We now now the intruder's full name. You know how the media tacks on a middle name or initial to the criminal. Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wayne Gacy, etc. Mom's intruder, AKA Adenocarcinoma of the lung. This type of cancer is very common and is typical in non smokers and you guessed it; those that have quit. Makes you think twice about quitting huh?

The new information has allowed mom's doctors to have a more defined approach to her treatment. The new regime includes three weeks of treatment; one on each Friday. Then a Friday off. The desire is to shrink the tumor to a very small size. Hopefully small enough that other methods can be introduced to the fight. Radiation and Cyber Knife are two that are in the discussion fold at this time.

Although it is a base line, her blood work is looking good. The real story will be told with a CT scan being done in four weeks.One of the cancer factors that was 1996, dropped to 589, then to 529, went up to 645 and now is 208!! That is great news. The LDH that was at 25 is now at 16.9. So she currently has good factors. The white cell count had dropped below 1000 but corrected itself and is now up to 1108. They will not give her shots until after it stays below 1000 for 2 weeks. This concerns me a little because mom is prone to infection anyway. She always has a sinus infection and for the last year or so was always on an antibiotic. The red blood cells are good but a little thin-they are running a new lab test this week to determine if they want to start mom on liquid iron. This is not that surprising since mom has had issues with thin blood as long as I can remember. What can be an issue here is hemorrhaging. Mom hemorrhaged pretty badly giving birth to my sister at only 5-ish pounds and was experiencing some nose bleeds when they changed her treatment a few weeks back. She had a staph infection in her nose and they ended up having to cauterize some blood vessels up there. As if she didn't have enough going on.

The doctor is very pleased with the results to date and is in shock mom is still working 10-12 hour days while going through chemo. He mentioned in his whole case load he has two patients that are still working.

Oh wait! Make that one...Mom got FIRED today.
*That is all I am allowed to say at this point. I will update you all when I can.

The Icing On The Chemo

I am not sure how she does it. I feel like I take copious notes and I know I do not get all the information she gives me. How does my mom keep track of the schedule, the drugs, the tests. How does she pay attention to what the nurses are telling her while she sits in a recliner dressed up like a science experiment?

I have been bad about documenting mom's progress. It is true, "out of sight, out of mind". I suppose after our visit to DC in April I felt relieved. Mom had energy and responded well to the treatment. The inflammation was decreasing and the tumor was not growing. I felt safe. Don't get me wrong, I knew "we", meaning mom, was not out of the woods. I didn't want my thoughts, or our phone conversations to be surrounded by this intruder. That is how I looked at this cancer. The intruder that took my mother's immortality. Isn't that what we think of our parents? That they will live forever and be just a call away forever? Or is that what is known as "taking it for granted".

They finally figured out the intruder had a name. Not just cancer. We now now the intruder's full name. You know how the media tacks on a middle name or initial to the criminal. Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wayne Gacy, etc. Mom's intruder, AKA Adenocarcinoma of the lung. This type of cancer is very common and is typical in non smokers and you guessed it; those that have quit. Makes you think twice about quitting huh?

The new information has allowed mom's doctors to have a more defined approach to her treatment. The new regime includes three weeks of treatment; one on each Friday. Then a Friday off. The desire is to shrink the tumor to a very small size. Hopefully small enough that other methods can be introduced to the fight. Radiation and Cyber Knife are two that are in the discussion fold at this time.

Although it is a base line, her blood work is looking good. The real story will be told with a CT scan being done in four weeks.One of the cancer factors that was 1996, dropped to 589, then to 529, went up to 645 and now is 208!! That is great news. The LDH that was at 25 is now at 16.9. So she currently has good factors. The white cell count had dropped below 1000 but corrected itself and is now up to 1108. They will not give her shots until after it stays below 1000 for 2 weeks. This concerns me a little because mom is prone to infection anyway. She always has a sinus infection and for the last year or so was always on an antibiotic. The red blood cells are good but a little thin-they are running a new lab test this week to determine if they want to start mom on liquid iron. This is not that surprising since mom has had issues with thin blood as long as I can remember. What can be an issue here is hemorrhaging. Mom hemorrhaged pretty badly giving birth to my sister at only 5-ish pounds and was experiencing some nose bleeds when they changed her treatment a few weeks back. She had a staph infection in her nose and they ended up having to cauterize some blood vessels up there. As if she didn't have enough going on.

The doctor is very pleased with the results to date and is in shock mom is still working 10-12 hour days while going through chemo. He mentioned in his whole case load he has two patients that are still working.

Oh wait! Make that one...Mom got FIRED today.
*That is all I am allowed to say at this point. I will update you all when I can.

She's Got The Look

As I am sure you can imagine, when I was younger I never got in trouble. I was an absolute angel and parents could only hope their kids would be half as good as I was. OK Mom, stop laughing. I know you stayed up many nights while I was in high school just praying I would make in home in one piece, or even make it home. I recall that I may have been a little sassy at times to my mother and although I deserved a slap in the mouth for my tone, my mother never used physical force with me. Well, except when we were in public. You see, rather than embarrass me, my mother would do me a favor by kicking me under a table or pinching my arm. This was her way of saying, "straighten up miss thang", without having to say the words. Mom was gracious like that, but I did not realize it until I became a parent. Not only did mom use the under the table kick or pinch, she had a look. You know the look. The one that says, "you know you are doing something wrong or stupid and need to stop before you get in trouble or I embarrass you".


I had previously mastered this look with hubs for public settings. You know ladies, when your husband says something inappropriate or embarrasses himself and you are trying to tell him without words. Hubs is pretty good about recognizing this look but I recently realized that Little Man recognizes it too.

It is a glorious day when all you have to do is give the look and get results. Now I don't have to give him instructions multiple times. I don't have to worry about his hearing, because I know he sees me! Today I utilized the look at the dinner table and received an instant response. I heard angels sing and my mother's voice.

I know there will come a day the Little Man, like me, will get a little too big for his britches. He may do what I did to Mom and decide to call my bluff while in public. I was known to say to mom after one of her "reminders", "why are you kicking me mom?". This was not received well but mom rarely if ever pursued the issue until we got home. I am not sure I will have that much will power to keep my mouth shut. I may have to pull him by the ear to the ladies room and really embarrass him.

So tell me. What techniques do you use to get your kids attention without words?

She's Got The Look

As I am sure you can imagine, when I was younger I never got in trouble. I was an absolute angel and parents could only hope their kids would be half as good as I was. OK Mom, stop laughing. I know you stayed up many nights while I was in high school just praying I would make in home in one piece, or even make it home. I recall that I may have been a little sassy at times to my mother and although I deserved a slap in the mouth for my tone, my mother never used physical force with me. Well, except when we were in public. You see, rather than embarrass me, my mother would do me a favor by kicking me under a table or pinching my arm. This was her way of saying, "straighten up miss thang", without having to say the words. Mom was gracious like that, but I did not realize it until I became a parent. Not only did mom use the under the table kick or pinch, she had a look. You know the look. The one that says, "you know you are doing something wrong or stupid and need to stop before you get in trouble or I embarrass you".


I had previously mastered this look with hubs for public settings. You know ladies, when your husband says something inappropriate or embarrasses himself and you are trying to tell him without words. Hubs is pretty good about recognizing this look but I recently realized that Little Man recognizes it too.

It is a glorious day when all you have to do is give the look and get results. Now I don't have to give him instructions multiple times. I don't have to worry about his hearing, because I know he sees me! Today I utilized the look at the dinner table and received an instant response. I heard angels sing and my mother's voice.

I know there will come a day the Little Man, like me, will get a little too big for his britches. He may do what I did to Mom and decide to call my bluff while in public. I was known to say to mom after one of her "reminders", "why are you kicking me mom?". This was not received well but mom rarely if ever pursued the issue until we got home. I am not sure I will have that much will power to keep my mouth shut. I may have to pull him by the ear to the ladies room and really embarrass him.

So tell me. What techniques do you use to get your kids attention without words?

Sweet Sweet/The Memories You Gave to Me

Although I normally don't like to, I think it is safe to assume that each generation strives to give their children more than they had as children. There is a constant battle between time and money. We need to work to pay the bills but in the end, what matters is how much time we spend with our children not how much money we spend on them.

Like the good business owners we are, hubs and I reevaluate our business plans once a year. We do the same for our home as well. It too, is like a business; we have titles, responsibilities, and a budget,. Most importantly, we have goals; goals for ourselves, for our boys, and for our family. As things evolve, so too, must our business plan.

We had a change of plans recently. We moved from our 4500 square foot home to a smaller home with just under 3000 square feet. I was thrilled with the move for many reasons. One story to clean rather than two. The boys sleep on the same level as we do. Almost two acres for the boys to explore and play. A pool. A hot tub. Great school district. Oh yeah; a much smaller mortgage.

The smaller monthly payment affords me the privilege of working from home. I get to spend as much time with my boys as they can tolerate. It is not always sunshine and lollipops, but the majority of the time I wouldn't change a thing. I know how lucky I am.

My parents split when I was eight, so my sister and I were raised by a single mother that struggled to make ends meet. Although my mom was not able to stay home with us, I have fond childhood memories. We lived in a suburb of Kansas City and spent many evenings with my grandparents. As I grew up they were like a second set of parents to me. My mom made every effort to make our house the place to be. Her goal was to have me and my sister and our friends have a fun and safe place to hang out. Not only was it the place to be, many times I found friends there when I came home from school or work. My mom was the mom that kids talked to about stuff they were too nervous to say to their parents.

Growing up in the city did not offer me many opportunities to explore the woods but I spent most of my time outside. This was back when you could ride your bike a few houses down tot play and your mom would whistle when it was time for dinner. I remember going on walks to the nearest park with my friends. The park was about a mile away; not sure if I would let my grade school boys do that.

We had a pool in our backyard so summers were wet. I find myself thinking of my mom often as I realize at bedtime, that I am still in my swimsuit. Mom lived in her swimsuit. She would put it on as soon as she could and was in it while she laid us in bed. To the dismay to some neighbors and the pleasure of others, she even wore her swimsuit to do yard work.

As I watch hubs teach Little Man to swim I think of my father. Dad taught me to swim in our pool and would be happy to know hubs is using the same tried and true techniques that made me the fish I am today. Now, if we could only get Little Man to open his eyes when he closes his mouth. I told him to keep his mouth closed so he doesn't drink the water and not only does he shut his mouth but can't seem do to so without the eyes going too. Can't get very far like that.

The best thing about our new house is what I consider my favorite summer memory. I can smell it a half a mile away from our house. I roll down my car window when I turn on our street and the aroma hits me and the summer memories begin to flow. Swimming the the back yard. Swinging in the neighbors yard. Picking strawberries in the backyard. Picking the grapes from the vines in the arbor. Riding my bike. The smell of Coppertone.

This sweet smelling vine lined our fence line and I would eat the sweet nectar as often as I could. There is an art to eating honeysuckle and I have now passed this tradition onto my boys.

Moving to the new house has provided us the opportunity to change our lifestyle. We are getting back to the basics, and if that means my boys get to have memories like mine, who could want more?

Sweet Sweet/The Memories You Gave to Me

Although I normally don't like to, I think it is safe to assume that each generation strives to give their children more than they had as children. There is a constant battle between time and money. We need to work to pay the bills but in the end, what matters is how much time we spend with our children not how much money we spend on them.

Like the good business owners we are, hubs and I reevaluate our business plans once a year. We do the same for our home as well. It too, is like a business; we have titles, responsibilities, and a budget,. Most importantly, we have goals; goals for ourselves, for our boys, and for our family. As things evolve, so too, must our business plan.

We had a change of plans recently. We moved from our 4500 square foot home to a smaller home with just under 3000 square feet. I was thrilled with the move for many reasons. One story to clean rather than two. The boys sleep on the same level as we do. Almost two acres for the boys to explore and play. A pool. A hot tub. Great school district. Oh yeah; a much smaller mortgage.

The smaller monthly payment affords me the privilege of working from home. I get to spend as much time with my boys as they can tolerate. It is not always sunshine and lollipops, but the majority of the time I wouldn't change a thing. I know how lucky I am.

My parents split when I was eight, so my sister and I were raised by a single mother that struggled to make ends meet. Although my mom was not able to stay home with us, I have fond childhood memories. We lived in a suburb of Kansas City and spent many evenings with my grandparents. As I grew up they were like a second set of parents to me. My mom made every effort to make our house the place to be. Her goal was to have me and my sister and our friends have a fun and safe place to hang out. Not only was it the place to be, many times I found friends there when I came home from school or work. My mom was the mom that kids talked to about stuff they were too nervous to say to their parents.

Growing up in the city did not offer me many opportunities to explore the woods but I spent most of my time outside. This was back when you could ride your bike a few houses down tot play and your mom would whistle when it was time for dinner. I remember going on walks to the nearest park with my friends. The park was about a mile away; not sure if I would let my grade school boys do that.

We had a pool in our backyard so summers were wet. I find myself thinking of my mom often as I realize at bedtime, that I am still in my swimsuit. Mom lived in her swimsuit. She would put it on as soon as she could and was in it while she laid us in bed. To the dismay to some neighbors and the pleasure of others, she even wore her swimsuit to do yard work.

As I watch hubs teach Little Man to swim I think of my father. Dad taught me to swim in our pool and would be happy to know hubs is using the same tried and true techniques that made me the fish I am today. Now, if we could only get Little Man to open his eyes when he closes his mouth. I told him to keep his mouth closed so he doesn't drink the water and not only does he shut his mouth but can't seem do to so without the eyes going too. Can't get very far like that.

The best thing about our new house is what I consider my favorite summer memory. I can smell it a half a mile away from our house. I roll down my car window when I turn on our street and the aroma hits me and the summer memories begin to flow. Swimming the the back yard. Swinging in the neighbors yard. Picking strawberries in the backyard. Picking the grapes from the vines in the arbor. Riding my bike. The smell of Coppertone.

This sweet smelling vine lined our fence line and I would eat the sweet nectar as often as I could. There is an art to eating honeysuckle and I have now passed this tradition onto my boys.

Moving to the new house has provided us the opportunity to change our lifestyle. We are getting back to the basics, and if that means my boys get to have memories like mine, who could want more?

Chemo Chronicles-Cycle One Day Two

Today the plan is to keep things low key. The nurse told mom if she was going to have a "bad" day it would be Sunday. I compared t to a car wreck; the third day is usually the day that the pain sets in. The nurse said if anything mom will begin to come off the anti pain and nausea meds and be tired. I did not want mom to over do it today so we decided to do some light shopping while Daddy and Papa Johnson took the boys to the Air and Space Museum. I love DC; so much to do and most of it is free. Almost makes me want to move here; almost.

So the first stop on our agenda is the wig lady. Ironically the wig lady, Bobette, is from my home town of KC! We called her yesterday and she seemed very excited to meet peeps from her home town. She and her husband moved here two years ago with Sprint and she has run her business out f her home for about a year. Bobette has a rich family history with a mother that worked for the USDA in KC and was voted Business Person of the year a few years back, a father that was inducted into the Negro Baseball Hall of fame as an umpire, a jazz singing brother that sang back up for Barry Manilow, and a daughter that was recruited to the WNBA as a player for UMKC. Oh, and she used to be married to a KC Chiefs player. Remember the last post that said my mom and I are talkers...we were only with Bobette a couple of hours but we left with a new best friend!

Back to the wigs. We decided to shop for wigs while mom still had hair. The last thing I would want to do while loosing my hair is to look for more. Not only would I be insecure, but worn out. Shopping early allows mom some time to get it cut, colored, and styled. I would love toe like Dolly Parton and have my hair done for me while I get ready then just pop a different identity on each day.

We tried on a few different colors and styles Mom opted for two wigs that closely match her current color; one short and one a little longer. She wore the shorter one out the door to get used to it. I was surprised how real it looked and felt.

After the wig lady we headed to old Leesburg. I love little towns like this; quaint with little boutiques and pubs. Shop owners that know the regulars by name and the best local bakeries. We stop at a little thrift store I like as well as a children's boutique and a dress shop. We had some retail therapy and bought the boys some new shoes and clothes for the fall. I found a handful of items at the thrift store too. Mom didn't find much for herself but I am not convinced that is why she went; I think she just needed to get out and feel "normal".

Mom was in great spirits today, Every now and then she would act winded and need to sit down and drink some water. I reminded her on a number of occasions to not over do it. When she was done she told me it was time to go home. She said she did not want to nap today to make sure she slept through the night; last night the storied made her a little restless and the Benedryl didn't seem to help with sleeping. We will see how it goes tonight.