If I have to be honest...

I'm not sure

if

motherhood

was for me

I'm not sure

if

I'm very good

at it

I feel most alive

sometimes

when I am leaving

driving away

leaving them behind

for a few hours

stolen

away from my life

Me

unregulated

no disciplining or

enforcement of truth-telling or

homework or

scattered toy pieces

and then

I look at them

they do something

that thing

they do

each one

and my heart leaps

and sinks

because I think

there is no way

I deserve them



Solar Powered

My love affair with the beach began in the womb.

My parents ended up in Chicago after fleeing their native Cuba, post-Castro. I now understand how difficult it must have been for my mom all those years: not understanding the language being spoken around her, hating the freezing winters, raising a daughter in a new country, longing for the days she had spent under tropical palms on the beaches of Varadero.

Deprimente.
Depressing.

That has always been the word she uses when referring to those winters. My dad must have felt the same way. The only difference was that he was working day in and day out to make ends meet in this new country, to keep my mother at home "safe" (so very Latin Macho, but that was the culture and the generation), to provide for his daughter. And on top of all of that, he was the one who had to shovel the snow.

How did they manage to keep their sanity?

They'd save all year long, and every single July, they (along with the rest of the tiny family they had there with them) would fly to Florida, where they would spend 15 glorious days on Miami Beach...under the tropical palms...just like their "olden' days."

There I am. In that picture. My mom was about 4 months pregnant with me. (Funny, how when I was pregnant, they freaked out a little when I just drove to the grocery store, but there they were, flying across the country to get some sun.)



And here I am, the following year..! (Funny, how when I'd take my own babies to the beach for the day, my parents kept worrying that maybe the water was too cold or the sun was too hot or they were too little.)

And the trips kept happening, every year, until I turned 5 and the whole (tiny) family moved to Miami permanently when my dad got what they had so deserved after all the years of sacrifice and hard work: a job offer under year-round sunny skies (and in a mostly Spanish-speaking neighborhood to boot!).



I've heard the story of the year when they refused to cancel the trip, even though at seven months I had a raging fever and ended up with a rash all over after playing on the beach all day. Turned out to be mumps, I hear. Let's notice the pattern here: when my kids have a cold, my parents completely wig out if I let them jump in our pool in the dead of summer, but back then...? What? Baby Liz has the mumps? Chicken pox? A raging fever? That's okay, she'll be fine. The sun is good for her! The ocean water will clear it all out! Besides, we have reservations at the cabaret on Ocean Drive later...

And the sunburns...oh, the sunburns. Surely, if I end up with skin cancer, it will have been from these first few years. SPF? Are you kidding me? This was the 70's! We  had Solarcaine! There are albums full of old photographs where we are all standing with our arms away from our bodies, lest we make skin-to-skin contact in any way that was not absolutely necessary. I actually remember the searing pain on the tops of my shoulders where the bright pink was neatly broken in half by the Chicago-white line of my bathing suit strap.

And once we moved here? Every single weekend that my dad did not have to work, we would pack up and head out to the same exact beach where we had spent all those years. My mom playing Kadima with me, my dad messing with the seaweed, my sister pouring baby oil on her skin for that perfect golden high school glow (we had now progressed from the Solarcaine post-beach to actually helping our skin cook itself throughout the day). The best days were the ones when we would get there mid-morning and not leave until it was getting dark. An entire day at the beach. That's what we did.

And now? It's still what we do. But now the family has grown a bit.

There we are...our now-becoming-annual Mother's Day tradition. My parents in the middle, surrounded by their not quite as tiny family: my sister with her husband and "kids," me and my little ones, Hubby, his sister and her daughters, and my in-laws. All day. All of us. Same frickin' beach.

My boys are turning out to be beach bums.

I guess, much like my parents with me, we haven't given them much of a choice.

And now, it's that time of year here in sunny South Florida, the time when there is that slight shift: our version of Spring suddenly turns, from one week to the next, into a full blown high 80's pseudo-summer. The long sleeved shirt you wore just a couple of weeks ago to work suddenly seems incredibly warm and impossible to consider. And closed shoes? No, thanks. And people everywhere are already complaining: Oh my gaaawwwwdddd, it's already sooooo hot, what will it feel like in July? (The answer is: what is always feels like here in July; why do you seem surprised?)  My car is already like a mild steam bath when I get into it after work. You can feel the heat radiating up off of the asphalt in the grocery store parking lots.

And I love it.

This is my time of year...the time right before summer. The time when I know that over the next few months, I will spend more time in flip-flops than in heels. More time in shorts than in jeans. More time at the beach than indoors.

Glorious.

Just like my parents.

Anyone who knows me, knows I'm a glamour girl. I'm partially known for my stilettos. My make-up drawer could pass for a beauty counter. And I love me some high-end fashion. Sit me at a hoity-toity bar and order me a Cosmopolitan (Grey Goose only, please!), and I'm a pretty happy girl. But I am never happier than on the beach...the salt water (okay, and some leave-in conditioner, too, I admit) making my hair all va-va-vavoom-y, the sand sticking to my brightly-colored toenails, my cheeks and shoulders feeling slightly burned (I have upgraded to SPF 30 these days, but no matter what you do, 8 hours on the beach is still 8 hours on the beach). Those days where we get there early and stay until just before it gets dark....when we go home feeling exhausted and replenished at the same time.

While everyone around me is melting in the infamous Miami heat, I am coming alive. I'm the one turning my face slightly up to the sun while pushing my cart in the grocery store parking lot, my cart filled with the snacks and drinks for the upcoming weekend. Cause for this glamorous beach bum, the only thing better than a Grey Goose Cosmo is an ice cold beer on the beach.

Cheers, Mom and Dad!

Ten Years and Two Puzzle Pieces

together

even then

even when

I barely knew

myself

you knew

me

you knew

us

from the beginning

it was

too perfect

too painful

how could it ever work?

this Thing

you

me

Us

I was so sure that

the reality of every day

would tear apart

dissolve

ruin

what we had

it was the pain

I was sure

that made us so perfect

but you insisted

you were sure

and I could not

turn away

could not

breathe

it hurt

to breathe

we wanted to

want

but the desire

was so strong

it was a need

and certainly

that

could

never

last

yet

here we are

I let you

and you took care of me

and now

here we are

taking care of each other

Happy Anniversary, Hubby...a whole decade and it still feels exciting and fresh...yet I don't even remember life before you.  I really am the lucky one.

*In addition to my 10-year wedding anniversary, there was another anniversary of sorts this month...when I was off gallivanting to Paris, this little blog celebrated its THIRD year! Happy blog-a-versary to me/it!

My Life, in Lists: French Lessons

Was it really just four days ago that I was sitting in a hip little restaurant on the Champs-Ellysees, wearing my new Lanvin stiletto booties, yet another glass of Bordeaux in my hand, feeling oh-so-glamorous and gorgeous and relaxed, Hubby at my side? Seems impossible. I have spent the last 2 days recovering from jet lag, helping Hubby recover from a virus, and getting the kids recovered from a week-long of spoiling a la grandparent-style. I had to chuckle today when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: hair frizzy and sticking out, bags under my eyes, not a lick of make-up, clutching another armload of dirty laundry. That certainly does not look like that woman who was strutting around Paris, all full of wine and cheese and anniversary sex...

When you have kids, reality sets in really, really fast.

But I can't complain one bit. In fact, I've literally laughed at the disparity of what my life has been in less than a week. The woman I was, for a few precious, indulgent days, and that mom I am the rest of the time. How lucky are we that we had it? How glorious those 7 days were...

Today I found myself singing "I Love Paris" under my breath as the kids were getting into yet another little piece of melodrama. That's the thing with vacations without the kids: you are a much better parent because of them.

But it wasn't all wine and cheese and shopping...I actually found Paris to be incredibly educational. Some of the lessons are silly and frivolous, but some have a little more power to change my everyday life, even if just a little bit, if I can remember them.

Little Lessons I Picked Up While in Paris:

1. The French no longer hate Americans. They are not snippy or unpleasant, even when you butcher their language. In fact, we found that just about every single person we dealt with went out of his or her way to understand, assist, and please us.
2. French women are not preoccupied with trying to look younger. They are just walking around, looking their ages and looking incredibly put together and effortless and simple.
3. You should always look put together. Even when buying a baguette for breakfast. Or walking your incredibly cute dog.
4. French dogs are waaaaaaay cuter than American dogs.
5. French kids are waaaaaaay better dressed than American kids.
6. French dogs and French kids are waaaaaaay better behaved than American ones. No joke. For real. It was astonishing. The only time we heard a kid yell was when we were having a picnic by the Eiffel Tower and the silence was abruptly disturbed by children racing and playing Tag. They spoke English. The dogs do poop everywhere, but given the lack of grassy patches, I suppose that's not really their fault. And not even one single dog tried to lick my toes or jump on my legs (my friends know I HATE that).
7. Sex toy shops do not have to be seedy or gross or make me feel like I have to shower afterwards. In fact, in Paris, many are decorated nicer than the Bloomingdales in the U.S.
8. There is no shame in being sexual...or sexy...or in love. PDA is so not a big deal in Paris.
9. Carbs are not the enemy.
10. Neither is cheese.
11. Ditto for alcohol.
12. Have wine at Every. Single. Meal.
13. Relish Every. Single. Meal.
14. Have an actual conversation over your meal. Save your Facebooking and your texting and your apps for the Metro. We did not see one person on the phone at a cafe or a restaurant or a bar. Even the people who were eating by themselves (which could be listed as yet another lesson: Eating alone is no big deal) simply sat and ate, smoked, read, or pondered life.
15. You shouldn't have to apologize if you spend an hour nursing your espresso or your wine while you take up a table to finish your book. In Paris, they never bring you the check until you ask for it.
16. Use really big spoons for dessert.
17. Butter is good.
18. If the coffee is good, it doesn't actually need all that cream and sugar and occasional dollop of artificial flavoring.
19. French people really, really like American music. This worked out well for us when we went to a hip French nightclub and were pleasantly surprised that every other song was straight off American top dance charts (Who thought we would ever find ourselves dancing to Pitbull in Paris?!?). However, it got pretty annoying when nearly every cafe and restaurant was playing late 80's and early 90's tunes. (Bananarama over crepes? Really??)
20. It is not, apparently, a big deal to wash your hands at a public restroom sink while a man is using the urinal right beside you. (Two times in Paris, and I still can't get over the co-ed bathroom deal.)
21. Consider wearing sensible shoes. (I was shocked to discover that my color-blocked 5-inch stilettos were, by far, the highest and fiercest in the nightclub. I mean, c'mon, ladies, this is Paris. I don't care if you have to walk cobblestones and take a bus or a train...you all are the birthing center of all things high fashion! But then, as I found myself to be the only girl standing in her stockinged bare feet at the taxi stand at 5:00 a.m., because I just couldn't take the pain anymore...did I mention they played Pitbull?...I understood.)
22. Make pleasure a priority.
23. Indulging is not being indulgent.
24. I can go a whole week without being snippy, snappy, or sarcastic. Apparently, enjoying life can really do that for a girl.

Paris was absolute perfection. We spent 7 days just being together. We ate the most delicious things and drank the best wine (why don't I get a hangover in France??) and bought great stuff. We talked and laughed and danced and held hands. We toasted "To 10 Years" with every glass. We definitely recognized that couple. They are still there. And because of that little trip, they're going to be making more regular appearances around here, too.



I swear, I could have had this at every single meal (I nearly did).

 
 


The Eiffel Tower:  Even more breathtaking the second time around!



Dancing all night in my non-sensible shoes at the chic French nightclub...



Only the American girl was standing barefoot at the taxi stand...



Strolling the streets of Paris at night...so Owen Wilson in "Midnight in Paris"



Picnic on the lawn by the Eiffel Tower: #482 on my Life List...check!

My favorite souvenir: Lanvin shoe bootie pumps, 2009 collection, found in a little vintage shop in the Marais neighborhood...never worn!

Our last night in Paris...in our cute little hotel room with the wrap-around balcony.
Au revoir!

J'adore Paris

I recognize them...that young couple...fresh-faced and in awe, a bit bewildered by it all: How did this happen? How is it possible that we are, together, married, in front of the Eiffel Tower? That was 10 years ago. Our honeymoon. We were still untouched by the sleepless nights that came with our newborns (and occasionally still make guest appearances with our now-almost-big-boys), by the stress of leaving on a trip and leaving behind two little souls who will miss and go on with their little lives without us (as best they can), by the overwhelming responsibilities that come with Grown-Up Life: the mortgage, the lawn guy, the daily packing of lunchboxes, the realizations that come with watching your own parents age, watching  your children grow, watching life happen.

And tomorrow, we go back.

To Paris.

Just the two of Us.

Seven days of just Us and hopefully trying to feel a little bit of that carefree abandon, that joie de vivre (sorry, couldn't resist) that was our life before the wonders of: Reality and The Boys (sounds like a rock band).

Just Us.
In Paris.

I can't get over it.

Once again, I find myself wondering, How did I get here? How did I get so lucky? How did we find each other? How did it all work out?

Paris was, for me, that place I dreamed about growing up (and by growing up, what I really mean is my early and mid twenties), that I never thought I could possibly make it to. That was back when I didn't know any better. About anything, really. I didn't know that I got to make the choices in my life. I didn't know that I got to decide who I spent my time with and what I got to do during that time. I didn't realize that, really, Paris was just a place, and all I had to do to get there was go.

It had seemed impossible.

Ten years later, life doesn't (usually) feel too impossible. For the most part, Hubby and I...we can make good stuff happen. We've been lucky. We've been blessed. And we work hard at the rest.

So for the last few months I have been practicing my French conversational tapes in the car (I don't know who I'm kidding considering that last time we went, I did that too, and ended up making a fool of myself while Hubby just pointed and grunted and got us whatever we needed, aaaannnndddd I've been speaking English since I was four years old and yet people still tell me I have a "cute litttle accent" and occasionally that I "sound like JLo", never mind the fact that I am not Puerto Rican nor from the Bronx). I have planned my Paris outfits ("By Day" and "By Night"...all black and grey and as chic as my closet contents and fashion imagination can create). I have made lists (mostly typed, some even laminated) for all the sitters. I have mapped out the Parisien addresses of the best consignment shops and coolest bars. I have dutifully doled out vitamins and smothered antibacterial gel and made sure everyone's immune system is in peak working condition. And then, I have prayed a little and panicked a little and worried a little and done little happy dances in my head that I will be in Paris...Paris!

I recognize that couple...not quite so fresh-faced anymore, but still in awe of our bonne fortune.

What if...

just once

I allowed it all to be

whatever it is

if I didn't obsess

over every last detail

if I settled for

less than perfection

wouldn't that imperfection

be

perfection

after all?

Desperate Dreams

We were never really the corner lot type.

When Hubby and I started looking for a place together, we looked for something small and near the beach. Once we learned that even a cardboard box near the beach was out of our price range, we switched to small and "with personality." Our first home was a small townhouse with cedar beam ceilings, a loft, and tons of character. We gutted it, made it our own, and loved it. We planned out our lives together: cheap cars, small house, big life.

This worked out really well until we decided we wanted a second baby. It had already been challenging to fit the three of us and all of our stuff into the tiny spaces of the townhouse: Hubby's racing bikes (note the plural) were often stored in the dining room; his rappeling gear and our camping equipment hung in the baby closet; the baby's playpen was more often a storage container than an actual area for Ben to play; and our kayak was stored in a relative's garage. There was absolutely no way we were going to be able to add another person to this adorable little box with character.

So we started to look for our first real Grown-up House. Due to some really crazy and serendipitous circumstances, we were able to buy our dearest friend's house from her ex-husband...the same house where we had taken our first photo together as a couple, the same house where we had celebrated our graduate degrees at a dinner party hosted by our friend, the same house we had seeked refuge in when we needed advice and our friend's guidance. The house was outdated and her ex had not really kept up with it after she moved out; we could not even consider living in it until we gutted the whole place. But it was way bigger than we ever dreamed we could afford and had a pool and a two-car-garage and was on a corner lot and had such special meaning to us from our early years of dating. So we swapped our Big Life plan for the Big House version and told ourselves it was still Our Dream--just a different one.

It wasn't that we wanted a fancy home. Anyone who knows us can tell you we are not fancy people. We just wanted the most we could get in a time when South Florida real estate was at its most ridiculous peak. And we figured if we were going to give up our big trips and our big outings and get ourselves into a massive mortgage, it may as well be for a place that held some meaning for us (a pool and an extra room didn't hurt, either).

Fast forward 4 1/2 years.

The inside of our home, although not fully furnished yet (if ever), was airy and modern and inviting. The backyard was our Key West-themed tropical paradise. We had put it all into this house: money we had and money we didn't; time gutting it all and time replacing everything...it felt as if we had sold our souls in order to have The House. But despite our efforts, we still had not finished it. And as we sat at the sparkly granite bar counter of our sparkly remodeled kitchen in our sparkly spacious house, lists of bills and notes of pending projects confronted us, and we couldn't see how we could ever complete the rest. We had left the biggest and most overwhelming project for last: the front yard was a disaster and an embarrassment. Between the mortgage payments, the preschool payments, the debt we had gotten into because of the house repairs, we just didn't see how we were ever going to be able to come up for air.

For the first time, we considered the possibility of letting go of the house. We were tired of the mortgage payment. We were tired of pulling up to a house that looked like it had been abandoned. We were tired of giving up weekends away so that we could have a paved driveway. Facing the possibility of selling the house, I was overcome with emotion. I became unreasonably petulant: why couldn't I have it all? The house and the life we wanted (even if it had to be toned down a bit)? We began to wonder if maybe we had made the wrong decision.

This conversation took place in July.

A month later, Hubby applied us for "Desperate Landscapes," one of his favorite DIY network TV shows. The show does complete (and often over-the-top) facelifts to front yards that are the laughing stock of the neighborhood. And although we certainly qualified, the cynic in me didn't think we had a chance. So...I scoffed. I poked fun. I complained when I had to help with the application process. I even went so far as to declare to Hubby: "Okay, here's the plan: if we get picked for the TV show it will be a sign that we did the right thing with this house and we stay." Yeah, right.

We got the news that we had been selected the week after Thanksgiving. Hubby suggested that from now on, I just listen to him.

Hmmm. He might have a point.

Last Thursday, at 6:45 in the morning, the first of many trucks arrived at our home. By 8:00 am, we had three camera crews, a catering tent, a full production studio tent, the host of the show, 25 workers, and 10 of our nearest and dearest (who took days off from work, shuffled their children and responsibilites, and did what they had to in order to be there for us). By 4:00 pm, our front yard had had a $30,000 make-over.

Thanks to Hubby's optimistic nature, our friends and family, the DIY network, and perhaps a little of that What-are-the-chances-kind-of-luck, our house was suddenly finished. As I looked around, I wondered how the heck circumstances changed so drastically (and sort of weird-ly) in such a short period of time? It was as if the Universe had paid us back for our hard work.

In addition to all of this, right around Christmas time our mechanic (of all people!) told us about a new refinancing loophole. Hubby chased that tidbit like a maniac. We closed on that the week before the TV shoot. Somehow, we went from a mortage we could barely afford on a house that looked like a construction site to a monthly payment with breathing room and the nicest house on the block.

I'm not really sure how all of this happened. In less than 6 months, we've gone from total doubt and frustration to freedom. I am a big believer of the Universe, Karma, God, whatever, and I'd love to chalk it up to that. But really, I know that plenty of hard working, good people are stuck in houses they can't afford (or losing houses they can't afford), and are not waiting for a TV crew to show up and landscape. I understand how lucky we are right now. I am just sort of still in a daze...incredibly grateful that Hubby insisted on taking a chance, that the producer liked us enough to pick us out of 100's of applicants, that I had a boatload of friends and family members who dropped everything to dig holes and shovel dirt, that now when we make our mortgage payment we can actually truly afford it, and that somehow, suddenly, we no longer feel "desperate" about swapping a Big Life for a Big House.

P.S. I will post an update when I have the air date of the show....we are not allowed to post any before/after shots until then! So these are some of  the "durings"!


Being a star is such hard work....here we are filming the moment when the show's host, Jason, reveals the suprise plan.



And this is only a sampling of the people on our front lawn!




Between camera crews, catering (!), producers, helpful friends, trucks, dumpsters, equipment, they took up half our block and then some!



The producers' tent

 

Jason Cameron (the show's host), ME!, Tracy (producer & overall kick-ass person), Hubby

Wave "Bye-Bye" to the Crib: Another chapter in the baby book closed

The finality of it startled me.

I had been struggling to untie the knots holding the crib bumper in place.

I had not been contemplating.

I had not even given it a thought. Then, there it was: the finality. My youngest (and last) had slept in his crib for the last time, and I had not even known it.

We knew we were just about ready to get rid of the crib. Aidan Kai had been asking for "a big boy bed" ever since we had made the suggestion, weeks ago, when big brother Ben had gotten a loft bed as a hand-me-down. The only thing we had been waiting on was finding the time to paint and assemble the new bed, so we could transfer Ben's old one over to Aidan's room. When we found ourselves with an unexpected day stuck at home (due to a week-long sibling-shared virus), we figured "May as well."

So we built the new bed. We moved the old Big Boy Bed into Aidan's room. Hubby went out and bought the new mattress. I took Aidan Kai to Target to pick out his First Ever Big Boy Sheets (Lightning McQueen).

Even when Hubby texted me that he was "soooo sad" about getting rid of the rocking chair to make room for the new bed, I didn't think twice about it. In fact, I was a little surprised by this unexpected sentimentality, he being the one of us who is always, always looking forward; never, ever missing the baby stage; rarely reminiscing. I shrugged my shoulders at the text, thinking the rocking chair (the same one we've sat in night after night to rock and sing and read to at least one of our boys for the last 6 years) was kinda dingy and banged up and a mess, anyways, so really, what was the big deal?

Then I got down to the frustratingly difficult task of the knots on the crib bumper...the bumper we debated purchasing for so long with our first baby...the patchwork quilt Pottery Barn bumper with the maps of Hawaii and the little palm trees...one of our little splurges for our first nursery. And there it was, in the middle of a particularly stubborn, manicure-ruining knot: the realization that we would never again have a crib. We would never again pour a sleepy little boy, rag clutched tightly in his tiny fist, into a crib. We would never again walk into a room, sleepy and bleary-eyed and wishing we could just be left to sleep a little longer, to find a little boy, too eager to wake up, too eager to play, too eager to start his day, his little arms outstretched in the air, asking to be "out," out of his crib.

When the boys were littler, we were always half-wishing that we could fast-forward...get through Whatever Tough Stage we were in: newborn, colic, diapers, 24/7 clinginess. We are usually pretty good about moving on, getting to the next stage, starting a new chapter. When we donated the high chair, we nearly threw ourselves a party.

But we are loving this stage now, where we can really talk to our oldest, see him turning into a little person, a real contributor to this family; but still enjoy having a little one among us...no more diapers, but just enough baby fat and fumbling and cuteness to make him The Baby. So now, all of a sudden, we don't really want time to move on. We don't want them to grow up much. We don't feel trapped anymore, in this thing called Parenting. We, apparently, have grown up right alongside them.

So to know, in such a concrete way, that time is passing, that the boys are growing, that The Baby is really not a baby anymore, it's unsettling and liberating at the same time. And within the joy, there is that little sadness: there is no more crib; hence, there is no more baby.

Last night was the last night we would be the parents of a baby. Last night was the last night our littlest would sleep in his crib. Last night was the last night, except, we didn't even know it.

What are the chances?

When I was 16, I had my tonsils and adenoids out. I had to spend the night in the hospital for observation because I bled too much during the surgery, according to the doctor. A week later, I sneezed in the middle of the night and burst something, which caused me to hemorrhage through the back of my nose. I spent 4 days in the hospital. That sort of shit never happens from a routine tonsillectomy.

When I had my second son, I felt something "funny," and called the nurse. It turned out to be a prolapsed chord (click here for the full story on that adventure), which is really, really serious and "never happens." In fact, during my whole recovery in the hospital and even when I went back for my follow-ups, several nurses, doctors, and interns greeted me gleefully with "ooooh, you're the prolapsed chord!"

This past Friday, I went in for an endoscopy and Bravo probe test, a procedure that should have taken 15 minutes and one my doctor has performed "hundreds of times" without any issues at all. But this is me, and at this point, you should be noticing a pattern. The first probe (a tiny device they implant in your esophagus to measure for reflux disease) was faulty. Hmmm. That never happens. They try with a second probe. It, too, is faulty and does not latch onto my esophagus. "Must be a bad batch," figures the doctor, which he says has never, ever happened, and proceeds to pull the second one out. Upon its exit, the little shit decides to fall into my throat (the capsule, not the doctor), and lodge itself behind my sinus cavity. Now, this really never happens. Afraid it will slip into my trachea and go into my lungs (something "of concern," as the doctor explained later), my gastro now has to call in an ER ENT and put me under general anesthesia (as opposed to just the lovely dose of Michael Jackson drugs they had used to lull me to sleep) and use special tools to free this damned tiny capsule that is supposed to be oh-so-easy-and-effective-and-is-really-a-nothing-sort-of-test-but-yields-such-great-results.

Bottom line? I am that 1%. You know, when doctors say "sign here because here is the fine print of what could happen, but never does"? Yep. Me. Not always. But 3 out of 4 of my surgical procedures have yielded these amazingly fluke-y results.

I came home from the hospital Friday a little pissed off. I had been waiting to have this test done for weeks now, and had been looking forward to getting it all over with. I had expected to be at work all afternoon and, other than having to carry around a little device to monitor the levels of acidity from the implanted capsule, I should have been no worse for the wear. Instead, I could barely chew, I had blood clots coming out in my tissues, and swallowing felt like I had glass embedded in the back of my throat.

And, I admit, I have a propensity for all things pessimistic. Not always. But often. I have been known to go down the path of doom and despair and throw myself quite the pity party.

And, on top of all of this, I have had a rough few months. (I always feel the need to pop in the disclaimer here that "it could be worse"....that "I am grateful it hasn't been anything serious"...that I have just had "some minor medical annoyances," lest I tempt fate because I really, really do know that what I have been going through for a few months is, really, in the grand scheme of things nothing. But all that said, I have felt, pretty much, like shit in one way or another for the last few months.)

But despite all of this, for some odd, unexplainable reason, I didn't feel that bad Friday after all of this. Mentally, I mean. I just sorta shrugged my shoulders and chuckled at it all. I figured it could have been a lot worse, and I was home and was okay. The doctor said he'd make sure I would not be billed for the procedure (which was going to be almost 2K out of pocket because of this oh-so-special-probe-capsule-thing), and that the endoscopy showed nothing serious. I had been symptom-free for a few days, and perhaps with the results of the endoscopy alone, I would be able to resolve the whole problem. And as if that attitude wasn't enough to surprise me, I was also like: "Well, being that 1% sometimes is a good thing, because all sorts of amazing things have happened to me in my life that, statistically, probably never really should have."

What?!? Who said that? Was that really, truly me looking at the silver lining, without even being reminded to do so? That never happens...

But it's true...I immediately thought of all those times I've had the same reaction ("I can't believe that happened!") to good stuff...

Like ending up living in the very house where I took my very first picture with Hubby...the same house I slept in one night when I was running away from my old life, in the very room that now, 12 years later, belongs to my son.

Like after spending 4 years and all of our money (and some we didn't have) on fixing up said dream house, and feeling like maybe we had bitten off more than we could chew...cause really, how are we ever going to get it all done?...and what are we going to do about the thousands of dollars of work that still needed to be done to the outside?...after giving everything up for this place and thinking maybe we had been nuts all along and looking for a sign that we did, in the end, do the right thing...we got selected out of  "hundreds and hundreds" of applicants who tried to get their front yards made over for the DIY Network TV show "Desperate Landscapes."

Like I walked out on a terrible marriage, despite what everyone around me thought and advised, and not only lived to tell about it, but truly ended up with my happily-ever-after.

Like the second time around I married someone who truly turned out to be my Soulmate (I know how a lot of you feel about that term; if it makes you feel all uncomfortable and cynical-like, feel free to plug in any other appropriate term there instead, such as "great provider," "best friend," "Mr. Right," whatever, just as long as you get the gist).

Like that crazy, terrible 1% chance thing that happened with Aidan's delivery? Well, there is even a smaller chance that babies who are born with a prolapsed chord suffer absolutely no trauma or injury...and he never so much as missed a breath.

Really, what are the chances of any of those things happening? So sometimes, being in that crazy-minority-percentage-of-that-never-happens is a really, really good thing.

I am so damn tired of being negative, of expecting the worst, of worrying and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was as if it took more energy to be pissed, depressed, and worried about what had happened, than to just accept that it did, look for the good, and move on.

I know: obvious for some of you.

Completely earth-shattering for me.

So maybe, just maybe, I'm evolving...? Learning?

And really, what are the chances of that?

My Year in List: 2011 in Review

Life has been a bit chaotic lately...so much good, a tad...well...um...inconvenient. "Busy" is the best way to describe the last few months. Hence...not a word in here since November. November! What IS that? I'm supposed to be a writer, a blogger, a person who likes to reflect and ponder and share and spend time around here (not to mention around "there"...where you all, my fellow bloggers and those of you who inspire me on a regular basis are writing). But nope, nothing...not a post on turning 39 (39!?!), my last 30-something-birthday. Not a post on the holidays, the magic of seeing my little boys enjoying Christmas more and more each year. Not a post on our first (annual now?) New Year's Eve party during which I ended up having oh-so-much-fun that I had to be tucked in by my friend a full hour before the dancing ended (and I NEVER miss some dancing, but fortunately, I did miss the clean-up). So I promised myself that, at the very least, I would post a little something about the year in general, even if it is way late. And so, to keep within the theme of "no time" and "too busy," I shall turn to my lists again, a form of cheating, I suppose, but a true reflection of how my brain has been working lately.




What 2011 was for me:

1. Lots of running for the half-marathon...then race day!...and, please, no more running for a while

2. Disney, Disney, and more Disney (I think we are all done with the annual pass concept for a bit)

3. Ailments: sinus infections, bronchitis, asthma, neck spasms, GERD (this item could also be listed as "WTF?!?" and/or "Could Be Worse")

4. Trying new (old) activities: can you say "Shimmy" and "Ommmmm"?

5. Not having enough money to continue with bellydancing and yoga (see above)

6. Not having enough money for a lot of stuff

7. Making new decisions about money

8. Discovering, much to our relief and amazement, that the cosmic theory that if you are responsible and generous with money, it will come back to you

9. 50th anniversary party (I think we worked harder to plan this event than our own wedding, although Lord knows, my parents deserved it)

10. Potty training

11. Potty training

12. Potty training (yes, I know...the topic deserved three listings, trust me)

13. Good-bye VPK, hello Kindergarten!

14. Personal makeover: good-bye long hair (and discovering that my hair really does not define me...heavy stuff about frivolous beauty decisions)

15. Home makeover: hello, DIY network (ever heard of "Desperate Landscapes"? They're commmming!!!!!!!!)

16. Soccer-Boys (but so NOT Soccer Mom)

17. How the fuck did I turn 39?!?

18. Reminding myself that Gwen Stefani is 42 and Sarah Jessica Parker is 46

19. Hubby and I rediscovering Us (and more importantly, recognizing the need for a rediscovery)

20. Our latest acquisition/project/adventure: an RV (and setting out to prove that Fashion Girl can also be RV Girl)


Here's to a new year: to always improving myself, to trying new things, to going back to old things I loved, and to taking some risks. Cheers!